The Crimson Crown

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “No, don’t, Micah!” Raisa cried reflexively, breaking free from Amon’s grip and flinging herself between the two of them.

  Amon seized Cat in a bear hug, pinning her arms to her sides, hauling her back from Micah. Talia relieved her of her knives, and Amon handed her off to Mick and Hallie. She continued to struggle in their grasp, trying to get at Micah, spewing increasingly virulent curses.

  Micah scrambled to his feet, his eyes fixed on Cat. “The next time you make a move on me, it will be your last,” he said, his voice low and furious. “I’m tired of constantly having to watch my back while—”

  “You’re tired?” Raisa shouted. “You’re tired, Bayar? Well, I’m sick and tired!”

  They all turned to stare at her.

  Raisa stood, hands fisted, tears streaming. “Maybe we deserve to be overrun by Arden,” she said, her voice ragged with despair. “You can all just…kill each other, for all I care. Don’t expect me to clean up after you. Or try and rule over you. Henceforth, you are on your own.”

  Nightwalker sat frozen in his chair, his eyes shifting from Micah to Raisa and back again.

  Micah took a step toward her, hands extended, his dark brows drawn together in puzzlement. “Your Majesty. Raisa. I—”

  Raisa turned and stalked from the room, leaving a dead silence in her wake.

  Once in the corridor, she broke into a trot, and then a flat-out run, down the walkway, through the far tower of the barbican, past the bluejackets posted at the door of her chambers. Ripping open the door, she charged through her sitting room to her bedchamber on the opposite side.

  Magret looked up from her book. “Your Majesty? Is the meeting over already?”

  “Don’t let anyone in,” Raisa shot over her shoulder. “No matter who it is.”

  Slamming the door behind her, Raisa flung herself onto her bed, burying her face in her pillow and gripping the coverlet to either side in her fists.

  Images collided in her mind—Han Alister at Southbridge Temple, bruised and bloodied by street life, debating surrender with Speaker Jemson. I been in gaol, he’d said, the steel of his blade grazing her throat. Not going back.

  Han at Oden’s Ford during their tutoring sessions, debating some fine point of politics or manners, asking questions, always digging deeper than Raisa wanted to go. The almost physical pressure of those blue eyes.

  The day he’d spoken of the deaths of his mother and sister, his voice hoarse with rage.

  Han’s long lean body sprawled in a tavern chair on Bridge Street, the heels of his clan-made boots resting on the battered wooden floor, hands laced across his middle. How he’d sent Hallie and Talia into gales of laughter with his observations of class and campus life.

  The way he always sat facing the door.

  The way he put words together—easily shifting from street slang to court speech at will.

  Kisses and caresses—lovemaking more intoxicating than blue ruin.

  His smile—crooked and cynical and too familiar with the world—and at the same time full of hope.

  Finally, Han in the rooftop garden, promising that he would find a way to return and marry her, saying, Haven’t you heard about me? I’m really a very dangerous person.

  Was that his solution—killing the Bayars? Had he seen that as his only choice? Or was it one more lie about Han Alister, conjured up by Han’s enemies to cover over murders of their own?

  It didn’t matter. Either way, he was gone. And all the hope drained out of Raisa, as if someone had opened a spigot in her soul.

  Sobs shuddered through her, massive waves of sorrow that threatened to wash her out to sea. For a while, she resisted, but finally she surrendered to grief and despair.

  Two days later, Gerard Montaigne’s army, under the command of Marin Karn, marched into the city of Fellsmarch, to join in uneasy alliance with General Klemath’s mercenaries.

  There weren’t many places in the city of Fellsmarch to put so many soldiers. Its narrow, twisting, nearly vertical streets wouldn’t accommodate ranks of pitched tents. The only available space was in a burnt-over slum down the hill from the castle close, up against the cursed river.

  Klemath’s army surrendered the city to Karn’s fresh troops, taking up positions outside of the city walls. The striper mercenaries seemed more than happy to depart the inner city.

  Karn soon found out why they had been so eager to leave. As soon as his troops were in place, the harassment began, by unknown persons who emerged from the ruins in the night like so many cockroaches. Like cockroaches, they came and went through the army encampments at will. Food, weapons, and other supplies disappeared as if by magic.

