The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  Their lights were quick and brilliant—jewellike. He eyed Weverton more closely. The man’s lights remained misty—like they were reflected through water.

  “Is something wrong?” the other man asked when Keros had stared too long.

  “I’m not certain,” Keros said without a hint of humor.

  When he said nothing else, Nicholas leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “I would very much like you to explain that.”

  Keros swallowed and took a drink of tepid tea before answering. He sat back and steepled his fingers together. “When I look at you, I don’t see you as I once did,” he said. How could he possibly make them understand?

  “How do you see us?” Margaret asked, her attention sharpening.

  “In colored light—it moves, tracing the lines of you.” Keros waved his hands. “I cannot explain. But it isn’t just you—everything appears so.”

  “Why? Is this permanent?” Margaret asked, almost at the same time that Weverton asked, “Why do you think something might be wrong with me?”

  “I don’t know if it’s permanent or not.” He gave a short explanation of what had happened to him.

  “This thing is still in your mind?” Margaret asked, drawing back slightly.

  “It is.”

  “And you’ve no idea what it is. How do we get it out of you?”

  He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know.” It felt deeply anchored, as if it had infiltrated every muscle, every drop of his blood, every beat of his heart. “I don’t know if I can be rid of it.” There was a confirming wash of agreement inside him followed by a not entirely comfortable caress across his mind. He twitched uneasily, the touch deeply intimate.

  “Will it—” Margaret broke off. She looked down at her hands. “Are you still you?”

  He smiled. “Would I know if I wasn’t? You should tell me.”

  “You sound like yourself.”

  “Maybe you were hoping that some of the rough edges got ground off.”

  “I like you fine the way you are.”

  “That’s because you have no taste,” he said.

  “What do you mean there might be something wrong with me?” Weverton broke in impatiently.

  Keros looked at him, watching the soft, watery shift of his brilliant colors. Thin gauzy strands floated free like the tatters of a sail. “Your lights aren’t crisp and sharp the way everything else is. They—” He shrugged. “I have no experience to say whether this is normal or not.”

  Nicholas stretched out a hand, laying it flat on the table. “Look with majick.”

  Keros hesitated, then covered the other man’s hand with his own. He looked down at his own lights. They were a pale blue and lilac with twists of black and yellow rolling around them. He reached for his majick. It came with sluggish unwillingness and his lights flared as it filled him. He stared a moment, fascinated. He should have still been exhausted after creating the spell for the brothels, but he felt fresh and invigorated.

  He pushed out with his majick. At this point he needed to concentrate on Nicholas’s body, not the intriguing play of his own lights. He closed his eyes, feeling his majick spreading out along the other man’s arm and up over his shoulders, then down his back and chest to his feet. He pushed harder and his majick sank inside. He reached for his illidre with his other hand. For a moment his attention was riveted on the ugly squash of hardened sylveth. Its lights were spectacular. There were too many colors to count and they rolled and flared and pulsed separately and together in an enthralling slide of color. He could have stared for days.

  With an effort, Keros tore himself free and concentrated on the spell he kept for diagnosis. It was a complex weaving that was designed to search for wrongness of body or spirit. It was one of his early spells. A miracle really. He’d had no more business creating that spell than he had the illidre. He’d come to Crosspointe with no idea how to be a majicar and a desperate need to learn to harness his power. He’d taken to stalking the guild-trained majicars and eavesdropping on them. He’d picked up bits and pieces of information, but in the end, it was a puzzle that did not fit together. He was going to have to figure out how to be a majicar himself. And to start, he needed an illidre.

  It wasn’t something he could buy, so he knew he had to make it himself. Unaware it was a master’s level skill and entirely beyond his abilities, he’d taken a skiff outside the Pale and landed on one of the Caris Islands clustering along the north shore of Crosspointe. There, where sylveth ran freely in the tides, he was certain he could learn what he needed.

