The Cup and the Crown (11 page)

People say things like that all the time, just to be kind, without really meaning it. But no one had
ever
said such a thing to Molly before that day. It had made her heart sing with pleasure.

Then, just a few hours after, King Edmund had been slain, along with his mother and the poor princess bride. Molly shivered, remembering the rest: Tobias carrying the wounded and unconscious prince down the stairs into the storeroom, where a boat was tied at the water gate—and, oh, the blood, and the sheer terror of it, and the fear that Alaric would die . . .

“Lady?”

“I’m all right,” she said, and shivered again.

As Molly descended the stairs to the great hall, she was surprised to hear loud voices and boisterous laughter. She’d met Claus and Margit Magnusson earlier in the day; and though they’d greeted her warmly, they’d struck her as the quiet sort, stiff and formal. Apparently she’d misjudged them.

She stopped just outside the door, listening. They were speaking in Austlinder, but she understood most of it.

“Now, Papa,” a girl was saying, “you are
absolutely forbidden
to be pompous tonight. We cannot have you boring our guest.”

“I am never boring or pompous. I merely offer such insights as I’ve gained through a lifetime of study, and—”

“See! Exactly!”

“That’s enough, Laila.” Molly recognized Margit’s voice.

“She has a point, Mother,” came the voice of a young man. “The lady should be allowed to find wisdom for herself—not have it dumped into her lap like spilled soup.”

“Spilled soup! Oh, Lorens, how apt! May I use that in a poem?”

A titter from a younger child.

They sounded like the kind of family Molly had wished for as a child: lively, affectionate, and happy. Then it came to her with a sudden thrill that they really
were
her family. Distant, yes, but the fruit of the same tree.

She peered around the doorway and saw them gathered around the fireplace. Master Claus stood, one hand resting on the shoulder of his younger daughter. The little girl’s face, as round and shining as the moon, was framed by a mane of fluffy curls. Margit sat near the fire, busy with some needlework. And behind Margit, leaning on the back of her chair, was a beautiful girl of eighteen or so, with a straight back and large, prominent eyes. She looked as though she was just about to tell a funny story or play some wicked prank. Molly liked her instantly.

A little apart from the rest stood a lad of perhaps twenty-five. He was dressed in a silk robe of deep midnight blue, embroidered all over with silver thread in a pattern of bursting stars. The silver badge on his velvet cap was shaped like a crescent moon.

Rich, beautiful, elegant, and happy—
her
family! Molly took a deep breath and stepped into the room.

“Ah, here she is!” cried Claus in a booming voice. “Welcome, welcome!”

It was only then, as they turned to greet her, that Molly noticed another boy, much the same age as the beauty. He’d been standing in the shadow of his star-clad brother. Even now she couldn’t see his face very well.

“Children,” Claus said, switching to Westrian for Molly’s sake, “may I present your cousin, Lady Marguerite of Barcliffe Manor, the granddaughter of my late uncle, William Magnusson. Come, my dear, we’ll take our seats at table”—Claus indicated a chair between the fluffy angel and the younger boy—“and then I’ll introduce my little brood.”

“Your
brood
!” cried the angel, pretending to be offended. “Are we
poultry
now, Father?”

“You are indeed,” Claus said. “But you’ll have to wait your turn, my little chick. Oldest first, remember? Marguerite, this magnificent creature to my right is Lorens Magnusson. We called him home especially to meet you; and it’s quite a treat for us as well, for we don’t get to see him very often anymore. He lives at Harrowsgode Hall and is studying to be a Magus Mästare.”

“Papa is very proud,” said the beauty.

“As he has every right to be,” Claus returned. “And this impertinent young lady is our daughter Laila. She is at the university studying natural philosophy, and she talks of nothing but
chem
icals and
cor
puscles and
car
bonates—” He leaned hard on those explosive
c
’s for comic effect. “And she says
I
am dull!” He said all this with the greatest affection and pride; the beauty took it with a smile.

“Now on your right is Laila’s twin, Jakob. And on your left—”

“Father,” said the boy, “aren’t you going to list
my
accomplishments?”

He had turned to address his father; all Molly could see was his hair, his ear, and the curve of his cheekbone and chin.

“I
am
the family disappointment, after all. Surely that counts for something.”

