The Singer's Crown (35 page)

FIONVAR AWOKE
on the floor in the longhouse, surrounded and partially covered by other slumbering men, with Wolfram's journal still clutched in one hand. He extricated himself from the snoring heap and picked his way toward the door to stand blinking in the sunlight.

“Ah! Awake, good,” Quinan shouted, leaping down from a stone where he had been smoking. He tucked the pipe away, picking up a leather pack. “Come!” He set out for a trail that led from the valley toward the higher peaks.

“How can it be shorter to go into the mountains?” Fionvar looked at the book in his hands, then up where the Woodman hovered at the valley's rim, scowling down at him. “Fine. Short way.” Tucking the book into his belt, Fionvar scrambled up behind.

The other nodded once, with a brief grin, and was off again. They climbed for most of the day, often following no path that Fionvar could make out. Quinan did not speak much. The pack contained dried strips of meat and a variety of nuts, to be supplemented by drinking from the plentiful streams. After a particularly arduous ascent over boulders, they found themselves suddenly on a broad track carved into the mountainside. Stone towered above, with scraggly trees clinging stubbornly, and the slope fell steeply off to the side.

“Follow to the cave open like a box,” Quinan told him, pointing down the road.

He pushed the pack toward Fionvar.

“You're not coming with me?”

The hand withdrew. “Magic blood walk this way.”

“Magic blood? Wizards?”

Quinan nodded quickly.

“I'm not sure I like that. How short is this way?”

“Three suns.”

“That's impossible! It would be six days by the main road on horseback! I'll have to walk over the mountains, and still cross the river. Great Goddess, why did I listen to you?”

“Not over.” A glint of the familiar grin returned to Quinan's eyes. “Not over mountains, Companion.” He took the pipe from his belt and handed it to Fionvar. “Believe.”

“Believe,” Fionvar snorted, shaking his head. He rose to his feet, taking in the heights to his left, the long drop to his right. “What do I have to lose?”

The Woodman was already making his way down among the boulders.

“Thank you,” Fionvar called, then the other was gone, and he stood on his way, alone. Wolfram's book was still tucked into his belt; Quinan had not asked for it back, and Fionvar had not offered it. He slid it out now, warm from being held close to him, and placed it with the pipe into his pack. “Great Lady, walk with me.” Fionvar shouldered the pack and set out.

 

KATTANAN STOOD
atop the highest tower of his castle. Even now, he gazed from a place nearer the center than the edge. Wind whipped through his hair. The setting sun flamed on the horizon, and evening bells would ring soon. He pulled his cloak a little tighter, turning to face the city. He had forgotten how cold the nights could be, even far into summer. Music drifted up to him from the Great Hall, and occasional faint cheers reminded him that the celebration went on. He heard a footfall from below and slightly labored breathing.

“Good even, Brianna.”

“Good evening, Your Majesty,” she returned, with a puzzled tone. “How did you know it was me?”

He faced her with a small smile. “I heard your step and your breath. You found it hard to climb all those stairs, which perhaps means you should be resting.”

She glowered. “You have been listening to Grandmother, haven't you.”

“Do I ever?” he asked lightly.

“Jordan told me where to find you,” she said abruptly. “What are you doing up here? You are missed at the celebration of your own victory.”

“I cannot stand to be there, Brie.” He sighed.

“But why? Even if you do not dance, still your friends wish to see you celebrate, not to mention your lords. It is important that they see you.”

“I suppose it is. I just—it feels too strange.”

“What feels strange?” She crossed to stand before him, concerned. “To be among those people? To be king?”

He almost laughed. “That is certainly strange!”

“But that's not what is bothering you.” Brianna laid her hands upon his crossed arms. “Tell me, Rhys. I am to be your wife.”

He flinched, looking away. “It feels strange not to sing. The audience awaits, entertained by jugglers, tumblers, and minstrels, and I am not there to sing.”

“But you don't have to do that anymore! You are not an entertainer now, you are the king! You need never sing again, save in prayer, and that only if you wish to.”

