The Singer's Crown (40 page)

“Enough to see how much he's changed and to ache because of it.”

Melisande let her arms slide apart and touched his shoulder. “Then let us say,” she whispered, “that I love him at least that much as well.”

“Then do not ask me to tell you how Wolfram died.”

Her hand dropped, and she narrowed her eyes. “Orie had a part in his death?”

“Yes.”

The princess nodded. As she did, one hairpin tumbled to the floor, and the veil over her hair slipped. Quickly, she bent for the pin to replace it, but not before Fionvar saw her hair, or what little remained of it. He sucked in a startled breath, and she again met his gaze, the veil fixed in place. “I loved my brother as well, Fionvar. My father has declared him to be a traitor for reasons of his own. I can't say what happened between them, but I can say this: Wolfram had no wish to be king. I cannot dispute my father in his belief that Wolfram was a traitor, but I also cannot say that it makes sense to me.”

“In your position, I would be cautious, too.”

“If you will not tell me how he died, can you not at least tell me how he lived? How did he meet you and how did he come to serve with this King Rhys, if that is true?”

“Oh, it is true. I have been long in service to the True King of Lochalyn. Wolfram came because he and Rhys were…” He hesitated. “They were old friends.”

“How can that be?”

Fionvar shifted his weight on the stone ledge. “I think your husband and father do not wish you to know that now. I can't say that I agree with them, but it might go badly for us both if I told you.”

“Very well then. What was his story about his flight from Bernholt?”

Fionvar told her what he knew, from the prince and from Rolf. He described Wolfram brought before the king, and Melisande let out a little moan. She turned from him, but indicated that he should go on. Haltingly, he spoke of his gradual friendship for the exile. When he reached the scene of the great battle, he broke off the narrative. “Here on are things I cannot speak of without endangering both of us.”

Melisande held her face in her hands. Her shoulders quivered slightly.

Fionvar's hands reached out to hold and comfort her, but he stopped himself and crossed his arms. That was an intimacy he had no right to offer or to take. He waited until her quivering had stilled, and asked, “Is there anything else I may safely tell you?”

“There is one thing.” Her voice had changed now to steel. “You say you hold Wolfram in high esteem, and that Orie had some part in his death. If those things are so, why have you come here?”

“Wolfram told me to, when we first met. He was concerned for you, and worried about our new king and how King Gerrod would react”—this was most of the truth, anyhow—“so he told me, if I should leave Lochalyn, that I should come to my brother.”

“I'm glad you're here, Fionvar,” Melisande said. “I know Orie is, too. Since you came he has been…he has felt better.” She ducked her head.

“I know he is not well, Highness. That's another reason I came.”

“He was injured falling down the stairs.” She touched her side to indicate the injury. “I think he may have been a little fevered as well. How did you know that?”

“Brother's intuition,” Fionvar replied weakly.

She stiffened. “I once believed everyone told me the truth because they loved me. Now I know how many are liars, but some are better at it than others.” She shot him a fiery glance. “If you can't be honest with me, at least do me the honor of telling me so.”

“You know I can't be open, Highness.”

Suddenly her eyes widened. “How can I trust anything you say?”

“My only lies to you have been lies of omission.”

“So you have given me just enough of the truth to reveal my emotions? Or is it that you claim to love your brother but still plan his harm? Perhaps he is not himself, but he will get better!”

Fionvar rose, shaking his head. “Please, Highness, what can I tell you? What can I say to help you trust me?”

“Tell me how my brother died.”

He shut his eyes. “That would be no help at all.” What trust could there be for an avowed friend of traitors who would deal behind his own brother's back? Again, he thought of Wolfram and how quickly the prince had given his trust, even to his enemy's brother. Now that Wolfram was gone, Fionvar learned how much he missed that easy, absolute faith. Instantly, he knew what to do.

Melisande scowled down at him as she turned to go.

Fionvar snatched her elbow; her body went rigid at his touch. “You wish to go to his funeral?” he breathed.

