The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  “You can,” he said, his hands moving up to her shoulders, rubbing them softly. Her bones were sharp beneath her shirt. “You can do anything you need to. Your father didn’t know the half of what you are capable of. He couldn’t see the forest for the trees. In many ways he was no doubt brilliant, but in this, he was blind. Believe me, you will do well.”

  Her brows rose. “Are you suggesting that a Rampling should sit on the throne again?” she asked. “Haven’t you plotted to be rid of the throne for most of your life?”

  “Now is not the time for any of that. Crosspointe is in shambles; Sylmont is destroyed. The Jutras are invading. We are already at war, whether anyone else knows it or not. Crosspointe needs someone on the throne to lead them. They need you—the woman who took a lance and walked out alone to face Forcan.”

  “I wasn’t alone,” she protested.

  “You didn’t know I would follow and it didn’t matter. You were going whether I came or not, because you are a Rampling, and that’s what Ramplings do—that’s what you do. You protect your people no matter the cost or how insanely large the odds might be stacked against you. You won’t be alone. I’ll do whatever you ask, whatever you need. I won’t make that promise to Ryland or Vaughn. Now come back inside. You need to eat and rest. Just for a few hours,” he added when she started to protest.

  “Very well,” she said in an aggrieved voice.

  He turned, one hand sliding down to take hers. Miraculously, she didn’t shake him off, following him reluctantly as she turned to look again at the carnage that was all that was left of Sylmont. Back inside, solemn eyes watched her from every table. Suddenly someone stepped in front of her. Margaret stopped.

  “Your pardon, ma’am,” the burly man said. He touched his forehead and bowed awkwardly. “Your pardon, but I wanted t’ say thank ye for killin’ that thing. It surely would’ve torn us all limb from limb. But ye stood it down, cool as can be. I never seen nothin’ like it. Was a miracle, is what it was.” He bobbed another bow and a slow gabble rose to echo him as he moved away.

  Margaret slowly scanned the gathered people, the color running from her cheeks. A hush fell. They were waiting for her to speak. She swallowed and let go of Nicholas’s hand. He curled his fingers into his palms to keep from snatching it back. He could see her weighing her words. Like him, she knew this was a pivotal moment. Did she speak as their queen and start girding them for war? Or did she speak as a princess and promise them help to come? Or did she break and retreat?

  The latter choice was more than dangerous and not just because help might never arrive, but because these people were swimming in a sea of fear. She could rally them, unite them, or she could send them scurrying into hiding, each one looking out only after himself and his family. In which case, she would have done as much harm to Crosspointe as if she’d led the Jutras army herself. The people of Crosspointe needed someone to follow now—someone they could respect and who they knew would die for them if she had to.

  He had no idea which she would choose when she began to speak.

  Chapter 28

  Margaret’s gaze picked across the room. People crammed the tables. Families, grandfathers, and grand-mothers, a mother with a child nursing at her breast, a hard-bitten sailor with hands made hard by years of hauling lines, and so many more. Outside, those who stood in line for their turn at a meal crowded inside. Soon the population of the room had quadrupled and more people were pushing at the doors. Just to see and hear her, she realized.

  The enormity of their trust and their hope made her want to dig a hole and hide. Nicholas was wrong. She couldn’t do this; she couldn’t sit on the throne and tie the twisty knots of politics. She worked in the shadows where she didn’t have to be responsible for other people’s lives.

  But there was no one else.

  Vaughn was clear across Crosspointe and Ryland—she had no idea if he was still alive. But Nicholas was right: Crosspointe needed someone now and she was the only choice. She cleared her throat and the silence was instant.

  “I know you have suffered,” she said. “Many of you have lost too much already—your families, your homes, and your businesses. Believe me when I say that I understand that very well. The regent played us all for fools. He has been conspiring with the Jutras, and, my friends, you must know, the Jutras are here in Crosspointe. Their ships have not yet landed, but there is no doubt—we are at war.” She said the last words slowly.

  An audible gasp met her words and her audience shrank in on themselves, huddling together as if to stave off a sudden chill.

