The Immortal Crown

by Kieth Merrill

  She swallowed the fear that threatened to constrict her throat. “Many years ago,” she said. “Before . . .” She was confused by the intensity in his eyes and said no more.

  Qhuin shook his head slowly, then settled back on his haunches. His intensity became a look of delight. “Your father is the one who spared my life, who took me in as an abandoned babe.”

  “My father?”

  “As I’ve been told the story by the blacksmith who found me.”

  “But how did my father come to . . .” Her mind raced and her mouth moved, but there was no sound. Finally she managed to say, “‘A’quilum Ereon Qhuin’ means ‘man of unknown blood,’ does it not?”

  Qhuin nodded. “It does, m’lady, and I know nothing of the woman who gave me birth or the man who . . .” He shook his head. “I was found at the door of a hovel in Village Darc and taken to Blackthorn.”

  “Found by a blacksmith?” Meesha raised her eyebrows as if the story was suddenly a fairy tale.

  Qhuin laughed. “Yes. Leo Rusthammer, by name. He took me to your father, and your father took me in. He was the mighty Baron Magnus of Blackthorn and yet had compassion for an abandoned, lowborn boy—most likely a whore’s bastard.” The dark possibility of his birth was barely a whisper. “I was suckled in his house by a servant woman whose baby was born dead. She became the only mother I ever knew.”

  Meesha was puzzled. “Whatever the circumstances of your birth, my father would never have made you a slave!”

  “No, not he. Your father was a kind and good man.”

  “And remains so.” Meesha smiled with pride.

  “Indeed!” Qhuin looked at the ground for a moment, then raised his face again, “I was raised among the servants, but when your family left Blackthorn, I was taken from the woman who raised me and given to the stables as a slave.”

  “By Kadesh-Cor!” Her eyes flitted to the chain. The evidence of her half brother’s villainy brought bile to her throat. “Do you know why my father left Blackthorn? What happened to our family?”

  He shook his head. “Only the gossip of the stables, m’lady.”

  “I am not ‘m’lady’ by the way.” She smiled. “I am Meesha, so unless you wish me to call you ‘Grand Lord of the Chariots,’ you should call me by my name.”

  Qhuin smiled at her ludicrous suggestion, but Meesha could see the very idea of it stirred a resolute sense of destiny deep within him.

  “I wonder if my father ever knew what became of you,” Meesha said as she rose from the wall and circled the chariot. She traced the ornate pattern of iron that trimmed the top of the cowling as if looking for the answer to a riddle. When she turned back, her face was in full moonlight. She continued to caress the swirls of iron, but she looked at Qhuin. She could not see his eyes but could feel them on her. On my face.

  “You are Meesha?”

  “Yes. That’s much better, thank you.”

  “Pray forgive me, m’lady—Meesha—but may I know how many years have passed since your day of blessing?”

  “You must never ask a lady her age,” she scolded with teasing in her eyes.

  Qhuin bowed his head from long habit, truly contrite. “Pray forgive me, m’lady. Perhaps you can tell me how old you were when your family left Blackthorn.”

  “Three!” she said with a lift of her chin. “And it’s Meesha, remember?” she said with a forgiving smile.

  Qhuin’s eyes glistened as a mischievous smile came to his lips. “Then we have met before,” he said.

  The simple words took the breath from her.

  “I was a child living among the servants at Blackthorn when you were born,” he said.

  “We never played with the children of the servants, so I . . .” She stopped and offered a soft apology. “My father has changed since then, I’m sorry I . . .”

  “We met only once.” Qhuin smiled. “You came down to the kitchen.”

  “How can you recall such a thing? You were a child, a little boy, only . . .”

  “Five.”

  “But we only met once? How could you remember?” How could a little boy ever forget a little girl with a face like mine? The thought pounded in her head like thunder. She was suddenly aware of her fingers on her face. She drew back and forced her hand to retrace an iron swirl on the cowling.

  “It is not your beauty I remember, m’lady, it was your kiss.”

