The Crimson Crown (57 page)

The flames were finally out, but Han Alister was nowhere to be seen.

Raisa walked around the pillar in ever-widening circles, diving repeatedly under the water, searching with her hands. Micah stayed under as long as he could, and gasped for breath each time he surfaced.

Both Nightwalker and Amon were there, then. “Your Majesty,” Amon said. “Raisa. The water is rising. You need to get to higher ground.”

“Han is here somewhere. I’m not leaving without finding him.”

“Han!” Amon frowned. “But I thought you said that Alister was—”

“Maybe he’s already left,” Nightwalker interrupted. Raisa shook her head. “No. He’s here. I know he’s here.”

Just then her questing foot encountered something more yielding than stone. A body.

“Help me,” she said breathlessly, and dove, taking fistfuls of fabric and lifting, pushing off with her feet. The charred, sodden fabric came away in her hands. She dove again, sliding her hands underneath the body. Desperation lent her strength, and this time she pushed the limp deadweight up until it broke the water’s surface.

Amon and Micah each took one of Han’s arms, helping Raisa lift his head and shoulders free of the water. His eyes were closed, the lids bluish against his pale face, splotched with bruises, his hair plastered strawlike against his head. Raisa tilted Han’s head forward so water ran out of his mouth. “He’s not breathing,” she said in a panic.

Cat and Dancer wrestled Han up and onto the altar, out of the water. Coming at him from behind, Dancer wrapped his arms around Han’s middle and squeezed. Water poured out of Han’s mouth, and he coughed weakly. Then spewed a string of vile curses and tried to struggle free.

Raisa shivered, giddy with relief. She grabbed Han’s hands and held them tightly, as if he might get away. The burn of magic was faint, but it was there. She threaded his hand under his coat so he could reach his amulet. His fingers closed tightly around it, and it brightened in response to his touch.

“The water should be receding,” Dancer said. “I sent the river back.”

Amon nodded. “Thanks to Fire Dancer, what remains of the Ardenine Army is in disarray. Much of their siege equipment has been washed away. The stripers have all but disappeared.”

They heard shouting and thundering hooves, the unmistakable war cries of the Demonai.

“That will be Averill Lightfoot,” Dancer said, with a weary smile. “They’ve broken through.”

Gerard Montaigne’s invasion of the Fells had turned into something of a rout. The Ardenine Army took the road south through the mountains, losing soldiers all along the way. With Dancer’s encouragement, the land itself turned against them, pelting them with snow and rain, mud and swollen rivers. If they slept on the ground, they developed boils and rashes. Ledges gave way beneath their feet, and fords and crossing places disappeared.

Most of the mercenaries went with them, as did the native-born Klemaths. Southern prisoners muttered scare-stories about the glitter-haired High Wizard, who often appeared in the midst of the highlander forces, sending terrible spells against them, disregarding his own safety. Sometimes all Han had to do was show himself, and the southerners would turn and flee.

Some called him the Demon King reborn, though most hesitated to name him at all. Everyone knew that naming a demon could call it down on you.

Meanwhile, Micah, Mordra, Gryphon, and Abelard wreaked their own kind of magical havoc on the retreating armies. Nightwalker, Bird, Shilo, and the other Demonai delighted in harassing the southern soldiers, picking them off at will.

Somehow, Marin Karn evaded all of the forces hunting him. Eventually, word came from their spies in the south that he was back in Ardenscourt. So far, he’d managed to avoid the usual Ardenine reward for failure.

Han meant to stay long enough to make sure the southerners were really and truly gone and Raisa’s hold on the throne was secure. And then he’d leave himself. He just wasn’t sure where he’d go. Maybe he’d follow Sarie’s and Flinn’s example and sail across the Indio. The desolation of Carthis might suit the desolation in his soul.

Then one day he returned to his tent near Marisa Pines Pass to find a fire in the grate and Raisa waiting for him.

She didn’t see him at first. She was staring moodily into the flames, her arms wrapped around her knees, an odd juxtaposition of waif and warrior in Dancer’s armor and made-to-measure clan boots.

He froze in the doorway, considering retreat, but just then she looked up and saw him, in all his grubby, weary, unshaven glory.

“There you are,” she said. And then, “You look terrible. You’ve lost weight.”

