The Singer's Crown (23 page)

“Where is the prince? What have you done with him?” A huge man, shaking off two guards, barreled into the room, where more guards surrounded him.

“Your Majesty, I'm sorry, we couldn't—”

“I'll give your king a piece of my mind!” The man raised his bound hands.

“Rolf !” Kattanan sprang up.

Fionvar rose, searching a loop of keys. “I'm sorry, Captain,” the guard began, but Rolf's joined fists slammed into Fionvar's temple, sending him sprawling across the floor.

“Curse you in the name of the Goddess and the Mount!” Rolf cried, pushing the guard aside; then Kattanan caught his arm.

“Rolf, wait, he's not responsible. Rolf!”

Rolf stared at him, narrowing his eyes. “Ye look like him, but the voice—”

“I know. Part of a very long story. Can somebody find the keys?”

“Don't do that, Your Majesty, he's dangerous,” the guard warned, sword drawn.

Fionvar staggered to his feet. One hand gave over the key ring, while the other was clamped to his forehead. Fionvar swayed to a chair and worked at catching his breath.

Rolf stared down at Kattanan, furrowing his brow. “‘Your Majesty'?” he echoed.

“Part of the same story. Have they hurt you?”

Rolf shook his head. “They took the prince and left me chained to a tree,” he snapped, glowering down at Fionvar. “Where is His Highness?”

Kattanan gestured toward the bed. “The surgeons are doing what they can.”

“If you are the king here, then, by the Goddess, how could you let them?”

“I didn't know until a little while ago. The former captain didn't tell us. I'm sorry, Rolf. I don't know if he'll live.” He tried to control the returning sobs.

Rolf set a huge hand on Kattanan's shoulder. “The fault belongs to them as hurt him, and to King Gerrod, may a mountain cover his grave.”

“Can we have some room to do our job?” the surgeon demanded.

Fionvar rose unsteadily to his feet again, and Brianna frowned but went to Kattanan. “Shall we wait in the temple, Your Majesty?”

Rolf, leaning to peer between the busy surgeons, followed Kattanan into the hall.

Still fingering the bruise on his forehead, Fionvar sketched a bow. “If it please Your Majesty, I will go have that discussion with those responsible.”

“Yes,” said Kattanan. “Will you report to me when you are ready?”

“As you wish, Majesty.”

Brianna gazed after him as well as the trio began down the hall. A tall archway opened into a small but well-appointed temple, and they settled onto a padded bench with Kattanan in the middle. They looked toward the sky for several minutes; then Rolf asked gently, “Is this what you would not tell me, back at my tower?”

“I didn't even know about all of this. Well, I knew I had been a prince,” Kattanan began, “but until they brought me here, it didn't occur to me that I was heir to anything. I mean, being the way I am.” He studied the floor tiles. Then his voice sank to a whisper, and the others drew closer as he told them about the scene in the garden on his last day as a prince. “After—they took me to a monastery, and I learned to sing. The monks let a rich merchant take me away; Jordan, too. We traveled, traded for favors. Then Jordan left me, and I went alone for a while until I came to Bernholt.” He trailed off, and Brianna picked up the tale, describing the plans for the king's return and her own role in that future.

As she finished, a surgeon, bowing and clearing his throat, approached the king. “Your Majesty, please forgive the interruption.”

“How is he?”

“We have done what we can, Your Majesty. That arrow was the most serious, although the beating was severe. I really can't say what will happen.”

Kattanan nodded, eyes shut against renewed tears.

“I have given him something to help him sleep,” the man went on, then added, “I can do the same for you, if you would like, Your Majesty.”

“Not right now,” he answered faintly. “Can I sit with him?”

“I would not advise more than one visitor at the moment.” He shot a look to Rolf, who glowered back. “And he needs as much rest as possible.”

“I understand,” Kattanan replied, but he was already on his way.

Rolf and Brianna followed him as far as the door, then she looked up at the towering guard. “You must be hungry. I'll take you to the kitchens.”

“Fine,” he growled, “but I'll bring my lunch back here.”

