The Singer's Crown (36 page)

“But she is married.”

“I know.”

“Her husband despises me, as does her father.”

“I know that, too.”

“So how would I ever be allowed to see her?”

“You are the king.” Jordan gestured toward the crown between them. “Knowing how Orie and King Gerrod feel, I should think she would be the only person there in a position to greet you without giving the greatest possible offense to a visiting monarch.”

“Once again, you think I should assault the castle.” A slim smile lit Kattanan's face.

Jordan grinned. “You know that's what I would do.”

Kattanan contemplated the crown for a moment. “I did not ask for this. Even when I was a prince, all I ever wanted was to sing. Now I am not allowed that. Brianna said that I was free. I have the freedom to do anything but what I love.”

“The walls here are thick, Kattanan. The windows are shut, and none but Gwythym stands outside that door.” Jordan's voice was as comforting as it had ever been.

Glancing about, Kattanan asked, “But what shall I sing?”

“I think it's time that you chose your own song.”

AFTER PASSING
a cold night huddled in a shallow cave, Fionvar was annoyed to find the sky overcast and rain beginning to fall. He was doubly grateful to Quinan for the pack, for he found it also held a half cape of stitched suede. Now he pulled on the garment and chewed on a handful of nuts. With his eyes to the road just ahead, he found that he had been joined by a set of empty footprints carved into the paving stones. He paused to crouch by the first, rubbing away grime with his fingers. There he felt minuscule letters incised. A little more cleaning revealed the text, in Strelledor, by an anonymous priestess. She had carved the steps to show believers the path that Finistrel had used to cross the mountains, and to bless those who walked the same path. He followed until he saw a tall cave opening, square, flanked by columns that had once been figures but now bore little trace of any human hand beyond the suggestion of hips and breasts.

“Finistrel, forgive me if I profane a sacred place,” Fionvar said aloud. Then he stepped into the cavern. The round inner chamber had a hole pierced high above, letting in feeble light and driving rain. The prayers carved into the walls could still be made out, framing the three alcoves. The Cave of Death drew his eye, to his left, and he was sorry he had no candle to light there, to speed Wolfram's spirit. Still, he unslung the pack to find flint and steel. A few branches from the stunted trees near the entry provided fuel for a small fire by the altar. A channel carved in the floor allowed the rainwater to flow into a basin by the alcove to his right, the Cave of Life. If Brianna kept the tradition, she would drink of the water in the temple every seven days, to ask blessing for her child. Their child. Fionvar turned his back to the water, crossing to the Cave of Death.

The altar within was long enough to bear a man's body and had been hewn from the living rock. Dim patterns of red paint marked the walls. Waxy stumps of candles stood along a shelf at the height of the lettering, so the temple had regular visitors who prayed for the dead. Fionvar stood there gazing into the darkness for a long while.

Sighing, he turned away at last, taking up the pack. Once more, his fingers traced the circle, and he brought them to his lips. “I am not a devout man,” he said awkwardly to the opening in the ceiling, “you know that. Yet Wolfram died in a temple of the forest, and I believe that he is with you. He said once that if a man takes one step toward you, that you take ten steps out to meet him. I cannot walk with you while I have murder in my heart.” He paused a moment, and a chill ran through him, as if acknowledging his words. “I know I walk alone upon that path, but if you could see fit…” He trailed off again, looking away. “If I could stand just once more with my lady, I will not stray from you again.” Fionvar turned on his heel.

He stopped short at the sight of a small woman standing at the entrance. “You are looking for the way,” she said.

Taking in her bald head, Fionvar gave a slight bow and said, “Yes, Priestess, I am.”

“The Lady brought you this far, and it is for me to show you the last few steps.” She passed by him to the Cave of the Spirit, a deep recess farthest from the light. “The Nezinstrel,” she murmured, “Night without Stars.”

As Fionvar came up beside her, he knew what Quinan meant when he said not to go over the mountains. At the back of the Cave, a narrow archway led down into the belly of the earth.

Fionvar frowned. “I'll need a torch,” he muttered.

She shook her head. “How many can you carry? The dampness inside puts them out almost as you light them, if you can get them lit, that is. Besides, you'll have to climb a bit, and it's best to have your hands free.”

“Then how can I find my way?”

“The Lady provides.” She smiled, ducking under the door, and brought him to the side of a pool. Kneeling, she dipped one finger into it. The finger shed an eerie light in the dim cave. “Fill a waterskin with this, and dip your hands into it. As you enter the cave, you'll see the handprints of other travelers.” She pressed her finger to the stone, leaving a glowing mark. “Press your hand beside them, and follow the hands.”

