The Crimson Crown

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “I’m done talking,” Night Bird said. “And I’m done being a fool. I won’t wait for you to come murder me in my bed. I’m here to restore what’s left of Demonai honor. Elena and Averill betrayed Hunts Alone when they enlisted his help against the Wizard Council. And now this.” She paused, her voice faltering. “When I was named to the Demonai, I was not sure that I was good enough. Now I don’t think they are good enough for me.”

  Raisa held the staff loosely in her right hand, balanced to leap to one side or another, near fainting from the pain in her shoulder.

  Nightwalker’s eyes shifted to Bird, as if to assess whether she really would act. He spun, cocking back his arm, and threw his blade, hard, at Bird. Then he sprang toward Raisa, leading with her knife.

  Night Bird’s bow sounded, but he kept coming. Raisa swung her staff the best she could. It struck Nightwalker in his midsection, stopping his forward momentum, but it was by no means a disabling blow. For a long moment, he stood upright, extending the blade toward her as if he could reach across the distance between them. The bow sounded again, and he flinched, eyes widening, then toppled to the floor, two black-fletched arrows centering his back.

  Raisa shuddered, remembering Bird’s furious reaction to Elena’s betrayal of Han. You’re the fool, Nightwalker, she thought. You never bothered to get to know your bed partner, as you called her.

  She looked up at Bird. Bird gazed down at Nightwalker as if to verify that he wouldn’t be getting up. Her eyes shifted to Raisa, and she pressed her fist to her chest, a clan salute.

  And Raisa saw what she hadn’t before. Nightwalker’s blade had struck true—through the base of Bird’s throat.

  “Bird!” Raisa screamed. “Sweet martyred Lady!”

  Bird swayed, eyes wide, groping at her neck with both hands. Blood bubbled from her lips. And she fell, landing like a rag doll on the warehouse floor.

  When Amon Byrne found them, Raisa was sitting on the blood-spattered floor, cradling Bird in her arms, crooning a clan requiem.

  C H A P T E R F I F T Y - N I N E

  REDO

  Han discovered that being at war could serve as an excuse for almost anything—including a small, rather hurried wedding.

  He’d never expected to be going to temple at eighteen—and he was barely that, having just had his birthday. But then, for most of his life he hadn’t expected to live to be eighteen. Looking at it that way, he was marrying late in life.

  Han was eager to get it done before the opposition could organize, or some new calamity could befall them. He couldn’t shed the nagging worry that Raisa might change her mind. Or the speakers at temple might decide that 95th cousins couldn’t marry.

  He recalled what he’d said to the girl he knew as Rebecca one night at Oden’s Ford.

  Every time I try to set something aside for the future, it gets taken away.

  Though grumbling continued among some in the Demonai, Averill and Elena had dropped their active opposition to a marriage between Han and Raisa. Demonai pride had taken a severe blow. Lord Averill, especially, had been devastated by the revelations about Nightwalker. The warrior had been his protégé, his adopted son, his choice for his daughter’s hand in marriage. The news that he had murdered Marianna hit him hard. Despite the troubles in their marriage, despite the queen’s unfaithfulness, Averill had genuinely loved her.

  So, while neither Elena nor Averill were happy to have Han marry into the family, it wasn’t easy to preach about the dangers of wizards from the spot they were in.

  The Demonai honored Night Bird with an ábeornan ceremony—a funeral pyre reserved for the bravest and most valorous warriors. She had, after all, saved the queen’s life and likely prevented a civil war.

  Han and Raisa chose to marry in the chapel in the rooftop garden—the garden that had witnessed so many secrets. Where Alger Waterlow and Hanalea had trysted. Where Han had tried and failed to persuade Raisa to run away with him.

  There’s something about a roof, Han thought, smiling.

  Dancer agreed to stand up for Han, and Mellony for Raisa. Speaker Jemson would do the speaking of the blessing.

  Magret Gray would read from the Temple Book. She hadn’t exactly come out and expressed her approval of Han, but she had orchestrated many of the details of the wedding, down to their church clothing.

  Cat would play the basilka. Nightwalker’s assault in the warehouse had left her with a concussion and a broken leg, but she was determined to witness the spectacle of Cuffs Alister going to temple.

