The Singer's Crown (28 page)

“Nor I.”

Wolfram laid his hand on the other man's shoulder.

Fionvar met his eyes.

“There is no fault in anger, at your king or at the Goddess or at anyone else. You cannot allow it to rule you, whether that means expressing it in violence or denying that it is there. Anger and fear are part of you, as of all of us, and we need you whole.”

He glanced away, folding his arms around him. “Strength knows no fear.”

“Fools and martyrs know no fear. Strength is to know fear and choose to face it.”

Fionvar stared up at the stars beyond the branches. “I am afraid that we will fail,” Fionvar whispered. “I am afraid I have forever lost my lady's love. I am afraid that you are right about my brother. I don't feel strong.”

“I am afraid I will always be treated as an enemy because fear will cause my friends not to trust me. I am afraid that I will die alone and no one will help me reach the stars. Small fears, compared to yours.”

“I have been ordered,” Fionvar said softly, “never to leave your side. You will not die alone.”

“If we can all stand by each other, we will not fail.”

They stood that way a moment, until a call from the camp turned their solemn expressions into shared grimaces of irritation. “Hey, what're you two conspiring about?” Lyssa pushed her way between the horses and came up to them, grinning. The grin became a frown when she saw them. “You haul me away from my true calling and spend a week avoiding me. I'd get a warmer welcome from the enemy!”

Wolfram slipped his hand from Fionvar's shoulder and gave her a slight smile. “It's good to see you, my lady. However, your brother and I were conspiring…”

“I do not appreciate the fact that you are always trying to get rid of me. I'm sure the duchess did not mean for the two of you to be skulking off into the woods in the dark. I am in her personal guard now.” She displayed the badge.

“Shouldn't you be guarding her, then?” Fionvar asked.

Her eyes narrowed. “I'm off duty. What is it that you don't want me to know about?” Her eyes flew wide suddenly. “You're going to meet the Woodmen!”

“What?” Both men stared at her, astonished.

“That whistling is how they call to one another. Everybody knows that.” Fionvar shrugged, but let her continue. “And here you are in the woods. Can you talk to them?”

Wolfram sighed. “Yes, I can. I have spent some time among them closer to the palace, learning from them. I'd like to know why they are here and if they might help us.”

“Would they really?”

“Why don't you come with us and see.”

“But she's—” Fionvar started to object.

“She's a trained fighter not unlike you. I last heard them in this direction.” Wolfram set out into the woods.

Brother and sister shared a look—his, resigned, hers, smug—and followed. Fionvar hailed the lookouts, identified himself, and they passed away from the encampment. Wolfram led the way into the woods until they came to a clearing bordered by white trees that shimmered in the moonlight. Here he stopped and let out a whistle similar to those they had been hearing. A figure detached itself from the shadows to approach them. He paused several feet away, with an arrow nocked upon his bow, and spoke in a low, rumbling stream. Wolfram replied in kind and received a grin in response. The Woodman whistled again and walked up to him, lowering his weapon. Both reached out, placing one of their palms on each other's foreheads. The stranger wore a combination of leather and furs, with branches tangled in them. His hair hung in several long braids down his back alongside a quiver well laden. His features were darker and broader than the prince's, but lightened by a quick smile.

Abruptly, Wolfram broke contact and began speaking again, a higher version of the Woodman's deep language. The conversation went on for some minutes, while the other two shifted uncomfortably and peered into the woods around them. At last this, too, halted, and Wolfram turned back to his companions. “I have met this man before, when he served as an emissary to the tribe upstream. His name is Quinan. He tells me that we have disrupted the hunting here with our presence, but that he had been told to look out for me. I gather that my passage on the river did not go unmarked. In turn, I told him our purpose here, and that we do not mean to stay.”

“You told him about the king?” Fionvar's face showed concern and suspicion.

“Yes, I did. Quinan is a powerful man in these parts, and he has no love for the Usurper's soldiers. It seems they follow my father's example in killing his people.”

“Did you ask him if they can do anything to help us?” Fionvar asked.

