The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  “My legs are pudding,” Margaret said, scratching behind her horse’s ears. “And I didn’t duck fast enough.” She turned to look at him and he saw a bloody scratch ran across her cheek and along her neck. “But that’s about the worst of it.” She drew a shaky breath. “Do you think they succeeded?”

  He didn’t need to ask what she was talking about it. It could only be Keros and Ellyn. He remembered the growling rumble he’d heard when the horses had panicked. He nodded. “They made the slide. I heard it.”

  “Good.” Then she frowned. “That could have brought Forcan down on them.”

  Nicholas was digging in his pack. He had no reassurances to offer her. Anything he could say would be hollow at best, downright lies at worst. He found a wadded shirt and pulled it out. He dampened the sleeve with water from his flask and dabbed at the scrape on Margaret’s face. She winced, but didn’t pull away.

  When he was through he returned the shirt to his pack. “We should get going. They’ll be hungry and tired when they get to the Maida. We should have things ready for them.”

  She looked at him, then gave him a bare smile of gratitude that he presumed their friends were safe and on their way. “Let’s go.”

  He stood beside her to help her into her saddle. She gave him a startled look, but bent her leg obediently. He levered her up. Her gelding snorted and sidled, but she gathered the reins firmly and patted his shoulders. Nicholas mounted and this time they rode beside each other as they headed to Sylmont.

  They found a wagon track that took them back to the city. Rain started in a slow drizzle, then turned quickly into a downpour. Nicholas had long since lost his hat—he had no idea where. He pulled his coat close, but the wet ran down beneath his collar. Margaret was no better off. She hunched, her head bent dogged and low. She was wrapped in a blanket, since her cloak had been left behind in Molford and she’d refused to take either Nicholas’s or Keros’s. But even the heavy rain couldn’t suppress the rising smell of smoke. The hair on the back of Nicholas’s neck prickled. He’d seen from where they had camped that things in Sylmont were bad, but he was about to find out just how bad. There was a lot of smoke.

  The two of them came over the final hill at the edge of the city, just north of the Mystery of Hurn. They pulled up as one and stared.

  “By the gods,” Nicholas murmured in shock.

  Smoke and rain hid a great deal, but fires burned all over the city, some in unnatural colors that indicated majick. Their spotted glimmers extended far out, all the way to the headlands. In places, entire blocks of buildings were razed. Nicholas couldn’t see the Riddles. It was hidden in a pall of smoke. His gaze slid out to the harbor. It was full of the detritus of sunken and broken ships. All the wet docks and piers were gone. It looked like someone had taken a spoon and madly stirred the entire harbor to bits.

  “Look,” Margaret said. Her voice was thick and Nicholas was certain that the rain hid her tears. She pointed north toward the Maida of Chayos.

  A pale green glow rose like a bubble over the broad domed hill of the Maida. Inside was a strange, wondrous place where night and day and every season existed all together at the same moment. The exterior was evergreen and ever fruiting. The poor lined up every day for fresh fruits, vegetables, grain, eggs, milk, butter and cheese, which the delats—servants of Chayos—handed out freely. Nicholas wiped a hand over his mouth as nearly unbearable relief swept over him. If Chayos was protecting her Maida, then Sylmont still had hope. His gaze flicked to the Mystery of Hurn. The windowless, black stone tower of the stranger god was as unrelentingly quiet as ever. Nicholas could not see the Ysod of Meris or the Font of Braken.

  “Come on,” Margaret said and turned her horse to follow the ridge toward the Maida.

  She made no effort to ride down into the city. Whether because she feared that someone might attack them again to steal the horses or for some other reason, Nicholas didn’t know, nor did he ask. He thought of his family. Most of them were outside of the city. But everyone else—his servants, his employees . . . He glanced again at the devastation, then up toward his manor. Smoke hid it as well as the royal castle and all of Salford Terrace. A chill ran down to his toes. What horrors would be seen when the smoke cleared?

