The Singer's Crown (38 page)

“Gerrod, my brother, Fionvar, steward of my keep, and the man who saved us from starvation after our father's untimely death.” Orie swept his arm toward his brother. It was he to whom the king had been listening so closely.

“Your Majesty does me great honor in allowing me to attend the feast with the highest of the court,” Fionvar said, straightening to look again upon the king. The high table stood on a platform so that the king and his companions towered over the rest. The king's white hair framed a face that was all angles, with keen blue eyes.

“Nonsense,” Gerrod snorted. “If all your brother says is true, then you readily deserve a place among us. Come up!” He urged Fionvar up the two steps to stand on equal footing, though across the table from them. “I have looked forward to this. Have you come to stay?”

“I may be needed elsewhere, Your Majesty—” Fionvar began.

“Nonsense!” Orie snorted, drawing his eyebrows into a line matching the sternness of the king's own brow. Gerrod roared with laughter, and Orie switched to a little twisted grin. “You'll not escape our welcome that easily. Find a seat.”

“Your brother shall sit by me,” Melisande offered as she stepped up to the table from the back stair. Though the cloth still covered her hair, a simple gown of subdued green highlighted her auburn brows and lightly painted lips as she smiled. Faint darkness still haunted her eyes, but her tone was light as she held out a hand for him. “You find me much better prepared now, do you not?”

Fionvar lightly kissed her hand, dazzled a little by the chased gold band of her marriage bracelet. “Your Highness has never looked so lovely.”

At this, Orie remarked, “Do not make any designs upon my wife, Fion, or it'll be my dungeon you're trying to escape from.”

A hint of color rising in her cheeks, Melisande slipped her hand from Fionvar's.

“I would not make such designs, Orie, nor would your wife entertain them.”

“Of course not!” Gerrod put in. “Do take your seats, both of you. Let us feast!” So saying, the king thrust himself into his own tall chair and was pushed closer to the table by quick servants. Orie and Melisande sat to either side, and Fionvar walked awkwardly around the table to sit beside the princess. Pairs of servants emerged bearing great platters of food, which they paraded before the high table. An enormous boar, decked out with herbs and staring with eyes made from berries, formed the centerpiece of this parade. As the servants brought it forward, Gerrod raised his flagon. “He fought well and died a hero!” A cheer went up around the room.

Fionvar sampled a pheasant pie, and grinned at the cinnamon scent of baked apples. He'd done that for his family once, after trading a good laying hen for the right to pick their neighbor's apple tree. It had been a feast, indeed, to have spiced fruits after their meager bread and porridge. Orie had looked up at him with that lightning grin.
“When I am king,”
he'd said,
“I will have apples for dinner every night.”
Fionvar nearly choked, thumping down his mug.

Melisande glanced over at him. “Orie told us you introduced him to this.” She gestured with a forkful of apple.

“I had forgotten that until just now, Highness. At the time, I couldn't even get him to help pick the apples.”

“Tell me about when he was a child. Was he very different?”

“He wanted to be good at everything, and he would keep at it until he was. Vaulting, riding, dancing, when he got older. The village girls followed him everywhere.”

Melisande's laughter rang. “Oh, the ladies here are just the same. At the marriage ball, we had only two dances together.”

“As it should be,” Gerrod put in firmly. “Orie has to meet all the members of the court. A prince cannot spend all his time on romance. Not that Orie would have done. He has already made himself invaluable to me. Melisande's choice was clearly for the best.” He raised his drink to his new son and took a deep swallow.

Melisande smiled and looked away. “Is there no music tonight?” She turned to Fionvar, placing a hand on his arm. “You've not brought your violin, have you?”

He shook his head. “I took a difficult road to come here, Highness, and that was left behind.”

“Then you did not come from Gamel's Grove?” she inquired, poking the last sliver of apple on her plate.

“Not directly.”

“And neither could you bring a horse. It must have been difficult indeed.” Her gaze rested on him. Something in her tone and the set of her jaw brought her brother instantly to mind, with his way of seeking knowledge without asking.

