The Singer's Crown

Year 1215 since the Second Walking

The Queen's Garden, Lochdale,

Kingdom of Lochalyn

“WE'VE NEVER
been so far away, Jordan,” the singer said as he peered into the wind over the ship's rail. “Do you suppose we'll ever go home again?”

Jordan shrugged. “I don't know what the point would be since the monastery was destroyed.” He pulled the monk's hood back from his clean-shaven head to look at the boy, small for a twelve-year-old and still sporting the long, blond curls of his childhood. The orphan looked out to sea, toward the land that was growing before them. “We left four years ago, Kat; that's as long as you lived there. I'm surprised you remember much of it, after our travels.”

Kattanan duRhys turned toward his tutor. “Four years is much longer than I've spent anyplace else. By my count, we've had eight masters since we left the mountains.”

“I reckon nine, if you leave in the fortnight we were with that spice merchant. Before the week is out, we shall probably have yet another. It's all your fault, Kat,” Jordan teased. “Were you a singer of only fair talent, I'd be a happy scribe in some great library rather than keeping you to your lessons in palace after palace.”

“It's really your fault for bringing me inside the gate eight years ago.” Kattanan gave the usual response, poking the tall man's ribs.

Jordan narrowed his blue eyes and thought a long moment. He was supposed to reply that the boy need not have followed him in, another easy exchange of blame, but instead tried something different. “It's your fault for being left behind there.”

The boy stiffened, crossing his arms with a jerk. “It is my fault. It's always been my fault.” He did not see the foreign shore, but a garden where his uncle stooped for a fallen crown.

Jordan pushed back his hood all the way, revealing his sharp, handsome features. He touched his pupil's arm lightly. “It's a game, Kat, a joke. I would not wish my life any different. Few teachers ever have a student of such accomplishment.”

“Few students have a teacher so difficult,” Kattanan replied, lifting his golden head.

Jordan thought he might have seen a tear on the boy's cheek, but made no comment on that. “We're almost there, best to return to the cabin and pick up our things. We can rehearse that new tune you picked up from the boatmen.”

The singer frowned. “Do you think that would be appropriate?”

“Let me start and see what you think.” Jordan stood calm a moment, then began. The song, which had been a raucous ballad, was smoothed by his low voice into a rising breeze of sound. But Kattanan's voice was the sweetness upon the tune, blending in as he caught on to the changes Jordan had made, as high and clear as ever it had been. Jordan fell back into harmony as Kattanan's melody surged ahead and swirled around them. Heads raised among the sailors. Jordan sighed, smiling, and shut his eyes. The boy might not ever be a man before the Goddess, but his voice would conquer where strength could not. When Kattanan reached his full potential, no lord with ears would give him up for any price.

As they moved across the gently swaying deck toward the cabin they shared, Jordan imagined the singer as he had first seen him: a trembling child, bound to the monastery gate, bearing a note with his name: Kattanan duRhys—child of Rhys, with no mention of the mother's name. Looking at the adolescent's stooped shoulders and joyless eyes, Jordan realized that, while his singing had become ever more brilliant, he was still a trembling child, bound first to one master, then another. Not long after the orphan had been left in his care, Jordan himself had taken vows that bound him to the Goddess. He fingered the medallion that dangled around his neck, a comfort in the strange and faithless land they would soon be entering.

The wealthy wizard who had brought them beamed when they stepped ashore. He was a stocky man, and affected the dark robes with golden embroidery that his patrons expected of a man who lived by magic. Small, dark-skinned men greeted them, bearing long, feathered spears.

“Smile, lads!” the wizard exhorted them. “This place may be your home if the emir enjoys your music.” He slapped Jordan on the back and winked. Turning to Kattanan, he remarked, “I hear his ladies are guarded by men such as yourself, maybe you can make some friends.” He laughed loudly, even as the singer flinched. The wizard glowered, and commented in Jordan's ear, “You'd best make sure he is still in fine voice this evening, or both of you shall hear of it. I'll not have my bargain ruined by choirboys.”

