The Uncrowned King

by Michelle West

  “She has that effect on people. I—she’s not young, but I want her to survive.”

  “I know.”

  “And will she, Jewel ATerafin? Will she survive?”

  “Yes.”

  He froze a moment as the word died into stillness, and then his eyes closed and he let his head fall into his hands. “Will you need a bed again, ATerafin?” he said, a moment later.

  “I hope not. Not that I have anything against the beds here,” she added, “but I’ve spent way too much time in healeries in the last month, and if I never see one as a patient again, it’ll be too soon.

  “I’ll stay a few hours.”

  “Your domicis?”

  Avandar stood close to the largest window, a grim shadow against the glass.

  “He’ll stay until I’m gone. He’s . . . not happy with me at the moment.”

  “I’m not sure I’d want him unhappy with me,” Dantallon replied. But Jewel had seen him face down a room full of upper nobility when he felt his cause—usually the health of a stubborn patient—required it; she couldn’t imagine that Dantallon would particularly care if anyone were unhappy with him, given the right circumstances. She watched him leave.

  And when he was gone, a hand touched her hand.

  She turned to meet the open eyes of Meralonne APhaniel, unsurprised by his convenient wakefulness.

  “Jewel ATerafin,” he said, his voice soft rather than weak. Dantallon was convinced that the fevers had him again, or that they would—but possibly not as badly. She couldn’t understand why; the rings seemed trivial compared to the fight with the demon. But she wasn’t magi, and she knew better than to ask.

  She held his gaze. And then, acknowledging what he had not yet spoken openly of, she turned from him to look at the troubled face of Sigurne Mellifas.

  “Yes,” he said softly.

  “Did you see what she did?” Jewel asked, her eyes tracing the lines in the old woman’s brow with a mixture of fear and affection.

  “I did not need to see it,” Meralonne replied, his voice failing to draw her attention away from the woman of whom they spoke so obliquely. “I heard the name.”

  “I thought it was myth—the name thing.”

  His answer was a trifle frosty. “You have spent too much time with Kiriel to be that stupid, but I forgive you your transparent attempt at protection.”

  Silence again. At last, Jewel said softly, “What will you do?”

  And she heard, of all things, a chuckle. She turned then, his hand still on her hand.

  “What will I do? What will you do, Jewel ATerafin? Of the two of us, my history, I believe, is somewhat less sterling than yours.”

  “I was the thief,” she countered.

  “True enough, but there was a certain purity even in that; you were a thief when you had no power. And therefore the thieving did not define you; what defined you then still binds you now.”

  She wanted to know what he thought that was, and even started to ask, but there was something in his expression that made her pull back. Made her ask instead, “And what shadows your history, Member APhaniel?”

  “Perhaps I have dabbled in the same arts,” he replied softly.

  She stared at him until his lips turned up in a smile.

  “Your particular talent gives you the advantage in this conversation.”

  She shrugged. “It wouldn’t have mattered at all had I been the one trying to wield your sword.” She was quiet a moment, and then she said, “Sigurne knew you wouldn’t make it on your own. She knew it.”

  His gaze grew remote; passed beyond her to the woman on the bed. “Yes,” he said softly. “And no, I don’t know how.”

  “I do. She knew who that creature was.”

  “I think it . . . unlikely.”

  “Why? You seemed to know who that creature was.”

  “That is why I think it unlikely.” He rose, stiffly, releasing Jewel’s hand.

  “Meralonne—Dantallon’s going to kill me if you collapse.”

  “Probably.” He passed her bed; came to stand at the foot of Sigurne’s. She saw the shudder take his slender frame; twist his features. He forced it aside. Dantallon would have been furious. “The magi suspected,” he said, “but we did not know for certain.

  “Sigurne has seen much in her life, and—like you—she may have done things she now regrets at a time when she had no power. What she has done since she gained true power defines who she is.

  “I will not betray her, if it is possible not to betray her; I believe that the arts she learned, she must have been fated to learn for just this reason: battle is coming, Jewel. Beyond it, the war that will forgive all, or destroy all.” He bowed his head. “And truthfully, I have become fond of Sigurne, and I am fond of very few people in my dotage.”

  The funny thing was that was the truth; so few people spoke truth when they announced their intention to do so.

  “Well,” Jewel said, “you’re a member of the magi, one of the wise. If you don’t think she’s any danger, who am I to argue? Besides, if I take this complaint to the council of the magi, and you deny it, they’ll have to side with you.”

  He was utterly, completely silent.

  And then she understood, and she understood completely. She felt a chill in the room that emanated entirely from his eyes. It wasn’t much lessened when he bowed, although his subsequent collapse into the bed that Dantallon had designated his did take a bit of the edge off his unspoken threat.

  Why, she thought, as she returned his bow, acknowledging the threat that he had chosen not to make, and that she had chosen—by so bowing—not to take offense at, were powerful people always so cold-blooded when they made their decisions?

  25th day of Lattan, 427 AA

  Avantari

  In the morning, things were clearer.

