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CHAPTER ONE

Assassin

Breathing softly as's h e might, Muriele felt along the wall until she found the small metal plate she was searching for. She slid it up and latched it, revealing a faintly glowing circle the size of a fingertip. Leaning forward, she brushed her hair from her face, placed her eye against the peephole, and peered into the room beyond.

The Warhearth was empty, but a few flickering tapers illuminated it, giving just enough light to show the statue of Saint Fienve on a small table near William's old armchair, and suggesting but not quite revealing the paintings of battle and victory that covered the garish walls of the place.

The room still seemed unoccupied.

She sighed and consigned herself to patience. Erren had shown her the passages within the walls of the castle years ago, not long after she had become queen.

The corridors were very narrow and very old. Erren claimed that her order of coven-trained assassins had manipulated the choice of architects when the palace was built, convinced him to include their covert additions, and then made certain that neither he nor the workman who built them would ever tell anyone.

Thus the dark hallways were a secret kept only by the sisters of Cer, and a few of their charges.

Muriele had often wondered if such secrecy was truly possible, over the course of centuries. If other queens had been shown the passages as she had, surely a few of them would have told their husbands, daughters, friends.

And yet, in her time, she had never met anyone other than Erren in the recondite halls, which suggested her old friend had known what she was talking about.

They were well and cleverly hidden, the peepholes disguised and clotted with glass to keep them from being easily discovered. The doors were marvels, showing no seam when closed.

She had used them often since Erren's death. They seemed safer than her own rooms, and without Erren or a trustworthy replacement, she had to do her own spying, if she was to have the faintest idea what was being plotted around her.

But tonight she wasn't merely browsing, trying to catch Praifec Hespero or some member of the Comven in secret conversation; tonight she had a particular business.

It had come to her in the form of a note, folded and slipped beneath her door, written in a clean, simple style.

Your Majesty,

You are in danger. So am I. I have information that can save your life and your son's throne, but I in turn need your protection. Until I have your pledge, I cannot reveal my identity. If you agree, please leave a note beneath the statue on the table in the Warhearth saying 'agreed.'

Well, there was her reply, safely hidden from sight'and here she was playing this childish game'but in five hours, no one had come to collect the note. She had signed the note 'agreed,' of course, but she was determined that she would know who the messenger was' the entire affair could be an elaborate ruse of some sort.

Perhaps whoever it was had come earlier, before she had been able to excuse herself from her duties. They might have read the note and then returned it to its hiding place. But the Warhearth was lo-ASSASSIN

cated in the central part of the castle, and while quiet at night, during the day any visitor would attract attention. Besides, why leave the note?

Darkness was just falling, and she had formally retired. She had until morning, and no use for sleep and the dreams it brought.

And so another bell passed before a sound caught her attention, a faint scuff of leather against stone. She squinted through the small hole, trying to see who or what had made the sound, and noticed a shadow edging from the west end of the room. That was peculiar, as the entrance to the Warhearth was on the east end.

She waited impatiently for the figure to step into the light, and in due time was rewarded.

It was a woman; she saw that first, with curly chestnut locks, wearing a pale blue dressing gown. Her 'friend' was clever, then. He'd sent a serving girl to fetch the note. Perhaps I will recognize her, she thought, and thus know her master. But she had little real hope of that. There were many servants in Eslen Castle, and she knew no more than a tenth of them on sight.

Then the woman turned, and the light caught her face, and Muriele blinked in utter astonishment. She did, indeed, know the girl, but she was no maid or serving girl. No, that youthful face belonged to Alis Berrye, the youngest of her late husband's mistresses.

Alis Berrye.

Anger, jealous and reflexive, began heating in Muriele, but she fought to cool it, because something wasn't right here. Alis Berrye had the brains of a leek.

She was the younger daughter of Lord Berrye of Virgenya, who oversaw one of the poorest cantons in the country. William had taken a liking to her sapphire eyes and girlish curves when her family had visited two years earlier. Since William's death, she'd been all but invisible, and though it had crossed Muriele's mind several times to have her ejected from her old rooms, the truth was that she had far more important things to do than satisfy a pitiable and now irrelevant resentment.

