The Singer's Crown (43 page)

“Isn't that what I'd do anyhow?” she whispered. She glanced both ways, then darted across the hall, heading for the funeral ground, where Jordan would be waiting.

 

MELISANDE PULLED
the silver-handled brush through the remains of her hair, avoiding her own eyes in the looking glass before her. She breathed deeply, glad to be free of the confining gown and the hovering presence of her ladies. For a moment, she envisioned Kattanan standing at her back, patiently drawing the brush through the fullness of her hair. She tugged the brush through a snarl as if the sting could remove the memory of his touch. Her husband and father had lied to her; her singer, once so close to her, had lied to her with his every breath; then he had the effrontery to declare his—his what? She flung the brush away. What had he declared, really? Now that she sat in her own chamber, under cover of night, she was no longer certain what had passed between them. Had her own anger colored her memory?

Swiftly she rose and crossed to the tall windows. She cast them open and stepped out into the night. She had chosen her new quarters for this balcony, wide enough for her chair and small table, with a half-domed roof supported by delicately carved stone pillars. It overlooked the dark gardens, and out into the city. On the plain beyond flickered the fires of King Rhys's encampment. King Rhys. As long as he did not stand before her, she could call him that. She could put that name to a distant face or a ring of fires, as if it belonged to someone long dead. In another world, Lochalyn's youngest prince might well have been among her suitors, a circlet on his golden head, a gift in his hands. But no such gift as his song.
I fear, I hope, I hurt, and yes, I love,
he had told her, the words echoing back in his unfamiliar voice. He had not said he loved her. Perhaps in her pride and anger, she had added those words of her own accord, from the remarks Orie had made. A simple plea for her forgiveness and understanding, that was all.

At the blackest part of the sky, one star shone brightly, refusing to be separated from her. Was it truly the same that had appeared over Wolfram's fire? An aching crept across the back of her throat, and her eyelids seared, but she would not weep. That was what King Rhys meant when he spoke of wanting, that was all: that she acknowledge the truth of Wolfram's life, and of his death. The little king thought his message would find a receptive audience in her, and he was surprised when it did not. There was no more to it than that. Under the pressure of Orie's words, she had leapt to the wild conclusion that her old singer sought to win her love. Liar he may be, but no fool. She crossed her arms, closing her robe against the rising breeze. She had a husband who loved her, whose baby had begun to grow within her, and she was heir to a kingdom; she had responsibilities—as did he, evidently. Of course it was not love he wanted. She had given him no reason under the stars to care for her, however he might have thought he felt before winning his war. The aching at her throat returned, and the stars dimmed a little. She must control herself, now, and in the future. She must not be so easily swayed.

Melisande considered slipping down the back stairs to the courtyard to visit her dogs. She thought of their lapping tongues upon her hands, their enthusiasm for the unexpected visit. She wanted to bask in their uncomplicated adoration. No, Orie would hear from the grooms and be hurt that she rejected him for a pack of hounds. Shedding the robe, Melisande crossed to her bed. She turned down the lantern's hood to cast only a subtle golden glow, like the light of a single star, and she snuggled into the embrace of her blankets. At the ball, she would be civility itself. None of them—not Orie, nor her father, nor King Rhys himself—would shake her.

THE NIGHT
of the ball, Kattanan's squires helped him on with the purple tunic he had worn to recapture his city. His newly polished boots gleamed, as did the hilt of the little dagger he now kept in the left one. When he emerged from the pavilion, Jordan was lounging before it. “My King, you look quite dashing this evening!”

Kattanan grimaced. “I'd love to be dashing—right back into that tent.”

Jordan laughed. “Only one more night, then we'll be on our way.”

“I can't help but feel that this event is a disaster waiting to happen.”

Jordan flung an arm about his shoulders. “How much worse could it get?”