Inside his room, with the curtains drawn and only one candle lit by the bed, Kattanan studied the prince's face. The prince's breathing had steadied, though, and the pain seemed to have fled his features. Kattanan pulled his chair close, flashing back for a moment to the long day he had spent in the same bed, with Jordan leaning over him. At least this man could awaken to the company of a true friend. The thought brought something else to mind, and he crossed for a moment to lean out the door and whisper to the guards. A little while later, there was a soft knock, and the wizard entered.

“What is your will, Your Majesty?”

“Can you take this voice away, just for a while?”

“I can, but the duchess—”

“Bury the duchess,” Kattanan hissed forcefully.

She examined him in the dim light. “I will do this for you, Majesty. Be careful that you do not speak too freely, then.” Her hands passed through the air before him, and hovered gently at his forehead for a moment, then fell. “I'll come back at dawn, unless you summon me sooner.”

“Thank you,” he said softly, returning to his place as she left. He settled there, resting one hand on Wolfram's, and began to sing, as quietly as he could. He fell silent when the duchess came herself, demanding entry.

“The captain ordered, on behalf of the king, that no one enter this room without express permission from himself and the king.”

“Your captain! I may have acted rashly in giving him command. Remove yourselves!”

Kattanan fetched a scrap of parchment and a quill, scratching out a brief message, and slipped it under the door. She snorted at his words. “We certainly will be discussing this later!” the duchess said to the closed door. “I will find your captain and discuss it with him first, and I do not appreciate having an enemy soldier asleep in our hall.”

“No one,” Rolf said, “not even yer king, will budge me from here.”

“We'll discuss that also! And you men should not assume you can hide behind your orders. I will—Captain,” she snapped, with a swirl of skirts as she turned to face a newcomer. “Good of you to join us. I was under the impression that your loyalty was above reproach.”

“Your Excellency,” Fionvar's tired voice replied, “my loyalty remains with the true crown of Lochalyn.”

She demanded, “Explain why that crown's most dedicated servant is barred from interview with the king and from examination of an enemy of that crown.”

“I believe that king has just had the most terrible reunion one can imagine with a friend. I presumed, perhaps wrongly, that he would wish some time to…regain his composure in private. This room is still the king's quarters, after all.” Fionvar's voice gained a calm strength, without losing its usual even tone. “If I have misjudged the king's wishes in this, I trust he will let me know, and I hope he will accept my sincerest apology.” He paused for a moment, and, when there was no response from the room, went on. “The other occupant of this room, regardless of his birth or circumstances, is recovering from serious wounds, and his doctors prefer that nobody disturb him until tomorrow. That probably extends to discussions in the hall as well. Perhaps we should continue the explanations elsewhere, Your Excellency?”

“My lord Fionvar,” the duchess began coldly, “I have always appreciated your candor and your habit of speaking from your conscience; however, I never expected that you would so abuse my appreciation and generosity in this manner. You may recall that the last captain of the guard lost his position precisely because he failed to report to me in an appropriate fashion.”

“It was first necessary to see to my command, Your Excellency—to appease certain resentments that the former captain likewise failed to report. Things like desertions, bad rations, and worse punishments.”

The duchess turned from him to one of the guards. “Is this true?” When no response was forthcoming, she said, “I will not hold your words against you.”

“And the captain, Your Excellency? Would you hold it against him?” The man's voice was hesitant.

“Then I take it he is telling me the truth.”

“Aye, Your Excellency, and more. Forty-three bunks empty and the captain won't have us change quarters. The roof of my barrack leaks as if it weren't there, but he says it's not our job to fix it, then he won't find whose job it is. I've got five mates in the infirmary sick from bad meat the cooks wanted thrown out, but he said we'd get no other. I'd've been gone myself, today, if he were still captain—” The guard broke off.

“And you are convinced things will be different now.”

The other guard, an older man, spoke up. “I just came off roof-repair duty, Excellency.”

“I see.” She paced up the hall a bit, then back. “I have some other business to attend to, but I will be here immediately after Morning Prayer, and I will be admitted. My lord Captain will do me the favor of meeting me here.”

“I am at your service, Excellency.”

“I am not yet convinced, but I will think on what you have told me.” She strode, not too quickly, back down the hall.

“Great Goddess, Fion!” the first guard exploded. “Now's not the time to be rocking the boat.”

“You helped. Besides, the duchess will consider what has been said, and I think she will pay a bit more attention now.”

