The Crimson Crown (40 page)

“Forget it, Alister,” she breathed. “I fell for your charms once before. I’m not stupid enough to fall for them twice.”

Ah, well. There was an old saying: gamon me once, shame on you. Gamon me twice, shame on me.

“All I have is the truth,” Han said. “If you don’t believe me, then just go ahead and kill me.”

Fishing in her carry bag, Fiona pulled out the serpent amulet and dangled it by its chain.

If Han hoped she’d hand it over, he was wrong. Instead, she extended it toward him until it rested on his bare chest. It brightened as it sucked flash out of him. He couldn’t touch it, with his hands bound over his head, but he released a long breath of relief, feeling that release—that connection again.

“Let’s see if this works,” Fiona whispered. Gripping the chain with one hand, she pressed herself against Han, trapping the amulet between them. Then slid her hand down, taking hold of the jinxpiece.

“Blood of the Demon!” she screeched, leaping back so the amulet pinged to the floor. She sucked at her burnt fingers, regarding Han balefully.

“Very well, Alister. I’ll talk to my father. Given the circumstances, I’m sure he’ll consider a deal.” Scooping up the amulet by its chain, careful not to touch the jinxpiece itself, she tucked it away. And left him dangling.

Han tried not to focus on the place on his chest where the amulet had rested for such a short time. He was surprised it had reacted to Fiona. He’d thought with Crow absent, it would…A suspicion kindled in his mind.

Crow?
he said, in his head. And again,
Crow!
There was no answer. Crow was gone.

The amulet. Crow must have slipped back into the amulet during that brief connection. Was that why he’d wanted Han to get hold of it again—so he could escape? Han knew it made Crow miserable to witness the Bayars’ torture of him, after going through it himself. Who could blame him?

Still, Han couldn’t help but feel abandoned.

Dancer woke from a sound sleep in the breathless quiet of the predawn. He’d taken to sleeping outside camp in a hammock high in the trees, through the sultry nights of the blood moon of August. He lay quiet for a moment, still linked to the forest network. Then a breeze touched his face, carrying with it the stink of metal and flatland horses, unfamiliar spices, and southern sweat.

He spilled from the hammock, dropped lightly to the ground, and sprinted back toward camp.

He was greeted by the sound of running feet, barking dogs, and shouts of alarm. The camp boiled with people carrying bundles, loading up ponies with movables. Traders expertly lashed their wares to sledges, their apprentices filling panniers to overflowing.

Demonai warriors sat on their ponies, their bows strung and at the ready, their faces grim with purpose.

Bright Hand raced by, toting armloads of bandages, carry bags slung over his shoulder.

“What is going on?” Dancer asked, stepping into his path.

“The Demonai sentries brought word that there’s a flatland army coming through the pass,” Bright Hand said. “They’ll be on top of us within the hour.”

“Flatlanders? Who?” Dancer asked. With all his other worries, this seemed like a cruel trick.

“We don’t know,” Bright Hand said. “And there’s no time to find out. Willo Watersong has ordered the camp to evacuate.”

“Evacuate! They cannot be stopped?”

“Not before we’re overrun,” Bright Hand said. “There’s too many, and we were caught by surprise.”

Dancer looked for his mother, and saw her tall, slender form next to the paddocks, directing the distribution of ponies to those who had none. He hurried over, circling around bands of children carrying practice bows.

“What can I do?” he said, when Willo’s gaze lit on him.

“Match up people and ponies,” she said. “Make them understand that they cannot take everything with them. Where we’re going, the ponies cannot manage with too much baggage. Goods can be replaced.”

“Is help on the way?” Dancer asked.

“We’ve sent riders to Fellsmarch and to Demonai Camp, but it won’t save us.” Willo turned away from Dancer. “Silverthread!” she called. “You will have to leave your loom behind. You cannot use it in the high country anyway.” She strode purposefully toward a young weaver who was trying to strap the breast beam of a loom onto a mournful-looking pony.

Already, early risers streamed out of the camp, every person, even small children, carrying something.

It was chancy, using magic on Hanalea under the eyes of the Demonai, but Dancer used bits of it to calm ponies, coax fussy babies into sleep, make knots fast, and direct muddle-headed sheep onto the upland trails. While he worked, his mind strayed to Cat, wondering where she was and if she knew what was happening. At least she was likely safer in the city than here.

