The Singer's Crown (41 page)

A stony silence descended, broken only by Melisande's breathing and the unseen child's soft whimper.

Gerrod yanked his arm back, throwing Thomas to the floor and turning away.

Melisande let her arms fall to support herself, and glanced up. Thomas crouched before her, shaking all over.

“Sire?” one of the guards inquired softly, gesturing toward the boy.

Gerrod did not look back. “Throw him in the dungeon. If my daughter wants to teach him, she can do so there.” He pounded down the stairs.

The guards clanked forward, but Melisande rose to her knees and held up her hand to stop them. “We have orders, Your Highness,” one mumbled awkwardly.

“Give me one minute before you obey them.” She shot him a furious glance, daring his approach. While they hesitated, Melisande inched closer to Thomas and gathered him to her chest, stroking his ruffled hair until the trembling subsided.

The guard cleared his throat, and Melisande pulled back, searching the boy's face. She smiled her most glowing smile for him, but the large arms descended to pull him to his feet. Thomas kept looking back until he was out of sight down the stairs.

Melisande sat back, pushing a short clump of hair back under her skewed veil.

“How touching,” Orie murmured.

Tilting her head, Melisande regarded him quietly.

“How long will he last in the dungeon, Melisande?”

“I should have let him die?”

“I'm not saying that.” He put up his hands to deny it, his voice suddenly wavering toward uncertainty as he looked at her. “But the consequences. Gerrod may be angry at you for days. I know you don't want that,” he said soothingly.

“So, better Thomas than me.” She carefully rose to her feet, not bothering to brush the dust from her skirts. “Better Thomas be thrown to the wind so that I can avoid a few days discomfort. I don't know you anymore, Orie. I don't know who you are.”

“Do you think Gerrod won't find ways to punish you? To punish both of us?” He folded his arms, shaking his head. “Maybe it's him you don't know anymore.”

“No. My father has always had these moments, perhaps not so serious, but he did not have the same concerns back then. I was always his favorite child. I'll get silence for three days, then he'll command me out for a ride, and we'll both act as if nothing has happened. In a week or so, I'll convince him that Thomas has learned his lesson. I understand my father, Orie, but you—” She gave an ironic smile. “You reminded me of him, even in your anger. You would get so angry, then come back apologizing, asking for my forgiveness.”

“And it's always so nice to make up, isn't it?” Orie murmured, running a finger along her gown between her breasts.

Melisande shifted subtly back, refusing to be sidetracked. “It was, Orie. But now you brood, or you dismiss me without bothering to get angry. And now this.” She raised her arms to indicate the tower platform. “Where were you when I needed you? You keep watching my father, and you aren't paying attention to me anymore.”

“Oh, no, Melisande.” Creases of worry tracked his forehead. “I love you so much. It's just—your father is so demanding. I need to learn how to live here, with him, how to be a prince. Let me give him some attention now, then I can be a more fitting husband to you. The Lady knows you deserve so much more than I give you.”

He wrapped his arms around her, feeling her heat and her breath on his cheek. Looking over her shoulder, Orie lost his smile as the first star gleamed down on the embers of Wolfram's fire.

ORIE PACED
the length of the paved yard and returned to where Fionvar stood. All around them, servants hurried with benches and brooms, readying the garden for the princess. “I cannot believe he was so arrogant as to insist upon changing the meeting place,” Orie grumbled. “I don't like it. And why did she agree? This is her palace, she can choose where or even if she will meet with him.”

Spreading his arms, Fionvar took in the fruit trees and fragrant roses. “Melisande likes gardens. If it had been left to her, she might have suggested this herself.”

“She doesn't know the first thing about statesmanship. She should have asked me, or Gerrod, at the least, before she agreed to such a change.”

Now Fionvar faced his brother, his humor gone. “I think the king knows precisely why this particular delegation will not enter the throne room.”

Orie eyed him quietly. “Are you with me or with my enemy?”

“Why do you consider him an enemy?”

“For Wolfram's sake,” he replied, “and for Melisande's. For his own sake, if it comes to that. He can't have forgotten my men would have killed him that night. He seemed more important then.” Orie laughed. “Funny, that he seemed more important when he was just a eunuch. I wonder how much he's changed. He was such a pathetic creature before.”

Fionvar stared rigidly at a rosebud bobbing in the wind. “If he is of so little consequence to you, why call him your enemy? What are you afraid of ?”

Orie snorted. “Nothing he can do, I assure you,” he snapped. “He is no match for me.” Orie's face shifted briefly into a smooth mask, then he shuddered violently and clutched at Fionvar's arm. His eyes were suddenly wild and dark.

“What's the matter? Orie?” Instinctively, he reached out to steady his brother and thought of what the wizard had told him of madness. “Orie, what's wrong?”

“Nothing,” Orie insisted, though his teeth chattered. He clamped his jaw shut and shook off Fionvar's arm and straightened. “Thank you, I am fine.”

“That's nonsense, Orie. Great Goddess, everyone can see that you are not well.”

Shaking his head, Orie said, “I have been…different since the battle. Nine Stars seems loath to speak to me, so I must figure it out for myself. I just need a few more nights' study in my workroom, Fion, and I'll understand what's happened.”

