The Singer's Crown (46 page)

Kattanan jammed his foot into the other boot and stood abruptly. He scanned the floor for his little dagger. Then Melisande's hand came around his shoulders. She pressed herself against his back. “I thought it would grow, but it dwindled. Smaller and smaller, until I clung to him because—” She broke off, and tears seeped into the silk of his shirt. “Because I thought, if I let him go, no one would ever love me again. Wolfram was gone, my father was drunk and angry. Orie and the dogs were all I had.”

He placed a gentle kiss on her wrist. “I wish I could have come sooner.”

“No,” she whispered, “you came just in time.”

THE INSTANT
the guards left his room, Fionvar dragged himself to his feet. He swayed, already feeling the effects. Two beds, two chairs, two tables swam in his vision. He reached his doubled hand out to the two oil lanterns and succeeded in getting hold of one. Crossing unsteadily to the garderobe, he pulled off the wick assembly and tossed back a long swallow of the oil below. His stomach immediately rebelled, and he vomited the oil, the potion, and the excellent dinner. The vile taste brought him back to his senses. He set down the lantern and crept to the windows, grateful for the thick door between himself and the guards.

His eyes refused to focus on the latch, so he felt along the casement until he found it and pushed it free. The window creaked open, and he froze. After a moment, he peered into the torchlit garden. The distance didn't seem too great, so he stuck his feet out, and jumped down, tumbling when he struck ground. His mind reeled, and he lay still.

“What're ye doin'?” a harsh voice demanded. “Gave me a fright, ye did.”

“Rolf ?” The looming figure was weaving around among the stars. Fionvar pushed himself up to his knees, then rested. “Where's the king?”

“Off walking with Melisande. Here, are ye well?” Rolf laid a hand on Fionvar's shoulder; it felt like a lead weight.

“No, not the slightest bit.” He resisted the urge to shake his head. “With Melisande?”

“Aye—I spotted them walking toward the towers.”

Fionvar straightened up and tried to stand, but he swayed dangerously, and Rolf caught him by the elbow. “Enough drink for the musicians, eh?”

“Rolf, my brother's disguised as the king, I think he'll kill Gerrod.”

Rolf's grip tightened. “What're ye saying?”

“We have to find the king,” he said, as clearly as he could.

“Come on, then,” Rolf replied gruffly, “though he'll not thank ye for the interruption.” He helped Fionvar down the walk. A thin sound of voices drifted down from the near tower. Fionvar pulled away, hauling himself up the stairs along the rusted railing. When he reached the top, with Rolf lending grudging support, the two kings turned to stare.

“You again,” Gerrod growled. “I thought you'd been sent to your room.”

“I'm sorry, Yer Majesty,” Rolf began, shifting awkwardly on the stairs.

“Rolf, thank the Lady!” King Rhys cried. “Fionvar's not well. I'd appreciate it if you can take him back to his room and see that he doesn't get out this time.”

“Begging yer pardon, Yer Majesty, but he claims that ye're a fraud.” With his great hand on Fionvar's back, he nudged him along the wall until Fionvar stood supported by the stone.

King Rhys laughed, shaking his head. “He said the same thing at the ball, that's why I had him escorted out.”

Rolf rested a hand on his sword hilt, eyeing the kings, then Fionvar. “If ye don't mind my asking, where's the princess?”

“Dancing, of course.” The smile froze upon Rhys's face as Rolf's eyes narrowed.

Rolf stepped past Fionvar onto the roof. “She accepted yer words, then, did she?”

“What is this man referring to?” King Gerrod demanded. “Isn't he the one who helped the traitor escape?”

“He's a very loyal man,” King Rhys said, but he had gone a little pale.

There was a moan behind him, and, from the corner of his eye, Rolf saw Fionvar slide into a heap at the foot of the wall. In the same moment, Gerrod cried out, arms flailing as King Rhys easily picked him up and swung him over the wall. Gerrod struck the top of the wall and rolled. Rolf leapt forward, his outstretched fingers catching the king's foot. The jerk of the suddenly falling weight flipped him off-balance, and Rolf crashed into the wall, his arm wedged into the crenellation. He cursed the pain, but he did not let go.

“Bury you all!” King Rhys snarled, the borrowed face twisted into a grimace of rage.

“Where's my father?” Melisande screamed from the top of the stairs. Stumbling up beside her, Kattanan caught his breath, staring as if into a mirror.

