The Crimson Crown

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “For which you have no witness and no proof,” Han said. “Sit down, Bayar. We have some business to sort out between us, but right now I have an agenda of my own and I don’t want to waste everyone’s time.”

  Micah stood for a long moment, his eyes locked with Han’s, his mouth twitching with unspoken words. Then he shrugged slightly and returned to his chair.

  Han waited until Micah was down, then sat in the High Wizard chair at the head of the table. It was the first time he’d claimed his place as head of the Wizard Council.

  “Why are you wearing copperhead clothes?” Mordra blurted.

  “I ran into some trouble,” Han said, looking straight at Micah.

  “Young Bayar here was just telling us that Queen Raisa has agreed to marry him if we can break the siege on Fellsmarch Castle,” Abelard said, her eyes fixed on Han as if hoping he’d pull a fix out of his back pocket.

  “Really?” Han said, as if he didn’t care one way or another.

  “We were waiting for Lord Bayar to arrive so that we could discuss a strategy to retake the city,” Abelard went on, shooting a querying glance at Micah.

  “Where do you suppose he is?” Mander asked, clearly eager for someone else to take over.

  “I don’t know,” Han lied. “But Hayden Fire Dancer will be here shortly, with a delegation of clan elders.”

  “Copperheads?” Abelard shook her head. “Here?”

  Han nodded. “We are going to join with them to drive the southerners back where they belong.”

  “They have agreed to this?” Gryphon asked, looking incredulous.

  “They didn’t really have a choice. Nor do we.” Han unfastened the flap of his carry bag, sliding free the Crimson Crown. He held it high. Looking around the table, he could tell that they all recognized it.

  “The Crown of the Gifted Kings?” Abelard extended her hand, and Han handed it to her. She examined it, turning it to catch the light. “It’s not a reproduction,” she murmured. Finally looking up at Han, she drawled, “I always knew you were an ambitious boy, Alister, but—”

  “Where did you get that?” Mordra demanded, leaning forward, pressing her black-tipped fingers into the tabletop. “Although I’ve seen descriptions and images of it, most scholars believe that it was destroyed at the time of the Breaking.”

  “Though others say it was kept in the Armory of the Gifted Kings,” Gryphon added, obviously waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  Han nodded. “It has been hidden with the armory for a thousand years. That’s where I got it from.”

  “You stole that from us!” Micah hissed. “The armory is ours.”

  “Please,” Han said, rolling his eyes. He looked down the table, at each of the council members. “If the Bayars have known where the armory is, then why haven’t they shared it with all of you? Especially now?”

  “That is a good question,” Abelard said, enjoying this turn in the conversation.

  “They’ve tried to pin all those murders on me because they know I hold the armory,” Han said. “They wanted it for themselves.” He paused. “If you know where the armory is, Micah, then why don’t you take us there?”

  Han could tell Micah was furious, caught between several different lies.

  “My father knows where it is,” he said at last.

  “Then where is your father?” Han said, looking around. “Didn’t he call this meeting?”

  Micah half rose from his seat. “You know where he is,” he said. “Tell me where they are, Alister.”

  “I can’t help you,” Han said, with a twinge of guilt. “Here’s the important thing: I have control of the armory, and I intend to use it to free the queen and the city.”

  “I suppose you are going to do this single-handedly,” Abelard muttered.

  “I have a plan, but I’ll need everyone’s help,” Han said. “Both the clans and the gifted.”

  “So—you will take us to the armory,” Mordra said, grinning.

  “No.” Han shook his head. “I’m going to use the armory to force you and the clans to play well together. The clans have already agreed. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll hand the keys to the armory to them to do with as they want. Melt it down, maybe, I don’t care. The truth is, you need each other if we’re going to get rid of Montaigne’s army.”

  “We could force you to tell us where it is,” Abelard said.

  “That’s right!” Mander shrilled. “You’d better tell us or we’ll force you.”

  “Ask Micah here how well that works,” Han said, pulling back his sleeves.