Fionvar blanched at the thought of returning to that room, witnessing his brother's bloody experiments. “Perhaps you just need sleep. Lady knows I do.”

Orie let out a gale of laughter and clapped Fionvar on the shoulder. “I am close to knowing it all, brother, I feel it. All we need do is—but here comes my wife!” He took a few quick steps away to hail Melisande with a wide grin. “Your father suggested attractive clothing, Melisande, but you are positively radiant!”

Clad in a well-fit gown of russet silks, Melisande approached and took his hands in hers, offering a tiny smile in return. Her grip was strong and damp with sweat.

“Darling, there's no need to be nervous.” Orie rubbed her hands gently.

She ducked her head. “I know I must get used to these things, but I feel so anxious, Orie. It's not as if King Rhys is the first I've ever met.”

“Maybe so, but we are asking you to defuse a difficult situation.” Orie stroked her cheek with thumb. “You stand between Gerrod and this person he despises, yet you must receive this other king with grace and honor. It cannot be easy for you.”

Melisande nodded and turned to smile at Fionvar. “At least you will be with me, and all of my ladies, so I shall not feel alone.”

“Your Highness is both brave and strong. I have no doubt you will be perfect,” Fionvar told her, mustering himself to sincerity. How would she respond to seeing Kattanan again, and under such circumstances? She little knew what a trial she faced.

Orie flicked him a glance. “I will be watching at a distance, as well. If you feel the need to break off the meeting, of course you may. If he offends you, simply stand and raise your goblet, and I will be at your side. You are a vision, my love,” Orie told her, “every inch the queen you will be.”

She flushed a pretty pink. “I hope to be much more attractive by then.”

“A difficult goal, Melisande, considering how beautiful you already are.” Orie pulled her close and nuzzled against her neck.

Fionvar contemplated the flowers. A sudden blast of horns brought his head up instantly, and he looked again to his brother. “The delegation has arrived.”

Orie nodded once, releasing Melisande, who had lost her color. Orie murmured, “We shall be in that tower, should you need us. Just raise your goblet.”

Smoothing her skirts, Melisande stepped back. “I know. I doubt I shall have need, though. I am, after all, a daughter of kings.” She raised her head and smiled.

“Remember that,” Orie admonished her, “whatever this king seems to be, you are at least as much, and more.” He winked at Fionvar as he turned to go.

Sighing, Fionvar watched his brother's retreating figure, then faced the princess, offering his arm. “May I escort you to your throne, Your Highness?”

“Indeed you may.” She placed a delicate hand upon his arm and let him lead her to the hastily prepared court. A long purple carpet marked the path from the palace gate, stretching between rows of benches for the courtiers and King Rhys's followers. At the head of the carpet stood Melisande's tall throne, with the gilded device of the heir of Bernholt. Her ladies, in all their finery, assembled behind like an animated bouquet with a backdrop of the shiny green leaves of orange trees. Off to the right, the marble spire of the garden chapel gleamed in the sunlight, a brilliant contrast to the red walls of the palace, especially now that the stain of the funeral smoke marred the stonework. Guardsmen formed a perimeter around the meeting place, sunlight limning their helmets and breastplates where they stood amongst the flower beds. From farther into the gardens, the caged birds' subdued chatter drifted into the day, along with the trickle of the fountains. As Melisande settled in her throne, Fionvar crossed to stand behind her. The sound of marching feet approached from the courtyard, growing louder.

The herald stepped forward, made a brief bow, and announced, “Rhys yfCaitrin of the House of Rinvien, duAlyn of the House of Strel Maria, by grace of Finistrel, King of Lochalyn and all of her territories.”

Fionvar straightened up as his king entered the garden.

Twelve knights led the procession, gracefully stepping to the sides, to form an aisle for the delegation. Jordan, clad again in red, and Lyssa, in gleaming chain mail with her war hammer at her side, marched along the carpet, then separated at its head, standing at attention. Two more guards, both huge and fierce, followed behind their king, dropping to one knee when they reached the end of the seating. The king himself walked tall, his red shirt of mourning softened by the cream velvet doublet and trailing cloak embroidered with leaves and crowns. Upon his head, the crown of his parents shone again in the sun, capping his golden curls. He swept into a low bow as he passed between the last benches, then another when he stood just a few feet short of Melisande's throne.

The princess rose to return his courtesy. As the king straightened and stood before her, she froze, lips parted, and all of her grand words of greeting died away.

Kattanan, eyes at first shining, then anxious, searched her face. Her eyebrows arched with a tiny shake of the head, then furrowed down again as she pursed her lips. “Good King Rhys,” she began, then faltered. Color flared into her cheeks, and her glance shot toward the tower, then returned.

“Your Royal Highness,” Kattanan said, giving her a moment to absorb the sound of his new voice. He continued more softly, “You do me great honor in once again welcoming me before you. The court of Bernholt is blessed by the Lady for a palace so grand, a day so bright, and a princess so fair.”