  “But the majicars have turned against us!” wailed a voice from the back. “How can we defend ourselves?”

  A clamor rose in response. Margaret swallowed. This was going well. Just wait until they heard the rest. They’d tie a rope to her leg and sink her in Blackwater Bay.

  She raised a hand, but the noise continued. A loud thudding broke it apart. She glanced behind her. Red stood to the left, his lance in his hand. He was shirtless and still covered in blood. That, along with the thump of his lance striking the floor, captured the silence again.

  Margaret nodded to him and turned back to her audience. Resolve hardened inside her. There was no time for coddling or for painting the truth with pretty colors to make it more tolerable.

  “I want you to listen very carefully,” she said in a clear, carrying voice. “We have very little time left. The Jutras infected our majicars with their majick. It has driven them insane. They can be cured—in a way. But many have no doubt died.” Or been killed. She remembered what she’d overheard the regent tell Atreya and Saradapul: I have issued an order to execute any majicar on sight, and have sent men to clear out Sylmont. Maybe more were dead than she expected. She swallowed her dismay, letting none of it show on her face.

  “We may have only a few majicars left. The ones who survive are capable of using Jutras blood majick.” She gestured at Red. “That is the result.” It was a bald statement, and she knew it would shock them. But she also needed them to know the truth without any sugarcoating, because this was the least of the worst, and it was time they knew exactly what Crosspointe was.

  When a shiver ran through the crowd and they drew back, muttering, Red stepped forward, and behind him came the other delats—twelve in all. Each was a bloody mess, but their faces were stoic and they carried themselves proudly. They lined up in front of the gathered crowd.

  “You all know what Princess Margaret did for us,” Red said loudly. “Some of you were there and saw what she did for yourselves, and the rest of you have heard the stories. As far as I’m concerned, if it comes to a vote for the throne, she’ll be the one sitting on it. After she fought that beast, she was hurt. She was going to die. And then the majicars said they could heal her.”

  As if on cue, Keros and Ellyn pushed out to stand beside the delats. He had his arm around her and she slumped like a sack of bones. She looked like she’d been beaten with a club. Neither disguised their eyes as they faced the crowd.

  “In order to heal her, they needed to use the blood majick of the Jutras. Nicholas Weverton was set on giving his blood, but he might have died and we figured Crosspointe couldn’t afford to lose him either. So we volunteered.” Red stressed the word. He paused a moment to let that sink in, then said, “And we would all do it again.”

  Another delat, tall with a severe black braid, stepped forward. Her shirt was in bloody shreds and cuts crisscrossed her skin. “And if it becomes necessary to feed every drop of our blood to our majicars to defeat the Jutras, then we will.”

  At her words, a knot rose in Margaret’s throat. It felt like it would choke her. How could they be willing to give so much just for her? It was too much responsibility. Too much for just her. She felt Nicholas watching her and she refused to look at him. She knew what he would say—what her father would say. It wasn’t just for her. It was for Crosspointe, and a headless dog could no more save itself than a headless country.

  She squared her
shoulders and looked at her subjects. Her subjects. Her stomach flip- flopped, but she kept her expression cool and regal. Masks. She’d worn them as long as she could remember. She hoped she could make this her real face in time, or at least until Ryland or Vaughn could don the crown.

  “We are not the Jutras. We don’t revel in the torture of innocent people. But we must use the tools we have to fight or they will take us the same way they took Relsea and Tapisriya. So there is something else I want you to tell you and I want you to spread the word. It’s time you understood what we really are.” She drew a steadying breath, feeling her legs shake, though whether from hunger, exhaustion, the aftermath of her healing, or what she was about to say, she didn’t know.

  “You have always hated and feared spawn. But they have walked among us since the founding of Crosspointe.” She expected another gasp, but there was only silence. She continued. “When someone is cursed by sylveth, they turn into one of three kinds of spawn: majicars, Pilots, or the creatures you have been taught to fear from birth. But my father learned recently that many of those spawn who seem so horrifying and monstrous are neither. Except for their appearance, they are much like us. No,” she corrected, “they are us. They are our brothers and sisters and fathers and mothers—every soul who has been touched by sylveth. Many of those who escaped our knacker gangs live on the Root where my father established another Pale. I am going to call them home. I am going to ask them to help us against the Jutras.”