Wolfram resumed the conversation for a little while, then the Woodman, with a sharp gesture, turned and left. “He thinks they are too few, and does not know what could be done. He will talk to the tribes and return to us some other place if he has any more to say.”

“Have we offended him?”

“No. If they have no more to say, or some message to relay elsewhere, that takes precedence over formal farewells. It takes some getting used to.” He let out another whistle and was answered. “Nothing more to be done here,” said Wolfram, turning back to the camp.

Fionvar fell in stride beside him. “You are a man of many talents.”

“My father says I spend too long with books and strange studies, and not enough on the ways of kingship. If that is talent, then I am talented indeed.”

 

AT THE
encampment, Duchess Elyn led Brianna by the arm away from their well-appointed pavilion. “You must listen to everything he says, make sure he's really on our side, not Bernholt's. And remind him to try on the crown.”

“Yes,” Brianna replied. “I can find my way there, Grandmother.”

“Too long spent with peasants, it's ruining your manners.” Duchess Elyn held Brianna at arm's length. “Well, at least the child will be half Rinvien. Let's hope that side prevails.”

Brianna held up her skirts with both hands, stumbling over roots and stones, picking her way between the lumps of sleeping soldiers. Though they were a small company, it still seemed to take forever to reach her destination. Two guards stood on duty there, and she smiled as sweetly as she could, leaning in close to them. “I would visit my betrothed,” she whispered, winking at the men.

They shared a knowing grin, and one stuck his head in to announce her.

Kattanan lay on his back on the rugs, and she hurried to kneel beside him. “Are you well, my lord?”

He nodded. “I was looking at the stars.” He pointed up to the gap at the roof peak where the center pole reached toward the sky. “I have so many people there.”

Brianna lay down beside him, and followed his gaze. “I, too.”

They lay still for a few minutes before Kattanan asked quietly, “Do you remember my father?”

“Not well,” she replied after a pause. “He had a beautiful smile, but he always looked worried about something. I remember wondering what it was. Grandmother always spoke well of him, and I know Caitrin loved him dearly. It was she who played with me and the princes.” Something occurred to her, and she smiled. “Once, on Finisnez, he brought me a gift. When he leaned down to give it to me, the crown slipped, and I was frightened that it would fall on me, so I ran away. He followed me, laughing, and told me not to be afraid of it, that it was a good thing and could not hurt me.”

“I don't remember him, Brie. I know what he looked like, what he did, but I cannot see his face.”

She turned her head toward him. “Grandmother reminded me about the crown.”

“Must I?” He sighed; even so, he sat up and looked at the box. “I suppose it is nothing to fear.” Kattanan crossed to the chest and peered inside. He reached in a tentative hand, then lifted out the crown his parents had worn. Carrying it carefully, he made his way back and sat down with the thing on his lap.

Brianna sat up to watch him, then asked, “Would you prefer I did not look?”

“I am not sure I would want to do this alone.” With another sigh, he placed the crown upon his head. It settled there, gleaming in the lamplight, a perfect fit. When he met Brianna's eyes, he saw himself not so much in the reflection, but in her expression of wide-eyed wonder. “I must look foolish,” he said, looking away.

“Kattanan, you are the king, in spite of yourself. The crown only makes it more obvious.”

He reached up and ran his hands along the points, the chased surface, and the fur lining that smoothed out his curls. “I never wanted this.”

“Nevertheless, it is yours. You will have the throne and the castle.”

“And the queen.” He looked at her again. “It's not right, none of it.”

“Can't you stop saying that? If not you, then who? Who will displace the Usurper and return justice to Lochalyn? Every person of your father's line is dead. My grandmother would like to do it, but she knows her time runs short.”

“Why not you?”

“Our House is made stronger by marriage, and the child within me will be your heir, but I do not seek the throne by any means. However, I believe that you and I together can do what needs to be done. I wish you could believe as much.”

“Brianna, I don't mean that I don't like you. Lochalyn, and you, both deserve better than me.” He thought of Melisande, so close now to a crown of her own.

They stared at each other for a long while; then she slipped her hand behind his head and kissed him.

Kattanan broke away. “What about Fionvar?”