“There is no way I can do that, even were I so inclined. Let me go.”

“Please listen, Highness, I know you miss him, even if you cannot say so. Give me seven ribbons, and I will tie bundles for you. Your prayers will be burned with him.”

She inched a little closer. “You can't. If my father found out—or Orie!”

“I think I can gain Orie's assistance. Give me seven ribbons, Highness, and your brother will know you have not forgotten him.”

“Seven ribbons, Great Goddess.” She pulled away. “You could be killed.”

“We cannot afford to fear each other when there are so many other dangers.”

“I do not wish to hear any more treason from you, sir,” Melisande said lightly. She gathered her skirts and plunged down the hall.

Fionvar did not follow her. His heart raced, and it took a long while to control his breathing. Still, a little smile played about his lips. Impulsively, he had become as foolish and trusting as Wolfram had ever been. What better tribute to the fallen?

A hand gripped his shoulder, and he started violently. “What were you speaking of so closely, brother?” Orie hissed. His eyes and hair seemed wild in the sunlight, his grip was iron.

Fionvar let out a long breath. “If you must know, we fought. I expressed some concerns about her ability to handle meeting King Rhys. She got upset.”

“Hmm. You did not tell her who he is, did you?”

“No, of course not. I assume you have a good reason for that secret. Do you think the meeting is wise, Orie, knowing how he feels about her?”

“You are so innocent in these matters.” Orie laughed, releasing him. “Wise? It's perfect. She hates Kattanan because he left her, and she can't bear having her playthings taken away. When she sees him again, she'll know how deeply she was betrayed. She'll hate him even more. I hate to say it”—he sighed indulgently—“but my lovely wife really is a spoiled child at heart. Chances are she'll send us even more surely toward war than her father would.”

“Doesn't that worry you?”

“Oh, I'm exaggerating, brother dear. There will be no war. Your King Rhys really doesn't have the stomach for it, or he would've declared one once we sent him the bounty on Wolfram.”

“Speaking of which…” Fionvar began.

“What is it?”

“The funeral's to be in two days. Do you suppose anyone will go?”

Orie considered this and shrugged. “Well, a few of the former prince's staff might try, perhaps some townsfolk, since Rhys has gone to all the bother of providing them with disguises. Just a few fools defying their king.”

Fionvar looked surprised. “You mean you haven't thought of it? That this funeral, this whole visit, might be simply an excuse to foment rebellion against Gerrod?”

“Of course I've considered that,” Orie scoffed, watching his brother closely.

“Now Melisande's talked him out of a hostile response—which is wise, I agree—we might not even see what goes on there. How could His Majesty send anyone to report without seeming to condone it, which would undermine his own decrees, or condemn it, which might enrage the conspirators? Now, don't look at me like that!”

“No, Fion, you bring up an excellent point. Gerrod can't do anything, shan't do anything, but we should keep an eye on things. Or rather, you should. If the enemy recognized you, he would hardly be surprised to find you there.”

“Behind the king's back? Are you mad? Gerrod would bury me!” He backed away, waving his hands. “I came to look out for you, but not like that.”

“Of course you'll go. Gerrod likes you, Fion. Everything will be fine.” Orie turned smartly and went back inside.

Fionvar looked after his brother, then in the direction Melisande had gone, and thought of the seven ribbons. He smiled grimly. One way and another, Wolfram would not be alone.

THE DAY
of the funeral, at a summons from Orie, Fionvar emerged onto the lower courtyard into a scene that was almost idyllic were it not for the clouds. A mess of barking, whimpering, howling dogs gamboled about the stone yard, tussling with one another, and their master and mistress. Melisande wore the rumpled gray gown he had first seen her in, and Orie wore old hunting clothes. The two played catch over the dogs' heads with a comet ball, its bright tail streaming out behind. The frustrated dogs leapt in the air and galloped in glee when the ball was tossed their way.

“Fion! Good to see you at last!” Orie called.