“Either that or she'll have your head.”

“Then I'll be careful not to lose it anywhere.”

“Don't you think it would've been wise to wait at least until morning?”

“And how would I ever have gotten her away from this door? If His Majesty comes out, tell him I am ready to report at his leisure. Otherwise, I'll be here in the morning.”

Kattanan returned to his prayers in peace, adding a word of thanks for his friends.

FROM HER
post by the ballroom door, Faedre watched Orie and Melisande perform a last design, bowing to each other as the music ended. Melisande, young and lovely, was flushed with the dancing, and her partner bowed over her hand, lingering a long while in the kiss. He straightened again, his eyes alight as he looked upon her. “That will be the last for a while, I fear,” he murmured.

Melisande clung to his hands. “I really ought to finish my packing.” She gazed up at him as if he were the only man who ever lived. He brushed another kiss upon her cheek and bid her go. Faedre burned, but held her tongue, easing into the shadows at the princess passed by. She stepped out as the earl drew nearer, dipping into her lowest curtsy. “My good lord, might I have a word?”

Orie glanced down at her coolly, not even a hint of a smile at the pleasures her body should suggest. “Not now, my lady. I have too much on my mind.” In a few strides he was gone, his steps firm—leaving her behind.

Anger suffused her, that his head could be muddled by a trivial creature like his child bride. In his face, his hands, his every movement, Faedre saw the truth: she herself would never be queen. She knotted two fists in her gown and pounded up the stairs.

“Oh!” Laura cried out as she and Faedre nearly collided. “Are you well, my lady?”

Faedre stopped short. “This place has rats,” she snapped. Glancing down at the tray the maid was carrying, she caught her breath and smiled. “This is for the princess?”

“Yes, my lady. She is quite in a state over the summons and the packing. This should help her to settle for the night.”

“I shall take it to her.” Smiling, she took the tray and watched until the maid had gone to her room. Rather than go to Melisande, Faedre went first into her own chamber and quickly added a few things to the tray, including a splash of dark liquid to the mulled wine she bore. She smoothed her hair and gown and carried the drink in to her mistress.

Melisande, hair braided for sleep, sat curled in a chair in front of the fireplace. Around her were stacked the chests of her belongings, ready for the journey. “Oh, Faedre, I'm so glad you're here.” She yawned broadly and smiled.

“I brought you wine, plus a little something to help you sleep.” The lady's face glowed red in the firelight, her eyes flickering as she raised the goblet to the princess.

“Thank you.” Melisande took a long drink, then frowned into her cup. “It's a little bitter,” she said, but she did not set it down.

“Take another sip, you'll get used to it.” Faedre lifted a small bundle from the tray and unwrapped it. The icon stood a mere four inches tall, but was studded with jewels framing the faces of the two figures. “Ayel and Jonsha, come to me now,” she murmured, kissing each figure before placing the statue on the mantel.

Melisande's unfocused gaze wandered, but she sat perfectly still, the goblet lowered to her lap.

“No doubt you feel better already, little queen. Pity you cannot talk to me. Pity that I cannot give you the dose I'd like.” She tilted Melisande's chin to stare down into her face. The other hand lifted a slim dagger from the tray. Smiling again, Faedre reached both hands around Melisande's head, fingering the braid which hung down long and thick. Well-honed steel hacked through the hair in quick strokes. Faedre stepped back, dangling the braid from her hand. “May no child of his ever bring you joy. May you bleed in getting them, bleed in birthing them, bleed in raising them, sorrow in losing them. Ayel and Jonsha hear my words. Finistrel, feel my deeds and weep!” She flung the braid to the fire's heart, where it curled as it burned, reeking of curses and the death of dreams.

The moon had gone from the sky by the time she led her mount by stealthy routes to the riverside. Far from any guard, she mounted and urged the horse across a wide ford not far from the island. Faedre grimaced at the soaked hem of her riding garb, but pressed on into the woods, cursing the branches that slapped at her. It seemed an age before she reached the old road, winding up into the mountains. She had not gone far when her horse whinnied into the night, and was answered. “Hush, foul beast!” she hissed at it, trying to pull the animal back into the wood.

“Who's there?” a voice called as the other rider came into view.

“A mere lady who means no harm. Are you a king's man?”

