The Crown of Dalemark (39 page)

“Where to?” Moril whispered.

“Follow your cwidder,” Kialan breathed.

Moril seemed to consider this meant straight on. They tiptoed after him, deep into the heart of the palace. Now they seemed to be in a corridor whose golden stone roof was only an inch or so above Kialan's head or Mitt's. Both of them ducked when Moril led them under a heavy lintel and down misty steps into a warm oblong room. It was not a big place. It had stone benches along each side and a large stone seat at the far end. The first thing they all noticed was that this seat had a strange gap underneath, as if something that was meant to go there was missing. The second thing they saw was a thick golden circlet on the seat of the chair.

They all knew this was the crown. Everyone waited for everyone else to go forward and pick it up. Before any of them could sort out the courage to do it, a young man jumped up from the right-hand bench.

“At long last!” he said. He was very glad to see them. He strode joyfully over to the stone seat and picked up the crown. “I thought I would never do this again!” he said as he turned round, holding it in both hands.

Everyone stood very still. He was a tall young man, with rounded shoulders wider than Kialan's or Mitt's, and there was a sort of gawkiness to him that reminded them all of Mitt. His face, when he turned sideways to look from Moril, along the line to Maewen, was like Ynen's. He had the same nose, long and pointed. When he turned full face, to look at the whole group of them in a puzzled way, he reminded Maewen of Wend, though everyone else was reminded of Maewen, with a fleeting likeness to Moril and Kialan. And Mitt was reminded of Old Ammet, too, because the young man had the same flying white hair.

“What's the matter?” said the young man. “Why don't you speak?”

“Is it all right? It won't shake the place apart?” Moril whispered.

The young man laughed. “Not here. This part has to be more solid. It used to be my strongroom.”

“Er—then, who are you?” Mitt asked. “If you don't mind being asked.”

“My name's Hern,” said the young man. “I used to be King here a long while ago.”

All five of them gasped, and then drew breath, one after another, to ask the King if he was of the Undying—and then let the breath go, not quite sure. He had the same unshadowed golden look as the rest of the palace. If you caught him out of the corner of your eye, bright rays seemed to stand out from him, and across him, that almost canceled him out of sight.

Hern laughed again. “Don't be afraid. I'm only here because I asked the One on my deathbed if I could present the crown to the new King.”

“Whatever possessed—” Kialan, Moril, and Ynen all began together.

“—me to do such a stupid thing?” Hern asked. “I know. What you ask the One for, you get.”

“Then you
are
of the Undying,” Mitt said. “In a manner of speaking.”

Hern looked at him. His face was bleak and ribby as Mitt's face had been in Gardale. “In a manner of speaking is right. I was afraid all my life that I was going to turn out to be of the Undying. And because of that, I was always very careful never to let anyone make a picture or an image of me—that's how the Undying are bound into godhead, you know—and then I go and ask for the wrong thing, and my reward is this half-life.” Mitt opened his mouth to say something, but Hern shook his head. His face relaxed and went businesslike. “No. Let me first ask who claims this crown. All but one of you have a perfect right to it.”

Nobody answered. Each of them shot dubious looks at the others.

“Oh come on!” said Hern. “Isn't this what you came for?”

Maewen cleared her throat. “Yes. But I think we were supposed to get it for Amil the Great.”

Hern shrugged. “That's news to me,” he said. He came toward them, carrying the golden circlet. All of them made a move to back away and then stood, feeling cowardly. But it was alarming. Hern was misty and shot with beams of light, but his personality was as strong as it must have been when he was a King. As if that was the main thing left of him, Mitt thought. And the crown itself was thick, real, and solid between Hern's misty hands, of such pure gold that it shone orange in the golden light.

Hern halted in front of Moril. “Do you claim this crown?”

Moril gulped. The others could see him thinking that his answer would really be addressed to the One, and he had Hern's example to show him that he had better say exactly the right thing. “No,” he said, “I don't want to be King. I want to be a new kind of Singer—a very good one, if I can.”

Hern nodded and moved on to Ynen. “You?”

Ynen licked his lips. He was whiter even than Moril. “No, not me. I—I want to be a sailor, and they wouldn't let me if I was King, because I might get drowned.”

Hern said nothing. He simply moved on to Kialan. “And you?”

“I—” said Kialan. He had to stop and try again. “I know I have a claim, and it isn't because of the way my father would hate it, it's—Well, I don't feel
big
enough. Inheriting Hannart's quite enough for me, honestly.”

Hern frowned at this, which made Kialan flush bright red and then stare unrepentantly. But Hern said nothing again and moved on to Mitt. Mitt had expected Hern to pass him by. He backed away. “You're not including me in this?” Mitt said.

Hern nodded.

“Then include me out,” Mitt said. “I'm not fit, I'm common and—and—” He searched for the feeling he had just now in the strangely scented parkland. “Listen, I don't mind helping in the war. The country needs a change. But all I want out of it is a bit of peace and maybe a farm somewhere.”

Hern frowned at this, too, and Mitt looked as unrepentant as Kialan. Hern turned to Maewen. “I can't offer the crown to you,” he explained, “because you are not really born yet. I'm sorry.”

“I understand,” Maewen said, but she knew she sounded wistful. “The only thing I really want is to be allowed to stay—” She caught herself up. The One alone knew what Mum and Aunt Liss would feel, but this was what she
wanted
and she knew, like Moril, that she had to phrase it right. “Stay in Mitt's time, I mean.”

Mitt turned and gave her a smile that warmed them both. Hern, meanwhile, retreated, still holding the crown. When they looked back at him, he was sitting in the stone seat, looking exasperated.

“Let's get at this another way,” he said. “We have eliminated one of you. We know that the one who accepts this crown will be King. Let's call him King—for the sake of argument—Amil, since that is the name you seem to have brought with you. Who will be Amil?”

