The Crimson Crown (7 page)

“Yes,” Han said.

“I wanted to have this conversation before you went.” She paused and looked up at him. “Dancer has told you about his father.”

Han nodded.

“At first I was disappointed,” she said. “The more people who know a secret, the less likely it will remain hidden.” She smiled wistfully at Dancer. “I had hopes that you would not look like him. I had hopes that you were not gifted. I had hopes that you would find a vocation that would keep you in the mountains.” She paused, then added in a low, bitter voice, “I had hopes that wizards would stay in the flatlands, where they belong.”

“It wouldn’t have remained a secret forever,” Dancer said. “The resemblance is too strong. Anyone who had the least suspicion would guess on his own.”

“I realize that now. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since the queen was murdered. It was a mistake to conceal what he did, all these years. Wounds like this fester if they are not opened and drained. If I had spoken up, perhaps Marianna’s death could have been averted.”

Willo finished a row of beaded stitches and bit off the thread. Then looked up at them. “Let me tell you about the day I met Bayar on Hanalea.”

The girl known as Watersong lingered by the healer’s spring long after her friends had returned to camp, their berry buckets full. For a while she worked on her sketches, trying to capture the glint of light on the water before the sun descended behind Hanalea’s western shoulder.

Growing sleepy, she set her sketch board aside and leaned back against a tree, lulled by the music of the Dyrnnewater, basking in the sun. Occasionally, she would pop a red raspberry into her mouth, and the warm juice would explode onto her tongue.

A voice broke into her daydreams, speaking in Common.

“Who are you?”

She looked up, shading her eyes. It was a boy, somewhat older than her. He looked very tall, especially to someone on the ground, and his outline was oddly blurry. A flatlander, obviously, but there was something—
alien
—about him.…

She stood, dusting off her leggings. “My name is Watersong,” she said, also in Common.

“You’re a copperhead,” the boy said, looking a little dazed. “But…you’re beautiful.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Watersong said, rolling her eyes. “And don’t use that word if you want to get along with me.”

“What kind of magic
is
this?” the boy growled, as if he hadn’t heard. “You’re bewitching.”

Watersong was growing tired of this awkward conversation. “Who are
you
, and what are you doing on Hanalea?”

“I—ah—I’m a trader,” he said. “My name is Gavan.” He stepped sideways, out of the direct line of the sun, so she could see his face. He was pale, as if he didn’t spend much time outdoors, and his eyes were a glacial blue under heavy dark brows. Handsome, some would say.

Most traders Watersong knew were sunburnt and weathered by the wind. “Really?” she said skeptically. “You don’t look like one. Where is your gear?”

He flushed. “I’m new,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my way. I left my pack horses about a mile back.”

This is the most inept trader I’ve ever met, Watersong thought. Maybe there was some sort of error at his Renaming.

“I’m looking for Marisa Pines market,” the boy Gavan said. “Am I close?”

Watersong nodded. “Very close.” She turned to point. “It’s just down this—”

“I understand they buy metalwork there,” he interrupted, gripping her arm.

“They mostly sell,” Watersong said, pulling free and taking a step back. She was suddenly aware of being alone in the woods with a boy. It had never bothered her before. “Demonai work, especially. Though they will buy if the price is right.”

“Would you…would you look at something and tell me if you think it would sell?” The boy seemed edgy; nervous, even.

Well. He’d said he was new. Relaxing a bit, Watersong nodded.

The trader pulled out a small pouch and emptied it onto Watersong’s palm. Out fell a massive gold ring, engraved with two falcons, back to back, their claws extended. She felt the tingle of magic in metal.

“It’s flashcraft?” Watersong asked.

The boy nodded. “Very old. Copp—clan made.”

“You’ll probably get a good price for it, then,” Watersong said, and tried to hand it back. “I can show you the way to—”

“Try it on,” the trader urged. “I’m wondering if it’s too heavy for a woman.”

“All right,” Watersong said, sliding it onto her forefinger. “But you’ll really need to speak with…with—” Her voice trailed off as her mind clouded, and her body refused to obey her commands.

“Now, then,” the trader said, gripping her arms and forcing her to the ground. “Let’s see what’s underneath all this deerskin.” His voice had changed, running into her ears like melted ice. Even his form changed, sharpened, so that now she could see the arrogant planes of his face, the cruel cast to his mouth.