“I have claimed this as your child before witnesses; I will marry you,” she said with a curious intensity. She kissed him again, and he did not resist.

BELLS RANG
overhead, but whether they tolled dawn or dusk, Jordan did not know. Daylight could not touch him. His knees ached from kneeling, his shoulders screamed in protest when he tried to move, and so he sat still. He flickered in and out of consciousness, unable to tell one darkness from the next. The door opened and Evaine entered, bearing a small stool and a bowl. He yearned for the food and loathed himself for the yearning.

“Good morrow, Traitor,” she said, without malice.

“Good morrow, my lady Queen,” he rasped.

“Forgive my lateness. There was a commotion in the halls.” She set down the stool and the bowl, tantalizingly close, and began the chant.

He managed to limp through three verses, but each was progressively fainter. Evaine's lips pinched as she glanced down at him, a vague worry played about her eyes, and she finished the prayer alone. Spoon after spoon she patiently watched him swallow, keeping her eyes always on his face, as if she could not see the mess that had been his right hand bound upon the stump. Several times, she opened her mouth as if to speak.

When she had scraped the last spoonful, she asked, “Would you care for water?”

“Please, Your Majesty.”

She rose and brought a dipper from the bucket across the room, gently brought it to his lips. “I have been praying for you.”

“I have done nothing worthy of your kindnesses, Your Majesty.”

Evaine did not answer this. “More?” At his weak nod, she made the trip again.

The door slammed open, spilling light and men into the dungeon. “Montgomery, take care of him. Evaine! Come!” Thorgir barked. Sir immediately went to the prisoner and set to cutting his bonds.

She rose slowly and turned to him. “Why speak to me so roughly, my lord?”

“Hush, woman, I have no time for this.”

Evaine stepped back from him. “I am your wife and queen, Thorgir.”

His nostrils flared. “Bury it, Evaine! We are besieged!”

 

KATTANAN PACED
the short length of the pavilion, the crown heavy upon his head “Surely even so dense a fog could not conceal us. They have seen us coming; they must know our number, our purpose, everything.”

“Why do you imagine we have spent so much on wizards?” She gestured toward the Wizard of Nine Stars, who slumped in a chair with her eyes closed.

“It should not have been so easy,” the wizard murmured.

“From the looks of you and the others, it was anything but easy,” Wolfram commented. He swiped the polishing cloth once more along his blade and inspected it carefully. “I pray I do not have to use this,” he murmured.

“They have the Liren-sha,” the wizard said. Then she pushed herself up with sudden urgency and sprinted from the tent.

“Rude,” the duchess observed, “but effective.”

Fionvar stared after her, then he also rose. “Permission to go, Your Majesty.”

“Well, yes, but—”

Wolfram scrambled up also, and, with a nod to Kattanan, ran outside.

“We will have proper officers soon enough, Your Majesty. Are you ready to receive our allies?”

Kattanan stared after his friends, feeling once again abandoned. “I suppose.”

Brianna nodded also and accepted his hand to rise. She had not kissed him since that first night, but they had shared a pavilion, talking until daylight when they could not sleep. The lady shook crumbs from her gown of vivid silk. Kattanan watched her, and the duchess's smile grew a little more.

“Come, then.” Duchess Elyn led the way out where they were joined by a dozen guards, including Lyssa and three others of the Sisterhood. “You thought they might know our purpose. Not yet, but they soon will. Look—the banners are being raised.”

He followed her hand to where groups of soldiers struggled to heave up long poles. Atop each flew the colors of his father, boldly flashing in the wind. A shallow valley separated them from the walled city and the castle that rose above it. All around to both sides spread the encampments of their allies, lords who had kept faith with the exiles, plus a few of the new king's regime who had tired of his ways. Men teemed about, readying arms and horses. From the forest behind came the sound of axes and hammers, more soldiers at work on battering rams and siege engines.

“Now the Usurper knows who stands against him.” Around the crescent of the armies, banners rose into the sky, declaring their allegiance.

Below, Fionvar and Wolfram tramped up toward them, and the duchess frowned. Rolf trailed after them, clearly on the former prince's side. “Your choice of companions does occasionally leave something to be desired, King Rhys.”