“Oh, spare us, Jakob, please,” Claus said.

“But it’s true. Every family must have one. Don’t you agree, Marguerite?”

He turned as he said this, and Molly stifled a gasp—for it was the boy in her dream! And from the way he locked eyes with her, it was clear that he had recognized her, too.

“Are you all right, my dear?” asked Margit.

“No,” Molly said. “I mean yes. Yes.”

A hand reached in and set a bowl of soup before her. Molly looked down, then up at Jakob again.

“I’m not at the university with my sister,” he went on mechanically. “I failed my exams, you see—quite spectacularly, in fact. So I’m apprenticed to a silversmith. A tradesman in
this
family—only think of it! Papa is so disappointed.”

“That’s enough,” Claus said. “You’re making our guest uncomfortable. And do stop staring at her, will you? She’ll want to turn around and go straight back to Westria this very night.”

The boy sniffed as if that was somehow darkly amusing.

“Jakob!” Margit snapped. “I’m sorry, Marguerite. He’s not himself tonight.”

“You forgot about me,” said the little sprite. “You left me out entirely.”

“I was trying to get to you, child, but your brother was insistent upon—”

“Father,” said the beauty, “let’s move on.”

“Indeed. This lovely creature to your left is Sanna, our youngest. She is a first-year scholar.”

Sanna knew how to sparkle, and she did so now. She turned to Molly, eyes wide, and asked with wonder in her voice, “Are you
really
from Westria?”

Molly said she was.

“Ohhhh—what’s it like?”

“Well, we don’t have as many mountains as you have here. Actually, now that I think of it, there aren’t any mountains at all. Just some very big hills.”

“What else? Is it very large?”

“About the same size as Austlind.”

“And does it have a king?”

“Most certainly.”

“Is he old?”

“Not at all! He’s younger than Jakob and Laila. His name is Alaric, and he’s very,
very
handsome.”

“Oh!” Sanna clapped her hands, wild with excitement. “Ours is old. Have you seen him in person, then—the king of Westria?”

“Why, yes, Sanna; I’ve seen him many times. In fact, I shall tell you something that will amaze you; just the other day we were walking together in his private garden—”

“Alone?”

“Well, there were guards outside, but yes, we were alone. And he took my arm, just like this, and he held me close . . .”

Sanna flopped back in her chair in exaggerated amazement, rolling her eyes up into her head, her mouth open wide. Then Molly realized that the others had stopped drinking their soup; spoons in hand, they were staring at her—what? Dumbfounded?
Scandalized?

“In a brotherly sort of way,” she added. “Nothing improper. We’re just very good friends.”

“I have no doubt of it,” Margit said, and changed the subject.

As dish after dish came out of the kitchen and then was carried empty away, the conversation rolled cheerfully on, Jakob’s outburst and Molly’s indiscretion long forgotten. Soon the family drifted back to their accustomed subjects: the university, philosophy, and corpuscles. Even Sanna, who had little to offer on such subjects, made an effort to join in.

Only Jakob and Molly held back. They sat, eating in silence, pretending interest in the discussion. Finally, at a particularly noisy moment when Laila was making everyone laugh, Jakob leaned in and whispered in Molly’s ear.

“In the garden,” he said. “By the bench, after dinner.”

13
Jakob

WHAT A FOOL HE’D MADE
of himself at dinner. He hadn’t pulled a stunt like that in years. True, it had hurt to be discounted so transparently, especially in front of his cousin; but he ought to be used to it by now.

Jakob understood his father very well, better than most sons did. He knew Claus to be a proud man: proud of his clan, his position in society, and the accomplishments of his children. But Jakob also knew that beneath that pride lay a deep well of disappointment—that he, Claus Magnusson, had been granted no gift at all. He was nothing more than a university professor, and not even a great one at that.

There was the root of the family tragedy: Because, of the four children, Jakob should have been the one to fulfill his father’s hopes. Instead, he’d been difficult; he’d denied his prodigious gift, pretending to be a slow-wit and setting himself on a path that led to service in a trade. He’d taken the very thing that Claus valued and wanted most in the world—and thrown it away. Of course the man was angry. But if Claus had tried to understand his son, as the son understood the father, he might have found it in his heart to forgive, and gained a measure of peace for himself into the bargain.

