The Singer's Crown (44 page)

Lacking a better purpose, Kattanan strolled to the throne reserved for him and sat down. After a little while, Melisande and her father appeared at the arch. The king summoned one of his guards over and sent the man scurrying off in the direction his other guards had disappeared. Had she convinced him to try mercy? Hard to tell at this distance, though Gerrod's face glowed with fatherly affection, and Melisande's smile was hopeful despite the darkness of her eyes.

Across the room, the great door opened for a moment, and a figure slipped inside. Kattanan jerked to his feet. For a moment, he was a singer again, watching Orie's stealthy return from the courtyard, and, with a jolt, he realized it was Orie.

The dark man caught his eye and bowed his head briefly, then crossed quickly to where Melisande was standing. Smiling, he led her to the floor.

Kattanan stepped down from the dais and moved through the gathering toward the door. He hesitated before opening it, however, as the memories of that other night flooded through him. Resolutely, he raised the latch and peered into the gloom.

“Your Majesty.”

He jumped and whirled, letting the door slam shut behind him.

Fionvar held up his hands. “I didn't mean to startle you. Are you well?”

“Just a little worried. Orie just came inside—any idea what he was up to?”

Fionvar frowned. “Someone came to see him, but I didn't recognize the man. It was abundantly clear that he did not want my attention, though.”

“I don't like it.”

“Nor do I, Your Majesty. I'll be keeping a sharp eye on him, don't doubt it.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I'm sorry to have missed the feast,” Fionvar said with a slight smile. “I understand it was something to see.”

“Quite,” Kattanan agreed. “For her sake, I held my tongue, but I should dearly love to give Gerrod the answer he deserves.”

“Soon,” said Fionvar, and there was an ominous note in his voice.

“THIS WAY!”
Rolf shouted to the others, pounding suddenly toward the guest chambers. “Back door,” he panted. Rolf's face was a mask of determination as he followed the route along which he'd once carried his prince. Down the back stairs, turn along the winding passage—at last they were at the dungeon, a little-used entrance with only one guard behind the gate.

The man looked up, startled. “What—who goes there! Stop!” He drew his sword, but Rolf's enormous hand shot through the bars of the gate to grab his shirt and lift him until they saw eye to eye. The guard's feet kicked the air.

“The keys!” Rolf shouted.

Lyssa quickly cut them from the guard's belt and popped open the lock.

“Where's the boy?”

“Who?” the guard stammered. “I—I don't know wh—”

Rolf slammed the gate open so that the man was held up between it and the rough-hewn wall. “Bury it, man, don't make me kill ye!”

“Outside wall,” the man gasped, “first door.”

Rolf grinned his thanks to the wheezing guard and let him fall.

They reached the end of the outer corridor in time to see Gerrod's men opening a door at the far end. Their collective roar as they sprang forward echoed down the hall as their pounding boots rattled the hinges.

One of Gerrod's men looked up, his eyes flying open. He got his sword from the scabbard, but found himself tackled by a huge man built like a bull. Rolf, Jordan, and Lyssa stood shoulder to shoulder, swords at the ready, facing the remaining guard through the open door. The guard's worried eyes flicked from one to the other, then he stepped aside. Thomas barreled across the room to grip Rolf's leg, quaking with tears.

“There, now,” Rolf mumbled, patting the boy's head. “We'll bring ye away from here. Ye're mother's got a house in town, aye?”

Jordan said, “We had a question for you, Thomas, if we could.”

At this, Thomas pulled away a little. “Yes, my lord?” he whispered, tugging at the royal page's tunic he still wore, despite the stains of the dungeon upon it.

“We need to find a book that your prince might have had,” Jordan said gently. “Do you know where we should look?”

Thomas returned Jordan's smile, but tremulously. “I took them all away, all I could carry. They're at Mamma's house.”

Running footfalls echoed into the hall, and another of Gerrod's guard appeared around the corner. Lyssa's blade flew from the scabbard and she stepped forward, but the man flung up his hands. “Wait! His Majesty has lifted the order to execute.”

“He's come to his senses,” Rolf muttered.

“Then he won't mind if we escort Thomas to his mother,” said Jordan. The little party made their way back to the main corridor, where the guards stood aside, but not without some grumbling. When they reached the courtyard, Rolf stopped, glancing toward the Great Hall.

“Shouldn't've left the king so long,” he said, frowning.

Lifting Thomas to his shoulders, Jordan said, “Go back to him, Rolf. We'll return as soon as we can.” To Thomas he said, “Did you know Kattanan was a king?”

“I knew he was somebody,” the boy replied.

