Crown Duel

by Sherwood Smith

  Shevraeth continued, “She spent her time with me as a mute warning to the Merindars, who had to know that she came to report on Grumareth’s activities, and I didn’t want them trying any kind of retaliation. She realized that our social proximity would cause gossip. That was inevitable. But she heeded it not; she wants to return to Grumareth and resume guiding her lands to prosperity again.” He paused, then said, “As for her quality, it is undeniable. But I think the time has come for a different perspective, one that is innate in you. It is a problem, I have come to see, with our Court upbringing. No one, including Elenet, has the gift you have of looking every person you encounter in the face and accepting the person behind the status. Courtiers are raised to see servants and merchants as faceless as we pursue the high strategy. I’m half convinced this is part of the reason why the kingdom stayed in the grip of the Merindars as their kings became successively worse.”

  I nodded, and for the first time comprehended what a relationship with him really meant for the rest of my life. “The goldenwood throne,” I said. “In the letter. I thought you had it ordered for, well, someone else.”

  His smile was gone. “It doesn’t yet exist. How could it? Though I intend for there to be one, for the duties of ruling have to begin as a partnership. Until the other night, I had no idea if I would win you or not.”

  “Win me,” I repeated. “What a contest!”

  He smiled, but continued. “I was beginning to know you through the letters, but in person you showed me that same resentful face. Life! That day you came into the alcove looking for histories, I was sitting there writing to you. What a coil!”

  For the first time I laughed, though it was somewhat painful.

  “But I took the risk of mentioning the throne as a somewhat desperate attempt to bridge the two. When you stopped writing and walked around for two days looking lost, it was the very first sign that I had any hope.”

  “Meanwhile you had all this to deal with.” I waved northward, indicating the marquise’s plots.

  “It was a distraction,” he said with some of his old irony.

  I thought about myself showing up on his trail, put there by servants who were—I realized now—doing their very best to throw us together, but with almost disastrous results. It was only his own faith that saved that situation, a faith I hadn’t shared.

  Again he gave me that characteristic assessing glance. “The throne won’t be ordered until you give the word. You need time to decide if this is the life you want,” he said. “Of all the women I know you’ve the least interest in rank for the sake of rank.”

  “The direct result of growing up a barefoot countess,” I said, trying for lightness.

  He smiled back, then took both my hands. “Which brings us to a piece of unpleasant news that I have not known how to broach.”

  “Unpleasant—oh, can’t it wait?” I exclaimed.

  “If you wish.”

  At once I scolded myself for cowardice. “And leave you with the burden? Tell me, if the telling eases it.”

  He made a faint grimace. “I don’t know that anything can ease it, but it is something you wanted to know and could not find out.”

  I felt coldness turn my bones to water. “My mother?”

  “Your mother,” he said slowly, still holding my hands, “apparently was learning sorcery. For the best of motives—to help the kingdom, and to prevent war. She was selected by the Council of Mages to study magic. Her books came from Eidervaen. The marquise found out when she was there to try to find Fialma a Sartoran marriage alliance. She sent a courier to apprise her brother.”

  “And he had her killed.” Now I could not stop the tears from burning my eyes, and they ran unheeded down my cheeks. “And Papa knew about the magic. Which must be why he burned the books.”

  “And why he neglected your education, for he must have feared that you would inherit her potential for magic-learning. Anyway, I found the marquise’s letter among Galdran’s things last year. I did not know how to tell you—how to find the right time, or place.”

  “And I could have found out last year, if I’d not run away.” I took a deep, unsteady breath. “Well. Now I know. Shall we get on with our task?”

  “Are you ready for another ride?”

  “Of course.”

  He kissed my hands, first one, then the other. I felt that thrill run through me, chasing away the pain of grief, of regret.

  “Then let’s address the business before us. I hope and trust we’ll have the remainder of our lives to talk all this over and compare misguided reactions, but for now…” He rose and pulled me to my feet. Still holding on to my hands, he continued, “…shall we agree to a fresh beginning?”

