The Singer's Crown (47 page)

“I don't care!” Broken Shell howled. “Get to the book.”

“My friend and I were set upon, once we'd got it.” Alswytha's eyelids fluttered at this, and Jordan smiled a little as he continued. “They thought they had us, but we won out, with the help of a cook with impeccable timing. Unfortunately, the man with the book got away.” Jordan started pacing around the table with its grisly remains. A few fresh victims lay puddled in their own blood. He grimaced and resolutely turned away. “So my friend went to chase him down, while I came back here. We thought someone might have a plot in store for Nine Stars.”

“And you were correct. Will your friend bring the book back?”

“Oh, I imagine so.”

Nine Stars twitched her fingers, then they closed into a fist.

“Look”—Jordan spread his arms—“why not come down and have a fair fight?”

“I don't think so.”

“Well, I must say, that if you stay up there, the fight will be over too soon.”

“To your loss, Wizard's Bane.”

“I don't think so,” he said softly, for the Wizard of Nine Stars stirred, and spoke.

“Arise,” she said, and stretched out her hand to the room.

Letting out an involuntary cry, Broken Shell stabbed his knife deeper, but she bent the knife from his grasp, her blood disappearing as quickly as it had been shed.

“But the Wizard's Bane!” he said, pointing.

“We have an understanding not to interfere in each other's work.”

A soft clattering and scuffling began behind him, and Jordan shuddered. A dark shadow swept upward—an eagle trailing bloody feathers. Something whimpered and dropped from the table, shambling on weak legs up the stairs, one at a time.

“You can do it,” Broken Shell breathed. “You can raise the dead.”

“No,” she said softly. “No one can undo what has been done. What blood remains knows only torment. Torment and revenge.”

She ducked as the ragged eagle swooped down, slashing for his head.

Broken Shell shrieked and staggered back. “But I didn't kill them!”

Something small and sharp of tooth clamped onto his leg, and he kicked it free. Another took its place, and another.

“Nine stars shine in my blood,” she said. “It is not I alone who call the dead.” She turned her back to walk carefully down the stairs.

A snake passed her by, its eyes gone, but its tongue flickered between its fangs. There would be venom enough for one last strike.

SKIRTS GATHERED
in both hands, Melisande stumbled to a halt when she reached the courtyard. Kattanan came up beside her. “Where?” he panted. The yapping of dogs reached them, and they knew. Melisande sprinted for the door, but Kattanan held back, remembering.

“Hurry!” she called. “The back door!”

Reluctantly, he pushed himself into the yard, wincing as he passed the place where Baron Eadmund had met his death. The barking grew louder.

Melisande shouted as the door popped open. Furry bodies bounded past her, and from within, Orie's voice yelled, “Kill! Kill!”

Kattanan froze, eyes wide.

The first of the dogs leapt past Melisande, white teeth gleaming as they snapped the air. A dozen and more spilled from the open door, all charging straight for him.

“Stop!” Melisande shouted above the din of claws on stone and the ferocious barking. She dropped her voice to a growl. “Stop right there.”

The lead dog faltered and swerved, glancing back to his mistress.

“Down,” she ordered, her eyes beating the animals back.

One by one, they sank down onto their bellies, ears lowered, eyes beseeching. The dog nearest Kattanan reached out a delicate tongue and lapped at his boots. He shifted his eyes slowly down toward it, but the dog made no move. Carefully, he lifted one foot, and set it down. Then the other. Hardly daring to breathe, he inched his way among the panting animals. Their dark eyes watched him pass, but they did not rise.

“Good dogs,” Melisande was saying, her voice low and soothing. “Good dogs.” She held out her hand to him. At last he took it in his own trembling fingers. She smiled, the way she used to—before the marriage, before Wolfram, before Kattanan had left her. “You are not the only one in control of his voice.” She squeezed his hand.

Together, they stepped through the open door. It slammed behind them, and the bar dropped into place. Melisande's hand was wrenched from his, and she shrieked as she was spun away into darkness. Orie's raspy breathing echoed in the chamber. All the windows had been sealed, so that not even a glimmer of starlight reached them.

Somewhere to his right, Melisande whimpered.

“I've got a knife!” Orie called. “Don't move a muscle.”

He could find them in the dark, following their sounds, but what then? He had no weapon; he was so rattled he couldn't even tell if Orie was lying. By the time he knew, she might be dead. No good. Kattanan inched toward the far door. Something rustled in the straw, and he froze, but the sound continued, and he heard the soft whining of puppies in the birthing room. Stepping lightly, Kattanan felt his way along the wall and found the door. “Let her go, Orie,” he said to the dark. “I know you don't want to hurt her.”

“I might surprise you.”

Melisande let out a soft cry, smothered by his hand.

