The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe (47 page)

“Talks?” Ellyn asked in a strangled voice.

Margaret sympathized. She’d had much the same reaction upon having the revelation thrust upon her. “Apparently so. Which brings us back to the ball of
sylveth
hiding in the bowels of the Kalpestrine. If I am right about the Jutras using their majick to infect the sea and
sylveth
so that they can invade Crosspointe, then the
sylveth
chose a very stupid hiding place. It should have gone as far from the Jutras as it could—all the way to the Bay of Benacai or somewhere up inside the Gallows. But it didn’t and I can’t help but think there was a purpose to it. Perhaps to give us the benefit of its majick in this war we are about to wage.”

“You’re saying that the
sylveth
is trying to help us?”

Margaret nodded at Keros, ignoring his disbelief. “I think so. And why not? If it knows the Jutras have been poisoning the sea, then it knows that they have to be stopped.
Sylveth
has been Crosspointe’s partner in its way for hundreds of seasons.”

“This is . . .” Nicholas trailed away, shaking his head and looking up at the ceiling.

She wondered what he’d been about to say. Preposterous? Remarkable? Stupid? She could feel the tight hot flames of his fury despite the length of the table between them. She drew a shaking breath. She’d known that eventually something would wake him up to the impossibility of there being anything between them. Not that he would walk away from helping her defend Crosspointe against the Jutras. But anything more—anything like the kisses that still curled her toes—that was not going to happen.

Her mouth twisted in a self- mocking smile. She wasn’t supposed to want any man. She was supposed to be satisfied with Crosspointe, or so her father had always said. But as much as she loved her country, it was a damned cold lover.

“So what do we do now?” Red asked, pulling Margaret away from her painful maunderings. “The delats are at your disposal.”

“Good. First we need to start searching for any surviving majicars. Ellyn and Keros will try to help them with the blood majick poisoning. We’ll have to find shelters and food so people don’t starve. If the castle is still standing, we can bring them there. We also need to find Ryland and I’ll send word to Vaughn about what’s happened. We’ll need to see if we can put together a newspaper or broadsides to inform people what’s happening and where they can go for help.”

She paused, then took a breath and looked at Keros. “It’s time to bring everyone back from the Root. I want you to go as soon as we finish searching the city for majicars. If the Jutras poisoning is driving the Root majicars mad, you can help them through it. Go first to the Bramble for Marten and Lucy.”

Keros frowned. “She won’t come. She’s protecting the grove to keep the Pale from failing.”

Margaret noticed how carefully he didn’t mention that it was a blood oak grove. If anyone learned that there was an entire blood oak grove on the Bramble, they’d swarm the island, leaving not even a twig behind.

“It doesn’t matter, now,” she said. “The Pale isn’t protecting us from anything anymore. There aren’t going to be any
sylveth
tides. The Chance storms may be bitter, but there won’t be any
sylveth
in the winds to protect us from. They are needed here. We need everyone here.”

Keros nodded and Margaret could see both the fear and the doubt he tried to hide as he realized the full extent of what the Jutras had done.

“The last thing is this—all the slave collars come off. Every last one of them.” Her voice was hard and suddenly she felt tired. Her body was trembling. She held herself still, refusing to give in to it. “Red, start sending your delats into the city. Ellyn and Keros—you need sleep. You’re no good to anyone in this condition. Nicholas—”

She hesitated. It felt wrong to order him to do anything. It wasn’t just that things felt strained between them, if not entirely broken. It was more that he was Nicholas Weverton and more qualified to take the reins of Crosspointe than she was. He was a pillar of Crosspointe with experience managing a business empire. She knew how to spy and to kill. What right had she to order him about?

“What would you have me do?” Nicholas asked coolly as the silence stretched thin.

“You don’t look much better than Keros and Ellyn,” Margaret said finally, her voice more curt than she intended. “You should sleep too.”

She looked down at her trencher of stew and realized she’d hardly eaten a thing. A glance around the table told the same story for the others. “Eat now. Then go sleep,” she said to her companions. “Then we’ll get to work.”

