The Singer's Crown (34 page)

A call from outside let him know that Jordan had arrived, and the tall man was admitted. He wore common clothes, the only red a band of mourning on his arm. He entered smiling, but quickly lost the smile and knelt beside Kattanan. “What's the matter?”

“Am I a king? All I can see is myself.”

“You expected perhaps to sprout a beard and a scepter?” He laid a hand on Kattanan's shoulder. “Last night, and this morning, you have been every inch a king.”

“And still I tremble.” He displayed his hands.

Jordan's smile returned faintly “Before every performance, your hands always shook like leaves.” He took them between his own, the left callused but gentle, the right knobbed and contorted. “I do not know what else to tell you, except that the mirror does not show all there is to you. I expect it will take time before you see a king there yourself, but I assure you that many people already do.” He paused a moment, then asked, “Something more is bothering you, is it not?”

Briefly he told Jordan about the mad priestess in the garden at Bernholt and their spiral dance. “I thought that my mother danced beside me, and my father and brothers beyond him, with the monks of Strel Arwyn's. She chanted something to me, which seemed strange then, but now seems more like prophecy.”

“I was a monk, Kattanan, I can understand the things of prophecy,” the other said gently. “What did she say?”

“Fear no blessing, take no revenge, trust a wizard's word, doubt a woman's change, sing a hopeless prayer, hear unwanted tales, raise the man cast down, love a foe-man's child, wed no offered hand, learn a new dance, walk with the Goddess, sing with the stars.”

Jordan nodded slowly. “You were afraid of my blessing.”

He nodded. “I did not think of it then, this chant she gave me. Had I heard your tale unwanted things might have gone much better for you.”

“You raised Wolfram when his father cast him down.”

“And will raise him again to send him to the stars.”

Jordan smiled. “In a way, She has spoken to you. Few men, even monks, can say that they were given so direct a message from the Lady.” He told what he had seen when he lay dying, how the Lady came to him and he was forgiven. “You must have thought your prayer was hopeless.”

“‘Wed no offered hand' seems clear to me, but it might destroy Brianna, not to mention what my grandmother would do. I cannot refuse her without disgracing her, and I would not be untouched either. Now I've promised Fionvar to keep her for him. I don't know what to do.”

“Nor do I, but I will do what I can, if you ask me.”

Kattanan gave a trembling smile. “For so long, I tried not to think about how much I missed you. I did not think anyone would care for me so much without also betraying me.”

“I wish there were some way I could have come to you sooner.”

“No, it wasn't you; it was me. I betrayed you when I could not trust your love.”

Jordan reached out to touch his cheek. “I did not know I should have taught you trust.”

“My mother loved me, but I disobeyed her and never saw her again.”

“No wonder you were the most obedient child at Strel Arwyn's. I went there to escape what I am, and I failed utterly. You were sent for similar reasons and likewise failed. We can see full well our course in life, and it scares us, so we run away time and again. When I ran away to Strel Arwyn's, I thought that would be the end of it. I would no longer be the Liren-sha, because no wizards would ever come there. Even when we left there, it took some time before my nature caught up with me. The emir's guards trained me to kill, telling me that this is why I was born, and, like an idiot, I believed them, and I hated myself for it. It wasn't until I was chained to Alswytha, trying to make sure she lived, that I saw anything more. Without their magic, she and Broken Shell were just two people, unable to force each other. She said it was a relief to have an ordinary conversation.”

“And now,” Kattanan observed, “the Liren-sha is part wizard.”

“I don't yet know what that means, except that I can stay by you.”

Kattanan smiled. “Then I shall be sure to thank her at every opportunity.”

WHEN THEY
had rested and the time was nigh, Jordan summoned the two squires. They sprang to the task of readying the king, pulling fine garments from the chests. Jordan stood back, watching, with a strange light in his eyes. With each garment of silk and thread of gold, Kattanan held himself a little taller. His leggings were a creamy white, topped with a rich purple tunic worked with golden leaves. The silken undershirt peeped through at his neck and wrists. When the squires stepped back, they shared a smile; then one of them went for the crown. “Are you ready?” Jordan asked gravely.

