The Singer's Crown (48 page)

BY SILENT
consent, Rolf and Fionvar ignored King Gerrod as they made their way to the courtyard in front of the Great Hall. A richly dressed crowd hovered about the door, unwilling to approach the dogs who crouched about the yard, whimpering. All of the dog's noses were turned toward their door, so the pair began to pick their way across.

“Fion! Where's the king!” Jordan bounded out from the darkness with the wizard at his heels. Seeing Fionvar's expression, the Liren-sha swallowed his greeting and hurried over.

Fionvar tried the door. “Barred.” He sighed, rubbing his weary head.

“Stand back,” said the wizard. She flung up both hands shouting, “Down and be gone!” in a thundering voice. The door shivered, and fell. Alswytha allowed herself a little smile as all the onlookers stampeded back into the Hall, and the great doors slammed.

Gerrod limped up, calling for his absent guards. “Bury it, where've they gone?”

Still smiling, Alswytha turned to face him. “Are you asking me, Your Majesty?”

The king stopped short, shutting his mouth with a snap.

Jordan collected a torch and stepped through the dark doorway. “Kattanan?” From the far side, out in the lower yard, a woman's voice answered, “Here! Come quickly!”

On cue, the dogs leapt to their feet and galloped past the little party, streaming down the stairs with a flurry of yapping and a waving of tails. “Great Lady!” Melisande's voice cried. “Off! Get off, all of you.” The torchlight showed a ring of dogs surrounding Melisande at the bottom of the stairs, her chemise and tattered hair spattered with blood. She cradled Kattanan in her lap and did not turn. Jordan skidded the last few steps, falling on his knees beside them.

Melisande let them take him from her, to lay him on the more level floor, and she rose, suddenly feeling the bruises she had earned that evening.

“Melisande?”

She turned to find her father on the last step, his head a little higher than hers, bereft of his crown. The old king took a deep breath. “I am sorry,” he said, “for everything. For doubting you.” He sighed, his mouth twisting at the unaccustomed awkwardness. “You have always been the most faithful of daughters. And Wolfram was the most faithful of sons.” Gerrod took the last step and wrapped his arms around his daughter.

Fionvar followed more slowly. The relief and concern mingled in the wizard's conversation told him his king was safe. What stopped him was the faceless corpse sprawled against the rail, pieces of the shattered bowl sprinkled in his hair. Fionvar's knees felt weak, and he slumped down on the step, head in his hands.

“Hey! Hello! Somebody tell me what's going on,” Lyssa demanded from the top of the stairs. “Here's your accursed book!” She started down, finally replacing her hammer as she walked. In the darkness, she nearly tripped over Fionvar, huddled as he was against the wall. She looked from him to the corpse, and back. “Are you all right?”

“Goddess's Tears, Lyssa, leave me alone!” Fionvar shouted.

She opened her mouth, then shut it. Instead, she wrapped her powerful arms around him, refusing to be shaken off. “Fionvar, you did the best you could,” she told his matted hair, tucking her head against his. “The best that anyone could have.”

“I'm falling apart,” he whispered.

Blinking back tears, she nodded. “It's all right. After all those years that you held us together, for this one night, let me hold you.”

 

THEY STAYED
at the palace until Kattanan felt ready to take a carriage back over the mountains. His retinue gathered in the main court to make ready their departure. Alswytha for once rode as herself, for she, too, had been a guest of the palace, though King Gerrod forbade her to change her shape and was extremely careful what he said when she was about. The day was bright and clear, but a chill of autumn hung in the air already, and the farthest peaks glistened white in the distance. Kattanan made his way from the Great Hall with the help of a knobbed wooden cane. His right arm was still in a sling across his chest, and his leg was held straight by thin slats of wood. Even after the wizard had healed what she could of his flesh and skin, a scar traced its way from his left cheek to his temple. Atop his head, the crown of his family gleamed. One of the stones had been knocked free in the storm, but it was otherwise unharmed. When it had occurred to Melisande to send someone for their crowns, the servant returned with both. The little temple had utterly collapsed, but the hole in the ceiling had settled gracefully around the altar, leaving their crowns untouched.