  He urged his bay into a trot and quickly pulled up even with Margaret. Her lips were pulled into a fierce snarl and her eyes blazed. Her chiseled features—sharpened by the loss of weight during her ordeal with the Jutras—were harsh. Her entire expression was one of ruthless fury. Her hands flexed on her rain-slicked reins. She looked at him as if feeling the weight of his gaze. He wanted to say something, though he didn’t know how to reassure her, or even what to reassure her about—that her brothers had survived? That the Jutras would not suddenly arrive and take the city? That the people of Sylmont had escaped the devastation? That the majicars who must have done this had killed each other and now were no threat? And then there was the question of Forcan—did the unnatural animal even now prowl the city, slaughtering everyone in its path?

  Something in her eyes made him go cold. Then as he watched, her face changed. Her jaw relaxed, her mouth softened, the grooves running from her nose to her mouth disappeared. In a moment, a bland mask of kindness and confidence settled over her countenance. Only her eyes continued to burn, and that fire was slowly banking.

  “What did you do?” he asked, his mouth dropping. She looked more like the princess he’d known before—the one made of porcelain, whose conversations were always about fashion and the gossip of court, who didn’t know how to wield a knife and who shrieked in fright when a mouse ran across the floor.

  She straightened, pulling in on herself so that she looked positively regal. Even in the travel-stained clothing she wore, everyone would recognize her, which no doubt was the point. “Ryland may be dead. Vaughn is in Brampton. The rest of my family is dead or enslaved. There is no one else for the people to look to and someone has to lead or we will have chaos.” She scanned the wreck of Sylmont. “More chaos. I must take command until one of my brothers can.”

  The words were cool and deliberate, but Nicholas heard the bitter tang to them. “Do you want this?” he asked.

  For a moment the fires flared in her eyes. “I have never wanted to rule,” she said. “But I am a Rampling, and this is my duty. I am the only one here and the only one who can do it. I have no choice.”

  “And if your damned duty gets you killed?” It was a stupid question. He knew it even as it left his lips. Her life had been in constant danger since she was a child. She didn’t need to say the words; her shrug and the sharp quirk of her mouth was eloquent.

  He reached out and grabbed the right rein, pulling both of their horses to a halt. He put his hand over hers. They were cold as ice. “You aren’t in this alone. We’ll do this together.”

  Her brows rose. “You’ll help me out of the kindness of your heart?” She shook her head, and a fleeting expression of something that looked like hurt or possibly sadness was replaced by prickly suspicion. “And when this is done—if Crosspointe survives—then what? Business as usual? You’ll have me poisoned or knifed in the dark? Murdered like my father was? We’re friends just for now, remember?”

  Fury rolled through Nicholas with searing heat. She was right—she had no reason to really trust him. And he could offer no guarantees. Except—

  The feelings that clenched his heart in a killing grip drove him. He legged his gelding close into hers. He put his hand around the back of her neck and jerked her close. His lips pressed against hers. They were cold and wet from the rain.

  His mouth ground harder. Whether in surprise or desire, her lips parted. His mouth slanted over hers in triumphant eagerness. His tongue licked hungrily inside her mouth. She tasted faintly of the tea they’d drunk that morning and something else—something purely Margaret. It send a scorching shaft of need through his gut. He pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her off her horse. He settled her onto the saddle in front of him,
her legs dangling over the left side. He held her tight, one arm across her back, the other hand sliding up to hold her head as he deepened the kiss.

  Her tongue slipped inside his mouth, tracing his lips. It was unbearably exquisite. He gentled his touch as she grew more bold. Her touch was deft and sure. She slid her arms around his neck and he found she was clinging as tightly to him as he was to her.

  The kiss went on far longer than he dreamed she would allow it. But at last he felt her start to draw away. His arms tightened; then he loosened them slowly. She leaned away from him, but she did not release him. The expression on her face was anything but controlled or indifferent. Fires burned in her eyes again, but this time not with fury or hatred. This time the fire was for him and it was breathtaking.