The dark crease had returned to her brow, and Melisande gestured for a goblet with a tiny motion of one hand. “Good King Rhys,” she said, her voice strong, near snapping with fire, “I regret that my father and husband could not be here, but I do hope that we may become acquainted so that our two kingdoms will stand as allies for many years to come.” She said the practiced words with a rising edge of bitterness.

A page scurried up, bobbed a tiny bow, and offered the bejeweled goblet. Kattanan, hopeful, stared down at the boy but saw it was not Thomas, and let his gaze return to the princess. Melisande, too, let her glance slip to the boy, then back to the man before her. Their eyes met, hers green and flashing, his honey-hazel, warm and sad. Melisande began to raise her goblet, took a sip, then lowered it again slowly.

“That is my hope as well, Your Highness,” Kattanan said. He felt his hands tremble ever so slightly and tucked them behind him before continuing carefully. “However, there is a history between your kingdom and mine that must be resolved before we can make such alliance.”

At a word from Melisande, another throne—not so grand as her own, but still finely carved and gilded—was brought for the king, and she paused a moment in deference to his crown before likewise seating herself. Kattanan's retainers stood at ease as he began his story, the story of his parents' betrayal, and his own. The courtiers leaned a little closer, but Kattanan spoke only to the princess, watching her every gesture for a sign from her. All he saw was coldness and anger suppressed behind her royal air.

For a moment, Kattanan's gaze rested upon Fionvar, who stood straight and quiet behind Melisande. His eyes gleamed, and the set of his shoulders revealed his pride, knowing that he had been among those to right the old injustice.

“The friend of my uncle,” Kattanan began again, stronger now, “did indeed take me to the temple, but he had compassion for me still—” Here the king's voice wavered a little, and he held his goblet a little tighter. “Rather than bring the surgeons, he brought a wizard who disguised me so that I could hide among the boys of the monastery and be taken for one of the Verge duStrel, the Virgins of the Goddess, who sing for the glory of Finistrel and no other lady. He gave me a new name, and what I knew of my former life became ever more distant. I became a singer in truth.” Briefly he told the events leading up to the surrender of the city, and finished by saying, “So my mother and brothers were finally avenged.” He took a long swallow of wine and let his goblet be refilled.

Melisande nodded, absorbing what he had said. She suddenly recalled her childish fascination with the traitor-queen, and how her singer had lost his light whenever she spoke of it. “What has become of the Usurper, Your Majesty?” The title felt strange upon her lips.

“He will undergo the trial of lords, Your Highness. When he is found guilty, he will be put to death as mercifully as may be.”

“Mercifully?” For a moment, she imagined how it must have been for him, how his life might have been so very different. “After all that you have just told us?”

“My mother was right; his love for me was his undoing. And I had had enough of killing, Your Highness. I have been shown better examples of nobility.” He glanced to her left, where her brother's throne would once have stood.

Melisande's cheeks reddened. “So there is business yet undone in your own kingdom. May I ask Your Majesty why you have come all this way when your own ascension is less than secure?”

Kattanan bristled at the change in her. “I would not say that my crown is not secure, Your Highness. But I had ties of friendship before I ever was a prince again, and I felt it right to do them honor. I came to speak the truth about your brother, Prince Wolfram.”

Instantly, she held up a hand to stop him, her voice cracking even as her gaze turned hard. “Now is not the time.”

Meeting her fiery gaze, Kattanan allowed a slight nod.

“I will need to think on all you have said, King Rhys,” she said, trying to reconcile her memories with the moment. “If you wish, I shall have a meal laid for you and your retainers here, and you may enjoy the beauty of these gardens.”

“I shall indeed enjoy them, Your Highness,” he replied. They both rose, Kattanan offering a bow and Melisande a slight curtsy before she made her way down the purple carpet. Her first steps seemed unsteady, but she stood a little straighter as her ladies followed her out. Fionvar made a little bow to Kattanan, then hurried to follow the princess. Slowly, the benches emptied, with many a gaze still turned toward the new king, until the party from Lochalyn were left alone with a few guards and servants to lay tables for the meal.

Kattanan turned to Jordan. “So what do you think?”

“You told your tale well, Kat; it remains to be seen what they will make of it.”

“That isn't what I meant,” Kattanan murmured. “What about the princess?”

“She is beautiful, proud, and angry, but she has not dismissed us right away, so that is a hopeful sign.” Jordan shrugged, then eyed the servants bringing out laden platters. “Which one of us should taste your food?”

Kattanan let out a wounded sigh. “A hopeful sign indeed. If that's how you express your hope, then I tremble to see your warning.”

 

“YOU KNEW!”
Melisande shouted the moment the door had closed behind her. “All of you! And yet you saw fit to keep it from me. Why?” She glared first at her husband, then her father, then whirled to stare at Fionvar, and he thought her gaze held him an instant longer. “Great Goddess, I felt like a fool.” She flung up her hands.

The three men stood quietly, only Fionvar letting his shoulders droop in mute acknowledgment. It was certainly not his place to answer her.

“Melisande, how could we explain—” Orie began patiently, but Gerrod overrode his calm rebuttal by announcing, “We needed to gauge his reactions, Melisande. How could we watch his honest response if he wasn't to see any of your emotions? As it was, you've not given us much to work with.”