Until now. Now Alis Berrye was once more very much her concern. Even Erren had thought the girl too stupid and frivolous to harbor political motives beyond keeping the kings favor. Gramme had always been the dangerous one. Berrye didn't even have issue, and had apparently never tried to conceive any.

That meant her first guess had been right, and Berrye was someone's servant in this. But whose? Besides William, she'd never shown obvious ties to anyone in the court. Still, there had been plenty of time for that to change, and in the present climate, with everyone scrambling for whatever position and advantage they could, someone had clearly found a use for the girl.

Berrye retrieved the message, read it, nodded to herself, and then turned again toward the west end of the room. A moment later there was a very soft sound, but it lifted the hairs on Muriele's neck.

The only exit from the west end of the room was a secret one that let into the very corridors Muriele now occupied. Alis Berrye knew about it.

She knew the girl used to meet with William in the Warhearth, at times. But William hadn't known about the passages at all.

Or maybe he had, and Muriele hadn't known her husband as well as she had supposed.

She felt a pang of loss so sudden and deep, it was shocking. She and William hadn't married for love, but they had found it, at least for a time. And even though she had always resented his mistresses, she'd always felt that one day, somehow, they would settle into their love again.

And she missed him'his laugh, the smell of his clothes, the silly names he called her in private.

All gone. And now it seemed he had known about the passages all along, and never told her, never trusted her with that information. That wouldn't be so bad'after all, she hadn't told him'but that he had told Alis Berrye of all people, the silliest, most irrelevant of his whores'that hurt.

It also worried Muriele. What if he had told Gramme, too?

She waited a bit, both hoping and fearing that the girl would come down her passage, so she could strangle her and hide the body where it would never be found, but after several minutes, when no one appeared, Muriele padded back along the long, winding way to

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her own chambers, feeling for the raised signs on the wall that gave the directions.

When she opened the secret door that led to her bedchamber just a crack, she knew something was wrong. She had left a lamp burning in her room, but no light greeted her. The room was utterly dark. Had her maid Unna come in and put out the light? Why would she do that?

She stood frozen for an instant, her eye pressing through the crack at the darkness. Maybe the lamp had gone out on its own.

Someone said something. A single word, too low to hear. She gasped and shut the panel, backing away, knowing whoever it was must have heard her, but her mind was cluttered with spidering fear-webs, and she couldn't do anything but gape at the blackness in front of her.

She could only think how wrong she had been. Berrye knew about the passages of Cer, so others did, too. Did the man in her room know? Was it a man?

Something bumped against the wall, and she heard the faint hiss of breath. Her hand dropped to the dagger she wore next to her chatelaine, but it gave her small comfort.

The bump was followed by a muffled tap, and then another, and another, moving along the wall. The chill in her grew so deep, she began to shake. Someone was searching for the door. But that meant that they didn't know where it was. It would be hard to find, from the other side. Still, she had given away its approximate location.

The tapping grew a little duller as it moved away from her, then began moving back. She could hear his breath now, and suddenly, another whispered word, though still she could not make out what it was.

She backed farther away, trembling, realizing that she was growing light-headed because she hadn't breathed. She kept her hands against the walls, guiding by them, and when she thought she had gone far enough, she quickened her pace, feeling more panicked than ever, because she didn't know if he was still in the room, or in the tunnels with her.

She found the doorway to the Hall of Doves, looked in, confirmed that no one was there, and burst into it, then pushed the panel closed behind her, and ran.

After a few moments she slowed to a walk, but being in the common halls didn't make her feel any safer, even where they were well-lit and populated by servants. Her enemy had an unknown face, and anyone in the castle might wear it.

Worse'and this was just starting to sink in'if the person in her room had really come to kill her, this was no mere attempt at murder. It was an attempt at a coup. Which meant she needed help, now, and help she could trust.

She was still considering who might be trusted when she nearly collided with Leovigild Ackenzal. She yelped and jumped back. For his part, the composer looked extremely flustered and then tried to get down on one knee. He was having trouble doing so, and she remembered the last time she had seen him he had been on crutches.

The hero of Broogh.

'Never mind that,' she said, calming her own anxiousness. 'What are you doing in the halls at this hour, Fralet Ackenzal?'

