The Crimson Crown (44 page)

Karn did what he could. Having recently participated in the sacking of Tamron Court, he ordered his soldiers to show no mercy to the streetrats and thieves they managed to catch. As for destroying their hideouts, well, there wasn’t much left to do in that regard.

The spires of Fellsmarch Castle poked up against the eastern sky, lightly garrisoned yet so far impregnable. Montaigne’s spies had reported that most of the surviving northern mages were assembled in their stronghold on Gray Lady or hiding in their country houses. But the walls of the hold shimmered under a gossamer web of magic, so the northern queen must have at least one mage on hand.

Meanwhile, the mages under Karn’s command could do little in the way of conjury, having few magical tools at their disposal. Some developed mysterious illnesses and took to their beds, unable to cast a single spell.

Karn demanded a meeting with the queen, but was told she was unavailable. They’d met once before, on the border between Tamron and Arden, in the midst of a skirmish. She’d been dressed as a servant, and he’d overlooked her until his king picked her out. She was small and finely made, with skin the color of Bruinswallow ale, startling green eyes, and a stubborn chin.

Fossnacht called her a witch, and favored burning her. He’d gotten in some practice with the mages who’d refused to take the collar and sign on with Montaigne. Truth be told, the fanatical priest made Karn edgy. He liked the flame too much.

Karn’s orders were to carry the queen back to Gerard, alive. Karn disagreed. Much cleaner to wring the girl’s neck and be done with it. A corpse can’t organize a rebellion.

Karn had argued the point, but not for very long. Gerard seemed obsessed with the northern witch. She’d wounded his pride—and the king of Arden meant to make her pay.

Sooner or later, the queen and her defenders would have to give in, of course. But Karn wanted to see it handled before the autumn snows stopped up the passes to the south. He’d lost enough men to the mountain savages on his way in. The northern mages seemed to be in disarray, for now, and he didn’t want to allow them time to regroup and recruit.

Marin Karn had no intention of spending the winter in the witchy north. And so he continued to look for a way to break through.

Raisa opened her tear-swollen eyes to see Magret Gray looming over her. She squeezed them shut again, but not quickly enough.

“They are back, Your Highness,” Magret said, with a heavy sigh.

“Who’s back?” Raisa whispered, through cracked lips. For three days she’d been plagued by vivid fever dreams. It was almost a relief to be awake.

“Captain Byrne and the rest,” Magret said, sitting in the chair next to the bed—the place she’d occupied for most of the last three days. Dog edged in next to her, resting his chin on the coverlet. Magret scratched his head absently.

“The Bayar is like a demon spirit haunting your door. I’ve tried to send him away, but he insists he needs to talk to you. By the Sainted Queen, as if I’d let that one come within a hundred yards of you.”

Good, Raisa thought, closing her eyes.
Good.

“The Princess Mellony is worried sick about you,” Magret said. “She’s spent hours at your bedside. I finally had to warn her away, for fear she’d catch the fever, too.”

“I don’t want to see anyone,” Raisa whispered, without opening her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. You need to talk to them. Ill or not, you are the queen of the realm, and that fiend from the south won’t wait.”

Raisa opened her eyes again, reluctantly. Magret pressed the back of her hand against Raisa’s forehead, and scowled, her lips tight with disapproval, her face haggard with worry and pain. Her nose was ruddy pink, as if she’d been crying.

Raisa’s stomach churned, and her head pounded, feeling too heavy to lift. She’d taken nothing to eat for three days, and had run a high fever for most of that time. Was it possible to die from a broken heart? Up till now, she’d have said that only happened in romances read by the likes of Missy Hakkam.

Love makes you vulnerable, Raisa thought. To pain and loss and maybe fevers, too.

She shifted her hips back until she was in a sitting position, her head braced against the headboard. Magret tidied her hair with cool fingers and handed her a cup of water and willow bark.

“Go easy on that, Your Majesty,” Magret said. “Willow bark can be hard on your stomach.”

Raisa sipped obediently.

“There are no healers in the keep, neither clan nor gifted,” Magret went on. “That bloody Klemath took us all by surprise. The only wizard on the inside is that bloody Bayar.”