Fionvar opened his mouth to remark upon it, then recalled himself with a little shake of the head.

A sudden rapping brought their attention back to the floor. Three musicians arrived there, with a striking dark woman, evidently a singer.

“Excellent! My daughter requires song.”

The small group bowed and began a sprightly air. The woman's voice flew lightly up and down the scales of the song, though it grated a little at the high end and faded at the low. They concluded to a smattering of applause, which Melisande did not join in as she clutched her goblet in her hands. The woman frowned a little toward the princess, but started a ballad, and her drummer managed to keep up with the slower song. At the end of this, Fionvar gently touched the princess's hand. “They are looking for your approval, Majesty.”

“Oh, yes.” She put down the glass and applauded loudly. Heartened, the entertainers went on.

Orie suddenly announced, “Gerrod, did I tell you that my brother plays upon the fiddle? He is part of the consort for dancing at my own keep.”

“Excellent. You entertain us then; this girl is not to my liking.” He fluttered a bejeweled hand toward the singer, who had faltered to a stop.

“I do not have my instrument, Your Majesty.”

“Here, fiddler!” Orie cried to the musician. “Lend us your fiddle.”

“You flatter me, brother, but I would rather not.”

Orie swung away from him, calling out to the dinner guests, “This is my brother, to whom I owe my sanity, if not my life. Would you like to hear him play for you?”

Gerrod roared assent, raising his flagon, and the cheer echoed around the room.

Clapping his brother on the shoulder, Orie leaned across the table to take the fiddle from the glowering musician. Fionvar rose slowly, bowed his head to the princess, and took the instrument down the back stairs. He breathed softly for a moment, hearing the shouts of the crowd, who were well plied with ale. Coming around to the center floor, he set the fiddle on his shoulder and began. He picked out the tune so carefully that some of the audience winced. “In Bernholt hills they'll find me, lying with my lady/ dancing in the starlight, and laughing in the rain.” He paused, and a few people grimly clapped.

Orie waved his hands, however. “Hush, that is only the beginning. Fion would not embarrass me by leaving off there. You have not heard the likes of this before. Do play on.” The gleam returned to his eyes, and he measured his words by beating his fist slowly on the tall back of Melisande's chair. The princess leaned just a little forward, with one nod of encouragement.

Fionvar started again at a faster pace, his agile fingers dancing upon the strings. Faster he played, and faster, his eyes never leaving his brother's face. There was no other sound while the violin leapt into the lamplight. His fingers sprang from note to note, and he was sure he must miss them, must send the bow slashing off into the audience or catch his fingers among the strings and foul them, but still he played, and in his mind he heard the song and the singer who had claimed it. The brilliant voice anticipated his speed and urged him on. Orie's stony grin told him his brother heard it, too. Orie's hands clenched the back of the chair.

Fionvar played even faster, breathing in quick gasps. The fabric of the shirt tore softly across his shoulder, letting in the touch of a cool breeze, like a hand upon his arm, and he at last fell silent with a final stroke upon the strings. The audience let out their breath around him, then applauded, not needing their royalty to show them how. Their sound thundered upon his ears as he bowed once and again approached the high table. Melisande did not applaud. Her hands were raised to her bright cheeks, and one finger smeared away what might have been a tear.

“He is coming, isn't he,” said Orie in a harsh whisper.

“Yes,” Fionvar replied. “Yes he is.”

Melisande wore a gown of brilliant green, with flowing sleeves cut like oak leaves and lined with gold. She turned from her companions to look upon him, and said nothing as he approached. Kattanan saw that he carried a marriage bracelet, a narrow silver band etched with lines like music. He held it out to her. A smile spread across her lips, then she burst into laughter. She patted his head, as she might pat a dog, and walked away. The bracelet wriggled in his hands, now a silver serpent that twitched from his grasp and writhed across the floor toward the throne. He knew he must catch it, and ran after it, but stopped short. Wolfram leaned against the throne with his face in his hands, weeping. Kattanan tried to speak, but the words were a song. The smooth, sibilant tones flowed from his lips, forming verses he did not understand. Bewildered, he clapped a hand over his own mouth, but the song went on, and suddenly he knew the voice.

