The Crimson Crown

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Raisa looked tired, her eyes smudged by shadow, her shoulders rounded under the weight of multiple demands. As her hands skittered restlessly across the tabletop, Han noticed that she still wore his ring next to her running wolves.

  The Delphians blustered and bullied, but Raisa stood her ground. The meeting dragged on. Han stood against the wall, seething, wishing he could throw them out the window. In the end, he had to leave for Ragmarket, where he’d meet up with Dancer to travel to Marisa Pines.

  The next morning, Han and Dancer rode out of the city hours before the sun grazed the top of the eastern escarpment. It was good to be riding with Dancer again. Han could almost pretend that all of the tragedies and triumphs of the past year had never happened, that they were hunters in search of smaller, less dangerous game.

  Their strategy was to travel to Gray Lady via Marisa Pines Camp, leaving a day early to avoid any possible ambushes. Also, Willo wanted to meet with them before the council meeting.

  They climbed steadily through the darkness, their breath pluming out, their horses swimming through a gray ocean of mist. They’d been traveling for two hours when the sun crested Eastgate, spilling into the Vale below.

  As the mist cleared, they passed through brilliant sunlight and cool shadow, between banks glazed with maiden’s kiss and starflowers. Tiny speedwell bloomed in the crevices, monkshood and larkspur in the creek beds. Spirea and columbine smudged the slopes in sunnier areas. Once, Dancer pointed out a half-grown fellsdeer fawn.

  They paused at midday to rest the horses and eat a meal of biscuits and ham. When they passed the turnoff to Lucius Frowsley’s place, Han wished he could stop and tell the old man that his friend Alger Waterlow still lived, in Aediion. If that could be called living.

  But their business was at Marisa Pines, and so they pressed on.

  In late afternoon, while they were still a few miles from their destination, Han heard the thunder of horses approaching at a run. Han and Dancer exchanged glances, then moved off the trail to wait.

  Four riders galloped toward them on tall flatland horses. Foam dripped from the horses’ mouths, but the riders spurred their mounts as if they were being chased by demons.

  Three of them were young—younger than Han—one middle-aged. As Han and Dancer watched, one of the riders groped at his neckline, turned, and sent a blast of flame over his shoulder.

  “Wizards? Here?” Han leaned forward in his saddle to get a better look.

  Two of the riders had passengers slung across their saddles in front of them. Children, in clan garb, limp as rag dolls.

  Five Demonai warriors galloped out of the trees, riding hard in pursuit. They stood up in their stirrups, raising their bows, but seemed hesitant to shoot with the children on board.

  Dancer heeled his horse forward, riding straight into the wizards’ path. Han followed, blocking the trail.

  The wizards reined in, their horses rearing and plunging at this sudden obstacle.

  Now the Demonai bows sounded, and the unencumbered wizards dropped out of their saddles. The clan warriors formed a rough circle around the two still-mounted wizards.

  One of the young wizards carrying a captive brought his horse to a crow-hopping stop. He was dressed in finely tailored riding clothes. He raised his hands away from his amulet. “Don’t shoot! I—”

  A Demonai arrow pierced his throat. One warrior leapt lightly to the ground and seized hold of the horse’s bridle, while another lifted the child to the ground.

  The remaining wizard—the middle-aged one—seeing what had happened to his companion, wrenched his horse’s head around, trying to ride off the trail and past Han and Dancer. Unfortunately for him, there was a drop-off on that side. Horse, rider, and child tumbled down a steep slope into a ravine.

  Han dismounted and plunged down the slope after them.

  The child had flown from the horse and landed in the rocky creek bed. The wizard was trying desperately to slide out from under his mount, which had fallen on top of him in the shallow water. Above Han, on the trail, a bow sounded. And another. Two arrows bristled the wizard’s chest, and he slid under the surface.

  The child wasn’t moving. Han worked his hands under her, and carefully lifted her out of the creek. A girl of perhaps six years, she was bleeding from the head, and her arm hung at an impossible angle. She lay perfectly still, eyes open, tears leaking out on either side.

  Han turned toward the slope, supporting her head and shoulders to prevent further injury. “I could use some help, here,” he called.

