The Crimson Crown (3 page)

Exhausted after a long session of torture, the Demon King lay down to sleep, pillowing his head on his arms. Raisa rose, dramatically stripping off her ribbon chains and dropping them to the ground. Hushing the audience with a finger to her lips, she went and stood over the sleeping Demon King. As she looked down at Han, he opened his blue eyes and gazed up at her in mute appeal. She wanted nothing more than to kneel beside him and press her lips to his.

Instead, seizing the ceremonial Sword of Hanalea, Raisa lifted it high in front of her, then plunged it into the Demon King’s breast. Han took hold of the blade with both hands, holding it in place, staring up at Raisa with no trace of humor.

“Your Majesty,” he stage-whispered. “You have pierced my heart.”

There followed a lengthy dance in which the wounded Demon King chased Hanalea around the circle. Finally, he dropped to his knees, shook his fist, and promised to destroy the world.

Han fell forward on his face and lay still.

The other dancers circled around Raisa, beating drums and waving rippling strips of brilliant cloth to represent the earthquakes and flaming eruptions that were the Breaking. Now Nightwalker came into the firelight, emissary of the clans. He and Hanalea entered into an elaborate dance, circling the clearing while the Demon King lay dead on the ground, forgotten.

Together, Nightwalker as the Demonai Warrior and Hanalea swept away the cloth flames and chased off the drummers. A cheer went up from the audience as they embraced. The dance was finally over, Hanalea’s victory complete.

Han rolled to his feet and walked out of the clearing without a word, melting into the darkness.

Afterward, Nightwalker walked Raisa back toward the Matriarch Lodge. Light and voices spilled from the entrance. Willo was hosting guests from other camps, along with Han and Dancer.

A short distance from the lodge, Nightwalker drew Raisa onto a side path. “Please. Let’s not go back right away,” he said. “Come sit by the river with me.”

“All right,” Raisa said, instantly wary. “But only for a little while. It’s been a long day.”

As they navigated the rocky, narrow path toward the river, Raisa thought she heard a faint sound behind her, like a footfall. Wolves again? She turned around but saw nothing.

Nightwalker heard it too. He stood frowning, listening. All Raisa could hear was the sigh of the wind through the treetops.

“Probably a straggler from the dance,” he said, and ushered her forward.

They sat down on a flat rock next to the water. The Dyrnnewater laughed over stones, a dark ribbon flecked with bits of foam.

Nightwalker slid an arm around Raisa, pulling her close. “Briar Rose,” he whispered. “You are a fine dancer.”

“And you, also,” Raisa said, still distracted by the last dance and worrying about its meaning. Wondering where Han had fled to.

“You are a beautiful Hanalea,” Nightwalker said. “You put the original to shame.”

“Hmm,” Raisa said, trying to focus on the conversation. “Not many people would agree with you.”

“Then they are wrong. You are stronger. More…arousing. Who would choose a pale flatlander over a clan princess?” Turning her to face him, he drew her in for a kiss.

“Nightwalker!” Raisa pushed him back with a two-handed shove. “No.”

Nightwalker took a deep breath, then released it slowly. He settled back, sitting on his heels, dropping his hands onto his knees. “You have changed since you’ve been in the flatlands,” he said. “I keep forgetting.” He smiled ruefully. “You look like the girl I remember. It is easy to fall into old habits, especially here.” He took a deep breath. “Do you remember how we used to slip away into the woods and—”

“We’ve both changed,” Raisa interrupted. “So much has happened.”

Nightwalker put his fingers under her chin, tilting her face up. “Do you have to be queen tonight?” he asked, searching her face.

“I have to be queen every night, from now on,” Raisa said sharply. After an awkward silence, she said, “How long have you known that my father had chosen you as his successor?”

“Not long,” Nightwalker said. “He told me of his intentions a few weeks ago. I hope you are pleased.” He studied her face as if looking for a sign.

Raisa wasn’t sure what to say. “It makes sense,” she said. “You are a natural leader, and I know you have significant support—among the Demonai warriors, especially.” She paused, wondering whether to go on. “I just hope your new role won’t make it more likely we will go to war.”

“Why would it?” Nightwalker said, his eyes on her lips.

“We cannot continue on as we are, splintered and squabbling among ourselves,” Raisa said, trying to read his face in the shadows of the trees. “But you’ve never been good at compromise.”