“The time has come.” The crown of his sires was set upon his brow. The squires seemed ready to leave, but Kattanan stopped them, prompting, “I asked for a band of mourning.”

“I don't think it proper, Majesty, this is a day for—”

“Too many have died to bring me to this day. They deserve at least that honor.”

“As you wish.” He produced the strip of red cloth, marked with a crown to honor the royal dead, and bound it about Kattanan's arm. They ushered him into the sun. He stood dazzled for a moment, then a shadow stood before him.

“You have been avoiding me,” Brianna said. Darkness circled her eyes, and she held herself very carefully.

“I do not know what to say to you.”

“Say anything,” she pleaded, taking his arm, “but do not leave me alone.”

He met her eyes, reading there the fear and sorrow that filled her voice. “I will not, Brianna.” He covered her hand with his own.

She offered a tremulous smile, and he returned it.

One of the squires cleared his throat, gesturing toward the city.

Kattanan nodded. “I want Lyssa and the Wizard of Nine Stars to ride in my procession. And Rolf of the Prince's Mercy, if he'll come.”

“Aye, Majesty.” The man split off to the side as they walked. Gwythym, now arrayed in a fighting man's finery, joined them with a sketch of a bow, still adjusting his baldric.

Duchess Elyn stood waiting on the hilltop and did not curtsy. She wore a flowing gown of icy blue, with the chain of her duchy resting on her breast. “We do not wish to be late for this, of all things,” she said.

“They've waited fourteen years already, Excellency,” Jordan pointed out. “Surely a few more minutes can do no harm.”

“We have all waited long enough,” she snapped. Turning to Brianna, she began to smile, though, and her eyes lost some of their chill. “I am glad you are able to join us.” She turned to the encircling nobles. “Today King Rhys shall regain his birthright, and we shall ride with him!” The crowd cheered and turned to mount their waiting steeds at her gesture.

Lyssa trotted up on her own horse, grinning fiercely. “I'll enjoy rubbing this in the faces of your horrid cousins—no offense, Your Majesty.”

“They are horrid, aren't they?” Brianna said lightly. She mounted a calm gray mare, with her skirts rippling over the horse's tail. Her dress, too, was new, with a short bodice and pleated skirt emphasizing her belly.

The wizard toiled up the hill, drawing all eyes to herself because she alone still wore the grubby garb of the day before. She stared back, yellow eyes flashing, face grim.

“Surely you do not plan to bring a wizard in with us,” Elyn muttered to Kattanan, reining her horse close to his.

“My lady, I am glad you could join us,” he called, ignoring his grandmother. “Have you a horse?”

“No, Your Majesty,” she returned politely, “but I can have one at will.” She gestured with one hand, and was suddenly holding the reins of a trim stallion dark as night without stars. The crowd around them murmured, drawing back and shifting uneasily.

“Then perhaps you can have some more appropriate clothing,” the duchess suggested sharply, casting a look at the Lirensha. Jordan shrugged and smiled.

“After all she has done for us, how can you mistreat her?” Kattanan asked, but the wizard bobbed her awkward curtsy.

“I am here at the request of King Rhys. I remind you that you gave me a place at your court, and I intend to be there.” The wizard drew a hand over her clothes, and suddenly wore a gown of black, sparkling with silver. She set a foot in the stirrup and pulled herself up. As she did so, her hair grew longer, twining itself into a braid down her back. Her features, too, shifted to become a face of uncommon beauty, though the yellow eyes still shone fiercely. “Is this more to your liking?”

“I like it not,” the duchess returned. “Many have places at court who will not enter the city with us today. As a sign of our good faith, we are riding without our armies to the gate. To bring a wizard in our number would alarm them needlessly, not to mention disturbing our own loyal companions. If you wish to cause more fear and bloodshed, then simply continue as you will, with such wanton displays of power.”

