The Singer's Crown (22 page)

“The people who made these particular maps were aided by the same wizard.” He pointed out the scribes' signs in the corner. “So the same wizard looked at the same river and saw two different things.”

Rolf yawned himself, and shrugged. “A line in the wrong direction, Highness. It's been a long night, Highness, if ye could be more plain?”

Wolfram shuffled out the parchment he had been working on, a very thin, translucent skin. It bore only a single crooked line, with the capitals marked on either side. Again he traced it, but this line split into two and rejoined a short distance down. “This is what happens when these two borders are brought together. The lines are very accurate, to a point, here. Then this split occurs, and they come back together again. An island, Rolf, one that does not exist on any map.”

“What makes you believe it exists at all? Surely someone would have noticed before now; meaning no disrespect, Your Highness.”

“Why look at all? If I walk the Bernholt side of the river, I see the bend exactly as drawn here, assuming this other branch is concealed, somehow. Someone on the Lochalyn side would see it just as it is drawn on that map.”

“What about riverboats?”

“A man on a river doesn't use the maps at all, he just follows the river and gets out once he reaches his destination. I'm not saying something like this would be easy to do, but all it takes are a few itinerant cartographers selling new maps to replace the old.”

“A mapmakers' conspiracy, Highness?” Rolf raised his shaggy eyebrows.

“Just so.” Wolfram grinned, despite the dark circles under his eyes and the edge of a white bandage emerging from his collar. “Wider than that, I shouldn't wonder. Once my father is well enough to take over at court, I'll go off quietly and investigate.”

“Not alone, Highness.”

“No, Rolf, of course not. I don't think you would stay behind even if I ordered it.”

“Not after the past few days, I wouldn't. They were spotted last night downriver a piece, but men and dogs together couldn't find them, Your Highness. They got tools from a blacksmith and had some sort of scuffle. By now, they're well on their way.”

“For Jordan, I'm glad; as to the wizard”—Wolfram sighed—“there are too many questions left unanswered, but chances are they never will be. Will you join me to break the fast? I have an early court today.”

“Far be it from me to advise the prince,” Rolf began gruffly, “but perhaps Yer Highness could find time for a little sleep before the Goddess Walks again, eh?”

“I wish I could, Rolf.” Wolfram rolled up his river tracing, leaving the others for the librarian to reorganize. “Even when I sleep, I feel as if I've lain awake all night.”

Before the other could answer, boots tramped outside, and they went to the door to find an escort of soldiers awaiting them. “Your Highness,” the prince's squire began with a bow, “I trust you are ready to greet your supplicants.”

Wolfram frowned. “I haven't eaten, and I need to change. I'll need some time.”

“His Royal Majesty has been reviewing the records from the time of his illness, and he feels rescheduling may be in order, Your Highness.”

“Right now?”

The squire stared straight ahead as the guards shifted behind him.

“Very well.” Wolfram addressed the honor guard. “Whichever of you has seniority may be dismissed so this man may attend me at court.”

They looked at Rolf as if he had turned blue, and the squire's frown deepened. “He's not attired for royal court, Your Highness.”

“Neither am I. Will you wait while we prepare ourselves?” He drew himself up and straightened his rumpled tunic.

The squire made a sign, and one of the guards saluted and left, making a place for Rolf at the front of the pairings. He replaced his helm and adjusted his shield, then flicked a glance to the man beside him. “Aelfwin, ye've got the wrong shield,” he whispered. “That's the king's guard arms, not the prince's.”

The other looked at him sharply. “Mind us and watch yer own manners, Rolf.” They looked ahead again as the squire took the lead and called them to order. Wolfram trailed along, smoothing his garments as best he could, trying to ignore Thomas's anxious glances. “Just a schedule change, Tom, not to worry.” He tried a shaky smile, then turned his attention to the stairs as they descended to the Great Hall. Here, rather than turn aside for the smaller audience chamber, they proceeded in and split apart to let the prince pass. Only the king's large throne sat the dais, empty, and Wolfram turned back with a weak smile to the assembled people. “Someone has forgotten my chair. Thomas, can you find me something to sit on?”

The boy slipped off to the side and disappeared behind the line of guards. Another lad came up with a stool. “All I could find, Highness,” the boy murmured, not looking up.

