The Singer's Crown (14 page)

“That bed may be the loveliest thing I've seen all day,” the singer said.

“That door across the courtyard opens into the reading room,” Strelana said. “Used to be some monks who came to study, now it's usually empty. The earl is not fond of religious books.”

“Nor of religion at all, y'might add.” Teir made placating gestures when Strelana shot him a glare.

“Why has he such a place, then, if not to enjoy the books?”

“For Fionvar, if you would know,” the woman said. “Taught himself to read before his brother was at war, though the Book of the Goddess was all he had to study. It seems there was some bad blood between the brothers, but the earl had found these books someplace, so he had the library built here. It was the first thing he added to the keep.”

“The dance hall came next. Lots of additions, improvements. Wonder where the gold came from to do all that…” Teir trailed off.

“Such a gossip, this one!” Strelana took Teir's elbow and guided him toward the door. “Garderobe's the last door. I'll come by for you after dawn to show you around.”

“Thank you.”

“I'll come by,” Teir said, with a sly glance, “after that, to give you all the gossip.”

Strelana slapped his arm and swished out through the door, with Teir following in mock humiliation. Kattanan shut the door behind them. He unpacked a bit to find his sleeping tunic and changed, laying aside his trail-stained clothes. Crossing to the washbasin, the singer peeled off the gloves and found that his hands had all but healed. Only a tracery of pale lines showed that they had been cut. When he turned in, weariness overcame him, and his dreams were of music he could never quite remember, and never quite forget.

THE MORNING
air was cool and the shadows still heavy when Kattanan emerged from his room. The little garden was green but not yet budding. It held a few simple benches, but no statues or trees. The opposite door stood open a crack, and a light was moving within. He nudged the door open and slipped inside. A few windows faced the garden, and a pair of study carrels stood before him, one decked with old books. Coming closer, he saw that their covers were charred and water-damaged. Some were missing covers altogether, and all were marked by a familiar seal.

“So I have been discovered.” Fionvar held the lantern above his head. He did not smile, and there were circles under his eyes.

“Where did these books come from?” Kattanan asked, trying to master his voice.

“I'd've thought you would recognize the seal, even after, what, ten years?”

He looked back at Fionvar and made a brief bow. “Pardon, my lord. I do not mean to speak so; I was merely startled.”

“As well you should be. It is not possible, yet here they are, the books of Strel Arwyn's—as many as could be saved, I think.”

Kattanan continued to stare at him. “Do you know how and why, my lord?”

“Orie told me he bought them at salvage prices on a brief return trip to Lochalyn.” His expression remained bland. “Why would anyone bother to unearth them?”

“I wouldn't know, my lord.” Kattanan looked away. “I should not be disturbing you.” He moved as if to go, but Fionvar caught his arm.

“‘Kattanan duRhys, foundling, castrate, age five.' That's in the students' roll. The monks recorded concerts with a noted soloist, some attended by the royal family, the new one, that is. A difficult time for Lochalyn. Don't cringe from me.”

Despite the admonishment, Kattanan trembled. “What do you want from me?”

“I want to know how so many others died, but you lived. There is no record, or perhaps it was lost. I want to know why Strel Arwyn's burned.” His voice was low, insistent, and his eyes never left his captive audience.

“I was sent away to sing in other places. It was not long after we left that the fire—” He fell silent, remembering.

Fionvar let out a little sound of interest, but let go of Kattanan's arm. “These books frighten you, foundling.”

“Memories, my lord, nothing more.” He straightened his sleeve, still facing the door. “May I go?”

“You may,” said Fionvar, “but not far.”

With those words at his back, Kattanan escaped into the garden and back to his room, almost running into Strelana.

“I was just coming for you.” She set her hands on his shoulders. “Are you well?”

He nodded. “Morning exercise.”

Strelana snorted. “Then don't tell me. The last thing I need is more gossip. The earl's even a harder steward than Fionvar.” Kattanan flinched at the name, and Strelana turned bright hazel eyes on him. “What's that for? Don't tell me he got to you last night. I'll grant that his greeting was unkind, but you were unexpected.”

“I should not have answered his challenge.”

“We'd've taken you for a coward, or ignorant of the song. You've got courage.”

“Naught but a streak of foolishness. I have not yet learned when to be silent.”

“Man has a talent like yours, it'd be a shame to hide it, especially just to gratify some nobleman's pride.” They were turning to a more lively part of the keep and servants roamed the halls, many greeting Strelana as she walked ahead. “Tell me of the princess, and of the palace. I have never been so far from home as that.”

