The Singer's Crown (30 page)

“Goddess's Tears! At least she isn't half so obnoxious as your Montgomery.”

“Nor is she half so valuable.”

“What's he done that's so great?”

“With his aid, I was able to guess at their plans and send for Athelmark and the others. Right now, he is doing away with someone who is causing us a lot of trouble.”

At this, Evaine's needle slipped, and she pricked her finger. She started to raise it to her lips, then hastily dabbed it to her forehead.

“Farewell to the Wizard's Bane, the reason our wizards have been virtually powerless. Very soon, we should be able to launch a counterattack.”

“Finally!” Asenith brightened a bit, then glanced to her mother and back. “You have heard what the soldiers are saying about the Pretender,” she said softly.

“I have,” said Thorgir.

“Are you sure it isn't…?”

“Not you, too! Do you think anyone would follow him?”

Evaine frowned as she glanced from one to the other. “The princes are all dead. Their mother killed them.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Thorgir said, silencing his daughter with a look.

The queen carefully set down her hoop and looked him full in the face. “I know your face when you lie, Thorgir,” she said softly. “There are things you must conceal from me, but what is it that my daughter knows that you will not share with me?”

“Prince Rhys was not killed with his brothers. We had thought that he died in another place, and that his treacherous relatives did not know he lived even so long. He was my favorite nephew, so I naturally investigated the rumors. Clearly they have found someone who resembles him to serve as their Pretender. I have tried to keep this from our troops for fear that their loyalties would become confused. You must understand that.”

“I understand,” she said. She sat still a long moment, then rose. “I am going to temple to pray.”

Thorgir caught her and kissed her forehead as she passed. “You are ever faithful and strong for me. Pray that we do not lose too many to put these traitors in their place.”

“I shall pray for us all,” Evaine said. As she looked up at her husband, she saw that a spot of the blood was on his lips, and it did not seem so out of place.

 

“ORIE!” FIONVAR
called. He rested his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

“What do you want, Fion?” his brother's voice inquired from not far ahead.

“I should ask you that.” Fionvar picked his way through a patch of brambles. “Why are you here?” He emerged into a clearing where a great tree had fallen, leaving a hole into the sky.

Orie perched on the tree trunk, one hand pressed to his side. His smile was interrupted by a wince. “Do I not have an interest in what happens here? I, too, have worked for this day.”

“You've worked for yourself, you mean.” Fionvar shook his head, then started forward. “You're bleeding!”

“That big oaf broke some of my ribs when he fell on me.” Orie looked down at his side as if more curious than hurt. “No matter, now. At least, not for long.”

“Let me look at it.” He walked to the log, but Orie slid down and stepped away. “I'd rather not lose another sibling to this war, Orie.”

“I am so sick of you feeling responsible for the rest of us. We're adults now; we don't need you to see our skinned knees, Fion.”

A startled frown crossed Fionvar's tired features. “What has come over you? You need help, mine or somebody else's.”

“I'd like you to stay where you are,” the earl insisted, adding some faint words under his breath.

Fionvar tried to step forward, but found himself rooted to the spot. “Orie, don't do this. Bury your magic!”

“Not mine, hers.” Orie laughed lightly. “Well, all mine, now. All the secrets she tried to keep from her own apprentice.” He drew a slim sword. A flick of his blade cut a shallow wound across Fionvar's arm. Before Orie could do more, someone broke from the trees. “Who's there?”

“Your destiny, Orie, if I have anything to say about it.” Wolfram stepped from the woods, sword drawn.

“Oh, no, Wolfie,” Orie sneered. “Perhaps yours.” They met in a clash of steel.

 

“OH!” THE
wizard sat bolt upright, staring through her companions.

“Alswytha!” Jordan twisted to look at her, then frowned. “What's wrong?”

“Great Goddess, he was with me!”

Lyssa blinked a few times. “You aren't making sense.” She had an arm around Jordan, supporting his shoulders, her left hand cradling his.

Kattanan's eyes widened. “Orie, you mean. He knows!”

“It's a healing, what harm could it do?” Lyssa asked.

“I can only hope he has no idea,” the wizard murmured. “There is so much more. I pray he did not see all.” She massaged her forehead. “He seeks to sever the bond.”

“You healed me,” Jordan said softly.

She looked down at his ruined right hand—the skin had pulled together over hopelessly shattered bones. “What I could. I am sorry.”

