Kitabı oku: «The Crimson Crown», sayfa 2

“We cannot continue on as we are, splintered and squabbling among ourselves,” Raisa said, trying to read his face in the shadows of the trees. “But you’ve never been good at compromise.”

“We have already compromised,” Nightwalker said. “For a thousand years, we have allowed jinxflinger invaders to occupy lands that once belonged to us.”

“That’s just my point,” Raisa said. “Nobody seems willing to forget the history that divides us. How long do wizards have to be here before you accept that they are here for good?”

“We remember for good reason,” Nightwalker said. “That’s what the songs and stories and dances are for—to make sure we never forget.”

“So it’s hopeless, then? Is that what you’re saying?”

Nightwalker shook his head. “Whether or not there is a war is in the hands of the Wizard Council. And you.”

“What do you mean?” Raisa asked.

“You are queen now,” Nightwalker said. “You can choose who to marry.”

“You mean I can choose not to marry a wizard,” Raisa said.

“I mean, you could choose to marry me,” Nightwalker said, taking her hands.

The words fell hard, like a stone between them.

It was eerily similar to the argument Micah Bayar had made, the day he had asked permission to court her.

For a thousand years, we have been imprisoned by the past. You have the power to make changes. The future is in your hands, if you will only seize it.

“You’re saying there’ll be a war if I don’t marry you?” Raisa ripped her hands free.

“That’s not what I meant,” Nightwalker said, raising his hands. “Please. Hear me out.”

“I’m listening,” Raisa said, folding her arms.

Nightwalker looked around as if help might come out of the trees. “I am not as good with words as some.”

“Agreed,” Raisa said tartly.

“Think about it,” Nightwalker said. “The clans were the first peoples in the Fells. We have lived here always, longer even than the Valefolk. And yet we have always been ruled by others. First by the Valefolk, who built wealth from their croplands. And later by the wizards, who conquered the Valefolk.”

He paused as if waiting for a response, and Raisa said, “Go on.”

“Wizards and clan are divided by our natures. Even our magical traditions put us in opposition. Wizards destroy the earth with their magics. We celebrate the natural world.” Nightwalker shrugged. “We will never surrender, Briar Rose. But that doesn’t mean there has to be bloodshed.”

He touched Raisa’s hand cautiously, as if aware that she might snatch it back. “It’s time the Spirit clans ruled the Fells, as we were meant to do. It begins with you.”

“How so?”

“You are of the Gray Wolf line, but you are also clan royalty, through Lord Demonai. Marry me, and our children will be three-quarters clan. Our children can marry into one of the other camps, strengthening the line further. Together, Valefolk and clan can rein in the excesses of the wizards.”

“By that reasoning, Lord Bayar would say that since I am already of mixed blood, I should marry a wizard, to join wizards to the throne.”

“Wizards had five hundred years of the Captivity to mingle their seed with the Gray Wolf line,” Nightwalker said, his voice low and bitter. “That’s enough.”

“Marrying me will not win over most Valefolk,” Raisa said, thinking of flatland attitudes toward the Spirit clans. “What makes you think they will ally with you?”

“All I need is you, Briar Rose,” Nightwalker said. Digging into his carry bag, he pulled forth a bundle wrapped in deerskin and extended it toward her.

Raisa cradled it in her arms, her heart sinking, knowing what it was before she unwrapped it.

Nightwalker must have seen the hesitation in her eyes. “Look at it, at least,” he urged. “It is Marisa Pines–made, and it comes with Averill’s blessing, since I am his adopted son.”

Raisa unfolded the leather, revealing a handwoven blanket of wool and linen spun together, lightweight and warm. It was decorated with stitched and painted symbols: Gray Wolves, the clan symbol for Hanalea the Warrior; the Demonai unlidded eye; the mortar and pestle of Marisa Pines.

It was a handfast blanket, given to signify betrothal among the Spirit clans, the joining of two camps and two beds.

“I have a question for you,” Raisa said, fingering the fabric. “Who offers this blanket—the boy I hunted with, or the heir of Demonai?”

Nightwalker shrugged. “You cannot stop being queen, and I cannot stop being Demonai.”