  This time voices rose loudly. But Margaret wasn’t done and she felt her strength draining at an alarming rate. She held up a hand and Red banged his lance on the floor again. Instantly she had their attention again.

  “One last thing. A short time ago, my father had the opportunity to befriend a ship of rebel Jutras. He foresaw that we would be invaded and did all he could to prepare for that eventuality. I will ask these rebels to fight beside us as well. I ask only this of you—welcome them. Crosspointe is at war and we are readying our armies. It will be a ragtag group, for certain, but together we will drive away the Jutras. This I promise you, but only if we all work together.”

  For a moment there was a pause, and then a ragged cheer rose and spread outside to those who hadn’t yet heard what she’d said. Margaret turned and quickly pushed through the delats.

  “Here, Your Highness,” a young delat said and motioned toward a different room than the one she’d been healed in. It took a moment for her to realize what he’d called her. Your Highness.

  She followed him into the room where a table laden with steaming food waited. Her stomach growled. Nicholas, Ellyn, and Keros followed her inside. Before the delat could close the door, she stopped him. “Send Red in as soon as he’s able,” she said. The delat nodded and departed.

  Margaret turned to face her friends. No, more than that. These were her counselors and her generals. Red, too. She’d gather more in time. For now, these were the people who were going to help her save Crosspointe.

  Keros helped Ellyn to a chair and sat beside her. Nicholas went to the other side of the table but remained standing, watching Margaret. She went to the head of the table and looked at each of them.

  “We have a lot of work to do. I know you’re tired and I thank you for all you’ve done for me. But before I can let you sleep, we have to begin. Can I count on all of you to see this through to the end?” Keros nodded and so did Nicholas. Her gaze settled on Ellyn.

  “I’m not going home until the Jutras do,” the majicar said. Her chin was braced on her hands as she leaned tiredly against the table.

  “Thank you.” She sat and Nicholas did as well.

  Just then Red entered. He wore a loose tunic. He stopped inside the door. “You sent for me, Your Highness?”

  “No. Absolutely none of that nonsense from you,” she said. “Not from any of you,” she said fiercely to the other three. “I am Margaret. Now, sit down. You decided you want me to be queen, well I’ve decided I don’t care if you are a delat, you belong to me now. You’re on my new Council of War.”

  He made no objection, but nodded and came around the table to sit beside Nicholas.

  Margaret reached for bread and spooned the bean stew into her bowl. She ignored the others, devouring her food with single-minded purpose. She hadn’t known how hungry she was. As she ate, something niggled at her. Something important. She reached for it, but it skittered away. Dammit. She waited for it to come back, focusing her attention on eating. Again the thought returned. She let it drift closer. Finally she pounced on it. A grain later she slammed her spoon down on the table and stared straight ahead, seeing nothing.

  “What is it?” Nicholas demanded.

  “I know how they did it. I know what they are doing,” she said. She covered her mouth with her palm and began shaking her head. “By the gods,” she whispered as the pieces fell together in her mind like a puzzle. It all made sense now. All of it.

  “What are you talking about?” Nicholas prodded.

  She licked her lips and sat back in her chair, her finger curling over the arms. She looked first at Keros. “Remember what you told me about the sylveth? What Marten found in the depths of the Kalpestrine?”

  He nodded, frowning. “That there was a huge ball of sylveth deep down inside of it. He didn’t know what it was or why it was there.”

  “I think I do,” she said. “I told you how the Jutras stopped and conducted a ceremony in the mountains—before the one where you rescued me. I told you that they made a ball of majick and it sank into the ground. Do you remember?” She glanced at the others.

  Keros nodded, as did Ellyn and Nicholas. Red only listened intently.