“Sorry?” He stared at her. “My lady, you healed me when I thought I was dying.”

Lyssa glowered a little. “Hadn't we best get off the battlefield?”

Above, and all around them, the battle rang on. Kattanan nodded. “I only wish I knew how.”

 

AGAIN, ORIE
fell back, gasping. He coughed, and blood spattered his lips. Still, his sword was fast, and his expression, fierce. “You're a pathetic swordsman, Wolfie.”

“I have worked for peace, not war,” Wolfram panted, dodging a slash.

Fionvar, horribly still, ground his teeth together. His own blade hung just beneath his hand, the hilt brushing his palm, yet he could not lift it. Blood seeped from his arm and he could not stop it.

“Not your fight, Fion,” his brother sang, passing him quickly. As he did, he touched the shallow cut he had made, closing his hand around his brother's blood. A hint of color returned to Orie's cheeks, but Fionvar took in a sharp breath, and the touch left him dizzy.

Wolfram glanced toward him, stumbled, and had to twist under the tree trunk to escape.

With another stroke of Fionvar's blood, Orie sprang up to the tree and leapt down by Wolfram again.

The blades slid together, locked, leaving the combatants staring into one another's eyes. There was a flash at Orie's wrist, a finely wrought silver band.

“You stay away from my sister,” Wolfram hissed, pulling back, and lunging again.

“Difficult,” Orie remarked, parrying. “I am her husband.”

“You killed Eadmund.”

“Who? Oh—that petty baron of yours!” He danced away around the trunk, hesitating an instant at Fionvar's side. Every time Orie touched blood, his face flushed, and Fionvar's wound stung.

Wolfram's eyes flared as he caught the gesture. “A good man, and more fit husband than you.”

“Ask Melisande about that.” Orie laughed, spinning away from him.

Wolfram placed himself before Fionvar, and did not follow Orie's taunting.

“Get away from him,” Orie said, smile slipping. He feinted again, lunged a bit wildly.

“I do not like what you are doing.”

“Me? Nothing!” Still, his eyes were sharp. He ducked under the tree, forcing Wolfram's gaze and turn. Orie scrambled onto the tree, sidestepping Wolfram's thrust. Suddenly he reached out, Wolfram retreated, but the hand slipped to his brother's shoulder, and the sword wavered over Fionvar's head.

“Holy Mother preserve us,” Wolfram whispered, letting his sword point dip.

“Too late,” Orie snapped. “At least for one of you. I'll be sure to tell my wife.”

Fionvar's eyes met Wolfram's, and they held no fear. He gave the slightest bow, as of a duelist conceding a bout. “Tell her what, Orie?” Wolfram asked quietly.

“Tell her that her brother is a fool.” He grinned, releasing Fionvar. “Drop your sword.”

The sword slid from Wolfram's grasp to the soft earth, and he stepped forward.

“No, stay there.” Orie jumped down from the tree, staggering a bit, with his hand to his ribs. “Oh, you have made this too easy.” He walked around the former prince.

Breathing steadily, Wolfram held out his hand. “Welcome to my family, brother,” he whispered.

Orie laughed, slashing his blade down the outstretched arm, drawing an arc of blood. “Your father has already done that.”

“You will be the son he always wanted. I am glad, now, that I was not.”

The smile fell from Orie's lips. He clutched Wolfram's bleeding palm to his side.

Blood streamed down the prince's arm, mingling with Orie's, then drawn into the other man's flesh. Orie moaned and grinned like a man with a whore, the pallor leaving his face. Wolfram's back arched, his head flung back. “Dear Lady!” Wolfram cried, breaking off into a terrible scream.

The sound ripped Fionvar's soul, yet he could not look away.

Orie cursed, pulling Wolfram closer in his cruel embrace, wincing at the way the broken ribs moved beneath his flesh. The blood flowed faster. Orie's eyes froze, glaring down at Wolfram's face, then, he, too, was screaming, a deep, awful cry.

Fionvar let out a strangled sob.

Far off, the men on the field shouted in fear, some fled at the sound, making the sign of the Goddess. Others fought harder, hearing some more terrible fate approaching from the forest.

Thorgir slammed the windows of his chamber, cursing. Below, in a small temple, Evaine flung herself to the ground and begged the Goddess to forgive her, and every sinner.

