The Singer's Crown (37 page)

“Ride with me, if you will, my lady.”

“I am not good company, but you honor me.” Her words were short, her eyes distant.

Up ahead, a horn sounded, and the leaders clucked their horses into motion. Bells rang from the temple, and the chant of Morning Prayer began. Gwythym patted Kattanan's horse and looked up at him. “Take care, then, Majesty, and watch your back.”

Gwythym made the sign of the Goddess. The line before Kattanan began to move, and he turned from the crowd to take his place. He gripped the reins tightly, feeling the familiar aches hint already about their return. Once outside the city, they veered toward the mountains. In a week's time, he would be beyond them, returning to Bernholt to face its king. And more, to face the king's daughter. Which would be the greater trial? He gripped the reins a little tighter, and joined, softly, in the prayer.

SCRAGGLY WHISKERS
had filled in along Fionvar's jaw by the time the palace of Bernholt rose into view. As he absently scratched his cheek, Fionvar reflected that a decent shave would be in order before he paid a call on his brother. That, and a pair of boots that hadn't taken the plunge into an underground river. Along both sides of the road, peddlers set up their wares, and beggars approached the few travelers. After two days underground and more trudging down this road, Fionvar felt barely human, and most of the beggars thought him beneath their notice. He was pleased enough to ignore them until a brown-clad monk fetched up beside him, matching his pace.

“You look familiar, my lord,” the monk began.

“You don't know me, and I'm no lord.”

“Those aren't workman's hands,” the monk observed.

Fionvar scowled down at his hands, no longer callused. He wondered how he should ever play the fiddle again—assuming he had the chance. “What do you want?”

The monk popped in front of him, eyes widening. “The earl!” he whispered.

Forced to stop or run the man down, Fionvar sighed. He ought to have expected someone to notice the resemblance.

“Some relative of his? Or perhaps you are the Wizard of Nine Stars, disguised to travel through Bernholt. But why should she, why should you, that is, come back here?”

“Why indeed,” Fionvar echoed. “When wizardry is banned.”

A smile spread over the monk's face. “Then you do know her.”

Fionvar grew wary, a bit too late, it seemed. “I did not say that.”

The monk kept up, speaking softly and urgently. “You did not deny that Nine Stars is a woman. Few are privy to that knowledge, outside of certain circles.”

“You're not ignorant yourself, stranger.”

“Please, call me Brother Turtle. She and I are…old friends. There is a price upon her head, and I've been trying to infiltrate the city. She will come here—either as a prisoner, or of her own will, to take her justice from the king.” He spoke quickly, hooking his arm through Fionvar's to draw them closer together and off the road. “If I were a better wizard myself, I might find a way past their questions. I would never betray her.” He gazed steadily into Fionvar's eyes.

Fionvar took a deep breath. “Nor would I.”

“Why are you going to the city?”

“That is my business.” He straightened immediately.

“It's something to do with Wolfram, is it? The traitor prince?”

Fionvar flinched—then cursed himself. He must learn to conceal his feelings if he were to infiltrate in his own right.

Brother Turtle's eyebrows pinched together. “I thought him a fine man, and I believe he is innocent of the charges laid upon him.”

“What if I do not? You may endanger yourself by revealing these thoughts.”

“You carry something of his, and I can feel his trace upon you. But perhaps you are going to sell this thing to King Gerrod as a final betrayal of his son.”

Fionvar started walking again, trying to leave the strange monk behind him.

“Oh,” said the monk as he hurried up alongside, “the prince is dead, isn't he? But you are not going to seek fame by claiming his death upon your sword. You are a friend of Wolfram's, and of Nine Stars, yet you go to their enemies.”

“Yes, if you will leave me be.”

“I should like to be there when you arrive.” Brother Turtle kept up as they approached the gate. “I suspect it will be most entertaining. May I accompany you?”

“I can't stop you from following me,” Fionvar pointed out, “but those guards may have something else to say about it.”

“My peril is my own,” said the monk. “And I shall not let it touch upon you, so long as you do nothing to reveal me as other than a simple monk.”

Fionvar looked at him and thought of Wolfram with his gift of trust. “Agreed,” he said, and the monk grinned in return.

They found the city gate barred, and Fionvar approached the pair of guards, making the sign of the Goddess. Despite the heat of the day, both guards wore coats of mail and peaked helmets that revealed only a narrow sliver of the faces below.