“Your Majesty,” Han said. “This is a surprise.”

She levered to her feet and padded toward him, silent as a Demonai. “I’ve sent for you several times, but you didn’t come.”

“I’ve…I’ve been busy,” Han said hoarsely.

“So I’ve heard.” Raisa stopped a foot away and stood looking up at him, her fists on her hips. “How could you leave like that—without speaking to me?”

Han didn’t want to answer that question, so he asked one of his own. “Did you really come out here by yourself?”

“You wouldn’t come to me, so I came to you,” Raisa said, her green eyes narrowed, her voice low and fierce. “We need to talk.” Reaching up, she took hold of his jacket front, pulling his head down to hers. She kissed him, long and slow, pressing up into him.

Han struggled not to react, but his weary body betrayed him. His arms went around her, and he kissed her back, intent on getting as much of her as he possibly could. It didn’t matter how far away he fled—he would never—could never—forget this.

Finally she pulled back, but kept hold of his lapels, like he might try to get away.

“So,” Han said, his tongue thick in his mouth, his breathing ragged and quick. “You’re walking out on Micah already? Most at least wait until they go to temple.” He paused, and when she said nothing, added, “When’s the big day?” A terrible possibility struck him. “You’re not already married.”

“You’re a fool if you think I’d ever marry Micah Bayar,” Raisa said, sounding a little breathless herself.

“Look,” Han said. “I overheard him tell his mother that he asked you to marry him and you agreed.” He tilted his head. “You’re saying that’s not true?”

“Well,” Raisa allowed. “That part is true.”

“Plus he was wearing your ring,” Han said. “And you were wearing his.”

Raisa let go his coat and held up her hand, inches from Han’s nose. The gold wolf ring was back on her forefinger, next to the pearl-and-moonstone ring Dancer had made, that Han had given her for her coronation. The Bayar ring was missing.

“Sorry,” Han said, after a moment. “I’m a little lost here. Are you saying that you and Micah are on the outs now?”

Raisa sighed. “Micah came to me at Fellsmarch Castle while we were penned up in there. He told me that you tried to murder his father on Gray Lady and that Bayar killed you.”

Han’s mind had ranged far ahead, but now it stumbled, then backtracked. “Micah told you I was dead? And you believed him?”

Raisa nodded, blinking back tears. “At the time, remember, you were wanted on suspicion of murder. I could see them taking advantage of that to get you out of the way.”

Han recalled what Micah had told the Wizard Council—that Han was dead—before he’d made his surprise appearance. And Magret Gray’s reaction when he’d appeared in Raisa’s bedchamber—calling him a demon spirit.

“Micah also said his father had found the Armory of the Gifted Kings,” Raisa said. “He showed me the Crimson Crown as proof.” She waited, and when Han said nothing, continued.

“I believed him,” Raisa said, blotting at her eyes. “You’d told me it existed, and that you were going after it. So I thought, well, maybe they’d killed you when you tried to take it from them. Or they’d taken it from you and killed you. Either way, Micah’s story was plausible.

“He said the armory would give Bayar undisputed power over the council. He’d have the firepower to force Montaigne’s army out of the Fells, defeat the clans, and wrest the throne away from me. But if I agreed to marry him, and crown him king, I could remain alive and continue as queen.”

Raisa gripped her elbows to either side. “If I couldn’t have you, then I didn’t care who I married. At least that way I’d get rid of the southerners. And as long as I stayed alive, I’d find a way to get rid of the Bayars.” She tilted up her chin, and Han knew that the Bayars would have had plenty to worry about.

She’s tough for a blueblood
, he’d once thought.
Maybe tough enough to be with me.
Until he’d found out that the girl he knew as Rebecca was the princess heir. That’s when it had first occurred to him that he might not be tough enough to be with her. Even so, a spark of hope kindled within him.

Raisa’s voice broke into his thoughts. “And now I understand from my father that
you
hold the armory. He said that was the stick you used to persuade the gifted and the clans to fight together.”

“That’s true,” Han said. Seeing the questions crowding onto her face, he added, “It’s a long story.”

“I have time,” Raisa said, sitting cross-legged on the mat and patting the space beside her. “I’ve told my story, now you tell yours.”

