The Immortal Crown

by Kieth Merrill

  The Raven cut her off and barked an order to the keeper of the prison. “Take the women out of here and guard the door.”

  “What do you mean? What are you doing? You said—I demand we be allowed to stay—” Meesha and the governess were seized by the keeper of the prison and his men and dragged from the room to the hall.

  Two of the jailers blocked the door.

  “Step aside,” Meesha demanded.

  “Don’t go getting all red in the face.” One of them poked the blemish on her cheek. The other laughed.

  Meesha lunged at the man, but her governess grabbed her by the shoulders and ushered her away.

  “I betrayed him,” Meesha said. “I thought . . . I trusted . . .” she stammered, distraught. “I must make sure he keeps his word.”

  “You still can.” The governess smiled. “I wonder if, perchance, there’s a child about who has crawled the vents and passages of this drafty old house?” She raised her eyebrows.

  Of course! Meesha and Valnor had played hide-and-seek in the ventilating shafts that brought air from the outside walls to the inner chambers. As a skinny child, she had wriggled through the warren of small passages.

  She left the governess and ran to her bedroom, where she kept her sword. Taking the weapon was instinctive. Valnor’s training had included long discussions about the psychology of combat. “The blade is a weapon intended to kill. Draw wisely.” She gave little thought to the axioms of the warrior. All she was sure about was that from the moment the man with the sigil of King Kublan burned on his chest had stepped through the gate, she had wished for her sword on her hip.

  There was a vertical ventilation shaft connecting the main chamber to the ceiling of Sage Granswaan’s chamber. Meesha lowered the scabbard by the strap until it rested on the ornamental wrought-iron grate at the bottom of the shaft. The masons had been careless when they laid the stones of the inner passages, and she found good purchase on the irregular edges for her hands and feet. Slipping through the hidden passages had been much easier as a little girl, but Meesha was still lithe and flexible. When she reached the grate above the room, she twisted herself in an awkward crouch so she could see into the chamber below.

  Meesha watched and listened from her hiding place. Neither the holy man nor the Raven to the King knew she was near. She would make sure the Raven kept his promise.

  “I do not speak of sacred things,” Blessed Sage Granswaan said. He sat by the window in the warmth of the sunshine with a woolen shawl around his shoulders. The light ignited his white hair with a glorious halo.

  “I can either grant you freedom or throw you back into the pit,” the Raven said. “Do you understand?”

  Granswaan merely looked at the emissary of the king and smiled.

  “Tell me what I want to know, and you shall be free to the end of your days.” The promise hung in the silence. “Your life is in my hand.” He balled his fingers into a fist to punctuate his threat.

  “Only the life of this old body. What then?” Granswaan coughed. “Would you be so kind as to get me some water? There on the stand. My legs trouble me.”

  The Raven flushed, his body tensing with impatience, but he crossed the bedroom chamber to fill a cup with water. He returned and gave it to the prophet.

  “Thank you,” Granswaan said and took a long sip. “You are most kind.”

  “The stones of light?” the Raven asked as he settled again. “It is important to the king you tell me all you know of them—where they can be found.”

  The old man gripped his cup with both hands and took another sip of water.

  Meesha shifted her position. The tip of the scabbard poked through an opening in the grate. She pulled it back with a dull clunk.

  The Raven glanced up, but only for an instant. He hadn’t seen her. “The woman at Village Isthmus—the one who cared for you. She said you spoke of these magic stones in your delirium, and now you will speak of them to me.” The Raven’s face was flushed. His patience was growing thin.

  Sage Granswaan smiled softly and shook his head, but said nothing.

  “You told the woman whoever possesses the stones can live forever,” the Raven repeated. “Is it true?” He drummed his fingers. “By what magic?” He stood up and loomed over the old man. “Speak to me, old fool! ‘Touched by the finger of God’? What manner of riddle is this?”

  The Raven gripped Granswaan by his blouse and wrenched him from his chair. He lifted him until their faces nearly touched. “In the name of the king, I command you to tell me where they are and how the king may possess them. Are they hidden? Tell me! Are they in the temple on the Mountain of God?”

