The Singer's Crown (29 page)

“And best yet,” Gwythym put in, “the east wall begins to falter.” He held out a stone. “This is one of the first pieces to crumble.

The duchess took it, glaring. “I care not for the first. Bring me the last, when the wall has fallen!” She tossed the thing over her shoulder, where it bounced down into the bushes. A great rustling erupted, and they stared.

“Spy!” shouted Rolf, springing for the woods. He crashed in, and the others caught a glimpse of a hooded figure sprinting away.

Fionvar and Wolfram leapt to the chase, following Rolf's lead into the woods.

“Should we—?” Lyssa began.

The duchess shook her head. “The man will not get far in that direction. We have troops massing there to assault the temple door. No, you stay and protect the king.”

“Look there!” cried Lyssa, pointing. “Mounted knights, and more besides!”

All turned to squint toward the company, still some way off but riding hard. Footmen straggled out behind them. “Can you see the banner?” the duchess demanded.

Lyssa plucked out a simple scope and peered through it. “A white field, two green serpents intertwined.”

“Athelmark,” the duchess breathed. “He cannot have come so fast.”

“They must have already been riding.” Gwythym strained to see them for himself.

“What now?” Lyssa asked, hand nervously stroking the great hammer at her side.

“Great Goddess, Rolf was right.” All color had drained from Kattanan's face, and Brianna's hand seemed less for comfort than to keep him from falling.

“We'll turn part of the charge,” said Gwythym. “The right flank could meet them.”

“Go!” the duchess urged, and he scrambled down the hill, calling to the trumpeters. She gathered her skirts to follow, but stopped abruptly as the Wizard of Nine Stars, dashing up the hill, nearly collided with her.

The wizard brushed past the duchess to face Kattanan. “You must come!”

“He's not going anywhere,” the duchess snapped.

“What are you talking about?” Kattanan breathed.

“He needs us now, Majesty. If ever you were his friend, you must come,” the wizard repeated, her yellow eyes blazing like the sun off bronze.

“Jordan,” he said softly.

“Out of the question,” the duchess said. “Especially with Athelmark galloping down upon us.”

“He left me,” Kattanan told the wizard. “He went off with a wizard and left me! Now you expect me to go into a war looking for him? My grandmother is right.”

“Left you? He was dragged away in chains!” the wizard snatched Kattanan's wrist. “Haven't you seen the scars? Holy Mother, have you no idea what he has gone through for you?”

“But the wizard,” the king protested, thinking back and finding only his grief.

“Jordan killed him,” Lyssa put in, beginning to look as anxious as Nine Stars. “That was the first man he killed.”

“Forsaking his vows, losing the favor of the Lady, because he had lost you,” Nine Stars put in.

“Great Goddess,” Kattanan whispered. “What have I done!”

“SHUT UP!”
Montgomery shouted again, over the din of battle.

Jordan, up to his waist in the hole, went on singing. At first the sound of his own voice nearly brought him to tears. Most of its beauty had been destroyed years ago by shouting, screaming, and declaring himself before all enemies. Yet even the first prayer he had sung in the dungeon held some of the former promise. Now, only rhythm and strength were left him. His throat ached at every note, just as his hands pulsed with pain. The darkness he had waited so long for finally lay before him, so close he could nearly touch it.

Montgomery growled low in his throat. He paced, staring at the lines of soldiers waiting nearby. They turned at every cry of battle, shifted uneasily at the pound of stones battering the far wall. “Hold your ground!” the captains called. “Look to the forest!”

Still no sign of the enemy from this vantage.

The prisoner broke down coughing for a moment—a blessed end to the singing!—but recovered quickly. Montgomery bounced the knife from hand to hand. Another archer screamed and fell from the corner tower. He paused to watch the fall. “They are coming,” he muttered. He had a horrible sense that the city walls would crumble beneath some massive charge, yet he would be the last to know. “Bury it, I told you to shut up!”

The Liren-sha spared him a tiny glance, but no silence.

Montgomery crossed to the edge of the grave. “I'm telling you to be quiet!” His hand shook; sunbeams splintered off the knife blade.

The song went on.

“Enough!” He bent and grabbed a handful of Jordan's dark hair, jerking back his chin. Their eyes locked as he plunged the knife deep into the singer's throat.

Shaking, he staggered back from the grave and ran.

 

“NO!” THE
wizard screamed. She pushed Kattanan away, pressing her hands to her head. “He's dying,” she moaned.

“Oh, no.” Brianna sighed, eyes brimming.

“We have to go,” Lyssa urged.

“You cannot,” the duchess said. “I forbid it.”

“We can't go,” Kattanan echoed.

“Listen, the woods are full of our men waiting for the signal,” Lyssa said. “We will not ride alone.”

The duchess objected. “We will not charge until the far wall crumbles.”

Kattanan touched the wizard's shoulder. “You can heal him.”

“Only if we hurry.”

He looked from the hard face of his grandmother to the distraught wizard, then to the sky. “Finistrel, what can I do?” he breathed.

