The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe (40 page)

“Did you have any idea?” Margaret asked him.

There was no inflection in her voice—no accusation that he’d been withholding information. But he felt it all the same. “No,” he said. “Did you?”

She shook her head. “My entire life has been devoted to searching out secrets for my father. I was a dog digging for bones and I was very good at it. Or so I thought. But it appears I was mistaken.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “What else did we miss?”

The delats closest to them had called a warning to the others around the circle and many now turned the points of their weapons toward Margaret and Nicholas. The rest continued to vigilantly keep watch for trouble around the rest of the perimeter. The two riders rode closer and suddenly Nicholas became aware of green-robed archers on the crown of the hill. Like their brethren below, they held themselves ready, arrows nocked and fingers on the strings, ready to pull back and loose a rain of death. He didn’t ask Margaret if she’d seen them. She was too good not to.

She had once again assumed the mask of her court self, though there was nothing pliant or docile about her. She radiated authority and competence. When she spoke, her voice rang with confidence. It was, in a word, majestic, and it demanded obedience.

“I am Margaret Rampling. Can you tell me what happened here?”

The three delats closest to them looked at one another, clearly nonplussed. The middle one looked back at Margaret and Nicholas. He was tall with close-cut gray hair. His face was long and his eyes were hard.

“The majicars attacked all over the city.”

He shook his head, his expression turning childishly bewildered and Nicholas understood his feelings. Majicars were Crosspointe’s special guardians and benefactors. For them to turn suddenly on their own people was beyond comprehension if one didn’t know the truth of their insanity.

“They was fighting each other and they didn’t care what or whoever got in the way.”

“Regent did nothing,” the stout man with the sword beside him said. “Ran off with his tail between his legs.”

“That was before it began,” the first delat ad monished.

The other man spit on the ground, his mouth twisting in disgust. “Hasn’t come back, though, has he?”

“The regent has been removed from office,” Margaret declared. “I am here to assume his duties until such a time as my brother, Prelate Ryland, can take over and an election can be held.”

An audible gasp rose sharply from everyone gathered. For a moment no one spoke. Then a woman’s voice rose sharp and spiteful.

“You talk just fine, Princess. But I seen you. Yer hands be white and soft as roses and ain’t never touched real work in yer whole life. Yer a pretty thing, but I don’t see as how you can help us.”

There were loud sounds of agreement. Nicholas clenched his teeth. If only they knew what Margaret really was made of—stone and iron. The rest was all illusion of her own making.

Margaret raised her chin, waiting for the din to die down, as the woman’s sentiments were echoed across the crowd. A swell of murmurs rose as Margaret’s news spread around the broad mound as if carried by a hot wind. Men and women came striding around to crowd in behind the line of delats. There were hundreds of them. They were frightened and angry and clearly Margaret was not the hero they’d been looking for. Nicholas wasn’t sure anything but an army would have satisfied them, but certainly a Rampling princess whose only claim to fame was her prim beauty and elegant parties was no prize.

She made no move to quiet them, sitting imperviously astride her gelding as the rain continued to fall in a steady curtain, letting the waves of their ire wash around her. At last the din began to subside and a tense silence settled over the mob.

“I understand your doubts,” she said, her voice ringing loudly so that everyone could hear. Margaret spoke calmly and with the same inexorable authority that had always infused every word her father spoke. It was regal and compelling; it made everyone bend to listen. Nicholas had always suspected it was a trick of majick, but it appeared to be a family trait. “I, too, would prefer that one of my brothers was here to lead you. They are,
perhaps
, better suited for battle.”

As she spoke, her hand dropped slowly to the dagger in her belt. Ellyn had given it to her to replace those the Jutras priests had taken. Margaret flipped away the leather loop that kept it from accidentally sliding from its sheath and drew the blade. She held it close against her thigh. Nicholas doubted anyone had paid attention to the quiet, deft movement.

“But Crosspointe is threatened and my brothers are not here. I am.” She smiled, a cool, dangerous expression. “And like all Ramplings, I may be more than I seem.”