'Majesty? I was just exercising my leg.'

His face showed no signs of deceit, so she made a quick decision.

'Come with me,' she commanded. 'Are you armed?'

'A-armed?' he stuttered.

'No, I suppose you aren't. Ah, well. Come along anyway.'

'Yes, Majesty.'

She moved away quickly, then had to slow her pace so he could keep up with her, and she wondered why she wanted him with her. He was all but a stranger'why should she trust him? But she remembered the day he had played for her, the absolute earnestness of it, and somehow felt he could do her no harm. She rarely trusted her feelings, but at this point she had no choice but to do so.

He hobbled silently after her, clearly puzzled but unwilling to ask any questions.

'How is my commission coming along?' she asked, largely to break the strained silence.

'Very well, Majesty.' A note of excitement entered his voice, which Assassin

even under these circumstances was charming. She was struck by how much he resembled Neil MeqVren'Neil was passionate and excitable, a true knight with nothing cynical in him. This composer was like that, too, though his passion was of an entirely different nature. But they were both'authentic.

She desperately wished Neil were here now, but she had been right to send him after Anne. He was the only one she could trust with Anne's location.

'You will be done with it soon, I hope,' she said. 'I've already arranged for a performance and an accompanying banquet in the Candle Grove, about three weeks hence.'

'Three weeks? Well, yes, it's nearly done. But I'll need to start rehearsing immediately.'

'Just let me know what you need.'

'I've wanted to talk to you about something, actually,' he said.

'In regards to what?'

'The size of the ensemble, Majesty.'

'Make it whatever size you wish,' she replied.

'What I'm hoping for is a bit unusual,' he said, a little uncertainly. 'I'the composition I'm working on'I think it would be best done by thirty pieces.'

She stopped and glanced curiously at him. 'That's rather large, isn't it?' she asked.

'There has never been an ensemble of its size,' he said.

He made it sound very important, and all of a sudden she was struck by the ridiculousness of the whole situation. Here she was in fear of her life and her kingdom, and she somehow found herself discussing how many musicians she ought to engage.

But her heart had slowed to its normal pace, and she felt almost eerily calm.

'Then why should ours be so large?' she asked.

'Because there has never been a piece written like this,' he replied.

She stopped for a moment to study him, to see if there was any pride or haughtiness to be found in that statement. If it was there, it did not show.

*

'I've no objection to a large ensemble,' she said finally. 'Even the largest.'

'The Church might, Majesty.'

'On what grounds?'

He grinned, looking suddenly very boyish. 'On the grounds that it's never been done before, Majesty.'

She felt a wry smile twitch her lips. 'Make it as large as you want,' she said.

'Larger, even.'

'Thank you, Majesty.'

She nodded.

'Majesty?' he asked.

'Yes?'

'Is something wrong?'

She closed her eyes, then opened them and began walking again. 'Yes, Fralet Ackenzal, something is very wrong. There is someone in my suite, someone I did not invite there.'

'You think' I mean, Majesty, do you believe it was an assassin?'

'I can't think what else it might be.'

He paled. 'That's' Well, shouldn't we call a guard, Majesty?'

'Unfortunately,' she replied, 'I don't trust most of the guards.'

'How can that be? How can a queen not trust her guards?'

'Are you that naive, Fralet Ackenzal? Do you know how many kings and queens have died at the hands of their own servants?'

'But I've heard the royal guards of Eslen'the Craftsmen?'that they are incorruptible.'

'In the past few months, on different occasions, two of them have tried to kill me.'

'Oh.'

'They were bewitched, as it turns out, by some sort of encrotac-nia, and they are now supposed to be protected against such shine-crafting. Nevertheless, I find it hard to put faith in them, since they killed two of my daughters.'

'I can understand that, Your Majesty. I'm sorry.'

'Beyond that there is the fact that one of them was stationed outside my door.

It follows that he either let the assassin in, he is the assassin, or he's dead.'

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'Oh, saints.'

'Precisely.'

'And so'ah'I'm your bodyguard at the moment?'

She smiled at him. 'Indeed you are.'

'Majesty, I wouldn't be much use to you if you were attacked.'

