The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe (45 page)

Margaret bucked and hard shudders rolled through her body. Nicholas pressed harder against her. From where he lay, he could see Ellyn’s grubby hand, the fingernails torn and broken. Her skin was scratched and scabbed beneath the gold net of majick that slid over her fingers like a glove and rose up to disappear inside her sleeve. It was brighter now and pulsed softly.

Power swelled in the room and pressed heavily against Nicholas. He breathed raggedly and the sound was echoed by the bleeding men and women circling the table.

“More. I need more,” Ellyn said aloud before returning to her muttered chant.

Soon Nicholas began to hear wimpers as Keros resumed cutting. The power in the room grew thick and dense, like it was filling with molasses. He felt Margaret’s chest jerk beneath him as she struggled for air. He tried to lever himself up and off her. He moved barely an inch.

“Fight,” he whispered. “You have to fight. Don’t let the Jutras win. Don’t let the Jutras beat you. You can do this. Fight.”

He lost track of time. He felt something moving inside her, lumping under her skin. Majick. Ellyn had begun to pant and her hand on Margaret’s forehead was shaking. Then suddenly it firmed and the net of light flared brilliantly and Nicholas shut his eyes against it. Blots of yellow floated across the black of his closed eyelids. The majick in the room impossibly seemed to double or triple, and it felt like he was caught inside a crucible of molten lead. Moments later the feeling faded and he felt Ellyn step back.

“I’ve done all that I can,” she said, her voice thready and weak.

For a single grain there was no sound. Then, “Catch her!” followed by a surge of movement. Nicholas pushed himself up, his gaze fixed on Margaret. She might have been carved from marble. Her eyes were wide open and she stared unblinkingly up at the ceiling.

“Margaret?” he said, stroking a hand over her hair. “Can you hear me?”

No response, not even a flicker of an eyelash. “Margaret!” he said louder.
“Margaret!”
The last was a ringing shout. Recklessly, he yanked her upright. Her head lolled back over his arm and her hands flopped loosely at her sides. He slid his arm around her and held her head up, turning her to face him. “Margaret.
Please
.”

Still nothing. The silence in the room was broken only by the rustle of clothing. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Then suddenly Margaret went rigid in his arms. Her mouth dropped open and she sucked in a sobbing breath and began to cough. She swung her legs over the table and leaned down over her knees, one hand clutching Nicholas for balance. At last she was able to sit up. She brushed the back of her hand across her lips and then her glance took in the room.

“What in the black depths happened here?” she asked, her voice cracking like winter-killed leaves as she turned her head to look at the bloody delats.

Each looked like they’d been through a hail of knives. Cuts spangled their arms, shoulders, and chests and blood drenched their skin and clothing. Each wavered on their feet and watched Margaret like she was the answer to a divine question. Keros held Ellyn on the floor. She’d fainted. If he’d looked gaunt before, now he looked emaciated. Ellyn was worse. Her skin was patched with purple and black bruises and the net of light had vanished like it had never been.

“What’s going on?” Margaret demanded, looking commandingly at Nicholas. Her voice was stronger and she had straightened, her hand dropping from his arm.

“Ellyn healed you.”

When he didn’t explain further, she gestured impatiently toward the delats. “And them? What in the black depths happened to them?”

“Keros cut them to give Ellyn the majick she needed to heal you.”

“What?” Margaret drew back, a look of revulsion and horror washing over her face. She slid to her feet. She staggered and when Nicholas went to steady her, she shoved his hand aside with angry violence.

She examined the delats, her attention hooking on Red. She marched stiff- legged around the table to stop in front of him, her chin jutting. She folded her arms tight across her chest and Nicholas was pretty certain it was to stop herself from hitting him. His lips pulled into a tight smile. She was going to live.

“This is . . . you cracking . . . of all the . . .”

Each time she began her diatribe, she broke off, unable to find words for her anger. She swung around, skewering Keros with a look. “How could you let them do this?”

“It was the only way to save you. Weverton wanted to do it, but they wouldn’t let him,” Keros replied, exhaustion making his voice thick and slow.