“This will do for now. Send Thomas back, would you?” He moved the stool to his accustomed position and nodded to the herald to call in the first business. A familiar merchant approached, bowing low, and knelt before the prince. “Greetings! Have you completed the task I asked?”

“I have, Highness.” The man unrolled a parchment and offered it up. “This is the map of the tunnels we have found thus far. Some do not lead immediately to the river, as you can see, and these are still being explored, but have little relevance for our purposes. Others come so far as the guest wing.” The man backed off a little, still beaming. “I am pleased to be able to deliver the map to Your Highness with my own hands.”

Wolfram perused it. “When will the construction be finished?”

“Ah, the best part. We have a small structure already erected, and plans for a larger dock alongside. Several boats are tied there awaiting your pleasure, Your Highness. It would be most gracious if you could attend a ceremony to open the dock, perhaps when the first load of goods is delivered here?”

“An excellent suggestion. I shall confer with my clerks to find a good time.” The merchant bowed out of court, accompanied by a few servants of his own. Wolfram looked to the herald. “The next business?”

“Is brought by me,” a bold voice announced from behind.

Astonished, the prince sprang to his feet and bowed low. A light crossed his features and a smile twitched the corners of his mouth as he looked up the steps at his father. “Welcome, Sire. I am glad to see you about again.”

The king, tall and grave in royal velvets, stared back at his son. The state crown gleamed on his head, and another gleam was in his eyes. Murmurs and rustling filled the room as all the attendants rose and bowed to their king. Gerrod, leaning on a cane, remarked, “You did not use my throne.”

“Of course not, Father. Allow me to formally return to you your court.”

“So generous of you,” the king boomed. “Despite your efforts, I am able, and I am taking my court along with my crown.”

Wolfram's jaw dropped as he froze in his father's glare.

“The very picture of astonishment. Have you studied playacting, then, as well?” He tore his gaze from the prince and regarded the lords and ladies who still hovered awkwardly without taking their seats. “Hear you this: that this man”—he thrust a sharp finger at Wolfram—“has conspired with wizards to cause his king illness; that, when it seemed this plot might be revealed, he allowed his king to be healed to make himself out as a savior despite the fact that the wizard was in attendance to cause relapse; that he further conspired to allow the escape of these accomplices by contriving to be taken hostage; that he dared subsequently accuse an earl loyal to our realm of conspiracy against us; that when he held power, he did all he could to undermine his king's authority and supplant it with his own. There is a name for such a beast as this!” The king raised his arm, and the answer was called out by the guards who held every entry. “A traitor, Sire!” Gerrod whirled back to face down his son.

Still agape, the prince stumbled back the few steps to the floor, shaking his head. “Father, no,” he gasped, “this is not true!”

“I do not hear the voice of traitors. From this day forth, I have no son, nor ever have. This creature shall be termed the Traitor!” King Gerrod thundered, raising his arm again. Wolfram flinched away, as noise echoed from the galleries. Archers bearing the king's device appeared on all sides.

“Father!” he cried again, but the king's face was raised to the men above. “A cask of gold to him who lands the first arrow, and two for the shot that kills!” With a whirl of velvet, the king flung himself into his throne, a fierce grin upon his face.

The first arrows, hastily aimed, skittered around Wolfram as he spun on his heel, running for the great doors. He screamed, and his body slammed against the marble floor, pain streaking from his shoulder. A cheer came from the archers. Shrieks and a bellow sounded behind him as another point gashed his thigh.

A metal-clad arm swooped from the air and hauled him up. Arrows pinged from an upraised shield. The arm roughly clutched him to a hard breast, and the flight began again headlong. Pain-hazed eyes could barely make out the floor, and the legs of soldiers arrayed across the entrance, sword tips hovering.

Rolf did not slow down. Bellowing, he shifted the shield before them and smashed through the ranks, barreling into the door beyond. It burst open, and the man stumbled into the light, clinging tight to his precious burden.

“Guest quarters,” Wolfram mumbled, struggling to get his feet under him. “The right, second—” His thin voice failed, but Rolf flung aside his shield, gathering the prince in both arms, and crashed his shoulder through that door as well, finding another courtyard and a stair.

“Which way?” he howled.