“We have already compromised,” Nightwalker said. “For a thousand years, we have allowed jinxflinger invaders to occupy lands that once belonged to us.”

“That’s just my point,” Raisa said. “Nobody seems willing to forget the history that divides us. How long do wizards have to be here before you accept that they are here for good?”

“We remember for good reason,” Nightwalker said. “That’s what the songs and stories and dances are for—to make sure we never forget.”

“So it’s hopeless, then? Is that what you’re saying?”

Nightwalker shook his head. “Whether or not there is a war is in the hands of the Wizard Council. And you.”

“What do you mean?” Raisa asked.

“You are queen now,” Nightwalker said. “You can choose who to marry.”

“You mean I can choose not to marry a wizard,” Raisa said.

“I mean, you could choose to marry me,” Nightwalker said, taking her hands.

The words fell hard, like a stone between them.

It was eerily similar to the argument Micah Bayar had made, the day he had asked permission to court her.

For a thousand years, we have been imprisoned by the past. You have the power to make changes. The future is in your hands, if you will only seize it.

“You’re saying there’ll be a war if I don’t marry you?” Raisa ripped her hands free.

“That’s not what I meant,” Nightwalker said, raising his hands. “Please. Hear me out.”

“I’m listening,” Raisa said, folding her arms.

Nightwalker looked around as if help might come out of the trees. “I am not as good with words as some.”

“Agreed,” Raisa said tartly.

“Think about it,” Nightwalker said. “The clans were the first peoples in the Fells. We have lived here always, longer even than the Valefolk. And yet we have always been ruled by others. First by the Valefolk, who built wealth from their croplands. And later by the wizards, who conquered the Valefolk.”

He paused as if waiting for a response, and Raisa said, “Go on.”

“Wizards and clan are divided by our natures. Even our magical traditions put us in opposition. Wizards destroy the earth with their magics. We celebrate the natural world.” Nightwalker shrugged. “We will never surrender, Briar Rose. But that doesn’t mean there has to be bloodshed.”

He touched Raisa’s hand cautiously, as if aware that she might snatch it back. “It’s time the Spirit clans ruled the Fells, as we were meant to do. It begins with you.”

“How so?”

“You are of the Gray Wolf line, but you are also clan royalty, through Lord Demonai. Marry me, and our children will be three-quarters clan. Our children can marry into one of the other camps, strengthening the line further. Together, Valefolk and clan can rein in the excesses of the wizards.”

“By that reasoning, Lord Bayar would say that since I am already of mixed blood, I should marry a wizard, to join wizards to the throne.”

“Wizards had five hundred years of the Captivity to mingle their seed with the Gray Wolf line,” Nightwalker said, his voice low and bitter. “That’s enough.”

“Marrying me will not win over most Valefolk,” Raisa said, thinking of flatland attitudes toward the Spirit clans. “What makes you think they will ally with you?”

“All I need is you, Briar Rose,” Nightwalker said. Digging into his carry bag, he pulled forth a bundle wrapped in deerskin and extended it toward her.

Raisa cradled it in her arms, her heart sinking, knowing what it was before she unwrapped it.

Nightwalker must have seen the hesitation in her eyes. “Look at it, at least,” he urged. “It is Marisa Pines–made, and it comes with Averill’s blessing, since I am his adopted son.”

Raisa unfolded the leather, revealing a handwoven blanket of wool and linen spun together, lightweight and warm. It was decorated with stitched and painted symbols: Gray Wolves, the clan symbol for Hanalea the Warrior; the Demonai unlidded eye; the mortar and pestle of Marisa Pines.

It was a handfast blanket, given to signify betrothal among the Spirit clans, the joining of two camps and two beds.

“I have a question for you,” Raisa said, fingering the fabric. “Who offers this blanket—the boy I hunted with, or the heir of Demonai?”

Nightwalker shrugged. “You cannot stop being queen, and I cannot stop being Demonai.”

“I am sorry,” Raisa said, folding the leather back into place. “I cannot accept this.”

“Are you worried about my reputation between the blankets?” Nightwalker said, brushing her cheek with his fingertips. “I am not perfect, but there is no one else in the uplands that heats my blood the way you do.”

“Am I to assume, then, that if you succumb to temptation, I would be free to take other lovers as well?” Raisa snapped back.