  “This is—”

  Impossible. He didn’t need to hear her say the word. He shook his head, refusing it. “This is,” he said, giving her a gentle shake. “It is and by the black depths I won’t let it go. I won’t. I can’t. I don’t give a damn if you’re a Rampling and I’m a Weverton or what’s happened between our families or anything else. We’ll find a way.”

  The words were as much a question as a declaration. It didn’t matter what he wanted if she didn’t want it too—if she didn’t want it more than her damned Rampling duty. His body filled with ice. Everyone knew that Ramplings put Crosspointe above all personal concerns. It was in their blood, it was inscribed on their bones. It was why Geoffrey had enslaved them rather than let them run loose. He’d known he could never make them betray that innate sense of duty to their land and people.

  She licked her lips and rain ran down her cheeks like tears. Nicholas wanted to crush her back against him and steal back that moment that was now forever lost.

  Suddenly she leaned forward and kissed him again. Her mouth was urgent against his and demanding. He responded with all his frustration, need, and desire. This time when she pulled away, they were both breathless. She said nothing, but pushed out of his arms. She slid down to the ground and went to catch up the reins of her gray gelding who was cropping grass a few feet away. She swung up into her saddle and nudged her horse into a trot, never saying a word.

  Nicholas followed, feeling as if he’d been clubbed in the head. He ached with a pain that drove down into the depths of his soul and it hurt like nothing he’d ever imagined.

  She wanted him, he told himself, trying to find some comfort to ease that bloody wound. But it didn’t matter. She had the strength and will to walk away, no matter what she might feel for him. His jaw clenched. He didn’t make a habit of giving up on what he wanted. Somehow he’d sap the walls of her defenses. He didn’t let himself think about what would happen after that.

  The Maida of Chayos was a broad, tall hill standing alone on the edge of the city. It was more than a quarter of a league across and was just west of Cheapside and south of Blackstone. A pale green nimbus surrounded it now, extending out forty or fifty paces from the base of the hill. Knots of people huddled within its glow, clustering at its foot and hiding among the bushes and trees along its top.

  Delats wearing their green and brown robes stood around the perimeter just inside the protection of the light. They were armed with swords and spears, alternating every other one. But the weapons were nothing like Nicholas had ever seen before. The swords were a clear green—like sharp emeralds. They twisted slightly in a hint of a spiral and tapered to a deadly point. Each was four feet long. The two-handed hilts were made of what looked like a dark wood.

  The spears—no, they were lances—had the same twisting green blades, except that they were about six feet long and attached to a shaft that was five feet long and made of the same dark wood of the sword hilts. The delats held them with one hand near the butt, the other near the base of the blade.

  Every single one looked like he or she knew how to use them. Nicholas found himself smiling grimly. He had always prided himself on the extent of his information-gathering network. But in the last sennight he’d discovered just how very much he didn’t know, and it was humbling. He would never have believed that Chayos’s delats were anything but meek acolytes whose entire lives revolved around the peaceful worship of Chayos and giving aid to the poor. He would never have imagined that they could wield anything more than a pitchfork or a hoe, and then only in agrarian purposes. But looking at their ready stances and the deadly set of their faces, he could see that they knew very well what to do with the weapons that they held.

  “Did you have any idea?” Margaret asked him.

  There was no inflection in her voice—no accusation that he’d been withholding information. But he felt it all the same. “No,” he said. “Did you?”

  She shook her head. “My entire life has been devoted to searching out secrets for my father. I was a dog digging for bones and I was very good at it. Or so I thought. But it appears I was mistaken.”

  “Aye,” he agreed. “What else did we miss?”

  The delats closest to them had called a warning to the others around the circle and many now turned the points of their weapons toward Margaret and Nicholas. The rest continued to vigilantly keep watch for trouble around the rest of the perimeter. The two riders rode closer and suddenly Nicholas became aware of green-robed archers on the crown of the hill. Like their brethren below, they held themselves ready, arrows nocked and fingers on the strings, ready to pull back and loose a rain of death. He didn’t ask Margaret if she’d seen them. She was too good not to.

