The Singer's Crown (49 page)

“You should have more faith in your king.”

Fionvar laughed. “For all you've done, I certainly should.”

Kattanan grinned up at him. “I have thanks enough just hearing you laugh again. I can't tell you what it's been like these past weeks.” Then he grew serious. “I don't want to dishonor Brianna by refusing her.”

Fionvar drew up a bench and sat down opposite his king. “Go on.”

Kattanan shook his head. “Will you trust me, Fionvar?”

“Absolutely.”

“I need you to stand as the protector of my crown and kingdom.”

“At your wedding,” Fionvar said.

“Yes.”

“Where you will marry my lady.”

“Yes.”

Fionvar drew back, letting out a long breath.

“You said you would trust me.”

“What are you doing, Your Majesty?”

“I cannot avoid marrying Brianna, both for her sake and the sake of Lochalyn; there must be an heir. I know that what I'm asking you will be absolute torture, and I hope you know that I would not ask it of you lightly or maliciously. You will stand beside me for every moment of the ceremony. You will hold my sword and crown.”

After a long pause, Fionvar said, “It would be easier if I knew what happened after that.”

“I am sorry, I can't tell you.” His eyes held Fionvar's. “Will you trust me?”

The silence stretched. Fionvar studied his hands, then he looked up again. “Yes, Your Majesty, I will.”

True to his word, Kattanan planned the full ceremony, from prayer at dawn to presentation at dusk, with a different outfit for virtually every part in between. Duchess Elyn appeared from time to time, to gloat over the preparations, but she otherwise let him alone, giving the court the excuse of his injuries. At his suggestion, Brianna sat in at court for him and relayed the proceedings to him as they shared suppers at his chambers, often joined by Fionvar, Jordan, and Lyssa. Alswytha had made herself scarce lately, but she did come to teach him to play chess, and he asked if it might be possible to learn to control his voice, to return it to the way it used to be. Her eyebrows rose at this, but she nodded noncommittally, and the subject did not come up again.

The day of the wedding started with clouds, causing the duchess to frown, but by the time the couple had spoken the Morning Prayer, the sun peeped down onto the altar. Fionvar, awkward in his role, carried the crown on its velvet pillow, and the sword lay beneath it. While Kattanan stood in prayer, Fionvar stood beside him, reminder of the secular power of the groom-to-be. Elyn glowered at this arrangement, but since the king had no brother to fill the role, she grudgingly admitted that he had made an apt choice. Jordan and Rolf flanked the altar, but neither Lyssa nor the wizard could be found.

Kattanan had shed both the sling and the cane, though he had to set his feet down with great care at every step of the three circuits around the temple. It took forever, and his body ached when they finally stood before the altar.

Brianna faced him and held up a gold marriage bracelet. “The circle unbroken, of our Lady's love,” she said, and her eyes flickered to his, then down.

Kattanan held the matching bracelet. “The circle unbroken, of our earthly love.”

Hands trembling, he slid the circle over her hand and stood silent as she slid hers onto his wrist. The cold thing rested against his cuff, winking in the candlelight.

The audience cheered—mostly. Fionvar's eyes were cast upward as they finished the ceremony, his hands clutched the pillow like a weapon, but he did not strike.

Kattanan took his wife's hand and led her forth. He brought her down the winding halls and to the steps of the tower from which he would present her to his people. Just as they reached it, the wizard appeared, looking as disheveled as she ever had. Brianna started, then smiled. “I'm so sorry to be late,” Alswytha mumbled. “I guess I didn't hear the bell.”

“You'll see the most important part,” he told her. “Won't you stay?”

“I can't. I'm in the middle of something, really. But I did want to congratulate you.” Awkwardly, she flung her arms around him.

A sudden shout behind them made the party turn. A figure hurried up, muffled in a long, hooded riding cloak, breathless. “Blast!” Lyssa's voice called from beneath the hood. “I've missed it, haven't I?”

Kattanan eased the wizard away from him and again took Brianna's hand. He smiled a little, and Brianna smiled back, then they proceeded up the stairs. On the rooftop, Fionvar brought the crown forward, and Brianna knelt at her husband's feet. Kattanan raised the crown from its pillow. “I proclaim you my queen,” he said, “to rule as my equal in all things.”

A cheer rose up from those gathered below.

Taking her hand, he helped Brianna rise again to her feet and led her to the low wall, where all could see them.