Jinxflinger
, she wanted to say, but couldn’t.

Skips Stones stirred on her low bed. Willo stroked her forehead, soothing her, and she drifted back into sleep.

It had grown dark inside the lodge, as if a shadow of evil had fallen over them, though Han knew it was only evening coming on. Dancer kindled the lamps next to the sleeping bench, and they settled back for the finish of the story.

“He tried to kill me, after,” Willo said. “But the Demonai arrived, and he had to flee. When he yanked his ring from my finger, I drew my belt dagger and slashed his hand.” She demonstrated, drawing her fingers across her palm. “He dropped the ring and fled.”

“The Demonai never found him?” Han said.

Willo shook her head. “Despite their famous tracking skills, they lost him almost immediately, as if he had been swallowed up by the earth. I assumed he used wizardry to escape. I never told the Demonai that my attacker was a wizard. I never showed them the ring. I hoped to put it behind me, to find a way to forget.

“When I found out I was expecting his child, I considered killing myself. But I refused to finish the work that that snake of a wizard had begun.” She smiled at Dancer. “And then, after you were born, I realized how lucky I was to have you. I prayed, though, that you would not be gifted, because I knew you would have no place in the world.”

“Did you know who Bayar was?” Han asked, his voice low and hoarse. “That he was the High Wizard?”

Willo shook her head. “He wasn’t at the time. I didn’t know any wizards, anyway. Several years later, after I became matriarch, I attended a wedding down in the city. When I spotted Bayar across a ballroom, my heart nearly stopped. He’d just been chosen High Wizard. I knew he might recognize me too, and ask questions and put it all together.”

Willo extended her legs, her moccasins poking out from under her skirt. “And so I left. It was either that or stab him to death on the spot.” She looked up. “Now I wish I had. Because, ever since that day, I’ve questioned my own judgment. I’d thought I was safe on Hanalea. I thought I could walk out alone and not have to look over my shoulder.

“After, I felt vulnerable. I felt like it was somehow my fault. And because I avoided him, he grew ever more powerful in my mind.” She pressed her fist against her chest. “Inside, I felt that if I exposed him, he would find a way to make me pay for it—through Fire Dancer.”

“That’s why you didn’t go to the queen’s memorial service,” Han said.

Willo nodded, then tilted her head, studying his face. “You look disappointed, Hunts Alone. You’re thinking I should have confronted him. You think I should have killed him.”

“No. That’s not it.” Han struggled to put his thoughts into words. “I just…it seems like Bayar should’ve been called to account a long time ago. There’s never any consequences for what he does. He killed Mam and Mari, and what have I done?” He hesitated, but he had to ask the question. “Why are you so convinced that Bayar would murder Dancer if he knew? Lots of bluebloods have byblow offspring.”

“It’s not that Fire Dancer is a chance child. Among the Spirit clans, every child is a blessing. Even in the Vale, they don’t make a legal distinction between chance children and issue of a marriage.”

As if unable to sit with her hands idle, Willow lifted her beadwork back onto her lap. “The Bayars have always stressed the importance of pristine bloodlines. They trace their lineage to the families that invaded from the Northern Islands. They’ve been careful never to taint their line by intermarrying—not even with down-realms folk. Queens, Valefolk, and other wizards—those are the only ones suitable, in their view.

“More important, congress between the wizards and the Spirit clans has been strictly forbidden by the Wizard Council and the assembly since the invasion. The notion of a mixed-blood with the gift of high magic is terrifying to them. It throws this whole tenuous house of cards we call the Fells into jeopardy. Lord Bayar has been one of the most rigorous enforcers of the ban. As High Wizard, he has severely disciplined wizards for breaking this rule.”

“Yet they are eager to marry their only son off to a mixed-blood,” Han said, thinking of Raisa.

“A sacrifice,” Willo said. “But worth it if they can regain the throne. The Bayars were scandalized when Queen Marianna married Lightfoot. It was the first such intermarriage since the invasion. It makes their skin crawl, the notion that the Gray Wolf line has been contaminated.”

Han had never in his life spent so much time talking about bloodlines. Bloodlines were never an issue in Ragmarket.