'But you are the hero of Broogh, Fralet Ackenzal. Surely the mere sight of you would frighten off most attackers.'

'I think that rather unlikely,' Ackenzal opined. 'But I will protect you as best I can, Majesty. It's just'if you think there is a coup in progress, you ought to find better help and more of it.'

'I know,' she said. 'And that's what we're going to do. But I don't like it.'

'Why is that?'

'Because I'm going to have to apologize.'

Fail de Liery waved her apology away.

'You were right,' he said. 'I went beyond my bounds, and more to the point, beyond my heart. Sometimes when more than one duty calls, it's difficult to decide which to follow. Glorien de Liery is my liege, but William was my emperor and you are my empress'and my beloved niece. It is I who owe you an apology'and my allegiance, if you will still have it.'

She wanted to hug him right then and there, but at the moment they were queen and subject, and she did not want to spoil that moment.

'Now, tell me why you're here, Majesty,' Fail said. 'You look as if the dead are calling your name.'

He listened as she explained.

When she was done, he nodded grimly.

'You'll have to come with us,' he said at last. 'Even if the Craftsmen are loyal, they won't let a party of armed men into the royal suites.'

'I'm aware of that.'

Fail nodded. 'When you are ready, Majesty.'

'I'm ready.' She turned to Ackenzal. 'You are excused,' she said. 'And I thank you for your company.'

He bowed, less clumsily this time. 'Thank you, Your Majesty. I am always pleased to be of service.'

'When will my commission be ready?'

'It is more than half done already,' he replied. 'By the end of the month, I should think.'

'I look forward to it.'

'Thank you, Majesty. Saints be with you.'

She watched him limp off, as Sir Fail roused his men.

They left Sir Fail's chambers with eight men-at-arms, and though the party encountered a number of puzzled looks, they met with no resistance.

They found two Craftsmen standing guard at the entrance hall of the royal residence. As they approached, one stepped forward, eying the men from Liery with evident suspicion.

'Stand aside, Sir Moris,' Muriele commanded. 'These men are accompanying me to my chambers.'

Moris, a round-faced man with a blond mustache, reddened. 'Majesty, I cannot allow that,' he said. 'No one but the royal family and the Craftsmen are allowed to bear arms beyond this point.'

Muriele drew herself a bit higher. 'Sir Moris, someone has invaded my chambers, apparently underneath your nose. You will let us pass, do you understand?'

'Invaded your quarters?' Sir Moris said. 'That simply isn't possible.'

'Yes, one would think,' Muriele said dryly, 'and yet I assure you it is so.'

Moris chewed that for a moment. 'If Your Majesty will permit us to look into the matter''

She shook her head and brushed past him. 'Strike any of these men with me, and I'll have your head,' she said.

'Majesty, this'at least let me come with you.'

'As you wish.'

They found a Craftsman crumpled outside the door to her suites. His eyes were open, and blue, and very dead.

i

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With a bellow, Sir Fail burst through the door, his men behind him.

On the other side of the door lay Unna's body, her little nightshirt a mess of blood. She would not see her twelfth year.

Muriele sat staring at Unna's body as Fail's men searched her apartments, but they found no one, and no sign of anyone other than the rather obvious corpses.

When it was certain, Sir Fail placed his hand on her shoulder. 'I'm sorry,' he said.

She shook her head and looked up into her uncle's eyes.

'No more of this,' she said. 'Sir Fail, I wish to induct you and your men as my personal guard.'

'Done, Majesty.'

She turned to Sir Moris. 'Discover how this happened,' she said, 'or the head of every single Craftsman will roll. Do you understand?'

'I understand, Majesty,' Moris said stiffly. 'But if I may speak, every man among us is loyal to you.'

'I'm afraid you're going to have to prove that, Sir Moris. Start with this: Bring me Alis Berrye, and bring her to me now. Alive and in secret.'

She turned back to Sir Fail. Through her eyes he must have seen what was burning in her.

'Are you all right, Majesty?' he asked.

'No,' she said. 'I am sick. Sick to death of being a target.'

She went to the window and threw it open, looking out over the few lights still twinkling in the dark city below.

'I believe,' she said, 'that I will start finding targets of my own.'