“Is this magic?” He peered at the stuff.

“Almost. Those with torches cannot see the hands and lose their way.” She stood up and looked down at him. “You'll be underground for the best part of two days.” She smiled a little and turned away. “Goddess walk with you.” She vanished back into the rain.

Fionvar looked again at the strange liquid, then pulled one of the two skins from his pack and emptied the water. He held the skin in the pool with both hands, raising them, glowing, in wonder. The passage she had left him in joined with a larger cave toward the back, across a wide pond from the entrance. Water dripped from the ceiling and babbled from the pond down one side of a wider passage. Just beside the opening, several handprints were set, some quite dim indeed. Fionvar placed his mark beside them and plunged into the earth, leaving the sky behind him.

 

“I WISH THE
king could ride in a carriage,” Kattanan grumbled, watching the horses mill about the yard below. He leaned his forehead against the leaded glass of the tall window.

“You rode well in battle, Your Majesty, or so I'm told,” Gwythym remarked.

“I flew over the heads of the enemy on a steed made more of starlight than of flesh, if you believe all you are told.”

The captain grinned. “Oh, a little starlight never hurt anyone, Majesty.” He stroked the oiled suede one last time over the hilt of the king's sword and sighed, turning it in his hands. “A thing of beauty indeed.”

Kattanan turned from the window. “I'll try not to get any blood on it.”

“You do that,” Gwythym returned without a trace of humor. He offered the sword hilt first, and Kattanan slid it home into its scabbard. The squires had left them alone in the chamber, off about last-minute preparations. Dawn's light did little to lift the shadows from the dark paneling or heavy tapestries. The two doors stood open, allowing a clear view of the bustle of maids, and the echoes of the soldiers' talk as they readied themselves in the lower hall. “Your tea's gone cold, Majesty,” Gwythym pointed out. “Shall I send for a maid?”

“No, I'll only find myself distracted and leave it again.”

The captain looked the king up and down and turned to lift the crown from its cushion. “I should be going with you, Majesty.”

“I know it.” He accepted the crown and set it on his head. “I wish you could, but I need someone here I can trust.”

“You can trust me,” Brianna said, entering behind them. “Can you not?” She wore a flowing gown of golden velvet, with a circlet upon her head. Her hands gripped each other as she gazed upon him.

“Of course.” Kattanan crossed to touch her shoulder. “Of course I trust you, but there are places you cannot go, even on my behalf. And our grandmother—”

“Thorgir is vanquished, you are king, and we are to be married on your return. She has all that she has ever wanted, Rhys. As have I.” Brianna took his hand.

“Please don't,” he whispered, withdrawing the hand.

“I thought we were agreed,” she matched his tone. Gwythym walked self-consciously to stoke the fire. “Now that Fionvar is gone…”

“I still hope for his safe return, and I have promised to keep you for him.”

“He is devoted to you, Rhys. He would be the first to tell you to marry me. I miss him less and less, and he, too, will move on.” She paused, studying him. “There's something else, isn't there? Some other reason you are afraid.”

He sighed, and faced the truth. “I, too, have loved another.”

“Why did you not speak of this before? Who is she?” Brianna crossed her arms.

“She is of high rank, and she is now married.”

“Rhys,” Brianna said gently, “I know it hurts to let go, but if she is married, then surely there is little hope.” She touched his arm. “Do not let a hopeless love come between us.”

“I cannot let go until I am sure it is hopeless.”

“But her husband! Rhys, you make no sense. Look at me. I admit that I loved another, and I must also admit that it's better this way. I am betrothed to you by holy law—”

“By your own hand. Should I be bound by a lock of hair, for the sake of a kingdom, to forswear myself and forsake my own heart?”

Her lips trembled. “Must we always hurt each other? I come to you in grief and parting. Lay aside your anger, cousin, if not for me today, then for what once had been.”

“So much may change again, Brianna, before I return here.”

“Then simply tell me you will return, and when you do, we will speak of this. Perhaps then you will hear me out?”

He took both of her hands in his, eyes searching her face. “I will hear you, if you will let me sing to you just one song of my own choosing. I know you do not want to be reminded, but you must know who I am.”

“Do you know, Rhys?” she asked. “Do you know who you are?” She shook her head. “No, forgive me for asking. When you return, I will hear you sing.”