“Maybe the—maybe you should stay, too,” Lyssa told the wizard. “You'll be more use to him than I would.”

“Maybe so.” The wizard eyed the woman. “Just you find that book.”

Jordan replied. “What could go wrong, now that we know it's safe?”

“I don't know,” the wizard growled, “that's why I worry.”

Grinning, Jordan asked the child on his shoulders, “Which way, captain?”

Stretching out his arm past Jordan's ear, Thomas pointed the way, and the three of them set out. Rolf and the wizard watched them go, with a little party of castle guards closing rank behind to be sure of their destination. “That's well done,” Rolf said, “though Kat'll be disappointed no' to see the lad.”

But as they turned to reenter the hall, a quick movement caught the wizard's attention, and she took a step away, peering into the darkness. “I thought I saw someone I knew.” Frowning, the wizard said, “You go on, I want to see for myself.”

“Very well.” Rolf shrugged and set out to find his king.

Rolf entered the hall just in time to see Kattanan slipping out to one side. He covered the hall in a few long strides, and followed, catching up with him just inside the garden. “Yer Majesty!” he called out. “We got him, Yer Majesty.”

Kattanan spun around with a little dagger in his hand, then he relaxed, sliding it back into his boot as Rolf approached, hands up.

“Ye're quick,” he observed.

“Jumpy, more like,” Kattanan replied. “I should have recognized you sooner.”

“No doubt being around these people is makin' ye look over yer shoulder. 'Tis not all a bad thing, especially when yer guards've up and left ye.”

Kattanan shook his head. “Was Thomas all right? I wish I could have seen him.”

“Aye, Majesty, he's well enough. I think yer princess looked out for him.”

“She's not won any credit from her father for that.”

Rolf scuffed his boot along the gravel, then said, “I'm surprised to see ye here, not in there where ye'd be close to her.”

“Oh, Rolf, she's dancing, with Orie mostly, and he's been staring at me as if I should burst into flame. What's worse is three or four ladies have been hounding me for a dance.”

Suddenly, Rolf laughed aloud, enormous guffaws so that he had to master himself with at effort. “Ye are a king, young, polite—more than I'd say of some—handsome, too, fer the way these ladies watch.” He laughed again, and Kattanan flushed.

“I'm not used to such attention,” he murmured. “There's a vast difference between entertaining a court and being a part of it.”

“Aye, I suppose there'd be.” He grinned down at his young friend. “When we go back in, I'll fend off the ladies for ye.”

“Thank you, Rolf, but I think I'd like to stay out for a little while. It's suffocating in there.” He held his hands behind him, gazing up at the twinkling stars.

 

INSIDE THE
Great Hall, Melisande finished a set with one of the barons and returned to her throne, summoning a page to bring her wine. She searched the crowd as the dancing began again, but did not see her husband there. She did not see King Rhys, either, thank the Lady. Fionvar led the musicians in a complicated tune. The lines of concern on his face relaxed when he was playing; it made him look less like his brother.

Her father sprawled in his great throne a little above hers, with a little cask of ale at his side. Since the illness, he had laughed louder, drunk more, and hunted with a reckless air that made her frightened to think of it. He was determined to prove himself as able as ever he had been, but who was he really fooling?

The dance ended with a flourish, and the dancers bowed to one another before applauding their musicians. Across the hall, she suddenly spotted King Rhys standing to one side, hands behind him, as he'd always done. A few ladies converged upon him, and, to her surprise, one of them led the king to the dance floor. He watched her feet carefully, then began to dance. A long time ago, forever it seemed, she had thought he must be graceful, and, indeed, he was. It must have been something he had learned since he'd left there, for he never had agreed to dance with her.

That strange sensation spread again across the back of her throat until she thought she must choke on it. Gathering up her skirts, Melisande descended the few steps to the floor and fled the room.

 

STANDING IN
shadows, gazing down the ill-lit corridor, the wizard caught another glimpse of her quarry. As she ran, she transformed into the maid's guise—swifter, and more silent than the hulking guard. She saw no one else in the halls as she passed, for the nobles would be dancing, the servants watching and tending to their needs, so she was free to speed her steps as she would. How did the other manage to keep ahead of her? She would spy his robe flickering around a corner, or catch sight of him ducking past an archway. Still, she wasn't sure whom she pursued. Surely, with the ban on wizards, he couldn't be there.

Coming to the top of the stair, she paused, listening, then started forward more slowly. A tall, peaked door cut into the wall at the right, and the air around it eddied with some disturbance. A strange odor wafted on that breeze, and Alswytha froze. From the depths of her memory, she recalled the smell—that of flesh decayed, and of the herbs meant to conceal it, that only accentuated the putrid air. She reeled and gagged, the memory flooding through her. She and nine other orphans, raising lambs which they brought to their master's room. She remembered the day the first of her friends went into that room, and did not return.