Melisande turned toward him, her white veil fluttering in the breeze over her ruined hair. “Catch!” she cried, tossing the ball. Fionvar lunged, and grabbed it by its ribbon tail.

“What a miraculous dive! You should've been a retriever,” Orie announced.

“Anything for the honor of the family.” Fionvar offered the comet back to Melisande, but she refused it.

“It is time you had a remembrance of me, dear brother. And you performed so well!” She turned quickly to Orie. “You see, he can be taught, it simply requires a woman's touch.”

“I will keep it with reverence, Your Highness,” Fionvar grumbled.

Orie kissed her lightly, then pulled her closer for a longer one.

Fionvar shifted uneasily, watching the scuffling dogs.

Grinning, Orie nuzzled Melisande's ear. “Why don't you go wait inside for me? I'll pack up the pets.”

Released from his embrace, Melisande bit her lip, then smiled, bobbed a little curtsy, and made for the stairs. Orie turned to his brother. “One last game before we go in.” He bounded into action, calling over his shoulder, “A race!”

A rippling tide of dogs compelled Fionvar to follow, stumbling, across the court until the canine wave swept up against the far wall. Orie leaned there nonchalantly, one arm braced upon an ornate metal gate set in the base of the tower. “Oh, well done, brother. You might have beaten me, if that brindle brute hadn't gotten in the way.”

“Why are you playing with me, Orie?” Fionvar panted.

Orie pushed a little on the gate, which swung silently open. “There's a bridge along a bit, and a path to the city. The gate will be unlocked. I do think we'll have rain, though. Such a pity if Wolfram's fire wouldn't light; or if there were no star for his soul to aspire toward. Go to! And keep your eyes open.”

“You can trust me, Orie.”

“Of course I can.” Orie winked as he shut the gate behind his brother.

Fionvar paced down the road. Now, Melisande would have no chance to give him the ribbons, even if she'd wanted to. Of course, judging from her closeness to Orie the previous day, she'd never intended to. Nervously, he tossed the comet ball from hand to hand, then caught the ball again and held it up before him. The body was a pouch of red wool, somewhat stained, and something crinkled inside it, padding a slender weight. For its tail hung seven long ribbons.

 

KATTANAN WATCHED
the sky with growing concern. Thunder, rain, even overcast could be taken as a sign that his actions had been rash, that Wolfram was indeed a traitor and to give him a funeral with honor was sacrilege against the Lady. He put down another armload of dry twigs with the growing heap at the edge of the funeral ground.

“At least we know it's not magic,” Jordan said, coming up behind.

“Great Lady!” Kattanan glowered. “How can a man so tall move so lightly?”

Arching an eyebrow at him, Jordan dropped his own load. “It's not like you to be startled by anyone. I noticed you looking up to the palace.”

“Are you sure Orie wouldn't be able to summon rain? He was Alswytha's apprentice, after all, and she can perform her magic.”

Jordan said, “He only has a little bit of her blood. There's still too much of his own in his veins. Something should be done about that.” He gave a fierce grin.

“If there's bloodletting of his to be done,” Rolf put in, joining them from the makeshift altar where he had been cutting ribbons, “ye'd best stand in line behind me.”

“I'll arm wrestle you for it,” Jordan replied, offering his left hand.

Rolf actually laughed at that, just a short chuckle, but the sound brought a smile to Kattanan's face.

Lyssa, carrying a bundle of her own, murmured, “It strikes me strangely to hear my friends talk of killing my brother as if it were a laughing matter.”

“I didn't realize how much this hurt you, Lyssa,” Jordan said.

Lyssa shook back her hair and took a step away from him. “No, I'm sure you didn't mean to hurt me. But it does. It does.” She whirled away and strode swiftly from the grounds, losing herself among the buildings.

“Bury it,” Jordan murmured. “I was a monk too long, and now I don't know the first thing about women. I'd better go after her.”