She suited actions to words, tasting nothing, chewing and swallowing mechanically, knowing she needed the nourishment.

Red was the first to finish. He stood and gave a bow. “If you will excuse me, I will start sending out delats.”

Margaret nodded and he left. A moment later Ellyn pushed to her feet. She stalked out of the room with a glare at Keros. The other majicar soon followed, leaving Nicholas and Margaret alone.

She pushed her chair back and started for the door. She thought he might call her back or stop her, but he didn’t move or speak. She swallowed the hard lump in her throat as she stepped out into the hall. He was angry with her about Shaye, as he had every right to be. She eyed the crowded dining room and then turned back to the kitchen. It was a hustle of activity as delats stirred pots, chopped vegetables, kneaded bread, and stoked the fire. She eased quietly around the edge of the chamber and out into the mudroom. She found several brown delat robes hanging on hooks and took one, pulling it on and drawing the hood up over her head.

A moment later she was outside and striding quickly away. It was midmorning. The wind gusted and she coughed as she sucked in a mouthful of dust. It stung her eyes and she squinted, ducking her head and watching her footing.

The streets were choked with rubble. Many were impassable. There was hardly a single building that wasn’t leaning to one side or the other or had some part of it collapse. Rubble mounded in the streets. There were bodies everywhere, and despite the wind, flies and carrion birds swarmed in thick clouds. The damage and death were so overwhelming that Margaret nearly puked. She held her stomach down with iron will, but her chest was hollow and her throat ached with unshed tears.

Few people approached her, despite her disguise. She encountered a weeping woman who was carrying a baby. Two more children clung to her skirts. Dried blood smeared her forehead and cheek and the hair on the left side of her head was matted and crusty with dirt. The little girl tugged on her mother to move her this way and that as she guided the dazed woman through the rubble.

Margaret stopped in front of them. The little girl met her gaze with a frightened look, her hand on her mother’s skirt clenching into a white-knuckled fist, while her brother burrowed into the cloth.

“Where are you going?” Margaret asked gently.

The little girl only gave a sharp shake of her head. Either she didn’t know or she wouldn’t tell.

“You must be hungry. And thirsty. Why don’t you come with me? We’ll find you someplace safe.” Margaret held out her hand.

Again that sharp shake. The little girl’s jaw jutted.

Margaret squatted and pushed back her hood. She fished in the collar of her shirt for her necklace. She held it up so the girl could see it. “Do you know what this is?” she asked.

The girl’s eyes had widened and now her brother crowded closer to see.

“It says I’m a Rampling. My name is Margaret. I won’t hurt you. I promise. My job is to make sure you get somewhere safe. That’s what Ramplings do.”

The girl scowled and finally nodded.

“Good. Then let’s go.” Margaret stood, letting her pendant fall so that anyone who looked at her would see it.

She helped guide the woman now. As they began to walk away, she heard the stir of stones and looked over her shoulder. A young man, perhaps fifteen seasons old, was following. Another man, balding with a pocked face, approached from the side, his arm around a limping woman. They were filthy and bleeding, but looked at Margaret with trusting eyes. She nodded at them, and walked on.

They soon attracted others as her followers whispered who she was and where they were going. Frequently they stopped to free someone from the rubble. It was done mostly in silence. No one seemed to have the strength to ask questions or talk. They were too full of grief and shock. Margaret was their lifeline in a seething sea. She felt the weight of their need and trust and squared her shoulders. She would not fail them.

By the time they passed the city center, she had at least two hundred people in her procession. At Harbottle Hill, she looked behind and couldn’t see the end of the line. She was pleased to see that the damage here was less, the big houses looking battered, but still standing. Perhaps the castle was unharmed.

She reached the top of the hill. The gates to the castle were closed. She marched up to them and pounded on the inset door. Almost instantly, the small window was opened. A Crown Shield peered out at her and then behind to the silent mob.

“Open the gates,” Margaret said.