“But why?” she asked and her bewilderment sparked an irrational anger in Nicholas that she could not see her own value.

“Why? Because, my dear, they are determined that you will be the next queen of Crosspointe and as such, you are far too valuable to lose. You are the hero of the day. For you they were willing to bleed and to hurt.”

His words mocked her modesty and he saw them strike like blows. Her eyes widened and a flash of hurt crossed her expression before she took herself in hand. Her chin rose and she turned away. Nicholas’s hand clenched.
Dammit!
What in the name of the gods was he saying? Everything inside him was bubbling with elation. She was alive! She was well. He wanted to dance on the rooftops. Why had he said that? Why had he sounded like he didn’t care?

“Is that true?” she asked Red in a hollow whisper.

The delat nodded. “More or less.”

“But that’s ludicrous. Ryland or Vaughn will rule next. They are far more capable than I am.”

“Begging your forgiveness, Princess, but it is not your place to choose,” he said with a slight bow. He winced as he did.

Her lip curled. “I’m not a damned diplomat. I was raised to fight and kill,” she said harshly as she realized her predicament. She could not refuse to be on the ballot. Each and every eligible Rampling had to put their name in the hat. It was their duty.

“It seems your skills have come in handy in recent days,” Nicholas said. “You may be more qualified to rule Crosspointe than you think.”

“No,” she said quietly and started to push her way out of the room. She stopped and looked at Keros and Ellyn. “Are you all right? Is everyone all right?” She glanced at the delats, her gaze skipping past Nicholas as if he wasn’t there.

“Ellyn and I need rest and food,” Keros said. “The delats—”

“We will take care of ourselves. Our wounds appear worse than they are,” Red said, interrupting.

Margaret opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it and nodded. Almost before Nicholas realized what she planned to do, she was out the door and halfway across the dining room. He caught her as she stepped out of the inn into the dawn light. For a moment all both of them could do was stop and stare.

The city was broken. There didn’t seem to be a single building within sight that hadn’t suffered terrible damage. Too many were nothing more than heaps of rubble. Dust and smoke hazed the air and Nicholas wondered how far the damage extended. But he remembered the view from the mountains—the harbor had been decimated by the majicars and so had much of the city. The majickal explosion caused by the defeat of Forcan had only added to the destruction.

Margaret made an animal sound and started to step away. Nicholas snatched her arm. “Where are you going?”

She pulled away and kept walking. She wobbled, stumbling over the loose bricks and masonry littering the inn’s courtyard. “To find Ryland.”

He grabbed her again, pulling her around to face him. He held her firmly. “You fought Forcan and nearly died. You can barely walk. You need food and rest as much or more than Keros and Ellyn.”

“There’s no time.” She stared past him, her eyes wide.

He could feel her muscles tensing. He was still holding her because she was letting him. If she chose to, he was fairly certain she could put him on the ground without a lot of effort, even in her current condition.

“You haven’t heard what Keros and Ellyn have to say about the hoskarna or the Jutras majick,” he argued. “Ryland will want to know all that, won’t he? So come back inside and we’ll find your brother as soon as you’ve heard their report.”

For a moment she didn’t answer. “What if he didn’t survive?” she asked flatly, as if she didn’t care. Except that her body was shaking.

“You mourn him and you keep going,” Nicholas said.

Her gaze rose to his eyes from his throat, where she’d been staring. “My father never meant for me to be queen. The crown was for Vaughn or Ryland. I can’t do it.”

“You can,” he said, his hands moving up to her shoulders, rubbing them softly. Her bones were sharp beneath her shirt. “You can do anything you need to. Your father didn’t know the half of what you are capable of. He couldn’t see the forest for the trees. In many ways he was no doubt brilliant, but in this, he was blind. Believe me, you will do well.”

Her brows rose. “Are you suggesting that a Rampling should sit on the throne again?” she asked. “Haven’t you plotted to be rid of the throne for most of your life?”

