The Singer's Crown (10 page)

“Nothing! Sandy, there was nothing I could have done, even if I'd been there.”

“That is no excuse to yell at your sister like a common child. All she wants is for you to be happy for her, and I do not understand why you can't do that, Your Highness.” Faedre spoke softly and turned to go, leaving the confused guard and their master standing in the hall in silence.

KATTANAN WATCHED
them go, then glanced toward the prince, who remained as he had been left. “I cannot both find and avoid a wizard, and I cannot leave the castle while I am needed.” He spoke softly, as if still trying to explain to Melisande.

“No one expects it, Yer Highness,” one of the guards said, with a familiar accent and a slight nod to Kattanan.

“She expects that and more, that I should single-handedly cross the mountains and fetch my bride, cure my father with a glance, then punish the wizard who may have done it!” The prince threw his hands in the air, then realized with whom he was speaking and stopped himself. “You are not regularly in my guard.”

“No, Yer Highness. Bertram of Redstock took ill this morning early.”

“I trust you know what is expected of a royal guard.”

“To be seen and not heard, to defend the royal family at all costs, Yer Highness.” The huge man gave a little bow.

“Why am I hearing you now?” the prince inquired.

Rolf pulled himself straight. “I am ever in yer defense, Yer Highness.”

Wolfram continued to scowl for a moment, but a smile played about his lips. “You will need to be quite vigilant to defend me from my sister's accusations. Who are you?”

“I am called Rolf of the Prince's Mercy.”

Now Wolfram nearly laughed. “Rolf of the what?”

“The Prince's Mercy, Yer Highness. 'Twas ten years past that you spared my life.”

The prince's eyes widened. “You did not speak our language then.”

“'Tis a trifle to learn the tongue of one's chosen lord, Yer Highness.”

“But no trifle to use that tongue to the prince without being asked.”

At this, the other guards shifted their eyes away, exchanging smug glances.

“No, Yer Highness. And I deserve no further mercy from ye than what ye have granted.”

“You have spoken boldly, and I would find out if you act boldly as well. From this day, I want you in my guard, on call at all hours. If I do not sleep, you will have no rest, understood?”

Rolf bowed low now. “Aye, Yer Highness, have no fear; I am your man.”

“Well, Rolf, since my sister has spurned me, I should dine with my lord, if he will have me. To the king's chambers.” The guards shuffled back into order, with Rolf just before the prince. At last, the prince turned his attention to Kattanan. “Will you come, Singer?”

The singer bowed and fell in behind the prince. When they reached the king's door, the guards stood aside, and a servant slipped in to announce the prince. He emerged in a moment, and said, “The king is in conference, and bids you wait his leisure.” Wolfram turned aside from the door and shared quiet words with the chamberlain.

Rolf stooped a little to Kattanan's ear. “What's this, the king making his heir wait in the hall, not even the antechamber?”

The singer shrugged. “I don't know the protocols of Bernholt. The king did not seem well when last I saw him; perhaps he speaks with his physician.”

“I've heard that there's something sour between the king and his son.”

Before Kattanan could comment on this, the door opened, and Lady Faedre curtsied to the prince on her way by. “The king is feeling quite his old self today, Your Highness.” She did not look back, but his eyes followed the sway of her hips. Most of the guards nodded and smiled after her, but Rolf watched only the prince, with a small frown.

Wolfram lowered his head, drawing his fingers along the points of the heavy crown. The door reopened, and the prince beckoned Kattanan with him as he entered. The door had barely shut out the light behind them when the king's voice flared. “When would you have told me about the message from Lochalyn?”

Wolfram knelt at the bedside. “It held nothing new for either of us. I saw no need—”

“You saw no need.” The old man pushed himself up. “I lie here dying, with you for an heir—” He crumpled back onto the pillows, coughing.

“I saw no need to disturb your rest, Sire,” Wolfram continued quietly. “Had there been good news, I would have come to you immediately.”

“Is that why I heard of the baron's death from a servant before I heard from you?”

Wolfram looked down at his hands resting on the old man's bed. “He was my friend, Sire. May I not mourn in my own fashion?”