  I squeezed his hands back. “Agreed.”

  “Then let me hear my name from you, just once, before we proceed further. My name, not any of the titles.”

  “Vidanric,” I said, and he kissed me again, then laughed.

  Soon we were racing side by side cross-country again, on the last leg of the journey to Remalna-city.

  oOo

  It is always easier to contemplate how happy one is than past betrayal and murder—and I knew my mother would want my happiness above anything.

  Who can ever know what turns the spark into flame? Vidanric’s initial interest in me might well have been kindled by the fact that he saw my actions as courageous, but the subsequent discovery of passion, and the companionship of mind that would sustain it, seemed as full of mystery as it was of felicity. As for me, I really believe the spark had been there all along, but I had been too ignorant—and too afraid—to recognize it.

  I was still thinking it all over as dawn gradually dissolved the shadows around us and the light strengthened from blue to the peach of a perfect morning. There was no wind, yet the grasses and shrubs in the distance rustled gently. Never near us, always in the distance either before or behind, as if a steady succession of breezes rippled ahead of us, converging on the capital. Again I sensed presence, though there was nothing visible, so I convinced myself it was my imagination.

  We clattered into the streets of Remalna-city under a brilliant sky. The cobblestones were washed clean, the roofs of the houses steamed gently. A glorious day, which should have brought everyone out not just for market but to talk and walk and enjoy the clear air and sunshine.

  But every window was shuttered, and we rode alone along the main streets. I sensed eyes on us from behind the barriers of curtain, shutter, and door, and my hand drifted near the saddle-sword that I still carried, poor as that might serve as a weapon against whatever awaited us.

  And yet nothing halted our progress, not even when we reached the gates of Athanarel.

  It was Vidanric who spotted the reason why. I blinked, aware of a weird singing in my ears, and shook my head, wishing I’d had more sleep. Vidanric edged his mount near mine. He lifted his chin and glanced up at the wall. My gaze followed his, and a pang of shock went through me when I saw the white statues of guards standing as stiff as stone in the place where living beings ought to be.

  We rode through the gates and the singing in my ears intensified, a high, weird note. The edges of my vision scintillated with rainbow sparks and glitters, and I kept trying—unsuccessfully—to blink it away.

  Athanarel was utterly still. It was like a winter’s day, only there was no snow, just the bright glitter overlying the quiet greenery and water, for even the fountains had stopped. Here and there more of the sinister white statues dotted the scene, people frozen mid-stride, or seated, or reaching for a door. A danger sense, more profound than any I had yet felt, gripped me. Beside me Vidanric rode with wary tension in his countenance, his gaze everywhere, watching, assessing.

  We progressed into the great courtyard before the Royal Hall. The huge carved doors stood wide open, the liveried servants who tended them frozen and white.

  We reined in at the terraced steps. Vidanric’s face was grim as he dismounted. In silence we walked up the steps. I glanced
at the door attendant. Her frozen white gaze focused beyond me. I shuddered.

  The Throne Room was empty except for three or four white statues.

  No, not empty.

  As we walked further inside, the sun-dazzle diminished, except for the slanting rays through the high windows fire-lining the throne in highlights of gold and crimson.

  Seated on it, dressed entirely in black, golden hair lit like a halo round his head, was Flauvic.

  He smiled gently. “What took you so long, my dear cousin Vidanric?” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Cousin? I thought.

  Vidanric said, “Administrative details.”

  Flauvic made an ironic half bow from his seat on the throne. “For which I thank you. Tiresome details.” The metallic golden eyes swept indifferently over me, then he frowned slightly. “Meliara. This is a surprise; I took you for a servant.” His tone was meant to sting.

  So I grinned. “You have an objection to honest work?”

  As a zinger it wasn’t much, but Flauvic gave me an appreciative smile. “This,” he waved lazily at Vidanric, “I hadn’t foreseen. And it’s a shame. I’d intended to waken you for some diversion, when things were settled.”