Brianna cried out at it, burying her head against the duchess's chest. Elyn, disturbed by both the sound and the gesture, flung an arm around her; her sharp eyes searched for a cause and found none.

It pulled Rolf from his darkness, and he covered his ears and prayed.

Kattanan scrambled out of the grave, and stood weeping. Those who saw him, saw a dead man rise behind him, and a fire in his eyes. “I wish I had never heard his voice, and did not know it!” Kattanan cried aloud.

“I wish that I had known it better,” Jordan whispered.

Lyssa came beside him, sword drawn. The scream seemed fearsome to her, yet faint, and it did not make her tremble so long had she filled her ears with hammerblows and swords ringing.

The Wizard of Nine Stars curled her arms about her legs and wept.

At last the woods fell silent.

ORIE LET
Wolfram's body fall from him, staring at his side. “It hasn't worked!” The skin and torn muscles had closed, but the ribs still pricked him when he moved. He touched the spot carefully, frowning. “Oh,” he said, remembering. He cast an absent word toward his brother.

Fionvar at last fell to his knees. One hand groped feebly at his sword, but he had not the strength to draw it. Wolfram's open eyes watched without blinking. “Great Goddess,” Fionvar murmured.

The earl finally looked down at his brother. “I would not have killed you, I hope you know that.” He still frowned, shook his head slightly, as if to dislodge a ringing in the ears. “It was for us to settle. Frankly, I had expected more of a challenge.”

“He was not a man of the sword,” Fionvar whispered, tracing Wolfram's features. Agony had twisted his face; one hand was clenched into a fist. His outstretched arm bore a long, deep wound, flesh as dry as bone.

“No, indeed. Gerrod told me his son was thickheaded about the things of war.” Orie rubbed his hands together, transferring his vague glance to them. A shudder ran through his body, and he straightened. “You should come with me, meet the king.”

“I already have a king.”

“You can't believe he'd have you after all of this!” Orie waved his arm about the clearing. “That was a friend of his; you literally watched him die. And I'm sure the duchess is less than pleased with you now.”

“She ever has been.” His voice felt dead, small and weak compared to the notes that had gone before.

“I never intended you any harm.” He smiled. “You are my brother, after all.”

“And blood calls to blood.” Fionvar looked up, his face blank. “If you do not want to be seen here, now is the time to leave.”

“Still looking out for me, eh?” The smile grew, though his eyes were troubled. “You will come to me one day.” He turned to go, not sparing a glance for his victim.

“One thing,” Fionvar said, his voice a little stronger. Orie stopped at the edge of the clearing. “Tell me how you are called.”

Orie looked back at the dead man, and chuckled. “I am the Wizard of the Prince's Blood. You are indeed privileged to witness the birth of a new power.” He started, then stopped again. “Oh, and brother? I would not share that with too many people if I were you.” He vanished into the woods, in the direction of Bernholt.

Fionvar sat a moment longer, then crawled the short distance to Wolfram's still form. He reached out a gentle hand and shut the staring eyes.

Oo

“NO, THERE
is nothing!” Nine Stars wailed, pulling away from Jordan's softest touch.

“My lady, let me help you, please.”

“I told you, you can do nothing.” The wizard pressed her hands over her ears. “I need rest, I need silence, I need peace, for love of the Lady!”

“Leave her be,” Lyssa said, tugging at Jordan's elbow. “We have other problems.”

He shot her a glance not altogether friendly. “My last problem was being dead. Forgive me if my priorities have changed a little.”

Lyssa gasped at this. “You said you wanted to marry me, now you can't even be civil. Great Goddess! You're as bad as my brother.”

“Which one?”

“Either! We are in a grave in the middle of a war. We have the king. He has no helm, and barely enough skill to chop a potato. How do we get out of here?”

Kattanan peered over the edge, then crouched down again. “Storm the castle.”

“What?” said Lyssa and Jordan together.

“We are inside the ring of battle. We either fight our way out or go the other direction.” His dirt-streaked face shone with a curious excitement. “You are the only able fighter among us, Lyssa. How many can you take?”

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Lyssa snapped. “There are hundreds of soldiers, ours and theirs, and they'd kill us as soon as step aside, even if you are the True King.”

Kattanan smiled. “My point exactly. So we go the other way. The archers can't shoot without harming their own, and only four guards are at the gate.”