  Meesha’s eyes came up and her mouth fell open. She touched her bottom lip in utter surprise and stared at Qhuin in a daze.

  “You sneaked into the kitchen looking for the honey cakes. You told me your name was Meesy and that you were hungry. I climbed to the bake box in the cupboard and stole three honey cakes. I might have stolen more for you, but it was all I could carry and still climb down.”

  “And I . . . I kissed you?”

  “Three times. Right here.” He touched his cheek at the edge of a wide smile. “One for each honey cake.” Qhuin picked up the basket and leaned over the cowling opposite Meesha. The gossamer mist whirled away, and his face brightened in the half-light of the moon.

  “I’m sure you’ve had many honey cakes and kisses since then.” She laughed to hide the flutter of wings in her stomach.

  His sigh was more a lament than a laugh. “You know little about the life of a slave. The kiss of a child is a precious memory.”

  “You’ve not been kissed again?” Meesha was incredulous.

  Qhuin shrugged and used the tail of his shirt to buff away a tarnished smudge on the trim.

  Meesha stepped close beside him. She took the basket from him and plucked a stray pomegranate seed from the fruit.

  “I have stayed too long,” Meesha said, pressing the sweet juice from the seed between her teeth. “The girls will be worried, and we must be gone before the keepers rise.”

  “Your kindness here tonight will be spoken for many seasons.”

  “I hope such telling can wait until the prince and his sons are far from Stókenhold Fortress.” She smiled.

  Qhuin laughed softly, then bowed his head. “You have repaid the honey cakes a hundredfold, m’lady,” he said.

  “I am Meesha, the girl who repaid your kindness with a kiss.”

  When his face came up, she was closer to him than she expected. She leaned forward slightly and offered the smooth white skin of her cheek in the customary greeting for a kinsman.

  Qhuin looked like a man who had faced many fears and never trembled, but he was trembling now. He kissed her softly on the cheek, then gently turned her chin and kissed the dark crimson of the other side.

  Meesha blushed as she stepped back. So did he. Their eyes met, and Meesha knew she would never forget the way the slave of Blackthorn looked at her. She could see the light in his eyes. He was looking at her face, but he saw only her soul. Her fingers touched the lingering heat of his kiss on the dark side of her face. She was certain the warmth of it would never go away. Then, without intent or thought, she leaned forward and kissed his cheeks as well.

  She hurried away, but when she reached the pattern of dark stones, she turned to him again. “What was her name?” she asked. “Do you remember? The servant woman who mothered you in your early years?”

  “I called her Mor, but the others called her Selmaas.”

  CHAPTER 37

  The wagons, horses, and chariots were staged and waiting to take their places in the procession already winding its way from the central court of Stókenhold Fortress. Both the bannermen and Kadesh-Cor were beyond the outer gate, riding eastward to the King’s Road. The rest of the expedition was strung out from the wall of the ward, through the double barbicans, over the bridge, and under the portcullis.

  Qhuin heard Horsemaster Raahud shouting for him. His words were smothered by the hammering of hooves on cobblestones and the grinding of iron wheels. Raahud moved the last of the wains into t
he procession and waved for the wranglers to follow with the horses.

  Qhuin rippled the reins, and the horses pranced forward to take their position at the end of the procession. He glanced over his shoulder from habit lest an unexpected rider, wagon, or chariot approach from behind. There was no one there except for the mounted kings­riders on rearward guard.

  To keep disgruntled drudges from running away—and slaves from ­escaping, he reminded himself.

  Qhuin’s three-up team of coursers was rested, fed, and eager to run. They were perfectly groomed, and their whiteness shimmered in the morning sunlight as they danced in their traces. “Lassooommm, lassooommm,” he called to the milk-whites in the language he spoke to them. The breaching, belly bands, and the leather of their harnesses were oiled and the sounds of them almost silenced. The brass rosettes, couplings, and buckles were polished, and the ornate iron trims were without a smudge. The cowling and wheels were scrubbed clean as new.

  Qhuin matched the stony stares of the kings­riders. Holding the secret of his past, whatever it may be, in the pouch at his hip gave him a curious sense of superiority as he gazed at those whose lives were pledged to the king by blood. Was there so much difference between them?