Kattanan flipped his leg over the horse and slid down to the ground, shaking off his squire's hand. “It seems we are at an impasse, Excellency. I would bring her among my loyal companions, you would not extend her that courtesy. Until you find it in yourself, I am going back to bed,” he snapped, turning toward his tent.

The crowd fell suddenly silent, and the duchess let out a hiss of breath. At last she spoke. “Wizard, I have misjudged your value. Please ride with us.”

Kattanan took off the crown, ran his fingers through his hair, then replaced the gleaming gold and turned around. “Grandmother, we are all tired, we are all missing someone. If you will consider this, and grant me some indulgence”—he met her eyes—“I will try to do the same.”

“Very well then. We are expected.” She turned her horse, and he mounted and moved beside her. Jordan rode behind him, with Brianna at his side, looking relieved.

Kattanan rode in silence across the plain, with the duchess sitting stony alongside. Banner-bearers and heralds rode before, ranging out to form a semicircle at the city gate. Slowly the gate opened, and a portcullis was raised. A small party came forward from the shadows. The lead riders dismounted to meet them.

Evaine, clad in the dull brown of a penitent, curtsied low before them and did not rise until Kattanan touched her shoulder. Then she looked at each of them in turn with tear-filled eyes. “Your Majesty has at last come home. Would that I had been able to greet you sooner.”

“Evaine, you are forgiven. Let us think of the time yet to come.”

Duchess Elyn's eyes flashed, but she managed a smile. “Indeed, you cannot be held to blame for your husband's vanity. Rather you are to be commended for coming now to welcome the True King at his own gate.”

“I bring you the castle keys,” Evaine went on, “to bear with you that you will never more be denied your place.” She offered them, and he took her hand gently.

“Then let us go up together. I was young when I left here, and I may not recall the way. Will you guide me?”

“I will, Your Majesty. Finistrel smile upon you.”

At this, a bark of laughter sprang up from one of the waiting figures. A tall, fair woman with sharp features laughed again. “The king is a eunuch!” Asenith crowed, crossing her arms. “Finistrel spit upon him.”

Brianna reined forward a few steps to look down on her. “The king is the father of my child, Asenith. It is you who are accursed.”

Asenith stammered and shut her mouth, flicking a glance to her horror-stricken mother. She met Kattanan's eyes and raised her chin, but did not speak again.

Returning to his horse as one was brought out for Evaine, Kattanan caught Jordan's eye.

“Welcome home,” Jordan whispered.

 

FIONVAR HAD
put a distance between himself and the city, cutting back through the woods and trying not to think about his king's welcome. Wiping his brow, Fionvar scrambled up one of the outcrops, turning to look back over the trees. A cooling wind ruffled his hair. The city looked far away already, the armies more like milling insects than men. Still, a strain of bright horns carried on the breeze and brought a smile to his lips. As he watched, the banners of the king were raised on the towers, flickering in the sun.

“You have small friends, but many,” someone grunted behind him.

He whirled, hand to his sword, to find Quinan peering from behind him. “No.” He sighed. “One of my friends has just become very great, and I was not there to see.”

“New king?”

Fionvar nodded.

The Woodman grinned. “Come.” He bounded lightly down the rock, heading farther into the mountains.

“Where?” Fionvar called after, scrambling down to catch him up.

“My tribe. You stay with us.”

“I have someplace to go.”

“Always going,” Quinan said with a frown. “Tonight, you stay. Next day, show a shorter way, yes?”

“You don't know where I'm going.”

“Find the man who kill Wolf, yes? Kill him, too, yes?”

“We'll see.” He followed his dark companion deep into the forest, and always higher. Hemlock trees ruled the forest here, allowing only patchy sunlight to reach them. Even that began to fade, and still Quinan kept his rapid pace. The Woodman disappeared behind a stone. Fionvar wearily pursued him, and the trail fell abruptly away so that he found himself slipping down a steep, rocky slope.

