The Crimson Crown

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Bayar’s cold laughter echoed through the rock chamber. He strode out of the mist, robes swishing, his charmcasting hand extended.

  Han froze the sulfurous mist that coated the floor under Bayar’s feet. The wizard slipped, nearly fell, and Han followed with a torrent of flame. It nailed Bayar in the right shoulder, spinning him around. Clutching his wounded shoulder, Bayar ducked out of sight.

  Han rolled to his feet and stumbled around a corner before Bayar could get himself organized. Even wounded, Bayar was dangerous.

  Once he’d put some space between himself and his enemy, Han removed his shirt and ripped a long strip of fabric from the sleeve. He bound it tight around his head to keep the blood out of his eyes. But his head ached, and his body was damaged from days of torture. Magically, he had the advantage, but physically, he was nearly spent.

  A bit of sand sifting down from overhead caused him to leap back just as Bayar fired an immobilization charm down on him. Han sent flame rocketing up the wall, scouring the ledge above, but it was now empty.

  An immobilization charm. The significance of this penetrated slowly, reminding Han that Bayar wasn’t done with him. The powerful wizard still hoped to take him alive (maimed was apparently acceptable). How to take advantage of that?

  More footsteps, more twists and turns in the fog, until Han lost track of where they were in the tunnels and crossings.

  Sooner or later, Bayar would come up against one of Crow’s magical barriers—one he could not disable. Then he would be trapped. In the meantime, Han had to avoid an ambush. He concentrated, watching for the smudge of light that would tell him Bayar had taken hold of his amulet, preparing to cast a charm.

  They seemed to be doubling back the way they’d come. Once again, Han picked his way through a minefield of bubbling hot springs and seething mudpots. Either Bayar hoped to escape back into Aerie House, or…

  A body slammed into Han, nearly toppling him into a steaming fissure. They wrestled on the stone floor at the edge of the cleft, the boiling vapors plastering down Han’s hair and stinging his eyes. Bayar gripped the chain around Han’s neck, trying to rip away his amulet. Han kept a hold on it with one hand and thrust the fingers of his other hand into Bayar’s eyes. The wizard shrieked and let go of him, nearly rolling into the fumarole. Then scrambled to his feet and once again disappeared into the mist.

  Han followed, more cautiously this time. He could no longer hear Bayar’s footsteps, and the mist seemed to amplify and redirect sound, so it was difficult to tell which direction it was coming from. He squinted, trying to discern movement in the murk.

  Han guessed they were nearly back to where Fiona lay. He increased his speed, wanting to intercept Bayar before he could make it back to the entrance to the Aerie House dungeons. He turned a corner and nearly ran headlong into a flaming torch.

  He staggered back, temporarily blinded, felt a tug at his neck, and saw his amulet pinwheel through the dark like a falling star, extinguishing as it hit the floor with a ping.

  They both scrambled after the jinxpiece, but Bayar got there first, grabbing a fistful of chain and scooping it off the floor. Han made a grab for it, but Bayar jabbed at him with the flaming torch, scorching his arm and setting his sleeve to smoldering.

  Bayar tucked away the amulet, which, to Han’s disappointment, neither exploded nor set him on fire. Crow wasn’t on board.

  “Now, then,” Bayar said, gripping the twin falcon amulet. “Let’s stop all this foolishness. Tell me what I want to know and perhaps I’ll kill you quickly.” But the smile on his face said different.

  “Let go of the amulet, Bayar.”

  The voice came from behind Han. Both Han and Bayar turned, startled, to see a ghostly apparition in clan garb, the amulet at its center glowing like a star through the fog.

  “Let go, I said,” Fire Dancer repeated, his voice oddly muted by the thick air.

  “This is perfect,” Bayar breathed. “The witch-spawned copperhead pretender himself.”

  Han saw immediately that Dancer wouldn’t have a clear shot at Bayar with him in the way. But Dancer made an easy target.

  “No!” Han shouted. “Get back! He’ll—”

  A bolt of flame jetted out from Bayar’s extended hand, striking Dancer full in the chest, tearing right through him, and blasting all the way to the far wall of the cave.