  Even worse, soldiers themselves disappeared, their dead bodies surfacing days later, bound with briars and dangling from the walls of heathenish temples, or piled in back alleys. Before long, the soldiers of the army of Arden envied the stripers outside the walls, bivouacked in relative safety.

  Karn did what he could. Having recently participated in the sacking of Tamron Court, he ordered his soldiers to show no mercy to the streetrats and thieves they managed to catch. As for destroying their hideouts, well, there wasn’t much left to do in that regard.

  The spires of Fellsmarch Castle poked up against the eastern sky, lightly garrisoned yet so far impregnable. Montaigne’s spies had reported that most of the surviving northern mages were assembled in their stronghold on Gray Lady or hiding in their country houses. But the walls of the hold shimmered under a gossamer web of magic, so the northern queen must have at least one mage on hand.

  Meanwhile, the mages under Karn’s command could do little in the way of conjury, having few magical tools at their disposal. Some developed mysterious illnesses and took to their beds, unable to cast a single spell.

  Karn demanded a meeting with the queen, but was told she was unavailable. They’d met once before, on the border between Tamron and Arden, in the midst of a skirmish. She’d been dressed as a servant, and he’d overlooked her until his king picked her out. She was small and finely made, with skin the color of Bruinswallow ale, startling green eyes, and a stubborn chin.

  Fossnacht called her a witch, and favored burning her. He’d gotten in some practice with the mages who’d refused to take the collar and sign on with Montaigne. Truth be told, the fanatical priest made Karn edgy. He liked the flame too much.

  Karn’s orders were to carry the queen back to Gerard, alive. Karn disagreed. Much cleaner to wring the girl’s neck and be done with it. A corpse can’t organize a rebellion.

  Karn had argued the point, but not for very long. Gerard seemed obsessed with the northern witch. She’d wounded his pride—and the king of Arden meant to make her pay.

  Sooner or later, the queen and her defenders would have to give in, of course. But Karn wanted to see it handled before the autumn snows stopped up the passes to the south. He’d lost enough men to the mountain savages on his way in. The northern mages seemed to be in disarray, for now, and he didn’t want to allow them time to regroup and recruit.

  Marin Karn had no intention of spending the winter in the witchy north. And so he continued to look for a way to break through.

  Raisa opened her tear-swollen eyes to see Magret Gray looming over her. She squeezed them shut again, but not quickly enough.

  “They are back, Your Highness,” Magret said, with a heavy sigh.

  “Who’s back?” Raisa whispered, through cracked lips. For three days she’d been plagued by vivid fever dreams. It was almost a relief to be awake.

  “Captain Byrne and the rest,” Magret said, sitting in the chair next to the bed—the place she’d occupied for most of the last three days. Dog edged in next to her, resting his chin on the coverlet. Magret scratched his head absently.

  “The Bayar is like a demon spirit haunting your door. I’ve tried to send him away, but he insists he needs to talk to you. By the Sainted Queen, as if I’d let that one come within a hundred yards of you.”

  Good, Raisa thought, closing h
er eyes. Good.

  “The Princess Mellony is worried sick about you,” Magret said. “She’s spent hours at your bedside. I finally had to warn her away, for fear she’d catch the fever, too.”

  “I don’t want to see anyone,” Raisa whispered, without opening her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. You need to talk to them. Ill or not, you are the queen of the realm, and that fiend from the south won’t wait.”

  Raisa opened her eyes again, reluctantly. Magret pressed the back of her hand against Raisa’s forehead, and scowled, her lips tight with disapproval, her face haggard with worry and pain. Her nose was ruddy pink, as if she’d been crying.

  Raisa’s stomach churned, and her head pounded, feeling too heavy to lift. She’d taken nothing to eat for three days, and had run a high fever for most of that time. Was it possible to die from a broken heart? Up till now, she’d have said that only happened in romances read by the likes of Missy Hakkam.

  Love makes you vulnerable, Raisa thought. To pain and loss and maybe fevers, too.

