The Crimson Crown

A cartload of responsibility settled onto Han’s shoulders. He didn’t want to have to answer for any more innocent lives.

“We already know about the risks,” he said. “I think we need to think about what you hope to gain by exposing Bayar. That might help you decide whether to go forward.”

“I will go forward,” Willo said flatly. “I have decided.”

Dancer lifted his chin. “I’m not running away from him, and I’m not leaving the Fells. This is our home. That’s decided, too. What we need to talk about is how to do it, who should do it, and when.”

They sat in silence, each lost in thought.

“Well,” Willo said finally. “If we tell what happened, in a public place, to a large enough audience, Bayar won’t have a hope of keeping it quiet by killing us.”

“It needs to be an audience of bluebloods,” Han said. “Wizards, especially. People the Bayars can’t eliminate or ignore.”

“And we need to provide compelling proof so it can’t be denied or explained away,” Dancer said.

“What about Fellsmarch Castle?” Willo said. “A joint audience with the queen and her council?”

“But the only wizard on the council is Lord Bayar,” Han said. “The queen does not have a problem with intermarriage between clans and wizards. The ones who will put the heat on Bayar are his peers—other wizards. We need to speak to them directly, or Bayar can carry whatever tale he likes back to Gray Lady.” An idea took shape in Han’s mind—a perilous streetlord plan. “I say we walk onto his turf, just like Bayar did on Hanalea. We need to show face—stick a blade into the heart of his power. We need to show we aren’t afraid of him.”

Dancer leaned forward. “What are you saying?”

“I’ll take this story to the Wizard Council on Gray Lady,” Han said.

“You’re right, Hunts Alone—the Wizard Council needs to hear this,” Willo said. “But I should be the one to tell it.”

“No.” Han shook his head. “You can’t go to Gray Lady. It’s too risky.”

Willo’s lips tightened. “You just said that you want to diminish Bayar’s power by challenging him, by showing face, as you call it. You want to prove that he doesn’t always win. Who better to do that than me—the person he wronged in the first place?”

Han pictured the council’s reaction to a copperhead in their inner sanctum. “You don’t want to put yourself through that,” he said.

“I agree,” Dancer said. “If you confront Bayar, then it should be at Fellsmarch Castle, not on Gray Lady.”

Willo turned to Han. “But you just said that Gray Lady would be the best place.”

“I did,” Han admitted. “It would be the best place for me to do it.”

Dancer pushed to his feet. “You? You’re not even involved with this. I’ll do it.”

Han rose also. “I am involved. You’re my best friend. I have to go to Gray Lady anyway, being on the council. At least I’d have some hope of getting in.”

“What about getting out?” Willo said. “You already told us that Bayar is likely to set a trap for you.”

“I’m the one should take the risk,” Han said. “I’m the one who might gain from it.”

“How is that?” Dancer broadened his stance and folded his arms. “I thought we were doing this to protect ourselves and hold Bayar accountable.”

“Well. Right,” Han said. “But anything that damages the Bayars benefits me.”

Now Willo levered to her feet, making it a three-way stand-up argument. “Bayar has been haunting me for years. Don’t you think I deserve to go face-to-face with him? This isn’t about politics. And it can’t be about what’s between you and Bayar. Consider this: If Bayar kills you, it enhances his reputation. If he kills me, it damages him.”

“That’s too high a price to pay,” Dancer whispered, touching her shoulder. “For us, anyway.”

“Look,” Han said. “I think I know a way to get in and out of the Council House on Gray Lady. Tomorrow, I’ll take Dancer with me as far as the entrance, so he knows the way. If that goes well, we’ll all go there together to confront Bayar.”

After a bit more back and forth, they came up with a rudimentary plan, contingent on what Han learned at the council meeting.

That night, Han tossed and turned on his narrow sleeping bench, consumed by worry. I can’t believe we’re arguing about who gets to risk his skin facing off with Bayar, he thought. Of one thing, he had no doubt—if Dancer or Willo went to Gray Lady and ended up dead, he’d never forgive himself.

He had to find a way to minimize the danger.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A CRACK IN THE MOUNTAIN

Han and Dancer left Marisa Pines before dawn the next morning. Willo saw them off, embracing them as if giving a benediction. She stood watching until they rode out of sight.