  The flame died away. Dancer was gone, but the sight was imprinted on Han’s eyelids, so that even when he shut his eyes he could see Dancer’s body ripped in half.

  “Dancer,” Han whispered, a lifetime of memories spiraling through his mind, ending in this terrible place. He charged toward Dancer even though he knew it was too late. It was no use. Nobody could survive a hit like that.

  “Come back, Alister,” Bayar called after him. “I’m not done with you yet.”

  Han dove away, rolling behind a stone pillar as Bayar’s torrents of flame quested after him. He covered his head with his arms as the pillar exploded into rubble. There was no way to reach his friend—whatever was left of him.

  A cold rage seized Han. Fine, he thought. Bring what you have, Bayar. When you catch up with me, you’ll be sorry.

  Han staggered down the passageway, knowing his enemy would follow, and knowing just where they needed to go. A requiem sounded in his head for all the lives lost—from Mam and Mari to Flinn and the other Raggers who’d died, and now Dancer and the mysterious archer. He no longer felt the pain in his wrists, no longer cared about the armory or anything else. Somehow, he’d always known that it would end in a street fight—and that was a game he could play and win.

  C H A P T E R F O R T Y - T H R E E

  STANDOFF

  Raisa sat back on her heels and rubbed her aching knees. When she’d come to temple, the last shafts of sunlight were bloodying the spires of the surrounding city, sliding under a layer of glowering clouds. Now the sun had set, and thunder grumbled over Hanalea, threatening rain for the third night in a row.

  With a sigh, she shed her heavy temple robe, dropping it onto a book stand. She came often to the small temple in the conservatory. Ghosts dogged her in the garden, but memories soothed her at the same time. It was no use trying to pray, though. She couldn’t concentrate, with her mind paging through her latest assortment of worries.

  How long before they poison the river? she wondered. Right now, Arden’s soldiers were drinking out of it themselves, but they could always go farther afield for water if need be. Those bottled up in the castle could not. In anticipation of that move, she’d ordered huge cisterns filled with water, and required that the water be tested each day.

  Why haven’t their mages attacked the walls? she asked herself. Micah’s barriers might offer some protection, but she’d thought they’d have tried breaching the walls by now.

  She refused to meet with Marin Karn, Montaigne’s commander in the field. She saw no good that could come of it, and she didn’t want to provide Lord Hakkam and the others an opportunity to dither and debate, demonstrating how splintered they were.

  Why couldn’t it turn cold? The cold kiss of autumn would remind Karn and his officers that they were guesting in a country that would grow inhospitable—even dangerous—as winter came on.

  Raisa left the temple, threading her way through the rooftop garden to the edge of the terrace, where she could look down on the city.

  If she squinted her eyes she could almost ignore the cook fires burning amid the rubble of Southbridge, the drab-clad soldiers on every street corner, clustering together for defense against the things that came out of the dark. Lifting her gaze, she looked beyond the city, to the wall of mountains surrounding the Vale. Lightning flickered amid the Spirits, and the wind freshened, bringing with it the scent of rain and dust.

  Her fever had departed as quickly as it arrived, leaving behind a profound weariness. But whether it was physical, emotional, or some combination of the two—she had no idea.

  A breeze off Hanalea kissed her face, lifting her sweaty
hair from her neck. The weather had continued hot, as if the invaders had brought the steamy southern weather with them.

  “Raisa.”

  Raisa spun around, her fingers closing on the dagger she carried with her everywhere.

  He stood in the doorway to the garden, at the top of the main staircase.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “You know I want to talk to you,” Micah said. “And yet you’ve rebuffed me every single time I’ve tried to approach.” He stood partly in shadow so she couldn’t see his face.

  “You’ve had plenty of opportunity to talk to me. We’re together all day long.”

  “In meetings,” Micah said, dismissing meetings with a flick of his fingers.

  “All of my time is taken up by meetings,” Raisa said. “Or resolving disputes about disbursement of supplies. Or serving time on the walls. Sometimes, even sleeping.”