  She shifted her hips back until she was in a sitting position, her head braced against the headboard. Magret tidied her hair with cool fingers and handed her a cup of water and willow bark.

  “Go easy on that, Your Majesty,” Magret said. “Willow bark can be hard on your stomach.”

  Raisa sipped obediently.

  “There are no healers in the keep, neither clan nor gifted,” Magret went on. “That bloody Klemath took us all by surprise. The only wizard on the inside is that bloody Bayar.”

  Micah. Micah and his father had murdered Han Alister. Or killed him to prevent his murdering them. A flame kindled in Raisa’s middle, and she took several deep breaths, somehow managing to avoid spewing the willow root she’d just gotten down.

  “I don’t want to see him,” Raisa said, in case Magret had forgotten.

  “The Bayar has been working with Captain Byrne, General Dunedain, and the others to keep the southerners out,” Magret said grudgingly. “Captain Byrne, he was desperate to smuggle you out somehow before Montaigne’s army came here. The Bayar was keen to help, but with you so sick, we…” Her voice trailed off.

  “I’m sorry,” Raisa said, her voice dull with despair. “What a disaster this is.”

  Tears pooled in Magret’s eyes, threatening to spill over. She made as if to get to her feet, and Raisa seized hold of her arm.

  “Where’s my dagger, Magret?” Raisa said, suddenly desperate to locate it. “The one from Captain Byrne?”

  Magret’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “Where is it?” Raisa repeated. “I want it.”

  Magret gazed at her, long and hard. “About young Alister,” she said finally. “I know that you and he—I know there was something you—” Her voice caught a moment, then she burst out, “No man’s worth killing yourself over, Your Majesty!”

  “I’m not going to kill myself,” Raisa said. “Not unless I have no choice. I’m going to keep my dagger with me, just in case—in case the flatlanders get in. I won’t be taken alive.”

  Magret searched Raisa’s face. Then she stood and crossed the room to the trunk against the wall. Digging deep, she retrieved the dagger and handed it to Raisa, who slid it under her pillow. Magret dropped a heavy wool shawl onto the bed. “Wrap up snug, Your Majesty. I’ve got the pot on the boil for tea.” She disappeared into the outer chamber.

  Momentarily, Raisa wavered, considered conducting this meeting from her bed. Then, with a sigh, she swung her legs over the side and slid to the floor, steadying herself against the high bed until her dizziness passed. Wrapping herself in the shawl, she staggered over to the settee by the fire—where she and Han Alister had once kissed and embraced. She settled into a corner of the couch, drawing a coverlet over her knees. Dog lay down at her feet. Extending her hand, she turned it so the ring on her finger caught the firelight. Moonstones and pearls and amethyst—Han’s gift to Raisa at her coronation. Modeled after Hanalea’s betrothal ring.

  Another chill shuddered through her, and she thrust both hands toward the hearth.

  C H A P T E R F O R T Y - O N E

  A NEW

  GENERATION

  The door to the sitting room cracked open a bit, and then all the way, to reveal one person only—Amon Byrne.

  “Your Majesty?” he said, looking first at the bed and then around the room.

  “Amon. Come and sit down.” Raisa wasn’t sure she’d spoken loudly enough for him to hear.

  Amon crossed to the hearth and knelt next to the couch, his expression one of shock and dismay. “Rai,” he said hoarsely, closing his hand over hers. “I had no idea it was this bad.”

  Dear. Blunt. Byrne. I must look one step from the graveyard.

  “Here,” she said, resting her hand on the seat next to her. “Sit here.”

  He settled onto the upholstery, still staring at her. “You need a healer,” he said, swallowing hard. “Somehow, we’ve got to bring one in for you.”

  “I’m not sure a healer can help,” Raisa said, leaning her head against his solid shoulder.

  “This is about Alister,” Amon said. It wasn’t a question.

  Raisa nodded. “It’s not just Alister—it’s everything else, too—but that was the tipping point. I meant what I said in the audience chamber—maybe we don’t deserve to exist as a nation.” She blotted at her eyes with the back of her free hand.