  That silenced me.

  “You included sorcery among your studies in Nente?” Vidanric asked.

  My reaction to personal insult vanished when I recognized what my inner senses had been fighting against: magic, lots of it, and not a good kind.

  “I did,” Flauvic said, stretching out his hands. “So much easier and neater than troubling oneself with tiresome allies and brainless lackeys.”

  I sighed, understanding too late how again he’d played his game by his own rules. He’d showed me that magic, and though he had called it illusion, I ought to have let someone else know.

  “I take it you wish to forgo the exchange of niceties and proceed right to business,” he went on. “Very well.” He rose in a fluid, elegant movement and stepped down from the dais to the nearest white statue. “Athanarel serves as a convenient boundary. I have everyone in it under this stone-spell. I spent my time at Meliara’s charming entertainment the other night ascertaining where everyone of remotest value to you would be the next day, and I have my people with each right now. You have a choice before you. Cooperate with me—obviating the need for tedious efforts that can be better employed elsewhere—or else, one by one, they will suffer the same fate as our erstwhile friend here.”

  He nodded at the closest statue, who I recognized as the Duke of Grumareth. The man had been frozen in the act of groveling or begging, if his stance was any indication. An unappealing sight, yet so very characteristic.

  Flauvic swiftly produced a knife from his clothing and jabbed the point against the statue, which tipped and shattered into rubble on the marble floor.

  “That will be a nasty mess when I do lift the spell,” Flauvic went on, still smiling gently. “But then we won’t have to see it, will we?” He stopped, and let the horrifying implications sink in.

  The prince and princess. Savona. Tamara. Bran and Nee. Elenet. Good people and bad, silly and smart, they would all be helpless victims.

  I’d left my sword in the saddle sheath, but I could still try. My heart crashed like a three-wheeled cart on a stone road. I must try, I thought, as I stepped forward.

  “Meliara,” Vidanric said quickly. He didn’t look at me, but kept his narrowed gaze on Flauvic. “Don’t. He knows how to use that knife.”

  Flauvic’s smile widened. “Observant of you,” he murmured, saluting with the blade. “I worked so hard to foster the image of the scholarly recluse. When did you figure out that my mother’s plans served as my diversion?”

  “As I was walking in here,” Vidanric replied as politely. “Recent events having precluded the luxury of time for reflection.”

  Flauvic looked pleased; any lesser villain would have smirked. He turned to me and, with a mockingly courteous gesture, said, “I fault no one for ambition. If you wish, you may gracefully exit now and save yourself some regrettably painful experience. I like you. Your ignorance is refreshing, and your passions amusing. For a time we could keep each other company.”

  I opened my mouth, trying to find an insult cosmic enough to express my rejection, but I realized in time that resistance would only encourage him. He would enjoy my being angry and helpless, and I knew then what he would not enjoy. “Unfortunately,” I said, striving to mimic Vidanric’s most annoying Court drawl, “I find you boring.”

  His face didn’t change, but I swear I saw a little color on those flawless cheeks. Then he dismissed me from his attention and faced Vidanric again. “Well? There is much to be done, and very soon your militia leaders will be here clamoring for orders. We’ll need to begin as we mean to go on, which means you must be the one to convince them of the exchange of kings.” He smiled—a cruel, cold, gloating smile.

  Flauvic was thoroughly enjoying it all. He obviously liked playing with his victims—giving me a nasty little hint of what being his companion would be like.

  My eyes burned with hot tears. Not for my own defeat, for that merely concerned myself. Not even for the unfairness. I wept in anger and grief for the terrible decision that Vidanric faced alone, with which I could not help. Either he consigned all the Court to death and tried to fight against a sorcerer, or he consigned the remainder of the kingdom to what would surely be a governance more dreadful than even Galdran’s had been.

  Vidanric stood silently next to me, his head bowed a little, his forehead creased with the intensity of his thought. There was nothing I could do, either for him or against his adversary. I had from all appearances been dismissed, though I knew if I moved I’d either get the knife or the spell. So I remained where I was, free at least to think.