Kattanan had never been so near—his homeland lay a few days' ride over the mountains, but he kept quiet about that as he described what little he knew about life at the palace.

In the kitchen, Strelana took a loaf of bread, some butter and cheese, and brought them to a low table. She pointed to a pitcher of water, which Kattanan brought along, and they settled in to break their fast. “Did you get to see the king?”

Kattanan hesitated. “I met him on the first night I was there. He was sick abed, but has some strength beyond his body, I think.”

“I have heard that. I have heard he is a great hunter and rules with a strong hand. Indeed, our taxes here would bear that out. Not that I begrudge him that.” Her face betrayed her words, though, and she quickly looked down at her food. “How did you come to be there?”

“I was a gift to the princess, from one of her suitors.”

“A gift? But you—” His expression stopped her. “Yet she is here with the earl.”

“The baron, my master, was killed by the princess's dogs.”

“Oh, I am sorry.” She squeezed his arm. “I did not mean to bring up such memories.”

“The earl gave her a puppy to replace the dogs she lost. I think that is why she has chosen him now. They have at least two loves in common. Do you know where she is staying? She has asked me to sing Morning Prayer.”

“Is she very devout, then?” Strelana started to clear their breakfast things.

“She does keep the morning worship.”

“I'll show you.” They stood and wandered back into the corridor. This keep had none of the twists and turns of the royal castle and only two staircases to the upper floors. From the small, disused chapel, they crossed outside on a high battlement. The narrow passage opened onto a wide court with overhanging eaves that sheltered a widely spaced pair of doors, one of which was marked by the shield of the earl. Strelana took him to the other and knocked. In a moment, the door drew back, and Laura appeared, wiping her hands. “Kattanan! Come in, and your lady-friend, too.”

“I can't stay; I'm attending Morning Prayer at the woods chapel.”

“Thank you, Strelana,” Kattanan said.

She nodded and went back the way she had come.

The princess's quarters were somewhat smaller than her royal chambers, but had a tall, peaked ceiling painted with forest scenes and hunters. Much of her old furniture had been moved in, but darker corners still hid the trunks and shelves left by the previous occupant. Prince yapped around Kattanan's legs until he was picked up for a good petting.

“Faedre just went in to wake her, so it may be a few minutes.” Laura held a dust rag in one hand and gestured toward the ceiling. “Is this a fitting place for a princess? She loves it, though, asked about the artist and the scenes; why, they stayed up talking almost until morning, so it's no wonder she's still abed. 'Tis sure she'll be glad to see you this morning. Of course, the earl's right next door. He says, if they marry, he'll make an arch there by the fireplace so they can share their sitting rooms.” Laura's eyes twinkled. “He says all the things a maiden wants to hear, and quite well, too.” She shook her head. “Look at me, gossiping away.”

“I'll introduce you to Teir; he played the flute last night. Strelana makes him out to be quite the gossipmonger.”

“I suppose I'm on because Melisande looks so happy here. You must've seen—”

“Oh, Kattanan, you came!” Melisande sprang from her door and gave him a quick embrace before he could bow to her.

“Princess!” Faedre snapped from the doorway behind.

Melisande scowled back to her. “I am tired of propriety. You wouldn't let me summon him last night when I couldn't sleep, and you're always glaring at him anyhow, and I don't see how he is different from any of the rest of my household.” She tossed her hair.

“You don't see it because you are not looking. Would you throw your arms around Laura simply because she was away from you for a single night?”

Frowning, the princess replied, “But he's not a servant.”

“No, indeed,” Faedre went on smoothly. “But what is he? A gift from a rival of the earl's. How do you think he would feel if he saw you act this way?”

“How absurd! Does Orie get jealous when I kiss Prince? If he did, I would think him touched, and so would you. Here I woke up in marvelous temper, and you have ruined it. I expected better from you, Faedre.”

“And I from you, Melisande,” the lady responded gravely. “You may have won his heart, but you do not yet have his hand. You must be more reserved. Once you have him, you shall again be queen of your household.”

Kattanan softly put in, “The lady speaks rightly, Your Highness. Your attention”—he glanced up at her—“it embarrasses me, and the earl as well, I think.”

Faedre gave her most catlike smile. “We all have your best interests at heart, Melisande. After the Goddess Moon, then you may again assert yourself as well you should.”

Melisande turned to Kattanan, her face puzzled. “You never told me.”

“The fault is mine, Highness, for not maintaining the proper distance. I am sorry.”

Faedre's glance to him was almost kind. “You knew no better, I am sure.”