  The weathered old face twitched. His eyes darted away. Had he involuntarily revealed the hiding place of the stones? Meesha saw the subtle changes on his face and wondered if the Raven had seen them as well.

  “Tell me,” the Raven implored. “Let me set you free.”

  “By my sacred oath, I cannot,” the old sage said, his voice both weak and strong. “Even if I were not so bound, I still would not, but this much you may tell your king. The light of the stones comes from the finger of God, and the power of endless life only to righteous purpose. There are those appointed to keep them from being gathered in the hand of evil.”

  The Raven shoved him back into his chair, and in a blink his dagger was pointed at the old man’s eye.

  “Are you so stupid to think I do not have ways to make you tell me what I want to know? I will push this blade into your eye, then cut off your ears and then your nose. I can carve you into tiny pieces while keeping you alive. Be sure, old man, that I can make you tell me what I want to know. I can save them the trouble of dragging you back to the pit. Tell me now, for when my count reaches three, your eye will be gone.”

  “One!” He gripped a fistful of Granswaan’s hair and tightened his hold on the blade. “Two!” The tip drew blood from the lower fold of the prophet’s eyelid. Three never came.

  Instead, a screaming wraith of fury crashed from the ceiling. The wrought-iron grate clanked loudly on the floor and Meesha flew down like a winged raptor set for the kill. Her sword was in her hand.

  The Raven ducked and whirled back and away, loosening his grip on the old man. His eyes were wide and his face frozen in surprise.

  Meesha had landed in a swordsman’s stance, prepared to lunge with her blade extended. “Get away from him,” she demanded.

  The Raven’s face twisted from shock to mocking disbelief as his confusion cleared. “By the gods, what is this? A girl who plays with swords?” He laughed.

  “You are finished here, m’lord. Pray, leave us now.” Meesha circled to her left to stand squarely between the Raven and the old man.

  The Raven laughed again, a guttural growl polluted with evil intent. He moved his dagger to his left hand and drew his sword. “Put your toy away, girl. Do not make me kill the granddaughter of the king.”

  Meesha’s heart pounded. Would her kinship to the king not protect her? She was suddenly aware of the delicate necklace about her neck. It was one of the few token gifts from the king she had not given to servants or girls in the village. The tiny pearl set in silver hung like a heavy stone. She took a deep breath and stiffened her resolve.

  Valnor’s reassuring voice was in her head. Read reactions. Watch for movement and foreshadowing of action. Be on the defensive. A strange calm came over her even as an icy shiver made her tremble.

  She had sparred with Valnor hundreds of times, but she had never imagined she would actually face a man with a sword in his hand willing to kill her. Never in her wildest imaginings had she ever faced a man with the sigil of the king burned into his flesh.

  “Leave!” Meesha said to the Raven.

  “Please,” Granswaan added, “there is nothing you want that I can give you.”

  “Leave!” Meesha said again and ground her jaw shut.


  The Raven nodded and turned slightly as if following her demands, but his feigned retreat became a sudden lunge, a deadly thrust of his blade aimed at her heart. His move was lightning fast, but it was an old trick, and Meesha saw it coming. She parried the ploy as calmly as clouds drifting across a summer sky. Her body moved with grace, even though her mind was screaming. He intends to kill me!

  She swept her sword upward and caught the inside of his blade as if to parry it away. She also knew some tricks. She took a step closer and pushed her sword straight, taking the Raven’s blade with her. With their blades still touching, she whirled her wrist and wrapped his blade, then thrust her tip in a sudden, swift movement to the outside of his blade and down. She waited for the fleeting second of advantage she knew would come, and when it did, she was ready.

  She jerked both swords toward her with all her power. The Raven stumbled awkwardly forward as his sword was jerked from his hand, pommel-over-point, and rattled to the floor.

  Raven caught himself and whirled toward her with his dagger extended. When his back slammed into the stone pillar, his body turned rigid.

