The Singer's Crown (45 page)

She shivered, clutching her elbows as if suddenly chilled.

“I will never be whole,” Kattanan said, “but with all that I am, I love you.”

The flames danced upon the mirrored walls like a thousand stars. And those stars danced in her eyes as she turned back to face him. His hand still cupped her cheek, feeling the curve of her warm skin as she smiled.

“Which of us is ever whole, Kattanan?” Her tentative fingers touched a lock of his golden hair, following its curl. Melisande leaned over their crowns and kissed him.

Unwillingly, he withdrew from her, mere inches. “But you are married.”

“Yes.” She kissed him again.

“And I am,” he faltered, looking down, but she laughed, just a little.

“Does it matter?” she asked, both her hands now lifting his face toward hers, so that he must meet her eyes.

Tears shone in them, and spilled down, sparkling.

“Does it matter what you are, what you have ever been? Can't you see—” Melisande laughed again, a sad and gentle sound, more for herself than for him. “No,” she said, “can you not hear how much I love you?”

Listening to his princess, Kattanan felt the warmth of a tear upon his face, and the warmth of her lips as she kissed it away.

STANDING IN
the light pouring from the open door, Lyssa fidgeted. Thomas's mother knelt on the doorstep, her arms about her son, her sobs finally quieting. Jordan slipped an arm around Lyssa's waist, smiling down at the reunion, and Lyssa watched her betrothed's face. It suddenly occurred to her that he would want children. A shiver ran through her as she thought of this, and Jordan's hand pulled her a little closer.

At last the woman drew back from her son and rose. “I can never thank you enough, my lord, my lady. Won't you come in? My house is not grand, but you are welcome to whatever hospitality I can offer. I've got a stew on,” she offered.

“Thank you, my lady, but we've not much time. We're with King Rhys of Lochalyn, and he may have need of us.”

“Oh, gracious! Of course. Then is there nothing I can do for you?”

“We are looking for a book, my lady, one that belonged to Prince Wolfram.”

She made the sign of the Goddess. “Thomas sent some of his things here. I hardly dared accept the cases. Here, I'll show you.” She led them through the front room and kitchen past the bubbling stewpot, to a little shed off the back of the house.

“What book?” Thomas piped up, moving to the dim pile of boxes.

“A small herbal book, bound in green.”

Thomas tapped a case. “This is the plant books, but they aren't very interesting.”

With Lyssa's help, Jordan shifted the indicated box out into the back alley and pried up the lid. They shuffled through the contents for a moment, and Lyssa's hand emerged with the prize. She grinned. “This'll make your friend happy.”

“You're sure I can do nothing else for you, my lord?” the mother asked again as she trailed them back to the front door.

“Only take good care of your son.” Jordan ruffled the boy's hair, then opened the door, still smiling.

Thomas screamed and ducked behind his mother.

Whirling around, Jordan found himself facing a man on the doorstep, his hand raised as if to knock, a sword in his grip. Jordan nearly shrieked himself.

Squire Montgomery grinned. “They said you were alive, Liren-sha, and I didn't believe it. I'll just have to kill you again.”

Recovering himself, Jordan took a quick step forward, forcing the other to retreat from the house. Once in the street, he drew his own sword, left-handed.

Montgomery laughed. “What happened, Wizard's Bane? Lost a sword?”

His crushed hand throbbed suddenly, as if the ruined fingers itched for blood. In the back of his throat, Jordan growled, then he sprang to the attack.

The way stood clear, and Lyssa took it, pulling the door closed behind her, then she gasped as rough hands spun her about. Two men, no, three, grabbed her—snatching the sword from her waist as she struggled. One of her attackers let out a nasty chuckle. “Bury it,” Montgomery snapped, easily parrying Jordan's thrust. “Get the book!”

Lyssa suffered the groping hands of his henchmen, wandering somewhat far afield in search of their goal. She stilled, craning her neck to see Jordan. He was fighting for his life, and losing. Vile Montgomery might be, but he was an excellent swordsman. His blade drank blood at Jordan's thigh, then his bad arm, flung up to protect him.

Still, Jordan had lived as the Liren-sha too long not to have learned something from it. He flourished his wild grin, spinning and dodging. Lyssa nearly laughed as she recognized his quick footwork as the steps of a dance. But the duel was no laughing matter.

“Found it!” One of her searchers crowed, holding up the book.

“Disarm the bitch,” Montgomery ordered.

“We're not stupid,” another called back, her sword in his grip.