“But I am a singer!” He stepped back from her, touching his chest. “I feel it here, every time they play a tune I know. I hear these minstrels who cannot recall the simplest ballad, and I want to jump up and show them how it should be. I was born for song.”

“You were born a prince, Rhys. It was the Usurper who made you a singer. If it had not been for him, you'd have been a lord of men and captain of soldiers, not just a voice in a choir. With the wizard's help, none need ever know what you were. Don't you see? You are free.” Her voice dropped to an urgent whisper, and her eyes were bright.

“Free. Of course, how could I have missed that?” Kattanan turned away.

“You aren't listening!” she cried. “Look at you! You rule a kingdom, men and women waiting just to do your bidding, a castle full of pleasures all for you, while I—”

He waited a moment, but she did not speak. “While you what? While you are forced to do the duchess's bidding, bearing a child and lying about its father?”

“No! That is not what I meant to say. I am proud to serve. My child will know you alone as his father, and it will be so! I knew this is what she would want of me, but I also choose it. I want this child, and this castle, and I am proud to be its queen.”

“Then you have no thought for him at all,” Kattanan said softly.

“I have none. He is gone, as it should be, and he is nothing. It is your child I will bear.”

“No, it is not! I can have no children. What happens if the baby dies?”

“What a terrible thing to say!” She stumbled back, stunned as much by the force of the question as by the words.

“Babies die all the time. If this baby dies, how do you plan to get another? Perhaps another fool will love you, so he can father my next child.”

“Is that what you think of me?”

“What should I think, Brianna? Fionvar loves you. Perhaps he thought that Grandmother would allow the marriage if you were pregnant. How could he know that what he took for love was just a trap to get an heir for a castrate king?”

“No,” she whispered, arms about her belly.

He looked her deep in the eyes. “Then do not tell me you have no feelings for him.”

She sank to the floor, weeping.

Kattanan stood a moment longer, wavering, then knelt beside her, slinging his cloak about her shoulders. “I'm sorry,” he murmured.

“Let me be,” she whispered.

“You can't stay here in the wind—”

“Go away!” she screamed, her hair flying. “Leave me alone!”

Kattanan staggered to his feet and down the spiraling stairs to the door. Quickly he went inside, catching the first serving maid he saw. “Lady Brianna is on the tower. She should not be alone.”

The woman bobbed her head and moved for the stairs.

Pausing by a mirror in the hall, Kattanan took in his wind-tossed curls and stormy eyes, and wondered what Melisande would think to see him now, a crown upon his head and a kingdom at his feet. What he told Brianna about his feelings had been true, as far as it went. Somehow, to speak of Melisande, of the foolish love he felt for her, would lay him too bare. Steeling himself for the crowd, Kattanan followed the music back to his party.

A stranger came up beside him and bowed before transforming into the Wizard of Nine Stars. “Welcome back, Majesty.”

“Thank you,” he said, but continued to scan the crowd. “Where's Jordan?”

“Dancing with his lady, where else?” She gestured toward the dance floor.

Now Kattanan saw them and was surprised he had missed them before. Lyssa's brilliant hair streamed out as she spun through the dance. Jordan wore a smile just as bright. Both had chosen dark silks, and they looked more than a match.

“They are the most beautiful couple; everyone agrees,” Alswytha observed.

“You could match her in a moment,” Kattanan replied. “Why not dance with him yourself ?”

“I do not dance.”

“Nor do I.”

“Besides, they seem happy enough. Why should I ruin their fun?” She spun on her heel and started off, with no obeisance to the king.

“I wish you would not go off without a guard, Your Majesty.” Gwythym came up beside him, arms folded, watching the dance. “You do make it hard on me.”

“I'm sorry. I simply couldn't stand to be here another moment.”

“I'm glad you came back, anyhow, and so's the duchess, if I don't miss my guess.”

Kattanan looked in the direction of the man's nod to see his grandmother working her way through the crowd toward him. “Great Goddess, not now.” He sighed. Fortunately, the dance was over, and Jordan and Lyssa came bounding toward him, grinning. Jordan wore soft leather gloves, which did little to conceal his knobbed right hand.