  One of the Demonai slid down the slope toward him, landing a few feet away. She was a stocky warrior, her face streaked with Demonai symbols. She looked familiar to Han, but he couldn’t quite place her.

  The warrior raised her longbow, aiming at Han. “Put the lytling down, jinxflinger.”

  “Trailblazer!” Dancer shouted, from the trail above. “Put your bow away. That’s Hunts Alone. He’s trying to help.”

  The warrior’s name jostled Han’s memory. She was Shilo Trailblazer Demonai. Han had recently seen her at Raisa’s coronation party at Marisa Pines.

  Trailblazer glared at Han, then slid her bow into its sling. Between the two of them they managed to carry the little girl up to where the horses waited.

  The other warriors had a small boy laid out on the ground. He looked like he might be a four-year.

  “He’s not moving, but I can’t find a mark on him,” one of them said.

  “They’ve been immobilized,” Dancer said. “Here, let me.” Placing his hand on the boy’s chest, he gripped his amulet with the other and disabled the charm.

  The boy reached up and gripped Dancer’s braids. “Jinxflinger took me,” he said.

  “I know,” Dancer said. “But you’re safe now.”

  He already knows that word, Han thought. Jinxflinger. Are we ever going to get past this?

  “Leave the girl immobilized until we can get her to Willo,” Han said, trickling a little power into the child to relieve the pain. “What happened?”

  Trailblazer spat on the ground. “These four jinxflingers kidnapped two of our lytlings—Skips Stones and Fisher. I suppose they meant to trade them for amulets.” She smiled grimly. “Now they will have to explain themselves to the Breaker.”

  “Who were they?” Han asked.

  “They didn’t introduce themselves,” Trailblazer said, shrugging as if wizards were all the same anyway.

  The younger ones might have been students at Mystwerk, made desperate by the Spirit clan embargo on amulets. Powerful amulets were more and more difficult to come by—even the temporary kind. When they could be found, they were incredibly expensive.

  “Let’s get the lytlings back to Marisa Pines,” Dancer said. Han mounted up, and Dancer handed the injured girl to him while the Demonai looked on uneasily.

  “We will escort you into camp,” Trailblazer said. “To make sure nothing happens to you. Tempers are running high.”

  “Let’s go, then,” Han said, worried about the girl in his arms and eager to hear what Willo had to say about this new business. He nudged Ragger forward, scattering the warriors in his way.

  As they neared camp, there were signs of troubled times. The usual greeting gaggle of lytlings and dogs was nowhere to be seen. Grim-faced sentries stood along the road that Han had traversed hundreds of times in his childhood. Some of them Han knew—by sight, anyway. The Demonai leaned down to explain the outcome of the chase. The sentries nodded to Han and Dancer as they passed, but kept their weapons in readiness.

  Han and Dancer dismounted in front of the Matriarch Lodge. Willo’s apprentice, Bright Hand, met them at the door. Han handed Skips Stones off to him, disabling the immobilization charm.

  Willo emerged from the back room. “Bring her here, Bright Hand. I have a bed ready.” She glanced at Han and Dancer. “Please, share our hearth and all that we have. There’s tea brewing.” Then she disappeared into the rear.

  The smoky upland blend brought a ru
sh of memories as Han sipped at it. Would he ever feel at home here again?

  It was more than an hour before Willo ducked between the deerskin curtains hiding the back room. “Skips Stones is sleeping now. I’ve set the broken bones, and she was able to take some willow bark. She was alert and talking. I think she will be all right. I’ve sent Bright Hand to fetch more supplies. Come—we’ll sit with her.”

  They followed Willo into the rear, where Willo had once healed Han from an arrow-point poison he’d taken for Raisa. Skips Stones lay on a sleeping bench next to the hearth, her thin chest rising and falling in a sleep cadence.

  “Mother, how did this happen?” Dancer asked, looking down at the girl.

  Willo rubbed the back of her neck. “Skips Stones and Fisher were fishing in the Dyrnnewater when they were taken. We’ve had wizards raid the outlying villages, looking for amulets, but this is the first time they’ve targeted children. Relations were tense and poisonous already. Now…I’m worried some of the warriors may retaliate against wizard targets.”

