The Crimson Crown

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “No,” Raisa said. “All I have as a ruler is my word. And if that can’t be trusted, then—”

  “Let me do this one little thing,” Cat begged. “After Klemath, I’ll never ask you for another favor. You can be extra trustworthy after that.”

  There were no gifted within the castle close. The most prominent had assembled on Gray Lady prior to the attack, to launch the investigation of Han. The rest had repaired to their summer homes in the southern mountains, escaping the unusual heat in the Vale.

  Where was Han? Could he be somewhere in the city of Fellsmarch, outside the castle close? Was he on the run in the mountains? Did he even know the castle was under siege?

  Raisa ricocheted between wishing she had him there with her, to hoping he was somewhere out of danger. Han Alister had a way of finding trouble, and these days there was plenty of trouble to be found.

  Raisa didn’t know where her father and grandmother were, either. They were likely in the upland camps, keeping a close eye on Gray Lady, waiting for some decision about Han. Did they know what was happening down in the Vale?

  Did it matter? The clans were not adept at flatland warfare—at coming up against an army in formation. But they could make it impossible for the mercenaries and their allies to get anything into or out of the Vale.

  Unfortunately, Raisa and her allies would run out of resources before the mutinous army did.

  And so they met, the queen and the traitor, under a little canopy outside of the Fellsmarch guardhouse at the end of the drawbridge. Raisa wore the magicked armor made for her by Fire Dancer. Amon had insisted, and, anyway, it presented the image of a queen at war.

  Raisa was backed by General Dunedain, Captain Byrne, four bluejackets, and Cat Tyburn. Klemath headed a motley of striper mercenaries, along with a long-nosed, arrogant-looking Malthusian priest. The priest was clad all in black, save the rising sun pendant at his neck and the golden keys about his waist.

  When Cat spotted the priest, her eyes narrowed. She looked from the cleric to Klemath and back again, looking puzzled. And alarmed.

  She recognizes him, Raisa thought. Why would Klemath come with a priest, and a flatland priest, at that? She spotted Keith Klemath in the back of the pack (or was it Kip?), and for a split second wondered if the man was there to perform a marriage. But the lytling Klemath looked awfully glum for it to be his wedding day.

  “Klemath,” Raisa said, wrenching her gaze back to her former general. “I certainly cannot bid you welcome, but I am interested in hearing an explanation of this…ill-considered adventure.”

  “Your Majesty. I am not here to explain. I am here to discuss terms of surrender,” Klemath said.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Raisa said. “I cannot promise clemency, but I will promise you justice.” To her right, she saw Cat wink at the general and draw her finger across her throat.

  Klemath looked flustered. Then angry. “I am here to discuss terms of your surrender, Your Majesty, not mine.” He slapped his gloves across his palm for emphasis.

  “What makes you think I intend to surrender?” Raisa said, cocking her head.

  “You are hopelessly outnumbered,” Klemath said, as if tutoring a small child. “You have—what—a few dozen guards? I have thousands of soldiers surrounding the castle close.”

  “That’s a lot of hungry mouths to feed,” Raisa said, tsking. “We are well provisioned, here in the keep, but as for you—well, I hope you planned for a long siege.” She looked past him, shading her eyes, to the mountains ringing the Vale. “I don’t recommend trying to bring any supplies through the mountains,” she said.

  “We will own the passes before long,” Klemath blurted, his face pinking up like a strawberry.

  The priest leaned toward him and murmured a few words.

  “May I introduce the Most Holy Father Cedric Fossnaught, Principia of the Church of Malthus,” Klemath said.

  Fossnaught moved forward, extending his pendant as if he expected Raisa to kiss it.

  Raisa put up both hands and took a step back as Cat stepped between her and Fossnaught, scowling, her largest blade extended from under her trailing sleeve. “Keep your distance, you ragged-tailed flatland crow, or I’ll…”

  Fossnaught staggered backward, nearly falling, looking terrified.

