The Crimson Crown

by Cinda Williams Chima

  This man, Dancer thought, would know what it was like. This man, of anyone, would want me to succeed in rescuing Hunts Alone.

  “All right,” he said. “You can come along as my guide. On one condition.”

  “The Maker save me from upland traders,” Crow murmured. “What is your condition?”

  “I want to bring a friend along,” Dancer said.

  C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - S E V E N

  UNDER SIEGE

  For days after the siege began, there was plenty to do: secure the perimeter, inventory supplies, organize work teams, and establish duty schedules. Raisa convened strategy meetings with those on her council who were on the inside. Her uncle, Lassiter Hakkam, seemed to have forgotten that he’d ever championed a marriage between Raisa and Gerard Montaigne. He was understandably nervous about his luxurious manor house outside the walls. He couldn’t understand why that issue had not been part of the negotiations.

  They sent birds to Gray Lady, with no response. Birds arrived from Demonai Camp to say that Montaigne’s army had made it through the pass but the Demonai were doing their best to stall them in the mountains. There was no mention of Han.

  Char Dunedain was a general without much of an army—only those few highlanders who happened to be inside the close at the time of the attack. She gathered up all able-bodied men and women within the close and went about turning them into effective defenders. She established a fletchery and a weapons foundry in the bailey. Those who weren’t standing patrol or sleeping were set to melting down cookware and tools for arrow points. Children gathered feathers for the fletchery and worked in the kitchens to free up their elders for training. Dunedain and Amon were the kind of military team that Raisa had wished for. Too bad their first challenge had to be this.

  Nightwalker and the other Demonai worked hard, too, reinforcing their reputations as tireless fighters. Nightwalker, especially, lived up to his name. He never seemed to sleep.

  Fortunately, the striper army had little in the way of siege equipment on-site, having seen no need to break into strongholds. At one point, they began building a crude siege tower, but gave up on that when the Demonai fired flaming arrows into it and it burned to the dirt. However, Raisa suspected that Gerard Montaigne’s flatland army would be better equipped for this kind of warfare once they arrived.

  Over Amon’s objections, Raisa insisted on standing shifts on the walls. “I’m good with a bow,” she said. “Besides, it’s encouraging for my people to see me up there.”

  “Can you keep out of sight of the enemy, at least?” Amon said. “It would be discouraging to your people if you ended up dead.”

  “Klemath wants to take me alive, remember?” Raisa said. “I’m likely safer up there than anyone else.”

  “If they recognize you,” he grumbled. “If they don’t suddenly change their minds. If some soldier doesn’t wonder what it would be like to kill a northern queen.”

  So she wore her Gray Wolf armor on the walls, and the brilliant cape that Willo had made for her. If they killed her, they’d have to do it on purpose. And aim very carefully.

  Raisa ordered concerts in the rooftop garden for all who cared to come. Amon’s fiancée, Annamaya Dubai, organized the events and scheduled the musicians, including Cat Tyburn. Even those on duty could hear the music floating down around them as they stood watch on the walls or worked in the foundries. Raisa held contests with prizes for the best patriotic songs and stories. Many still focused on Hanalea the Warrior, but a few hastily composed songs featured Raisa ana’Marianna, the Warrior Queen.

  The entries also included a delightfully profane ballad about how General Klemath sired his sons, which involved his mistaking a barn for a brothel. Raisa found herself humming it at random times during the day. She tried to maintain a cheerful optimism, but her eyes kept turning to the south as she watched for the arrival of Montaigne’s army.

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

  A DEAL WITH

  THE DEVIL

  The journey from the capital to Gray Lady took Micah Bayar three days of twists and turns and detours and backtracking.

  The old road was no longer safe to travel—not even for a wizard. Away from the capital, farmsteads and keeps lay in smoking ruins. Bodies dangled from trees, twisting slowly in the blistering breeze. Several times, Micah was forced to circle around Ardenine camps, and once he all but collided with a southern scouting party. They jangled past, a young wizard riding in their midst, a heavy silver collar around his neck.