“Not much,” Kattanan was forced to admit. Melisande would never accept him, and certainly her father would not; even if Gerrod went through with the apology, it would be with disdain. And they still didn't know what to do about Orie—they found and heard no further evidence of treachery. He thought of Brianna waiting for him on the far side of the mountains, but resolutely pushed the thought aside. Coming down the rise from his pavilion, they encountered Lyssa and Rolf, deeply involved in a discussion of how to hang a sword belt properly while wearing a gown.

“Ye'll not be dancing like that?” Rolf asked dubiously.

“Lyssa, you're a vision!” Jordan swept her up in his arms and twirled her about so that the sword banged hard against his leg when he set her down again. “Ouch! You will make for a dangerous partner.”

Kattanan glanced away from them, hearing approaching steps. A beautiful young woman paused by one of the tents, her face, alight as she walked, falling quickly. Until she began to transform, he did not recognize her for the wizard. When she finished her approach, it was in the guise of the burly guardsman, a match for Rolf. Smiling, Kattanan said, “It must be nice not to bother with tailors.”

When they reached the castle, the doors of the Great Hall stood open, and a small consort began to play. Fionvar stood among them, fiddling away. Banners hung from the rafters high above, and sweet-scented herbs were strewn across the floor to make ready for the gathering. At the center of the vast hall, Kattanan stopped short. Above the throne dais, his father's coat of arms hung beside King Gerrod's. It took a moment to recall that his father's arms were now his own, and he wondered who had arranged the banners. Certainly he expected no such civility after his conversations with Melisande.

Kattanan and his followers mounted the broad stairs to the king's feast hall. The gathering awaiting them rose as one—a vast, shimmering shape of velvets, silks, and satins, many in the blue and gold of Bernholt. For a moment, he blanched, realizing that he might be expected to sit next to the king. Then a new fear swept that away, for Gerrod had once more put Melisande between them, with Orie on his far side.

Melisande wore a blue-green gown, woven with gold so that the pleats of the sleeves and skirts twinkled when she rose. It featured neither a low bodice nor the provocative front lacing she had favored at their last meeting. As a result, his eye was drawn more to her face—had she but known the effect this would cause, she'd have abandoned seduction for simplicity two days ago. Her smile was bright, not with the radiance he had known as her singer, but not so cold as he had feared. A golden veil covered her hair, topped with a circlet of elegant golden dogs with sapphire eyes.

King Gerrod and Orie rose last, bowing their heads only, as befit their rank, and Kattanan took the last few steps to the dais with leaden feet. His four guards, including Lyssa and Rolf, moved behind the dais into the shadows, nodding politely to Gerrod's bodyguards. Jordan accepted a seat at the high table with a formal bow and slight smile.

Melisande lifted her goblet as she turned toward Kattanan. “On behalf of Bernholt, I welcome King Rhys of Lochalyn. May Finistrel smile upon his reign!”

The nobles, with Lochalyn's knights among them, cheered for King Rhys. When he'd gotten over his surprise at the courtesy of this greeting, Kattanan lifted his goblet to her. “I thank you for the honor you do me, Your Highness. To the glory of Bernholt and her rulers, may this land prosper and shine beneath the stars forever.”

The cheer that rose for Gerrod threatened to overwhelm them, but died down again before too long, and Kattanan and Melisande each took a sip of wine in honor of the other. As the servants offered him the first slice of a spiced venison roast, King Gerrod's arm darted around his daughter to spear the meat for himself, disregarding his royal guest. Kattanan's stomach tightened; his fears seemed about to come true.

Color rose in Melisande's face, while Orie laughed loud and bright, accepting a portion for himself when the others had been served.

“I see you have a royal taster, Your Majesty,” Jordan murmured, but Kattanan's warning glance stifled any further jest.

Melisande's face burned. She had resolved to be on her best behavior tonight, only to have her own father take up antagonizing King Rhys, and Orie laughed about it. Bury them both! She straightened her back with an effort, and forced a smile.

“Your cook has outdone himself, Your Highness,” Kattanan remarked suddenly.

