Saga of Menyoral: The Service by M.A. Ray Page A

own people?”
    “They didn’t.” Vandis unconsciously tightened his grip on the book.
    “But they worship the same Queen.”
    “No, they don’t. The Naheel who lives in the House of the Sun isn’t the same Naheel who beats down on Muscoda. They’re just coming out in the open with it.” And Lech Valitchka hated Solveig nearly as much as he hated Vandis. That was saying something; Valitchka’s sunken, faded blue eyes had about bored a hole through Vandis’s head at the last Conclave of Pontiffs. The feeling was absolutely mutual. Vandis had never in his life been so tempted to strangle someone. If the Order of Aurelius went rogue—well, it looked as if they already had. “Thanks for telling me. Go find Pearl.”
    Hui jogged off and Vandis continued to his campsite. He’d half expected Dingus to be there, but to his relief, the campsite was empty. He made coffee. His two Squires did a pretty good job taking care of him, but Dingus always made it a little too weak. While it boiled, he unwrapped the copy of Sun and Steel he’d purchased. The book was copied in Muscodite, which Vandis could get along speaking, but couldn’t read. He hadn’t bought it for the text; the books Alexei brought him were special, with a coded system of illumination meant for Vandis’s eyes. The frontispiece was a bright image of Ciregor’s apotheosis, but in the background the illuminator had painted a hawk being brought down by a murder of crows. Vandis drew in a breath and began to examine the book: illustrations, drop capitals, marginalia.
    T hey were trying to kill him. That wasn’t much of a surprise, given what Hui had said, though he couldn’t deny the tiny margin illustration of the white crow—Lech, of course—standing with bloody beak on the corpse of the hawk—meant as Vandis—gave him a shiver. Let him come , he thought, but it would never be Lech’s own hand wielding the sword. The fat white lapdog that represented Krakus Bartowsky snoozed at the corners of pages, though not, like he’d been before, at the white crow’s feet. A falling-out? Vandis wondered. Or is Krakus away?
    Sometimes the picture code was a little vague, but there was nothing vague in the white crow perched on the belly of a black hound. It was Kasimir, with the white markings that resembled a crown around its head; its tongue lolled and its eyes were half-shut in bliss, and the white crow bent its beak close to its ear. Before, the crow had always been behind the dog, or next to it; but now it sat atop the dog, right over the entrails, and it chilled him more than all of the other illuminations put together.
    It was late afternoon when Vandis finished with the book and stowed it in his pack, removing at the same time a big packet of incense and another of charcoal. After he drank the last swallow of coffee, he shaved, combed his hair, stuffed the packets in his breeches, and left the camp. The scent of pork cooked with apples and onions filled his fear-dry mouth with saliva; he guessed he was hungry again after all, though he didn’t feel it. When he passed the cooking pits he responded to hails from this Knight or that one: chatting, smiling, nodding, and all the while thinking of how Lech Valitchka might try to raze it all to the ground. The hogs already lay out on tables, resting, ready to be cut for the feast.
    He walked down onto the beach. Kessa waved at him from the edge of a clot of first- and second-year Squires, most of whose names he hadn’t yet had time to learn. I will, though, he promised himself. Fuck Lech. He’s not getting even one of these, not if I can help it. He lifted a hand in return and crunched his way over the pebbles to the incense stone near the center of the beach.
    You can, My own, She said. You’ll save My Knights. I believe it.
    Thanks for the vote of confidence, he said, smiling down at the burner. It was a beautiful thing, carved into the image of the white oak, the granite leaves concealing a dish cut into