  “What about now?” Micah said, glancing around the garden for eavesdroppers. “Let’s talk now.”

  Raisa took a deep breath. “Micah, I’m trying to be diplomatic, considering our situation, but I really don’t want to talk to you.” She turned back toward the temple, but realized she couldn’t leave through the tunnel with Micah standing there.

  “This is about issues critical to the survival of the queendom,” Micah said to her back. “Some critical to your survival.”

  Raisa spun around and folded her arms, gripping her elbows to either side. “I’m listening.”

  Micah took a step toward her. “What’s wrong with you?” he said. “What have I done? Why are you angry with me?”

  “What makes you…?” Raisa’s voice trailed off. She could see there was no use in denying it. She didn’t want to deny it.

  “All right, fine,” she said, dropping onto a stone bench. “I am angry with you.” She felt more in control now than when Micah had first arrived with the news of Han’s death.

  Micah sat on the far end of the bench, a careful distance away. Sliding a bulky carry bag from his shoulder, he rested it on his knees. It looked heavy.

  Raisa eyed the bag, wondering what it could possibly contain.

  “You are angry with me because…?” Micah prompted.

  Raisa took a breath, and the words tumbled out. “The queendom is in crisis, the worst since the Breaking. Fellsmarch Castle is under siege by not one but two armies. The gifted were once called the Sword of Hanalea—the most potent weapon against our enemies. We cannot afford to waste a single asset. And what is the Wizard Council doing? Murdering each other.”

  Micah’s eyes narrowed. “I see. So Alister launches a murderous attack, ends up dead, and somehow I am to blame.”

  “I have your word for that, and no one else’s,” Raisa said. “After all that’s happened, why should I believe you? I appointed him to the Wizard Council—a move you Bayars vehemently opposed—and now he’s dead. Who’s next—Fire Dancer?”

  Micah’s lips tightened at the mention of his half brother.

  “Perhaps you see this as an opportunity to rid the queendom of your enemies while I face the southerners alone.” Raisa’s face burned, and she knew her cheeks were flaming.

  “I did not choose my father, and I did not make this world we live in. Even so, I am doing my best to protect you.”

  “You keep saying that, Micah, but I’m not seeing it. For instance, I would think that the gifted would share my interest in keeping the queendom free of Ardenine interference, given the fact that they burn wizards in the south. And yet the southerners are in the Vale, and the gifted are hiding out in the mountains.”

  “As are the copperheads,” Micah fired back, anger sparking in his black eyes. “We have not been idle, Raisa. Many of the gifted were surprised in their summer homes. Many have already died.”

  “Including Han Alister,” Raisa snapped.

  “I didn’t kill him,” Micah growled. “I wasn’t even there.”

  “So how do you know what happened?”

  Micah looked her in the eyes. “I don’t, exactly.”

  “But you’re sure he’s dead. And you’re glad.”

  Micah rolled his eyes. “Yes—on both counts. I can’t help how I feel. And he’d feel the same way about me if I were dead.”

  “But you’re not.”

  “Do you wish I were?” Micah’s voice shook, and he turned his face away, taking long, shuddering breaths.

  Bones, Raisa thought. She put her hand on his arm. “No. I don’t wish you were dead.”

  “We’ve known each other all our lives,” Micah said. “I know what you’re up against, and you know what I’ve lived with. We’re survivors. We know how to be practical.”

  There was a plea hidden in there—but for what?

  His mouth twisted into a joyless smile. “I despise my father, but I have to admit, he gets things done. Soon we will be in a position to drive the southerners all the way to Bruinswallow.”

  “Soon? How soon?” Raisa said. “After Karn and his thugs have knocked the walls down? I do hope they’ll send word to me in the dungeons of Ardenscourt.”

  Micah scowled down at his hands for a long moment. Finally, he released an exasperated breath and looked up at her. “My father holds the Armory of the Gifted Kings.”

  The armory? Han had said he knew where it was. That he was going to find it. Had he meant to take it from Gavan Bayar? Was that why he’d gone to Gray Lady?

  “Raisa?” Micah said.