She blinked. “He travels widely to learn all of the best methods, Your Majesty.”

“I should send my own to apprentice with him, Your Highness. I'm afraid our last feast was quite plain.”

She felt the corners of her mouth turn up, just a little more. He, too, played at the game of civility. “I am not sure he would pass on the knowledge, Your Majesty. He is somewhat secretive about his ways.”

“So many of us are,” Orie cut in from his end of the table, loudly, to be sure he was heard. “What sport entertains Your Majesty, when you aren't ruling your kingdom?”

Melisande, clenching her fork, glared down the table at her husband.

Spearing a turnip, Kattanan replied, “I have an interest in music, my lord Prince, and I am reading certain mystic works about the virtues of the Lady.”

“She does have many virtues,” Orie agreed, winking at Melisande. The flame that had retreated from her cheeks returned now. “As to music, my brother is an excellent fiddler,” Orie said. “Do you agree?”

“I believe he played for you at the Great Hall, Your Majesty,” the princess cut in. “We shall prevail upon him to play again later.”

“I would appreciate that, Your Highness.”

King Gerrod belched and laughed at himself. “Have you considered what to do about the Woodmen along our shared border, King Rhys?”

Kattanan faced his questioner. “I do not believe they will be a problem, my lord King.”

“Really? During your uncle's reign, they were quite a nuisance.”

“I hardly think that ‘reign' is the appropriate term, my lord King.”

The words had no expression or inflection, neither the strained courtesy of his last remark nor the anger Melisande might have expected. “I am sure my father is simply adjusting to the recent changes, Your Majesty,” she said.

“Oh, don't apologize for me, Melisande.” Gerrod set down his goblet, again empty. Before she could reply, he cried, “Bring on the ale!”

Ordinarily, this was a cue for the bard to come out as well and regale them with some adventurous story, but the man hesitated, for he had been watching the high table with growing apprehension. Melisande beckoned him on with relief while she desperately searched for a way to rescue the evening. Her father and husband were determined to amuse themselves at the expense of their guest, and she would not have it. Suddenly a thought sprang to her unbidden: what would Wolfram have done?

Taking advantage of the bard's strident voice as he drew the crowd's attention, Jordan leaned over to whisper, “I don't think anyone is enjoying this party.”

“Except Orie, perhaps,” Kattanan whispered back as Orie's laughter again erupted. “I expected no warmer welcome from the king.”

To his other side, Melisande had been quiet some time, her eyes on the bard. Her hands gripped each other tightly before her, though, and Kattanan did not think she heard a word of the story. Would this be the last time he sat beside her? If he remained king in Lochdale, and she were queen in Bernholt, there would be other occasions, stiff and formal, as carefully polite as their conversation had been. His heart ached.

As if she suddenly noticed his attention, Melisande turned and smiled. “Is there anything else we may bring you, Your Majesty?”

“No, indeed, Your Highness, but I would thank you on behalf of Thomas.”

Kattanan immediately saw that he'd said the wrong thing. Consternation twisted Melisande's face, and she separated her fingers with deliberate care. “I'm afraid, Your Majesty, that now is not the best time to discuss it.”

But their words, though quietly spoken, had attracted the notice of her father. “Did you put him up to it then?” Gerrod demanded.

“I've not seen him lately, my lord King, but I am concerned with his welfare.”

“Do you always concern yourself with traitors, sir?”

Melisande bowed her head between them.

King Gerrod added, “As well you should be concerned. I think I shall execute the little bastard after all.”

At this, Melisande's head shot up. “You cannot be serious, Father.”

“You contradict me even now, Melisande?” His eyes narrowed.

“Please, let us talk about it another time. I have no wish to bring this up before the barons.” Her voice was soft, soothing, as her spread hand indicated their audience. Many glances flickered back to the bard when she looked their way.

“Well, he's brought it up; he wants to know about his little traitor, and he should know how we deal with traitors.” Gerrod snapped his fingers to summon his guards. “Find that boy in the dungeon and kill him.”