  He’d stayed there for sennights that turned into months while he experimented. It had been maddening how little he understood. Every time he thought he learned something, he found out he was wrong. Toward the end, he’d begun taking wild risks, coming close to death more than once. Looking back, he doubted he was entirely sane at that point. Hunger, lack of sleep, exposure, and isolation had driven him to the edge of reason. They boiled together with desperate rage and frustration and unexpectedly, that maelstrom of emotion and deprivation honed the focus he needed.

  There had come a sylveth tide. He’d waded out into it, scooping some into his hands. He’d struck it with every bit of majick he could muster. He didn’t remember what had happened then, but when he returned to awareness, he found himself lying facedown on the rocky shingle, a crushed hardened blob of sylveth clenched in his fist. Over the seasons, he’d never tried to refine it or make it more pleasing to the eye, though he’d learned far more about majick since then. It was a testament to that boy and his strength and determination.

  Since that day, he had impressed many spells inside it. The one he reached for now had been born one night after an illness had attacked his ship. It had been only two seasons since he had crafted his illidre and he had only managed simple spell castings. Then the plague had struck. It was an insidious illness, quietly killing the men one after another. The first three went in their sleep with no symptoms. The fourth simply dropped on the deck. They were days out of Crosspointe and Keros was all that stood between the ship and certain death.

  By the time anyone realized a shipmate was sick, he was already falling down dead. Keros had needed to create a spell that would quickly seek out those who were ill. He had to be quick or there wouldn’t be enough crewmembers left to bring the ship to port and everyone would die. If the captain—Marten—and Pilot were killed, the ship would be lost at sea.

  Keros had never understood his limitations—that what he was doing would have taken a master healer sennights, if not months, to fashion. Instead he set to work with that finely honed desperation and intensity that he’d used when he’d made his illidre.

  He’d saved his ship and he’d used the spell over and over again through the seasons since. Now he turned it on Weverton. He felt the majick unfold in a lattice. It swept through Weverton like a fine sieve. The other man stiffened, his hand balling into a fist beneath Keros’s.

  “There’s nothing wrong that I can see,” Keros said, withdrawing his hand at last. “Beyond the fact that you are a cracking bastard, of course,” he said.

  “Of course,” Weverton said with an edged smile. “Maybe one day you’ll find a cure for that.”

  “I can think of at least one,” Keros said and he spun blue-green majick around his fingers. It was unformed and hardly dangerous, but Weverton drew back sharply. Keros smiled.

  “We should get back to planning Carston’s rescue,” Margaret said suddenly. “We must move quickly before we are discovered or the regent tries to take the boy somewhere else.”

  “Are we certain the boy is still here?” Keros asked.

  She shrugged. “No. We’ve learned some information about the grounds and the house, but I will simply have to go inside and search. I had hoped Ellyn could give me some information but—” She shrugged meaningfully. “After that, we can build a plan for rescuing him. We have to hurry. The regent will hear about the horses and then he’ll want to be introduced to us
. We have little time.”

  “No,” Weverton said stolidly and Keros realized that this was the argument he’d interrupted when he’d woken up. “You will not go in alone. It is too risky. Now that Keros is awake, we can go in together.”

  Margaret shook her head tiredly. “I go in and scout. I find out what we’re up against. Then I come back out and we figure out the best way to get Carston out without getting caught. Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

  Weverton looked up at the ceiling covered in artful plaster leaves. “Because you risk too much and I risk nothing,” he said and his gaze dropped heavily back to Margaret. “I’m his father and you—You’ve already done more than anyone could possibly expect of you.”

  She shrugged. “I’m willing. Besides, I’m hoping you’ll repay me with an alliance. So you might consider this my duty.”

  “That’s a load of horse shit,” he said.

  “Nevertheless, this is what I do and I am very good at it.” She paused. “I do not need your permission, though this will go better if we work together.”

  He stared, then thrust to his feet. His chair skidded backward and bounced off the wall. His mouth opened and then snapped shut. He looked at Keros. “Have you anything to say?”