Kattanan awoke abruptly, but did not move. Faedre's voice whispered ever so softly around him, and the feeble glow of a candle came from behind him. Leather rubbed as she moved, followed by a quiet crunching of dried herbs. A slight scent of evergreen drifted toward him. Cautiously, he slipped his hand beneath his pillow, finding the hilt of his dagger. How had she gotten in? Where were his guards? Faedre crept around the bedding, sheltering something in her hands. As she leaned in, Kattanan sprang up, slapping her hands aside. The incense pot flew across the tent, scattering its scent over his blankets and furs.

Faedre gasped, snatching for a short blade at her side.

“Jordan!” Kattanan caught her arm, pressing her back as he scrambled out of bed. “Guards! Bury it,” he cursed as she twisted away.

Now her knife was out, and she tried to sidle away from the corner.

The door flap flew open and three men burst through.

“Oh, Your Majesty,” Faedre cried, dropping the weapon as if it burned her. “I thought,” she stammered, “I mean, I was sent for, have I come to the wrong place?” She wore dark riding leathers, cut for a man, and her hair was bound back with a simple tie. One hand trailed up her thigh and hip to settle just above the roundness of her breast. Her expression faltered into a sly smile, and she let her eyes wander over the guards. Three stern faces met her gaze, and their swords did not waver.

“Majesty, are you all right?”

“Yes. Whatever she meant to do, she has failed.”

“Only to make you feel good, Majesty. Don't you think I could?” She pulled the tie from her hair, letting the rich black tresses swirl down onto her shoulder.

One of the guards cleared his throat.

“This woman is no friend of mine, nor ever shall be.” Kattanan took a few steps toward her, chilled by the breeze from a new gap at the back of the tent. He gripped the dagger and met her dark eyes. “Why are you here? Who sent you?”

“I was sent for, Majesty,” she purred. “Just to give you a little pleasure.”

“What is that incense?” He gestured toward the fallen pot with his free hand.

One of the guards bent over, retrieved it, and brought it to his nose. The man sniffed deeply, then shook his head. “I think it's just—” He swayed and toppled loudly to the ground. The second guard knelt beside him, while the third advanced to stand by Kattanan.

“Sleeping” was the terse report as the kneeling guard scooped up the pot and as much incense as he could and dumped the lot into a pitcher of water.

“Bind this woman, take her back to Lochdale, and throw her in the dungeon,” Kattanan snapped.

“I am a lady, Your Majesty, and I have done nothing wrong.”

He gestured toward the unconscious guard. “I take that as evidence of your intent.”

“To ease your slumber, nothing more.” She reached a pleading hand toward him.

“Orie is behind this, is he not?”

Withdrawing the hand, Faedre threw back her head and laughed. “You know nothing of Orie.”

He listened to her fading chuckle. “I am going to visit him very soon. Shall I return you to him?”

Her dark features fell suddenly slack. “Of course, take me back to him.”

Kattanan took a step closer despite his guards' warning noises. “Perhaps I will,” he breathed. “What are you afraid of, Faedre?”

“I am not afraid.” She tossed back her hair.

“Have you betrayed him as well? Or perhaps he cooled toward you, now that he and Melisande—” His throat caught on the words, and Faedre flashed a smile at the guard. “It's Melisande, isn't it? You've done something to offend her, or worse.”

Her eyes came back to his, and her breathing was quick. “What does it matter what you think I've done?”

“If you have hurt her, I'll—”

“You'll what, Majesty?” she sneered. “You'll ride in like a hero of legend and avenge her wounded pride? She would laugh in your face, eunuch. She knows what you are! Everyone knows.”