And where was Hunts Alone? Was he with the queen in Fellsmarch? Chained up in a dungeon somewhere? Or on his way between one place and another?

Dancer kept his finger lightly on the pulse of magic that permeated rock and dirt and every living thing. As the last of the camp dwellers departed, he felt the rip in the natural fabric that said large numbers of men were approaching. He smelled the blood that would soon be spilled, and tasted unchanneled high magic.

Wizards? From the flatlands?

Opening his eyes, he looked into Night Bird’s face.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her brows drawn together.

“They’re here,” Dancer said, pointing south toward the pass. Untying his pony’s reins, he vaulted aboard.

They camped that night high in the mountains, where the snows dwindled in the summers but never entirely disappeared, and none but the clans knew the ways. Far below, they could see the smoke that meant Marisa Pines was burning.

“At least they’re unlikely to go on to Demonai Camp,” Shilo Trailblazer said, tossing a bone onto a midden. “They’re flatlanders; they’ll want to take the cities and the farmland in the Vale.”

“We should have stopped them in the mountains, where we have the advantage,” Night Bird said. “Once they’re in the Vale, they’ll go all the way to Fellsmarch. We should have anticipated this. The queen warned us this might happen.”

“We
did
anticipate this,” Trailblazer retorted. “But we cannot be everywhere at once.”

“There are too many Demonai in the city, watching jinx-flingers,” Night Bird said. “That leaves too few on patrol in the mountains.”

“You don’t think the jinxflingers bear watching?” Trailblazer said, not looking at Dancer.

“Maybe they do. But that’s the problem—we spend our resources fighting with each other. If we don’t learn to work together, we’ll end up bowing to flatland kings.”

“At least the southerners might rid us of jinxflingers,” Trailblazer said, still staring into the fire. She and Nightwalker were flints chipped from the same source rock.

“Be careful what you wish for,” Night Bird said. “Remember that the flatlanders call us savages, and our queens, witches.”

“Anyway,” Dancer said, breaking into the argument, “the flatlanders have brought their own wizards with them.”

“How do you know this?” Trailblazer asked skeptically. “Flatlanders hate jinxflingers.”

“It seems they have found a way to work with them,” Dancer said.

“Which we had better do,” Bird said.

Dancer liked the changes he saw in his cousin. Though still fascinated with Nightwalker, she no longer repeated his opinions like a mocker bird. She was thinking for herself.

All the next day, the residents of Marisa Pines Camp waited for news, while the Demonai warriors scouted and harassed the advancing army. The scouts returned to report that the invaders were definitely Ardenine, plus the mercenaries working for them. As expected, the army descended from the southern mountains and marched straight for Fellsmarch.

Late that day, reinforcements arrived from Demonai Camp, Averill and Elena Demonai among them. But the riders who’d gone to Fellsmarch returned, saying they couldn’t reach the city. There was another army in the way.

“Where did it come from, this army?” Willo demanded at the improvised war council that had convened. “How did it get through, unseen?”

“It’s our own army,” Averill said. “General Klemath has turned traitor, and his mercenaries with him. They’ve laid siege to Fellsmarch Castle.” He paused, his face graven with worry. “So we have no army to counter Montaigne’s, save the Demonai. Briar Rose saw this coming. She meant to replace Klemath as general of the armies. But it seems she acted too late.”

“And the queen?” Willo asked. “Where is she now?”

Averill shook his head. He seemed to have aged years in a matter of days. “Since they have the castle surrounded, I assume she’s inside, but we have no way of knowing for sure. If she’s in the city, at least Nightwalker is with her,” he added softly, his voice thick with emotion.

“What about the Wizard Council?” Willo said. “Are they under siege in the city with the queen? Are they on Gray Lady?”

Nobody knew.

Willo’s gaze fastened on Dancer, and he knew they shared the same question:
Where is Hunts Alone?
The seed of an idea sprouted in his mind. If he’s in the city, I might be able to find out what’s happening. I might be able to find out if Cat is there—and safe.

Once the meeting was over, Dancer carried his bedroll a little ways off and spread it out on the ground. He thought of asking his mother to keep watch over him, but she was still in conference with Averill. He laid down, took hold of his amulet, and…

“What are you doing?” Night Bird asked, looming over him, her shape blotting out the web of branches overhead.