Melisande escorted him from the hall, walking at his side at a pace to match his own slow progress. Her father walked on her other side, steadfastly refusing to look at them. By the door of the carriage, Fionvar waited, scuffing his boot. He had quietly taken his brother's body, and discreetly borne it off. If there had been a funeral, Kattanan did not know, and King Gerrod, who might have demanded burial in payment for Orie's treachery, pursued the matter no further.

Melisande brushed by Kattanan, accidentally letting her hand stray on his, atop the cane. She managed to smile. “Lady ride with you, Your Majesty,” she told him.

“I will come back when I can,” he murmured. “I don't know how long—”

“Hush,” she whispered, losing her smile. “I know you will.”

Kattanan finally climbed inside. Fionvar got in, shutting the half door firmly behind him and taking a seat opposite his king. As the carriage lurched into motion, Kattanan watched Melisande through the window. She stood shining in the sunlight in a burgundy gown, her hair allowed to fly free in the gentle breeze. Sunlight gleamed on a silver streak that suddenly spilled from her eye and down her cheek. Then she lifted her hand and made the sign of the Goddess. She raised her hand to her lips, and kissed the fingers as tenderly as if they were his lips. She shut her eyes, seeing only his safe return.

In his memory, Wolfram rode beside him, seeing him off with the same gesture.

Kattanan watched the road ahead as they left the city. In a few short days, he would face the woman who thought she would marry him. In a few short days, he must know what to do. Just now, he did not have the slightest idea.

Alswytha came up to ride beside them. She pushed a scroll of parchment through the window. “I think you should read this, both of you,” she said, and her face was grim.

Kattanan took it and read the few lines, and the broad signature at the bottom. He passed it wordlessly to Fionvar, whose frown deepened as he read, then he laughed—a hollow, bitter sound. “He told me he hoped I'd be amused when I found out.”

“I didn't know you,” Alswytha said. “I didn't know anyone; all I thought of was that it would be nice to have someplace to go home to.”

“It would be,” Fionvar agreed.

“It should be yours.” She thrust the scroll back at him, but he did not take it.

“Oh, no; it's all legal, signed and witnessed. Gamel's Grove was his to bestow as he wished.” The flare of anger died away. “Besides, I am not at all sure I want it.”

She stared down at the thing in her hand, the price of Orie's apprenticeship. “After what he did with his talent, I am not sure I want to take his title.”

Fionvar glanced at her, and a sort of understanding filled his voice when he told her, “It doesn't have to be a legacy of what he was but of what he might have been.” He offered a slender smile. “When you take up residence, I'll go with you. I'll introduce you to everyone as some long-lost cousin. I think you would do well there.”

“Thank you,” Alswytha said. “I would appreciate that.” She nodded to the king, and urged her horse a little faster until she passed the carriage.

Something occurred to Kattanan then, a glimmer of an idea. “Fionvar,” he said, “when you and Brianna met in Gamel's Grove, what was the song you were playing?”

“‘A Blacksmith to His Lady,'” Fionvar replied, and he looked away.

When they finally reached the plain before Lochdale days later, horses rode out to meet them. Outstripping his men by several paces, Gwythym rode up and reined in by the carriage. “Welcome back, Your Majesty! Am I ever glad to see you!”

Kattanan laughed. “Has the duchess been easy to work with, then?”

“Oh, surely, Majesty! Easy as washing a tiger.” He threw back his head to laugh heartily. Then his expression turned sour. “You should know that Lady Faedre's vanished. Seems she seduced one of the guards to let her go.”

“Just so long as she stays gone,” Kattanan said.