The guard slammed his sword into its sheath and grabbed her, pulling her away from the king. “The dungeon, Your Majesty?”

Faedre struggled, baring her teeth. “Ayel and Jonsha avenge me!” she howled.

“Get her out of here.” Kattanan did not turn around as the other man gathered Faedre's kicking legs, and they bundled her off. He stood staring at his feet. Melisande would laugh at him. Of course she would.

“Your Majesty,” a gruff voice called out. “We've come to take him—”

Kattanan waved them about their business and heard the scuffling of feet as several men hefted their fallen companion and shuffled out the door.

Breathless, Jordan pushed inside. “Are you hurt? I came as quickly as I could.”

“Given that you were not here”—he gestured at Jordan's untouched bedding laid out beside his own—“I suppose you did.”

Jordan carefully slid the end of his belt into the buckle and pulled it snug about his waist. “I did not know I was forbidden to leave your side.” He hooked his gloved hands over the belt. “Better to ask your guards why they left their post.”

“I will ask them, but now I'm asking you. I thought you swore not to leave me.”

“I was gone less than an hour, Kattanan, and I am here now.”

“Only a few minutes late.” Kattanan dropped the dagger by his pillow and poured a draught of wine.

“But you had already disarmed the villain,” Jordan pointed out. Kattanan took a long swallow. Jordan added, a bit softer, “I am sorry I wasn't here. It will not happen again. Does that help?”

“You were with Lyssa.”

“Yes, I was. I intend to marry her, and I think she will have me.”

“Of course she will. Who wouldn't?”

Jordan let out a delighted laugh. “You're not afraid of being alone, you're just jealous.”

“What?” Kattanan spun to face him. “I am not! It's just…” He shut his mouth into a grim line.

Still grinning, Jordan nodded quickly, running his good hand through his ruffled hair. “I never thought I'd see the day when you'd be jealous of me.”

“Fine. So what if I am? Don't I have a right to be?”

“Well, you have a woman who loves you—wait, don't interrupt—and one whom you love. The problem is they are two different people. Part of the reason for this trip is to narrow that number, to see if Melisande might love you as well. Then there's just her husband to deal with.”

“And her father.” Kattanan swirled the last sip of wine in his goblet. “And then there is Brianna.”

“Indeed there is. She has a lot to offer you.”

Kattanan shook his head. “She offers only one thing that might sway me to her, Jordan, that someone might call me ‘Father.'”

“Well I never…” Jordan murmured. “I had no idea you wanted a child.”

Now it was Kattanan's turn to chuckle. “How could I, Kattanan duRhys, castrated singer, ever say I wanted a child? What would have been the point?”

“But King Rhys of Lochalyn would want children, would need them, in fact.”

“And there is Brianna who believes it is her duty to serve.” The two studied each other in the dim light.

“And there she is.”

 

SITTING ON
the edge of the royal dais, Fionvar sighed to himself. His third evening at the palace seemed destined to end as the other two, without a private word with Orie. The entire drunken court had adjourned to the main hall, complete with the bested musicians of the first evening, to dance the night away. Fionvar himself, after winning acclaim as a fiddler, sat unnoticed. If his own brother could not see fit to speak to him, why should the other nobles? As he contemplated this, Melisande breezed up to perch beside him.

“Perhaps I have at last had enough dancing,” she said, flapping a painted paper fan. “You don't mind if I join you?”

“Certainly not, Your Highness. I had been wanting company.”

“Thomas!” Melisande called out. “Do you need a drink, Fionvar?”

“I'm fine, Your Highness. I've not been wearing my shoes through as you have.”

The page trotted up and gave a little bow. “Yes, Highness?”

“I'll have some water, if you please, Master Thomas. Then perhaps you'll dance with me?”

The boy ducked his head with a giggle. “He'd not like it.”

“Who wouldn't like it?” Melisande stopped smiling.

“Your—your husband, Highness.”

She gently lifted his chin so that he looked into her eyes. “My husband is the prince, and you must call him that.”