  She sat down in a chair next to the bed and pulled her basket of needlework onto her lap. She threaded a needle, knotted the ends. “I hope you will be careful, both of you,” she said. “It’s a dangerous time for the gifted to be traveling in the Spirits.”

  They murmured agreement, and an awkward silence coalesced around them.

  Willo took a deep breath, released it slowly. “Hunts Alone, could you ward us against eavesdroppers, please?”

  Han walked the perimeter of the room, laying privacy charms to keep them from being overheard, glad the Demonai outside couldn’t see what he was up to.

  Willo rested her hands in her lap, her dark eyes following Han around the room. Dancer sat cross-legged on the hearth rug, facing her. When Han had finished, he came and sat next to Dancer.

  Willo bent her head over her stitching. “Fire Dancer tells me you intend to travel to Gray Lady tomorrow, to attend your first Wizard Council meeting.”

  “Yes,” Han said.

  “I wanted to have this conversation before you went.” She paused and looked up at him. “Dancer has told you about his father.”

  Han nodded.

  “At first I was disappointed,” she said. “The more people who know a secret, the less likely it will remain hidden.” She smiled wistfully at Dancer. “I had hopes that you would not look like him. I had hopes that you were not gifted. I had hopes that you would find a vocation that would keep you in the mountains.” She paused, then added in a low, bitter voice, “I had hopes that wizards would stay in the flatlands, where they belong.”

  “It wouldn’t have remained a secret forever,” Dancer said. “The resemblance is too strong. Anyone who had the least suspicion would guess on his own.”

  “I realize that now. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since the queen was murdered. It was a mistake to conceal what he did, all these years. Wounds like this fester if they are not opened and drained. If I had spoken up, perhaps Marianna’s death could have been averted.”

  Willo finished a row of beaded stitches and bit off the thread. Then looked up at them. “Let me tell you about the day I met Bayar on Hanalea.”

  C H A P T E R S I X

  WHAT

  HAPPENED

  ON HANALEA

  The girl known as Watersong lingered by the healer’s spring long after her friends had returned to camp, their berry buckets full. For a while she worked on her sketches, trying to capture the glint of light on the water before the sun descended behind Hanalea’s western shoulder.

  Growing sleepy, she set her sketch board aside and leaned back against a tree, lulled by the music of the Dyrnnewater, basking in the sun. Occasionally, she would pop a red raspberry into her mouth, and the warm juice would explode onto her tongue.

  A voice broke into her daydreams, speaking in Common.

  “Who are you?”

  She looked up, shading her eyes. It was a boy, somewhat older than her. He looked very tall, especially to someone on the ground, and his outline was oddly blurry. A flatlander, obviously, but there was something—alien—about him.…

  She stood, dusting off her leggings. “My name is Watersong,” she said, also in Common.

  “You’re a copperhead,” the boy said, looking a little dazed. “But…you’re beautiful.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” Watersong said, rolling her eyes. “And don’t use that word if you want to get along with me.”

  “What kind of magic is this?” the boy growled, as if he hadn’t heard. “You’re bewitching.”

  Watersong was growing tired of this awkward conversation. “Who are you, and what are you doing on Hanalea?”

  “I—ah—I’m a trader,” he said. “My name is Gavan.” He stepped sideways, out of the direct line of the sun, so she could see his face. He was pale, as if he didn’t spend much time outdoors, and his eyes were a glacial blue under heavy dark brows. Handsome, some would say.

  Most traders Watersong knew were sunburnt and weathered by the wind. “Really?” she said skeptically. “You don’t look like one. Where is your gear?”

  He flushed. “I’m new,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my way. I left my pack horses about a mile back.”

  This is the most inept trader I’ve ever met, Watersong thought. Maybe there was some sort of error at his Renaming.

  “I’m looking for Marisa Pines market,” the boy Gavan said. “Am I close?”

  Watersong nodded. “Very close.” She turned to point. “It’s just down this—”

  “I understand they buy metalwork there,” he interrupted, gripping her arm.