At last the carriage entered the gates of the city and started up the long slope to the castle. Children waved flags for him, and ladies leaned down from the windows to blow him kisses as the carriage passed. Kattanan blushed. On the steps over the arch, and at the castle gate, ranks of knights awaited them. Carefully, Kattanan rose and took the few steps to the ground. Before him, a rug woven with the leaves of the Rinvien crest led the way to the arch. On the right side, Duchess Elyn and Lady Brianna curtsied, lowering their eyes. They rose as one. Brianna's hair was bound up in braids, accenting her face. Her gown laced up the front—inviting its removal despite the fact that her pregnancy rounded out the sky-blue silk below.

Fionvar dismounted and spent a long time checking his stirrups while his sister ran up to greet the lady with a warm embrace.

Duchess Elyn walked forward and offered her hand to be kissed. Still flustered at the sight of Brianna, Kattanan blinked at her in consternation. His right arm ached, his left hand still gripped the cane. Jordan came up silently beside him, gently slipping free the cane so he could take his grandmother's hand.

When he straightened, he saw the pain that creased her features, mirroring his own. “We are again well met, Grandmother.”

“It is good to have you home, Rhys, though it pains me to see you in this condition.”

“The sling I may leave off in a week,” he replied lightly.

“Excellent,” she said, some of the darkness lifting from her eyes. She took the cane from Jordan and returned it to Kattanan. “Just in time for the wedding.”

That night, after Evening Prayer, Kattanan sent for Brianna and she came quickly, still wearing her gown and braids as if she had been waiting for him. She curtsied and rose, then smiled at him. “I would like to embrace you, cousin. Would you be hurt?”

He had removed the sling, and flexed his fingers experimentally. “I think I would be fine, if you hug me carefully.

The smile growing, she crossed to him and slipped her arms about him. She felt warm and soft in his arms, and he shut his eyes a moment, and imagined it was Melisande he held. Gently he moved away. “Before I left, Brianna, you promised me that you would hear me sing. Will you hear me now?”

A hint of trepidation crossed her features, but she nodded. “I promised, if you would hear me speak of our marriage.”

He offered her a chair before the fire. “May I take down your hair?”

A frown pinched her brows, but again she nodded.

With his left hand, Kattanan slid the pins holding her hair. He untied the ribbons and slowly worked free the strands. He took up a silver brush from the table and stroked it down the flaxen waves. After a moment, he found a fragile rhythm, using his right hand as little as possible. Brianna's eyes were shut, her face caressed by the firelight.

Then, he began to sing. The voice was not his own, it couldn't leap and sparkle in quite the same way, but he had grown used to it and started to find the things it could do.

Her head rose, shoulders stiffening as her eyes fluttered open, but she had promised, and so she stayed silent.

Brianna's eyes searched the fire, and she moistened her lips. Her hands came together in her lap. Slowly one finger traced a line upon her wrist. Her eyes shut as a tear trickled down, then another. To one side, a door opened. Kattanan looked, but did not stop his brushing. Fionvar stood there, mouth open to answer the king's summons. His face burned at the sight.

Holding up a finger to his lips, Kattanan beckoned him forward, to stand by him.

Kattanan reached for Fionvar's hand, guiding it onto the handle of the brush. He maintained his steady rhythm.

Still singing, Kattanan let his hand fall away, so that Fionvar stood lovingly brushing his lady's hair. Bending his head over her, he, too, was weeping silently.

“Rhys,” she whispered through the veil of tears. “I can't marry you.”

“I know,” he said, sitting carefully on the edge of a chair, still out of her sight.

“I love you both,” she murmured, “but he—” Her voice cracked, and her head dropped into her hands. She sobbed helplessly.

“I know,” he repeated tenderly.

The brush slipped from Fionvar's numb fingers to fall upon the floor. He knelt behind her, wrapping his arms about her, pressing his face against her neck. Kattanan rose, collected his cane, and left them quietly together.

Fionvar found him the next morning, sound asleep on a bench in his study. When he shut the door, Kattanan's eyes opened, and he pushed himself up.

Fionvar beamed at him. “I don't know how I can ever thank you,” he said. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and stubble showed along his jaw, but the smile was true enough. It slipped away, though, and he hesitated before he added, “I thought, when you asked about the song”—he took a deep breath—“for a moment, I doubted you.”