Lightly, he kissed her hand. Then, glancing back to Fionvar, he smiled, and stepped over the edge.

“YOUR MAJESTY!”
Fionvar called. He ran to the edge but saw only a few swallows darting in the air. King Rhys had utterly vanished. Brianna swayed, and Fionvar caught her, steadying the crown on her head.

“What's happened to my grandson?” shrilled Elyn. She, too, peered over the edge, to find the astonished crowd below gazing up at her in disbelief. “Where is he?”

Fionvar saw the pallor of her face, and wondered if the duchess herself would faint. He held close the warm weight of Brianna and let the tension drain from his body. Kattanan had done it! Whatever it was he had done, Kattanan had won! Fionvar slowly settled to the ground, supporting the queen in his arms. She would need a strong protector of crown and kingdom, as would their child.

Elyn paced across to Jordan. “What do you know about this?”

“Nothing!” He threw up his hands. “I've hardly seen him.” She whirled away to confront Fionvar, but left Jordan suddenly sure. He sprang to the wall and looked not for his king, but for a lady; she was nowhere to be seen, but she could not have gotten far. He turned away, and saw Lyssa coming toward him—so beautiful, so strong. For a moment, he hesitated.

Lyssa laughed, her mouth spread in a wild grin, and she flung back her hood. Her bald scalp gleamed above her red brows. On her skin were traced the intricate paintings of an initiate priestess. “Go, Jordan,” she said. “Run!”

And run he did, pounding down the stairs, out into the courtyard, calling, “Alswytha! My lady, wait for me!”

Staring at his sister, Fionvar, too, laughed. Lyssa ran a hand over her scalp and revealed the badge of the Sisters of the Sword emblazoned on her robe.

“Have you all gone mad?” Elyn demanded, fists clenched at her sides. “Where is the king? Why is nobody searching? What has he done?”

“He flew on a dappled steed over the heads of the enemy,” Fionvar said.

“He raised the dead,” Lyssa added.

Brianna opened her eyes and gazed up at the man who held her. “He brought the Usurper from the castle single-handed, without bloodshed.”

“What are you talking about?” Elyn asked, with a hint more of awe than anger.

“What they will say.” Fionvar gestured toward the crowd beyond the wall. “He stepped into the stars, and they saw him go.”

“He's not a legend,” she snapped. “He's the king; he is my grandson.”

“He forced Gerrod of Bernholt back on his word and brought a traitor home,” Fionvar continued. “He regained your kingdom, Duchess; he put the House of Rinvien back on the throne.” He smiled at Brianna, who sat up, touching the crown on her head.

Slowly Elyn examined each one of them. She nodded once, firmly—as if it had been as she planned it. “If he ever comes back,” she began, but Fionvar shook his head.

“He isn't coming back, Your Excellency. He was your dream, but this was not his.” It was only then that Fionvar noticed Rolf's absence. At least on this road, Kattanan need not travel alone. “Goddess walk with you,” he whispered.

And it was true, in Lochdale, that those who had witnessed the disappearance of King Rhys made the sign of the Goddess when they spoke of it. And those who had met him or served him suddenly recalled that he had never eaten much, that he was always kind and patient with them, that he had sung the Lady's hours with such feeling. They revered Queen Brianna as his chosen one, the bearer of a child of miracle. With her grandmother close behind her, and her Protector close beside, she wore this new role with grace and beauty. She fondly missed her favorite cousin, and sometimes said at prayer that she was sorry she ever made him mud pies. Her son was born at Finisnez, and he was called Wolfram duRhys. Everyone said that he had his father's eyes.

 

MELISANDE GAVE
birth two months later, surprising her midwife by delivering twins. As was the custom, they waited one cycle of the moon before their Naming Day. A new moon allowed the stars to shine down upon that night and all of the barons came, along with emissaries from foreign courts. King Gerrod swelled with pride, as if the children were a feat of his doing.

The princess greeted each and every guest patiently, searching the crowd for the flash of golden hair, listening, as she always did, for a song. When rumors had reached Bernholt of King Rhys's extraordinary vanishing, the courtiers babbled with excitement about his strange visit among them. Each claimed a miracle for himself, exaggerating Rhys's presence until he sounded no less than holy. Melisande kept her own counsel, hoping beyond hope that his disappearance meant he would soon come to her side. But the snows closed the mountains, and by spring, the mysterious king seemed as distant and untouchable as legend.