Han and Dancer would circle wide around the city of Fellsmarch, and come at Gray Lady on the south flank, to Crow’s secret entrance to the tunnels within the mountain.

Han had transcribed the sketches Crow had made in Aediion to the map he’d taken from Bayar Library. It was like trying to sing a half-remembered song. He hoped it was close enough, that the tunnels had not been discovered, and the landscape of the mountain hadn’t changed. A lot could happen in a thousand years.

On another page, Han had scribbled the opening charms for the doors and corridors inside the mountain. He made two copies—one for himself and one for Dancer.

He had aimed to be on the mountain by midday so he’d have time to search for the tunnels and make his way through in time for the meeting at four in the afternoon. In his panniers, he carried his council clothes—his fine blue coat, the wizard stoles Willo had made for him, and his best black wool trousers.

Gray Lady had loomed ahead of them all morning, her moody peak shrouded in cloud and mystery.

At the base of the mountain, Han and Dancer left the road to the Council House and rode cross-country around the base, always moving upward. They kept a close eye on their back trail, hoping that any ambush they might encounter had been laid closer to their destination.

Eventually, they climbed into the clouds. Han drew the mist around himself like a cloak, a supplement to the glamours they’d constructed that morning.

On the other peaks surrounding the Vale, small crofts, cabins, and clan lodges peppered the land and clung to the high benches wherever the land was level enough to build. Herds of sheep grazed on all but the most vertical, inhospitable slopes.

There were few signs of human life on the wizard stronghold of Gray Lady. Han and Dancer crossed game trails and little-used horse tracks filling in with summer growth. Farther from the road, they wound through stands of stunted trees, the branches twisted by prevailing winds.

Han couldn’t shake the knowledge that he was deep in Bayar territory. That’s what you wanted, he said to himself. Toe-to-toe and blade-to-blade.

He and Dancer had to leave their horses behind when the way became too steep for the animals to navigate. They staked them in a tiny upland meadow, within reach of grass and water, setting charms against four-legged predators.

Slinging his panniers over his shoulders, Han led the way upward, sometimes walking upright, sometimes scrambling on hands and knees, his saddlebags slamming against his hips.

He used his sleeve to blot mist and sweat from his face. His hair was plastered down on his forehead. I’ll be in fine shape at the council meeting, he thought. “We must be getting close,” he said aloud, pausing on a small ledge until Dancer caught up.

Rummaging in his pannier, Han surfaced his notes from his session with Crow. Putting one hand on his amulet, extending the other in a wide sweep, he spoke the first charm, one intended to reveal magical barriers and power channels.

Tendrils of magic flicked out over the mountainside, and it lit up like solstice fireworks. Webs of spellwork covered the ground, layer on layer of brilliance. It was elegant, beautiful, fragile as spun glass, reflecting a fierce and desperate genius that crackled with power. The texture of it was familiar to him from his sessions with Crow. Exquisitely efficient.

Han and Dancer looked at each other, eyes wide.

Han set his feet, closed his hand on his amulet again, and spoke the first of a series of unraveling charms. Gently, he teased away the magic layer by layer, sweat beading on his forehead, exercising a level of patience he didn’t know he had. Crow had drilled into him the consequences of careless mistakes.

Gradually, a new landscape emerged that had not been visible before—a fissure between two huge slabs of granite; a rocky pathway leading upward.

When all magic had been scraped away, Han let go of his amulet and stood breathing hard, as if he’d climbed the mountain at a dead run.

“I think it’s clear now,” he said, when his breathlessness eased. “But my amulet is half drained. Anyone with less power on board would be done for the day.”

“I wonder if the barriers are designed to do that,” Dancer said. “To wear down any wizard who tries to enter on his own.”

Cautiously, they began to climb again, Han in the lead, his notes tucked inside his coat. Periodically, they came across new magical traps, cleverly hidden around turns, designed to send them over cliffs or into dead ends or sliding into ravines. Han disabled each one, acutely conscious of his dwindling magic supply. If he’d had any doubts about Crow’s identity, they’d been scoured away. If he’d had any lingering question that his ancestor was a magical genius, it was answered.

Dancer looked back the way they had come. “Did you notice?” he said, pointing. “The barriers go back up after we pass.”

And it was true. Their back trail was now obscured by a veil of magical threads. Which meant that they’d need power to return the way they’d come.