“So. The Bayars want to prevent further adulteration of a line they mean to marry into,” Willo went on. “I think that may have fueled their current obsession with marrying in themselves. It’s either that or do away with the Gray Wolf line entirely.”

Which is what Fiona favors, Han thought. “So if it’s found out that Lord Bayar fathered a child with a copperhead, he’ll be viewed as a hypocrite at best.”

Willo nodded. “At best. At worst, he’ll be seen as a traitor to his kind. He may see his allies fall away. It may convince his rivals that he is vulnerable to attack.”

Han’s mind raced as he considered the implications of this. Risk and opportunity, both.

“I also had the Demonai to consider,” Willo said. “It was bad enough that my child was the offspring of an unknown wizard. But
Bayar’s
son—they wouldn’t have tolerated it.”

“What made you decide to tell us now?” Han asked.

Tears welled in Willo’s eyes. “What happened to your mother and sister—I couldn’t help thinking that if I had confronted Gavan Bayar years ago, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. At the same time, it seemed to be more evidence that he was unassailable.”

“Why is it,” Dancer said, “that we are miserable and guilty, and Bayar is carefree?”

“That’s going to change,” Han said. His pulse accelerated. Once again, he imagined his enemy down on the bricks, his black blood pooling around him. He longed to see the arrogance slide from Bayar’s face, replaced by fear and shock, and then a blank nothing. Could a political, blueblood victory ever be as satisfying as confronting Bayar toe-to-toe and blade-to-blade—amulet-to-amulet?

Dancer’s voice broke into Han’s thoughts. “You told me before that you still have Bayar’s ring,” he said to Willo. “Could we see it?”

Willo nodded. She rose and crossed to the hearth. She lifted a loose stone where the chimney met the wall of the lodge and thrust her hand behind, retrieving a small linen bag. Settling back onto the chair, she unknotted the cord and dumped its contents onto her palm.

It was a heavy gold ring, engraved with two falcons, back to back, their claws extended, emeralds for eyes. Just as Willo had said. Han’s gut twisted in recognition. “I’ve seen that signia before. It matches Bayar’s amulet. It’s one of the emblems of Aerie House.”

“I’ve asked myself why I kept it,” Willo said, weighing the ring in her hand. “I certainly had no desire for a keepsake. But in a way, I felt like it gave me power over him. Because I had proof of what he’d done if I ever decided to use it.”

“He doesn’t seem worried about being exposed,” Han said, “since he’s wearing the matching flashpiece.”

“These are legacy pieces,” Willo said. “He wouldn’t want to give up an amulet as powerful as that. By now he likely considers himself safe.”

Willo returned the ring to its pouch, cradling it in her hands. “I’m thinking it would be better to seize the offensive on this, and not wait for Bayar to come after us.” She fingered her hair, looking at Han. “I’m an artist. Not a strategist. That’s why I asked you to come. Maybe, among the three of us, we can make a plan.”

A cartload of responsibility settled onto Han’s shoulders. He didn’t want to have to answer for any more innocent lives.

“We already know about the risks,” he said. “I think we need to think about what you hope to gain by exposing Bayar. That might help you decide whether to go forward.”

“I will go forward,” Willo said flatly. “I have decided.”

Dancer lifted his chin. “I’m not running away from him, and I’m not leaving the Fells. This is our home. That’s decided, too. What we need to talk about is how to do it, who should do it, and when.”

They sat in silence, each lost in thought.

“Well,” Willo said finally. “If we tell what happened, in a public place, to a large enough audience, Bayar won’t have a hope of keeping it quiet by killing us.”

“It needs to be an audience of bluebloods,” Han said. “Wizards, especially. People the Bayars can’t eliminate or ignore.”

“And we need to provide compelling proof so it can’t be denied or explained away,” Dancer said.

“What about Fellsmarch Castle?” Willo said. “A joint audience with the queen and her council?”

“But the only wizard on the council is Lord Bayar,” Han said. “The queen does not have a problem with intermarriage between clans and wizards. The ones who will put the heat on Bayar are his peers—other wizards. We need to speak to them directly, or Bayar can carry whatever tale he likes back to Gray Lady.” An idea took shape in Han’s mind—a perilous streetlord plan. “I say we walk onto his turf, just like Bayar did on Hanalea. We need to show face—stick a blade into the heart of his power. We need to show we aren’t afraid of him.”