They blinked at him, and Melisande sprang to her feet so quickly that her chair fell back with a clatter. “Father, this is madness. If you were sober, you'd know it.”

“Go,” he snapped to the guards, and they reluctantly turned from him.

Hands clasped, Melisande fell to her knees before her father. “I am begging you not to do this. Your Majesty, spare the life of this child. For love of the Lady!” She looked up to him, but his face was stone.

Kattanan turned to Jordan. “Save him,” he urged. “Do whatever you have to!”

The Liren-sha leapt to the floor and Kattanan's friends gave pursuit to Gerrod's guards. The bard's strong voice faltered, and Gerrod said, still looking at Melisande, “Perhaps some dancing will lighten the mood. Go on, all of you, and my daughter and I shall join you shortly.” He waved a hand to push the courtiers from the room.

The elegant lords and ladies, in strained silence, moved toward the stairs, and Kattanan let his fists relax. Jordan would do what he could, with Lyssa and Rolf to back him up. Just now, he did not want to leave Melisande alone, even if she never knew it.

“Orie,” the king prompted, “King Rhys, please go on and amuse yourselves.”

Orie grinned, jumping easily down from the dais, but Kattanan did not move. “Come now, Rhys,” Orie said, holding the sibilant “s” like a viper, “this matter is none of our concern.” His arm outstretched in invitation, or threat—Kattanan could not be sure.

He took a reluctant step back, then turned and made for the stairs, flanked by his two remaining men.

“Don't keep my partner long, Gerrod,” Orie called back, following close behind.

When they had gone, Melisande rose, but her father's words struck her numb.

“You are getting so much like your brother.”

She sucked in a quick breath and felt a chill in the pit of her stomach. Her father continued to gaze down at her as if he'd never blink. Fury lived in those cold blue eyes.

“Oh, he would always defy me, but I did not expect it from you, Melisande.” He reached down a pale hand to touch her temple. “You were always my favorite.”

“I did hope you'd not kill all your heirs.”

His white brows pinched together. “Are you afraid of me? I do not mean to frighten you,” he said, “but I will have order in my palace, do you understand?”

She stared up at him. “What will the barons think of this execution?”

“I am a strong king, that's what they will think. Ever since my recovery, they have doubted my strength. They think I might still be under the wizard's power.” Warmth grew in his eyes. “I should have known you were prompted by concern for me.”

“Surely, Father, with all that's happened, the barons have no doubts about you.”

“If I gave in to your plea, might they not say, ‘It's Melisande who rules him, just as that Traitor once ruled.' I am as sorry for the boy as you are, but he is a small sacrifice to make to keep this kingdom together.”

Her equilibrium slowly returned. “I can see why you would feel that way,” she said, “but I wish—”

“You wish he could be saved? Then I shall save him, quietly, as a gift for you. Come, Princess, walk down with me?” He offered her his hand.

After a moment, she took it, rising to stand before him. She smiled her most radiant. He would save Thomas. “I am sorry, Father.”

“Of course you are.” With his other arm, he pressed her briefly to his breast, and sighed. “You will be queen one day, and all of this will help to guide you.”

“It will,” she said into his blue velvet coat; and she knew that it would not guide her quite the way he intended. “Let's go down; I can hear the music.”

He laughed, suddenly as warm and merry as she remembered him. “You always were one for the music.” Gerrod tucked her hand over his arm and lead her to the hall.

 

ONCE KATTANAN
reached the marble floor of the Great Hall, Orie waved and left him. He was tempted to turn back the way he'd come, but a few guards hovered near the bottom of the stairs, trying to look casual, so he walked slowly beneath the arch into the Hall. It appeared much the way it had the first time he'd seen it, as a member of Baron Eadmund's retinue, but there was something frantic in the dancing, and a tension to every note the consort played. A few ladies curtsied to him, but they did not seek him for a partner—his concerns for Thomas and for Melisande etched every line of his face.