  He searched their faces wondering if they knew that he knew. Wondering if they had kept the confidence of the girls who’d brought them wine and food and laughter in the middle of the night. He hoped they had for Meesha’s sake. The thought of her tingled through him.

  “Hold!” Raahud shouted to Qhuin again as he reined in beside the chariot. He shouted to the kings­riders waiting rearward. “Ride on and stay with the flank. We’ve a repair to make.” His face cracked with a tiny smile. “We’ll catch up with you at the outer wall.”

  The kings­riders were eager to get on the road and spurred their horses forward without question. It was Qhuin who wondered what was going on. An iron hand tightened its grip around his gut. The links and couplings were in perfect order. He had smeared the axles of the inner hub with pig fat. He had replaced one of the groupers. It hadn’t broken, but he thought it unduly soiled.

  “Pray tell me, what—” Qhuin began, but Raahud held up his hand.

  “Wait here,” he said with a look that told him to wait until the kings­riders were beyond hearing. With the tumult of departure it was a short distance. Without explanation, Master Raahud rode forward as if the procession were a drove of bovine and he the lone wrangler.

  A slave lived every hour with the uncertainty of knowing their life was not their own. Only two things were constant. Obedience or punishment. Qhuin had suffered more punishments than most. The mindless obedience expected of slaves was impossible for Qhuin to maintain, but he knew his survival depended on his mastery over his nature. It was an onerous, ever-present gnawing in his gut.

  Except last night. After Meesha was gone, Qhuin realized it was the first time in as long as he could remember that he felt the calmness of real joy and a feeling of hope.

  The ache in his stomach returned. Why had Horsemaster Raahud told him to wait? Had the secrets of the night been discovered? Am I to be the scapegoat? It didn’t seem like something Horsemaster Raahud would do, but Qhuin had learned by beatings and bleeding that a slave could not presume that any small kindness held meaning beyond itself.

  Perhaps the master of horses has no choice. Perhaps Kadesh-Cor is looking for someone to blame, or the pampered Sargon has demanded revenge for sleeping with a hungry belly. A tyrant had a smorgasbord of excuses with which to do whatever he fancied. To remind a slave of his station. To show power. To save face. To enforce discipline or simply punish one in the name of royal expediency. Whatever their whim. Whatever their caprice. Whatever their hunger or lust.

  It was hard for Qhuin to contain his hatred.

  As worrisome possibilities whirled in his head, a yet more dreadful thought appeared. Had the lord of Stókenhold Fortress been told that his daughter was seen with a slave in the middle of the night? Am I to be condemned to the prison of Stókenhold Fortress? There had been nothing untoward in his behavior, but Qhuin knew the truth would not matter. Men had been put to death for less. The word of a slave was little more than chaff blown away by hot wind. But Lady Meesha will tell the truth of it. Iron fingers tightened their grip around the knot in his stomach. Will she not?

  Qhuin scanned the portico that surrounded the grand plaza on three sides. With the sun straight above, the open hallways were in shadow. He squinted into the dimness in search of the keepers of the prison who were surely coming for him. Will I have no chance to plead or for Meesha to explain?

  Qhuin swept his eyes from the portico to the plaza in search of Horsemaster Raahud and found him sitting astride his horse in the middle of the court, watching the procession leave the plaza without him. Once the kings­riders had followed the coaches through the portcullis on the far side, Raahud turned and looked at him. At such distance, his expression was difficult to read.

  Then Raahud looked up and nodded with an obvious suggestion for Qhuin to follow his gaze.

  Qhuin looked up at the broad balcony, high on the north side. It was covered by a curtain of colorful silk rippling in the soft breeze. The sun was bright and the shadows dark. Three figures stood in silhouette. One of them stepped forward into the full sunlight of the balustrade. It was Meesha. Qhuin could see by the look of delight on her face that this was not the day he would die.

  Meesha acknowledged Qhuin’s gaze with a fluttering of her fingers, and he bowed his head slightly, taking care to keep his place.