Some other odor teased at her memory, something added to the scents of childhood, but that did not belong to them. She frowned, trying to push away the memories and concentrate. Her mind would not obey. Her legs refused to move to the stairs. Her fingers, reaching toward the door, seemed sluggish. If she could have, she would have laughed aloud. She was the Wizard of Nine Stars, both revered and feared as the greatest wizard of her time—but memories and herbs had her standing like a statue, too paralyzed already to speak the words that might free her. She might have laughed, or she might have cried.

The door opened, and light silhouetted a stout figure. He reached out a hand and drew her unresisting body toward him. “Oh, my little darling, I've been waiting for you.” The Wizard of Broken Shell, clad in his monk's robe, assisted his former ward into Orie's workshop. He shut the door behind her and shot the bolt with a terrible sound of finality.

 

KATTANAN BREATHED
in the scent of oranges and sighed. He must go back in sometime; he would be missed by his guards, if nothing else. They'd not been happy when he insisted on walking out alone. Rolf stood patiently by him, not speaking.

A movement across the orange grove caught his eye, and he squinted to make out the hurrying figure. A lady, evidently coming from the ball, hurried among the trees. Silver glinted upon her head as she emerged onto a pathway, heading for the little chapel. “Melisande,” he breathed into the perfumed air. Kattanan turned to Rolf. “I'm going after her.”

“Is't wise, Yer Majesty? She'll not be lookin' fer you,” he added gently.

“No, but I would still like to apologize…for everything.”

“As ye wish.” Rolf shrugged, starting after him, but Kattanan stopped again.

He looked up at the guard, lips pursed. “Wait here, would you?”

Frowning, Rolf sighed, then repeated, “As ye wish.”

Straightening his tunic, Kattanan set out with a purposeful stride. He came quickly to the chapel and found the door standing open, its hinges loose. Inside, a little flame sprang to life, and he saw Melisande on the far side of the altar. She bent to light another candle. The chapel had the same layout as a larger temple, with small niches representing the caves and a hole over the little altar. The difference was the ceiling. As Melisande's candles sparkled into life, the ceiling twinkled with warm light like a roomful of stars. Tiny mirrors caught the candles' flame and sent it dancing about the little room. Kattanan caught his breath, and she spun around, hands to her cheeks. Her eyes gleamed, too, as if with tears.

“Forgive me, Your Highness.” He stepped inside. “I didn't mean to frighten you.”

“I'm not frightened, Your Majesty, I just—” She set down the candle she was holding, but the trembling of its light had already given her away. “I did not expect to see anyone here.”

“I am as surprised to see you, Your Highness, what with the dance going on.” He inclined his head toward the candles, taking a step toward the altar, and Melisande. “The Cave of Death, Your Highness.”

She studied the stone altar. “I never lit a candle for my brother,” she murmured.

Kattanan walked the few paces until only the altar separated them. “I wanted to apologize for what I said to you in the garden. It was cruel and stupid, and I'm sorry.”

A brief smile flitted across her face. “It was true, though, Your Majesty. I have always acted as a child, never as the heir to a kingdom.”

“Be that as it may, I had no right to say it.”

She lifted her head. “I accept your apology, Your Majesty.”

Nodding, he watched how the gold of her gown gleamed and receded with her quiet breaths. The warmth of the candles glowed upon her cheeks, and her slightly parted lips. “I wish that things could have been different.” Kattanan sighed.

She met his gaze and did not answer.

Slowly he reached up and lifted the crown from his head, setting it down upon the altar. He felt a little taller, relieved of that weight. “We have been to each other as master and servant,” he said. He reached out and lifted the circlet from her golden veil.

He fingered the chased dogs as he set the circlet down to the other side. Brushing them gently, he went on, “We have been a king, and a princess.” He looked back up at her, and his heart quivered within him.

Still, she did not speak, but neither did she move away.

“Until now, we have never faced each other as man and woman.”

At this, she nodded once, and a hairpin slipped loose. The golden veil sighed about her face, sliding gracefully down her shoulder to reveal her hair. The thick, auburn locks had been trimmed about her ears, smoothing the ragged edges left by Faedre's knife.

“Oh, your hair,” he whispered, reaching out to her.

“Don't touch me,” Melisande said suddenly, turning her face from him. Again, he caught the glint of tears in her eyes, and the sound of them in her shaky voice.

One hand stroked the hair from her temple, ever so gently.