She lifted the dagger so that everyone could see it. Then she spun it in her hand so fast it looked like a shining wheel. In one quick movement, she caught the blade in her fingers and threw it. It lodged in the trunk of a tree and quivered there.

There were surprised sounds from those who were close enough to see and a murmuring wave rippled back through the rest of the throng. Nicholas suppressed a grin. Let them chew on that. Margaret turned her head and nodded to him. Time to get down to business and give them something else to worry about besides her worthiness to lead.

He legged his horse closer so that he was beside her. “I am Nicholas Weverton,” he said loudly. “What Princess Margaret has told you is true. We discovered the regent is a traitor.”

The stocky man delat broke in. “Thought you hated each other—the Ramplings and the Wevertons.”

Before Nicholas could answer, Margaret turned an icy stare on the man. He wilted, his eyes dropping and his shoulders slumping. Nicholas watched in wonder. Had her father even known what she was capable of? Had anybody?

When she answered the delat’s question, Margaret’s words rang out for all to hear. “Whatever may have been said in past disagreements, Nicholas and I stand shoulder to shoulder in complete unity now. Crosspointe is in danger and we must defend it. All of us together. There is no more room for petty squabbling and personal feuds. If we do not unite as one, if we do not fight together, then we will be scooped up by the Jutras to become their slaves.”

It was as much a command and a call to arms as a declaration. It seemed to have the intended effect. In the silence, bodies straightened and shoulders firmed, even as expressions set with fear.

Margaret continued. “You cannot hide here within the arms of the Mother goddess. You must prepare for war. You must pick up your knives, your swords, your boat hooks, your rolling pins, hoes, forks, and bricks—whatever weapons you can put to hand.” She paused, her jaw knotting. “The Jutras have come and they are among us.”

That was met with an explosive gabble of voices. Nicholas held up his hand and let out a piercing whistle. It did little to cut through the noise, but those before him grabbed the arms of their fellows and slowly a jittery silence fell again, every eye fixed on Margaret and Nicholas.

“The regent has been collaborating with the Jutras.” He said it baldly, and even as he did, he wondered if Margaret had meant to keep it a secret. It was the sort of thing that could stir the country into a panic. But then so could the majicar attacks. It was far too late to pretend. Secrecy would undermine Margaret’s fragile beginnings of control and people needed to understand the danger was immediate. They needed to be frightened into uniting into an army, as ragtag as that army might be.

“The Jutras have poisoned our majicars and it has driven them mad,” Margaret said, picking up the story without pause. “It
is
possible to cure them, but
they are not responsible
for what they have done. It was the regent and the Jutras.”

The aura of authority that she’d pull around herself made it hard to doubt her. She looked down at the delats before them. “We would speak to the Naladei and the Kalimei. They must hear the news that we bring.”

They were the light and dark priestesses of Chayos and wielded a power entirely unlike that of majicars. Nicholas felt a sudden surge of hope. Perhaps the priestesses could help against the Jutras wizards. But the gray-haired delat who’d first spoken to them shook his head, his long face grave. “They have set us to stand guard and retreated to the heart of the Maida. No one may enter.”

Just then an eerie cry wailed across the city. It raised gooseflesh all over Nicholas’s body and sent a jolt of fear through to the core of him. He clamped his legs tight as his bay reared and neighed. The sound continued almost unbearably, worming down deep and stirring up a whirl-wind of terror inside him. Nicholas wanted to cover his ears. He held his gelding under a tight rein as the animal spun and fought to bolt. Margaret’s gray threw up its head and bucked. Margaret went flying and Nicholas’s heart leaped into his throat. But somehow she flipped herself and landed on her feet. Her horse galloped away.

The sound faded into a screech like the sound of tearing metal.

“What in the black depths was that?” someone asked. Some people were on their knees, others huddled against each other. A few lay on the ground.

Margaret’s face was white. She exchanged a look with Nicholas. Forcan—the hound of Uniat. It could be nothing else.