“I am sorry,” Raisa said, folding the leather back into place. “I cannot accept this.”

“Are you worried about my reputation between the blankets?” Nightwalker said, brushing her cheek with his fingertips. “I am not perfect, but there is no one else in the uplands that heats my blood the way you do.”

“Am I to assume, then, that if you succumb to temptation, I would be free to take other lovers as well?” Raisa snapped back.

“Please don’t be angry.” Nightwalker leaned forward. “I am no poet, to whisper lies in your ear and do as I please, after. You will be as free as you want to be. None of that matters. What matters is what happens between us.”

“That’s not it,” Raisa said, sorry that the conversation had taken this turn. “I’m not looking for you to make a promise you cannot keep. But it is even more important now, after my mother’s death, and given the threat from Arden, that I choose a marriage strategically. It will be about politics, not passion.” She handed the blanket back to Nightwalker. “It may yet happen, but I cannot commit to you now. I need to make a good decision for everyone in the Fells.”

“You have a fiery heart,” Nightwalker said. “I cannot believe it will be only politics that drives your choice.”

If I married you, Raisa thought, it would be politics, not passion.

Both Micah Bayar and Nightwalker seemed to think that she had a real choice. Then why did she feel so trapped? Was it because she couldn’t choose the match she really wanted?

Nightwalker slid the bundle back into his carry bag. “This blanket was made for you, Briar Rose. It will keep. However. Politics should be discussed during the day. The nighttime hours were meant for other pursuits.” He pressed his fingers into her back, pulling her close. “I’m staying at the visitors’ lodge,” he murmured. “It’s less crowded than the Matriarch Lodge. Let’s go there and talk further.”

“No,” Raisa said, knowing that Nightwalker would do his best to change her mind. “It has been a long day, and I am tired.” She pulled free of his hands and stood. “Good night, Nightwalker.”

She turned and walked away, feeling his gaze on her back until the forest came between them.

Right now, I couldn’t stay awake for Hanalea herself, not even if she offered to answer all of my questions, Raisa thought. I just want to go to sleep.

She passed through the common room, where her father sat talking with Elena and Willo. Averill looked up, startled, as if he hadn’t expected her so soon. Then he looked past her, as if he expected Nightwalker to be right behind her.

“It has been a wonderful day,” Raisa said. “I am worn out. I’m going to bed. Don’t worry about keeping me awake. I’d sleep through an earthquake right now.”

She ducked through the curtains into her room. She wanted to dive face-first onto her sleeping bench, but took the time to strip off her dancing clothes. When she slid under the covers, something crackled beneath her. Fishing around in the woolen blankets, she pulled out a note.

Unfolding it, she held it up to the lamp.

Stay away from Nightwalker, the note said, in sharp, fierce printing. It was written in Clan, and unsigned.

Raisa recalled the footfall in the forest, the sense of being watched on the riverbank. Had someone followed them?

Was it Han Alister? Night Bird? Or someone else entirely?

Chewing her lower lip, she touched a corner of the page to the lamp flame, watching until it dwindled to ash.

CHAPTER THREE
CREWING FOR ABELARD

Han jerked awake in a cold sweat, groping for the knife he always kept under his pillow. It took a moment for his head to clear, to recall where he was. To realize that he wasn’t in the Matriarch Lodge at Marisa Pines, or in his garret room at Oden’s Ford. To remember that Rebecca was alive, not dead, but transformed into someone else—someone unattainable.

He shifted on his cushy blueblood mattress (not straw-tick) and rolled the binding of the fine linen coverlet between his thumb and forefinger. Right. He was back in his rooms in Fellsmarch Castle, and someone was pounding at the door.

He slid naked from his bed, palming his knife. “What is it?” he demanded.

“It’s Darby, my lord. With a urgent message.”

Han wrapped himself in the velvet robe he’d slung over the foot of the bed and crossed to the door. “What could be so urgent?” he said through the door. “Is the castle aflame? Has the queen delivered twin demon children?”

Darby said nothing for a long moment. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

Han rested his forehead against the wood. He’d been to Ragmarket the night before, and stayed too late. When would he learn that it was futile to try to drown his pain and worry in a tavern? It only made matters worse.