  She cast her eyes to the rear of the plaza where a woman approached the chariot. She was plump, older than Meesha by a score of years, and wearing the frock of a kitchen maid. She favored her right leg and moved with a limp as she hurried past the pillars supporting the west portico. The closer she got, the faster she hurried. She shuffled under the arch of the portico and then broke into a loping, limping sprint across the open court toward Qhuin and his chariot.

  Qhuin did not see the woman coming. He was trading glances with Raahud, trying to sort out what was going on.

  Meesha held her breath as she watched the scene unfold, her fingers to her lips in expectation.

  The horses threw their heads and pranced in warning—or ­welcome—as the woman approached. Qhuin turned, and the woman stopped.

  Despite her high vantage, Meesha could not see the expression on their faces nor hear their words, but neither were needed to understand. The woman covered her mouth with both hands and her shoulders heaved as she sobbed. She struggled to catch her breath.

  Qhuin wrapped the reins on the stay and stared at the woman, rigid as a stone. Neither moved for a long moment. There was a simple exchange of words. Questions asked and answers given, and then, a marvelous dawning.

  Qhuin leaped from the chariot and ran to the woman. He gripped her shoulders and held her for a long time. When he stepped back and looked at her again, she was laughing in joyous sobs. He shook his head in disbelief, then scooped her into his arms and lifted her from the ground.

  She wrapped her arms around him, and Meesha wondered if either of them would ever let go.

  Meesha brushed a tear from her cheek as she watched A’quilum Ereon Qhuin embrace the only mother he’d ever known—Selmaas, the kitchen maid who had suckled an abandoned child and loved him as her own.

  When Meesha had asked Selmaas to come to the plaza and told her why, the kitchen maid couldn’t believe it.

  “I have wondered my whole life what happened to my little son,” she said and began to cry. “I’ve clung to the unimaginable hope that this day would come.” Even before she finished speaking, she gave Meesha a hug that nearly smothered her.

  Meesha’s eyes were fixed on Qhuin, and when he looked up from the embrace of his mother, she knew the joy and wonder on his face was a vision she would never forget.

  The gratitude in his eyes left her feel
ing loved in ways she’d never felt before.

  Tolak and Katasha moved from the shadows to join Meesha in the sunlight of the balcony. They too had watched the reunion with great delight. Selmaas was like family and had been with them a long time.

  Tolak’s delight was dampened by a sleepless night. His meager hopes for a reunion with Kadesh-Cor were lost. He and his son had not spoken again. His modest expectations of reconciliation and healing were crushed by the same conflicts that had fractured the family and splintered House Kublan more than two decades before. It was unlikely to change, and the reality saddened him. Perhaps his idealism was foolish. Certainly not worth the loss of his life nor the joy of his soul.

  He put his arm around Katasha and looked below. There was one good thing that had come from the sojourn of kinsman, and it was taking place in the court below. A wonderful, happy, unexpected thing.

  Tolak smiled. Even in the depths of darkness, there is always light.

  CHAPTER 38

  The shadow of the obelisk rippled across the calendar stone as the sun passed over the Mountain of God. Great masses of clouds rose up from the western fjords. Ashar and the Oracle had been in the holy sanctum for three days. Priests came and went with wine and food but would not speak of what they saw or heard.

  The Blessed Sages waited patiently for the Oracle to bring them word about the boy who claimed to be the blood of the Navigator. They filled their waiting with endless debates. The loquacious Sage Hakheem had begun with one of his predictable pontifications.

  “The blessing of age is wisdom. The curse of wisdom is pride.” He spoke as if every word was precious. “When men are learned they think they are wise. They suppose their knowledge comes from themselves, and thus they are easily snared by the prideful presumption that their opinions are enduring truths.” He excluded himself, of course. It was his way of underscoring his insistence that there were no blood descendants of the Navigator. His gnarled brows moved up and down like bobbles of gray yarn, rising to punctuate his perfect logic or scrunching to a furl of wrinkles to emphasize his point.