He caught himself on a tree and regained uneven footing. Gales of laughter greeted him from all around. They had come into a sheltered valley packed with bark huts and small fires. Dark faces peered at him from the village, split with merry grins to reveal grubby broken teeth. Fionvar slithered down the rest of the way. More laughter chased him, but he did not turn. Quinan flapped a quieting hand at the gathering, bringing Fionvar into a long, low building. The floor had been dug down, forming stairs at the entrance and a ledge all the way around where many men were seated. These did not laugh, but watched him gravely. Three fires along the center provided flickering light and thick smoke. Pipeweed scented the smoke, and Fionvar felt strangely relaxed.

Quinan spoke at great length, not inviting his companion to sit or even move beyond the steps. He gestured wildly, occasionally pointing to Fionvar, and leaping in the air, or trotting back and forth. Suddenly he stopped short, then fell to his knees and crumpled to the ground. Fionvar jumped forward to kneel beside him, and saw Quinan's open, smiling eyes. A rhythmic pounding sound began as all of the men stamped their feet. Some had strings of bird beaks about their necks and ankles and shook these vigorously.

“They like you,” Quinan said.

“You were telling them about Wolfram's death.”

The Woodman nodded, then sat up. “A good death, a good story.”

“Why should they like me? All I did was stand there and watch.”

Quinan scowled like a frustrated tutor. “Wolf not choose death just for any man.”

“But why me?”

“Don't know.” He shrugged as if the question were irrelevant. Quinan stood up without dusting himself off. “Later, speak death. Perhaps know then.” He turned to the other men, tugging Fionvar over to an empty place on the dirt bench. A drumbeat began, quickly joined by flutes, which moaned and murmured in the queer light. The men settled again, as a few crouched down on the floor with their instruments. Two of them had small stringed instruments, with a round gourd at one end and a neck topped by primitive tuning pegs. Fionvar laughed to see these, listening to the melodies they made by plucking or sliding their fingers upon the strings.

Quinan nudged him, gesturing toward the musicians. “Why laugh? Good music!”

“I have an instrument like that one, but I play it in a different way.”

“Show!” Quinan pushed Fionvar toward the players.

“Give me your bow,” Fionvar said.

Quinan slipped the little hunting bow from his back. Fionvar sat beside one of the musicians, who handed over his instrument. It was crudely made, but sturdy enough. The bell of the gourd was too large to hold upon his shoulder, so he let it rest on the ground as they had, and set the bow slowly to the strings. It had a low hum—no note that Fionvar could identify, but it would do. He slid the bow gently along the three strings, then he shut his eyes and listened to the flutes. It took a few minutes, but he began to feel them, to anticipate their sound, then to make his own. The flutes, one by one, dropped out until he was playing by himself, but still using their rhythm. Around the circle, the men began to stamp their feet; drums and flutes returned, now joined by deep, strange voices. Fionvar did not open his eyes, carried by the music.

The chant rose and fell around him, and pipe smoke curled in the air.

“Speak,” Quinan's voice suddenly urged. “Speak your death, Companion.”

“I am an old man,” Fionvar began, as if he had always known, “and she is there with me. I think we have been walking, trees I do not know are around me. We lie down in the grass. She is crying though I tell her not to. She touches my hair and my face. I think she is speaking, but I can't hear her. There is another lady, one I have always known. She asks me to walk with her, and I do.” He opened his eyes, fiddle falling silent. Fionvar caught Quinan's eyes upon him. “It seemed so clear.”

“It was true.” Quinan walked to the center of the room, to take hold of a small bundle that hung there. He carefully unwrapped it and squatted beside Fionvar. The object inside, a small book, he opened just as reverently, to a page marked with a feather. With a little sigh, and a nod, he passed it to Fionvar. “Read me.”

“I am young,” Fionvar began. The script was light, but clear on the pages. “I am in a temple of the forest. My last, best friend is with me—I do not know who he is, but he is angry because he cannot help me. He does not know how much he will be needed when I am gone. My sister's husband will kill me because I will not let him hurt my friend. My killer takes me into himself. He does not know what he has done, and I pity him.” Fionvar's voice cracked a little, and a tear fell onto the page. “A lady I know stands beside him. She asks me to walk with her, and I go, but I want to tell my friend that I forgive him.”