Jordan stiffened. “Kattanan duRhys has the finest voice yet heard on our side of the ocean. He may seem to you a child, but his song is not a toy, and neither is he.”

“I thought you monks were supposed to be respectful and obedient.”

“I'm not just his tutor, but also his friend; you may own him and therefore me, but my conscience is guided by a greater hand than yours. Someday that hand shall teach you about respect.” Jordan stared at the wizard a long moment, then preceded him into the carriage.

Kattanan flashed him a brief but radiant smile, and whispered, “Let it be soon.”

“At least the singer entertained my daughters,” said the merchant as he heaved himself into a seat, “but I will not be sorry to see you go.”

The rest of the ride passed in silence, with the wizard smiling widely at the curious natives who frequently barred their path. Jordan gazed over Kattanan's head toward the buildings that lined the street, plastered in a myriad of pinks and yellows, and marveled at the variety of sounds assailing them from all sides. It was to this cacophony that Kattanan was attuned, his absolute stillness betraying the intensity of his listening. The years of singing had tuned his ears as well as his voice; Kattanan could describe many people just by hearing them move or speak. Livestock crowded their way, horses, oxen, and camels scraping out a rhythm for the city. Above that, the cries of dogs and monkeys burst into the air, loudly accompanied by foreign laughter and the occasional child's wailing. More subtle songs took time to filter through, those of ladies leaning from the high windows, their faces veiled and voices sliding along strange vowels, those of the peddlers plying their trade, and the beggars' hopeful cries fading away as the carriage passed. The singer's hands were locked together in his lap, lips slightly apart, breathing it in.

After such a journey, the brightly colored palace that at last rose before them was no match. They were led between a phalanx of barely clad guards and into a suite of tapestried rooms to refresh themselves before meeting the emir. A host of slaves greeted them there, taking bags from their bearers and offering scented waters and silken robes. When they would have undressed the men for their bath, Jordan chased them out of the room with a scowl, towering and bizarre in his thick, brown garb. The wizard gladly accepted this surfeit of servants into his adjoining chamber, leering at the monk over his shoulder as he pulled the door shut.

Kattanan stared at the ceiling. “If the throne room is like this, I doubt the Lady Herself would sound good.” Rich hangings swaddled the room even to the rafters. “If I'm no good tonight, we'll be stuck with this wizard. Or worse, he might turn us into bugs and crush us.” He shuddered. “I wish you hadn't said some of the things you have to him.”

“I will not have him treat you as a common slave, or lower. Besides, he can do nothing to us unless we make a direct request of him. Remember all those lessons on wizards?”

“You told me you didn't know much, and what you did know was doubtful. Besides, it doesn't matter what we ask. What if I made a mistake, and he is already working his magic?”

“I would have noticed if either of us made a slip. Anyhow, you have never disappointed an audience, so we shall be free of the wizard's company as quickly as we were of the merchant's.”

“And of the countess's before that,” Kattanan commented, dipping a washcloth in the scented water, “and the young abbot's before that. It seems everyone can't wait to be rid of me.”

Jordan shook his head as he walked to the singer's side. “All had gains they wished for themselves, Kat, and they were willing to give up any treasure to attain them. It is because you are so gifted that we have moved so often.”

“Gifted and given away.” Kattanan scrubbed at his travel-stained hands, then asked suddenly, “You wouldn't give me away, Jordan, would you?”

“No, Kattanan, I would not and shall not.”

“Not even for a new trade route, as did the merchant?”

“Not for the world.”

“Not to gain a lady's heart, like that knight?” He had ceased all pretense of washing, and his hands trembled as if his very life depended on the answer.

Jordan touched the medallion he wore. “What should I do with one if I had it? I have promised myself to the Lady Above.”

Kattanan's voice fell to a whisper. “What if She told you to?”

Jordan knelt to look up at the singer. “Her first tenet is never to kill, and to take me from you would surely kill me. I've been with you eight years, where do you think I would go?”

His eyes were shut, shoulders quivering. “I dreamed last night that we sang a duet as we walked through the mountains, but then my voice was lost. I looked everywhere for it, and couldn't find it. When I went back to where I left you, you were gone, too.”