“Who’s it from?” he asked.

“The boy said it was urgent, but wouldn’t say who it was from, sir.”

Han cracked the door open enough to see one of Darby’s anxious blue eyes. He opened it a bit further and stuck his hand through the opening.

Darby handed over a sealed envelope with a little bow. “I regret waking you, my lord. Can I … can I get you something to break your fast? A bit of salt fish and ale? Some blood pudding?” Perhaps seeing some warning of the state of Han’s stomach in his face, Darby added hastily, “Or some bread and porridge? That’s good for a sour stomach.”

Han swallowed hard. “I … I think I’ll wait,” he said, and eased the door closed so it wouldn’t bang.

He tore open the envelope. The message was short and sweet, in angular, upright letters. See me immediately. I’m at Kendall House. M. Abelard.

Bones, Han thought. He’d been dreading the dean’s arrival. One more complication he didn’t need. He already felt like he was juggling alley cats. He’d hoped to avoid seeing her until the first council meeting.

Now that the summons had arrived, he knew better than to put it off for long. Pawing glumly through the new clothes in his wardrobe, he chose his least fancy togs, a sober gray coat and plain black breeches. He left off his wizard stoles as well. Abelard might recognize the insignia. He wouldn’t want her to think he was getting above himself. Yet.

He’d never had six choices of garments to pick from before.

Han stared into the looking glass over the washstand, combing down his hair with his fingers, wishing he didn’t look so hollow-eyed. With Abelard, he’d have to make show.

Images from the celebration at Marisa Pines kept crowding into his head: Raisa weaving in and out of the firelight, head thrown back, skirts swirling around her slender legs, bracelets on her ankles and wrists, singing the words of the old songs. Clan princess—of an older line than Hanalea’s, even.

Reid Nightwalker, dressed for dancing. Circling the fire, eying Raisa like she was a deer and he a fellscat on the hunt.

His imagination took him further—to Raisa and Nightwalker under the blankets, their limbs intertwined, Raisa’s green eyes fastened on Nightwalker’s face, her hands entangled in those Demonai braids. Aaah! Han shook his head, trying to dislodge that image. Nightwalker might hope for a wedding, but, unlike Han, he wouldn’t decline a quick tumble in the meantime.

What had come over Han at Marisa Pines? What must Raisa be thinking now? Not to mention Averill and Elena.

When Han had heard that Nightwalker was to be Patriarch of Demonai Camp, he’d seen where Averill was headed—a match between Raisa and Nightwalker, a decisive triumph of clan over wizard. He’d tasted the bitter ashes of his charred hopes.

I have to keep my head, he thought. I can’t lose control like that. Not if I want to stay alive.

The thought of Raisa next door nearly drove Han to distraction. But he would not slide through the back hallways, keeping Raisa’s bed warm for Nightwalker.

Kendall House stood within the castle close, just within the perimeter walls. It sheltered bluebloods in the outer circles of the queen’s affections, plus those that required more spacious quarters than could be had within the palace itself.

Dean Abelard’s suite was on the first floor, in a prime space that let out to the garden. A servant ushered Han into a courtyard centered by a splashing fountain. Abelard sat at a small wrought-iron table, leafing through documents, occasionally scrawling notes in the margins. Her straight chin-length steel-and-russet hair obscured her face as she leaned over her work. The dean’s robes were gone. Abelard was as finely dressed as any blueblood at court, her book-and-flame stoles overtop.

Han glanced around. It was a good choice as a meeting place. Out in the open, yet the sound of the fountain would cover their conversation from possible eavesdroppers.

When Abelard reached the bottom of her stack of papers, she set them aside and gestured to a chair opposite her.

Han sat down, resting his hands on his knees, head tilted back a little, hoping he looked clear-eyed and ruthless despite his aching head.

Abelard gazed at him, chin propped on her laced fingers, elbows on the table. “My, my, Alister, you have been busy,” she murmured. “Here I was worried about how you would do on your own among the predators at court, and I find out you’re the chief predator.”

Then why do I feel like prey? Han thought. “Don’t give me too much credit. I’ve got a lot of competition.”