  He rose with the dawn, having seen too long a night, and when he left his chambers, it was the Princess and not the former Kings’ Champion who was waiting for him.

  The halls were empty; the air was quiet.

  On just such a morning as this, for several years now, Princess Mirialyn ACormaris would meet him. Just as today, she would carry a bow; he would carry nothing. They would walk—as she walked—down the quiet hall, and at the end of the hall, not the middle, and not near the door where the discussion might drift backward into the occupied halls, she would turn to him, and she would ask, “Are you ready?”

  And he would shrug.

  And she did. And he did. It made him laugh.

  The sound startled him. She answered it with a smile, a rare warmth that travelled the breadth of her face, changing very little.

  “I spoke with Alina,” she said, as they continued to walk.

  He stiffened a moment. Sighed. “And?”

  “Valedan, she understands what it is to be a Southerner. She does not—she cannot—understand what it is to be Valedan kai di’Leonne. None of us can. You were born in the South; you were raised in it until your eighth year. Some elements of that remain. But you’ve come of age in the North, among the patriciate, the Northern nobility. You have learned our ways.

  “They will become inseparable, North and South, within you, if you succeed.”

  “And if I fail?”

  She turned to face him. “Death.” Before he could reply—and there was no guarantee that he could have—she removed the bow from its resting place across her shoulder. It was unstrung, almost unbent, but he could tell just by looking at it that it was, if unornamented, a very fine weapon. “I would be honored,” she said, “if you would use this.”

  He caught it in both hands; was surprised by its weight. It was heavy, much heavier than it looked.

  “I will not be able to go with you,” she continued softly.

 
He knew that she spoke of the Dominion and the war.

  “Alina will go, and that will cause comment. I believe that Sivari will take his leave and travel with you as well. The Commanders will go. Listen to them, Valedan; they do not give poor advice.”

  He started to speak; she lifted a slender finger.

  “Listen to them, but remember that in the South, you, and you alone, must be seen to rule. If you disagree with anything they say, choose to speak privately, and quietly, no matter how strong the disagreement is. To disagree, and then to be persuaded to their way of thinking will not be acceptable to the Southerners who watch, who weigh the Northern influence in your life.

  “But,” she added softly, “if you make a decision, and the Commanders are arrayed against you—if you are certain in your convictions, declare yourself publicly; they will bow, because they have no right to be there without your request.”

  “I will have Baredan,” he said quietly. “And Ramiro.”

  “Yes. And Fillipo as well; he is cunning, but I think has more of a heart than his brother.”

  “He can,” Valedan replied without thinking. “He doesn’t have to rule.”

  She stared at him a long time, and then she nodded. “Truth in that, kai Leonne. How much of your heart will you give away to become power’s vessel?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You know that there’s a choice, now. Don’t forget it.”

  “Will I be allowed?”

  She smiled. “Probably not. But I would say, no, I will say, that you will take Jewel ATerafin with you as well, and when you are troubled, you might turn to her, if only to listen to what she has to say.”

  “Because she has the so-called sight?”

  “Because,” Mirialyn said gravely, “she is caught in the same struggle that will bind you: the choice between power and compassion, between wisdom and justice, between duty to a cause and loyalty to yourself. She has the advantage; she is older than you are, and she surrounds herself with people she can trust.

  “But you, Valedan, can trust so few that it might be better if you did not trust at all.”

  They were waiting for him.

  The Ospreys, the Commander, the Callestans. Even the General, Baredan di’Navarre, seemed to exhale and gain his ease only when Valedan came into full sight.

  “Am I late?” he asked, although he knew full well he was not.

  The General understood the rebuke, softly spoken though it was. His smile was brief, almost rueful. “You are not, kai Leonne.” He fell into step beside Valedan; Commander Sivari joined them.

  “Are you ready?” Sivari said.

  Valedan nodded.

  The strange thing was, it was true. He heard the muttering of the impatient crowd that waited beyond the gates; heard the adjudicators, their voices sharp and sudden as the lash of a whip; heard the song of a dozen bards, rising and falling as if it were part of the tide that waited beyond the seawall. All of this, for the day, the penultimate event: the test of the bow.

  And yet this one day, he felt a calm settle across his shoulders like a mantle. It was as if he had somehow taken the peace of the courtyard in which the blindfolded boy held sway, had swallowed it with the cool running water, had carried it here.

  “That bow,” Sivari said, his voice coming from both a long distance and less than three feet away.

  Valedan took the bow from his shoulders. “Yes?”

  “It—it looks familiar.”

  “Mirialyn gave it to me,” Valedan replied.

  “Can you string it?”

  It was not the question he had expected, although as a trainer, Sivari often asked odd questions. Valedan started to answer carelessly and stopped the words from coming; there were Southerners here: Baredan and, at a greater distance, the Callestan Tyr. Of course, he thought. And then: Why is he asking? He knows I can string a bow.

  As he often did, he found refuge in truth. “I haven’t tried.”

  “I would try,” Sivari said, his voice as neutral as Valedan ever heard it, “before the competition starts.”

  Sivari, what do you know about this bow that I don’t?