“Just a dream, Kat. I am here, and your voice is found,” the monk murmured. “Probably the wizard's presence is making you nervous. Tonight, we'll laugh at him after another perfect song.” But even as he said the words, he felt uneasy and glanced over his shoulder.

“What did he want me for? He doesn't even like music.”

“He was planning for tonight, for some great favor he can have from this emir.”

“What if this wasn't just a dream?” Kattanan pulled away one hand to wipe at his eyes.

“It would take much more than a dream to separate us.” Jordan gestured toward the heavens. “She brought us together for something greater than this. If it is Her purpose to take you away, I am sure She will not keep us apart for long. It never hurts to pray, though.” Jordan frowned. “I don't suppose there is a proper temple around here.”

“We passed a missionary house on the way. I heard the prayers sung in Strelledor.”

“That's good to know if we are to stay here any length of time. I should like to hear prayer in the tongue of the Lady. And I suppose you could lead me there blindfolded.” He had risen and found a washcloth of his own.

Kattanan shook his head. “Many of the things we passed toward the end were tents and market stalls. I don't know if they are permanent, and if they were moved, we could end up anywhere. They had a bell tower, though, which might strike the hours for prayer.”

“A bell tower? I'd have noticed that.”

“I think it was probably just a bell hung in the upper window of one of the tall houses. It didn't sound quite the same.”

“Very impressive,” Jordan remarked. “If you ever tire of singing, I'm sure we could earn our keep with your amazing ears.”

The sun was slanting low through the peaked windows when the servants came for the pair, bearing a gift of new clothing. Jordan refused the offering, making emphatic gestures to the servants, who shook their heads and jabbered ever louder. None of them was even so tall as his shoulder, but there were enough of them that they seemed to Kattanan as a group of sparrows attacking a hawk. They wore scant garments of long strips of cloth wrapped around their bodies, concealing little. At least the tunic they gave him was patterned after the northern style, but with sleeves that nearly brushed the ground. The cloth mingled red—the color of mourning—with flaming orange. “Do you think it's right to wear the red?” he asked aloud.

Jordan looked up to take in his companion's new garb. “I should think so, since it is mixed with other colors. You look like a southern prince. That would make me look like a maypole.”

Kattanan smiled at this. “Perhaps you could put on the sash, at least.”

“The robe I wear is a sign of my devotion to Finistrel. I would not cast aside any part of it so lightly. But how do I explain that to these?” His gesture swept over the heads of the servants, but many of them sprang back, making a sign upon their foreheads.

“I think they are warding off evil. They think you are cursing them to dress as you do.”

“Your observation is not half wrong, Singer,” the wizard said, entering through the connecting door. “I am glad to see you, at least, have taken the offered gifts. The emir is easily offended by those who do not.” He glowered at Jordan.

“I would ask you to explain why I do not, but no doubt words describing faith and devotion would fall as stones from your lips.”

“I would give much to have you ask me just one question. Not that I would have any power against your…faith.” There was a dangerous light in the wizard's eyes.

“Jordan,” Kattanan said, “this is not the best way to prepare for a performance.”

“No, indeed.” The monk stepped through the jabbering servants to stand by his pupil. “I'm sure our master would not want you to go unprepared before the emir.”

Without taking his cold glare from Jordan, the wizard advised, “He likes songs in Strelledor; maybe he finds your religion a curiosity. He also enjoys songs of conquest, I have been told. I have no stomach for either, but suppose I shall suffer through.” He emphasized “suffer,” in a way that made Kattanan stop breathing for a moment, until the wizard left the room, herding the servants before him.

Even then, Kattanan felt shaky, and his friend's glib good humor failed to comfort him. “You are taunting him, Jordan. He may wait in the city just to find a way to spite you.”

Jordan shook his head. “He's too impatient for that, but you have a performance at sundown, and you can't go on in this state.”

Kattanan paced, arms crossed. “How can I be calm with that wizard lurking around?”