The Crimson Crown

“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.”

  “This is sacred ground,” Nightwalker said. “And its blood runs in your veins. We will spill our own blood, if necessary, to drive out the invaders.”

  Magret took a step forward. “I am a Maiden of Hanalea,” she said. “I went into orders so that I could serve the Gray Wolf line. I loved Queen Marianna. I served her to the last. I prepared her body for burial and kept vigil in the temple because the princess heir could not.” She paused, as if to make sure that she had everyone’s undivided attention. “But you”—she pointed at Raisa—“you are the queen we need right now. And I will serve you and the Princess Mellony until the last breath leaves my body.”

  “You’ve been queen for just a few months,” General Dunedain said, “and yet, in that time, you’ve launched the kinds of changes this queendom has needed for a long time—in the army, in the council, in dealing with the flatland refugees. That’s my opinion, Your Majesty,” she added hastily, as if realizing that she might sound presumptuous. “But I’m not the only one that thinks so. You have considerable support among the native-borns in the army.”

  “Too bad there aren’t more of them,” Raisa said dryly.

  “There are several hundreds assembled at Chalk Cliffs, awaiting orders,” Dunedain said. “That’s a start. And if we can find a way for the highlanders and the Demonai to work together…” She looked at Nightwalker, who nodded, his gaze flicking from Dunedain to Raisa.

  We need wizards as well, Raisa thought. And, except for Micah, wizards are noticeably absent from this meeting.

  As if he’d guessed her thoughts, Micah said, “I’ve risked everything for you.” His eyes spoke more than he said aloud.

  “I know you might be thinking that you tried to do too much too soon,” General Dunedain went on. “But you had no choice. Klemath meant to betray us. You may have forced his hand, but you couldn’t allow him to continue to defy your orders.”

  Raisa nodded, blotting at her face with her sleeve. Somewhere along the line, she’d broken into a cold sweat.

  Magret crossed the room to her side. Brushing back Raisa’s damp hair, she touched her forehead. “Your fever has broken, Your Majesty,” she said, with something close to a smile.

  Jemson spoke up for the first time. “Save for Maiden Gray and me, everyone in this room is near your age, Your Majesty,” he said. “I think that’s significant. You and your generation are the new queendom. You represent hope that things can be different.” He paused. “I know that you have suffered many losses. No one here would blame you if you walked away from…all of this. But we hope that you will stay with us a little longer and give us this one best chance to go forward—to save this precious bit of earth we call the Fells.”

  What does he mean by that? Raisa wondered. Does he think I might try to escape, either by running away or by taking my own life? Or go mad with grief?

  Raisa drew the shawl up over her shoulders as if she could defend herself against the pressure of so many eyes. As if she could shield herself against the weight of their faith in her.

  They were asking her to lead them into peril once again, when she already had so many deaths on her conscience. The entire room was full of ghosts—and gray wolves, too.

  Their whispers filled her head—maybe just a remnant of her fever dreams. Go forward, Raisa ana’Marianna, they said. Choose love.

  Choose love, she thought bitterly. That joke has been played on every Gray Wolf queen since Hanalea.

  Love, she thought, with a rush of understanding. You love these mountains. You love this town, with its crooked streets and stone staircases.

  You love the people in this room—most of the time, anyway.

  It would not fill the chasm in her heart. But it was something.

  “All right,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  C H A P T E R F O R T Y - T W O

  WALKING

  OUT WITH

  THE BAYARS

  Han couldn’t say how long he’d hung on the wall before Fiona returned. Long enough so that his arms and wrists blazed with pain. He hadn’t quite abandoned hope, but he was close.

  He awoke to the blaze of torchlight against his eyelids. The Bayars, father and daughter, carried torches and carry bags, as if they anticipated a long journey. Bayar winched Han down from the wall, and he collapsed in a heap.

  “Fiona and I have discussed this at length,” Bayar said, gazing down at Han. “We will make a deal, Alister, considering our desperate situation. We will need all of our weapons, and every magical hand to win this war. Lead us to the armory, and we will set you free unharmed. We will settle our dispute once the flatlanders are driven out of the Fells.”

  And if you believe that, Alister, you are truly a nick-ninny mark, Han thought. He knew they wouldn’t be here at all, if not for the Ardenine invasion.

  He thrust out his shackled wrists. “Could you take these off, then?” he said, figuring there was no harm in trying. “It will be easier with my hands free.”

  Lord Bayar laughed. “You’ve tried to murder me once, Alister,” he said, as if his own hands weren’t covered with blood. “I’ll give you your amulet back, but your hands stay bound until we reach the armory. You are not to touch the amulet without permission. Each time you do, you will tell us exactly what you are doing. If you forget, Fiona will help you remember.”

  “Don’t test me, Alister,” Fiona added. She attached a length of chain to Han’s flash bracelets, wrapping the other end around her own wrist, so they were connected. “If you try anything, I will char your hands right off.”

  “All right,” Han said. “I’ll do my best.”