Lyssa suddenly let herself flop back into the arms of the man holding her. As he shifted his grip, thinking that she'd fainted, Lyssa slipped sideways. The handle of her hammer slid perfectly into her hand, and its head slammed into her warden's skull.

Laughing, she whirled to the other two. “Come on, men, disarm me!” Lyssa ripped the skirt from her waist to reveal tight leather fighting trousers. She swung the weighted fabric to foul one man's blade and aimed a blow at his companion.

Distracted, Montgomery fell back a moment, and Jordan pressed his advantage. His blade slashed the air, then his opponent's tunic, at last drawing blood.

Lyssa's hammer caught a shoulder with a sickening crunch, and the man yelped. The other man got a leg behind her, casting her to the ground. She rolled, taking him down with her, the hammer aimed for his knee. He cursed, crawling away and staggering to his feet.

“Coward!” she howled. She shook free of the skirt, grasping the hilt of her fallen sword, and brought it up into the starlight. She pushed herself up and tossed back her bloody hair. “Come to me, you son of worms!”

Her hair was wrenched back, and she fell, shouting.

The sound whirled Jordan around. “Lyssa!”

Pain shot up his right arm as it was twisted behind him, and his knees shook.

Montgomery squeezed his hand again, forcing him down. “Drop your sword,” he snarled to Lyssa. His grin flared. “The hammer, too, or this man dies a second time.”

 

HIGH ABOVE
the dance floor, in the musician's gallery, Fionvar took a break from his playing for a draught of sweet water. Up here, he could watch all that happened below. Just now, he wondered where Orie and Melisande had gone off to. They had not left together, but had probably met outside. It would not be the first time. His heart ached for Kattanan. Fionvar watched his king bow to his partner and move toward the dais. He had not known Kattanan was such a dancer. Perhaps that had been in his lessons since Fionvar had left; surely he had danced at the ball to celebrate his victory.

King Rhys bowed to his partner, then walked deliberately toward King Gerrod.

Fionvar's brows rose. Could he be so bold, after what had happened at dinner? Gerrod was no less surprised, for he moved back in his throne. King Rhys persisted in whatever he was saying, though. Gerrod snapped for a page, who brought up his customary cordial. Both sniffed the drink, then swallowed.

Fionvar's eyes narrowed. Kattanan had no taste for strong liquor. Fionvar shot to his feet and dashed for the stairs, barely managing to keep his footing. “He's an impostor!” He slid the last few stairs, catching his feet and stumbling like a drunk before he regained himself. Dancers scattered out of his way as he ran for the dais. Breathless, he repeated, “He's an impostor, Your Majesty!”

Caught off guard, King Rhys paled, then frowned. “What are you talking about, Fion?”

“You see? He called me ‘Fion!'” he gasped.

“That is your name, is it not?” King Gerrod drawled. “What are you on about?”

He looked from one to the other, suddenly aware of how ridiculous he must look. “He is an impostor,” he said patiently.

At this, King Rhys smiled a little. “King Gerrod is most certainly not an impostor.”

“Not him, Your Majesty, you,” Fionvar said. “You are an impostor.”

“Well,” Gerrod said, “Orie did mention that his brother hadn't gotten much sleep lately. Go on, there's a good man.” He patted Fionvar's arm, but Fionvar shook him off.

“You don't understand, Your Majesty.” He tried to sound calm and rational.

At this, King Rhys motioned over his two guards. “Would you please escort Fionvar to his quarters and see that he gets some rest?”

“Maybe it's drink,” Gerrod slurred.

The guards gestured politely for Fionvar to precede them, but he held his ground. “I am not mad, I am not drunk. Tell them!” He swung around, searching the crowd, and suddenly realized that all of his friends were gone—Lyssa and Jordan had never even come to the ball. Could the wizard have done this? Was she so desperate to revenge herself upon Gerrod? Goddess's Tears, where was Rolf ? Even his brother was gone—he spun back to face the kings. “No,” he breathed, staring at his king.

“Please,” King Rhys repeated, his eyes gone hard.

The guards took Fionvar's arms. “Bury it, Gerrod, you must listen!” They swung him off his feet, still screaming, “He'll kill you, Gerrod! Listen!”

“And give him a sleeping draught, I think,” King Rhys added. “I'm sorry.”

Four of Gerrod's men joined the struggle, and they carried Fionvar from the hall. He willed himself to stillness, but his mind raced. They took him to his room, where three of them restrained him on his bed, despite the fact that he was no longer struggling. One of the three was a man he knew from Lochdale. “Great Lady! You can't do this! Go after the king, Matthias,” he urged, in his most rational tone.