He sat down next to her, their knees touching. “It’s…You might find it hard to believe.”

“Try me,” she said.

Han recalled what he’d said to Raisa in Hanalea’s garden.

Didn’t you ever wish you could have a—a partner? A friend? Somebody you could say anything to—where you didn’t have to pick and choose words like a merchant at market?

And so he began. “Well, first of all, most of what you know about Alger Waterlow and Queen Hanalea isn’t true,” he said.

It took more than an hour, and multiple cups of tea. By the time he was finished, the rest of the camp was asleep, the fire burning low.

“How could you think that I would choose Micah over you?” Raisa asked, running her fingertips over his blistered wrists.

“It’s hard to change everything you’ve believed all your life about bluebloods,” Han said. “I guess there was a place in me that was just waiting for it to go wrong, for you to realize your mistake.” He shrugged, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

After that, there was a lot more kissing, and no talk at all. They ended tucked up together in a corner, Raisa’s head on Han’s chest, her arm draped across him.

“So what happens now?” Han said. “Since you aren’t getting married.”

“Oh, I
am
getting married,” Raisa said sleepily. “You promised me that if I agreed to marry you, that you would make it happen.” She extended her hand, the one with the ring Han had given her, and waved it under his nose. “So. It’s time to pay up.”

Amon gripped Raisa’s shoulders, searching her eyes. “Are you sure, Rai? Are you sure you want this?”

“I’m sure,” Raisa said. “I love him, and we’re going to marry.”

Amon swiveled away, examining the cold ashes on the hearth with great interest. Raisa had chosen to flout protocol and had sought him out in his quarters in the barracks of the castle close. Leaving her guard outside, she had met with him alone.

“If you’re still worried about the murders in Ragmarket, Han Alister is not responsible.”

“I know,” he said, shrugging assent. “I’m not sure I ever believed he was. He’s too smart to murder people and leave clues everywhere.” He turned back toward her, his face taut with worry. “But do you have to announce it now? Could you wait until things are more stable?”

Raisa shook her head. “I’m thinking there may be some advantage to acting while the situation is still fluid, before everyone falls back into old patterns.” Did she really believe that, or was she just trying to convince herself?

“What does your father say?” Amon asked.

“He doesn’t know yet. I leave for Marisa Pines Camp this afternoon. I know the Demonai, especially, will be furious with me, but there’s nothing I can do but prepare for that.”

“It may put your life in danger,” Amon said bluntly.

“Like it isn’t already?” Raisa rolled her eyes. Then, seeing the pain on his face, she crossed the room and took his hands. “Who knows—maybe it would improve things if we all weren’t involved in this relentless marital dance.”

Their eyes met—these two people who had once been part of the dance themselves. Now betrothed to other people.

“You’ll be married yourself, soon,” Raisa said gently. “Next spring, right?”

Amon nodded. “Next spring, aye, assuming the Ardenines stay in the south and we’re not at war.” He swallowed hard. “We’ve not chosen a date.”

Raisa smiled up at him. “I never expected to be the first of us to marry,” she said.

“Me neither,” Amon said, managing to smile back. He took a breath. “I wish you every blessing in your marriage, Rai. And blessings on your children, too.”

“Please share our hearth and all that we have,” Willo Watersong said. Though most of the hearths at Marisa Pines had been broken and despoiled by Arden’s army, Willo’s people had returned to their ancestral home, and were beginning to rebuild.

Willo embraced Han, Dancer, and Bird in turn, and brought her fist to her chest in salute to Raisa. “Welcome to our hearth, Hunts Alone, Fire Dancer, Night Bird, and Briar Rose,” she said. “Please share all that we have.”

“Welcome, granddaughter,” Elena
Cennestre
said, folding Raisa into her arms. “Though our troubles are not over, we have much to celebrate.”

Han stood at the hearth, hands extended, shaking off the morning chill. Autumn had arrived in the high country. He wore clan garb—deerskin leggings and the coat Willo had made for him, his amulet out of sight. It wouldn’t win him any friends here. He kept his eye on the Demonai. His last interaction with Averill and Elena had been charged, to say the least.

For a long moment, Raisa rested her head against her grandmother’s shoulder, as if worrying that this might be the last time. Then she pulled away, turning to Averill.