The Crimson Crown

by Cinda Williams Chima

Bloody, bloody, bloody bones, Raisa thought. I don’t want to be queen right now.

  “Give me a minute,” Raisa said. Fleeing into her bedchamber, she powdered her reddened nose and blotted her damp eyes. Fluffing up her hair, she put her shoulders back and returned to the outer room. Trader face, she thought.

  Cat blinked at the transformation. Raisa nodded, and Cat opened the door.

  Amon Byrne and Char Dunedain stood there, both grim-faced and pressed perfect despite the sultry day. They bowed to Raisa.

  “Captain Byrne, General Dunedain,” Raisa said. “I asked General Klemath to meet us in the audience chamber.”

  Amon nodded, but his gray eyes never left Raisa’s face. “Is something wrong, Your Majesty?” he asked. “If you would like to postpone this—”

  “No,” Raisa said. “This situation won’t improve with waiting. Shall we go?” On impulse, she turned to Cat. “Lady Tyburn, please come with us.”

  Raisa led her officers toward the audience chamber, her guard trailing her, Reid Nightwalker among them. Cat ghosted along ahead, looking down side corridors and out windows.

  “Where is everyone?” she said, rubbing her tattooed forearms. “It reminds me of Ragmarket before a streetlord fight.”

  But to Raisa’s eyes, the corridors were not deserted. Wolves milled in her path, yipping, their ruffs standing on end. They collected in front of her, dissipating and then reappearing as she and her party walked through. Their voices resonated in her ears: Beware!

  Raisa tried hard not to react to their presence, for fear her new general would think she had lost her wits. I know this is risky, she messaged them silently. But I have no choice.

  They crossed the barbican, passing through one tower and onto a walkway to another, where the circular audience chamber was.

  They were nearly at the door when Cat stopped abruptly, and stood looking out of one of the tall windows in the crossover from the Queen’s Tower. “Lot of stripers out there, Your Majesty,” she said, as Raisa came abreast of her.

  Raisa turned off, coming up beside Cat in the window. Nightwalker stood behind Raisa, looking out over her head. There were a lot of stripers out there—as the mercenary soldiers were called—a veritable sea of them, in fact, on both sides of the river, surrounding the curtain wall.

  “General Dunedain,” Raisa called, motioning Char to the window. “Did you intend to address the troops as well as the officers?”

  “Eventually,” Char said. “But not today.” She gazed out at the thousands of soldiers, tucking her chin and glowering from under her brows. Breathing an upland oath, she turned; her eyes met Amon’s, and some knowledge crackled between them. Nightwalker moved closer, his dark eyes fixed on them as if for a signal.

  “Corporal Greenholt, how many Guard on duty in the palace today?” Amon asked, his voice low and steady.

  “Thirty, Captain,” Pearlie said promptly. “And fifty more in the guardhouse, the other side of the drawbridge.”

  “Send somebody across the bridge to the guardhouse and bring everyone on the double into the keep. Keep it quiet, all right? Then raise the drawbridge,” Amon said, as if discussing the weather.

  “Yes, sir,” Pearlie said.

  “I’ll go,” Hallie volunteered.

  “And me,” Mick said. They left at a dead run.

  “Your Majesty,” Amon said softly, tilting his head toward the crossover from the Queen’s Tower. “Return to the Queen’s Tower, bar the door, and wait for us there. Tyburn, go with her and don’t let anybody in.”

  Raisa looked at the closed door of the audience chamber. Wolves collected in front of the door, their ears flat against their skulls, baring their teeth as if they would block her way.

  She took a step back, and then another. As she turned to run, the door to the audience chamber slammed open and a muddle of buff and striper uniforms poured out.

  “Go! Go! Go!” Amon shouted, drawing his sword. Metal rang as swords slid free all around her.

  Raisa ran. Behind her, she heard Klemath shout, “There she is! She’s getting away!”

  The Guard formed up in the corridor, a blockade of bluejackets and swords. Nightwalker had climbed onto one of the broad stone window ledges, his longbow already singing its deadly song as he fluidly nocked and fired.

  Raisa and Cat raced into the other tower, closed and barred the door. Putting their shoulders to it, they pushed furniture against it.