  “They mostly sell,” Watersong said, pulling free and taking a step back. She was suddenly aware of being alone in the woods with a boy. It had never bothered her before. “Demonai work, especially. Though they will buy if the price is right.”

  “Would you…would you look at something and tell me if you think it would sell?” The boy seemed edgy; nervous, even.

  Well. He’d said he was new. Relaxing a bit, Watersong nodded.

  The trader pulled out a small pouch and emptied it onto Watersong’s palm. Out fell a massive gold ring, engraved with two falcons, back to back, their claws extended. She felt the tingle of magic in metal.

  “It’s flashcraft?” Watersong asked.

  The boy nodded. “Very old. Copp—clan made.”

  “You’ll probably get a good price for it, then,” Watersong said, and tried to hand it back. “I can show you the way to—”

  “Try it on,” the trader urged. “I’m wondering if it’s too heavy for a woman.”

  “All right,” Watersong said, sliding it onto her forefinger. “But you’ll really need to speak with…with—” Her voice trailed off as her mind clouded, and her body refused to obey her commands.

  “Now, then,” the trader said, gripping her arms and forcing her to the ground. “Let’s see what’s underneath all this deerskin.” His voice had changed, running into her ears like melted ice. Even his form changed, sharpened, so that now she could see the arrogant planes of his face, the cruel cast to his mouth.

  Jinxflinger, she wanted to say, but couldn’t.

  Skips Stones stirred on her low bed. Willo stroked her forehead, soothing her, and she drifted back into sleep.

  It had grown dark inside the lodge, as if a shadow of evil had fallen over them, though Han knew it was only evening coming on. Dancer kindled the lamps next to the sleeping bench, and they settled back for the finish of the story.

  “He tried to kill me, after,” Willo said. “But the Demonai arrived, and he had to flee. When he yanked his ring from my finger, I drew my belt dagger and slashed his hand.” She demonstrated, drawing her fingers across her palm. “He dropped the ring and fled.”

  “The Demonai never found him?” Han said.

  Willo shook her head. “Despite their famous tracking skills, they lost him almost immediately, as if he had been swallowed up by the earth. I assumed he used wizardry
to escape. I never told the Demonai that my attacker was a wizard. I never showed them the ring. I hoped to put it behind me, to find a way to forget.

  “When I found out I was expecting his child, I considered killing myself. But I refused to finish the work that that snake of a wizard had begun.” She smiled at Dancer. “And then, after you were born, I realized how lucky I was to have you. I prayed, though, that you would not be gifted, because I knew you would have no place in the world.”

  “Did you know who Bayar was?” Han asked, his voice low and hoarse. “That he was the High Wizard?”

  Willo shook her head. “He wasn’t at the time. I didn’t know any wizards, anyway. Several years later, after I became matriarch, I attended a wedding down in the city. When I spotted Bayar across a ballroom, my heart nearly stopped. He’d just been chosen High Wizard. I knew he might recognize me too, and ask questions and put it all together.”

  Willo extended her legs, her moccasins poking out from under her skirt. “And so I left. It was either that or stab him to death on the spot.” She looked up. “Now I wish I had. Because, ever since that day, I’ve questioned my own judgment. I’d thought I was safe on Hanalea. I thought I could walk out alone and not have to look over my shoulder.

  “After, I felt vulnerable. I felt like it was somehow my fault. And because I avoided him, he grew ever more powerful in my mind.” She pressed her fist against her chest. “Inside, I felt that if I exposed him, he would find a way to make me pay for it—through Fire Dancer.”

  “That’s why you didn’t go to the queen’s memorial service,” Han said.

  Willo nodded, then tilted her head, studying his face. “You look disappointed, Hunts Alone. You’re thinking I should have confronted him. You think I should have killed him.”

  “No. That’s not it.” Han struggled to put his thoughts into words. “I just…it seems like Bayar should’ve been called to account a long time ago. There’s never any consequences for what he does. He killed Mam and Mari, and what have I done?” He hesitated, but he had to ask the question. “Why are you so convinced that Bayar would murder Dancer if he knew? Lots of bluebloods have byblow offspring.”