They embraced and held each other a long time, then broke apart and offered awkward smiles. “In the meantime, you will take care of yourself,” Kattanan said.

“And you, Your Majesty.”

Gwythym cleared his throat. “Shall we go down, Majesty, my lady?”

Kattanan offered Brianna his arm, and they led the way down the corridor toward the broad front stairs. They had not gone far, however, when a breathless Jordan dashed up and made a little bow.

“Forgive my tardiness, Majesty.” His face was flushed, and he seemed not to be sure whether to smile or frown. “I was detained by a lady.” He wore black gloves with his riding garb and two swords at his waist.

Lyssa swept into view behind him, wearing her armor, with her war hammer at her side. Her radiant red hair streamed over her shoulders, and she glowed. The badge of the Sisterhood that had always hung at her side had been replaced by the badge of the king.

“Jordan, is there something we should discuss?” Kattanan narrowed his eyes.

“Time enough for that on the road.”

Lyssa bowed, then winked at the king and fell in with his guards behind. Brianna raised her eyebrows, and the gathering continued down the stairs.

The duchess met them in the narrow hall that led out to the yard. She curtsied and rose without smiling. “Your Majesty looks well and eager to be going.”

“This is not a task I am eager for, but since it must be done, I am ready enough.” He offered his other arm, and she accepted, laying a cold hand upon him. “While I am there, I intend to call upon the king of Bernholt,” he continued lightly, “and see that the facts of this succession and the last are clear in his mind.”

“An excellent idea,” Brianna put in quickly.

“Still, there is risk involved, Your Majesty, if King Gerrod chooses not to acknowledge you and supports Thorgir's claim,” Duchess Elyn said.

“His new son knows the right, and I think the heir, his daughter, will see the truth.”

“Yes, but if anything were to go wrong,” Elyn purred, “wouldn't you rather be assured of your own successor here? A marriage ceremony need not be lengthy.”

Kattanan paused to stare at her. “Lady Brianna deserves the honor of a state ceremony.”

“As you wish, Majesty.” The duchess paced a little faster, drawing them up to the mouth of the passage where the gate stood open to the crowded square. A hail rose from the assembled knights. The duchess smiled gravely and nodded to them. Kattanan's eyes came to rest upon the wagon draped with red, the heart of the procession and the reason they were gathered. Rolf sat on the driver's bench, quietly sobbing. Kattanan slipped his arms from the ladies and went out. The knights bowed their heads to him, and silence radiated out from his path. Footsteps from behind told him that his entourage followed, though with some trepidation.

“Rolf.” Kattanan stopped, looking up to the driver. “It's me, Rolf.”

Rolf lifted his face from his hands. “I failed him.” Tears trembled in his mustache and beard.

“You did all that you could, Rolf.” Kattanan pulled himself up onto the wagon, perching on the frame in front of his friend.

“No! I could have been there! I could have—” He cut off his words, lowering his head. “I don't know.” He mashed away the tears with one hand.

“I don't know either, Rolf, and we never will. But there is something we can do for him now. You and I will take him home, with all of the majesty and honor he deserves. We will stand before King Gerrod and tell him that his son was no traitor, and we will not leave until he knows that it is true.”

“Can we stay long enough to bury the bastard?”

“Maybe not, but I plan to bury the bastard who killed him.”

Rolf looked up, brows raised. “Rough language for a king.”

Kattanan gave a little smile. “It may get rougher from here on out.”

“Ye're not the same lad I met a few months ago, Kat, but I'm proud t' ride w' ye. When we get there, ye won't leave me outside at the gate?”

“I want you with me, especially then.”

“Then ye'd best take yer horse.”

“Must I?” Kattanan sighed, but Rolf let out a snort of laughter.

“Aye, Yer Majesty, that ye must.” Rolf gripped his shoulder briefly.

Kattanan sprang down beside the wagon and turned to the waiting company. “Grandmother, Brianna, I will look forward to returning. In the meantime, may the Lady watch over you both.”

“Goddess walk with you, Your Majesty,” the duchess returned, stepping aside as his horse was brought up.

Brianna leaned forward to swiftly kiss his cheek.

Kattanan set his foot in the stirrup and pulled himself into the saddle. All around him, the knights were mounting, and his friends found their steeds, coming through the crowd to join him before the wagon. The wizard, wearing no disguise but the garb of a common man, rode up easily, bowing her head briefly to the king. She reined in beside him. “Where would you have me ride, Majesty?”