Micah.
Micah and his father had murdered Han Alister. Or killed him to prevent his murdering them. A flame kindled in Raisa’s middle, and she took several deep breaths, somehow managing to avoid spewing the willow root she’d just gotten down.

“I don’t want to see him,” Raisa said, in case Magret had forgotten.

“The Bayar has been working with Captain Byrne, General Dunedain, and the others to keep the southerners out,” Magret said grudgingly. “Captain Byrne, he was desperate to smuggle you out somehow before Montaigne’s army came here. The Bayar was keen to help, but with you so sick, we…” Her voice trailed off.

“I’m sorry,” Raisa said, her voice dull with despair. “What a disaster this is.”

Tears pooled in Magret’s eyes, threatening to spill over. She made as if to get to her feet, and Raisa seized hold of her arm.

“Where’s my dagger, Magret?” Raisa said, suddenly desperate to locate it. “The one from Captain Byrne?”

Magret’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Where is it?” Raisa repeated. “I want it.”

Magret gazed at her, long and hard. “About young Alister,” she said finally. “I know that you and he—I know there was something you—” Her voice caught a moment, then she burst out, “No man’s worth killing yourself over, Your Majesty!”

“I’m not going to kill myself,” Raisa said. “Not unless I have no choice. I’m going to keep my dagger with me, just in case—in case the flatlanders get in. I won’t be taken alive.”

Magret searched Raisa’s face. Then she stood and crossed the room to the trunk against the wall. Digging deep, she retrieved the dagger and handed it to Raisa, who slid it under her pillow. Magret dropped a heavy wool shawl onto the bed. “Wrap up snug, Your Majesty. I’ve got the pot on the boil for tea.” She disappeared into the outer chamber.

Momentarily, Raisa wavered, considered conducting this meeting from her bed. Then, with a sigh, she swung her legs over the side and slid to the floor, steadying herself against the high bed until her dizziness passed. Wrapping herself in the shawl, she staggered over to the settee by the fire—where she and Han Alister had once kissed and embraced. She settled into a corner of the couch, drawing a coverlet over her knees. Dog lay down at her feet. Extending her hand, she turned it so the ring on her finger caught the firelight. Moonstones and pearls and amethyst—Han’s gift to Raisa at her coronation. Modeled after Hanalea’s betrothal ring.

Another chill shuddered through her, and she thrust both hands toward the hearth.

The door to the sitting room cracked open a bit, and then all the way, to reveal one person only—Amon Byrne.

“Your Majesty?” he said, looking first at the bed and then around the room.

“Amon. Come and sit down.” Raisa wasn’t sure she’d spoken loudly enough for him to hear.

Amon crossed to the hearth and knelt next to the couch, his expression one of shock and dismay. “Rai,” he said hoarsely, closing his hand over hers. “I had no idea it was this bad.”

Dear. Blunt. Byrne. I must look one step from the graveyard.

“Here,” she said, resting her hand on the seat next to her. “Sit here.”

He settled onto the upholstery, still staring at her. “You need a healer,” he said, swallowing hard. “Somehow, we’ve got to bring one in for you.”

“I’m not sure a healer can help,” Raisa said, leaning her head against his solid shoulder.

“This is about Alister,” Amon said. It wasn’t a question.

Raisa nodded. “It’s not just Alister—it’s everything else, too—but that was the tipping point. I meant what I said in the audience chamber—maybe we don’t deserve to exist as a nation.” She blotted at her eyes with the back of her free hand.

Amon cleared his throat. “I’m not sure how to proceed on that…Alister’s death, I mean. I can’t investigate what really happened while we’re bottled up in here. And Micah—I have to admit he’s been really helpful these past few days. He’s put up magical barriers that allow our soldiers to get some much-needed rest without worrying about a sneak attack.” He paused. “So it may seem like a coldhearted, calculating decision, but I don’t think we can deal with that…that situation until we get out of this mess.” He spoke as if they really would.

“It won’t bring Han back, will it?” Raisa said. “And when it comes to assigning blame, I’ll start with myself. The fact of the matter is, I loved him, and I didn’t want to give him up. And so I put him into an impossible position. There was no way he could succeed. And now he’s dead.”

“Alister made his own decisions,” Amon said. “You didn’t put him there—he did.”

“I should have done the right thing. I knew we didn’t have a future together, and I should have sent him away. Right after he found out who I really was, he was angry enough to go. I should have given him the push he needed.”