Abelard laughed. “Yes, you do. But still. Three months after you leave Oden’s Ford you are bodyguard to the Princess Raisa and her appointee to the Wizard Council. You’ve gained a title and a country home. Not only that, you’ve moved into the room next to hers. Impressive.”

Han shrugged, thinking that Dean Abelard had learned a lot in only a few days. Or maybe she’d had somebody on the watch the whole time.

“What else have you been up to?” Abelard asked. “What else have you learned?”

Right. Han had come to the Fells pretending to be Abelard’s eyes and ears.

“What do I think, or what can I prove?” Han said.

“What do you think?”

“Lord Bayar has tried—several times—to murder the princess heir—now the queen. She’s too independent for his liking. He’s backing the Princess Mellony. Meanwhile, Micah still hopes to bed and wed the queen.” Han wouldn’t be spilling anything Abelard didn’t already know. “You told me to keep either of those things from happening. I figured that the best way to accomplish that was to get between them and Her Majesty by sticking close to her.”

“Very close.” Leaning forward, Abelard asked, “Are you sleeping with her?”

Han snorted, while his heart pinged painfully. “How likely is that?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you, Alister,” Abelard said. She reached out and brushed her fingers along the side of his face. “You are handsome, and you have a certain wicked charm. And the new queen seems to have inherited the profligate ways of her mother, Marianna.”

Han forced down his memories of Raisa dancing with Nightwalker at Marisa Pines. He said nothing, hoped he displayed nothing.

“It’s rumored that the princess was hiding in Oden’s Ford while Micah and Fiona were there.” Abelard kept her shrewd gray-green eyes fixed on him.

Han frowned, as if baffled. “Really? Why would she go there?”

“That’s the question,” Abelard said. “Is it possible Micah and the Princess Raisa had planned to meet in Oden’s Ford?”

Han’s mind left off unraveling lies and focused on what Abelard was saying. “What?”

“I’m wondering if the Princess Raisa has succumbed to Micah’s well-known charms,” Abelard said dryly. “I know she was seeing him prior to her abrupt self-exile. Maybe they ran off together.”

She doesn’t know that Lord Bayar and Queen Marianna meant to marry Raisa off to Micah, Han thought. She’d assume Marianna would have been opposed to it.

“I don’t know,” Han said, thinking hard, treading carefully. “I kept a close eye on Micah. I was in and out of his rooms a hundred times. Micah saw a lot of girlies, but I never saw any sign that he and the Princess Raisa were walking out.”

“Walking out?” Abelard’s lips twitched in amusement.

“Seeing each other,” Han said, all the while wondering himself—was it possible? Surely he would have known. Wouldn’t he?

Then again, he’d been several months at Oden’s Ford before he’d begun seeing the girl he’d known as Rebecca on a regular basis. What if Micah had been crossing the river to see her? What if she’d made Micah the same offer she’d made to Han—to be clandestine lovers—and Micah had accepted? Raisa was good at keeping secrets—she’d kept her identity secret from him for nearly a year.

Unbidden, Fiona’s words came back to him. The princess heir has agreed to allow my brother Micah to court her. In secret, of course.

“I guess it’s possible,” Han went on. “But he would have had to keep it from Fiona, which wouldn’t be easy. If she’d found out, she’d have cackled to their father in a heartbeat.” Or killed Raisa herself, he thought.

Abelard studied Han’s face a while longer. “You’ve implied there’s a rift in the Bayar family—between Micah and his father, and between Micah and Fiona.”

“There’s none of them getting along,” Han said. “Fiona doesn’t like that Lord Bayar wants to marry Micah into the Gray Wolf line. She thinks, why not me?”

Abelard raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me? How would that work?”

“Fiona thinks we should ditch the Gray Wolf line altogether,” Han said. “She favors a wizard queen. And you can guess who she has in mind for that job.”

“Indeed,” Abelard murmured, rubbing her thumb and fingers together as if she were already counting the cash. “But you don’t have proof of this?”

Han shook his head. “Only what she’s told me.”

“Fiona is confiding in you, then?” Abelard smiled. “How is that possible?”

Han didn’t smile back. “She hopes to use me against Micah. She knows we don’t get on.”

“Well, now,” Abelard said, drumming her fingers on the tabletop. “How to use this?”