“You are to be king! Nothing is in your own fashion, but in that of kingship alone.” Spasms wracked his thin form, shaking the prince's head where he had buried it in his hands. The old man struggled to regain himself, and won. “You are as nothing while I yet live, and were my fool doctor to help me up, I would sit at court myself. Then would you know kingship.” One hand slapped against the velvet bedclothes.

“I would help you up, Sire, and take you there.” Wolfram's voice was small and distant.

“You can barely support that crown,” the king scoffed. “How could you support the man who should wear it?” He coughed into a handkerchief, leaving a speckling of blood upon his lips. “Faedre tells me I am not the only one you neglect,” the king continued in a softer tone. “Aside from the princess you have yet to wed, she says you rebuke your own sister at every turn.”

“There are many things Melisande does not understand, Your Majesty,” the prince began.

“So my daughter lacks the wisdom you so clearly demonstrate?” the king snapped.

“What do you want from me, Father? If you would just tell me, I would do it. Should I go to Lochalyn? What if it is a ruse, and I caught them at it? How then would they save face? Only by war or further deceit. Should I come to you before I have mastered my own grief and add it to yours? Or should I ask you before I make any choice at all? I did once, and you gave me only anger then as well.” Wolfram flung himself away from the bed and towered over his father in the gloom.

“At least you are still man enough to return my anger,” the king responded with a feral grin. His eyes were the hard blue of a storm at sea, his lips still flecked with blood. “I wanted you beside me on the hunt; you could not do that, so I doubt you would obey me now.” He fluttered a hand toward his wasted form. “I have lain here two months, is it? They give me potions for my pain, but the pain is here”—he tapped at his temple—“knowing you will be unready. If only there were a war to hurl you into manhood.”

“You worked hard to see that there was none, Sire,” his son said. “I would hope to uphold your peace, not your army.”

From where Kattanan knelt, he could see an old argument returning. The old king was carved by the fire of the candles and by his fever; his son stood mostly in shadow, yet both faces held similar expressions.

“I can wield a sword, and I can strike any target with an arrow, Father, but these are weapons of fear and of death, and I would use any other means before taking a life.”

“People of the Goddess will return to her at death, and those who are not will return to the blackness whence they came: to all a fitting end.”

“But to no man before his time.”

“They are not men, but animals,” the king hissed into the flickering light, “those skulking beasts of the mountains. If they had the wit for magic, I would blame them for this bed I lie in. They are bright enough to provide some sport, but no more than a fox or bear.”

“Yet they defend their children. They build homes for themselves. Their speech is harsh to our ears, but they sing.”

The king's cackle sent tremors the length of his body. “I would hardly use that term. Would you, Singer?”

Kattanan was trapped by those eyes, by the slightly twisted smile. He thought of Rolf, on the little farm in the mountains where the guard's parents raised sheep and traded wool with the Woodfolk. He could not hear the prince breathing, but felt himself pinned by competing stares. Harsh breaths scraped between the king's lips. The song formed almost before he was aware, creeping to his lips in a whisper. The language curved, rough-hewn into the darkness—a chant of high places, bright stars, and the feel of earth beneath one's feet, pounding after some beast of the forest. His whole body shook under the king's storm-eyes, his voice sinking low as a dangerous growl grew in the old man's throat. The king's eyes narrowed, but still he heard. Without warning, a goblet slashed the air, shattering hard against the wall just over Kattanan's shoulder. Herb-tinged wine splashed his face, and shards of glass fell against his feet.

“A song of the Woodfolk, Your Majesty,” the singer said, hardly breathing himself. He sank back on his heels, finally able to lower his head. Nothing stopped the trembling this time.

“He was only answering your question, Father. Please treat him kindly.”

“It was a rebellious answer, and unsought-for. I would be within my rights to kill him now.” The king's hand still hovered in the air, tracing the wake of the hurled goblet. Slowly, though, he let it fall back. “But he does please my daughter, and so I shall allow his life, as long as he never again enters my presence unbidden. Should he ever again give such an answer, he will die and his body be left to rot in the dirt. Crawl from my sight, Castrate.”