  Everyone stared at Han’s charred and blistered wrists.

  “Blood of the Demon,” Mordra whispered.

  Han faced Micah again. “You know the truth—that I know where the armory is. You know how I found out. You claim you want to see the queen rescued. If you do, you’d better back me up. That’s the trade. Take or leave.”

  He gazed steadily at Micah, having no idea whether this kind of appeal would do any good at all. But it would tell him something about Micah that he needed to know.

  For a long moment, they stared at each other. Finally, Micah nodded.

  He looked around the table. “Alister is telling the truth. He knows where the armory is. I don’t. You’d better listen to what he has to say.”

  C H A P T E R F O R T Y - N I N E

  UNEASY

  ALLIANCE

  The tap on the door startled them into silence.

  “Come!” Han called.

  The door edged open, and Hammersmith stuck his head through. “The…the…ah…Lord Dancer is here. With his colleagues.”

  “P—perhaps we should wait for Lord Bayar before we proceed,” Mander stammered. Clearly, matters were moving too quickly for his liking.

  “The meeting is now,” Han said. “It wasn’t easy to get them to come onto your turf. Lord Bayar is no longer on the council. You can stay or go.” He gestured to Hammersmith to admit Dancer and the others.

  In they came—Dancer and Willo, who’d been there before, with Averill and Elena, Bird and Shilo Trailblazer, who would never have willingly set foot there.

  Automatically, Han took a head count, as he would with any rival gang meet and greet. Six clan, if you counted Dancer with them, and six wizards.

  The Demonai scanned the room, their bodies rigid with suspicion, hands on the hilts of their throwing knives. Micah and Dancer avoided looking at each other.

  After a moment’s awkward silence, Abelard spoke. “Perhaps it would be best if our visitors put down their arms before we sit down together,” she suggested, looking at Han, eyebrows raised.

  “And perhaps the jinxflingers should remove their amulets,” Elena retorted, looking up at the ceiling.

  “There’s no way we can fight together if we can’t trust each other enough to sit down together without disarming,” Bird said. She chose an unoccupied chair and perched on the edge of the seat. Willo sat down next to her, looking pointedly at the others.

  Averill chose the empty seat nearest the door. Elena scowled disapprovingly at the elaborate chairs surrounding the table, but finally sat cross-legged in one.

  When everyone was seated, Han nodded to Dancer. “Hayden Fire Dancer is the queen’s representative on this council. I’ve asked him to speak first.”

  “I am clan…and I am also gifted with high magic,” Dancer said. “I was taught that those two things were incompatible. At first I felt like an alien creature, impossibly divided, unable to function.” He half smiled. “I’ve learned since that my dual nature allows me to do things that no one else can. I think the same is true of a wizard-clan alliance. The divisions enforced by the Nǽming have made us weak and vulnerable, unable to take advantage of our different talents. Braided together, we are stronger and more capable than each one separately.

  “Prior to the Breaking, Valefolk and wizards cooperated in war,” Dancer continued. “The flatlanders have brought wizards with them, too. But clanfolk and charmcasters have never
collaborated before. The southerners won’t expect it.”

  “The Demonai are skilled fighters,” Han said. “You are used to working together, using terrain and strategy to your advantage. Wizards aren’t good at that—we don’t get along well enough. Remember what happened when wizards raided one of your villages? They all died.”

  Trailblazer smiled lazily. “Jinxflingers are arrogant—they don’t think ahead. They expect that high magic will save them.”

  “It might,” Abelard said, “if we had the weaponry we need.”

  “There are not enough wizards to break the siege, even with the whole armory at our disposal,” Han said. “We have to be smart about it. We need the help of the Demonai. But I won’t ask them to join with you without a commitment from the council.”

  “Couldn’t we discuss this in private?” Mander asked, trying hard not to look at the uplanders in the room.

  Han shook his head. “No. If you have anything to say, say it now. Then we’ll vote.”

  In the end, the vote was unanimous—all voted in favor. Including Lords Bayar and Mander.