  “What if that’s how they are attacking the sylveth? Or attacking the land and, through it, Chayos? What if they made a lot of those balls and sent them into the Inland Sea? Sylveth is sentient. My bet is that it—they—are hiding in the bottom of the Kalpestrine and hoping we defeat it before the Jutras kill them all.”

  “Sylveth is what?” Nicholas said slowly.

  Equally dumbfounded, Ellyn and Red stared at Margaret.

  “A majicar made the discovery by accident just before the Kalpestrine fell,” Keros explained with a questioning glance at Margaret. How much did she want him to reveal?

  She looked at Nicholas and then back at Keros, nodding slowly. Nicholas thought he wanted her, but that would change when he learned what her father had done to Shaye, Nicholas’s favorite nephew, and that Margaret had known all along. He would not forgive her.

  “Just before the king’s murder, he discovered a means to accurately predict who, when exposed to sylveth , would be transformed into a majicar or a Pilot. At that time, he was involved with selling ships compasses to Glacerie. He had only a few to sell—those scrounged from sunken vessels by Marten Thorpe, who is spawn of a different variety than Pilots or majicars. He thought if Glacerie had compasses, we would have allies on the sea against the Jutras.

  “He needed a compass majicar who was not bound to the guild, someone who would make the compasses he needed to cement his alliances. He learned that Fairlie Norwich, a talented master metalsmith, would make a compass majicar and so he had her cursed with sylveth.”

  That brought startled exclamations from Nicholas, Red, and Ellyn, the latter of whom was staring at Keros with a stricken expression; and it wasn’t until that moment that Margaret remembered his childhood—that the Gerent had cast his entire family and village into a sylveth tide in an attempt to create majicars. Ellyn and Keros were two of only a handful who’d survived.

  “You knew about it?” Ellyn asked him accusingly.

  “I was told,” Keros said after a moment.

  “What did you do to stop it?”

  He said nothing, only looking down at his hands folded in his lap. Margaret knew it hadn’t been easy for him. He’d nearly left Crosspointe. She still wasn’t sure what had made him stay.

  “You’re a cracking bastard,” Ellyn said, shoving her trencher violently away. “You go
on about the Gerent, but you’re just as bad. You walk away from Azaire but not Crosspointe when the king does the same damned thing?”

  He didn’t reply. The silence stretched. At last he began the story again, leaving Ellyn’s accusations hanging in the air like storm clouds. In the meantime, Nicholas was staring at Margaret, his eyes glittering like diamonds. She met his gaze, keeping her expression bland, though she wanted to squirm. He knew that Shaye had to be tied up in this somehow; his nephew had been in love with Fairlie.

  “After Fairlie was transformed, she made it clear that she was not going to cooperate. She was very angry and too powerful for him to handle.” The corner of Keros’s mouth turned up in pleased malice. “She threatened to destroy Sylmont and free all the sylveth to turn everyone to spawn. Not wanting to waste her talents, King William turned her over to the Majicar Guild, knowing that they could bend her to their will. Eventually she would make the compasses.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and sighed. “When it was discovered she was taken, a close friend rallied others to rescue her.”

  “My nephew, Shaye,” Nicholas said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Correct.” Keros nodded at the other man. “He forced Prince Ryland to assist him, as well as enlisting the aid of the two Root majicars who had predicted what she would turn into.”

  “Root majicars?” echoed Nicholas, finally looking away from Margaret. The others were equally stunned.

  “Yes. Do not be mistaken. They are very intelligent and very powerful majicars. The four of them raided the Kalpestrine and rescued Fairlie. Because of the majick they used to do so, the Kalpestrine fell.”

  Nicholas was shaking his head. “My nephew didn’t have his master’s badge and I can’t believe that three majicars could be that strong. It isn’t possible.”

  Keros smiled. “I don’t have a master’s badge either.” He spun a ball of blue majick around his fingers.

  Margaret shook her head at him and took over the story. It was her family’s crime, after all. “After Fairlie was cursed, but before he turned her over to the guild, my father imprisoned Shaye in a smother room in the bowels of the castle. Your nephew destroyed it and escaped.”