  The guest list was something of a challenge. Han and Raisa wanted to be married surrounded by family and friends: they’d be spending enough time with enemies in the future. Some were obvious choices—Averill and Elena, Amon and Annamaya, Char Dunedain, Willo, Gryphon, and Mordra. Han added in Sarie Dobbs. He’d known her since he was a lytling, so she was as close to family as he had.

  Raisa, of course, had legions she could have invited, even though they’d decided against extending political invitations to those outside the realm. She invited the Gray Wolves—Mick, Hallie, Talia, and Pearlie, who had sheltered the first spark of their relationship back in Oden’s Ford.

  Han and Raisa agreed on Missy and Jon Hakkam and their father, Lassiter, Raisa’s uncle. Though not their favorite people, they came under the heading of family.

  They disagreed on Micah Bayar.

  “I don’t want him there,” Han had said. “And he doesn’t want to be there, either. He holds me responsible for the deaths of his father and sister. He’ll think I’m rubbing his face in it.”

  “I do want him there,” Raisa said. “He needs to see and accept that we are married, and that a marriage between me and him is not going to happen.” She paused for a heartbeat. “Besides, Mellony wants him there.”

  “When Mellony goes to temple, she can invite whoever she wants,” Han growled.

  Han had no desire to make show for Micah—which surprised him a little. They’d all suffered too many losses. Though the small chapel would be filled, Han would still see the empty places where loved ones should have been. And so would Micah.

  Han didn’t want those accusing black eyes fixed on him. He had no desire to feel guilty on his wedding day.

  “Han,” Raisa said, taking his hands in hers. “We need Micah. He is one of the most powerful wizards we have, aside from you and Dancer. We’ve lost so many of the gifted in the past year—irreplaceable talent. Montaigne will be back—you know he will. To be defeated by a woman who spurned his offer of marriage—he won’t be able to live with that. He has all of the assets of Arden and Tamron at his disposal. We’ll need to make the most of our strengths so that we will be ready when he returns.”

  In the end, of course, Raisa got her way.

  Han dressed in his room adjoining Raisa’s, distracted by the image of her doing the same on the other side of the door. Raisa had Cat, Magret, Missy, and some others to help her. Han had Dancer, who, clad in comfortable clan garb, simply sat, looking vastly amused as Han fussed with his flatland clothes.

  Raisa had given Han a shirt of linen so fine it caressed his skin like flower petals. Willo had given him a deep chestnut coat and fine leather boots. The dressmakers had contributed wizard stoles in gold and chestnut, inscribed with the Waterlow ravens, and close-fitting trousers. It was not as fancy as some might wear for a royal wedding, but it suited him.

  Dancer had made Raisa and Han plain platinum bands to match their flashcraft betrothal rings.

  There came a tapping at the door. “They are ready for you,” Magret Gray said.

  They followed Magret down the corridor, the sound of their footsteps echoing against marble. Gripping her skirts in either hand, Magret ascended the stairs to the rooftop garden, with Han and Dancer in her wake.

  Two bluejackets bracketed the gate. They moved to either side to allow Magret to pass between them, like a great ship through a narrow channel. Han and Dancer followed behind.

  The garden was abloom with wizard
lights and autumn flowers—mums and asters and frostlilies. As they approached the small temple, Han could hear the haunting notes of Cat’s basilka.

  Raisa was waiting for them just inside the door.

  She wore a silk gown in a subtle mix of forest shades that exposed her caramel shoulders. It hugged her bodice and waist, then opened into panels like leaves, which flared around her hips whenever she moved. Her cap of hair was twined with flowers, and emeralds and gold glittered at her wrists and ankles.

  She padded toward Han, barefoot, like a faerie startled out of a forest bower, a bewitching mix of clan and flatland beauty. Han’s pulse accelerated as desire washed over him. All he could think was that he wanted to kiss those lips again. That he wanted to press his own lips to the rose tattoo just under her collarbone.

  She took her hand in his, smiling up at him rather wickedly, as if she realized the effect she was having. Mellony and Dancer lined up behind them.