  Magret Gray walked out of the bedroom, and Cat all but garroted her before she recognized her.

  “Sweet sainted Lady!” Magret said. “What are you doing with the furniture? What is going on?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” Raisa said breathlessly. “But I believe that the former General Klemath is leading a rebellion against the crown.”

  “Klemath!” Magret scowled. “The scoundrel! What does he hope to gain?”

  “I’m guessing that word of his imminent demotion has somehow leaked out.”

  “You go on into the bedchamber, Your Majesty,” Magret said. “Lady Tyburn and I will handle things out here.” Casting about for a weapon, she snatched up a large copper lamp.

  Raisa knew Magret was thinking of the tunnel to the roof, that Raisa could escape if the renegades breached the outer door.

  Raisa shook her head. “I’ll stay here for now,” she said. “There’s a better view of the drawbridge.” She grabbed up her longbow, braced one limb against her instep, bent the bow back, and slipped the string into the nock with a satisfying snap.

  Sliding her quiver over her shoulder, she stepped into one of the recessed windows and peered down into the courtyard below.

  “Get back, Your Majesty,” Magret hissed behind her. “’Tisn’t safe to show yourself.”

  Bluejacketed guards streamed across the drawbridge and into the keep. The view of the mercenaries on the ground was blocked by the curtain wall. If all went well, Raisa’s reinforcements would be inside and the bridge up before the stripers knew what was happening.

  But just then, Raisa heard a shout from the opposite tower, where Amon and the others were holding off Klemath and his mercenaries. One of Klemath’s soldiers had stood himself up in the window and was shouting and waving to the mercenaries on the ground.

  “The drawbridge!” he roared. “To the drawbridge!”

  The soldiers below looked up, shading their eyes, trying to catch the man’s words.

  Raisa braced herself, took careful aim, and released. Her arrow buried itself in the man’s chest, and he toppled backward into the tower.

  Across the bailey, three stripers hauled themselves over the curtain wall, dropping onto the wallwalk on the inside. From that vantage point, they had a good view of the drawbridge. One of them turned and began shouting over the wall to his comrades on the ground. The other two nocked arrows, aiming at the reinforcements crossing the drawbridge.

  Raisa drew back her bowstring, aiming, but her target staggered backward and toppled from the wall, a black-fletched arrow in his throat. Raisa looked across to the other tower in time to see Nightwalker shoot the second bowman.

  But it was too late. Outside the wall, a contingent of riders detached itself from the main army and rode madly toward the drawbridge.

  “They’re coming!” Raisa shouted to Hallie, who was still down on the bridge, shepherding the last few across. “Hurry!”

  As soon as the last of the guards came onto the drawbridge, the chains rattled on the windlass and the great bridge began to rise, nearly tumbling the last guards into the keep. The drawbridge slammed shut just as the first of the horsemen came into view across the river. They skidded to a stop at the river’s edge, shaking their fists, their oaths floating across the water.

  “Thank the Lady,” Magret said behind her.

  For another two hours that lived like so many days, Raisa and her servants huddled in the Queen’s Tower. In the corridors, they could hear shouting, the clatter of steel, running feet.

  They kept watch out the window at
all times, but there was little to see and nothing to shoot at. The soldiers outside seemed to be waiting for a signal, or for the doors to open.

  Finally, Raisa heard Amon’s voice from the corridor. “The keep is secured, Your Majesty. You can open the door.”

  Cat motioned Raisa back and opened the door.

  Amon Byrne stood in the doorway, the Lady Sword in his right hand, the blade stained dark with use. Talia Abbott stood just behind him.

  There was a cut over Amon’s right eye, and the freshly pressed uniform was stained and spattered with blood. Talia was similarly bloodied up.

  “How…Are many dead?” Raisa asked. Any of the Wolves? Anyone I love? she added silently.

  Amon shook his head. “None, thank the Lady. They couldn’t use their numbers in the narrow corridor. They could only come at us two at a time. When the reinforcements came up from the guardhouse, the stripers were caught between. That made the difference.”

  “Klemath?”