  The majicar looked at Margaret. “What do you need from me?” he asked.

  Weverton swung around and stomped to the window, shoving his hands in his pockets.

  “Nothing until I get back.”

  “And if you don’t?” Weverton jerked, half turning around.

  “Then I would consider it a favor if you’d send word to my brothers.”

  Weverton spun around with sharp violence. “And tell them what?”

  Her look was cool. “That I’m dead. I won’t allow the regent to use me. I’ll rob him of his fun first.”

  He stared, his expression lethal. “If you go in alone and you get caught, then you wait for us. Do you understand? You wait. We will come; I will come. I don’t cracking care what he does to you or how bad it gets—you wait for me.”

  She looked askance, blinking surprise. She didn’t answer. But the silence said enough. She didn’t trust him. But Keros was beginning to wonder. He knew Weverton wanted Margaret. He’d thought before that it was because she was a challenge—someone the other man couldn’t have, which therefore made her all the more desirable. While Weverton had no doubt been bored to tears by the Margaret that the rest of Crosspointe knew—the pretty doll who laughed correctly and said just the right thing and was concerned with fashion and gossip—he clearly found the rogue Margaret intriguing. More than that—his attachment seemed real, like he had truly come to care for her. Though whether emotion could or would win out over personal interest was the perennial question.

  Suddenly Weverton came around the table and dropped to a crouch in front of her, startling Keros no less than Margaret. Nicholas grasped her hands, waiting until she met his gaze. “You wait,” he ordered. “I will not fail you. Promise me.”

  Keros stared as the soft flowing tendrils of his lights curled around her wrists, clinging gently.

  “He won’t catch me. And anyway, why would you believe me any more than I believe you?” she asked. She didn’t pull away. “Ramplings and Wevertons don’t make promises to each other.”

  “I promise you,” he said with quiet fervor.

  She shook her head slowly. She wanted to believe, Keros realized. But she couldn’t. There was too much history that argued against it.

  “At least take these.” Weverton pulled a chain from around his neck. On it were a collection of powerful ciphers. “This one has a shield spell, this one is for rapid healing, this one will let you hear at a longer distance—” He broke off as she shook her head.

  “No. But thank you,” she added when he glowered ferociously. “Except for this cracking family pendant that I can’t take off, I wear no other ciphers. I don’t like relying on crutches. They make me careless and I can’t afford it. Anyway, I don’t know how much help they’d be the way majick is working lately.”

  Weverton stood with a jerking movement and backed away, his hands hanging loose at his sides. The silence was molten. Finally Keros broke it.

  “Well, if you won’t believe him, believe me. If you get caught by the regent, I’ll be coming for you. If you won’t wait for him, then wait for me.”

  She just shrugged without agreeing and glanced at the window. “No time like the present. I’ll get my uniform on.” She stood and gathered her travel-stained clothing. Before she retreated into the bedchamber to change, she turned, her gaze taking in both of them. “I won’t get caught. But if I do”—the corner of her mouth turned up in a self-derogatory smile—“If I do, don’t be late.” She looked at both men. “Either of you.”

  Chapter 12

  The wind was warm and humid. Mud clung to Margaret’s boots. She ran through the woods that ran alongside the Molford Manor. The house was more like a castle. There were rows of new barracks along the west side and new barns to the south. The former were teeming with recruits and the latter were stuffed with supplies, including cattle, pigs, sheep, and goats. The regent was preparing to go to war and he was going to make sure his battalions were fed, even if the rest of the country starved. With the weather as wet and cold as it had been, Crosspointe’s crops were going to be meager at best, and there was little enough coming in through the shipping channels. Every day there were reports of more ships lost. Just as majick wasn’t quite right in Crosspointe, it was most definitely not right at sea. The danger of food riots in the winter season was all too real.

  Not her problem, Margaret thought. Not now. She had to get inside the manor and find Carston.