  Meesha pressed the tip of her blade against the hollow of his neck, drawing a trickle of blood.

  “Are you fool enough to kill an emissary of the king?” His show of confidence faltered.

  Granswaan stumbled from the chair and moved toward her from across the room.

  Meesha stood fast and swallowed hard. Her mind dashed like a dog hungry for a bone. She had kicked through the grate in a rage of blind instinct when she saw the dagger at the old man’s eye. She had had no choice, but neither did she have a plan.

  “Probably,” she said, then nodded. “I am.”

  “Withdraw your blade!” The Raven scowled. “I demand it in the name of the king!”

  Meesha heart thudded in her ears. “Throw the dagger away!”

  “You are not going to kill me.”

  She pushed the blade forward. More blood trickled into the ragged ridges of his scars.

  “You’re trembling,” the Raven mocked. “You haven’t the courage to take a life.” He dropped his dagger.

  Granswaan moved forward cautiously and picked it up with two fingers like something dead and foul.

  “Because the king’s blood flows in your veins, I will overlook your stupidity, but only if you withdraw your sword at once.”

  Meesha tightened her grip, and the tip of the blade sharpened its bite.

  “If I call for the keepers, your life is over,” he warned.

  The keepers! Of course. The idea came in a flash of light. She slowed her breathing and her heart as the thought took shape. A smile found its way to her lips. Her nemesis had given her the next move. She pulled her blouse loose and ripped it from her shoulder as far down as she dared.

  “Help!” Meesha screamed. “Keepers of the prison! Help me!” The keepers burst through the door. “This man is not Raven to the King!” Her eyes flitted from the keepers to the man at the point of her sword. “He is a rogue and a thief, and he attacked me . . .” She clutched her bare shoulder and offered a helpless sob.

  The keepers reached the conclusion she’d hoped for, and their faces turned cold.

  By the time the startled Raven framed his words, he looked very guilty indeed. “She lies! Look, look, I wear the authentic sigil of the king.” He waved his double-fingered ring.

  Meesha laughed. “A perfect forgery! He fooled me as well.”

  The Raven moved his hand toward his shirt as if to loosen it and expose the branding, but Meesha stopped him with the pressure of her blade.

  “Ah, ah,” she said and then ripped his shirt open herself. “And look. You see why I was fooled? Who could imagine a rogue clever enough to brand himself, though you can see it was poorly done.”

  “Don’t listen to her, you fools! Seize her!”

  The keepers of the prison flitted their eyes from one to the other. They favored the girl with the torn blouse and exposed soft, white skin.

  “He tried to have his way with me.” She choked back a sob in a performance worthy of a place with the troupe of actors who came in summer. “Had it not been for you . . .” She blushed and lifted the torn sleeve of her blouse to cover her bare shoulder.

  “You fools!” the Raven screamed at the keepers.

  “They are not fools! They are constant and courageous and loyal to his greatness, King Kublan, and he will reward them handsomely for saving the honor of his only granddaughter!” She pursed her lips and nodded gratitude toward the keepers. “I shall see to it.”

  “Stop this madness,” the Raven cried. “Can’t you see what—”

  The blade went deeper.

  “Whoever you are,” Meesha said, narrowing her eyes at the Raven, “you are a fool to think you can deceive men of such valor and intelligence.”

  The keepers straightened their spines, accepting the heroic image of themselves that Meesha had given them. They crossed the invisible line she had drawn on the stones and turned their weapons on the Raven.

  “Bind his hands and feet,” she said. “Strip him of his two-fingered forgery and other emblems of the king. Tie him to his horse and take him as far as the King’s Road, then slap the horse and send him north.”

  “Should the scoundrel not be put in prison, m’lady?” the ranking keeper asked.

  “In time perhaps, but for now let him be an example to other rogues and bandits who so blatantly defy the king, and who would . . .” She fluttered her eyes at the keepers and blushed.