“Down,” came the weak reply, and down they went, streaking across landings and careering around corners, the guard's legs pounding. At his shouts, maids leapt aside, servants pressed themselves to the walls until there was no one to warn, and the passages grew dank, echoing their passing to the guards in noisy pursuit. Rolf reached a cavern, open to the river, and looked wildly around. Stumbling across, he knocked a workman from the new dock. He laid the prince in the bottom of the nearest boat, then sprang aboard himself, hacking all the moorings he could reach, and lastly, their own. The first archer reached the dock as the renegades sped into open water, escorted by the empty boats.

Rolf, kneeling over Wolfram's still form, paid no heed to the arrows splashing behind. The shaft that held his eyes was embedded in the prince's left shoulder, just at the base of his neck. Tearing off his gauntlet, he clamped a hand against the flesh, cursing the blood that would not stop. He jerked off his helmet and flung it into the bow of the boat. “Bury you, Gerrod!” Rolf screamed into the wind. “Bury you in stone!”

WHEN THE
rap at the door grew more insistent, Kattanan pushed aside his tray with a sigh. “Who is it?”

“Just me,” called Brianna's voice. “May I come in?”

“Please.” He pulled his warm robe a little closer, and sipped at his goblet.

The lady curtsied as she entered along with a maid. “I'm glad you're eating.”

He looked down. “I just wasn't feeling well that day.”

“Grandmother has said you may come to court today, if you are up to it.”

“It will be a relief to be let out of my room, even for that.” He rose and went to the wardrobe for some kingly attire.

“We don't want to lose our king so soon after finding him.”

“I fainted, that's all.” Kattanan spent a long moment inspecting his clothes. “Have you come just to check on me?”

“Not at all. The lord Fionvar will be pleased to see you on your feet.”

Kattanan snorted. “I'm not so sure I will be pleased to see him.”

Brianna walked up beside him, and murmured, “He is a good man, and he does want you to succeed. He just…”

“He just doesn't think I will, and I agree.”

She shot him a worried look and moved away. “He rode in this morning, Your Majesty, with tidings from his brother, I hear. He'll be reporting at court.”

Dropping the clothes on his bed, Kattanan nodded. “I don't know why we hold court every day only to hear there is no new business.”

Brianna commented, “I suppose it is to maintain the air of a normal kingdom.”

“What about any of this shall I consider ‘normal'?”

“You'll get used to it; besides, the waiting will be over soon.”

“Then we shall leave what I'm supposed to get used to and go into battle. That is not something I look forward to.”

“But you have not been anticipating that day for nearly fourteen years.” She slipped out the door to let him dress. A moment later, garbed in his royal colors, Kattanan followed. The duchess stood there, as expected, along with his guard. She smiled. “The captain of the guard has sent word that he will be late, but bringing something worth our wait. I am glad that Your Majesty is looking well. Will you wear your crown today?”

“I think not,” he replied evenly, falling in behind her.

“Also, we have had no contact with the Bernholt royal court since the wizard returned. I believe they are preventing messages leaving the palace.” At Kattanan's start, she gestured for silence as they were bowed into the audience hall. Kattanan settled on the throne, watching the gathering rise from its collective bow and sit.

“Fionvar yfSonya duNormand,” a herald intoned, stepping back.

Fionvar bowed and came to kneel not far from the throne. “Your Majesty, I bring greetings from my brother, Earl Orie of Gamel's Grove, and his well wishes to all assembled here. He sends word that his lady seems most favorable, and he expects to be wed erelong.” His eyes met Kattanan's as the young man flinched.

The duchess smiled and nodded. “We are pleased by these tidings, and to have you return so soon.”

“I believe the earl would like time alone with the lady in question, Your Majesty. He felt I might better serve here, and gave me leave to remain a fortnight or more, if you judge it necessary.” His gaze did not leave Kattanan.

“That is well, my lord,” the duchess responded. “His Majesty may have need of you.” She made a gesture of dismissal. He rose and took a seat near the front.

The herald again came forward, but a commotion outside forestalled any announcement. The large doors flew wide, and the guard captain strode in, grinning and stamping mud from his boots. “Excellency, Your Majesty, the business I have must take precedence.”

“What is it?” the duchess asked, her tone imperious.

His grin widened. “My men apprehended a certain prisoner last night and have been occupied with interrogation. While the prisoner has little information of value to us, the man himself is worth much, and his story should amuse you.”

“I have rarely heard you so eloquent, Captain,” the duchess said sharply, “but why did you not inform us that you were holding this captive, if he is worth so much to us?”