“How do you propose to get by them?”

Kattanan hesitated, considering that point.

“Tell them to move aside,” Jordan answered, meeting Kattanan's eyes. “You are the True King, I am the Liren-sha.”

“Now that is ridiculous,” the king replied, smiling a little at his friend.

“No,” said Jordan. “They will be more surprised by that than by anything else we could dream up. All you need is to master the tone of voice.” He drew himself up as much as possible without revealing himself above ground level and proclaimed, “‘I am the Liren-sha. You will surrender this position and submit yourselves to the justice of the True King.' And you would say, ‘Or stand your ground before me, and I will smite you with the glory of the Goddess and you will know me.'” His voice was deep and terrible, his gaze commanding. The other three stared. Jordan shrugged. “Most kings are listened to because they demand it in their voices. You know more about your voice than any man alive, Kattanan.”

“About the other voice, perhaps—” He broke off. “Why didn't my voice change?”

The wizard displayed her scarred arm. “My blood courses in the veins of the Wizard's Bane.”

“Does that mean he isn't, anymore?”

She shook her head. “The one receiving the blood also receives part of the spirit of the giver. He has a little bit of me now.” She smiled for a fraction of a second. “He is still who he was, but perhaps a little more sympathetic toward me and my magic.”

Lyssa, too, was shaking her head. “What about the scream, shouldn't we go that way, no matter the difficulty?”

“And do what?” the wizard asked softly.

“Whatever it was you did for Jordan! Don't you think Wolfram deserves the same effort?”

“Even if I were able right now”—Nine Stars sighed—“he is beyond my aid, or anyone's.”

Lyssa's eyes flared. “Don't you feel the least bit responsible? Orie used your magic to do whatever he did, didn't he?”

“Lyssa, don't—” Jordan warned, but she went on, “You went through all this for Jordan, and now you won't even try for Wolfram, even though you are the one to blame!”

“Orie killed him; even without magic, he would have found a way,” Kattanan said.

“I don't believe that!”

“Lyssa, shut up!” Jordan shouted. She glared, but kept her peace. “We are all grieving, but we cannot sit here all day. Neither can we go back the way we came unless we can fly.”

The wizard covered her face with her hands but had no more strength for tears.

Kattanan laid his hand on her shoulder and said nothing.

“You are seriously proposing that we just walk up and tell them who we are,” Lyssa said softly. “Why not just turn ourselves in?”

“What is your better idea?” When she did not answer, Jordan said, “I do not know what else to do without jeopardizing Kattanan in open combat. If I could fly, I would be with Wolfram now, dead or alive.”

Lyssa's eyes were soft and sad. “I have never met anyone like him.”

“Nor I,” the wizard murmured, looking up.

The two women looked at each other for a long time before Lyssa nodded. “I have my hammer and a sword. If we do startle them, we can take the men at the gate.”

“Have the horses gone?” asked the wizard.

Jordan nodded.

“I don't think I will be able to rise,” she whispered. “I am so weak.”

“Then I will carry you; Lyssa must have her sword at the ready.”

“The king's guard,” muttered Kattanan. “Fionvar will be so pleased.”

Jordan smiled. “At your service, Your Majesty.”

Lyssa slipped her helm into place and stood. “The tide's turned toward us, we must hurry!” She pulled herself out of the grave and reached down to help the wizard, who crumpled to the ground immediately and sat smiling faintly.

The wizard murmured, “Would that I were not right! I am a burden once again.”

Jordan gathered the wizard into his arms. Kattanan drew his father's sword and paused, looking to the forest. “We will come to you, Highness.” He made the sign of the Goddess and turned away.

The city wall loomed up not far away, dark with growing shadows. The great gap that would be the temple wall was lit by flickering torches already. Kattanan set the sword to his shoulder. “Lady, watch over us.”

“She does,” said Jordan, with such conviction that the king looked up at him.

“Well, no use standing about,” Lyssa put in. “If the Sisterhood could see me now! Rear guard for a four-person assault on Lochdale.”

“The stuff of hero's songs,” Jordan observed.

She glanced at him, flashing a smile. “You must sing this tale at someday.” Her gaze took in the wizard, clinging with what little strength remained to her, and Jordan's ruined hand draped over the other woman's shoulder. “If any survive to tell of it.”