“I'll go once I've seen to you, sir.”

The pity in the other man's face made Fionvar madder than ever, but he held his anger in check. “The king is not the king, he's a wizard.”

“Just don't listen to him,” one of Gerrod's men advised.

Matthias said, “I can't think what's come over him. Look, Captain, there's a ban on wizards here, you don't suppose one's got past, do you?”

“The wizard was already here,” he sobbed in frustration. “He's my brother.”

Matthias laughed. “Your brother's a prince, now, what can he possibly have against King Gerrod? Ah—here's the stuff.”

Fionvar clamped his lips shut, twisting his head, but they pried his jaws apart. As the bitter liquid passed down his throat, Fionvar sobbed.

 

MELISANDE LAY
watching the stars, especially the one she thought of as Wolfram's. Her head nestled against Kattanan's shoulder, her arm stroking the bare skin of his chest. The hairs there were fine and pale. She knew from her reading that he would never have the forest of hair that Orie had and that her kisses could be placed, with no interference, just over his heart. Her petticoat formed the pallet where they lay, and his velvet tunic pillowed his head. Her discarded corset lay to one side, its laces cut. She shivered, and Kattanan drew her closer.

“We should get dressed,” he murmured into her hair. “We have to set an example for the court.”

“I can't go back in there,” she said, rising to one elbow to gaze down at his face. Her features suddenly clouded. “What if he finds out?”

“I don't know,” he said. “I had not thought beyond this moment.” Then he laughed, his joy filling up the little chapel. “I had never thought even so far as this moment. I wasn't sure that I could do it.”

“What, make love to a woman?” Her smile returned, but fleetingly. “Haven't you read any books on the subject?”

“There are books?”

“Not about that, silly.” She poked him gently with her finger. “The history of the Virgins of the Lady. I found a copy in the library. It's very interesting, very detailed.”

“Wait a minute,” he protested, rising up on his elbow as well. “You've been studying books? I thought you never wanted to see me again.”

“After I met you as King Rhys, my father told me to know my enemy.”

“And do you know me?” he asked.

“A little. Every time I see you, I think there is more to learn about you. I could hardly believe when I saw you dancing.” She faltered, giving a wry smile. “I thought of how you'd never dance with me.”

Kattanan frowned, sitting up. “When was this?”

“When you first came,” she explained, rolling her eyes a little. “You sang so beautifully—I wanted to love you then—but you couldn't dance at all.”

“No, I know. I still don't.”

She sat up, folding her arms. “I saw you, with that lady in the purple dress, cut to here.” She pointed emphatically between her breasts. “That's when I finally knew.”

Shaking his head, Kattanan reached for his shirt. “It wasn't me; I wasn't there.” He pulled the shirt over his head.

“How could it not be you?” Then she gasped. “A wizard?”

“An illusionist,” he confirmed, pulling on his hose as fast as he could. His fingers poked through the seam, leaving a naked hole over his knee.

Melisande caught his urgency, jerking on her chemise. “Nine Stars could do it.”

“Or her apprentice.” He tossed her one of her slippers.

“She has an apprentice?”

Kattanan bowed his head, shoulders slumped. “I don't know how to say it, Melisande, so that you don't think I'm saying it in spite.”

“Orie.” She stopped still. “You think Orie is posing as you at the ball.”

“It's some plot to discredit me, for you, or for Lochalyn, I've no idea, but we must hurry. Bury it, I knew he was up to something!” He shoved his foot into a boot.

“Tell me, Kattanan. Tell me everything.”

“There isn't time!”

Melisande placed a hand on his arm. “Then tell it quickly.”

“I don't know when he apprenticed, years ago, I guess. He's on his own now”—he took a deep breath—“he killed Wolfram, and used his blood to heal himself.”

“His side? He told me he fell.” Her hands clenched together in her lap.

“He called himself the Wizard of the Prince's Blood.”

All color drained from Melisande's face. “Oh, Holy Mother,” she whispered. “I married him.”

He took her face in his hands. “Melisande, you couldn't have known.”

“Yes,” she whispered, “Yes, I could. That day we had supper, when Wolfram kept treating him as a wizard. I was so angry with him, I couldn't think clearly. I would have married him just to spite Wolfram, just to prove him wrong. When we walked the first circle, I started crying. Brides do, I guess, but I passed the place where Wolfram should have been, and I thought, what if he were right?”

“But you accepted his bracelet,” Kattanan whispered, his voice shaky.

The gold bracelet felt cold and hard beneath her fingers. “Because he loved me. I thought that would make everything all right, that my love would grow, in time.”