Han gritted his teeth. There was nothing to do but press on.

The entrance to the cave would have been easy to miss if they hadn’t been looking for it in the shadow of a massive slab of granite shaped like a wolf’s head. Unlike the rest of the pathway, there was no telltale magic obscuring the entrance; just shrubbery and trees that had grown up over a millenium.

Han released a long breath. This was it—the back door into Gray Lady that had lain hidden for a thousand years. He hoped.

From the angle of the sun outside the cave, Han guessed it was midday. They had four hours to navigate the tunnels and reach the Council House. The plan was that Dancer would come that far with Han so that he’d be familiar with the tunnel system for their return trip.

The opening itself was small, leading to a long tunnel they navigated on hands and knees. Han was prickle-skinned and dry-mouthed all the way. At any moment, he expected to be blasted to bits or incinerated by some nasty charm that Crow had forgotten to mention. Now and then he touched his amulet to dispel the smothering dark.

A brightness up ahead said they were reaching the end of the tunnel.

Han emerged first—into a cave the size of the Cathedral Temple, where Raisa had been crowned queen. Wizard lights burned in sconces on the walls, glittering off pillars of quartz and spires of calcite in every color. Could they really have been burning for more than a thousand years? Or had someone been here since to replenish them?

A waterfall cascaded a hundred feet from a tunnel entrance high above, splashing into a deep pool. Steaming springs thickened the air.

Alger Waterlow could have assembled an army here.

Dancer emerged from the tunnel and unfolded to his feet. Tilting back his head, he raised his hands like a speaker welcoming the dawn. “I feel the embrace of the mountain,” he said, closing his eyes and smiling.

But Han was already walking the perimeter, looking for the path forward.

He found it on the far wall, hidden from view under a layer of magical barriers. He scraped the spellwork away—leaving one gossamer layer, as Crow had instructed him—revealing a doorway that led into darkness. Leave that last layer in place, Crow had said. Otherwise you risk immolation. Over the entrance was a stone lintel, and carved into the walls on either side were the Waterlow ravens.

After a quick meal of bread, cheese, and water, Han shouldered his saddlebags.

He placed his hand over the raven carved into the stone on the left side of the door.

The remaining veil of magic went transparent.

“Go ahead,” he said to Dancer, keeping his hand where it was.

As Dancer’s foot crossed the threshold, he lurched backward, landing flat on the stone floor.

“Dancer!” As Han knelt next to his friend, Dancer raised up on one elbow, gingerly exploring the back of his head with his other hand.

“Are you all right?” Han asked, sliding an arm around Dancer’s shoulders.

“I’m going to have a lump on the back of my head, I think,” Dancer said. He touched the rowan talisman that hung at his neck and jerked his hand away, sucking his fingers. “It’s blistering hot. If not for the talisman, I’d be dead.”

Han looked back at the tunnel. Once again, the magical barrier shimmered across the opening. His spirits plummeted. Now what? What had gone wrong?

“I’m all right,” Dancer said, shrugging off Han’s arm. “What do you think happened? Could you have made a mistake?”

Han was already scanning his notes. “‘Place your palm over the raven carved into the wall on the left side of the doorway. This will identify you as a friend and render the barrier permeable. Step through the doorway immediately, before the barrier hardens.’” He looked up at Dancer. “That’s what I did. I don’t see why …”

“You didn’t step through it,” Dancer pointed out. “I did. Maybe the same person has to do both. Or maybe the person has to be you. And not me.”

“What do you mean?” Han was lost.

“You’re Crow’s blood. I carry Bayar blood. Who would Crow want to keep out?” Dancer raised an eyebrow. “Did you tell him you meant to bring me along?”

Han shook his head. Seeing no reason to buy his way into an argument, he hadn’t said anything about Dancer when Crow had coached him on how to sneak into Gray Lady.

Perhaps Crow had tied the barrier to his enemies. After all, he’d shown Han how to keep the Bayars out of his rooms at Oden’s Ford.

“Do you want to try it the other way?” Han asked, hesitant to ask Dancer to risk immolation again. “Palm the raven yourself and step through?”

Dancer shook his head. “I’ll wait here. That way I can conserve my flash and take the lead on the way back.”

“But—we’ll both need to come through here later on. Willo, too,” Han said, recalling the plans they’d laid at Marisa Pines.