  Propping himself against the wall, Han eased to his feet, taking his time so as to appear more decrepit than he was. He was stiff and sore and weak, but he’d been moving about, strengthening himself in anticipation of the Bayars’ return.

  They walked single file, Han in the middle. They descended another flight of narrow, worn stone steps to a level even lower than the dungeons, into air that was dank and musty. They must have brought him into the dungeons this way, but at that time Han had been hooded and immobilized. It was awkward walking down the uneven, broken steps with his hands bound, tethered to Fiona.

  If I threw myself down the steps, would it send them tumbling, too? Han wondered. It might work, assuming I don’t knock myself senseless. Which seemed likely, weak from hunger and blood loss as he was, his hands chained together. He decided to wait for a better opportunity. He gimped along, with Fiona prodding him, urging him forward.

  They paused at a joining of tunnels. Lord Bayar produced a velvet bag from under his coat and tossed it to Han, who caught it reflexively in both hands, maimed fingers and all. With some di
fficulty, he unknotted the drawstring and drew out a leather-wrapped bundle.

  “I am going to touch my amulet now,” Han announced in a loud voice. “I need to feed it some power.”

  Bayar nodded curtly, and Han began to unwrap the serpent amulet.

  As he unfolded the leather, light spilled from within as the amulet responded to his touch. He cradled the jinxpiece between his hands, like a soaker with his first drink of the day. The release of magic was like getting relief from a toothache that had been dogging him for days.

  Han was physically drained, but primed with unchanneled flash. The amulet was still stoked from before the Bayars had taken it away from him. Obviously, they hadn’t tried to tamper with it since Fiona’s failed attempt.

  Han slipped the chain over his head while the Bayars glared at him jealously. He took his time, racking his brain for a strategy, someplace he could take them that wasn’t the Armory of the Gifted Kings. Some way to make an opportunity for escape.

  Could he lead them back toward the city and surface on familiar ground? Once there, it might be possible to break away. Especially with a war going on. If it was going on.

  “You’ve said that the armory is accessible via the tunnels,” Lord Bayar said, as if overhearing Han’s thoughts. “Given the fighting going on in the Vale, it’s best we stay underground.”

  “As long as we don’t get lost,” Han said. “I don’t know my way around down there.”

  “I would advise you to make sure that we don’t get lost,” Bayar said, biting off each word. “Our family has used the tunnels since the Breaking. When I was Micah’s age, I explored them thoroughly, looking for the armory.”

  “But you never found it,” Han said.

  “I guessed it was on Hanalea Peak—which was why wizards were forbidden to go there. I found the tunnel entrance on Hanalea, but I didn’t find the armory.”

  And then it came to Han—what Gavan Bayar was doing on Hanalea the day he’d attacked Willo. He must have come up through the tunnels, and so avoided the Demonai patrols.

  The armory lay in the direction of Hanalea. If Han led the Bayars that way, he might lose them in the fumarole, or boil them in a hot spring. It was a small chance, but it was something.

  “All right,” Han said. “Take me back to where we started. I’ll lead you on from there.”

  They walked through the Bayars’ private tunnel to a brass-bound wooden door, wrapped in jinxes. Lord Bayar ripped them away with the ease of long practice. They passed through, and Bayar applied charms of concealment so that the door blended into the stone wall of the main corridor.

  “Look out,” Han said. “I’m going to touch my amulet now.” Closing his hand over the serpent amulet, he whispered a pretend charm and peered into its depths, wishing there really were a map in there to follow. Wishing Crow were still here to serve as guide.

  “All right,” he said, wrinkling his brow. “It’s this way, I think.”

  “You go first,” Lord Bayar said.

  Han released his amulet and took the lead, wary of making any sudden moves that would startle Fiona into flaming him.

  Yes. Han sighed in relief as he began recognizing landmarks from before. It was the right way. Methodically, he used his amulet to disable barriers and traps. Lord Bayar would know where they were—he’d put some of them in place. Han touched his amulet often, each time speaking the warning, hoping the Bayars would grow impatient and careless.

  Han walked past the turnoff to the armory, concealed behind its wall of magic.

  “Alister,” Bayar said sharply.

  Fiona jerked Han around, reeling him in close, while Han tried not to scream out from the pain in his wrists.

  “Did you, perhaps, miss a turn?” Bayar said.

  Han met Bayar’s cold blue eyes. “I thought this was the right way. Let me look again. I’m going to touch my amulet now.” Cradling his amulet between his hands, he gazed at it squint-eyed. “Oh. You’re right. There is a turn here. Good you caught that.”

  “Mislead us again, and we will end this farce right here,” Bayar said. “We will go back to Aerie House, where I will kill you as slowly and painfully as I know how. Do you understand?”

  Bones, Han thought. How much does he know? How close has he come in the past?

  Han used the Waterlow amulet to strip away a magical overlay, which revealed a stout wooden door. He unlatched it and pulled it open. Then stopped short, swearing under his breath.

  The tunnel ahead was filled with a dense sulfurous fog, so thick that when Han extended his hands, he couldn’t see them.