  And to listen.

  That was how I became aware of the soughing of the wind. No, it was not wind, for it was too steady for that. But what else could it be? A faint sound as yet, like a low moan, not from any human voice. The moan of the wind, or of—

  I sucked in a deep breath. Time. I sensed that a diversion was needed, and there was Flauvic’s penchant for play. So I snuffled back my tears and said in a quavering voice, “What’ll happen to us?”

  “Well, my dear Meliara, that depends,” Flauvic said, with that hateful smile.

  Was the sound louder?

  “Maybe I’ll change my mind,” I mumbled, and I felt Vidanric’s quick glance. But I didn’t dare to look at him. “Will you save Branaric and Nimiar from being smashed if I—” I couldn’t say it, even to pretend.

  Flauvic’s gold-lit eyes narrowed. “Why the sudden affect of cowardice?”

  The sound was now like muted drums, though it could be the rushing of my own blood in my ears. But the scintillation had intensified, and I felt a tingle in my feet, the faintest vibration.

  Flauvic looked up sharply, and the diversion, brief as it was, was lost. But it had been enough.

  “For time,” I said. “Look outside.”

  Flauvic shoved past us and ran in a few quick strides to the doors. Vidanric and I were a step behind. Meeting our eyes was the strangest sight I believe ever witnessed at Athanarel: Standing in a ring, reaching both ways as far as we could see, was what appeared at first glance to be trees. The scintillation in the air had increased so much that the air had taken on the qualities of light in water, wavering and gleaming. It was hard to see with any clarity, but even so it was obvious what had happened—what the mysterious breezes just before dawn had been.

  By the hundreds, from all directions, the Hill Folk had come to Athanarel.

  Flauvic’s mouth tightened to a line of white as he stared at me. “This is your work!” And before I could answer, his hand moved swiftly, grasping my wrist. I tried to pull free—I heard Vidanric rip his blade out of its sheath—then Flauvic yanked me to him with a vicious twist so that my arm bent up behind me, and my other was pinioned between our bodies. A hot line of pain pricked me under the e
ar: the knife.

  With me squirming and struggling, Flauvic backed into the Throne Room again. “Tell them to vanish,” he said to Vidanric. “Or she dies.”

  “Don’t do it—” I yelled, but the arm around me tightened and my breath whooshed out.

  Flauvic backed steadily, right to the edge of the dais. Vidanric paced forward, sword in hand.

  The moaning sound increased and became more distinct. The rubbing of wood against hollow wood drums had slowly altered into a rhythmic tapping, the deliberate thunder of Hill Folk magic, a sound deep with menace.

  No one moved, or spoke. The thunder intensified.

  “Tell them now!” Flauvic yelled, his voice cracking.

  And the pain in the side of my neck sent red shards across my vision; warmth trickled down my neck. I gasped for breath, then I was free, and I fell onto my hands and knees on the dais. The knife clattered on the marble next to me.

  I heard the crack of boot heels on stone, once, twice, and arms scooped me up as the ground trembled.

  I flung my head back against Vidanric’s chest in time to see Flauvic raise his arms and cry a series of strange words. A greenish glow appeared between his hands, then shot out toward us—but it diminished before reaching us and evaporated like fog before the sun. The air between Flauvic and us now wavered, and through it we saw Flauvic twist, his arms still raised, his head thrown back and his golden hair streaming down.

  Loud cracks and booms shook the building, and with a flourish of bright light, Flauvic’s limbs grew and hardened, reaching and branching. Down through the marble of the dais, roots ramified from his feet. His legs and body twisted and grew, magnificent with red and gold highlights. And with a resounding smash, the branches above breached the high ceiling and sent mortar and stone and glass raining harmlessly down around us.

  Abruptly the sound disappeared. Movement ceased. We remained where we were, looking up at a great goldenwood tree where once the throne had been.