“I know you’re used to keeping secrets, but you need to be direct with Crow. Tell him what we’re planning and see if there’s a way around it.” Shakily, Dancer rose to his feet and crossed the cave to Han. “Here,” he said. “A donation.” He closed his hands around Han’s amulet and poured power into it. “You may need this.”

After a few minutes, Han stepped away, gently pulling his amulet free. “Don’t shortchange yourself,” he said. “You’ll need enough power to get back out.” He paused, thinking. “Give me until dawn. If I’m not back by then, go out the way we came in. Do you remember the charms we used to get in?”

Dancer grinned. “Don’t be such a nanny,” he said, sliding down the wall into a sitting position and wrapping his arms around his knees. He patted his jacket. “I have my notes. You’re the one going toe-to-toe with the council. It’s safer here.”

Once again, Han approached the tunnel, cautiously this time. He placed his hand over the raven, felt a sting of magic. Then stepped away and through the doorway.

Nothing happened.

Shoulders slumping in relief, Han looked back at Dancer through a fine mist of magic. Dancer waved him on. Han was on his own.

CHAPTER EIGHT

BLOOD AND POLITICS

Raisa walked along the edge of the parade field, trying to focus on the soldiers who’d been turned out for her.

It wasn’t easy. It was the kind of summer day that inspires poets and musicians, and transforms friends into lovers. Bees hummed over the meadow, wallowing in flowers and then bumbling drunk into each other when they tried to rise.

The winds that had roared out of the Spirits a few months before had quieted to a breeze, which carried the memory of mountain jasmine and laurel. Hanalea breathes, the clan poets would say, and everyone knew there was no point in trying to work.

Unbidden, Raisa’s thoughts turned to Han Alister, to the question that had plagued her since her coronation—since that desperate dance on Hanalea: Where do we go from here?

Just stop it. You can’t think about that now. You need to focus, especially today.

She halted, midway down the parade ground, fixing her eyes on the field before her. Swallows pivoted overhead, and red-winged blackbirds clung to seed heads until they were flushed by the Highlander Army of the Fells as it lined up in front of her.

Except most were not Highlanders.

Still too many stripers, Raisa thought, her gaze sweeping over salvos of soldiers in their varied uniforms. Most wore the distinctive striped scarves that said they were mercenaries: a company from Delphi in dun-colored wool, Ardenine infantry in scarlet jackets, cavalry from Bruinswallow in sand-colored battle tunics.

And, here and there, a splash of forest green and brown, the native-borns.

“What progress has been made in replacing the stripers?” Raisa asked General Klemath. “How many salvos have been swapped out?”

“I’m working on it, Your Majesty,” Klemath said. “You must understand, it’s not just the line soldiers that must be replaced. The officers come from the down-realms also. It takes time to recruit and train.”

“How many?” Raisa demanded.

“One, Your Majesty.” Klemath stared out at his army, not meeting her eyes, his jaw clenched stubbornly. “There are several others under way, though I fear we will lose battle-readiness in the process.” His tone made it clear that he thought this was a mad scheme launched on impulse by a young and inexperienced queen who should stick to going to parties.

Raisa shifted her gaze to Amon, Averill, and Speaker Jemson, who stood just behind Klemath. They nodded slightly.

“That’s not acceptable,” Raisa said. “I had expected much more progress by now.”

“I cannot produce qualified officers with a snap of my fingers,” Klemath said, snapping to demonstrate.

“Has it occurred to you that you can be replaced with a snap of my fingers?” Raisa retorted, snapping her fingers under the general’s nose.

Klemath stiffened. Still staring straight ahead, he said, “That wouldn’t be wise.”

“Meaning?” Raisa’s voice was as cold as the Dyrnnewater. “Is that a threat, General?”

“Meaning that now is not the time to be making yet another transition, Your Majesty,” Klemath said, seeming to recall to whom he spoke. “While things are so unsettled in the south. Too much change all at once is difficult.”

Don’t lose your temper don’t lose your temper don’t don’t don’t … “Nobody said it was going to be easy,” Raisa said. “But I know you will make every effort to move things along now that you know my mind. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Klemath said, nodding. Still not smiling. “Of course.”

And with that, Raisa dismissed him and his troops.

“Come with me,” she said to the others. She stalked into the guardhouse with Amon and the rest trailing her.