Jakob heard the sound of footsteps on gravel and saw a figure moving slowly down the path, feeling her way in the darkness.

He crossed his arms protectively over his chest. He was trembling a little, wondering whether his cousin would be a kindred soul—and certainly Jakob needed one—or a threat to his very life and happiness. Well, he’d know soon enough.

She was waving at him now, with big, wide sweeps of her arm as though hailing a ship at sea. She seemed so young and childish—and that was odd, considering who and what she was. But then she’d been raised common, according to Claus, and had been given no education. That might account for it.

“Jakob?” A loud whisper.

“Over here.”

Now she was standing in front of him—such a little thing, all skin and bones and enormous eyes, like some wild creature. Not timid, though. Not timid at all.

“Well, cousin,” Jakob said. “Here we are. We don’t have a lot of time.”

“Then we’d best get right on with it, hadn’t we? You’ve seen me before. In there, just now, you recognized me.”

“We recognized each other, Marguerite. It went both ways.”

“Yes. I’ve been seeing you in my dreams this last month and more.”

“They were visions, I think.”

“All right, visions. You were always dressed in a fawn-colored doublet, embroidered with soft green vines. And the sleeves were some sort of stiff brocade, burgundy and gold, puffy at the shoulder and narrow at the wrist. Do you have a doublet like that?”

“I do—exactly like that.”

“Ah.” She drew in a deep breath and let it out. “And you were holding a silver goblet up against your chest, like so.” She raised her hands to show him, fingers enclosing empty air. “The base is very fancy—some parts gilded, with enamels framed in filigree. But the cup itself is plain.”

“I’ve seen the same goblet,” he said, “except it was
you
who held it.”

He could hear her slippers shuffling the gravel as she thought about this.

“Listen, Jakob,” she said after a while, “I must tell you something. I was sent to Austlind by the king of Westria to find a special cup, of a kind my grandfather used to make. We went to Faers-Wigan, a crafts town to the south, because that’s where he lived and practiced his trade. But while we were there I found out that he hadn’t been born in Faers-Wigan; he’d come there from someplace else. Yet right from the start, before Alaric even called me back to court, before I’d even
heard
of Harrowsgode, I was dreaming of you. Don’t you see? I was
meant
to come here.”

“I think you’re right.”

“And there’s something else. The cup we both saw—”

“—is a Loving Cup. And that’s what your king is after.”

“Yes. It all fits together. I saw you holding the cup because you were meant to make it. And you saw me in your visions—”

“—because I’m supposed to make it for you.”

“Oh, Jakob, I’m so glad I found you! There are only two people in the world I completely trust—my friend Tobias and Alaric, the king of Westria. But even they can’t understand what it’s like to be the way we are. Talking to you feels so natural. It’s almost like talking to myself.”

And there it was, the answer to his question: a kindred soul.

They were quiet then for a while, aware that something important had just happened, and feeling a little bashful at the intimacy of it.

“Jakob,” Molly said at last, breaking the silence. “I want to ask you something. I don’t mean to pry, but . . .”

“Go ahead.”

“Why are you a silversmith? No, wait—let me ask this in a different way. Why are you
also
a silversmith, like my grandfather was, when both of you might have been—well, what Lorens is, only greater? Where I come from, having visions and knowing the future are seen as marks of the devil. Here it’s a sign of greatness. So, why?”

Jakob turned away and studied the rosebushes, trying to decide what to say. That had been the most personal and painful question anyone could have asked. Did he really trust her that much?

“Let’s sit down,” he finally said, having made up his mind. “It’s not going to be a short answer.” He took his time, ordering his thoughts, deciding what to tell now and what he could put off till later. Then he took the plunge:

“When I was very small, I was playing with Laila, here in the garden. I had a toy horse, with a real horsehair mane and tail, and big, button eyes. It was my very favorite thing. So naturally Laila, being devilish, took it away from me and ran away—waving it in the air, you know, just to torment me. I ran after her, growing angrier by the minute, until I was positively beside myself with rage and frustration. She was a fast little thing, but I finally caught up with her and grabbed her by the arm . . . and I remember feeling this strange sensation: the heat of my fury just
pouring
out of me, through my hand, and into her body till she screamed and fell to the ground. And she lay there, not breathing, her skin very white. I thought she must be dead—and that I had killed her.