“Please don’t be angry.” Nightwalker leaned forward. “I am no poet, to whisper lies in your ear and do as I please, after. You will be as free as you want to be. None of that matters. What matters is what happens between us.”

“That’s not it,” Raisa said, sorry that the conversation had taken this turn. “I’m not looking for you to make a promise you cannot keep. But it is even more important now, after my mother’s death, and given the threat from Arden, that I choose a marriage strategically. It will be about politics, not passion.” She handed the blanket back to Nightwalker. “It may yet happen, but I cannot commit to you now. I need to make a good decision for everyone in the Fells.”

“You have a fiery heart,” Nightwalker said. “I cannot believe it will be only politics that drives your choice.”

If I married you, Raisa thought, it would be politics, not passion.

Both Micah Bayar and Nightwalker seemed to think that she had a real choice. Then why did she feel so trapped? Was it because she couldn’t choose the match she really wanted?

Nightwalker slid the bundle back into his carry bag. “This blanket was made for you, Briar Rose. It will keep. However. Politics should be discussed during the day. The nighttime hours were meant for other pursuits.” He pressed his fingers into her back, pulling her close. “I’m staying at the visitors’ lodge,” he murmured. “It’s less crowded than the Matriarch Lodge. Let’s go there and talk further.”

“No,” Raisa said, knowing that Nightwalker would do his best to change her mind. “It has been a long day, and I am tired.” She pulled free of his hands and stood. “Good night, Nightwalker.”

She turned and walked away, feeling his gaze on her back until the forest came between them.

Right now, I couldn’t stay awake for Hanalea herself, not even if she offered to answer all of my questions, Raisa thought. I just want to go to sleep.

She passed through the common room, where her father sat talking with Elena and Willo. Averill looked up, startled, as if he hadn’t expected her so soon. Then he looked past her, as if he expected Nightwalker to be right behind her.

“It has been a wonderful day,” Raisa said. “I am worn out. I’m going to bed. Don’t worry about keeping me awake. I’d sleep through an earthquake right now.”

She ducked through the curtains into her room. She wanted to dive face-first onto her sleeping bench, but took the time to strip off her dancing clothes. When she slid under the covers, something crackled beneath her. Fishing around in the woolen blankets, she pulled out a note.

Unfolding it, she held it up to the lamp.

Stay away from Nightwalker
, the note said, in sharp, fierce printing. It was written in Clan, and unsigned.

Raisa recalled the footfall in the forest, the sense of being watched on the riverbank. Had someone followed them?

Was it Han Alister? Night Bird? Or someone else entirely?

Chewing her lower lip, she touched a corner of the page to the lamp flame, watching until it dwindled to ash.

Han jerked awake in a cold sweat, groping for the knife he always kept under his pillow. It took a moment for his head to clear, to recall where he was. To realize that he wasn’t in the Matriarch Lodge at Marisa Pines, or in his garret room at Oden’s Ford. To remember that Rebecca was alive, not dead, but transformed into someone else—someone unattainable.

He shifted on his cushy blueblood mattress (not straw-tick) and rolled the binding of the fine linen coverlet between his thumb and forefinger. Right. He was back in his rooms in Fellsmarch Castle, and someone was pounding at the door.

He slid naked from his bed, palming his knife. “What is it?” he demanded.

“It’s Darby, my lord. With a urgent message.”

Han wrapped himself in the velvet robe he’d slung over the foot of the bed and crossed to the door. “What could be so urgent?” he said through the door. “Is the castle aflame? Has the queen delivered twin demon children?”

Darby said nothing for a long moment. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

Han rested his forehead against the wood. He’d been to Ragmarket the night before, and stayed too late. When would he learn that it was futile to try to drown his pain and worry in a tavern? It only made matters worse.

“Who’s it from?” he asked.

“The boy said it was urgent, but wouldn’t say who it was from, sir.”

Han cracked the door open enough to see one of Darby’s anxious blue eyes. He opened it a bit further and stuck his hand through the opening.

Darby handed over a sealed envelope with a little bow. “I regret waking you, my lord. Can I…can I get you something to break your fast? A bit of salt fish and ale? Some blood pudding?” Perhaps seeing some warning of the state of Han’s stomach in his face, Darby added hastily, “Or some bread and porridge? That’s good for a sour stomach.”