  It reminded Micah of Arden during the civil war, and Tamron after the invasion. Now it was their turn. Except their situation was even more hopeless than it had been in the south.

  Everyone out here is an enemy, Micah thought, because we have no army of our own. Arden can march straight to the capital. How did we let this happen?

  Behind him lay Fellsmarch Castle, surrounded by soldiers in their familiar striper scarves. Bought and paid for by Arden. Raisa was trapped inside, and Micah had no way to get to her. His heart thrummed painfully. He needed help, and he meant to get it.

  He rode cross-country in the dark, taking game trails and grown-over tracks, giving Breaker his head over the broken ground. He kept one hand on his amulet, his eyes on the forest around him. He had no intention of being recruited as one of Montaigne’s collared mages.

  On his way up Gray Lady, he was challenged by retainers from three different wizard houses before he’d ridden a mile. It was slow going because he had to disable magical barriers every few hundred yards. He passed the smashed remains of Darnleigh House and Kinley Manor on the lower slopes. It was no wonder the wizard aristocracy was on edge. He was grateful his Bayar ancestors had chosen to build higher.

  The Bayar compound was well fortified with layers of magic, and protected by scores of men-at-arms in the Stooping Falcon colors.

  “Where’s my father?” Micah asked Riverton, the steward, who greeted him in the Great Hall.

  “He and the young Lady Bayar are in the solar,” Riverton said. The steward usually looked as sleek and well fed as a granary cat, but now he seemed jittery, almost queasy.

  “Don’t worry,” Micah said, awkwardly patting Riverton on the shoulder. “It will all work out.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried, my lord,” Riverton said, looking worried. “I have complete confidence and trust in your lord father.”

  I wish I could say the same, Micah thought.

  When Micah entered the solar, still covered in road dirt and sweat, he found his father and Fiona sitting at a small table, their heads together like coconspirators. He didn’t like that. He liked it even less when they spotted him and abruptly ceased their murmured conversation.

  “Micah,” his father said, with a curt nod. “Good that you are back safely. Your mother has been in near hysterics for days.”

  “You’re filthy,” Fiona said, stretching out her long legs. “Should I have Albert draw a bath?” She was wearing pristine red silk and black leathers, her hair caught into a shining braid.

  “That will keep,” Micah said. “We need to talk now.” Pouring from the flagon on the sideboard, he took a long swallow of courage. Then crossed and sat down at the table, cradling his glass between his hands.

  “All kinds of rumors are flying,” Lord Bayar said. “What is going on?”

  That’s the question, Micah thought, studying the two of them. Fiona looked like a cat with a mouthful of feathers, and his father looked almost triumphant. No. Definitely triumphant.

  Micah licked his lips. “The short of it is…General Klemath has turned traitor and laid siege to Fellsmarch Castle. Meanwhile, Gerard Montaigne has bought up the mercenary contracts and is on his way there with a southern army, capturing or killing wizards and Valefolk all along the way. Some of the houses on the lower slopes of Gray Lady have been destroyed.”

  “So we hear.” Lord Bayar tilted his head back as if this were interesting news from some faraway country. “If the army has turned, the
n who is protecting the castle?”

  “A handful of loyalists, as far as I can tell,” Micah said. “I wasn’t able to get close.”

  “Are there any gifted in the city?” Fiona asked.

  Micah shook his head. “If there are, they’re in hiding. I haven’t been able to make contact with any. And there is no sign of magical defenses on Fellsmarch Castle.”

  “We’ve heard about the burnings,” Fiona said, with a delicate shiver. “That’s horrible.”

  “They don’t burn the gifted if they agree to take the collar,” Micah said. “The saving grace is that there aren’t enough amulets to go around, so they can’t use all the wizards they have.”

  Lord Bayar slid a look at Fiona. “Then it’s important that they not gain control of any more wizards or flashpieces.”

  There was something in the way his father said this that set Micah’s teeth on edge. But he couldn’t worry about it just now. Time was wasting.