  Raisa laid a hand on Cat’s arm to restrain her. “I think he understands your meaning, Lady Tyburn,” she said. “So, Fossnaught. Ah…what brings you to the queendom of the Fells? I would think you had plenty to do in the south.”

  “I bring greetings from His Majesty, King Gerard Montaigne of Arden,” Fossnaught said.

  It’s always the way, Raisa thought. Just when you think matters cannot get any worse—they do.

  “King Gerard is aware of the difficulties you have had in managing the savages and demons that infest this kingdom,” Fossnaught said.

  Queendom, Raisa thought, but said nothing.

  “A civil war on our borders could cause instability in Arden, just when we are at peace for the first time in decades,” Fossnaught went on.

  You’re at peace because Gerard has managed to kill off the last of his brothers, Raisa thought. But didn’t voice that, either, choosing to listen and learn.

  “And so King Gerard is sending his army north in support of you, against those who would challenge your sovereignty.”

  “King Gerard is what?” Raisa stepped forward and took a fistful of Fossnaught’s cleric’s robe.

  “King Gerard is on the march through the passes into the Fells,” Fossnaught said, his sallow face gleaming with sweat. “He will be here within days. In the meantime, he has sent me, the most prominent churchman in all of Arden, to offer his protection and assure you of his good intentions. He still has hopes that a marriage between you might advance his goal of a merger between Arden and the Fells.”

  And how long would I last in such a marriage? Raisa thought. Montaigne isn’t looking for a partner.

  “Arden has bought up the contracts of the soldiers you see before you,” Klemath added, with a bit of bluster. “They will keep matters under control until the Ardenine Army arrives.”

  Bloody bones, Raisa thought. So I am unlikely to get help from the camps. With Montaigne’s army marching through Marisa Pines Pass, the clans will have their hands full. If they even survive.

  She fought to focus on the present mess, pushing thoughts of vulnerable friends and family to the back of her mind.

  “I might have known the Ardenines had a hand in this,” Raisa said icily, releasing her hold on Fossnaught and swiveling to confront Klemath. “How long have you been plotting against your blooded queen? How long have you been in bed with Montaigne?” She paused, twisting the wolf ring on her hand, and lifted her chin. “Better you than me.”

  Klemath’s face darkened from strawberry to rhubarb.

  “The answer is no, to both of you,” Raisa said. “I will not surrender, and I seek no alliance, least of all a marriage to Gerard Montaigne. And as to protection, I will rely on the Maker and the Lady to keep me safe from despicable paste-faced liars like you.”

  Fossnaught made the sign of Malthus, protection from the witch of the Fells.

  “Hanalea will not ride to your aid, Your Majesty,” Klemath said. “Nor will anyone else. I urge you to be realistic and accept what has happened with good grace.”

  “I am a Gray Wolf queen,” Raisa said. “We have never been graceful losers. And so”—she looked each of them in the eyes—“I do not intend to lose. I will fight you until the last breath leaves my body. You will not take me alive.”

  C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - F I V E

  BACK GAMON

  Han couldn’t say how long it had been since the Bayars had abandoned them. He’d lost track of days in the dark deeps. There were no windows, the torches had burned out, and he navigated by touch. The emptiness in his stomach and the rankness of the chamber pot told him that considerable time had passed. Eventually, the water ran out, and nobody came to refill it
. He grew weak with hunger and thirst. Still, the Bayars did not return.

  When he was awake, he moved around to keep from going totally stiff. He had to be careful, though. The darbies themselves were magicked torture devices—his wrists were layered in blisters where they’d burned him during previous attempts to slip them off or pick the lock.

  He slept more and more, despite his filthy condition and his many injuries. But dreamless sleep went by too quickly, and then he’d be awake again. He liked dreams—dreams that took him away from his current situation. Mostly he dreamed of Raisa—of kisses and embraces under the stars, of her gold-flecked green eyes, her lithe, muscular body against his.

  Sometimes he dreamed of childhood summers in the Spirits, walking green-shadowed trails with Dancer and Bird, splashing in the Dyrnnewater, hunting mushrooms after a rain.