  “He got away,” Amon said, his face hard and grim. “Which means we have a bigger problem outside. General Dunedain’s gone to investigate. Now that we’ve cleared the keep, I’ve sent teams to take a count of everyone within, and to assess what goods we have in the buttery and the kitchen stores.”

  “Then we’re under siege? By our own army?” Raisa asked, her voice cracking with disbelief.

  “It seems so,” Amon said. “I expect we’ll find out soon enough what they want.”

  “I just hope he doesn’t expect me to marry Kip,” Raisa said, shuddering. “I’d leap from the tower first.”

  Cat snickered, and that set Magret to laughing, and soon they were all in convulsions.

  “Even w-worse,” Cat cackled, blotting tears of mirth from her eyes. “Maybe he wants you to marry b-b-both of them.”

  “I’ll make you a rope, Your Majesty, so you can hang yourself,” Magret said.

  Talia swaggered across the tower room, thrusting out her hip and planting her hand on an imaginary weapon. “Your Majesty, marry me. I haven’t a brain in my head, but I have a really…big…sword.” Then she got a bewildered look on her face. “I only hope you can teach me how to use it.”

  Amon just stared at them as if they’d all gone mad.

  Or giddy.

  Raisa didn’t care. She was just glad that nobody she cared about had died—yet. But she knew that couldn’t last.

  C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - T H R E E

  IN THE DEEPS

  Han awoke to murky torchlight, hurting in every place imaginable and some he’d never known about before.

  He was no stranger to pain. He’d endured the tender touch of the queen’s gaolers in the past, and knew it was survivable. Life on the streets brought with it a share of knifings, beatings, and streetlord discipline—at least until you got your own game going.

  “Alger?” he said, searching for his ancestor’s presence.

  “I’m here,” Crow said, his voice low and soothing. “Go back to sleep if you can.”

  Lord Bayar had wasted no time getting down to the business of ferreting secrets out of Han. Clearly, he meant to keep Han alive long enough for a thorough interrogation. And mobile enough to lead them to the armory if need be. So for the present, he used a light and careful hand—familiar devices, including thumbscrews, toe wedges, and flogging. Now and then he raised blisters with wizard flame, but never went deeper.

  Han stood for hours locked into a collar that forced him to keep his neck stretched out or be spiked in chin and chest. He hung on the wall from his wrist darbies, as the days and nights ran together. Bayar broke two fingers on Han’s right hand. Why he’d stopped with two, Han didn’t know.

  One thing you had to say about the Bayars—they never minded getting their hands bloody. Unusual for bluebloods.

  They watered him liberally, and fed him some, too. Han ate and drank what was provided, when he was conscious enough.

  Curse me for an optimist, Han thought. I always think, given time, I’ll find a way to win. That’s what got me here. Every time I make a claim on the world, it catches the attention of the vengeful gods. He remembered his words to Raisa.

  I promise you that if you love me, and you agree to marry me, I will make it happen.

  They seemed to mock him now.

  Nobody knows I’m here, he thought. And I can count on the fingers of one hand those who would care. He’d told Raisa about the armory, part of his new resolve to trust his friends. But all she knew was that he was going after it. She’d have no idea where to look for him.

  Micah never once came to the dungeon deeps, not even to gloat. Where is he? Han wondered. Was he busy courting Raisa, with his rival all chained up?

  Though Micah wouldn’t see Han as a rival. Not really.

  I have to survive, he thought. Otherwise, Raisa will marry Micah.

  At first, Fiona spent quite a bit of time in the dungeon, hands clasped together, watching her father work on Han, her face pale and stonelike. She seemed to be trying to take some pleasure in it, and not succeeding.

  Han made no effort to put up a brave front. Most of the time he just screamed himself hoarse, though a couple of times he amused himself by screaming Fiona’s name as if he were in the throes of passion. FEEE-OHHH-NAAA! Lord Bayar made him pay for that, but afterward, Fiona didn’t come down anymore, which Han appreciated.

  When Bayar used truth charms on him, Crow would step in and spout gibberish and nonsense for hours. Bayar stopped that, likely worried that Han was going crazy. There’d be no way to get good information out of a Mad Tom.