“Which king, my lady?” the other said, easily halting his mount alongside hers. He looked her up and down, and grinned.

Faedre glanced away demurely, letting her cloak fall a bit open. “I am riding to Lochdale, my lord, in hopes I may seek favor with the court.”

“I am going there myself, on important business. You should not be riding alone.” He frowned a moment. “I've seen you in King Gerrod's court, though, have I not?”

Her glance grew a bit more wary. “I have been there.”

“Why would a lady be leaving the comforts of the castle? Running from someone? A husband, perhaps?” His eyes focused upon the low-cut bodice she had revealed.

She smiled a bit. “You are a very perceptive man.”

The other grinned at her. “Allow me to protect you on your journey, my lady.”

“You must call me Faedre.” She held out a hand to him.

He kissed her hand and held it, still grinning. “Most people call me ‘Sir,' but Montgomery is my name.”

“We are well met, Montgomery.” “We are indeed.”

 

KATTANAN AWOKE
to a touch on his cheek. He raised his head from the blankets and looked into Wolfram's eyes. “You sang the whole night,” the prince breathed.

“As long as I could,” the singer whispered.

“I thought perhaps I was dead, or that I dreamed you.”

“I am here, Highness.”

“‘Highness,'” Wolfram repeated. “Not anymore. You must be a dream, then,” he went on, shutting his eyes, then spoke carefully, “You are with my sister, the crown princess. No, someone told me that you left her.”

“I did not want to, but I couldn't stay.”

“He thought you might be in danger. Are you all right?”

Kattanan gave a curious smile. “I am well.”

“Rolf ?” Worry creased his face.

“Is in the hall, making sure that you are taken care of.”

“The king here looks like you, I think.”

Before Kattanan could reply to this, there was a soft knock. “Your Majesty?” the wizard's voice inquired.

“I won't go far,” he told his friend as he rose. He let the wizard in, and asked her to replace the new voice. “Tell Rolf that Wolfram is awake, and I'll let him in shortly.”

“As you wish, Majesty.”

Kattanan shut the door.

“Majesty.” Wolfram sighed. “The priestess was right about that, too.”

“Yes. Someone is coming to see me soon, so I have to leave you.”

“A king's work is never done,” Wolfram said. “I'm glad I won't have to do it.”

Kattanan pulled on a fresh tunic. “Goddess stay with you. Rest well.”

“I am so far in your debt that I must live forever to repay you.”

Kattanan set his hand on the door handle and took a deep breath before opening it. Rolf hovered just outside, eyes alight. Kattanan briefly returned the grin, then ushered the man in to visit his prince. Leaning against the shut door, the young king looked up at the two guards. “When the duchess arrives, tell her I have gone to find something to eat.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Kattanan smiled a little. “Have you been here all night?”

Startled, the guard glanced at him. “No, Your Majesty, I just came back on duty.”

“Thank you.”

The man blinked down at him as Kattanan set off for the kitchen, walking purposefully. It was early yet, and the few maids who were about did not look up when he first entered. Kattanan gazed around him, taking in the details his brief tour had not allowed for. As expected, he spotted a table set by the fire, laid out with the servants' morning mess. When he sat down, though, one of the workers glanced over and let out a little cry. “Your Majesty! Forgive us. Let me fix a meal and bring it—”

He shook his head. “I can't eat in my room today. This is fine.”

The woman did not rise from her curtsy. “But this is no fit food, Your Majesty.”

“I don't need anything more.” He picked up a round of cheese. “Unless you have some Teresan tea,” he added, looking over at her.

She pulled herself up, brightening visibly. “Of course, Your Majesty.” Her kerchiefed head bobbed eagerly as she went into the pantry; then she crowed in triumph, pulling out a small metal box. “Funny, you and the duchess having the same tastes, Your Majesty. Of course, she doesn't drink all of hers unless—”

“Your Majesty,” snapped the duchess from the door, and Kattanan sprang to his feet again. “I had not thought to find you here consorting with servants at this hour.”

He bowed, and remained with his eyes to the floor, unaware that all the servants had the same posture. “I was hungry, Excellency.”