“But I've hardly seen them the past few days,” he protested.

“It ill befits a king to consort with traitors and peasants.”

He kept silent, though Brianna nodded vaguely, her grip tightening upon his arm.

Fionvar and Wolfram slipped into the procession behind the king, exchanging a grim look. Rolf waited along the sidelines with the common soldiers and servants who looked after the camp. Many men and women had already gathered in the huge pavilion that served for a throne room, some of the exiled nobles who had come with them, but others who were strangers. The procession filed past, dividing at the thrones to allow Kattanan, Brianna, and Elyn to stand before their places. Only when these three had seated themselves did the company settle onto their benches. Kattanan cast his eye over them, seeing pride and excitement in the eager smiles. A few of the newcomers looked vaguely familiar, faces he might have seen when he was very young. At his side, the duchess had begun her speech of welcome.

“…to see so many of you among us,” she was saying, “and it lightens my heart to know that you have seen our cause and know it to be just.” A rumble of approval greeted this. “Still, I know there are some here who have doubted our truth and come here to see the proof of it with their own eyes. Doubting friends, you see before you Rhys yfCaitrin of the House of Rinvien, duAlyn of the House of Strel Maria, rightful heir of his father, True King of Lochalyn and all her lands and peoples!” She brought her arm up, and Kattanan stood, greeted with such a noise of joy that he wanted immediately to sit down again.

Still, he bore their cheering and stood until it had died back again. Into this silence, a voice cried, “Let him speak!” This call was now taken up, both by voices reveling in the presence of their long-awaited king, and by those who remembered the rumor of the youngest prince and whose faces held dark doubt.

The duchess looked at him with a hard expression like a veiled threat.

“The day you have all waited so long for has arrived.” He spoke softly, but his voice carried through the sudden hush. “And I—I have come home.”

A cheer arose, and the smile returned to the duchess's lips.

“There is a proclamation,” Kattanan prompted, and a herald came trotting up with a great scroll dangling many wax seals.

At the duchess's nod, the man unrolled his burden and stood in the little space before the thrones. “Unto the Usurper Thorgir yfEvaine from his Royal Nephew, Rhys yfCaitrin of the House of Rinvien, duAlyn of the House of Strel Maria, heir to his father, True King of Lochalyn by the Blessing of the Lady Finistrel, come these mighty words. King Rhys will not long wait outside his own gate, nor shall he suffer a tyrant to rule in his stead while he yet lives. Therefore, the Usurper is given one hour to quit the Keep of Lochdale and surrender himself to the Justice of the Lady. If he should fail in this, no sword will defend him, no hall will shield him, no prayer will save him from righteous wrath. Nor shall his family, nor shall his allies escape the woe that is their payment for their True King's betrayal. Let all see before the gate the might of King Rhys and of those who stand with him. Let them tremble to know the power at his hand, for no traitor shall escape him!”

Cries of “Huzzah!” and “Hail the True King!” echoed out on all sides. Kattanan fidgeted, eyes flickering among the faces. Brianna reached up and took his hand—it was cold and trembling. He glanced down at her. “You are the True King,” she said. “Smile.”

He managed a smile, but his eyes rebelled, and Brianna was not alone in noticing.

 

NOT FAR
outside the new temple, Montgomery stood near the bustle of guards who rushed to prepare a defense for the gaping wound in the castle wall. In a few more weeks, this wall should have been mended by the stonemasons. Now they struggled to fill as much of the gap as they could. Sir, however, had other work. He turned back to Jordan with a sneer. “That's not even deep enough for a fire pit! You'll have to do better than that.” He fingered a long knife.

The Liren-sha bent gasping over the handle of a shovel where he had paused for breath. Though he held his right hand tight against his chest, every movement sent out shocks of pain. His left hand clenched the rough wood. A few days ago, he might have had the strength to lash out with it. Now it was all he could do to keep from falling into the shallow excavation.

“Dig,” his keeper ordered, brushing the knife along Jordan's good arm. Jordan lifted the shovel again and thrust it into the ground, adding another scoop to the pile of dirt. His ragged breath began to grate even on his own ears.