“Now is not the time for any of that. Crosspointe is in shambles; Sylmont is destroyed. The Jutras are invading. We are already at war, whether anyone else knows it or not. Crosspointe needs someone on the throne to lead them. They need you—the woman who took a lance and walked out alone to face Forcan.”

“I wasn’t alone,” she protested.

“You didn’t know I would follow and it didn’t matter. You were going whether I came or not, because you are a Rampling, and that’s what Ramplings do—that’s what
you
do. You protect your people no matter the cost or how insanely large the odds might be stacked against you. You won’t be alone. I’ll do whatever you ask, whatever you need. I won’t make that promise to Ryland or Vaughn. Now come back inside. You need to eat and rest. Just for a few hours,” he added when she started to protest.

“Very well,” she said in an aggrieved voice.

He turned, one hand sliding down to take hers. Miraculously, she didn’t shake him off, following him reluctantly as she turned to look again at the carnage that was all that was left of Sylmont. Back inside, solemn eyes watched her from every table. Suddenly someone stepped in front of her. Margaret stopped.

“Your pardon, ma’am,” the burly man said. He touched his forehead and bowed awkwardly. “Your pardon, but I wanted t’ say thank ye for killin’ that thing. It surely would’ve torn us all limb from limb. But ye stood it down, cool as can be. I never seen nothin’ like it. Was a miracle, is what it was.” He bobbed another bow and a slow gabble rose to echo him as he moved away.

Margaret slowly scanned the gathered people, the color running from her cheeks. A hush fell. They were waiting for her to speak. She swallowed and let go of Nicholas’s hand. He curled his fingers into his palms to keep from snatching it back. He could see her weighing her words. Like him, she knew this was a pivotal moment. Did she speak as their queen and start girding them for war? Or did she speak as a princess and promise them help to come? Or did she break and retreat?

The latter choice was more than dangerous and not just because help might never arrive, but because these people were swimming in a sea of fear. She could rally them, unite them, or she could send them scurrying into hiding, each one looking out only after himself and his family. In which case, she would have done as much harm to Crosspointe as if she’d led the Jutras army herself. The people of Crosspointe needed someone to follow
now
—someone they could respect and who they knew would die for them if she had to.

He had no idea which she would choose when she began to speak.

Margaret’s gaze picked across the room. People crammed the tables. Families, grandfathers, and grand-mothers, a mother with a child nursing at her breast, a hard-bitten sailor with hands made hard by years of hauling lines, and so many more. Outside, those who stood in line for their turn at a meal crowded inside. Soon the population of the room had quadrupled and more people were pushing at the doors. Just to see and hear her, she realized.

The enormity of their trust and their hope made her want to dig a hole and hide. Nicholas was wrong. She couldn’t do this; she couldn’t sit on the throne and tie the twisty knots of politics. She worked in the shadows where she didn’t have to be responsible for other people’s lives.

But there was no one else.

Vaughn was clear across Crosspointe and Ryland—she had no idea if he was still alive. But Nicholas was right: Crosspointe needed someone now and she was the only choice. She cleared her throat and the silence was instant.

“I know you have suffered,” she said. “Many of you have lost too much already—your families, your homes, and your businesses. Believe me when I say that I understand that very well. The regent played us all for fools. He has been conspiring with the Jutras, and, my friends, you must know, the Jutras are here in Crosspointe. Their ships have not yet landed, but there is no doubt—we are at war.” She said the last words slowly.

An audible gasp met her words and her audience shrank in on themselves, huddling together as if to stave off a sudden chill.

“But the majicars have turned against us!” wailed a voice from the back. “How can we defend ourselves?”

A clamor rose in response. Margaret swallowed. This was going well. Just wait until they heard the rest. They’d tie a rope to her leg and sink her in Blackwater Bay.

She raised a hand, but the noise continued. A loud thudding broke it apart. She glanced behind her. Red stood to the left, his lance in his hand. He was shirtless and still covered in blood. That, along with the thump of his lance striking the floor, captured the silence again.

Margaret nodded to him and turned back to her audience. Resolve hardened inside her. There was no time for coddling or for painting the truth with pretty colors to make it more tolerable.