“Look!” cried Lyssa. “The wall!” The ground trembled with its collapse.

“Give me a horse,” Kattanan demanded.

“Not with Athelmark bearing down on us,” the duchess insisted.

“The horse!”

Gwythym, returning breathless from his errand, handed Kattanan the reins and boosted him up with a fierce grin. “Hail the True King!”

The wizard scrambled up behind him. “Ride!”

Leaping to her own mount, Lyssa was only a few strides behind as they pounded down the slope into the woods.

“Rhys!” the duchess called, stumbling a few steps, with Brianna beside her.

Gwythym flashed them a glance. “The king rides to battle!”

“He'll be killed!” Brianna shouted. “He knows nothing of war!”

Gwythym was already plunging down the slope, calling the men to arms.

The horses crashed through the trees, bursting upon the soldiers from one side. Kattanan reined in for a moment. “The wall is fallen!” he cried.

The men—his men—cheered, springing up with swords in hand. Mounted knights hailed him, urging forward the charge. He kicked his horse into motion, ducking away from branches as they passed the last trees. From the forest behind him, knights and soldiers streamed. Thorgir's captains shouted and stiffened to meet their enemy. Soldiers flung great shields up before them.

As the shield wall rose, Kattanan hesitated. Pikes and axes bristled up.

“Jump!” the wizard hissed.

“The horse can't—” he began, but he thought of Jordan, and set his heels to the horse's sides. Great muscles bunched and stretched beneath him. The ground flew under the horse's hooves, perilously close. The cries of the enemy rang about him as the horse gathered himself and launched into the air.

His hind feet clipped a shield, and he stumbled as he struck earth. Astonished men scattered even as their captain bawled his orders. Whinnying, the horse jolted back to speed. Kattanan did not look back to the battle, where his own men cried aloud for their king, pouring in among their bewildered foes.

“There!” The wizard pointed past his ear toward an ominous pit.

The pair slid from their mount, and Lyssa galloped through the breach behind them.

The wizard leapt into the grave as Kattanan stared in horror. She touched Jordan's pale cheek, snarled a curse, and pulled back her sleeve. The king scrambled down beside her. “Does he live?”

“He's lost too much blood.” She searched her garments. “Give me a knife!”

His glance flicked to the wicked hilt at Jordan's throat, and he nodded, slipping his little dagger from the top of a boot. “What can I do?”

“Nothing! I don't know.” She slashed the blade along her skin from her forearm to her palm. She tossed aside the knife, following it with the other. “Sing!” she said, pressing her bloody hand to the wound.

Lyssa slipped in beside him, catching his worried look. She murmured, “Pray.”

 

IN THE
woods, some distance from the battle, a hurrying figure stopped suddenly, panting but alert. Orie tossed back his hood and looked intently toward the castle. He felt a trace of pain along his forearm and gripped it absently with his other hand. A smile grew upon his lips, then harsh laughter. Transfixed, Orie did not turn when Rolf bolted into the clearing and flung him to the ground.

“Ye bastard!” the huge man cried. He locked his hands around Orie's neck. “Spying son of a whore!”

They struggled in the dirt, Orie gasping for breath, clawing at Rolf's hands.

“Let go!” Fionvar cried, pushing his way through the branches. “Find out who he is before you kill him!”

Rolf hauled his captive up, but Fionvar slammed into him, breaking his grip and sending the larger man sprawling with a quick blow. “Great Goddess!” he gasped.

“Thanks, brother!” Orie coughed, rubbing his throat. “Can't stay!” He sprang into the trees again.

“Orie, wait!” Fionvar looked after him, then back at where Rolf lay unmoving against a tree.

Wolfram stumbled in and halted. “What's happened?”

“See to him, I'm going after Orie!”

“Orie? He's here?” But Fionvar had already vanished into the woods again.

Wolfram bent over Rolf, checking his breathing. He glanced over his shoulder, hesitating. With a pat on the guard's chest, he whispered, “You'll be fine. He may need me.” Still, he gazed at Rolf a moment longer before pulling himself up to resume the chase.

 

THE SUN
shone warmly down upon him, but it gave the man no comfort. He walked as he had always done, tripping over the occasional stone. He no longer remembered where he was going, though he vaguely felt that this was not the place. What was familiar about it? Only that he was alone.

“You are not alone,” said a voice beside him. “I have not left you.”

He knew the voice, though he had never heard it. “It was I who left you, wasn't it?” Memory washed over him, and he turned to look upon her.

“You are not alone,” she repeated. Her face was plain, lips thin but kind, and skin unmarked. Yet from the unremarkable face, her eyes held him in their bright and steady gaze. The light within them twinkled, a cool and comfortable glow. When she smiled, her features lit as if from within. “Yes, you know me.”

“Once, I thought I did. I thought I could walk with the Lady.”