Kattanan lowered his hands to the floor, feeling the bite of broken glass, but he heeded it not, making painful progress toward the door. He pushed it open, then shut himself in the narrow antechamber. Voices were low outside both doors. The guards' laughter occasionally rose into his hearing, but there was no more shouting, no crockery thrown. He pulled his hands against his chest and crouched there on the floor, weeping. When the hand touched him, he jerked away against a bench. The hand lay warm and gentle upon his shoulder, though, and waited until the last of the tremors receded.

“Come with me, Kattanan duRhys,” the prince whispered, and the singer rose to his feet, though he wavered there a long moment before he trusted himself to walk. Wolfram opened the door and preceded him into the full light. With a flick of the wrist, he gestured the instantly silent guards ahead of them. “I will dine in my quarters. Inform the kitchen that the king requires meat today; venison if we have it.” One of the guard bowed and trotted off down the hall, as the others fell in step. Rolf flashed several worried glances behind him, but marched on, asking no questions until they got to the prince's quarters, where he turned smartly with an abbreviated bow.

“With permission, Highness?” he said, but his eyes were on Kattanan.

“You know each other?” the prince asked; his eyebrows rose.

“Aye, Highness.”

“Good, then come in and assist me and you may talk all you want.”

“Right gladly, Yer Highness.” He swiftly shut the door behind the trio.

Waiting within, Thomas jumped up and dropped into his lowest bow. As he straightened, his rosy mouth was bent with dismay.

Forestalling any protest, Wolfram walked to the boy. “I know you want to stay, but I need you to go outside and be sure no one comes until I tell you otherwise. Can you do that?”

The boy nodded quickly and went into the hall.

“Rolf, some water, warm if possible.” Wolfram escorted Kattanan to a chair and knelt before him to look at his bloody palms. The guard returned quickly with a basin and pitcher and the kettle from the fire.

“Ye have the finer touch, Highness, best you do the cleaning.”

Wolfram nodded and began picking slivers of glass from Kattanan's palms. He rinsed them as carefully as he could. Still, Kattanan sucked in his breath and winced. Soon enough, the job was done, and his hands wrapped in white cloth. The prince wiped his own hands then, and offered the towel to Rolf as well.

“May I speak now, Highness?”

“Freely, though we may not be so free with our answers,” he cautioned the guard.

“By the mount, what happened in there? I heard shouting, then the song, soft as ye were, lad, I heard it.” He fixed Kattanan with a stern look.

Kattanan glanced first to the prince. “This is not my tale to tell, Highness. Much of it I do not know.”

Wolfram sighed and pulled up a chair for himself. “The king became ill during a hunt, for the Woodfolk of the mountains.” Rolf started at this, but held his peace, and the prince went on. “I did not go with him; there was a land dispute to settle, and I…I have no heart for such sport. There was a heavy rain in the mountains, and they could not sight their quarry, but a figure crossed their path, and my father hailed it, asking if there were Woodmen about. I gather he was answered by laughter at first, then the figure responded, ‘Oh rashest of monarchs, are you asking me?' ‘I am demanding it of you!' ‘Few men make demands of the Wizard of Nine Stars,' the stranger said, and lightning flashed. My father was unhorsed; the wizard was gone, if such it was. The king returned weak, coughing, and soon became as you have seen him.”

“Ye're not to blame, Highness,” Rolf said.

“It is not that, precisely, for which they blame me.” The prince took a deep breath. “I have been among the Woodmen, to study them. They trust me, and come to me when I am riding, to see if I have brought them cloth or knives. Had I been there, the king's hunt would not have been frustrated. Whenever I see him now, he finds a way to tell me so, hence today, that they are beasts incapable of humanity. He asked whether Kattanan would say that they sing.”

“And so ye sang that one, lad.” Rolf shook his head. “You learn tunes too quickly, and not so fast when to keep silent. That song, I felt it here.” He tapped his chest.

“And I.” Wolfram nodded, his eyes soft upon the singer.

Kattanan gave a tiny shrug. “A song, Your Highness, nothing more.”

“When you sang it, it was much more. Kattanan duRhys, I am in your debt.”

“For my stupidity? You were nearly in debt to an unshriven corpse, Your Highness.” The words flew wildly from him. He looked, blinking back more tears.

“No man has yet stood for me against my father,” said Wolfram.