“Come.” She turned and left. Kattanan followed, finding Fionvar waiting in the hall for them. The trio entered the conference room, and Kattanan perched on one of the deep chairs. “I am in charge of this meeting, is that clear?” the duchess began. At his weak nod, she went on, “Both of you have been defying my will and eroding my position. It cannot and will not go on.” She pressed both hands to the table, staring at Kattanan.

“Excellency,” Fionvar put in, his voice strangely sharp, “this is no way to speak to the one who will take the throne.”

“One thing we all agree on is that my grandson is not ready to rule anything. Until such time as he is, I am the Regent of the True Blood and I will be obeyed.”

Their eyes locked, and Fionvar crossed his arms. “You are the heart of this place and of this cause, but you are not alone here, and we cannot afford to let our people see that you have no confidence in the man you have presented as their king.”

“I have not opened this for discussion yet, Captain.”

His voice overrode her. “If anyone can make this thing succeed, it will be you. We are not always friends, but I will be here as long as you let me stay, doing whatever I can. Right now, however, you need to learn a little patience.”

“Patience? I have been working toward this for fourteen years!”

“Look at your grandson. Look at him! He's eighteen years old, and he has been cast away from the only life he's known, kidnapped by someone he never wanted to see again, told he is a king, introduced to his future bride, shown maps of battlegrounds, saved his friends from probable execution, kept an all-night vigil, then been embarrassed in front of the servants so he can be yelled at by a grandmother he barely knows! He should be the one standing here yelling back, when he's had every excuse in the world to want us all buried alive!” Fionvar took a deep breath, glancing at Kattanan. “It's not me you should be listening to, it's him.”

She sank into her chair, dark skirts spreading around her. “Fine. I am listening.”

Still clutching his mug of tea, Kattanan sat up a little straighter. “I don't know what to say,” he whispered.

“He does not know what to say,” the duchess repeated.

Fionvar shot her a look and faced Kattanan across the table. “If I have made no sense here, please tell me.”

The young man swallowed. “Let Prince Wolfram heal. Please just leave him alone. I'm not used to sitting in court; I don't know what to do; maybe someone can teach me that, too. Don't call me ‘Sire'; I wish I could be that, but I can't and I never will be. I can't marry anyone.” On this last, his voice fell even lower, and the duchess leaned toward him.

“Aren't the two of you getting on well? What has she done to displease you?”

“It is not her fault,” he whispered. “I am no fit husband for any woman.”

“But it is necessary—”

“Patience,” Fionvar broke in firmly. “Is there anything else you need to say right now?” Kattanan shook his head. “My first comment is that we cannot allow the prince to know too much of our plans. He is important to you, but that fact alone will make our allies suspicious. No one will raise a hand against him, and anyone who tries will deal with me. He will always be guarded, for his sake and for ours. I will need to speak with him as soon as he is able. As to what to do in court, I gather that you have not seen the business list.”

The duchess arched her neck. “He will not be making the decisions in any case.”

Fionvar's look was pointed. “There is a list the herald keeps of what issues are to come before court. It doesn't prevent surprises, but you may understand what goes on before it actually happens. Someone can be found to tutor you; if all else fails, I'll do it myself.” Fionvar let out a long breath.

“If you are through?” the duchess prompted, rising to her feet. “As his behavior yesterday amply proves, he knows nothing about court or kingship or even royal comportment. But I need him. You, on the other hand—I have no tolerance for anyone who thinks to tell me my business in my own manor. Another of your willful displays, and I will personally cast you out before the entire court! By the Goddess, you will have no part of my kingdom!”

“Duchess! I am not my brother.” Fionvar met her eyes. “I do not want your kingdom. I do not want a lordship, or even to be captain of your guard. I want you to listen! Unless you listen to your grandson, you'll have to throw him out with me. Everyone here is ready to serve the True Blood, not just you. There he sits. Maybe you just want him to play the part of king, never to make his own decisions. He can do that, just show him how. Teach him the music, and he will sing your song.” The duchess flicked a glance to Kattanan, paralyzed in his chair but for the trembling of his hands. Fionvar went on, “All he need do is present the image of royalty to our allies, and you hold the power. Fine, but what happens when you die?” Her eyes snapped back to him as if he had drawn a knife. “All of us die one day or another. You've raised Brianna to be a fine queen, but your neighbors were willing enough to cast down the last Queen of Lochalyn.”