“So you don’t agree?” Han said. “About ditching the Gray Wolf line?” He kept his tone casual, his expression indifferent, though a lot was riding on the answer.

Abelard glanced around, then leaned closer. “I might consider it, Alister, if I knew that the resulting magical bloodbath would be worth it. Better to have Hanalea’s line on the throne than the Bayars. Right now, there are too many unanswered questions. We still don’t know whether the Armory of the Gifted Kings still exists and, if so, who holds it.”

That again, Han thought, trying to keep the skepticism off his face. He’d nearly forgotten about the armory since his days with Abelard’s crew at Oden’s Ford. But the dean still seemed fixed on it.

“If it exists—and the Bayars hold it—wouldn’t they have taken over already?” Han said.

“Until now, Aerie House seemed satisfied with being first among wizards, as they have been since the Breaking,” Abelard said. “Many in the assembly and the council attach themselves to the Bayars because they always win, and the cowards don’t want to pay the price for backing the losing side.” She paused. “And yet, you’re risking your life to oppose Lord Bayar. Why? What do you hope to gain?”

Han shrugged, trying to ignore the queasiness in his middle. “One thing leads to another.”

“I’d suggest you lock your doors and hire a taster,” Abelard said dryly. “And bring an army to Gray Lady, or you’ll never make it there alive.”

I don’t have an army, Han thought. All I have is Crow. And maybe not even him. Crow hadn’t returned to Aediion since Han had surprised him with Fire Dancer.

After a moment of glum silence, Abelard continued. “Lord Bayar means to elect Micah High Wizard in his place. Then he will put Fiona on the council to fill the Bayar seat. That will give Micah increased influence over the queen, and constant access to her, if he doesn’t have that already. In time, he will wear her down. We don’t want that.”

“Seems like something needs to happen to make them look like losers,” Han murmured. “Something that would call their infallibility into question. Something that would drive their sunny-day allies away.”

The dean scowled. “Leave that to me,” she said. “I didn’t hire you to plan political strategy.” She shook her hair back. “Dolph deVilliers is on the council, and he hates the Bayars. There’s you, and there’s me. That’s three out of six on the council. We need to win one more member to our side in order to avoid Gavan Bayar’s tie-breaking vote.”

“Our side?” Han said.

“I intend to be High Wizard,” Abelard said.

Well, Han thought, I’d prefer Abelard next to Raisa than Micah Bayar. But I’d rather be next to Raisa myself. Is there any way to make that happen? His mind skittered down that side path until Abelard’s voice broke in.

“Until we know more, it makes sense to continue to keep Queen Raisa alive and prevent a marriage to Micah. I want you to look into the possibility that they are seeing each other on the sly.” She paused. “If they are, are you prepared to eliminate Micah?”

More ready than I care to admit, Han thought, remembering those bleak, desperate days after Raisa disappeared from Oden’s Ford. “If you want,” he said, kicking back in his chair as though he didn’t care one way or the other. “If you make it worth my while.”

Abelard nodded briskly, seeming satisfied. “Meanwhile, I’ll try to find another match for the queen. Someone more to my liking.”

Han cleared his throat, keeping his body loose and relaxed. “Have anybody in mind?”

“Me, if I were a man,” Abelard said sarcastically. “Marriage is just a political exercise, after all. The key is to get married, conceive an heir, and then do as you please.” She considered Han’s question for a moment. “I’d prefer she marry someone harmless,” she said. “The sooner the better. I thought the Tomlin prince was a possibility, but that’s not looking good. Doesn’t General Klemath have a couple of idiot sons?”

There always came a point when Han couldn’t stand to be with Dean Abelard a moment longer. And this was it. He looked up, shading his eyes and judging the angle of the sun. “It’s getting late,” he said. “I’ll be missed. Is there anything …?”

“Did you ever find that girl you were looking for?” Abelard asked abruptly. “The one who disappeared from Oden’s Ford? You thought the Bayars might have had a hand in it.”

Just when you think Abelard isn’t paying attention, it turns out she is, Han thought.

Just remember, once you say something, it can’t be unsaid.

“No,” he said. “I think she’s gone for good.”