She passed through the duty room and into the sergeants’ office. Mawker shoved back his chair and staggered to his feet, coming to attention, his fist over his heart.

“Your Majesty! I never … This is a … Nobody said—”

“Give us a few minutes, please, Sergeant Mawker,” Raisa said, tipping her head toward the door. He hurried out, leaving her alone with Amon, Averill, and Speaker Jemson.

“That’s it,” Raisa said, sitting on the edge of Mawker’s desk. “Klemath is out as soon as we can find a replacement.” She snapped her fingers and scowled at them. “I don’t trust him, not at all, and I will not be patronized.”

“If you replace him, daughter, you will need to proceed very carefully and very quietly,” Averill said. “He wields considerable power in the army.”

“Have you looked through the duty sheets on the candidates I sent you?” Amon asked.

“Some. Not all,” Raisa admitted. There was so much to do. “I’d like to have a Wien House graduate with some actual army experience. Most you’ve sent me are from the Guard.”

Amon shrugged. “Aye. Those are the people I know best,” he said. “The ones I trust.”

“I know,” Raisa said. “But it’s going to be hard for someone like that to be accepted to command the army.”

“What about Char Dunedain?” Amon said. “What did you think of her?”

Raisa frowned. “I don’t really remember. Tell me about her.”

“She’s from Chalk Cliffs originally,” Amon said. “She spent a couple of years at Wien House, then captained a salvo of native-borns who went as mercenaries to Arden. She fought down there for five years, and the fact that she survived that long is impressive. She came back up here and went into the Highlander Army under Fletcher as a colonel. But after Klemath took over, there was friction between them. She finally went to my da and asked about transferring into the Guard. It meant a major demotion, but she did it anyway.”

“Sounds like the right experience,” Raisa said. “How long has she been in the Guard?”

“Six years,” Amon said. “My da was really impressed with her, and he’s not—wasn’t—easy to impress. In fact, she was the one he sent to the West Wall to replace Gillen. He trusted her to clean things up and she’s done a good job.”

Raisa recalled what Dimitri Fenwaeter had said on her coronation day. The new commander at the West Wall is a woman, but she is surprisingly fair and easy to deal with.

“Can you arrange for me to meet her?” Raisa asked. “How long would it take for her to come here from the West Wall? And could we do it without arousing any suspicions?”

“She’s here, actually,” Amon said. “In the duty room. We passed her on the way in. I asked her to come here to Fellsmarch for a few days. I wanted to debrief her about current conditions on that border. We’re paying so much attention to our southern neighbor that we need to make sure we’re not missing any risk from the west.”

Typical Amon Byrne, anticipating problems and handling them before they grew unmanageable. Taking responsibility for issues that were not precisely his to manage.

“Ask her to come in, then,” Raisa said. As Amon left, Raisa waved Averill and Jemson to chairs along the wall. “You two listen and let me know what you think.”

Amon returned with a tall, rangy guard in a mottled mountain uniform. She stopped in front of Raisa and saluted. “Your Majesty,” she said. “Captain Byrne tells me that you would like to know the status of our holdings along the escarpment.”

Dunedain’s eyes were a startling gray color against her coppery skin. Her hair was a sun-streaked brown, tied back with a cord. Her nose had been broken, and badly repaired.

“You’re a mixed-blood,” Raisa blurted.

“Yes, I am,” Dunedain said. “As are you, I believe. Is that a problem?” She met Raisa’s gaze frankly, with no trace of defensiveness.

“No, Sergeant, it’s just unexpected. There are not many clan in the Highlanders.”

“No, Your Majesty,” Dunedain said. “There should be more.”

“Why aren’t there more, do you think?” Raisa asked.

Dunedain glanced at Amon, as if seeking guidance.

“Be at ease, Sergeant,” Amon said. “You may speak your mind with the queen.”

“Several reasons,” Dunedain said, relaxing fractionally. “There used to be more clan in the Highlanders. We are well-suited for mountain warfare. But these days the army spends too much time in flatland maneuvers. We do not enjoy marching to and fro on a field to no purpose. Our enemies will come through the mountains or by sea. There is no other way to get here. It would be best to stop the enemy before they reach the Vale, since that is where they have the advantage.” She checked herself. “In my opinion, Your Majesty.”