Shadowmarch

was something in her, some blunt, terrifying power, that pushed his eyes away after only a few moments.

Yasammez, Gil had called her as he made a sleepwalker’s obeisance. His onetime mistress, he had said before. He had not spoken to her again since he knelt and saluted her, nor she to him.

The tall woman with the thickly coiling black hair now lifted a gauntleted hand and said something in the unfamiliar tongue, her voice deep as a man’s but with its own slow music. Chert felt all the hairs on his neck rise at once. This is all a nightmare, a part of him shrilled, trying to explain what could not be, but that part was buried deep and he could barely hear it. A nightmare You will wake up soon.

“She wants the mirror,” Gil said, getting to his feet.

The idea of resisting never even occurred to him Chert fumbled out the circle of bone and silvered crystal, held it out. The woman did not take it from him, instead, Gil plucked it from Chert’s palm and passed it to her with another bow. She held it up to catch the torchlight and for a moment the Funderling thought he saw a look of anger or something much like it flick across her spare, stony face. She spoke again, a long disquisition of clicks and murmurs.

“She says she will honor her part of the Pact and send the glass to Qul-na-Qar, and that for the moment there will be no more killing of mortals unless the People are forced to defend themselves.” Gil listened as she spoke again, then he replied, more swiftly and ably now, in that same tongue.

“She speaks to me as though I am the king himself,” Gil said quietly to Chert. “She says that by the success of this deed, I have won a short truce for the mortals I told her that the king speaks through me, but only from a distance, that I am not him.”

King? Distance? Chert had not the slightest idea what any of this signified. The oppressive strangeness was so thick it made him want to weep, but there was also some stubborn thing in him like the rock that was in his people’s names and hearts, a residue of spirit that did not want to show fear before these beautiful, savage creatures.

The woman Yasammez extended her arm, the mirror in her long, long fingers. The faceless creature called Gyir the Storm Lantern strode forward and took it from her No words were exchanged, at least none that Chert could hear Gyir made a bow as he put it into the purse at his waist, then drew his fingers across his eyes in a ritual manner before mounting his great gray horse.

“She bids him take it swiftly and carefully to the blind one in Qul-na-Qar,” Gil explained, as though he could understand silent commands as well as spoken ones. “She says if anything happens to the queen in the glass, then she,Yasammez, will make all the earth weep blood.”

Chert only shook his head. He was having trouble paying attention to any of what was happening now. It was all too much.

Gyir swung up into the saddle and jabbed at the horse’s flanks with his spurs. The beast’s hooves dug into the earth of Temple Square and then rider and mount sped off, vanishing from sight so quickly that they might have been marionettes suddenly yanked from the stage.

After a long silence the woman or goddess or female monsterYasammez spoke aloud again, her voice buzzing like a hummingbird’s wings just inches from Chert’s ear. Gil listened silently. The woman looked from him to the Funderling—her eyes seemed to glow before Chert’s reluctant gaze, like twin candle flames in a dark cave, and he had to look away before he was drawn into that empty cavern and lost forever—then Chert’s companion finally spoke.

“I am to stay.” Gil sounded neither happy nor sad, but there was something dead in his voice that had been fractionally more lively before. “You are to go, since there is truce.”

“Truce?” Chert finally located his own voice. “What does that mean?”

“It does not matter.” Gil shook his head. “You mortals did not cause the truce and you cannot change it. But the place called Southmarch will be unharmed.” He paused as Yasammez said something stiff and harsh in her own tongue. “For a little while,” Gil clarified.

And then almost before he knew it, Chert was snatched up by rough hands and set on the saddle of a horse and within moments Market Road and the city began to fly past him on either side. He never saw the armored rider behind him, only the arms stretching past him on either side that held the reins. Like the orphan in the big folk’s most beloved story, he dared not even look back until he was dropped unceremoniously on the beach beside the caves.

Chert knew he should try to remember everything—he knew it was all important, somehow; after all, his son had given everything but his life for that mirror and whatever bargain it might signify—but at the moment all he could imagine doing was crawling down into the nearest tunnel to sleep a little while, so he would have the strength to stagger home to Funderling Town.

* * *

Briony led Chaven through the covered walk and out into the open flagstone courtyard in front of the Tower of Spring. The two guards leaning against the great outer door straightened up in wide-eyed surprise when they saw her. She was too annoyed by this errand and how it forced her to wait before learning Chaven’s news to remember to wish this new pair of guards the tidings of the season, but she remembered on the stairs and promised herself she would make amends on the way out.

They mounted to the door of Anissa’s residence and knocked. A long time passed before the door opened a little way. An eye and a sliver of face peered out. “Who is there?”

Briony made an impatient sound. “The princess regent. Am I allowed to come in?”

Anissa’s maid Selia opened the door and stepped back. Briony strode into the residence, her two guards, after a quick survey of the room, took up stations outside the door Selia looked at the princess from beneath her eyelashes, as though ashamed to have kept her out even for a moment, but when she saw Chaven, her eyes grew wide with surprise.

He was certainly a surprise to me, Briony thought I suppose it’s been just as long since they’ve seen him here either. “I’ve come as invited, to have a Winter’s Eve drink with my stepmother,” she told the young woman.

“She is over there.” Selia’s Devonisian accent was a little stronger than Briony remembered, as though being caught off-guard made it harder for the young woman to speak well. The room was dark except for low flames in the fireplace and a few candles, and none of the usual crowd of serving-women or even the midwife appeared to be present. Briony walked to the bed and pulled back the curtains. Her stepmother was sleeping with her mouth open and her hands curled protectively across her belly. Briony gently rubbed her shoulder.

“Anissa. It’s me, Briony. I’ve come to have a drink with you and wish you a good Orphan’s Day.”

Anissa’s eyes fluttered open, but for a moment they didn’t seem to take in much of anything. Then they found her stepdaughter and widened the way Selia’s had when she saw Chaven. “Briony? What are you doing here? Is Barrick with you?”

“No, Anissa,” she said gently. “He has gone with the Earl of Blueshore and the others, don’t you remember?”

The small woman tried to sit up, groaned, then got her elbows planted in the cushions and finally managed to lever herself upright. “Yes, of course, I am still sleepy. This child, it makes me sleep all the time!” She looked Briony up and down, frowned. “But what brings you here, dear girl?”

“You invited me. It’s Winter’s Eve. Don’t you remember?”

“Did I?” She looked around the room. “Where are Hisolda and the others? Selia, why are they not here?” “You sent them away, Mistress. You are still full of sleep, that is all, and you forget.”

But now Anissa noticed Chaven and again she showed surprise. “Doctor? Ah, is it truly you? Why are you here? Is something wrong with the child?”

He joined Briony by the bedside. “No, I don’t believe so,” he said, but with little of his usual good humor. Anissa detected this and her face tightened. “What? What is wrong? You must tell me.”

“I shall,” said Chaven. “If the princess regent will allow me a moment’s indulgence. But first I think she should call in the guards.”

“Guards?” Anissa struggled hard to get out of bed now, her skin pale, voice increasingly shrill. “Why guards? What is going on? Tell me! I am the king’s wife!”

Briony was completely bewildered, but allowed Chaven to move to the door and invite in young Millward and his stubbled comrade, both of whom looked more nervous to be in the queen’s bedroom than if they had faced an