“Against orders, ma’am,” he said, his gaze fastening on the pendant.

“The regent is a traitor. The Jutras are invading. I am Margaret Rampling and I don’t have time for arguments. Open the gates and make room for these people. The castle will shelter them until their homes can be repaired.”

He stared and hope warred with uncertainty in his expression.

“
Now
,” Margaret said and the command in her voice made him jump like someone had stuck him with the business end of a dagger.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and then he stepped back and disappeared from sight. There was a clanking of chains as the portcullis was raised and then the bar slid back and the gates creaked open. Inside a silent group of a dozen Crown Shields waited. Margaret eyed them, wondering if any had been among those who pursued her as she fled the castle less than two sennights ago. They stood uneasily, shifting their feet, darting glances from Margaret to the silent crowd behind her and back.

“Thank you,” she said and walked inside.

Just within the gates was the triangular tower known as the Wall. On it was inscribed the names of all the living Ramplings. Or had been. Paint had been splashed all over it. She smiled tightly. The Wall was protected by majick of the strongest variety. It would take more than hammers and picks to tear it down, though she didn’t doubt the regent had tried. She remembered then that Lucy had told Keros to feed the tree to give it strength. She nodded to herself, adding it to her list of things to do.

She frowned as something flitted across her memory. It was an image—a pearl of silver on silken black. She rubbed the heel of her hand against her left eye, trying to remember. When had she seen it? Then she realized. She hadn’t ever seen it. It had been a dream, one that had come to her while she was unconscious. There was more. Something important. Fragments danced at the edges of her mind, just out of reach.

“Ma’am?”

It was the Crown Shield who’d let her in. She looked at him. “Yes . . . ?”

“Kergins, ma’am. Thackeray Kergins. What . . . what’s happening?”

“In short, Kergins, the regent is a traitor and has been conspiring with the Jutras. They infected our majicars with poisonous majick, which is why many have gone insane.” She spoke loudly and deliberately, her voice carrying widely across the castle grounds and up to the battlements. “Even now, the Jutras are invading. We are now at war. I am assuming the regency until an election can be held.

“Now, find the seneschal and send him to me.” She’d known the previous seneschal, but the regent had replaced most of the castle staff with his own chosen few, all but the Crown Shields. “I want to see your captain as well. Then find as many able bodies as you can and sort them into rescue parties. The delats are already searching. Go down into the city and see what you can do to help anyone who needs it. Survivors should be sent here for shelter.”

Despite his obvious shock at her news, Kergins responded admirably, tossing her a sharp salute before spinning about and shouting orders, sending his people flying on errands. In moments they were gone. Margaret turned to the people behind her. She pointed toward the broad grassy terrace that had been designed as an outer bailey, though it had never had cause to be used as such. But soon it would be with the Jutras coming. “Rest there,” Margaret told them. “As soon as possible, you will have a roof overhead and food to eat.”

As she spoke, her gaze locked on a familiar face. Nicholas. He was leaning against the wall just inside the gates. He carried a delat’s spear and his expression was forbidding, more so because his face was so bruised and swollen. Slowly he straightened and crossed to stand in front of her.

“You just walk away—alone and unarmed—knowing you will be the next to wear the crown of Crosspointe?” he asked, his voice so cold it made her shiver.

“I don’t know anything of the sort,” she retorted. “Besides, I don’t know why you are angry about it. You don’t even want crown rule. It would suit your politics just fine if someone did slit my throat.”

It wasn’t true and she knew it, but she was so full of anger and hatred and resentment about so many things, and she didn’t need him treating her like a Pale-blasted idiot, which was exactly how Ryland treated her. On the other hand, maybe they were both right. She felt helpless and inadequate to lead Crosspointe. It wasn’t what she was meant to do.
Please the gods, let Ryland get here soon! Let one of them take the crown!

Nicholas’s teeth bared in a snarl. He looked around and over his shoulder, then snatched her arm and dragged her toward a small copse of fruit trees surrounding a private courtyard. In the center was a miniature topiary surrounded by white marble benches.