  “Now, let’s discuss how we can work together,” Han said. “How can we help each other?”

  “We in the clans are not skilled flatland fighters,” Bird said. “There is no cover in the Vale. We can kill southerners, but not quickly enough to break through to free the city. All we can do is nibble at them. We don’t have the numbers to win that way. Too many of us will be slaughtered. Ordinarily, the Highland Army would fill that gap, but there is none.”

  “In the past, wizards cloaked soldiers in glamours to allow them to approach their targets unnoticed,” Gryphon said. “We could do something similar with the clan warriors, so they can get close enough to do their jobs.”

  “If you can trust us enough to submit to spellcasting,” Mordra added.

  Elena’s expression said she had doubts about that.

  “Are there jinxes you can use against our enemies, to make them more vulnerable to attack?” Averill asked. He clearly preferred charms directed at southerners.

  Once it got going, the discussion went on for several hours, becoming heated from time to time. The warlike Demonai enjoyed showing off their expertise in strategy and tactics.

  As experts on historical weaponry and ancient battles, Gryphon and deVilliers suggested weapons that the Demonai flashcrafters might produce. Fire Dancer had some creative ideas of how his marriage of wizardry and clan magic could be helpful.

  Hammersmith brought in food and drink, looking faintly amazed that they hadn’t killed each other—yet.

  Eventually, they drafted a plan, to be polished at a follow-up meeting on clan turf—at the temporary camp in the high country.

  Han still had major misgivings. They would cross the open Vale and surprise the Ardenine Army using magical distraction, glamours, and subterfuge. But Karn had mages, too, and he’d be looking for this kind of attack. It could be a slaughter—with Han in charge.

  “It would be better if we could coordinate with those inside,” Han said. “They could create a distraction to draw Ardenine eyes away from us.”

  “I’ve managed to get in and out of the palace once,” Micah said. “I’ll go back and let them know what we’re planning.”

  “The flatland mages are in place now, and you might be caught,” Shilo said. “Several of us should go, by different paths, and maybe one or two might get through.”

  Han didn’t like that plan. We might end up with five dead instead of one, he thought. But he had no better idea. It was agreed that Micah, Han, Bird, Mordra, and Shilo would individually attempt to break through the lines and get into the palace a few hours prior to the attack.

  At the end of it all, Han felt as wrung out as he might after a long siege of charmcasting. He remained in the room, pretending to look over his notes as the others departed, hoping to avoid any hallway conversations.

  But when he finally left, Micah was waiting for him in the reception area. Hammersmith was nowhere to be seen, and the privacy charms along the walls said that Micah meant to have a heart-to-heart.

  “So, Alister, you got what you wanted,” he said, fists clenched, shifting from one foot to the other. “Now I need some answers.”

  Han just looked at him, trying not to let his gaze slide to the ring on his hand. I don’t have what I want, he thought. Just so you know.

  “Where are my father and sister?” Micah took a step toward Han. “What happened? What did you do to them?”

  They’re gone, Han wanted to say, but he couldn’t find the words. He knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of that kind of news.

  “How did you get the crown back?” Micah gestured at the bag dangling from Han’s shoulder. “You murdered them, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

  Make no excuses. Admit nothing. Those were street rules from way back. Somehow, he and Micah had to get through these next days together.

  “I’m sorry,” Han said quietly. “I don’t have any answers for you.”

  “They were my family,” Micah persisted, his voice ragged. “They were all I had. Fiona and I—we protected each other growing up. And she cared for you. She made mistakes, but she didn’t deserve to die for them.”

  That pinged a nerve. The image of Mari’s charred body floated before Han’s eyes.

  “My little sister didn’t deserve to die, either. And I have your father to thank for that.” Han went to brush past Micah, but Micah took hold of his arm, jerking him around.

  “Let me see your amulet,” Micah hissed. “I’m betting it’s Waterlow’s. The only way you’d get it back is if my father is dead.”