“Your Majesty, did you have a nice walk?” Lyssa asked, but Jordan frowned, releasing the lady.

“We should talk.”

“Please,” Kattanan agreed.

“Back to your tower?” Jordan offered.

“No, not there.”

“I know a place, Your Majesty,” Gwythym put in, “if I'm allowed to lead, that is.”

“By all means, and fast!” the king said as the duchess's bland expression turned sour.

Gwythym led the way up a flight of stairs and down several hallways until they stood before a door that was deeply carved with a pattern of intertwining feathers. “Came upon this place while exploring”—the man smiled—“and thought you'd like it.” He opened the door grandly, ushering them down a short hall into a seven-sided room with a high, sloping roof and windows of stained glass. The three inner walls were lined with half-empty shelves, while the center was dominated by a curved bench with embroidered cushions. Gwythym moved about the room, lighting oil lamps with a torch from the hallway. The beams of the ceiling were carved as well, and gleamed with gilding. “I'm thinking it was a king's study, Your Majesty.”

Kattanan nodded, smiling faintly. “It will serve.”

“I'll be in the hall should you need me, Majesty.” Gwythym made a short bow and left, shutting the door behind him.

“What's the matter, then?” Jordan asked, sprawling onto the bench.

Dropping the crown onto a cushion, Kattanan crossed his arms and frowned. “I've just done the most hateful thing, Jordan.” He told of Brianna's coming to the tower and what he had said to her before leaving her in tears.

When he finished, Jordan was shaking his head quietly. “You know so little of women.”

“And you, who were a monk, I should take for an expert?”

Jordan briefly lost his smile. “I am a monk no longer. The last thing she wants is for you to leave her. She wants you to love her, as she believes she loves you.”

“You are not making sense! She loves Fionvar, not me. What reason under the stars does she have to love me? She knows what I am.”

“More than that, she knows who you are, or thinks she does. She went to your tent every night while you were riding to battle. Why do you think she did that?”

“Because the duchess told her to, to make people believe that we are lovers.” His voice grew soft, and he remembered the kiss. “She kissed me, the first night.”

“And you did not object,” Jordan supplied.

A look of panic filled Kattanan's eyes. “Fionvar is the one who loves her. She should have been kissing him!”

“I had my first kiss in a brothel not far from the emir's palace. The guards had taken me there as a sort of joke on the man of the Goddess. A woman I had never seen before put her arms around me and kissed me. I had been cast out by the Goddess, why should any woman wish to be near me? It wasn't right. And at the same time, that kiss felt wonderful.” His blue eyes seemed not so piercing as they had before. “My heart and mind cried out against it, but my body reminded me that a Man of the Goddess is still just a man.”

“But I am not,” Kattanan breathed. “No woman should love me.”

“I thought we had discussed this, in some dark passage.” He gave a little smile.

Kattanan shook his head. “Manhood may not be the prime qualification of a good king. But to be a husband, to love a woman, and be loved by her in return?”

“To give her children, perhaps, but to be loved by her? Only the heart of a woman knows what her love requires. And to love her? You said yourself that you loved Melisande from the first time you sang for her.”

“And now Brianna wants me to love her.”

Jordan nodded. “From what I've seen.”

“I might have loved her, if not for Fionvar…and Melisande. It would be easier to love her, and to marry her, and better for the kingdom, too.”

“Fionvar would blame himself more than you, and would agree that it is better thus. As for Melisande, she might never know the difference.” Jordan noted Kattanan's quick glance. “But then again, she might.”

“My grandmother would call me a fool for thinking that a princess might care for me and for allowing that to prevent my marriage. How can I place that slim hope against the fact that this marriage would seal the monarchy?”

“That's not a question I can answer, but I will say this, that if the question of Melisande will hold you back from this, or any other chance for love, then you must settle the question. You must stand before her and judge for yourself if she bears you any feeling.”