A horn blew from the field below, and another. Soon, the valley was alive with calls, answered from the castle. The working soldiers glanced up, then redoubled their efforts.

“They are coming,” Jordan gasped.

“Not fast enough for you, as if they'd ever take this place.”

“There is a hole behind me,” he panted, taking another stab with the shovel, “large enough for ten horsemen abreast.”

“They'll never get this far,” the other snapped. “Thorgir's not so stupid as to ignore that.” He gestured to the men working around them. “They'll lose half their men to archers before one even gets this far!” Still, he glanced down the slope and to the opening in the wall.

“You might still run and escape them.”

“Shut up and dig!”

The Liren-sha was silent for a few minutes, trying to concentrate. Deep in his throat, he began to hum a rhythm, keeping time with the shovel in the dirt. Before long, he was rasping out the words of “The Lonely Steersman.” It was the last song he and Kattanan had sung together, perhaps the last he would ever sing. Jordan stooped and lifted, bit by bit, digging his grave.

 

SIEGE ENGINES
rumbled forward with the charge, horses straining against their harnesses. Their progress was slow but unstoppable, though arrows flew down among them. The metal-clad steeds dug in their hooves and strained forward, heedless of the bodies of men who had gone down before them. The sky was pierced by ladders, banners, and catapults borne forward with a great cry.

Above the field, Kattanan and a few companions stood, peering out, wincing when they saw their own men fall. Rolf paced, restless to do more than watch. Wolfram divided his worried glances between his faithful guard and his chosen king, who fretted with the buckles of his armor. Kattanan watched the battle with a curious distraction; he could not bear to see yet dared not look away.

Fionvar, too, was distracted, trying not to notice Brianna's hand on the king's arm, her whispers to him, and excited pointing toward the east where a ladder stood against the wall and had not been felled. The first of the catapults was near enough by then, and a great wagon of stones thundered up to it. The guard captain did not watch that spectacle, but instead focused on a banner nearer to them, a wide blue cloth studded with stars, bearing the sign of an arm and sword upright—the banner of the Sisterhood. “Do not let me lose another to this fight,” he murmured, making the sign of the Goddess.

Rolf stopped his pacing. “If he's sent out messages, we'll be caught between the castle and his allies. By the mount!”

“I doubt his allies will muster much force in time to be of any use to him,” Fionvar remarked. A stone slammed against the wall, and cheers rose from the field as they readied another. “Even the Lord of Athelmark would take a half day, riding hard, and his garrison is small. By that time, we should have breached the wall at the far side. They doubtless expected us to come by the gate, but once there are two holes in their walls, it'll be no small matter to keep us out.” He smiled faintly. “Her Excellency's plan is to have us in by sundown, reinforcements or no.”

“We will lose many soldiers,” Wolfram observed, looking sidelong at Fionvar.

His smile slipped away. “All of these men and women feel they are fighting for a just cause. They would rather die here for King Rhys than live under Thorgir's rule.”

“I can't bear it that they should die for me,” Kattanan moaned, shutting his eyes.

“Thorgir is a tyrant,” Brianna said. “He should have been cast down years ago by his own people. That's why so many of them have joined us.”

“These soldiers are here because they believe their land will be better served by having you as king,” Fionvar added.

“But I have given them no reason to believe in me. What if they are wrong?”

“They are not wrong,” Wolfram said, in a tone of absolute conviction.

Kattanan's eyes locked with his. The king started to say something, but stopped as voices were heard coming toward them.

Duchess Elyn smiled as she approached them and mounted the low rise. “How fares the fight, Your Majesty?”

Brianna answered, “Well, Grandmother. Our catapults are in place, and flaming arrows cannot take them.”

“Excellent!”

Two horses, galloping hard, labored up the slope toward them. The riders slid to the ground, removing their helms. Lyssa's eyes were sharp with excitement. “I nearly lost my mount, Majesty, but we completed a circuit of the city. As expected, they have a great many footmen by the temple wall, but these are finding it hard to be patient since no one has come against them.”