“Tell me how you are called,” the taller man barked, lowering his spear to hover in the region of Fionvar's heart. “And state your business here.”

“I am Fionvar yfSonya duNormand. I am here to pay a call on my family.”

The second guard cleared his throat and prodded his companion, but the first turned to face Brother Turtle. “Tell me how you are called.”

Fionvar glanced casually at his scuffed boots, his heart pounding in his ears. The wizard could not avoid this demand, nor could he lie. Why had he been such a fool as to accept the monk's companionship?

“I am the Wizard of Broken Shell, of course!” Brother Turtle drew himself up importantly. “I'd expect you to know that. Aren't you the Wizard of Pointy Stick?”

The guard stiffened, sucking in his breath.

“And this”—the monk slapped Fionvar's shoulder—“is the Wizard of Sloshing Boots!” He crowed with laughter, his belly bouncing as tears twinkled from his eyes.

“This is a poor joke, Brother,” Fionvar snapped as the guard's gaze returned.

“Oh.” The monk sighed. “You've no sense of humor.”

“I am no wizard,” Fionvar growled. “Are you going to give these men a proper answer before you get us both arrested?”

“Many pardons, please.” Brother Turtle bowed to the guards. “It's simply been so long since I left the monastery that I forget myself. I am known as Brother Turtle, and I am seeking a certain priestess here.”

“Then you are not a wizard.”

“Would a wizard come to your front gate, knowing of the penalty hanging over him? I'm sure the nasty creatures are far from here.”

“Hey,” the second guard spoke up at last, “Normand's your father's name?”

“It is,” Fionvar replied.

“You're the prince's brother, eh?”

“I am.” Fionvar shifted on his feet, his boot linings squelching slightly. The journey plus the moisture had left its mark in blisters. “Look, if you won't let us in, then take a message to my brother, and we'll sit outside the gate until he comes.”

The two helmeted heads swiveled to regard each other, then the men stepped aside, and the taller man struck the bell signaling that the pass door should be opened.

Brother Turtle grinned, tossing off blessings to them both as he walked inside.

“Your companion's a fool or an idiot,” the second guard murmured to Fionvar.

“Or both, but he's agreeable enough company for a walk.”

The man bobbed his head. “You won't give a bad report to the prince, will you?”

Fionvar arched his eyebrows at the man, with a little shake of his head. “You were simply doing your job.”

“Just so, my lord. Just so. Enjoy your visit!”

Brother Turtle waited a few paces inside and let out a peal of laughter when Fionvar narrowed his gaze upon him. “Just having a joke for the guards, no more.”

The other did not respond, and they walked silently out from the shade of the thick wall into a dusty square. Only a few carts and blankets dotted the marketplace at this time of day, but the travelers were quickly accosted by the handful of merchants. Pushing an armload of silk scarves “for yer lady” out of his face, Fionvar quickened his steps. They wound down the dirt streets, and a few paved with stones where the finer ladies were apt to shop, and found their way to the palace bridge. The guards there immediately seized upon Fionvar's family resemblance, and they crossed the rushing river to the courtyard on the other side.

“Thank you,” Brother Turtle murmured. “Best of luck with your business, whatever it may be.”

“And with yours,” Fionvar returned; then the monk walked on ahead, turning toward the garden with quickening steps.

The outer court gates stood wide, though only a handful of guards and servants moved there. A page greeted Fionvar at the wall of the inner court, letting him into an antechamber before trotting off to tell his brother that he had arrived.

Fionvar flopped onto a cushioned bench, anticipating a long wait, but the door popped open immediately. “Fion! I knew you'd come!” Orie pulled him to his feet with a fierce grip on his arm. “There's so much to do!” The newly titled prince wore a doublet richly embroidered in gold over patterned silk and leggings of a similar flamboyant style. Orie's hair had grown out to lie in waves upon his shoulders, and he wore a thin, curling mustache. His dark eyes looked feverish.

“Have you been sleeping well?” Fionvar asked cautiously.

Orie's exuberance fell away abruptly. “I hope you did not come here to try to be my father again.”

“I did not.”

“Come with me.” He renewed his grasp on Fionvar's arm. “We've just had puppies, and Melisande is with them.”

“How is Her Royal Highness?”

“Well. Wonderful!” He leaned in closer. “I think she may be pregnant.”