“If you like,” Ynen offered, “we could take the crown and give it to my father.”

“Yes, or mine,” Kialan agreed.

Hern gave them that bleak, ribby look again. “You didn't attend to what I said at first. I am to hand the crown to the next King. That means to one of you, since no one else is here to claim it.” He let them think about this, uneasily, for a moment. Then he said, “When I made my unlucky request to the One, what I had really wanted was to give the new King the benefit of my advice, but since I didn't ask that, that is something I am not allowed to do. Instead I shall ask you what advice you would give to this new King Amil. Think carefully. You may be advising yourself.”

There was utter silence. Nobody could think of anything.

Hern laughed. “I shall start you off. How about: People's
idea
of what they can do is even more important than what they
can
do?”

“Oh, I know that!” Moril said. “It's in the King's Sayings. The Singers all know those.”

“There, you see?” Hern said. “I couldn't give you that saying if it hadn't been out in the world already. I said it at the battle with Kankredin. This is why I can't give advice to the new King. The One knew, though I didn't, that a dead man's thoughts stop with his life. Listen to the Singer. He'll tell you my thoughts.”

“Yes, but I didn't know they were
yours
,” Moril said.

“Hang on a minute,” said Mitt. “What do you mean, you can't give advice? You just gave us a whole load of it!”

“Did I?” said Hern.

He said it perfectly neutrally. This made Kialan say, almost exasperated, “You did, you know. He's right. You warned us straight off to be careful what we said, or the One would take us at our word.”

“Roundaboutly,” said Mitt. “Using yourself.”

“A King should always set an example,” Hern said. “That's in my Sayings, too, isn't it?” he asked Moril.

Moril nodded. “And,” said Kialan, “you told us to attend to your exact words.”

But Mitt broke in across Kialan. “No, before that! Didn't you listen? There was that about not being bound like the Undying.”

The two of them were leaning forward eagerly. Hern's face was intent. Oh I see! Maewen thought, from her standpoint as a nonqualifier. We're in Round Two now. Ynen seemed to have dropped out. He was staring sadly at Hern. Maewen saw Mitt notice Ynen's sadness and wonder about it as he spoke.

“Then you made a song and dance about your sayings being dead and over with,” Mitt said, “just so we'd notice they weren't.”

“Yes, the exact opposite of what you seemed to be saying,” Kialan agreed. “Your thoughts
have
gone on after you.”

“That's not new,” Moril put in. “It's in a song by Osfameron.”

Moril would be disqualifying himself, Maewen thought, if he went on sticking just to what Singers knew. Perhaps Moril did not mind. Maewen had thought she did not mind, but now she knew she felt sad and alone and left out.

“I'm glad it's not new,” Hern said. “I have no business having new thoughts. It wouldn't be reasonable.”

Mitt could not help grinning.

“What are you smiling at?” Hern asked.

“You,” Mitt said, “must have been a regular eel in your day. Not reasonable, my big toe! You keep turning up new ideas.”

A slight, enjoying smile bent Hern's mouth. “I was always very hot on reason,” he said. “If I had been able to give the new King advice, I would have told him never to rely on things being reasonable. I did, and it caused me no end of trouble.”

“There you go again!” said Mitt.

Kialan laughed. Hern's smile grew slightly. “I defy you,” he said, “to discover any other new thoughts I've shown you.”

“Well,” said Kialan. “You
can
have new thoughts. Osfameron may have written that song about thoughts flying on, but you were dead when he wrote it.”

Hern shook his head. “Won't do. Osfameron is my brother.”

Kialan looked very dashed at this and turned to Mitt for help. “He said
shown
,” Mitt said. “And he did tell us to listen to every word. Let's see.” He looked at Hern. “You've shown us what comes of asking for the wrong thing, and then shown us yourself getting round that, and giving advice like you meant to. That's how to keep the rules and break them, too. I like that. It takes a cool head. But there's more,” Mitt said, thinking aloud, which was the way he always thought best. “Maybe this was what Kialan was driving at. Yes—you're still at it. You're not beat yet. You're showing us that.”

“
Is
it a new thought, then, to say, ‘Keep on, there's always hope'?” Hern said. “I thought that was a very old saying.”

“Yes, but you're the first person
I've
met who's still saying it when he's
dead
,” Mitt answered. “That has to be new.”

Hern laughed and stood up. “I believe you. Bend your head, Alhammitt, so that I can put this crown on it.”

“What!”
Mitt backed away in horror. “Now, look. I told you. And I was only saying what Kialan said.”

Hern looked at Kialan. “Was he?”

“Not really,” Kialan admitted.

“Tidying it up, then,” Mitt said pleadingly. “Take the thing away. I'm not qualified.”

“Yes, you are,” said Hern. “
I
told
you
. Your right descends from the Adon's son Almet, who went to live in Waywold.”

“Pretty sideways, I'll bet!” Mitt said.

“Only as sideways as direct descent, from father to son,” said Hern. “If that was not so, why does the Adon's ring accept you?”

Mitt looked down at the Adon's seal, snugly above his knuckle. “This is just a copy.”

“No,” said Hern. He nodded toward Maewen. “Hers is the copy.”

Mitt shot a disbelieving look from Hern to Maewen and rapidly tried the ring on his little finger, then on his thumb. Each time it slid over his lump of knuckle and fitted as if it had been made for him. “This is plain ridiculous!” he said. He turned round. For a moment it looked as if he was going to storm from the room.

“Wait!” said Hern. It was the voice of command that Navis was so good at using. Mitt almost stopped. But he shook his shoulders and put one foot on the steps. Hern said quickly, “Accept the crown, and you may ask the One one favor.”