  “What the blazes is this?” Bayar demanded.

  “I…I don’t know,” Han stammered. “It wasn’t like this before.” Cautiously, he breathed in, thinking it might be some kind of poisonous fume that Crow had neglected to warn him about.

  Nothing. It was damp and stank of sulfur. That was all.

  “There are fumaroles and springs this way,” Han said. “Maybe one of them just spewed.”

  Bayar pushed Han forward into the mist. Then stood back, waiting for something to happen to him. Nothing did. The moisture plastered down his hair and trickled into his collar.

  “We’d better wait until this clears,” Han suggested, knowing that whatever he suggested, the Bayars would do the other thing.

  “No,” Fiona said. “Let’s keep on. You first.”

  Han walked ahead cautiously. Everything looked different in the fog, and the torches were of little help, turning the mist into a white, opaque soup. I’m not in shape to outrun them, Han thought. But if I can just get loose for a split second I can disappear.

  But Fiona kept the chain taut, low across his body, so he couldn’t reach his amulet without asking for the privilege.

  Then Han heard a sound, the rattle of stone hitting stone. The Bayars heard it, too, because they both swiveled in unison and peered into the murk.

  “Who is it?” Bayar said to Han, his voice gritty. “Who else has been down here?”

  “Nobody,” Han said.

  Bayar shouted, “Show yourself or Alister dies!”

  Nothing. No response; only silence and a swirling white blankness.

  Fiona sent a blast of flame roaring down the corridor.

  This was answered by the unmistakable snap of a longbow from somewhere ahead of them. Fiona stumbled backward and collapsed to the floor, eyes wide with surprise, clutching at the black-fletched arrow that centered her chest.

  A Demonai arrow. Demonai, inside Gray Lady?

  Han ripped the magical tether out of Fiona’s slackened hands and looped it around his arm as Bayar fired a charm toward the hidden archer. Han heard a muffled cry as a wayward arrow clattered against the wall. Then the sound of a body hitting the floor. Then nothing. The archer was down.

  Han took hold of his amulet and extended his damaged hand, his fingers tingling with flash. “I’m giving you one chance,” he said. “Take her and go.” He tilted his head toward Fiona. She lay on her back, chest rising and falling, her breathing ominously wet. “You might still save her if you can get her to a healer.”

  “Do you take me for a fool?” Bayar said contemptuously. “Do you expect me to leave so you can clear out the armory before I return?” He kept his eyes on Han, not sparing a glance for his daughter on the stone floor.

  Poor Fiona, Han thought. I’d rather be an orphan than have a father like yours.

  Bayar’s voice cut into Han’s thoughts. “You will take me to the armory now, or you will die down here. One or the other.”

  “There’s a third option,” Han said, his voice low and even. “You’ll die down here.”

  Bayar raked out his arm and spat out a charm, light sizzling off his fingertips. Han threw up a barrier, and Bayar’s magical missile shattered into glittering shards. They traded shots, bolts of flame ricocheting through the caves, lighting the stone chamber like midday and sending bats spiraling out of hidden perches.

  When their magic collided, Han’s us
ually prevailed. He continually moved forward, pressing the wizard back, conjuring distracting glamours that appeared to attack from all sides. Bayar spun around, spewing flame like one of the pinwheel fireworks that went up at solstice.

  The duel continued. Now Bayar’s face wore a sheen of confusion and sweat. His attacks became more random, disorganized, and desperate, his defenses more porous. Han had been in enough street fights to know when he was winning.

  “How does it feel to be on the losing end?” Han said. “We Waterlows have always been smarter and stronger than you Bayars. No wonder you hate us so much. Beginning with Alger Waterlow. You’ve been telling lies about him for a thousand years.”

  Bayar stared into Han’s face, his black eyes narrowed, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a snarl.

  “This is for my mother and my sister, Mari,” Han said, pounding him with another flaming assault, each blow like a fist against flesh. “Remember them? You burned them alive. And Jonas and Sweets and Jed and Flinn. They were friends of mine, and you murdered them.”

  Bayar got off a wavering jet of flame, and Han countered it easily. “And how about the people in Ragmarket who lost their homes when you burned them out? And all those assassins you sent after the queen?”

  Bayar turned and melted into the mist.

  Han followed. When the footsteps stopped, Han stopped also, then eased forward, alert for the slightest sound. The mist pressed in on all sides. The back of his neck prickled. Bayar could be inches away and Han might pass him without knowing.

  Did he dare return to check on the mysterious archer? Could he even find him again?

  No. Not with Bayar loose in the passageways. He needed to deal with him first if he meant to escape the labyrinth himself.

  A faint glow in the corridor ahead warned Han that Bayar was launching another volley. Above Han’s head, rock cracked and shattered, raining shards of stone down on him. One glanced off his temple, stunning him. Blood poured into Han’s eyes, a typical head-wound gusher. He mopped at it with his sleeve, trying to clear his vision, and nearly toppled into a crevasse. He landed flat on his back, his head hitting stone, his lower legs dangling into space.