Thomas took a little sniffle. “Yes, Your Highness. I'll bring water.”

Melisande turned back to Fionvar with a tiny smile. “He's only seven, and so much has changed here that he doesn't understand.”

“Neither do I, Your Highness.”

The smile vanished and her eyes narrowed. “The king has recovered, and we are still celebrating that, as well as my marriage. We are at peace and we are happy. I even have new puppies to tend. What else is there to concern us?”

Fionvar regarded the princess. The king above them was deeply involved in a discussion with one of his stewards. Fionvar lowered his voice. “If there were more, Highness, I might be willing to talk about things otherwise left silent.”

Her eyes flared, and she swallowed deeply. Thomas appeared at her elbow with a jug and two goblets, which he placed on the dais beside her and gave a little bow, then disappeared back to his place.

Melisande slowly poured herself a drink. “I should have asked for wine.”

“Shall I call him back?”

She shook her head quickly. “For now, silence is best.”

“As you wish.” Fionvar watched the dancers, and they spoke of other things.

Orie finally left his latest partner to weave toward them. He planted a kiss on Melisande's brow. “It's not like you to sit out so long. Are you well? Or is my brother entreating your company?”

“All my fault,” Fionvar said. “I asked for news of the princess's sisters abroad, and she was obliging me.”

“Obliging, was she.”

“Do you need some water?” Melisande held up her goblet to him, but he straightened away from her.

“You are not dancing, either, Fion. Is this some sort of conspiracy?”

Fionvar rose, inches away from his brother. “Nothing of the kind.”

“There's no call to act as if you are protecting my wife.”

“I'm not.” Fionvar held up both hands. “I am protecting you.”

“You are what?” Orie laughed aloud. “You are protecting me? From what?”

“From embarrassing yourself and your wife in public,” Fionvar murmured.

Orie's fist relaxed, and he took a step back. “Always my big brother!” He clapped Fionvar on the back. “Let's go someplace and get reacquainted, shall we?” He steered them away from the dais, calling over his shoulder, “Farewell, my sweet.”

They left by a back door and took a narrow flight of stairs into a servant's corridor. The passages grew quickly darker as they left behind the public rooms and Orie grabbed a torch from the wall to light their way.

“Where are we going? Are your quarters not toward the garden?”

“This is a special place, a place I have never taken anyone, but I do not think you will betray my secrets.” He turned suddenly, holding the torch low to cast his huge shadow upon the wall. “You never have before.”

“They do not know you are a—”

“Of course not. You haven't tried to tell anyone, have you?”

“I see no reason to share that if you don't.”

Orie frowned. “You have been awfully close to that eunuch, and to the Liren-sha. Perhaps I should not be so free with you.”

Fionvar allowed himself a little grin. “You've hardly spoken to me since I got here. I hoped for a warmer welcome after walking under an entire mountain range.”

“You never had a sense of humor before, Fion. I'm not sure I like it.”

“You need to see it from my point of view. My lady is going to marry a castrated king and take my child with her. I admire him a great deal, but this does alter my plans. I was assigned to guard one man, just one, and he got killed. So I came to you after all.” Fionvar tilted his head and added, “I thought you might have need of me.”

“Indeed I do, brother.” Orie grabbed his arm again, and they were off. “She cut me off too soon, the wizard did. Now it is up to me to find out the rest.”

“To find out what?” Fionvar stumbled as Orie stopped short and motioned him to silence. He quickly pushed open a door that had been nearly lost in shadows. Still silent, Orie pulled Fionvar after him, then shut the door again.

He placed the torch in a brace on the wall, revealing a small room with a very high ceiling, as if it were a tower with no interior floors. A staircase wound about the inside wall, twining up into the darkness past empty galleries. A workbench dominated the floor, swept clean of any clutter. Smaller tables held a few books, bottles, and knives, intermingled with preserved animals. At least Fionvar thought they were preserved, until the smell hit him. He reeled against the wall, clapping a hand over his mouth.