  “How many council members are here on Gray Lady?” Micah asked, his mind churning with plans. “How soon could we convene and discuss a strategy for breaking the siege?”

  His father’s frosted blue eyes rested on him, a long look of appraisal. “I’m not in any hurry to do that,” he said.

  Blindsided, Micah looked from his father to Fiona and back. What didn’t they understand?

  “We have to act now,” he said, pressing his palms into the tabletop so the wrought iron cut into his skin. “The southern army will be there within days. If we can disperse the stripers before Montaigne’s army gets into position, we can free the queen and divide their targets.”

  “Why would I want to free the queen?” Lord Bayar asked, polishing his amulet on his sleeve.

  “What are you saying, Father?” Micah’s fingers melted tiny puddles in the metal table before he regained control. “You would welcome the southern butchers to the Fells?”

  “Of course not,” Lord Bayar said. “I’m saying that freeing the queen is not necessarily in our best interest.”

  “Perhaps—” Micah stopped and took a breath, struggling to keep his voice steady, to keep the rage off his face. “Perhaps you could explain your reasoning.”

  “Ever since the Breaking, we’ve been trying to find a way to work with the bloody Gray Wolf queens,” Lord Bayar said. “We’ve been supplicants, seeking forgiveness for something that happened a thousand years ago. We’ve begged to climb into their beds, while the copperheads stand watch like abbesses in the temple garden. Well, I’m done with that.”

  Micah shifted his gaze to Fiona, who was trying to maintain a neutral expression, but not quite succeeding.

  “Was this your idea?” he asked her.

  “No, but I agree with him,” Fiona said.

  “I hardly need your sister to tutor me in politics.” Lord Bayar smiled a thin smile. “The landscape has changed dramatically while you’ve been down in the Vale.”

  “That’s exactly why we have to move quickly,” Micah growled.

  “We’re not talking about the situation in the capital,” Fiona said. “We’re talking about the Armory of the Gifted Kings.”

  Micah sat back in his chair, gripping the arms to either side, frustration building. “What about it? That tired threat would be a lot more potent if we knew where it was.”

  “That’s just it,” his father said, putting a hand on Fiona’s arm. “We do.”

  Fiona’s eyes widened a fraction, and she opened her mouth as if to speak, and then closed it again. Most wouldn’t have noticed it, but Micah knew his sister very well.

  Had they meant to keep this secret from him? He straightened a bit in his chair, wary. “Go on,” he said.

  “On our way back from the council meeting, Alister surprised us in the tunnels just outside Aerie House,” his father said. “Or, perhaps we should say, we surprised him.”

  Micah looked from Fiona to his father. “What happened?”

  “He attacked me with a knife,” Lord Bayar said. “No doubt he intended to finish what he started that day at the market.”

  “Why would he use a knife?” Micah asked, noting that his father seemed none the worse for wear. “An amulet would be—”

  “Perhaps mine was meant to be the next body to surface in Ragmarket. Or Southbridge, since Ragmarket has been reduced to ash. Fortunately, we were able to overpower him.”

  He reached into a strongbox next to his chair and lifted out an object. “To our surprise and delight, he was carrying this.” He handed it across to Micah.

  The blood-colored metal rippled like flame in Micah’s hands. He traced the sharp edges with his fingertips, touched the rubies in their elaborate settings. “The Crimson Crown? Where would he get this? And why would he bring the crown of the gifted kings to a murder?”

  “We assumed it was because he’d just come from the armory,” Fiona said. “He hadn’t had time to stow it first.”

  “So Alister has the armory?” Micah said, stunned.

  “He did,” Lord Bayar said, with a feral smile. “And now we have it.”

  “Where is it?” Micah demanded, his mind leaping ahead. With the armory, there might be a way to…

  “I am not going to allow you to put the armory at risk, charging off to rescue our round-heeled queen,” Lord Bayar said bluntly.

  Before Micah knew what he was doing, he was out of his chair, standing over his father, fists clenched to keep from taking hold of his amulet. “What? You can’t be serious.”

  His father thrust out a hand. “Sit down.”