  Han easily broke Micah’s grip, slamming him up against the wall, his arm pressed against the boy’s throat. He could feel the thrum of Micah’s pulse against his forearm. His pain and rage bubbled to the surface, and it was all he could do not to act on it.

  “Touch me again and I’ll forget that I’ve decided not to kill you,” Han said. “Given my upbringing, I just don’t have that kind of self-control.”

  For a long moment they stood nearly nose to nose. Then Han took a step back, turned, and walked away, not looking back.

  C H A P T E R F I F T Y

  POOR CHOICES

  The problem with having friends, Raisa thought, is that they tend to gang up on you. Usually with the excuse that it’s for your own good.

  These days it seemed that everyone—Amon, Cat, Hallie, Talia, and Nightwalker—was singing off the same sheet. It had gotten to the point that Raisa avoided being alone with those closest to her because she knew what the topic of conversation would be.

  “We cannot wait any longer,” Nightwalker said. “If the Bayar made it out, then we can too.” Meaning him and Raisa.

  “We don’t know that Micah made it out,” Raisa countered. “We haven’t heard from him since. Anyway, he had magic to help him. I don’t.”

  “We know what will happen if you stay here,” Amon said. “If you leave, at least there’s a chance.”

  “It’s a slim chance,” Raisa said. “Karn will be looking for me to try to escape. I’d rather die defending the city than be shot in the back like a coward.” Or be taken alive, she thought.

  Amon tried a different tack. “With you and Mellony penned up here, Karn can concentrate all of his efforts on the city, and ignore what’s going on in the mountains. If you’re in the highlands, then he has to split his forces and his attention.”

  Raisa had to admit, that made sense. Well, she didn’t actually have to admit it.

  It would be easier to contemplate leaving if she weren’t convinced that much of the current trouble had been caused by her running away before. Nor did she look forward to traveling anywhere with a sister who wouldn’t speak to her. Ever since their conversation about Micah, Mellony had locked herself in her room, refusing to see anyone.

  I broke her heart, Raisa thought. Maybe I had no choice, but I didn’t have to speak so harshly to her. One more thing to feel guilty
about.

  Amon’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Once you leave, we’ll let Karn know you’re gone. He might give up besieging the castle, and give us some relief.”

  “All right,” Raisa said finally, too weary to resist further. “Let’s make a plan, anyway. I need ideas. What is likely to be the best way to slip out of the city unnoticed?”

  Someone tapped at the door. Mick stuck his head in. “Captain Byrne? We have a situation.”

  Amon scowled, clearly not wanting to retreat before fully securing his victory. “We’ll be at least another hour, Private Bricker. Could you—”

  “Sir. It’s young Klemath. Kip. He wants to speak with Her Majesty. Says he has a message for her.”

  What now? Raisa thought. Why would Kip be here? Is Klemath senior having second thoughts about his new ally?

  “Where is he?” Amon asked.

  “He’s in…he’s in the dungeon, sir,” Mick said.

  “In the dungeon?” Raisa rubbed the back of her neck, trying to release the tension there. “Was that really necessary? He may be a traitor, but I’ve never thought of him as dangerous.”

  “It’s for his own protection, Your Majesty,” Mick said. “Tempers are running high in the Guard. Some have family out in the city. And, given what’s happening out there…”

  “What do you mean?” Raisa said. “What is happening?”

  Mick bit his lip, looking to Amon for direction. “Something bad,” he said.

  Raisa and Amon followed Mick out of the audience chamber, the others trailing behind. They walked along the barbican to a point where they could look down over the curtain wall.

  What she saw chilled Raisa’s heart.

  On the parade grounds, a ring of Ardenine soldiers had penned in threescore citizens—men, women, and children—their hands bound behind their backs. Nearby, soldiers had erected a crude platform topped with twin uprights and a crossbar. Raisa recognized it for what it was—what Han Alister would have called “the deadly nevergreen.”

  “A gallows,” she whispered. “Sweet Lady of the mountains.”