“It's you,” King Rhys hissed, “or is it me?”

“Great Lady,” Fionvar mumbled, clutching his head. “Two of everything.”

Rolf's legs kicked above the floor. From somewhere over the wall, Gerrod cursed and howled into the wind. King Rhys flung himself upon the burly guard.

“You'll not kill my father!” Melisande flew at him, pulling him away.

“I'll make you queen,” he said, “of Bernholt and Lochalyn both, and more.” He faced her, eyes flickering over every part of her face.

“That form doesn't suit you,” she said, drawing back a little.

“Oh it doesn't?” the false face asked. “I had the impression that you liked it. And I've made at least one improvement, which I think you'll approve.” Suddenly his gaze shifted to her uncorseted breasts, her shorn locks freed from their veil. “You whore, you've had him!”

She straightened, chin held high. “And he was better than you ever were.”

Orie pushed off, a cry of rage pouring from his lips, his hands reaching for her throat.

Kattanan whirled. “Melisande!”

The fingers closed on air as Orie fell headlong upon the stone, with Fionvar underneath him. Orie scrambled up. Snatching a handful of Melisande's flying skirt, he wrenched her off her feet and flung himself upon her. His face—Kattanan's face—froze in horror, and he groaned.

Melisande gasped as he was pushed aside, with Kattanan's jeweled dagger thrust deep between his shoulder blades.

Kattanan gathered her into his arms, heedless of the blood on his hands. “You're all right,” he whispered frantically. “You'll be all right.”

“Oh, no,” Orie's voice rang out behind them. “You'll never be all right again.”

He rose up, features shifting back into his true form. One hand slid over his shoulder and he ripped free the knife. “You can't kill me, eunuch. Not like that.”

He flung the blade into the air where it became a hawk and flew away. The gash in his back sealed itself, the blood drawing inward with a sound like weeping.

“Eunuch,” he repeated, shaking his head. “You can't kill me.”

A broken voice from the darkness whispered, “Run.” Fionvar inched his way backward toward Rolf. “Kattanan,” he urged, “run.”

Melisande grabbed his hand, and they ran—tripping down the stairs, with the wizard's laughter howling after them.

 

KNEELING IN
the street, Jordan met Lyssa's eyes. The wounded man held a thick knot of her hair wrapped around his hand. Slowly, she let the hammer fall from her grip, then the sword clattered down beside it.

“That's better,” Montgomery said. “Bind her. Let's get out of the street.” He tucked his own sword into his belt and fumbled out a length of rope.

The first loop tightened about Jordan's imprisoned wrist, and he winced. He heard a window creak open somewhere behind him—they had an audience. Then a whooshing sound. Before he could place it, Montgomery was screaming, and something hot and wet splashed over Jordan's shoulders, stinging.

Lyssa was whooping with laughter, even as she got one foot under her, and threw herself over backward on top of her captor.

Montgomery still shrieked like a madman, clawing at the angry redness spreading over his face. Lumps of something dripped from his hair and ears—beef, Jordan realized with a start. From the window above, Thomas shouted, “Get him!” as his mother aimed the empty stewpot at the squire's head.

Jordan seized Montgomery's hand and bit him, the fingers spasmodically dropping the sword. Snatching it up, the Liren-sha spun a graceful arc, and shoved the blade home between Montgomery's ribs. The man's cries erupted into a terrible wail, then fell silent as he slumped to the ground.

Her man down, Lyssa called, “Are you hurt?”

“Not much,” Jordan replied, gingerly feeling his right hand.

“Orie sent them.”

“Must have,” Jordan agreed. He retrieved his own sword and turned to Lyssa. “Alswytha's in trouble.” Then he frowned. “Where's the book?”

“Oh, bury it!” Lyssa pulled herself up, pointing where the injured man had hobbled away. “I'll go! Get to the palace, Jordan.” She thrust her hammer into its loop and set off at a run.

Glancing up to the window, Jordan waved to Thomas and his mother. “Thanks for the hospitality,” he called. “The stew was excellent!”

 

KATTANAN HEARD
the impact when Orie's feet struck the ground. The cackling echoed all around them. Their feet pounded the stones as Melisande led the way through the groves. Back to the palace, back to the ball, where surely someone would help them. The path before them burst into flames, and Melisande screamed, stopping short. Orie's voice behind them chanted dark and terrible words. The stones shook beneath their feet.