  Amon cleared his throat. “I’m not sure how to proceed on that…Alister’s death, I mean. I can’t investigate what really happened while we’re bottled up in here. And Micah—I have to admit he’s been really helpful these past few days. He’s put up magical barriers that allow our soldiers to get some much-needed rest without worrying about a sneak attack.” He paused. “So it may seem like a coldhearted, calculating decision, but I don’t think we can deal with that…that situation until we get out of this mess.” He spoke as if they really would.

  “It won’t bring Han back, will it?” Raisa said. “And when it comes to assigning blame, I’ll start with myself. The fact of the matter is, I loved him, and I didn’t want to give him up. And so I put him into an impossible position. There was no way he could succeed. And now he’s dead.”

  “Alister made his own decisions,” Amon said. “You didn’t put him there—he did.”

  “I should have done the right thing. I knew we didn’t have a future together, and I should have sent him away. Right after he found out who I really was, he was angry enough to go. I should have given him the push he needed.”

  “You had no way of knowing what would happen,” Amon said. “And, anyway, this is his home, too. Why would he leave?”

  “I could have run away with him,” Raisa went on, to herself as much as to Amon. “We could have left all of this behind.” She waved her hand, taking in castle and queendom. “Looking back, maybe that would’ve been the better decision. I’ve lost everything, anyway.”

  She looked up at Amon, focused on him again. “I did the same thing with you. I wanted you, and it didn’t matter if it hurt you, or—or anybody else.”

  “I’m eighteen,” Amon said. “I’m old enough to make my own choices, too.”

  Raisa shook her head. “It’s my position, though. People can’t say no to me, because I am the queen. And when I’m wrong—” She paused, and then rushed on. “Oh, Amon, I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough to do this.”

  Amon reached out hesitantly and stroked her hair. “You can do this,” he said. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

  “Even worse, I don’t know why I’m doing this,” Raisa said. “If I’m powerless to save the people closest to me, if I can’t keep my allies from each other’s throats, then what good am I? I used to criticize my mother. What made me think I could do a better job?”

  Amon thought about this for a time, brow furrowed. Finally, he looked up, his eyes as gray as the ocean in winter. “I think you start with a handful, and you move on from there.”

 
“What do you mean?”

  Amon stood, went to the door, stuck his head out. After a few minutes of muffled conversation, he returned, followed by an entourage of sorts.

  First came Cat Tyburn, streetlord and knife fighter turned royal bodyguard, from the Southern Islands. She’d acquired a black eye and a swollen lip since Raisa had last seen her. She plunked down in the space vacated by Amon Byrne and threw her arms around Raisa in a tight embrace. Raisa ended with her face pressed into Cat’s mass of curls, Cat massaging small circles on her back.

  “Don’t you worry,” Cat whispered into her ear, her voice low and fierce. “We’ll sort this out, I promise.”

  For some reason, this touched Raisa more than anything else could have.

  Cat finally released her and perched on the arm of the couch next to Raisa.

  She was followed by Mick Bricker and Hallie Talbot, born and bred in the city of Fellsmarch.

  Speaker Roff Jemson and Magret Gray entered together and took positions against the wall.

  Talia Abbott, the mixed-blood moonspinner, came in with Pearlie Greenholt, the redheaded Ardenine weaponsmaster who’d fallen in love with Talia and returned with her to the Fells. Their blue uniform tunics said they were on duty.

  Micah walked in, his black eyes fastening on Raisa, narrowing in pain and dismay as he took in her appearance. Dog growled, deep in his throat, and pressed up against Raisa’s legs.

  Bringing up the rear was Char Dunedain, another mixed-blood soldier, commander of what was left of the Fellsian army.

  As Dunedain went to shut the door, Reid Nightwalker slipped past her, into the room, to join the others.

  They stood in an awkward circle around her, except for Jemson and Magret, who kept their positions along the wall.

  “What’s this?” Raisa asked, looking from face to face for clues. “Are we having a meeting?”

  “Of sorts,” Amon said.

  “There’s others would be here, if they could,” Cat volunteered. “I know Fire Dancer would.” She tilted her head back, sliding a look down her nose at Micah.

  “There are other wizards who would be here, if they were free to be,” Micah said.