Kattanan fumbled with the latch, calling out, “Great Goddess, Orie, what do you hope to gain? Gerrod knows what you've done.” The bolt slid back, and he gently held the latch.

“What you've done,” Orie returned. “Gerrod thinks you tried to kill him. All his court—and yours, may I add, saw him leave with you.”

“What about your wife?” Kattanan asked, and he threw open the door. Outside, light shone from a hundred windows, casting a feeble glow across the room. Orie clamped one hand over Melisande's mouth. In the other hand he held the edge of a metal plate to her throat.

Kattanan grinned across the darkness, then Orie flung Melisande aside. In one ferocious lunge, Orie bounded across the room. He struck Kattanan full in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. As he struggled for breath, Kattanan skidded across the balcony. His arms flailed, his boots slipped and sought for purchase, then one foot reached back, and found nothing. He found the breath to scream as he struck the stairs.

A sickening crack accompanied the scream, followed by the percussion of his terrible descent. With a thud, the scream ended.

Melisande staggered to the balcony, her face ashen.

Orie turned from the stairs and grinned. “I have always enjoyed silence,” he hissed, “haven't you?”

Shaking all over, Melisande steeled herself to look down. She caught a glimpse of his hair, the dark stain of blood spiraling down the golden curls. She wailed.

Orie spun his wife toward him. He caught her face in his cold hands and stopped the sound with a kiss.

 

ON THE
tower, the violent wind had blasted the last of the sleeping draught from Fionvar's head. He heaved himself to the top of the wall and look down the other side. Rolf had a grip on Gerrod's ankle, but the king swung dangerously, and the guard's massive shoulders were wedged firmly into the arrow slit.

“I think we can get him up,” he called down to Rolf.

Rolf grunted.

“We'll get you out next, don't worry.” He shifted into position, reaching down alongside Rolf's place. “Pull him up a little, would you?”

Rolf hauled up the dangling king until Fionvar could almost get hold of him.

“Bury it,” Gerrod gasped, his hair flying in the wind, “I'm not made of wood.” Fionvar grabbed the boot, and Rolf shifted his grip to the king's shin, gathering in the other leg.

“Careful!” the king snapped as he bumped against the rough wall.

“You son of a bitch,” Fionvar snapped back. To Rolf he said, “My head's still foggy. Why are we saving him?”

“Cursed if I know,” Rolf wheezed. “Seemed the thing t' do.”

“Pull me up, you cretins! Pull me up, or I'll have your heads!”

Fionvar glared down into the darkness. “You listen to me, Gerrod, because I'm the man with your life in my hands. You can't have my head, you pompous, drunken—”

Far off on the other side of the main bridge, a scream rose into the night, and died away. “Great Lady,” Fionvar breathed. He nearly let go of Gerrod, but forced himself to concentrate.

From the same direction, a keening wail shivered him clear through.

It ended just as suddenly.

“Melisande!” Gerrod sobbed. “Where's my daughter?”

“Where's yer son, ye bloody bastard?” Rolf howled back at him.

“Dead by my brother's hands,” Fionvar said, “both of them.”

“No,” the king shouted, his breathing labored. “Ask King Rhys! He threw me here, he brought the traitor's body—”

“Wrong!” Fionvar answered. “Wolfram died to save my life; Finistrel knows why. Orie would've killed me,” he whispered, “but Wolfram died instead.”

“Orie hired the wizard who sent ye t' yer sickbed, Gerrod,” Rolf chimed in.

“Orie learned how to change his appearance; he talked you up here.”

“Orie threw ye over, Gerrod.”

“Now he's thrown your daughter,” said Fionvar. “Just as he murdered your son.”

“It's not true,” Gerrod sobbed. “She can't be dead, not my Sandy.”

Fionvar took a moment to find his breath again, pressing his cheek to the cool stone. The breeze stroked away his tears, and he turned back. “Let's do it.” He caught the king's other foot and pulled him up. Rolf glowered at the king's face as he passed him along. Dumping Gerrod onto the floor, Fionvar set to freeing Rolf from the notch. Both men grunted with the effort, but soon they slumped against the wall. Rolf massaged his aching shoulders, wincing at the scraped skin. Sidelong, he watched Fionvar. “I'm thinkin' ye're not so bad.”

Fionvar glanced back at him. “Nor are you, Rolf.” A half smile brightened the darkness of his features. “I'm glad to know you.” He stuck out his hand.

Rolf gripped it. “Any friend of Wolfram's is a friend o' mine.”

Gerrod stopped dusting himself off and sighed. “The crown is gone, I guess.”

“You can always get another crown,” Fionvar said. “Where will you find another prince worthy of the title?”

His head still bowed, Gerrod did not answer. The king's shoulders drooped and trembled as the old man wept for his son.