  When he did awake, there was nobody there and nothing to see. The Bayars must have pressing business elsewhere, Han thought. More important people to torture, maybe.

  Maybe they’d somehow found the armory on their own, and no longer needed him. Maybe they’d decided to abandon him and Flinn to starvation. People always said that wasn’t a bad way to go, but they tended to be people who’d never gone hungry.

  Han heard nothing from Flinn, chained up in the far corner. He considered calling out to him, but didn’t want to wake him if he’d managed to go to sleep.

  Even Crow had little to say, but the silence within Han’s head was thick, as if Han’s ancestor were brooding.

  A flare of light against Han’s eyelids woke him. Squeezing his eyes shut against the brilliance, he waited, measuring progress in the clink of keys and the squeal of metal on metal as the intruder opened doors to get to him.

  It was Fiona, and she was alone. She seemed oddly subdued, almost frightened, her nose pinked up as if she’d been crying. She carried a large jug and a bulging bag over her shoulder.

  Who died? Han wondered. Micah? He happied up a little at the thought.

  Fiona lodged her torch into one of the metal brackets on the wall, lit another from it, and mounted it on the other side. Then came and knelt in front of him.

  “Ah, Alister,” she said, gripping his stubbled chin with her hot fingers, turning his head this way and that. “You’ve looked better.” She wrinkled her nose. “And you’ve smelled better.”

  “Whose fault is that?” Han whispered. His throat was too raw to allow more than whispers. “Decided to go into the family business after all? And here I thought we had a future together.”

  “Shut up,” she snapped. “You’re the one who—” Then she collected herself, no doubt recalling that the last thing she wanted was for him to shut up.

  Han focused on the jug Fiona had set down next to her. “Is that water?”

  Fiona nodded. Pulling the cork with her teeth, she poured into a cup and handed it to him. He drained it quickly and thrust it out again, figuring he might as well make the most of this visit before she told him what they meant to do to him now.

  “Slow down, Alister,” Fiona said, pouring again. “There’s plenty more, and I brought you some food as well.” She licked her lips and attempted a smile.

  Is she trying to charm me for some reason? Han wondered.

  When he’d drained the second cup, he raised his manacled hands to point at Fiona’s carry bag. “You mentioned food?”

  She pulled out a napkin-wrapped bundle, unwound it, and handed him a meat pie. Han sank to the floor, leaning back against the wall, and devoured half of the pie in a few bites.

  “I thought you weren’t coming back,” he said, chasing the meat pie with more water.

  As if in answer, Fiona held out another pie.

  “What about Flinn?” Han said.

  “Who?”

  Han nodded at his friend crumpled against the opposite wall. “Give him something, too.”

  Fiona shuddered. “He’s dead,” she said, pressing her sleeve over her nose. “Can’t you smell him?”

  Well, no, he couldn’t. Not over the stench of his chamber pot and his own filthy body.

  Bones. Hot tears stung Han’s eyes. Poor Flinn had escaped the slaughter in Ragmarket only to end up dying alone in the dark. Han recited a prayer in his head for Flinn, one that Mam had made him memorize when she’d still had hopes for him.

  He took the other meat pie, and ate that one more slowly.

  “Something disastrous has happened,” Fiona said, done with hand-wringing over a witness they no longer needed.

  Han looked up. Anything disastrous for the Bayars was likely good news to him. But he guessed he didn’t need to say that.

  “A mercenary army has laid siege to Fellsmarch Castle, demanding its surrender. The Ardenine Army has invaded from the south. The copperheads can’t seem to stop them.”

  Han was already lost. “What mercenary army? How did they get to Fellsmarch without being stopped?”

  Fiona’s face twisted in disgust. “The stripers in the Army of the Fells have turned on us,” she said. “General Klemath has thrown in with Montaigne and turned traitor to the queen.”

  Raisa! Han lurched forward, then settled back, chains clanking, trying not to show how eager he was for news. “What about the queen? Where is she?”

  “Apparently, she is trapped in Fellsmarch Castle, with a handful of guards and a few copperheads,” Fiona said.