“Magic,” Dancer said, propping on his elbows.

She squatted next to him. “Isn’t that the amulet that Elena
Cennestre
made for Hunts Alone?” She stuck out her finger, nearly touching the Lone Hunter amulet.

Seeing no point in denying it, Dancer said, “Yes. We…ah…swapped.”

Night Bird sat back on her heels. Dancer waited for her to warn him that magic was forbidden on Hanalea. To watch his step—that the Demonai were watching him.

Instead, she said, “I’d like to talk to you about how we could work together.”

He blinked at her, unable to hide his surprise. “Who? You and me?”

She nodded. “To start. But…eventually, I’m hoping that the Demonai—
some
of us, anyway—could learn to work with the jinx—charmcasters—
some
of them, anyway.”

Dancer sat up, letting go of his amulet and wrapping his arms around his knees. “I am surprised. What changed your mind?”

“I’m learning that things are not as simple as they once seemed,” Night Bird said. “That there is good in people I thought were evil. And evil in—in some others.” She leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees. “Think what we could accomplish working together, instead of fighting with each other.” She rubbed her nose. “Given what’s happened, I don’t think we have a choice.”

“Does Nightwalker agree?” Dancer asked.

She shook her head. “He would be furious if he knew I’d said such a thing,” she said frankly, looking over her shoulder as if he might have slipped up on them, somehow, all the way from the city.

Although Dancer could think of several things to say, he said nothing. His cousin was taking a huge risk, and he would honor that.

“All right,” he said. “Do you want to start tonight?”

She tilted her head. “What do you…?”

“I’m going to try to speak with Hunts Alone, using magic,” Dancer said. “I’ll be in a kind of trance, and helpless. Could you watch over me?”

Her dark eyes widened. “You would trust me with that?”

“I have always trusted you, cousin,” Dancer said. He lay back, cradled his amulet between his hands, and crossed into Aediion.

Dancer knew that the odds of Han’s being in Aediion, looking for him, were infinitesimal. But then, so were the odds that they could win against two large armies in a surprise attack.

He chose Mystwerk Tower, where they’d met before, guessing Han would be there if anywhere.

The bell tower was dusty, deserted, the bell pulls dangling, limp in the heat. It was a late-summer southern evening, thunder rumbling in the distance. Dancer breathed in the steamy air, smelling rain.

He waited, shifting his weight from foot to foot, impatient. Looking down, he saw that he was wearing clan garb, his amulet, and the Bayar stoles. Frowning, he made the stoles disappear.

“Han?” he said aloud, as if that would help call his friend to him. “Hunts Alone?”

Like raindrops catching sunlight, the air shimmered and coalesced. But it wasn’t Han Alister standing in front of him. It was Crow, looking pale and haggard and anxious.

“You!” Dancer said. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m nearly always here, remember?” Crow snapped. “Actually, I was waiting for you. Alister needs your help.”

“He does?” Dancer couldn’t help looking around. “Where is he?”

“He’s in the dungeon at Aerie House,” Crow said, grimacing as if it pained him to say it.

“What?” Dancer whispered. “How did that happen? And how do you know?”

Crow looked evasive. “It’s a long story, but I was…ah…with him when he was taken.”

“What do you mean, you were with him?” An ugly suspicion crowded into Dancer’s head. “You mean you
possessed
him?” He could imagine Crow using Han to take revenge on the Bayars, and the attack going wrong.

Crow shook his head. “No, he got into trouble all on his own. I was…navigating for him, in the tunnels under the Vale.”

“What was he doing there?” Dancer said, folding his arms.

“He was hiding in the tunnels, and the Bayars caught him.” Crow’s image frayed into ragged tendrils, then solidified again.

For a demon, Crow is not a very good liar, Dancer thought. He was definitely omitting some details. Han had said it was difficult to lie in Aediion because your emotions were more likely to show on your conjured face.

“I don’t have time for twenty questions,” Crow said, becoming agitated when Dancer didn’t respond. “They are torturing him. They will torture him until he tells them what they want to know, and then they’ll kill him. You
must
rescue him.” Crow caught himself as if suddenly aware of the irony. “I cannot believe I am asking a Bayar to rescue a Waterlow from a Bayar.”