The Singer's Crown (39 page)

“It's been too long,” Orie muttered. He gathered the putrefying animals into his arms, heedless of his brocade tunic, and toted them beyond a curtained arch.

“What is this place?” choked Fionvar.

Lighting fire to a bundle of twigs, Orie said, “It is my workroom. Once, it was the queen's library. Gerrod, in a fit of sentimentality, forbade anyone to come here. It is distant from the main quarters and suits my needs well.” He walked slowly around the room, wafting the smoking twigs. Making several circles of smoke about Fionvar's head, he noted, “The scent hardly bothers me anymore.”

“Perhaps I'd rather not know what you do here.” The smoke, which smelled faintly of pine and mushrooms, eased his breathing.

“But I have worked alone long enough. I should find myself an apprentice.”

Fionvar retreated a few step. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Not you,” Orie snorted. “Though you will be useful to me in other respects. You won't even participate directly in my spells.”

Ducking Orie's gaze, Fionvar walked a few steps away from the door. Deep red stained the workbench and tables. One of Orie's victims—a tiny, pale puppy—lay entangled in a cloth. He spun back toward the door. “I cannot do this, Orie. I cannot be a part of this.”

“Melisande might, if properly motivated,” Orie mused.

“No. Great Lady, what have you become?”

“Ah, it's what I will become, with your help and my wife's. You have lost your cause, Fionvar, and begun to care about something beyond your great ideal. I am letting you glimpse a cause so much greater. A mage-king, Fion,” Orie murmured, his hands held out. “Think of all those who could benefit from my power, yourself not least of all. Think of the people I could heal with these hands. Our father, Fion, our mother could have been saved. Could still be saved.”

Fionvar shook his head slowly. “They're dead, Orie. There is nothing to save.”

“You have always been so shortsighted. Think of the Lirensha, then, how he was returned to life. Or better, think of the prince, your king's precious friend.”

“It's too late, Orie, you killed him!”

“But I would not be averse to bringing him back.”

“It cannot be done. The wizard said so herself!”

“Even she did not know everything.”

“And you do.”

“What if I could heal your king, Fionvar? What would you do then?”

A chill flickered the flames and shivered down Fionvar's neck. His dark eyes met Orie's—the younger brother who had more than once been called his twin. He took a deep breath. “What are you asking me to do, brother?”

JORDAN WATCHED
the first messengers from Bernholt in quick retreat as Kattanan called for water. “On the whole,” Jordan commented, “that went well.” Kattanan stared, and Jordan's face broke into his ready grin. “King Gerrod does not believe you are Rhys, he did not know of the succession, he has put a bounty on Wolfram's death and banned the prince's name. This trip begins to look exciting.”

“Exciting! I just hope I have not made trouble for the messenger.” He took a sip of water. “He will accept that I am Rhys, I think, having few other options. And he probably has heard of the succession at least as a rumor from Orie. I wonder why he did not broadcast the news of Wolfram's death since he must have heard that also.”

“Not necessarily. Orie may not wish to reveal his involvement, especially since Wolfram and Melisande had been close. We still don't know Melisande's thoughts about her brother.”

“True.” He drained the goblet and got up. “There's nothing for it but to wait, I suppose. Shall we have lunch?”

Two hours passed in dining and arranging the camp, in particular the king's sumptuous pavilion. The duchess had insisted he should travel as a king, since this was a royal visit to another court, and had sent him off with a great many banners and official seals. So it was at his reception tent that he next met the royal messenger. If the little man had looked strained before, he now fairly crept into Kattanan's presence. Bright redness spotted his cheeks, and his hands trembled. Kattanan glanced down to his own hands, surprised to find them still.

“I gather from your demeanor that the messages you carry are not altogether pleasant ones,” Kattanan said, schooling his voice to gentleness.

“Your Majesty may not be pleased to hear them. King Gerrod again sends his greetings to his royal cousin, Rhys of Lochalyn. He finds that he may have been lied to and betrayed by the usurper of your throne. However, he is willing to accept that you are the rightful heir. In this capacity, you will be received by the court as soon as proper arrangements can be made.”

“That is well enough, if not an apology.”

“Your Majesty and his knights are also offered free access to the city, provided there be no wizards among you.” The man's eyes peered up through his brows.

“And to the other matter we spoke of?”

“To that, Gerrod, High and Terrible King of Bernholt by Right of Blood, sends the following response.” The man fumbled with a scroll and managed to open it. He cleared his throat, and took a step to the side so that one of the guards could pass him and set down a small chest. “‘Whereas the bounty on the head of the Traitor was set at five sacks of gold coin should the Traitor's remains be brought before the king, and whereas this deed has been done by the hand of one King Rhys yfCaitrin duAlyn of Lochalyn, His Royal Majesty herewith sends the promised reward'”—Kattanan let out a cry of indignation, echoed by his companions—“‘and further recommends to the aforementioned King Rhys that he should dispose of said remains,'” he cringed as he finished, “‘as he would the corpse of any foul beast.'” He clutched the scroll with both hands.

