Chapter 23
I WALKED THROUGH the gates first, this time. You hadn’t liked it much, but I simply wasn’t going to watch you take another arrow. In the end I’d threatened to run in naked with a target painted on my back, and you’d thrown up your hands and said, “As you will, then!”
I strolled through the arch fully clothed, cigarette pinched in my left hand, revolver in my right. I didn’t bother to hide the gun; the Hinterlanders wouldn’t know what it was, even as the bullets entered their brains.
I called up to them: “The Red Knight approaches!” I spoke the words in Shvalic and sent silent, guilty thanks to the Hinterlander boys who had taught me the words. “Archers, take aim!”
I pressed my back to the curtain wall, as if I were hiding from you.
There was a moment’s confusion above me—they didn’t recognize me and hadn’t expected a warning—but my hair was dark and curling, like theirs, and I’d spoken to them in their own language.
Three arrows were notched to three bows, and three men emerged from their hiding places.
They had survived the First Crusade, which meant they were cautious: Very little of their bodies were visible around the parapets. Half a face, the helmet pulled low. A right shoulder, capped in boiled leather. Small targets, even for a fine marksman. More than enough, for me.
I put my cigarette back between my teeth, cupped my left hand around my right, and let my mind fall away.
My body—which had survived the same war a hundred times, which knew how to shoot in the same way it knew how to eat and drink and sleep, without thought—lifted the revolver, took aim, and pulled the trigger.
My arm swung smoothly to the right, thumb on hammer, finger already tightening on the trigger again, riding that whisper-thin line just before it fired—a second target, a second shot, and a third, before the first body could hit the stones.
A weird quiet fell. I pictured the rest of the Hinterlanders crouched inside the Keep, baffled by the sound of gunfire. I pictured Vivian rising calmly from her sickbed, making her way to the throne like an actor scurrying behind the curtain.
The quiet lasted less than a second. You arrived in a clatter of hooves and steel, sword already drawn, eyes casting wildly until they found me.
I lifted one hand in greeting. “Hello, love.”
You scowled. Tapped your right cheekbone. “Slow.”
I touched my face and found a streak of raw, tender skin just below the wire of my spectacles. The last archer must have loosed his shot as he died.
I dropped my cigarette and stamped it just as the Keep doors crashed open. A voice shouted orders and men came swarming out, not knowing their archers were already dead, not knowing their whole brave, desperate venture was nothing but a plot device.
I nodded toward them. “One chance,” I reminded you. “That’s all they get.”
You dipped your head to me, a ghostly imitation of the oath you’d taken, and turned to address the men marching closer.
“Soldiers of the Hinterlands! Halt now, I beg you!” Their steps faltered, paused.
You laid Valiance across your thighs and lifted one hand, palm out.
“Only lay down your arms and let me pass, and we will shed no more blood between us. I will kill you if I must, as I have done before, but my quarrel is not with you.”
At this juncture in the story, I was usually so terror ridden—so torn between duty and desire—that I had attention only for you.
But now, for the first time, I studied the faces of the Hinterlanders.
Young and not-young, bearded and clean-shaven, mostly men, a few women.
Their armor was mismatched, ill-fitting, perhaps stolen from Yvanne’s court.
I recalled that this had been a diplomatic visit before it became a coup.
One of them—a somber woman with thick gray braids—answered, in perfect Mothertongue, “But ours is with you, Everlasting.”
“Why?” you asked, and it occurred to me what a good question it was. Why would a group of twelve diplomats attempt to dethrone a queen?
The somber woman said, “We were shown a—vision. I cannot explain it. A scene made of light and shadows, which showed the future. The Hinterlands beneath the boot of Dominion. Our people forced to kneel to a foreign queen. Our soldiers dead or surrendered. And everywhere—your face. Everlasting, they will call you.”
“Do you mean—did she show you a newsreel?” Why lie when the truth would serve her better? “God, she’s efficient.” Everyone in the courtyard looked at me, frowned, and looked away.
The Hinterlander leader shook her head. “We cannot let it come to pass.”
You bowed your head. Here was another circle we could not break: I had killed their countrymen, and now they would kill you, to prevent it.
You hefted Valiance into the air again and said, gravely, “Then I will make it fast.”
It was.
The last time you’d fought this battle, you’d relied on your strength and skill, on the sheer physical mastery that had been beaten into every atom of your body.