“There was a child,” she said, “who every day walked among the trees. He was the son of a peasant woman who had been sent to seek something for their supper, yet on this day he could find neither fruit nor fowl. By nightfall, he lifted his eyes from the ground and saw that he did not know his way. At first he cried, knowing himself lost. His tears blinded him to the village lights behind him, and he walked on. Often he fell and cursed himself for being lost. After a time he cried no more and said rather that it was better so, that his mother was poor, and could ill afford to care for him. In wandering, he came upon a little stream and drank from it. He rose and he followed it, for it held lightness and laughter. It led him to the river, where his mother knelt to do her washing. Her heart leapt within her to see him on the farther bank, but he would not come to her, saying ‘Mother, I love you, but I have no food for you. I am unworthy to return to you, for I know you have not enough to share with me.' She wept, and where her tears struck the river, they became as silver fishes, and swam into her basket. ‘My child,' she said, ‘come home. I will always have enough for you.' He dove in and swam to her while the river laughed for joy.” The bright eyes watched him, with sadness and with hope.

“But the child turned his back on her. In the forest, he did not look to the lights, but only to his own tears.”

“You have strayed a long time in the forest, Jordan. Will you not come home?”

“I have sinned,” he said. “I have killed so many. There are so many more deserving of blessing than I am.”

“I will always have enough for you,” she replied, lifting his chin with a gentle hand. “Do you think me so poor that I cannot spare my love for those who need it most?” She released him, and there were tears upon her cheeks.

He knew that he was crying, too, yet a joy unlike any he had known filled him as he looked to her. Her eyes blazed, but he did not look away. “Lady, forgive me.”

She held out her hand to him. “Walk with me.”

As he touched her fingers, a firm grasp took his hand, and he stepped forward.

 

“HE'S ALIVE!”
Lyssa shouted, gripping his hand as if to pull him back from the longest journey.

Kattanan's voice rose, tears flowing down his cheeks. His own fingers were entangled in Jordan's hair, his eyes on Jordan's face as the other took a tiny breath, and let it out as a sigh, almost like a song. The wizard, too, sighed, withdrawing her hand at last. The wound she had made along her arm silently sealed itself, but her face was pale. Her eyes shut, and she slumped against the dirt.

Jordan's eyes opened, and he saw her—the most beautiful woman in the world. Sun shone around her head, sparking from her red hair. “My lady,” he whispered.

“I am here,” Lyssa said.

He shut his eyes again and wept, hearing the music as if for the first time. “Oh, my King, my friend. I am so sorry.”

Kattanan broke off instantly. “I am the one to be sorry. Can you forgive me?”

In answer, Jordan shook off Lyssa's hand and pushed himself weakly up with his left arm. He gathered Kattanan to his chest, smiling and sobbing at the same time.

 

“DON'T TELL
me that!” Thorgir barked.

The herald flinched at his words. “'Tis true, m'lord. The wall is breached.”

“Bury it!” He stomped across the chamber to snatch up his sword from a table. His wife watched silently beside the shuttered window. Thorgir examined the blade for the hundredth time. “What of Athelmark?”

“He has just engaged on the right flank. His men are bold and worthy, Sire,” the herald added quickly.

“Then why do you look so worried, little man? Is this not my castle?”

“Yes indeed, Sire.” The man flicked a glance to the door as if planning his escape.

Thorgir caught up the front of his tunic and heaved him off his feet. “Tell me!”

“Gently, husband,” Evaine cautioned. She picked up her embroidery hoop and examined the stitches.

“Reports from the temple wall, Sire,” the man gasped.

“We are attacked on two fronts, what of it?” Thorgir dropped the herald and shoved his sword into the sheath.

“They say the Pretender-king rode there, that his horse flew over them.”

“Ha! They are fools tricked by his pet wizards.”

“They say that he wore no helm into battle, and his hair glowed like starlight,” the man continued in a rush. “Alyn's sword was by his side.”

Thorgir backhanded the herald and pushed him toward the door. “They lied! This is Alyn's sword. I am the rightful king here.”

“I heard that King Rhys—”

“There is no King Rhys!” he bellowed. “Get out, and I'll take your head if you keep spreading that horse manure!”

The words echoed inside the chamber, but Evaine kept to her stitching. When the king turned back toward her, she said, “Truth is best spoken with quiet words, my lord.”

“Not to idiots. With those people, shouting is all they hear.”

“It is now, Daddy,” Asenith complained. She shut the door behind her. “Shouting is all any of us hear these days.” Her boils had gone at last, leaving her features fair, but sharp. She swept her blond hair back over her shoulder. “It's hard enough to be trapped here without listening to you yelling all day.”

“You have no idea.” He sank into a deep chair and took a long swallow from a flagon of ale. “Where's your friend?”

“Faedre? I don't know.” Her features pinched into a frown. “I was going to ask if you'd seen her.”

“I have been on the tower most of the day. I wouldn't have seen her unless she was jumping.” His tone suggested that this might be a good idea.

“Why don't you like her?”

“She is a stranger and a heathen!”