Melisande hovered between them, then flopped into her favorite chair. “Does that mean he can no longer brush my hair?”

The lady's smile faded. “Once in a while, perhaps.”

She held out the brush without looking at him, and relaxed into the chair only when he had taken it. The prayer was a brief solo that morning, then Faedre suggested he go while the princess made ready. As he moved toward the door, turning back to bow, Melisande caught his eye a moment, and he thought she might weep. Laura followed him out. “That was a queer scene, if you don't mind my saying. Faedre knows how much the princess likes doing the prayers with you, now she's as much as said you can't do them. What's the harm?”

“The princess should concentrate on earning the love of her lord, and Faedre knows best how she can do that,” Kattanan said, all music gone from his voice.

“And you are some kind of distraction to that?” As she asked the question, Laura peered at him and sighed, “Oh, no. Faedre thinks you are in love with the princess, doesn't she?”

“How could I be? She is a princess, in line for a throne until Wolfram has heirs, and what am I? Not even a man, nor ever shall be.” His hands shook, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“And if you were, would the answer be the same?”

“If I were?” His voice dropped to a murmur. “How could I not?” He sank to the step and buried his face in his hands.

“Then you're right, you can't go on as you have. Best you become a model servant, and soon.” Laura straightened as the door behind them opened.

“Laura, we need your assistance,” Faedre purred. The maid bobbed a curtsy and passed her into the room. Hand on the door, the lady stood a moment longer. “You pray well, singer. For what are you praying?” Her voice rang in the hall long after she had shut the door.

Kattanan sat a long while, but then began to hear the sounds of other people rising all around him and fled down the stairs. He ran headlong into the earl's brother, who steadied him with one strong hand. “Where are you running to? Or should I say from?”

“Sorry, my lord. I'll be more careful.”

“To look at you, anyone would think your heart had broken,” Fionvar observed.

“A long ride and a difficult night, my lord,” the singer said. “Please, may I go?”

Fionvar released him and continued up the stairs.

Kattanan found himself by the doors to the dance hall and slipped inside. The place glowed with pale pink light from the alabaster panels set in the walls. He crossed to the narrow stair and climbed up into the gallery. At the top level stood a narrow bench topped by a purple cushion. Kattanan flung himself down, quivering. Breathing slowly, he managed to hold back the tears, though he dared not move for fear of their return. It seemed an eternity before he could open his eyes, and his shoulders stopped shaking. He thought of the princess's hair flowing over his hands, of the brave front she put on for the court, of her voice when she joined in the prayers, and of her laughter when she walked in the gardens. How had he been so blind, not to see what he was doing? How had he even thought himself worthy to serve her, let alone to touch her? The singer rolled over and stared downward through the rail. The empty space beckoned. He stood then and faced it, felt its eerie music welling around him. What other end could there be for one who could never marry, never pass on life as the Goddess intended?

A voice rose from the floor. “Kattanan, that you up there?” Teir wandered into the middle of the floor and bent his head back. “Don't you want all the gossip, and a tour of the grounds, perhaps?”

Kattanan caught his breath, not knowing if he should be grateful to be found. A moment sooner, and he would not have been seen. A moment later, and he might have jumped. Perhaps he did not know what the Goddess intended after all. “Coming, Teir,” he called. Taking a leisurely way down the stairs, he adjusted his tunic. “Good morrow.”

“Y'don't seem too sure 'bout that, Singer.” The man examined his face.

“I have been thinking too long, that's all.”

“What about?”

“The stars,” he said. “Do you believe in the Goddess?”

Teir snorted. “What a fool question!”

“I wonder how closely She watches us.”

“Some, She watches like a hawk, ready to pounce; some, She watches like a dog, ready to herd; some, She watches like a lady, ready to love.”

Kattanan smiled at him. “If you wanted to, you could earn your way as a mystic.”

“Goddess's Toes! You're talking foolishness. I have a flute and a farm, two boys and a fine lady for company, what more do I need?”

“You must be the luckiest man alive.”

Teir smiled more gently now. “I would guess that I am. That Orie always wants more for himself, and gets it, too, but I wonder if he can ever say he's happy with what he's got.” The man waved an arm at the great room around them. “Does put on a fine show, though. Well, let's get out in the light.” He led Kattanan down the steps in the chill morning air. “See, the best place for gossip and sedition is out in the open.” When they came to a small walled space just outside the keep walls, he stopped and tucked his hands into his belt. “Ye've seen the chapel up high? Did Lana tell you about the lady of the manor, though, the good earl's mother?”