“The Lady walks with us, Lyssa. I do not know what lies beyond that wall, but it will not overcome us.”

“My uncle waits in there,” Kattanan said, face marked with lines of sadness, “and Wolfram's betrothed.” They walked carefully, leaving the battle behind them until the wall filled their vision. Another figure appeared in the lighted space, royalty from the response of the guards on duty. The newcomer first stood, then bolted out, but was captured by the guards.

In a few more paces, the foursome could hear the argument raging. “I cannot be too late!” a woman's voice cried.

“Your Majesty, get back inside,” from an imperious guard. “This is a war.”

“This is a temple! That is holy ground, despoiled by blood.” She gestured wildly.

“If you leave, it will be your blood, Majesty. I cannot allow it”

She slapped at him, struggling against his arms. “The Wizard's Bane,” she cried suddenly.

“I told you, Your Majesty, he is dead.”

“And yet he walks!” Jordan called out, stepping up to their torchlight. “I am the Liren-sha, and even death cannot hold me!”

The guards' faces went pale. Evaine easily slipped their grasp, and made a deep curtsy. “The Lady spoke and told me so.” Her plain face shone even as the guardsman started reaching for her again.

“Your Majesty, there is magic here. Come away and let us fight them!” His voice trembled, and his sword wavered now.

Evaine knelt before Kattanan, placing her hand on the ground at his feet. “Your Majesty, I cannot deny you. I pray for your forgiveness. My hand is yours, to be crushed, or to be commanded.”

“After what your husband did, you seek forgiveness?” Lyssa blurted.

“How do you know me?” Kattanan asked quietly, frowning down at his aunt.

“By the sunlight on your hair and by the starlight in your eye, Your Majesty.” She did not look at him but gazed steadily at the earth before her.

His sword gleamed over her head, matching the spark of the wedding bracelet on her outstretched wrist.

“When I was in the dark, Your Majesty,” Jordan said, “she brought me light and comfort.”

Kattanan gazed down upon her, not sure how to feel. Had she been there when his brothers died? Did she wear the circlet his mother had before his father was killed? A soft sound came to him; she was crying at his feet. He stooped and took her hand. “Lady Evaine, rise and walk beside me. You are not too late.”

 

NIGHT GATHERED
early under the trees, and Fionvar looked up at last. The sun rapidly faded, even in the gap overhead, yet no one had come. He heard the suggestion of battle beyond and saw a faint glow in the direction of the city. A strange weakness suffused his limbs, and he knew he could not lift Wolfram to carry him back to camp. Fionvar shivered, huddled against a growing breeze. With a frown toward the sky, he roused himself to gather a bit of firewood. Though cloak and hood had been left behind, he did have his flint and set about to lay a fire. It took his shaking fingers several tries to strike a spark, but he had some warmth at last.

“Companion,” a gruff voice broke the silence.

Fionvar sprang up, reaching for his sword. “Announce yourself !”

A dark man entered the clearing; several others hung back in the shadows. When he had come closer, Fionvar recognized Quinan, the Woodman who was Wolfram's friend. “You are the companion?” the other asked, stumbling over the foreign words.

“You speak our language?”

He nodded. “We studied together. He was better student.” Quinan's eyes traced the dead man's face. “Are you his Companion?”

Fionvar lowered his sword. “I'm not sure what you mean.”

“When a great man dies, he shall be watched over for one day and one night. If he is of the gods, no beast will come near except to mourn him, no rain will touch his face, and whosoever waits with him, the gods will ever hold as one of their own.”

“He is a man of the Lady,” Fionvar said.

“The day has passed, night comes. Do you wait with him?” the other asked impatiently.

“I will not leave him.”

Slinging his bow over his shoulder, the Woodman nodded. He called out something in his own language and received several whistles in answer. With sadness in his features, Quinan turned to go.

“Wait,” Fionvar said, raising his hand. The trees seemed both dark and cold now. “Do you not want to stay?”

Eyes shining with tears, Quinan returned to the fire and pressed his palm to Fionvar's forehead. “You are his Companion!”

Stepping back, Fionvar shook his head. “Only for a short time. I barely knew him.”

“He knew you.” Quinan's eyes narrowed. “The man stands at his death who would be his last and greatest friend. He spoke of this.”

Fionvar shook his head again “That's not possible. If he spoke of a friend, he must have meant Rolf or the king, not me.”