But this time, you also had your memories. You had seen every strike and step of this fight, every variation and surprise, and so you anticipated every blow.
A blade thrust toward your stirrup, but you’d already wheeled Hen aside.
A shield lifted to stop your blow, but you’d already chosen another target.
A hand caught your wrist, but you’d already tossed your hilt to your left hand.
I pitied the Hinterlanders: It was frustrating, to fight an enemy that knew the future.
When it was done, and the yard was quiet once more, you had not even been unhorsed. But your head was hanging low, and your sword arm hung slackly, as if it were not your arm but only a piece of meat sewn to your shoulder. I touched your leg, just above the stirrup.
You stirred. “If—when we succeed in this—when we get the book again—we will go back to the very beginning. We will change all of this, not just the ending.”
I tightened my grip on your ankle. “We will. I swear it.” I had already sworn it several times on the journey here.
You fished the cup from your bags and nodded to the reins hanging loosely from Hen’s withers. “Then lead on, madman.”
“You don’t—you’re not going to dismount?”
“She had him killed, the last time I left him out here.” You added, softly but with conviction, “Bitch.”
So I took the reins and led you, still astride, through the great doors and into the rush-lit dark of Cavallon Keep.
The scene was set as it always was—the rustling, scurrying crowd, the stink of sweat and fine perfumes, the veiled woman on the throne and the heroes assembled at her back—save for one alteration: the book, now lying open across the queen’s lap.
It was a threat as simple and effective as a knife to the throat.
Should we falter or go astray—should we deviate from the script or displease her in any way—she would vanish back through time and change whatever she chose.
I had anticipated it, of course, but the sight of the book still sent a sick bolt of fear through my belly.
As we entered the hall, I drew Hen to a halt (he struck, snakily, at my fingers, but somehow missed), and met your eyes. We play it as written, then.
As written, you agreed, silently, but you ran your tongue over your teeth. More or less.
“Sir Una.” Vivian’s voice fell weak and lovely over the hall, as it always did, but with a new, very slight tartness; she did so hate your horse.
I loosed his reins and fell back. The crowd was already parted for you, pressing uneasily against the walls.
They had looked up as soon as they heard the ring of shod hooves, and they had seen you: a huge woman with a white halo of hair and the devil’s own red hands, cup held in one and naked blade in the other, sitting upon a horse like death itself.
You did not look like a hero, now, so much as a harbinger.
You rode slowly toward the throne, steering with your knees. Hen’s shoes rang like great hammers on the stones.
At the dais, you made one of your wordless commands, and Hen halted. You did not dismount.
As I wormed and shoved my way through the crowd, I heard the queen’s faint, irritated sigh. Her line, when it came, emerged through gritted teeth: “And so, you have returned to me at last.”
“Yes, my queen.” Delivered mechanically, by rote, while you stared down at her. Good: Let Vivian imagine this was an act of defiance. Let her imagine it would be your only one.
“And you have slain the last dragon of Dominion.”
“Yes, my queen.”
“And you have brought me the lost grail, which they say restores all that time takes—”
“Yes, my queen,” you interrupted, and tossed the cup carelessly down to her.
She caught it—perhaps a little too quickly, for a dying woman—and I was so close now I could hear the annoyed click of her teeth.
Still, she rallied. She called, in her spring-snow voice, for wine, and lifted the cup in two tremulous hands as it was poured. She slipped the grail beneath her veil and drank.
She did not stand, this time, for the grand reveal, but made her speech while still seated, the book balanced safely on her knees. “So long have I prayed for one thing and one thing only, and now, by the grace of God and Sir Una, I am given it: time.”
With this, Vivian drew up her veil to reveal her handsome, healthful face. While the crowd gasped and swayed, she said, through a fixed smile, “Will you not kneel, Sir Una, and accept my blessing?”
For a strained moment, I thought you would refuse. I thought you would kill her—kill yourself, kill our chance at a future—rather than kneel at her feet ever again.
But I had not yet given the signal, and you had given me your oath. Stiffly, as if you had grown suddenly old, you slid from Hen’s back and down onto one knee.
“Will someone please get that animal out of here,” Vivian said, tiredly, and a pair of attendants scurried, bent-backed, to take Hen’s reins. I wished them luck.