  “Lord Hanson Alister and Her Majesty Raisa ana’Marianna have come to temple,” Magret said, her voice reverberating off glass and stone.

  Han scanned the room, which was lit with candles and witch-lights. The guests were arrayed to either side of a central aisle that ran straight to the altar. Cat was seated with her basilka to the right front, her splinted left leg poking out from under layers of skirts.

  Speaker Jemson stood at the front, next to the altar, in his finest temple robes.

  “Come forward, Raisa ana’Marianna and Han Alister,” he intoned.

  Raisa tugged at Han’s hand, pitching him out of his reverie, and they walked forward, down the aisle, Dancer and Mellony following a discreet distance behind. Han caught glimpses of the spectators out of the corners of his eyes—the bluejackets, all seated together in their dress uniforms, Talia and Pearlie holding hands and looking dreamy-eyed.

  Amon and Annamaya were seated in the front row, also holding hands.

  What is he thinking? Han wondered, studying Amon’s grim, serious expression. He and Raisa had been sweethearts, once. Did he still have feelings for her?

  On the other side of the aisle, Raisa’s father and grandmother sat stiffly in their finest clan robes, their trader faces on.

  At the end of the front row next to the wall, Micah Bayar was sprawled back in his chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, the sharp planes of his face highlighted by the glow of his amulet. No doubt he intended to look relaxed, even bored by the proceedings, but he had a white-knuckled grip on the arms of the chair.

  Why did he have to come? Han wondered. He could have said no.

  Han turned resolutely and faced Speaker Jemson.

  “Hanson Alister,” Speaker Jemson said, smiling down at the two of them. “What brings you to temple this evening?”

  “I come to be joined to Raisa ana’Marianna as husband and consort,” Han said. “To be joined before the Maker and our friends in the spirit and the flesh.”

  “And you, Raisa ana’Marianna?” Speaker Jemson said. “What brings you to temple?”

  “I come to be joined to Han Alister as wife and queen,” Raisa said. “To be joined before the Maker and our friends in the spirit—and the flesh.” Pink crept into her cheeks as she said this.

  “And you both do this of your own free will?” Jemson asked, looking at each of them in turn.

  “Oh, yes!” they said together, sending a titter of amusement around the chapel.

  “Then let’s talk about what this means,” Jemson said, and continued to lead them through the marriage service—through the oaths and affirmations and questions and answers that constituted a marriage in the Old Church.

  Han managed to hit his cues even while distracted by a tumult of thoughts. He wished Mam and Mari could be here. Mari, especially, would love the candles and witchlights, the romance and ceremony of it. Not to mention the sweetcakes at the reception after.

  And Lucius—Lucius had been the source of considerable pain, and yet he’d finally told Han the truth when nobody else would.

  Han saw movement in the shrubbery, and Dog emerged, his tail waving like a flag. He’d come to the wedding, then, despite Magret’s attempts to lock him up. So Lucius was represented.

  And Crow. He’d been the author of so much that had happened—he’d paid such a high price for love—it seemed he should be here for the redux.

  Han looked past the altar and saw gray wolves sitting in a circle, their tails wrapped around their feet, and that gave him the seed of an idea.

  Han felt the vibration of foot-stamping and applause, and looked up to find everyone waiting for that first kiss. He swept Raisa up into his arms and kissed her like it was his first, last, and only.

  But, as it turned out, they were just getting started.

  E P I L O G U E

  “Is that what you wore?” Crow said. He tried for a frown but couldn’t quite bring it off. “Turn around.”

  Han obediently turned in a circle, extending his arms to show off his garb. “I think this is pretty close,” Han said, of his conjured clothes. “Based on memory.”

  “Isn’t it rather subdued for a wedding?” Crow said, drawing his brows together.

  “It didn’t seem right to do something splashy when we’re still at war with Arden, and so many have died, and others are struggling to survive.” Han pointed to the garden chapel, which he had conjured up as their meeting place in Aediion. “We had the ceremony right here. Where you and Hana used to meet. This is how it looked.”

  Crow surveyed the garden, taking in the chrysanthemums and asters, calla lilies and dragonflowers, frost-touched hydrangeas. The chapel roof was twined with flowering vines.