“It was important that we gain what knowledge we could without”—he paused, glancing at Kattanan—“interference. I give you the face of the enemy.”

At this, two guards hauled forward a battered figure, his arms bound outstretched to a staff, his feet fumbling against the tile. Just past the last row of onlookers, the soldiers jerked the staff down, sending their prisoner to his knees. “With or without our help, he's not long for this world, though by his own account there is now a price on his head.” One of the soldiers pulled the captive's head back to reveal his bruised face.

“Get to the point,” the duchess said. “You are upsetting the king.”

“Please, Your Majesty,” said the prisoner, gulping at the air, “my companion—” He cried out as the guard cuffed him and raised a hand to repeat the blow.

“No!” Already tearing the heavy cloak from his shoulders, Kattanan sprinted the few yards that separated them and fell to his knees. “Oh, Great Goddess, no,” he whispered, touching his friend's forehead with a gentle hand.

“I bring you Wolfram yfNerice duGerrod, former crown prince of Bernholt,” the captain finished, “the son of our enemy, betrothed to the Usurper's daughter.”

“Your Majesty, what are you doing?” The duchess rose.

Heedless of the consternation behind him, Kattanan hacked at the prince's bonds with his little dagger. “Breathe, Your Highness, please.” He loosed one twisted arm and turned to the other, but the captain caught his wrist.

“This man is a foe to all we hold dear, what we have done—”

“What you have done is torture the kindest man I know! Unhand me.”

“I would advise you to obey your king, Captain,” a new voice snapped. Fionvar glared down at the older man. “You have no right to hold him against his will.”

Kattanan twisted his wrist free and set back to his task with grim features.

Clearing her throat, the duchess placed herself between the two men, their eyes locked on each other. “My lord Fionvar makes an excellent point, Captain. Further, you had no right to keep this from us—from the king.”

The captain started. “You can't mean to let him release this man, Excellency!”

She lowered her voice with a threatening glance. “I cannot allow anyone to undermine the king's authority—nor my own—in so flagrant a manner.” Turning from him, she raised her voice for all to hear. “While it is commendable that this prisoner has been apprehended, the king clearly finds the manner of his treatment deplorable, as do I. Our guard captain has neglected his duty to the king and is hereby dismissed. Fionvar DuNormand is named to replace him.”

“What!” cried Fionvar and the captain together. They shared a stunned glance, then Fionvar whirled to face the guards. “Every man of you who had a part in this is confined to the barracks. The prisoner mentioned a companion, where is he?”

The soldier began, “We were under orders, sir—”

“Explanations later; find the man, bring him here. You are dismissed.”

“Help me,” Kattanan sobbed, cradling Wolfram's head in his lap.

Fionvar was beside him then. “Tell me how, Your Majesty.”

“There's an arrow—” He pointed out the broken shaft with trembling hands. “Oh, Finistrel, I don't know,” he whispered through the tears.

Laying a hand on the fallen man's chest, Fionvar turned quick eyes to Kattanan. “I'll fetch the surgeons myself, if need be. Let's get him to someplace more private.”

Kattanan nodded. “My chamber.”

“Out of the question, Sire,” the duchess put in from above, but they did not turn.

“Close and large enough to work in,” Fionvar said. He climbed to his feet, calling over the king's personal guard. “We are moving this man to His Majesty's chamber; you two, get on the other side. You, fetch the surgeons.” The new captain touched his king's shoulder. “We can lift him, will you clear the way, Your Majesty?”

“Yes,” Kattanan murmured, letting Fionvar take his place. With bloody hands, he held the door to the corridor and shoved open that of his own bedchamber, leaving the duchess to deal with the rumbling crowd. A pair of surgeons hurried in shortly after, calling for hot water and plenty of rags. Kattanan retreated numbly from the new frenzy; he pressed the back of his hand to his lips, but could not hold back the sobs. Now and then as they cut away the remnants of the prince's tunic, the healers drew back, revealing his battered body. Maids arrived with cloth and basins. Fionvar returned moments later, with Brianna close behind. When she saw the scene, she gave him a horrified look.

“My lady, the king has need of comfort,” Fionvar said. “As his intended, you may do better than I.” But his eyes spoke all the worry that his voice could not.