  “What?” she snapped.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying? There’ll be no opposing him now. You’ll see the squabbles on the council die away as the other members rally behind him. The copperheads will be rendered impotent. Their monopoly on flashcraft will be irrelevant.”

  “Have you actually seen it?” Raisa asked skeptically. “The armory?”

  “I have proof.” Micah unfastened the buckle on the flap of the bag, lifted out a glittering object, and set it on the bench between them.

  It was a crown, heavier even than the ceremonial coronation crown of the Gray Wolf queens, made of red gold and platinum, studded with fiery stones.

  It glowed, illuminating the hard planes and angles of Micah’s face. Raisa reached for it, then hastily snatched her hands back. Beware of Bayars bearing gifts.

  “It won’t bite,” Micah said dryly. “There’s no flash in it.”

  Raisa studied the crown. It was hauntingly familiar, though not immediately identifiable.

  “What is this?” she asked, wrenching her gaze away to look up at Micah.

  “A wizard would recognize it at once,” Micah said. “It’s the Crimson Crown—the Crown of the Gifted Kings. Lost for a thousand years—since the death of the Demon King. Until now.”

  The story came back to her. All traces of wizard rule had been erased from the palace and the temples centuries ago. But the old paintings still enshrined the memory of the gifted kings.

  In the ballroom at Aerie House, portraits of Bayar ancestors lined the walls. Those that had married into the Gray Wolf line had fancied themselves kings. In the paintings, some wore that crown, or displayed it in the background. Some of the portraits were coronation scenes, in which the captive Wolf queens crowned their gifted husbands.

  She’d seen paintings of the Demon King, in a flaming rage, the Crimson Crown on his head. A pretender—as all of the gifted kings had been.

  Hope kindled in Raisa’s heart. If it was true—if the Bayars had truly uncovered the armory—might it be possible to drive out the southerners? Could it pose a way out of this terrible dilemma?

  Micah’s voice broke into her thoughts. “You won’t be able to stand against him, either.”

  Raisa’s head came up with a jerk. “What are you saying?”

  Micah didn’t elaborate, just gazed at her steadily.

  Kindling hope coalesced into dread. There might be a future for the Fells, but she wouldn’t be a part of it. She might be the last of the Gray Wolf queens.

  The crown sat between
them, drawing Raisa’s eyes like a scrying glass. This is the future, it seemed to say.

  “Now I am in a quandary,” Raisa said, struggling to control her voice. “Who shall I surrender to? Your father or Gerard Montaigne? I just don’t know how to choose between.”

  Noticing Raisa’s dreadful fascination with the Crimson Crown, Micah slid it back into his bag and set it aside.

  “I know what drives my father,” Micah said. “The Bayar pride was wounded a thousand years ago, and he intends to reclaim the family honor. He wants to restore the line of gifted kings.” Micah paused, shaking back his mane of black hair. “And I want you.”

  Their eyes met, and an ocean of silence flooded between them.

  “What are you proposing?” Raisa said finally, her mouth gone dust dry. “That I hand your father the throne, and you and I retire to a love nest in the countryside? How long before he sends assassins after me? Or do you propose a series of trysts in the dungeons at Aerie House?”

  Micah shook his head. “My father has some…baggage, as you know. His enemies have made much of the scandal surrounding my copperhead half brother.”

  “So now you admit that it’s true,” Raisa said, seeking a point of offense.

  “I cannot say what is true and what isn’t, and what extenuating circumstances might have come into play.” Micah’s jaw tightened. “My father is certainly capable of…of worse than that. I am just surprised the coldhearted bastard would take that kind of risk.” He smiled slightly, turning the signet ring on his finger. “Maybe my father and I are more alike than I realized. Driven by lust into bad decisions. Fiona, too, has allowed herself to…has gotten herself entangled where she shouldn’t have.”

  He’s talking about Fiona and Han, Raisa thought bitterly.

  “Sum up, Micah,” she said, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “I have long since run out of patience for riddles.”

  Micah inclined his head. “I’ll speak plainly, then. My father intended to dispose of you and claim the throne himself. I talked him out of it.”