  “No gifted?”

  Fiona shook her head. “They were all either in the mountains or here, at the Council House—ah—”

  “Trying to convict me of something?” Han guessed.

  She nodded. “Micah has gone down to the city. He’s going to try to find a way in.”

  That’s Micah, Han thought. Always trying to find a way in. He studied Fiona’s face. Was she telling the truth, or was it just a story she’d hatched to persuade him to give up the goods?

  If he had to guess, he’d say she wasn’t lying. Or only a little.

  “What about the council of Wizards?” Han asked. “What are they up to?”

  “The flatland army has overrun the estates in the mountains to the south,” Fiona said. “They are—they have captured many of the gifted, and they…” She swallowed hard. “They burned them alive,” she whispered. “They’ve brought a speaker with them who burns any wizard who won’t accept a collar.”

  Han could guess what priest they’d brought along. “How many?” he asked.

  “A dozen, so far. Except for those on Gray Lady, most of the gifted are holed up in their fortified country homes, or fleeing to the east, hoping to take ship. They are reluctant to challenge an army of that size without more and better weapons.”

  And that’s where I come in, Han thought.

  “So you can see why it is more important than ever that we find the armory. Otherwise, the Fells will become a vassal state of Arden, and the gifted will be enslaved or destroyed.”

  Han made sure he’d finished the meat pie and another cup of water. Then he said what was on his mind. “Why should I believe you? And if I did believe you, why should I care?”

  “What do you mean?” Fiona stammered. “They are burning the gifted, Alister! They are overrunning the country. We’ll be under the heels of the zealots of Malthus.”

  I won’t be there to see it, Han wanted to say. Knowing that you Bayars will burn makes it all worthwhile.

  But the thing was, Han did care. He’d seen the look on Gerard Montaigne’s face when Raisa had publicly rejected his marriage proposal. He knew that if she fell into southern hands, she would pay dearly for that humiliation. Han might be doomed, but he might be able to save her.

  If he gave up the armory, would that do the trick?

  A seed of an idea flowered in his head. Not a great idea, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  Triumph kindled in Fiona’s eyes. “I’ll fetch my father,” she said, scrambling to her feet.

  Han shook his head. “N
o. I want to make a deal. I want to tell you. Just…you. If I can convince you, then you can talk to your father and convince him to—to spare my life.”

  Fiona eased back into a kneeling position. “Of course,” she said, stroking her braid. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

  Now she’s lying for sure, Han thought.

  “You’ve been right all along—the key to the armory is in the Waterlow amulet,” he said.

  “Go on,” Fiona urged, lips parted.

  “The armory is here in the tunnels, like your father suspected. Waterlow hid a map in the amulet that shows where it is.”

  “You’ve been there,” Fiona said. “Just tell us. If you need pen and paper, I’ll—”

  “It’s not enough to know where it is. You’ll need charms to unlock the armory, to make it safe to go in. Otherwise, you’ll never get there alive.”

  “And you know what they are?”

  Han shook his head. “They’re built into the amulet.”

  “Fine,” Fiona said, growing impatient. “Then tell me how to use the amulet.”

  “That’s just it. You can’t. Waterlow wanted to make sure your family would never get hold of the armory. So he put a powerful protection on the flashpiece.”

  “We know that, Alister,” Fiona hissed. “We’ve owned the amulet for a thousand years.”

  “Nobody can use it but somebody with Waterlow blood. Somebody like me.”

  “How do you know all this?” Fiona said suspiciously.

  Bones. This was a story only the Bayars would know—that they were the ultimate cause of the Breaking. They would know it, and the Demon King’s betrayer. He couldn’t very well say he got it straight from Lucius Frowsley.

  “The story was in the amulet,” Crow hissed, breaking into Han’s thoughts. “The story.”

  Right, Han thought. Once before, Crow had escaped the Bayars by persuading them to give back his amulet.

  “It was in the amulet, too,” Han said aloud. “The story, I mean.” Lame, Alister, he thought. Really lame. He was in no shape to be conjuring complicated stories.