She nodded once and crossed to Kattanan. “Your Majesty,” she whispered, ready with some words of peace. When he turned his anguished face to her, though, she slipped her arms about him and held him tight. Brianna took him to the little bench by the window, stroking his hair. The sobbing subsided after a time, and Fionvar knelt beside him, offering a basin of water. “If Your Majesty would care to wash his hands.

“Thank you,” Kattanan said hoarsely, “for the throne room.”

Brianna, too, rinsed her hands. “What has happened?”

“The king asked for help with his friend,” said Fionvar. “I was just named captain of the guard because my predecessor failed to inform the king that he had been keeping a prisoner, who turned out to be the prince of Bernholt.”

“That's him?” she gasped, looking toward the bed.

Fionvar nodded. “Apparently, the prince was disowned by King Gerrod, shot at by the royal archers, and escaped with one of his guards. He was accused of treason in the matter of the king's illness. They were captured near the river bend last evening.”

“He hated Wolfram,” Kattanan murmured. “King Gerrod did, I mean.”

Fionvar went on, “The other prisoner is a huge man, as tall as the Liren-sha—”

“Oh, no.” Kattanan groaned.

“He wasn't harmed,” Fionvar quickly assured him. “When they threatened the prince, the other fellow dropped his weapons.”

All heads turned as the Wizard of Nine Stars entered, transforming as she moved, walking straight to the surgeons. “I heard there was an arrow still in the wound.”

“And likely to remain so,” the surgeon retorted, wiping the blood from his fingers. “See for yourself; it has to come out, but I can't do anything with it.”

She slipped past him and inspected the broken shaft. “I may be able to help.”

“Maybe I should wake him up and see if he'll ask you the question.”

Giving the man a black look, the wizard said distinctly, “It cannot stay in, you can't remove it without causing more damage, correct? If you are ready to deal with the wound, I can have the arrow out.”

“You can't work on his flesh without his knowledge.”

“Have I said anything about his flesh?” The wizard covered the arrow shaft with one palm. “I have been talking about the arrow.”

“This man is our patient!” protested the surgeon, grabbing her arm.

“This man is badly wounded, and I can help him. Will you let me try?”

Throwing up his hands, he backed off a few paces.

“If the Liren-sha arrives, don't let him in the building for at least half an hour.” Staring down at the back of her hand, the wizard began to chant; strange, indistinct words rose up around her as if in a cloud. Her voice took on a coaxing tone and she shifted her hand to grasp the shaft. The wizard raised her arm, lifting the arrow as if from a pool of water, yet leaving the flesh intact. She rose and backed away, the arrow in her hand. With the other hand, she waved the surgeons back to their patient. Turning, she flung the arrow into the fire with a flick of her wrist. She took a few deep breaths, then turned back to the small company. “Forgive me again, Your Majesty. I entered your chamber unbidden and performed magic here. I hope you can see that it was necessary.”

Kattanan frowned at her, glanced toward the prince. “He may yet die, though.”

“He may, but not from an arrow working toward the heart. There is something else, Majesty, which I would have said in court. My apprentice reports that a royal messenger came to Gamel's Grove to summon the princess to the capital, as the royal heir.”

Shutting his eyes, Kattanan said, “How did you remove the arrow?”

“In essence, I convinced it that it was a weak and hollow thing, and so thin that flesh and bone could pass right through it. I had to burn it before it found out I was lying.” She gave him a little smile, a smaller curtsy, and left.

“I don't know that I like working with wizards,” Fionvar observed.

Brianna shrugged. “So long as you don't expose yourself, they are just like any other mercenaries, eager to help if the price is good. I've grown accustomed to it; our grandmother has had several wizards in her employ since the Betrayal. Some of them are pleasant enough.”

“What about this one?”

Brianna cocked her head. “Well, she appears cold, arrogant, I guess, but I have never seen her do anything to harm another.”

“She is an illusionist, she may take another form when she is feeling aggressive,” Fionvar observed. “And she is responsible for Gerrod's illness, and Asenith's—condition.” The pair shared a smirk.

Kattanan looked at them, confused. “My cousin Asenith? What about her?”

“Boils,” Brianna said. “Big, oozing, awful boils. No woman would wish to meet her betrothed like that. It was another way to keep the Usurper occupied.” She glanced back toward the bed. “I don't suppose the boils will serve much purpose anymore.”