As Kattanan and Rolf finished their bundles, a trickle of people in red hoods were likewise taking sticks from the pile, and ribbons from a few servants who passed among them. Many of those disguised were Kattanan's own knights, trying to comfort the townsfolk who might be afraid to come out. Still, the edges of the cloaks swished to reveal bare feet or delicate slippers, and he knew they were coming. Kattanan carried his bundles to lay them beside the bier where Wolfram's body, draped in red, lay waiting the flame. He knelt again, making the sign of the Goddess, and recalled for a moment the day he had left. Again he saw Wolfram astride a proud horse, shutting his eyes to wish Kattanan a safe return. But the singer had returned as a king, and the prince rode home on a funeral wagon.

Tears sprang to his eyes, and he pressed his hands to them. He rose and turned away, then stopped, stunned.

All around him, red-hooded mourners gathered, some wearing rough hoods of their own making. In defiance of their king's order, they had come, were still coming, furtively at first, then walking boldly when they saw how many others waited there. Jordan, Rolf, and Lyssa stood by, faces raised to the sky in silent prayer. His own priestess walked the sacred circles around the bier, followed by three others, all hooded, and one ragged crone who met his gaze with her mismatched eyes. He took a step toward her, but suddenly felt something pressed into his hand.

A tall man in a red hood and cloak leaned toward him, whispering, “For your eyes, Your Majesty, and for the fire.”

“Fionvar,” Kattanan murmured. “How's the music at the palace?”

“Awful,” the other replied, but with a trace of a smile. “Pray for me, and for her.”

“I do.”

With the slightest tilt of his head, Fionvar placed two groups of bound bundles at the bier, then faded back into the crowd. Kattanan longed to follow, but suddenly felt as if all the eyes peering out from those hoods were focused on him. There was some truth to this, of course, since the townsfolk had heard stories of the new king. They might have come to mourn Prince Wolfram, but they did not waste the chance to study the king for themselves. Accordingly, he made a little show of reaching into his pouch, then lifting the thing Fionvar had pushed into his hand as if he'd had it all along. The circle of red wool enclosed a small square of parchment, and a single open link of chain. Incised patterns decorated the link, echoing the tooling on fine book bindings: a library chain, meant to protect a precious volume. He smoothed out the parchment to find a simple blessing in Strelledor:
May you rise up in the flames, and look down from the stars. The chain of earth is broken; you are free.
He remembered packing Melisande's things for the Goddess Moon, when he had held up to her a book with a library chain still dangling from it. Wolfram had held the chisel while Melisande struck the blow. Melisande! With a sudden leap of hope, Kattanan brought the chain to his lips and kissed it. Then she did not believe Wolfram to be a traitor. A twinge of guilt touched him through the rush of excitement. Then he let himself smile just a little. Surely, Wolfram would understand. With a regretful sigh, Kattanan bound up the little packet once more and placed it gently on the red cloth. A ray of late sun gilded his hand, and the still form beneath the cloth. High above, the dark clouds still clustered, but a great hole gaped through them, and the setting sun blazed with crimson fire.

 

HIGH ON
a garden tower overlooking the city, King Gerrod scowled at the sky. “Magic,” he snorted, “or trickery.” When Melisande and Orie said nothing, Gerrod trained a spyglass on the funerary ground. “They're all wearing those accursed hoods. Of course, it could just be a ploy to make us believe that our people are attending. All those hoods could be worn by this upstart's own knights.”

“Many of them are,” Orie put in. “The guards watching their camp reported that many of the knights put on red hoods before they left there.”

“Ha! I knew it wouldn't work.” He slapped the spyglass onto the parapet and grinned. “He's putting on a show to impress the townsfolk, but nothing will come of it.”

“May I?” Orie put out a hand for the glass and trained it on the gathering. “Three of the priestesses are hooded; it may be time to investigate the temple, Gerrod.”

“They always were on his side.”