  She slipped through the twilight shadows like a wraith. She was angling for the east side of the manor where the kitchen gardens were. They would get her closer to the house than any other cover. From there she’d have to cross open lawns. There were no bushes or trees near the house, which meant she’d be all too visible to watching eyes.

  The manor was old and ornate. The front was triangular with a blocky tower on each corner—each a different size. Attached behind were two square wings, with rounded towers on three of their four corners. The walls of the building jutted and lumped with windows, balconies, cupolas, finials, and ornate decorative veneers. The roof bristled with chimney pots and pointed spires.

  She’d spent the afternoon getting her bearings and now it was sundown. Most everyone would be inside eating or settling in for the night. Clouds had begun to roll in late in the afternoon, hiding the moon and the stars. Rain would start again soon. It was a good night to prowl.

  The gardens were bounded by four-foot walls topped by four more feet of wood lattice to keep out deer and other hungry animals. Margaret took off her cloak and cached it in the crook of a maple tree, and once more scanned her surroundings. No one was about. Quickly she touched each of her knives and poison rings, then her garrote necklace and the throwing knives in her hair. She’d lost two of them on their journey and only four remained. Her fingers paused over the woven strip of leather circling her wrist. Keros had majicked it with a spell to allow them to locate whoever wore it. When she found Carston, if she could, she’d fasten it to him so that if anything went wrong and he was moved before they could rescue him, they’d be able to track him easily.

  She thought of Nicholas, her brow furrowing. He truly seemed to fear for her safety. It was inexplicable. What could he benefit from such a pretense?

  Unless it wasn’t pretense.

  Margaret swallowed a groan at the skip of hope her heart made. No. Absolutely not. She could not be attracted to him; she could not let herself be so stupid. But still . . . he was strangely solicitous and the expression in his eyes when he looked at her was hungry.

  But then again, he was a master liar. Just like she was.

  She pushed all thoughts of Nicholas out of her mind. She couldn’t afford to maunder. She needed all her attention to find Carston.

 
; Crouching down, she scuttled through the limp, scrubby grass to the wall of the outer garden. Without stopping, she leaped smoothly up onto the top of the stone wall. The lattice was lodged firmly in place and did not wobble. She shimmied over it and dropped down into the garden, crouching low in the shadows. She eased out of the bed, the smell of rosemary and tarragon rising around her. She followed the path through the herb garden to the gate on the other side. It was open a few inches. She nudged it wider and peered through. She faced a crushed- rock walkway. Ahead was another garden and to the left was a path leading out into the grounds.

  She opted to go through to the next garden enclosure. It was lush, green, and vibrant. The beds were raised up off the ground, and though the path was squelchy, the drenching rains had been able to drain out of the beds instead of drowning the plants. Pumpkin vines spilled across the path, intertwined with cucumbers and melons. She picked through them, careful not to step on any leaves.

  The gate on the other side opened up onto a small circular lawn bordered by a two- foot hedge and hemming a bronze Chayos, her long hair lifting in a rising wind. Her bottom half melded into the trunk of a tree, its roots knobby and thick as they snaked in a circle through a menagerie of animals. Tall stems of flowering plants spilled water into the copper basin below. Benches ringed the tiled circle surrounding the fountain.

  Margaret eased out of the gate and froze in place as voices floated through the air. There was a giggle and a quick female patter followed by a slower male voice. Margaret couldn’t make out the words, but the couple was moving farther away. She slipped across the lawn, hunching down beside the statue before moving across to crouch in the shadows of the hedge. Now all that lay between her and the house was a tide of yellowing lawn. The lights of the manor were brilliantly lit and there was music playing somewhere.

  She ran across the grass to press herself into a crease where a tower jutted from the main wall. She didn’t wait to see if anyone had seen her, but jogged left around the tower and into a notch between wings. It was dark here and no windows looked out on this wall. The stone was roughly hewn and gave enough finger- and footholds to climb. She started up just as fat drops of rain began to pop against the wall. She rolled her eyes. Just what she needed.