“You had no way of knowing what would happen,” Amon said. “And, anyway, this is his home, too. Why would he leave?”

“I could have run away with him,” Raisa went on, to herself as much as to Amon. “We could have left all of this behind.” She waved her hand, taking in castle and queendom. “Looking back, maybe that would’ve been the better decision. I’ve lost everything, anyway.”

She looked up at Amon, focused on him again. “I did the same thing with you. I wanted you, and it didn’t matter if it hurt you, or—or anybody else.”

“I’m eighteen,” Amon said. “I’m old enough to make my own choices, too.”

Raisa shook her head. “It’s my position, though. People can’t say no to me, because I am the queen. And when I’m wrong—” She paused, and then rushed on. “Oh, Amon, I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough to do this.”

Amon reached out hesitantly and stroked her hair. “You can do this,” he said. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

“Even worse, I don’t know
why
I’m doing this,” Raisa said. “If I’m powerless to save the people closest to me, if I can’t keep my allies from each other’s throats, then what good am I? I used to criticize my mother. What made me think I could do a better job?”

Amon thought about this for a time, brow furrowed. Finally, he looked up, his eyes as gray as the ocean in winter. “I think you start with a handful, and you move on from there.”

“What do you mean?”

Amon stood, went to the door, stuck his head out. After a few minutes of muffled conversation, he returned, followed by an entourage of sorts.

First came Cat Tyburn, streetlord and knife fighter turned royal bodyguard, from the Southern Islands. She’d acquired a black eye and a swollen lip since Raisa had last seen her. She plunked down in the space vacated by Amon Byrne and threw her arms around Raisa in a tight embrace. Raisa ended with her face pressed into Cat’s mass of curls, Cat massaging small circles on her back.

“Don’t you worry,” Cat whispered into her ear, her voice low and fierce. “We’ll sort this out, I promise.”

For some reason, this touched Raisa more than anything else could have.

Cat finally released her and perched on the arm of the couch next to Raisa.

She was followed by Mick Bricker and Hallie Talbot, born and bred in the city of Fellsmarch.

Speaker Roff Jemson and Magret Gray entered together and took positions against the wall.

Talia Abbott, the mixed-blood moonspinner, came in with Pearlie Greenholt, the redheaded Ardenine weaponsmaster who’d fallen in love with Talia and returned with her to the Fells. Their blue uniform tunics said they were on duty.

Micah walked in, his black eyes fastening on Raisa, narrowing in pain and dismay as he took in her appearance. Dog growled, deep in his throat, and pressed up against Raisa’s legs.

Bringing up the rear was Char Dunedain, another mixed-blood soldier, commander of what was left of the Fellsian army.

As Dunedain went to shut the door, Reid Nightwalker slipped past her, into the room, to join the others.

They stood in an awkward circle around her, except for Jemson and Magret, who kept their positions along the wall.

“What’s this?” Raisa asked, looking from face to face for clues. “Are we having a meeting?”

“Of sorts,” Amon said.

“There’s others would be here, if they could,” Cat volunteered. “I know Fire Dancer would.” She tilted her head back, sliding a look down her nose at Micah.

“There are other wizards who would be here, if they were free to be,” Micah said.

“And many among the Demonai,” Nightwalker countered, as if not to be outdone.

“There are some on duty on the walls would want to be here, too,” Hallie said. “Many from Ragmarket and Southbridge, too.”

“All right,” Raisa said, made impatient by weariness. “You’re saying that half the queendom would be in this room if they could. And you are all here because…?”

“Some of us don’t get along,” Cat said, looking up at the ceiling.

“We don’t agree on much,” Talia said, in the low rough voice she’d acquired since an assassin cut her throat in front of Raisa’s door.

“And we believe in different things,” Micah added.

“But there’s one thing we all believe in,” Mick said. “You.”

Caught by surprise, Raisa looked up. “Me?”

Mick nodded. “I told you once before that I was proud to fight shoulder to shoulder with you. That still holds—more than ever, with the southerners just outside.”

“I am Ardenine,” Pearlie said, “but this is the first place that I’ve felt at home.” She took Talia’s hand. “I came for love, but I will pick up my weapons and lay down my life for my adopted queen and country.”