Kattanan leapt to his feet, seething, then stopped himself. He took a moment to steady his breathing.

“If you will not tell Gerrod to bury himself,” Lyssa burst out, “then I will. I will march up there and—”

Kattanan whirled to face her. “No, you will not. And neither will I. I have taken it upon myself to do this thing, he has chosen to both accept and insult me. So be it.”

“Won't you at least face this, deal with this?” She waved a hand toward the messenger, who backed off a few steps.

“Give me a moment to think.” Kattanan walked slowly back and forth, then stopped, straining his eyes to look toward the city. “We have free passage in Bernholt City. I will petition the priestess of the principal temple to use her funeral ground and her prayers at the service. If she is afraid of reprisals, then I will bring Wolfram to the temple square and send him to the stars with the help of our own priestess.”

The messenger gasped.

“What about that?” Lyssa indicated the chest of gold.

Kattanan stared down at it. “Send it back.” He raised an eyebrow to the messenger. “Tell His Majesty that if he wishes to commemorate his son's death with money, he will be better served to build a school.”

“Then you do not answer the insult,” Jordan observed.

“That was never Wolfram's way, and it will not be mine. Further inform His Majesty that we regret that he will not offer the Royal Temple for the services, but that they shall be held two days from now, at sundown, and that all are welcome to attend the rites and join me in celebrating the life of Prince Wolfram.”

“I much doubt, Your Majesty,” the man whispered, “that anyone would be allowed.”

Kattanan considered this for a moment, then said, “Jordan, take a few of the knights and go into the city to every cloth merchant you can find and pay for red hoods to be made. These will be brought to every temple in the city and any man or woman who fears to openly attend the funeral may therefore come disguised. King Gerrod may say what he likes about his son; I believe that he is alone in saying it. Oh,” Kattanan added to the messenger, “also thank him for his salutation and inform him that we shall await his welcome here. That is all.”

Bowing low, the man replied, “Goddess grant you favor, Your Majesty.” He turned and left, followed by the guards, who once again took up the chest.

The wizard, disguised as a squire, sauntered up and made a casual bow. “There's a death ban on wizards, as well, Your Majesty. I thought you'd like to know.”

“There's no need for you to go to the castle, anyhow, and you should be able to pass in the city.”

She shook her head. “I did not wish to speak of this before, Your Majesty, but there is a certain book I must find here, before it is found by our enemies. I have reason to believe that it is inside the castle. After the funeral, I may not be able to await Gerrod's leisure in entertaining you.”

“You may take care of your own business,” Kattanan replied, “but be careful.”

“As best I can, Majesty.”

“I'll come with you,” said Jordan, “if I can, if you think that would help.”

She nodded abruptly. “It may. Thank you.” A slender smile.

Lyssa glowered. “Shouldn't we be off to town to order those hoods?”

“Coming,” he said.

“I shall go to the temple myself,” said Kattanan. “It has been too long.”

“You should not go anywhere alone, Kattanan,” Jordan murmured. “Gerrod does not trust you, and we should be ready for trouble.”

“Then Rolf can go with me. He's kept vigil long enough.”

“Rolf! The king has no more liking for him than for you, perhaps less.”

“Then I'll ask the wizard as well.”

Jordan rolled his eyes. “Are you trying to provoke Gerrod or me?”

“Neither. I simply would like some privacy.”

“Do what you like. I suppose you will in any case.” Jordan crossed his arms, looking down at Kattanan.

Kattanan raised his head to return the look, giving way to a little smirk when he realized he did not have to look up so far as before. “We may yet see eye to eye.”

Lyssa, who had gone on a few paces, hovered there, frowning at them and scuffing her feet loudly.

Jordan glanced to her and back to his king. “You will take care of yourself ?”

“I will. Don't keep her waiting!”

Grinning, Jordan replied, “One day, I hope to say the same to you.” Then he turned and trotted to catch up with Lyssa.

 

“BUILD A SCHOOL!”
King Gerrod thundered. He surged to his feet, pacing the dais. “That King Rhys is indeed an insolent dog and the son of cowards! I will never see him.”

Melisande to his right, and Orie to hers, watched the king's tirade. Fionvar, standing behind his brother, watched Melisande for sign of her feelings. She had borne the news of Wolfram's death in stony silence; now her face, already pale with lack of sleep, grew ever more pinched as she clutched the arms of her throne. The two guards stood at attention behind the cowering messenger, with the bold chest between them.

“Well,” said Orie at length, “I suppose someone shall have to see him.”