  Seething, Micah sat.

  “Don’t you see how perfect this is?” Lord Bayar said. “While we consolidate our power among the gifted, the southerners will finish off the Gray Wolf line. Our hands are perfectly clean. That opens the way for us to come back to power—on our own this time. We will establish a permanent line of gifted kings.”

  “And queens,” Fiona put in, scowling at their father.

  “And the copperheads?” Micah said. “What about them?”

  “We don’t need them anymore,” Lord Bayar said, all but rubbing his hands together. “With any luck, they will choose to die defending our mixed-blood queen.”

  Micah tried to swallow down the metallic taste on his tongue, the words that crowded up in his mouth, begging to be spoken.

  No. It’s Raisa’s life, he thought. I have to find a way. To buy time, he rose, crossed to the sideboard, and poured again. Then he leaned his hips back against the bar and faced his father and sister. If he exhibited any sign of weakness, he was done.

  “Do you think so?” Micah said, swirling the liquor in his glass. “Do you think the southerners will finish the Gray Wolf line? Or will Gerard Montaigne marry in, like he proposed to do back at midsummer? That will buy him a legitimate claim to the throne, and it might win over the Valefolk.”

  “Do you think our headstrong queen will marry Montaigne after she refused to marry you?” His father shook his head. “She’d cut her own throat first.”

  Probably, Micah thought, but didn’t speak it aloud. “You would be surprised how practical Raisa can be when the situation demands it.”

  Not practical enough to marry you, a voice said in his head. But that could change.

  “If Montaigne marries Raisa, who knows what the copperheads will do?” Micah said. “They trade with the southerners, and they both like the idea of wizards in collars. Copperheads were the ones who came up with the idea in the first place. I’ll bet they’re willing to make more.”

  Micah paused, letting his words sink in. He was making headway with his father—he could tell from the storm clouds on his face.

  “I haven’t seen the armory,” Micah said, “but I’ll take your word that it’s a fabulous asset. It may win all of the gifted to your side, but it won’t be enough.”

  Setting his untouched glass down, Micah paced back and forth, pounding his fist into his palm with each point. “The gifted have been hit hard by Ardenine attacks. Our numbers are the lowe
st they’ve been in years. If we want to evict the southerners, we need an army, and we don’t have one. We can’t get one, either, at least not overnight. Arden’s bought them all up.

  “Remember the copperhead saying—arrows are quicker than jinxes. We may not need the copperheads, but we need somebody to stand between us and the Ardenine Army, catching arrows while we cast our charms. As soon as the army gains control of the city, they’ll turn to us.”

  “We’re safe here on Gray Lady,” Fiona said. “Let the southerners try to climb through our barricades with a dozen wizards raining charms down on their heads.”

  “A dozen wizards,” Micah said sarcastically. “That’s how many are here? At this point, Arden has at least that many. We may be better armed, but numbers will tell. Besides, how long can we last up here? What do we have in the way of food? Do either of you know?”

  After a long charged silence, his father shook his head. “We don’t keep much food on hand because we’re so rarely in residence. There’s no way of knowing what’s dispersed among the families up here, but I’m sure that—”

  “You’re sure that everyone else will share with you?” Micah laughed. “Maybe you can trade amulets for food.”

  “Maybe we can,” Fiona said acidly.

  “I wouldn’t bet my life on that,” Micah said. “Wizards don’t play well together, and they hate being ruled by us. How long before talk about your copperhead chance child begins to surface again? Don’t forget—the Demon King held the armory, and it didn’t save him.”

  “Things are different now,” Fiona said, with desperate confidence. “Given the threat from the southerners, the gifted will do what’s in their best interest.”

  “We need all parts of the Fells to survive,” Micah said. “The Vale is where the food comes from—especially now that we’re at war with the south. Not only that, Queen Raisa is beloved in the Vale. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I have. If we are allied, they will fight for her. If we retreat to the mountains, we’ll be the copperheads of the southern regime—marginalized, sneaking about in the uplands, getting off a nasty charm now and then.”