Turning away, Melisande leaned her back against the wall. A wave of nausea overwhelmed her for a moment, and she shut her eyes, one hand pressed to her belly. Slowly the wave passed, and she refocused on the little temple in the garden, with its slender bell tower.

“Melisande.” King Gerrod's stern voice called back her gaze. “If you are not well, you should be abed. No reason to risk your health, or my grandchild's.”

She shook her head. “No, Father. I, too, should know what happens.” She took two steps to stand between them, leaning on the stone.

“King Rhys is standing for family,” Orie reported, his eyes never leaving the scene below. “He's got the torch.” Down in the city, a tiny flame licked at the red cloth, then caught. It crept among the sticks, growing steadily toward the still form at the center. Smoke swirled up and raced along a breeze straight toward the watchers.

Gerrod coughed sharply, batting the smoke away with his hand.

Melisande, eyes stinging, turned away, taking deep breaths of the cleaner air behind, but the smoke chased her, eddying about her until her eyes welled with tears.

Suddenly Orie screamed, and the spyglass fell from his hands to shatter on stone. He clutched his side, slumping to his knees behind the parapet. Melisande crouched by him, while Gerrod, determined not to be afflicted by the smoke, stood erect.

“Orie, what's wrong?” Melisande touched his arm, but he screamed again.

Orie's right hand reached out for her, and she took it, wincing at the strength of his grip. She cradled his shoulders in her lap. “Shhh,” she murmured, rocking slowly.

His eyes sprang open, eyebrows pinched together in a look of confusion and sadness. “Melisande?” he whispered.

“I'm here.”

“I'm sorry.”

“What for?”

“I didn't mean to hurt you, Sandy.”

Melisande started. “That's what he used to call me.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but a bell pealed out somewhere close by, and Melisande looked up. Gerrod crossed the floor in three furious steps. “No bells! I decreed there would be no bells for that traitor,” he roared.

The bell rang out again, clear and strong, from the temple in their own garden. “Guards! Bring the ringer to me, and I shall throw him from this tower!”

The guards crashed back down the stairs.

Weakly, Orie pushed himself up until he sat against the wall.

“Are you well?” Melisande asked, not letting go of his hand.

“I'm fine.” He struggled to his feet, clutching the stone. “What's happening?”

“Some treacherous bastard has been ringing the bell, but they've caught him,” Gerrod crowed, “and I will show him what it means to betray his king.”

Brushing the tears from her eyes, Melisande rose, then gasped as the guards reemerged onto the platform. Young Thomas dangled between them, both arms held tight by the armed men.

Gerrod yanked up the boy's chin to stare into his tear-streaked face. “You rang the bloody bell,” the king snarled.

“For the dead, Sire,” the page blurted, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“The act of a traitor,” Gerrod snapped, looming over the prisoner. He grabbed the boy's arm and jerked him away from the guards. Thomas cried out as he was hauled to the edge and flung upon the top of the broad wall, his head hanging over the stone toward the rushing river.

“Father!” Melisande flung herself forward, clinging to her father's arm. “He's a child, he doesn't know what he's done!”

He shook her off, a low animal snarl building in his throat. “I'm his king; he knows enough to obey.” She screamed as he thrust Thomas over the edge, but he had not yet released his iron grip on the boy's arm. Gerrod turned blazing eyes to his daughter.

Melisande knelt on the floor at his feet, her hands raised in supplication. “Father, I am begging you not to do this.”

“Am I not the king here? And do I not have the right to administer justice to my subjects?” he demanded, spitting each word like a curse.

“Yes, Father, yes.” She forced herself to meet his gaze, hearing the windborne sobs of his prisoner. “But he's just a child; some things he still does not understand. All he knows is the man who was his master is dead, and he wants to honor him.”

Gerrod let the growl out again at this, but his eyes remained locked to hers.

“He only knows what he's taught, and we haven't—I haven't taught him enough to understand. I have failed in teaching him, my lord.” Breathing heavily, she lowered her head. “By the Goddess, Your Majesty, do not punish him for my failure.”