  “Mmm.” Crow rubbed his chin. “It will do, Alister. There is just one thing that I would have added.” He conjured the Crimson Crown between his hands and held it out. “This would have added a certain something.”

  Han shook his head. “I told you. I don’t want to be king. I didn’t even want to be the official consort, but if I marry the queen, it comes with. Love and politics shouldn’t go together.”

  Crow rolled his eyes, but the crown disappeared. “We Waterlows have always made fools of ourselves over women. Unfortunately, it seems to be a dominant trait.” He paused. “There was no bloodshed at this wedding? No Demonai ambush? No Bayar treachery?”

  Han shook his head. “It may still come, but no.”

  And if it does come, it is still worth it. Memory washed over Han, of long hours spent in Raisa’s high bed, their limbs entangled. And then in his bed. And then in the rooftop garden.

  There are a lot of rooms in that palace, Han thought. And Seven Realms to boot.

  Wrenching himself back to the present, he saw that Crow, too, was distracted; his gaze far away. Han guessed perhaps he was recalling his own wedding, a thousand years ago, that had precipitated so many disasters.

  “If you’re done criticizing my clothes, Dancer and I planned a surprise for you,” Han said. “We don’t know if it will work, if we can pull it off, but…we thought we’d try.”

  Crow looked puzzled. “What?”

  “Do you remember when I brought Lucius to Aediion with me?” Han said. “We’re going to try something similar.”

  “No, no, don’t tell me,” Crow said sarcastically. “You’re going to reenact the wedding in Aediion.”

  Han shook his head. “No, actually we—”

  Just then, the air began to ripple and dance. Two shapes became visible, solidifying, and becoming clearer. It was Fire Dancer and a gray wolf with clear gray eyes.

  Crow cocked his head, staring. “What is this, Alister? What do you…?”

  His voice trailed away as the wolf blurred and shimmered, extending vertically, changing before their eyes. Until finally a graceful young woman stood before them, dressed in trousers and a leather waistcoat of an old-fashioned style, her pale hair caught into a long braid. She wore a gold ring on her finger, familiar to Han. It was the one Raisa wore—with the circling wolves.

 
Han watched the woman for signs of sentience. It was one thing to conjure up an image in Aediion, but transporting an animating spirit that was not a wizard was something else.

  Crow stared at the woman, too, his mouth literally hanging open. He swallowed hard. “Alister. Is this…is this some kind of cruel joke?”

  “The Gray Wolf queens live on as wolves,” Han said, desperately hoping this wouldn’t turn out to be a disaster. “I’m told that only the descendants of Hanalea can see them, but I created a sending so that Dancer could, too. The queens carry wizard blood from before the Breaking, and so I thought maybe…”

  But Crow didn’t seem to be listening. “Hana?” he whispered, his face a landscape of grief, hope, and longing.

  She smiled, and it was like unshuttering a lamp. She took a step forward, extending her arms. “Alger,” she said, her voice low and musical. “I did not believe them when they said you still lived.” She swallowed hard, tears streaming down her cheeks. “There is so much I have to say to you.”

  Crow walked toward her, arms outstretched like a man in a dream, which he was, in a way.

  Sometimes a dream is enough.

  A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S

  Thank you to all my early readers who don’t complain (in my presence) when they critique something and then I throw it away—Marsha McGregor, Pam Daum, Jim Robinson, Dawn Fitzgerald, Jeff Harr, Don Gallo, Julanne Montville, and Leonard Spacek. To those who are in for the long road—YAckers Jody Feldman, Debby Garfinkle, Mary Beth Miller, Martha Peaslee Levine, and Kate Tuthill; to Eric, who never lets me get away with anything—but every now and then I fool even you! And Keith, my left brain/right brain creative.

  To the wonderful team at Hyperion—my editor, Abby Ranger, who is always the adult in the room, but still encourages the steamy bits; to Laura Schreiber for her wonderful insights and sharp eyes; the marketing and publicity team: Ann Dye, Dina Sherman, Jennifer Corcoran, Hallie Patterson, and Nellie Kurtzman; book designer Tyler Nevins, and illustrator Larry Rostant—your covers make such beautiful visual promises.