 

ORIE PUSHED
his wife back against the wall. With one hand, he tore the gown from her shoulders. She shivered in her thin chemise, but promised herself she would not cry. He would get nothing from her. As he cupped her breasts, the stone dug into her back, and she turned her head, gazing at the sky. A cloud drifted across the stars, as if they could not bear to see her. “Oh, Wolfram,” she whispered, “I tried.”

“Shut up,” Orie growled. “I never want to hear that name again, understood!”

“You killed Wolfram,” she said, gazing into his eyes.

“Of course I did, you stupid whore.” He knotted his hand in her hair. “Give me cause, and I'll kill you, too.”

“What, am I not to die?” The words came out nearer a sob.

“Your father's dead, your brother's dead,” he spat at her, “your little castrate king is dead—but I'd like to keep you, for my baby's sake, if nothing else.” He stroked her belly, pressing his hips into her. “Maybe a few more.”

“Kill me, Orie,” she pleaded, “or, so help me, I'll find a way.”

“Maybe I'll beat the sense out of you.” He knocked her head firmly against the wall so that her teeth slammed together, and she tasted blood. He pressed his lips to hers, forcing his tongue between to taste her blood, and he chuckled. Low in her throat, Melisande whimpered. Her hands held to the wall felt numb. The cold seeped through her body until she felt she'd never be warm again. Melisande shivered, and her husband pressed even closer.

“I'll warm you,” he breathed, and a plaintive note had crept into his voice. “Don't you know I love you? Goddess's Tears, Sandy, I never wanted to hurt you.” His hands stroked her face, found their way to her breasts and hips, encircled her.

Frozen tears slid down her cheeks. Melisande willed herself dead.

Far below, in the darkness where only the stars could reach, a tiny voice sang, “In the Bernholt Hills you'll find me.” It broke off, coughing, then gasped another breath to continue, “Lying with my lady—”

Orie jerked away, frozen just as she was.

“Should be, lying with your lady”—a tiny laugh—“given the circumstances.” The voice died away again with a cough.

Orie strode to the wall and looked down. Sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, Kattanan gave a grim half smile. “I didn't think”—he gasped—“I could do it.” Blood streamed down his forehead, and his right leg had a bend below the knee. He cradled one arm across his chest and took a shallow breath, and another. “Dancing in the starlight,” he sang. “Laughing in the rain.”

Melisande crept up, her face lit by the brightest smile Kattanan had ever seen.

“You can't kill me,” he told Orie. “Not that way.”

The roar grew in Orie's breast again. He grabbed Melisande and thrust her back into the room, where she tumbled in the straw. Then he pounded down the stairs.

Kattanan's smile faltered. He couldn't run—couldn't even crawl away. In his bruised back he felt the vibration of Orie's approach. “You'll always remember she loved me first,” he murmured to the darkness. Suddenly Orie was there, quivering with his fury. He reached down and grabbed a handful of Kattanan's shirt to haul him to his feet.

Kattanan yelped with pain. The dizziness grew inside his head, but he fought it down. He must give her time—find help, he urged her—Jordan, Rolf, Fionvar, anyone! Orie shook him back to alertness, sneering when his eyes creaked open again. “I can kill you any number of ways,” he snapped, “but I like this one.” His hand closed over Kattanan's throat. “Bury me, singer, if you ever sing again.”

Lights danced between Kattanan's ears, and he wondered, fleetingly, if that were what the prophecy meant—sing with the stars. His mouth gaped desperately, both hands clawing at Orie's grip, despite the spreading numbness. Even then, on the verge of darkness, a drop of sound reached him. Then another.

His roar running silent at last, Orie half turned from his victim.

Melisande swung, shattering Orie's nose with the first blow.

Orie stared, frowning through the blood. “Sandy, you can't—”

The second blow ruined his handsome features, in a spatter of blood. The third she missed, for his body was already collapsing. The heavy ceramic dog bowl shattered against the rail, the shards cutting her hand. She cast them aside and sank to her knees.

“Please, please, please,” she mumbled as she slipped her arms around Kattanan's shoulders. “Please, please, please.”

She cradled him close to her chest, trembling fingers smoothing the hair from his face. “Don't die,” she begged him. “Don't leave me now. I've only just found you.” Tears dropped onto his forehead, cleaning little pathways through the blood. One drop streaked along his eyelid and came to rest, quivering, upon his lips.

As if he had been waiting for this, his lips parted, and he took a tiny breath. It shuddered through him, but he coughed, and took another. One eye opened, and a little smile trembled into life. “Princess,” he whispered.

“I'm here, Kattanan.” She clutched him to her breast.

“I thought,” he rasped, “I might sing with the stars.”

“Not yet,” she cried, half in prayer.

Listening to the wild beat of her heart, he murmured, “No, love, not for a very long time.”