As each noble approached, they laid at her feet gifts for her children: tiny fur blankets, delicate necklaces, and silver rattles. When the line was ended, Melisande raised her hand and let the dancing begin. The midwife had said she could dance, but her heart was not in it. Instead, she sat upon her throne, sipping wine, watching her beautiful boy sleeping in Laura's arms. Off to one side, in the richly carved cradle, the girl-child cried for attention, and the midwife gently gathered her into her arms.

The doors opened to admit a party of newcomers, but they took some time to reach the princess, skirting around the dance floor. Melisande sat up straighter and smiled, her heart racing as she recognized Jordan, with the wizard Alswytha at his side.

“The Countess and Earl of Gamel's Grove,” a herald announced, bowing them in.

Jordan swept a low bow, and his lady curtsied, somewhat awkwardly, as Melisande remembered she herself had been a few months ago.

The princess laughed. “Jordan, will your child be the wizard or the Bane?”

“Don't ask me!” he replied. “I must apologize for our lateness, but I hope you shall forgive me when you have received our gift.” His wife stepped aside, and he held out a hand to her. “This gift is a rather special one. It was commissioned of me and my cohort”—he gestured toward the musicians' gallery, where a familiar fiddler swept her a salute with his violin bow—“by King Rhys, before his miraculous disappearance, knowing your love of the dance.”

Melisande gasped and stood, taking the outstretched hand.

“He wanted it to be slow and easy, so that even he might have learned it.” Jordan's eyes twinkled. “It's called ‘Hearts and Crowns,' and it begins like this.”

The dance consisted of a few steps forward, then back, then each partner turning away to the outside, their steps forming half of a heart. When they met again, they exchanged places, reverenced, backed away from each other, then came forward to exchange again. After leading her through it a few times, and demonstrating for the other dancers up on the dais, Jordan determined they were ready. He raised a hand, and Fionvar began his part, a lovely, haunting air for violin and harp.

Smiling as ever, Jordan took Melisande's hand and led her forward, then back. They turned aside to form the heart, and when she reached the point, the hand that reached out for hers was bare and smooth. She looked up and let out a tiny cry.

“Highness,” said Kattanan, “I'm sorry I am late.” He wore a simple tunic of light wool—a far cry from the king of a few months ago—and his tied-back hair was light brown. The scar that marked his face made him look older, as if he were lately returned from battle. “I had to get married,” he told her, “and I had to die.”

Melisande blinked fiercely. “I began to think that you would never come.”

They exchanged places. “I had to learn to dance,” he said. “That was the hardest thing of all.” He bowed to her and backed away, his honey-hazel eyes never leaving her face. Her hair, now past her shoulders, was crowned by the circlet of playing hounds.

She approached him, lips trembling, and when they should have exchanged, instead she threw her arms about his neck. “I have missed you so much,” she whispered.

“Don't cry,” he murmured, pressing her close. “I can't bear to see you cry.” But his voice shook, and he broke his own advice. It was a long while before they let each other go, even so far as arm's length so she could lead him to the cradle.

“Your Highness, I'm afraid we must go,” said Lady Ethelinda, approaching. She curtsied low despite her girth, and straightened, eyeing the princess's companion. “Do I know you, my lord?”

“I am an old friend of Prince Wolfram's, my lady.” He lowered his gaze.

“Hmm. You rather resemble that King Rhys,” Ethelinda remarked.

“I have heard it so, my lady, though I don't see it myself.”

With a regal bow to Melisande, Ethelinda swept by, giving him no more thought.

Sharing a smile, Kattanan and Melisande knelt side by side at the cradle. Both babies lay quietly, the boy reaching out for his mother.

“Happy Naming Day,” Kattanan said. “What are their names?”

Melisande took the boy into her arms and held him out to Kattanan, who accepted him carefully, gazing into the warm hazel eyes. “His name is Alyn.” She ruffled the child's baby blond locks and whispered, “He's yours.”

Kattanan lifted his eyes from the child. “You know that's not possible.”

“Before you found me in the chapel, there was only one child. I cannot explain it, except to say the Lady willed it so.”

A tear shimmered at Kattanan's long lashes, and he blinked it away.

“And her name is Melody.” The princess tickled her daughter's chin.

“They're beautiful.” Kattanan nestled the boy into his left arm so the child could hear his heartbeat.

Melisande lifted her tiny daughter into her arms, leaning back into Kattanan's embrace. The world danced on around them, as if celebrating life, and Kattanan, ever so softly, sang a lullaby.