She pushed the hair from her face and her hands shook. She dropped them quickly to her sides, firming her shoulders. She looked at the gray-haired delat.

“Is it safe inside the barrier?” she asked, pointing at the green shield.

His cheek twitched. “From majicar attacks.” His lips pressed tight for a moment and he swallowed hard. “That’s something else, isn’t it?”

Margaret nodded, then looked at Nicholas. “It will come here. The majick of the Maida will draw it like a meaty bone.”

He grimaced agreement, his heart still thundering with terror. He didn’t trust himself to speak without his voice breaking. He breathed slowly. He’d never in his life let fear get the best of him. He gathered it and pushed it off like a wet cloak. It fell away and he pulled himself together with cold resolve.

By the time he had, Margaret had turned back to the delat. “Is one of you in charge?”

The gray-haired delat’s twist of the lips might have been a smile. “At your service, Princess.”

“What do I call you?”

“Red will do.”

“Red?”

He touched his fingers to his gray hair. “Once it was quite appropriate, I assure you.”

“Very well, Red. Several days ago, two Jutras wizard priests conducted a spell. It involved summoning a creature called Forcan, the hound of Uniat—the pet of one of the Jutras gods.”

She spoke rapidly and low. His expression went first slack, then he gathered himself, his hand gripping his spear with white knuckles.

“I believe that sound was this beast and I believe it is coming here. You need to get these people away from here quickly and prepare to fight.”

Before he could answer, the howl came again. It was impossibly closer, as if the beast had crossed half the city in the space of a few grains. The sound coiled and curled through the gray afternoon. Nicholas’s horse reared and nearly toppled over backward. Nicholas threw himself forward against the animal’s neck and the gelding dropped to the ground and bolted. Nicholas yanked back hard, but the bay had the bit in his teeth. Bracing himself against the stirrups, he dropped the right rein and pulled on the left with both hands. He hauled the horse’s nose around until it nearly touched his shoulder. The bay turned, his speed dropping to a canter and then a trot as Nicholas heaved harder.

At last the animal came to a standstill. His ribs bellowed and foam gathered around his mouth. His eyes were ringed white with fear and he shuffled and pranced, every muscle twitching with fright. The sound of the howl was fading, but as soon as Nicholas started to loosen the rein, the gelding started to leap away.

Nicholas glanced back over his shoulder at the Maida. The horse wasn’t going back there. Still holding the animal tightly, Nicholas swung to the ground. Instantly the bay pulled back to the end of the rein, snorting. He gave a hard yank and pulled the rain-slicked strap from Nicholas’s hand. A moment later he was galloping away into the hills.

Nicholas turned and broke into a run.

Back at the Maida, he found everyone cowering against the ground. Some were puking and there was a strong smell of piss and shit. A few were clawing their way over their companions, trying to flee. Even some of the delats had fallen. Margaret still stood, her feet braced, a look of fury on her face. She glanced at Nicholas as he rejoined her. A flicker of surprise swept over her expression as if she hadn’t thought he would return.

“They aren’t going to be able to run. That thing is using fear against them. Every time he howls, they fall apart.”

Red was leaning heavily against his spear, his face gray, his lips compressed in a white line. His eyes were squeezed shut and he was panting like he’d been running.

“Why aren’t you scared?” Nicholas asked. The fear had rolled up on him, but his battle with the gelding had distracted him enough to keep it from disabling him. All the same, his knees still trembled and a feral part of his mind was screaming at him to run.

“What could it do to me that they didn’t already do?”

“It could kill you,” Nicholas said, the thought chopping through his fear like a sword. He couldn’t lose her.
She’s not yours to lose
, a niggling voice in his head pointed out. His hands tightened into fists and his jaw knotted. But she was. He’d convince her somehow.

She shrugged. “I can live with death,” she said and the corner of her mouth quirked up at the irony. “Besides, I have no intention of letting that cracking dog chew me up again. What about you? You don’t seem quite as affected as they are.” She waved at the people inside the Maida’s green barrier.

“They tell me I’m a coldhearted bastard,” he said. “It looks like they might be right.”