  Crow is trapped in my head, Han thought. With no amulet to escape into. He’s suffering again, along with me.

  As Han weakened, Crow began taking control of him more and more, standing in and enduring hours of torture on his behalf. Han tried to stop him, but he was too weak to prevent it, and it did allow him to get some sleep. When Crow ceded back his body, Han would explore it cautiously, looking for all the new hurt places and making sure nothing was missing.

  Han struggled to sit up. His eyes were so swollen that he had to turn his head to see slices of his surroundings. He realized, then, that they’d moved him to a different prison—one that stank of scummer and blood and despair.

  He no longer dangled from the wall, but lay on a pile of filthy blankets on the stone floor. His wrists and ankles were still darbied, but the Bayars had given him enough chain to allow him to move in a small arc from bed to slop jar to water skin.

  “What’s going on?” Han asked Crow.

  “I don’t know,” Crow said. “They moved you here, all in a rush, chained you up, and left again.” He paused. “You have company.”

  Han noticed it now—groaning and raspy breathing from the far side of the room. He looked across to see a small heap of clothing against the wall on the far side.

  “Hello!” Han called. “Who are you?”

  The groaning stopped abruptly, and the heap shifted. “Cuffs?”

  “Flinn?” Han said, astonished. Questions tumbled through his addled brain.

  Flinn pushed himself into a sitting position, propped against the wall. He’d had always been small, but now he seemed to have dwindled further, a handful of bloody rags over bones—scarcely recognizable. Even at a distance, Han could tell he was in a bad way. His torso was wrapped in bloodstained bandages, and Han could smell the stench of putrefying flesh.

  “What are you doing here?” Han asked softly.

  “I was going to ask the same thing when they brung you in here, and I saw how you’d been worked over.” Flinn coughed, a hacking, wet cough that sounded ominous. “See, I was the one put the finger on you. I thought you was in with them.”

  “I know,” Han said. “I’m sorry. What you heard at the Smiling Dog—I was gamoning the Bayars, and it went wrong. I don’t blame you for thinking I was in their crew.” He paused. “Now you tell. I thought you were Captain Byrne’s. He wouldn’t hand you off to the Bayars.”

  “I run off,
” Flinn said. “When I came to see the queen, Cat was there. I knew she’d go right to you, and I figured you’d come after me for bawling to the watch. So I kicked the bluejackets and run back to Pilfer to collect my things, but the Bayars had a watch out—for you, I guess—and they grabbed me.

  “I didn’t go down without a fight, though, and I was bad hurt. They brung me back here, and at first they had healers working on me to keep me alive, but then all of a sudden they quit and dumped me down here.”

  “Flinn. I’m sorry,” Han said, his voice thick with remorse. “It’s my fault you’re here.”

  “I should’ve known better than to think you’d throw in with them,” Flinn said, his breath wheezing through broken teeth. “I ain’t a snitch, Cuffs, you know that, right? But Queen Raisa—she’s a good one, and I didn’t want to see her hurt.”

  “She is a good one,” Han said softly. He cleared his throat. “If you thought I was out to murder the queen, it was right to turn me in. Now rest, and don’t worry about it.”

  But Flinn seemed compelled to make his case. “You’ll get off; you’ll see,” he said eagerly. “I’ll be dead before long, and I can’t swear against you if I’m dead.”

  “Just rest,” Han said. “Keep your strength up.” He realized what Flinn didn’t, in his feverish state. With Han in hand, the Bayars no longer had need of Flinn, since they never meant to bring Han to trial. They’d chained Flinn up and left him to die.

  Once again, Han’s anger flared, and with it, his drive to survive.

  C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - F O U R

  AGREEING TO

  DISAGREE

  It took two days to arrange a parley with Klemath under a flag of truce. Understandably, there wasn’t a lot of trust on either side.

  “He can send written demands,” Amon said. “I don’t want him coming within a hundred yards of you.”

  “No,” Raisa said. “I want to look the man in the eye. I want to understand why he did this. I want to sort out truth from lies.”

  “Fine. Let him come in here,” Cat said, her head bent over her sharpening stone, honing her body blades. “I’ll cut him to pieces too small for the maggots to find.”