“Congratulations.” Fionvar let himself be pulled along the hallway and outside. A door across the courtyard stood ajar, and an excited yipping came from within. Five tall hunting hounds stalked about the court, stepping out of Orie's way and peering after him with soft woofing. Straw covered the floors with nests of blankets and heavy bowls at intervals along the walls. A few dogs snored among the straw. The inner chamber still held a bed and small table for a dog-keeper as well as a low enclosure in the far corner. Melisande knelt there, looking in, with two servants beside her. She wore a plain kerchief over her hair and a gray dress with close sleeves. Ragged edges showed along the hem and straw stuck out all over it. Inside the enclosure, a dark, shaggy hound nosed at her squirming litter.

“Dearest,” Orie said, “My brother's come to call.”

“Well, let me change and—” She turned and rose, stopping quickly when she saw him there. Her fair face had lost a bit of its roundness, and her eyebrows were plucked to graceful arches. Her mouth pinched as she ran a hand over her garments. “I wish you would not just bring people unannounced, Orie, when I am a complete mess.”

“Your Highness is as fair as ever,” Fionvar offered, bowing.

“I am glad to see you again, Fionvar. Please, you must call me Melisande.”

Orie pushed between them. “How are the puppies?”

Melisande swallowed, losing her smile. She placed her hands carefully together. “I think the runt is dead, but she does not want to give him up.” She shrugged slightly. “Your brother has been very concerned over this litter.”

“So I see. Perhaps someone could show me to a room, and we may meet again when you have had some time.”

“Certainly, my lord,” one of the maids put in. “I'll make a place for you.”

Fionvar recognized Laura and gave her a nod.

“Aha!” Orie stood again, with a little bundle clutched in his hand. The weary suckling mother whimpered, and started to shake off her remaining puppies.

“Orie, let it be. We should not upset her now.” Melisande reached out for the pale dead puppy, but Orie drew it out of reach.

“It doesn't do to get attached to something worthless. Best to give it up now.” He prodded the other servant to rise and dropped the puppy into his hands. “Get rid of this.” The man bowed quickly and left. “She's too sentimental with them,” Orie said. “When it's our own children, she'll understand the need for a firm hand.”

Still stroking the dog, Melisande lifted her head. “When it is, we shall discuss it. Laura, would you show our guest to the guest quarters. I believe the Fox Room is ready.”

“Yes, Highness. If you'll follow me, my lord?”

“We'll let you rest 'til supper, then, Fion. And I will have some matters to discuss with you afterward.”

The Fox Room proved to be named for the deep carving upon its door, a fox captured in twisting leap over a squirrel. The fox's face made Fionvar think of the wildness in his brother's eyes. Laura pushed the door open to reveal a well-appointed chamber with a large bed and chest, and a private entrance into the garderobe. Two windows with inset benches provided ample light and a view into the gardens.

“Make yourself comfortable here, my lord. Do you know how long you'll be staying?” Laura fluffed the pillows, and checked the oil in the lamps.

“A little bit longer than I'm welcome, I think.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I did not think you were given to humor, my lord.”

“I'm not,” he replied. “Has my brother been ill lately?”

“Not as such, my lord.” Her tone lowered along with her eyes. “I am sure he's not caught any sickness since he came here.”

“But he has changed since then.”

“It's not my business to study my betters.”

“Perhaps not, but I think Kattanan counted you among his friends. Is that true?”

She snapped her arms across her chest and stared him full in the face. “If there's anything you want, the hall maid is just next door, my lord.” She whirled out of the room, leaving the door wide open.

He crossed to the table and chair and kicked off his boots. Fionvar shaved with a basin and mirror, then settled again at the table, poring over a volume of genealogy as the sun sloped past his window. A knock interrupted his reverie when a servant brought him a bundle of clothing. They must have been the least ostentatious of Orie's clothes, but would suit his brother well. The servant also brought word that supper was not far off, so he would wait for Fionvar to get ready, and they set off together into the depths of the palace.

The king's dining hall opened onto the main stairwell in a series of arches. Banners of gold decorated the columns and banisters, and liveried servants greeted him as he entered, escorting him toward the head table. King Gerrod stood at the center, the brilliant blue of his robe commanding the gazes of his courtiers. His crown gleamed, as did his teeth as he laughed over something his companion was saying. Drinking deeply from a great flagon, he motioned the servants closer. Fionvar followed and bowed.