  “It’s not magical, is it?”

  “If it were,” Sivari replied, “it would be taken from you by the adjudicatory body—as would your place in this competition.” But his eyes were narrowed, unblinking; his hands were conspicuous in their sudden stillness at his side.

  Valedan set the bow on end, wrapped the string half around his ankle, and bent the aged wood.

  Something as heavy as this he expected a fight from; he put his shoulders and his upper body into the motion, holding the bowstring’s free end. The dark, polished wood caught sunlight, returning both that and the shadow of his bent reflection to his narrowed eyes.

  “Valedan?”

  Beyond it, he saw a darkness that was broken by starlight, by the clarity of constellation; he felt, at his back, the cold, cold wind, and he realized with a start that he had never seen a night so crisp as this, a sky so utterly clear.

  This had been her gift to him: Archery.

  As he struggled to join string to bow, he remembered the first bruises such a simple task had given him, and with bows much, much lighter than this. Oh, she had offered him sword, had watched his progress with Alina’s daggers, had taught him the rudiments of combat with shield and with scant armor—but this had been her gift: The watchful kill.

  “Wait, Valedan,” she would tell him. “The wind is not right.” Or, “Wait, Valedan. The grass is not moving, not the right way.” Or even, “Wait, and we will eat well.”

  Later, she had taught him speed, but the grace of the weapon was in this: Watching, seeing, waiting—and then, only then, letting fly.

  “Kai Leonne?”

  He shook his head; his dark hair sent a shadow over the bow’s reflection, bringing back the heat of summer sky, the approach of the Lord’s Hour.

  “Well done,” Sivari said, his voice a hint of that cool breeze, that night sky. “Do you know what it is that you hold?”

  “A bow,” he replied, no more. But he did know. She had given him, somehow, the heart of the North, a North unblemished by the heat of the summer sky, the humidity of the open sea, the bitterness of the political squabble and the coming war.

  And for the first time in months he was not afraid of taking what she offered; of holding it. She was the North, Alina the South, and he had never, in the course of his hybrid education, been separated from either.

  Commander Sivari bowed. “Kai Leonne,” he said, as a familiar might, “I think that you will never cease to surprise me. Come. They are waiting for you.”

  He had never been calmer than he was that day.

  He thought he might never be as calm again, for the time in which he might draw the bow, fitted with arrow, and wait out the manipulative malice of wind and sea breeze, was fast coming to a close.

  There were targets, painted in gaudy colors so that their import might more easily be gauged by those who watched. They could not move, of course; could make no attempt to evade.

  Contestants came and went; they were allowed three shots; they were allowed their choice of which of the three they attempted to hit. Valedan took his time.

  It was his time.

  The crowd’s chant became the chatter of gulls, of something so natural it faded into the background. His rivals were not rivals; they were there for their own reasons, and they met their own tests. But not one of them saw as he saw, felt as he felt: This was his time, and when he loosed the last arrow, it would be over.

  His first shot flew true, piercing the dark, deep blue that stained the heavy targets. He drew another arrow after the first had settled. Pivoted slightly, staring down the shaft a moment to the target twenty yards to the west. He heard the judges, heard t
he crowd, heard the deep resonance of bardic voice.

  But more than that, he heard the wind, the rustle of leaves at the edge of the stadium and beyond it; saw the dip and flight of gulls above. He watched them as they swooped to ground and eddied up in the current, and when he felt the time was right, he let loose the second arrow.

  It, too, flew to the target’s heart.

  The crowd was louder now; the only human noise he could hear. He waited them out, waited as patiently as he knew how. He fitted the third arrow, the third shot, and pivoted again.

  The last target.

  It wasn’t necessary. He knew it. But it was the last one. He felt a cold, cold wind cut his cheeks with razor fingers, freezing blood instead of drawing it. He saw his breath hang like a shroud of mist in the air before that wind blew it out of his sight. He shivered a moment, knowing that cold, like heat, was a killer. Understanding the lesson.

  And then he watched. He waited. He felt the moment approaching.

  The arrow flew.

  The target accepted it, swallowing wood and ending its flight perfectly: the heart pierced.

  Three shots.

  Three targets.

  He knew this was a Northern skill, a Northern sport. He would gain nothing for it from the South, save the acknowledgment of victory. Knew that there were few in the Dominion who could do a third so well on a lucky day, and knew as well that it counted for almost nothing in their eyes. Alina would have frowned, but Valedan didn’t care.

  This was still his, this skill, this test, this time.

  He turned away from the targets toward the spectators’ boxes. The Kings were there, and the Queens; the man known as the Lord of the Compact and hated for it; the Kings’ Swords. But beside them, the only person he wished to see: the Princess of the Blood. Mirialyn ACormaris.

  He walked the grass for her, crossing white lines and gold lines with equal regard: none.

  And when he reached as far as the grounds—and the guards—would allow, he paused before her. Raised the bow that had been her gift in both hands.

  She met his eyes, and her smile was dim, a mixture of pride and loss, an acknowledgment of both his time and its passing.