  Meesha watched as the keepers bound the Raven hand and foot and stripped him of his royal garments. “The two of you may keep the raiment. It shall be our secret. I shall keep the ring as a reminder of your valor.” Meesha smiled. “Best we not let your good captain know any of this.”

  “You are a dead woman,” the Raven snapped.

  “On the contrary, I am very much alive, besides which, I am generous and modest. I have left you with your breeches.” It was true. He remained decent enough, but without the slightest semblance of his royal status, other than the lumpy scar on his chest, which was now stained with blood.

  Meesha stood at the gate as the keepers tied the Raven on his horse.

  “You are a witchchild,” he spat. “You shall not escape punishment for this treachery.”

  “Is treachery the word you would choose for me? Is it treachery to challenge a man who would push a dagger into an old man’s eye in the name of the king? An old man condemned to the horrors of the pit for nothing more than speaking of his god to bystanders in the marketplace?”

  “By the gods, blood of the king or not, I shall see your head and ugly red face on a spike.”

  Of all the insults Meesha had endured for the blemish on her face, the Raven’s words bothered her the least. She walked to him and gestured for him to lean down. She spoke softly so that none but he could hear. “I shall not speak of this to my grandfather. And you, m’lord Raven, would be wise to likewise hold your silence. Troubling rumors, once released, are not easily recalled.” She let the thought hang in the air, then turned to the keepers, who glowered at the Raven, their faces flush with self-righteous triumph. “It is true there is contention between my father and the king, but you make a grave mistake to think my grandfather does not cherish his only granddaughter and prize her virtue.”

  Meesha stepped away and turned to cross the open court. She smiled in genuine appreciation as she passed the keepers. The younger of the two leaped forward with a holler and slapped the Raven’s horse across the rump. The animal erupted in a gallop, racing for the gate and the King’s Road.

  Meesha did not look back but could see him in her mind’s eye as the sound of the horse’s hooves faded, and she mentally followed him to where the road dipped into the hollow.

  As she recovered from the fright of the ordeal, another image came i
nto her head. She stopped and turned, but there was no one there and nothing to see, but for reasons she didn’t understand, she felt a sudden longing for the bondsman she had kissed in the moonlight.

  CHAPTER 60

  Qhuin twisted around the trunk of the tree as far as the chains allowed. The pain was still there but lessened by the numbness creeping into his arms and hands. By pulling against the shackles, he could see the camp in the clearing beyond the edge of the trees.

  Horsemaster Raahud was a silhouette against the fire, his back to the woods. He was too far away for Qhuin to hear what he was saying or the murmured conversations of the men gathered around him. With a tiny burst of optimism, he imagined Horsemaster Raahud was either arguing for his release or pleading with the princeling not to kill the prisoner tonight.

  That had been hours ago, and he was still alive. Horsemaster Raahud was successful. The thought gave him hope. The camp was settled for the night. The royals and guests had gone to tent. The gillies, drivers, and servants were camped a respectful distance away. The Huszárs and kings­riders each had their own encampments.

  The only movement came from the kings­riders on the night watch. Two of them sat by the dying fire, the glow of orange embers reflected in their armor. The other two men circled the perimeter of the tents in opposite directions. They both carried axes.

  The shorter kings­rider let his weapon hang like an extension of his arm. The other had a sparth ax with the long haft balanced on his shoulder. The broad blade rested against the nape of his neck, which was protected by a curtain of mail that hung from the bottom of his helm.

  A gibbous moon hovered behind a mass of clouds blowing west. Moonlight swept across the Tallgrass Prairie in sporadic swaths of light until the sky closed with a pounding of thunder and the earth went dark.

  Qhuin slumped forward in exhaustion, but could not sleep. The thunder rumbled closer, and the rush of wind pushed before the storm pelted him with grit. The numbness in his arms and hands worried him. He pressed his back against the tree and wriggled his fingers in search of feeling. The motion caused his shoulders to cramp. His mouth was dry, and the knot of anxiety in his gut was heightened by pangs of hunger. He had not had food or water since the early hours before the chase of the tarpans began.