“Come on!” Kattanan plunged through the narrow band of flames, dragging Melisande along with him.

Wind rose around them, whipping their hair and tossing the branches. A tree flew through the air, smashing against the wall. Then another aimed for them. Melisande flung them both to the ground. Dirt from the wild roots lashed their faces as they crawled. The stones buckled and rolled beneath their hurrying hands and feet. They fetched up against the wall of the temple. Even as Kattanan exulted in its safety, a massive trunk soared through the air and smashed the spire. The little building shivered. Ducking against the slim shelter of the crumbling wall, he pulled Melisande into his arms.

“I don't want to die,” she whispered.

“Oh, Lady of the highest stars,” Kattanan sang softly, “Sweet Finistrel set the spheres to singing.”

“Though I stand in darkness now,” Melisande joined him, her voice shaky, more a breath upon his cheek than a sound at all, “shine your light upon me.”

The cackling grew very near, and suddenly light broke in upon them. Orie towered over them, calling lightning from the sky. Again, it cracked the chapel, and Kattanan's scalp tingled.

“Stand up!” Orie's voice thundered.

To his horror, Melisande was rising, resisting his hands. Tears ran from her eyes.

Suddenly Kattanan remembered her question,
“Where is my father?”
she had asked, and Orie had not yet answered.

She broke free of his embrace, turning toward her husband with terrible slowness.

Orie raised his hand, and her chin tilted upward. He leaned down to kiss her.

Kattanan screamed, “No!”

A dreadful silence fell—the trees dropped from the sky, raining oranges. Orie pulled back, looking wildly around him.

The truth dawned on him, and Kattanan rose. “The Wizard's Bane, Orie, he's returned. You and I are equal.”

“No, never,” Orie scoffed, but when he reached toward Melisande, she staggered away.

Kattanan sprang forward, not knowing quite what he'd do, but Orie stumbled backward over the downed trees, turned, and ran.

 

JORDAN DASHED
across the bridge, then hesitated. Something tingled in his blood, and he shut his eyes, turning all his senses inward: he shared the blood of a wizard, and she was calling. Turning, he made for an inside corridor, following its twists and turns, flying up the stairs. The tingle in his blood grew stronger. A corner, an archway, and at last, a door. Jordan pounded on it with his fist, but there was no sound within. He threw himself against it, wincing with the force of the impact, then again. The third time, the door popped open, and he stumbled in, sprawling onto a dirty floor.

“Nice of you to join us,” a man said. “Unexpected, but nice. Go on, get up.”

Jordan rose slowly, turning until he could see the speaker, a round man in a monk's robe. He had an arm about Alswytha's shoulders and a knife at her throat. They stood on a landing of the curved stairs that wound up the inside of the chamber.

“Where's the book? Did you get it?”

“Yes, and no,” Jordan replied.

“Tell me, Wizard's Bane. I don't have much patience,” Broken Shell snapped.

“I can see that,” he replied. He searched Alswytha with his eyes. Why was she so still? No magic could hold her, not in his presence. He frowned and blinked. Come to that, he wasn't feeling well himself. Slowly he began turning again.

“Look at me,” Broken Shell shrieked.

Jordan sniffed the air and sneezed. The herbs reminded him of something—the night Faedre had gone to his king's tent. He staggered forward, his body beginning to slow, and caught hold of the brazier in both hands. He carried the thing to the door and threw it out into the hall, slamming the door triumphantly behind. “That's better.” Jordan looked up at the two wizards. “What is that stuff ?”

“Don't taunt me with questions. Where's the book?”

“Actually, I've no idea. Someplace in the streets of the city, I suppose.” He lounged against one of the tables, wrinkling his nose at the foul stench of the place. “This is Orie's workshop? Where's the great man himself, still dancing?”

Her captor dug the tip of the dagger into the woman's neck, just a little.

Jordan stood up, hands out. “Please don't. If you do that, I'd have to kill you, and I'd much rather that she had the pleasure.”

Broken Shell laughed, a hearty, boisterous sound. “Without her powers, she is even less than I. And you couldn't reach us in time, so why not tell me?”

“It's rather a long story,” Jordan observed, “and this stench is really bothering me. Don't see how you can stand it.” He crossed to the curtained arch, ignoring the wizard's protests, and pulled back the curtain. He opened the tall windows to allow in the night breeze. “You see, a friend and I went into town, to the boy's house where he'd sent the prince's books. Oh, see, I've already skipped a part—”