  She had once again assumed the mask of her court self, though there was nothing pliant or docile about her. She radiated authority and competence. When she spoke, her voice rang with confidence. It was, in a word, majestic, and it demanded obedience.

  “I am Margaret Rampling. Can you tell me what happened here?”

  The three delats closest to them looked at one another, clearly nonplussed. The middle one looked back at Margaret and Nicholas. He was tall with close-cut gray hair. His face was long and his eyes were hard.

  “The majicars attacked all over the city.”

  He shook his head, his expression turning childishly bewildered and Nicholas understood his feelings. Majicars were Crosspointe’s special guardians and benefactors. For them to turn suddenly on their own people was beyond comprehension if one didn’t know the truth of their insanity.

  “They was fighting each other and they didn’t care what or whoever got in the way.”

  “Regent did nothing,” the stout man with the sword beside him said. “Ran off with his tail between his legs.”

  “That was before it began,” the first delat ad monished.

  The other man spit on the ground, his mouth twisting in disgust. “Hasn’t come back, though, has he?”

  “The regent has been removed from office,” Margaret declared. “I am here to assume his duties until such a time as my brother, Prelate Ryland, can take over and an election can be held.”

  An audible gasp rose sharply from everyone gathered. For a moment no one spoke. Then a woman’s voice rose sharp and spiteful.

  “You talk just fine, Princess. But I seen you. Yer hands be white and soft as roses and ain’t never touched real work in yer whole life. Yer a pretty thing, but I don’t see as how you can help us.”

  There were loud sounds of agreement. Nicholas clenched his teeth. If only they knew what Margaret really was made of—stone and iron. The rest was all illusion of her own making.

  Margaret raised her chin, waiting for the din to die down, as the woman’s sentiments were echoed across the crowd. A swell of murmurs rose as Margaret’s news spread around the broad mound as if carried by a hot wind. Men and women came striding around to crowd in behind the line of delats. There were hundreds of them. They were frightened and angry and clearly Margaret was not the hero they’d been looking for. Nicholas wasn’t sure anything but an army would have satisfied them, but certainly a Rampling princess whose only claim to fame was her prim beauty and elegant parties was no prize.

  S
he made no move to quiet them, sitting imperviously astride her gelding as the rain continued to fall in a steady curtain, letting the waves of their ire wash around her. At last the din began to subside and a tense silence settled over the mob.

  “I understand your doubts,” she said, her voice ringing loudly so that everyone could hear. Margaret spoke calmly and with the same inexorable authority that had always infused every word her father spoke. It was regal and compelling; it made everyone bend to listen. Nicholas had always suspected it was a trick of majick, but it appeared to be a family trait. “I, too, would prefer that one of my brothers was here to lead you. They are, perhaps , better suited for battle.”

  As she spoke, her hand dropped slowly to the dagger in her belt. Ellyn had given it to her to replace those the Jutras priests had taken. Margaret flipped away the leather loop that kept it from accidentally sliding from its sheath and drew the blade. She held it close against her thigh. Nicholas doubted anyone had paid attention to the quiet, deft movement.

  “But Crosspointe is threatened and my brothers are not here. I am.” She smiled, a cool, dangerous expression. “And like all Ramplings, I may be more than I seem.”

  She lifted the dagger so that everyone could see it. Then she spun it in her hand so fast it looked like a shining wheel. In one quick movement, she caught the blade in her fingers and threw it. It lodged in the trunk of a tree and quivered there.

  There were surprised sounds from those who were close enough to see and a murmuring wave rippled back through the rest of the throng. Nicholas suppressed a grin. Let them chew on that. Margaret turned her head and nodded to him. Time to get down to business and give them something else to worry about besides her worthiness to lead.

  He legged his horse closer so that he was beside her. “I am Nicholas Weverton,” he said loudly. “What Princess Margaret has told you is true. We discovered the regent is a traitor.”

  The stocky man delat broke in. “Thought you hated each other—the Ramplings and the Wevertons.”