“Why?” snapped the king. “He's done nothing worthy of our welcome.”

“He is a king now, and has the power to raise an army against us if he chooses.”

“We'd clobber the little runt.” Gerrod's blue eyes glinted, and he stopped his pacing to stand firmly at the center. “Perhaps war would not be such a bad thing.”

Melisande jerked her hands from her throne to curl them in her lap. “Father, crops have grown but poorly. Our citizens would not like to give up such a feeble harvest to feed an army.”

“Our honor has been offended, Melisande. Any loyal man would stand for that cause.” He whirled back to the messenger. “What manner of king is this Rhys?”

“As I said, Your Majesty”—the man gulped—“he is quite young, but fierce and proud, too. His knights seem loyal and eager to uphold him.”

“How did you find him? Immature, naive? Does he wish to provoke us?”

“I would not say so, Your Majesty. He appeared…in command of himself. He and his retainers were angered, but he had no wish to return angry words to Your Majesty.” The man ducked his head.

“Father?” Melisande asked softly. When his face turned toward hers, his manner somewhat more subdued, she said, “It may be, if you allow this to escalate into a war, that your righteous anger will be seen as something different, as a wish to suppress what this king says about—about the Traitor. If you respond with your disdain, if you show him that this Traitor, and he himself, is unworthy of your anger, your lords will see how strong is your resolve that the truth of what the Traitor has done should be known.”

“Unworthy of my anger,” the king mused.

Melisande shrank a little into her cushions.

“There may be wisdom in you yet, daughter. Let him burn his rubbish, this king will not hear from me. From now on, you will send him word. You will meet with him and tell him again of the Traitor's deeds. He may be young enough to be tractable.”

Orie shifted uncomfortably. He reached out an imperious hand, and Melisande slid hers into it. “Darling,” he murmured, “this seems a good plan to avoid war. Find out all you can from this little king, so that we may exploit his weaknesses when the time comes.” His eyes searched her face, and she nodded to him.

“It may be ideal, in fact,” King Gerrod said, resuming his throne and dismissing the messenger with a flick of his hand. “He may feel he has the advantage over you and reveal too much. Wear something attractive when you meet him, Melisande.”

“Yes, Father.”

“You may go, then. I'll call for you if I need you.” The couple rose to go, but Gerrod stayed Orie. “Let your brother escort the princess, I'd like a word with you.”

Fionvar took Melisande's hand upon his arm as Orie's greedy gaze followed. Orie turned back to the king. “What did you wish to speak of, Gerrod?”

“You have said this eunuch king has lusted for my daughter, as repulsive as that is. Do you not fear this meeting will revive those feelings?”

“Oh, I am counting on that, Your Majesty. Rhys will feel that he can trust her, so he will be more free with her. But for her part, Melisande was furious when her singer left her. She will feel betrayed by him because he never tried to contact her and never told her about his past. Believe me, Gerrod, when she finds out who he is, she will do anything we wish to cut him down to size.” The two men grinned.

 

ONCE OUT
of earshot, Melisande stopped Fionvar and looked him in the eyes. “There is too much happening here, Fionvar. My father is keeping things from me, things that I must know if I am to act for the best.”

“For whose best, Highness?” he asked.

“For the people of this palace and this kingdom. I begin to think—” She broke off, looking back, then urged him on again until they reached a little chamber where she shut the door. “I begin to see that my father does not tell all. As the king, this is his right. It is his duty, even more than mine, to uphold the laws and ways of this kingdom.”

Fionvar nodded, not sure where this was going.

“You have said that you would speak of things kept silent,” she continued more quietly, standing very near him. “Will you still?”

“If I am at liberty to do so.”

At this answer, her eyes roved over his face, so like her husband's. “Can you assure me that you will not reveal what I say to you here?”

“I am at your service, Your Highness.”

“It isn't that I don't trust my father, believe me,” she said forcefully, “nor that I mistrust Orie, but I have to know.” She took a deep breath. “How did my brother die?”

Fionvar considered. Melisande's cheeks held spots of rosy color, and her raised chin bared a slim and lovely neck. He swallowed, suddenly seeing why his brother guarded her so jealously; her very defiance roused him. “He died as he lived, Highness, with the greatest of honor.”

“You know what I meant.”

Fionvar perched on the window ledge where the sun might warm him. “My lady,” he said, “I hold your brother in very high regard, but that regard is treasonous. If I reveal much more, you might just as easily betray my treason as I could betray your doubts.” He shook his head, smiling wryly. “I used to be one who would speak the truth with no qualms at all.”

“Yet now you conceal it. You do not trust me.”

“How much do you love my brother?”

Taken aback by the change of subject, Melisande crossed her arms and walked to stand face-to-face. “What sort of question is that? Orie is my chosen husband and will be the father of my child. He is your brother; how much do you love him?”