The Crimson Crown

“But we need to know how to fight in the flatlands, too,” Raisa argued. “Just in case.”

“General Klemath’s stripers already know how to fight in the flatlands, ma’am,” Dunedain said. “What they need is to learn how to fight in the mountains.”

“What else?” Raisa said.

“General Klemath does not have much use for the Spirit clans,” Dunedain said. “I think that is one reason he doesn’t want to spend time in the mountains. I was brought on by his predecessor, General Fletcher. Since General Klemath took over the army, many of the mountain-born have left the service. As the native-born forces dwindle through attrition, he replaces them with stripers. It’s his own fault if he can’t find enough native-borns.”

“Why did you leave?” Raisa asked. “Since you paid a big price in terms of rank.”

“General Klemath and I had philosophical differences,” Dunedain said. “Perhaps we should leave it at that.” She glanced from Raisa to Amon and back. “Now, did you want to know about the West Wall?”

“Oh. Yes,” Raisa said. “Please.”

Dunedain delivered a succinct review of political, military, and economic issues along the escarpment. What she said married well with Raisa’s recollection of her brief time there.

“To sum up, the road is repaired, and trade should increase as the weather improves. I would suggest investing more funds in shoring up the Waterwalkers and making sure they view us as good neighbors. That would more than pay off in saving military costs if they serve as the first line of defense. No one goes through the Fens if they don’t allow it.”

Dunedain paused, as if to verify that Raisa wanted more, then continued when Raisa gestured for her to go on. “There’s been a distinct improvement in the Dyrnnewater, and that helps. The Waterwalkers are the kind to hold a grudge if they perceive they’ve been injured or they feel they’re not getting respect.”

“We are all that kind, Sergeant Dunedain,” Raisa said. She thought a moment. “Tell me—how do you get on with wizards, Sergeant?”

“I do not like them or dislike them, ma’am,” Dunedain said. “I’ve had little interaction with them, frankly. I am not Demonai, though I could have been. I was named Demonai, but decided to go to Wien House instead.”

“Why?” Raisa asked, watching Averill against the wall. He sat, hands folded, wearing his trader face. “Most would consider it a rare honor, especially for a mixed-blood.”

“The Demonai are too narrow-minded, too focused on clan interests. We need a broader view, or I believe we will be overrun.” The sergeant rubbed the back of her neck. “A soldier can always find work,” she said. “It’s the way of the world—people fighting with each other.”

“If you were general of the armies, what would you do differently?” Raisa asked. “If you had the authority to do what you wanted.”

“I would send the stripers back where they came from,” Dunedain said, lifting her chin defiantly. “The army should be the same mix of peoples as in the Fells—clan, wizards, and Valefolk. Down-realmers, if they’re here permanently. If wizards won’t join the army, we should figure out another way to work with them. I’d also make sure the army and the guard are coordinating. Sometimes I think we are at cross-purposes, Your Majesty.”

“What would you want from your queen,” Raisa asked, “if you commanded the army?”

“I would want sufficient resources to arm and equip the troops effectively. I would want someone who understood me and my world and listened to what I had to say. I would want her to let me know what our military goals are. And then I would ask her to trust me to do my job,” Dunedain said bluntly.

Raisa smiled. “Thank you for your insights, Sergeant Dunedain. I appreciate your willingness to speak plainly.”

“Wait for me in the duty room, Sergeant,” Amon said. “We’ll talk further before you head back.”

Dunedain saluted both of them, turned on her heel, and left.

Raisa stood, head bowed, chewing on her lower lip. Then looked up at Jemson and Averill. “Well? What do you think?”

“I like her,” Jemson said. “I like the way she thinks and expresses herself.”

Averill scowled. “She has strong opinions,” he said. “And so do you, Briar Rose. How well would that work?”

“You just don’t like what she had to say about the Demonai,” Raisa retorted.

“No, I don’t,” Averill admitted. “It’s naive to think that we can all come together and sing the same song with so much history behind us.”

As the meeting broke up, Raisa pulled Amon aside and asked him to arrange for a replacement for Char Dunedain at the West Wall.

“I want to bring her back to Fellsmarch,” Raisa said. “Make up a good reason.”

“As a potential replacement for Klemath?” Amon asked, leaning close to speak in her ear.

Raisa nodded. “I need someone I trust. I want to be able to act boldly if need be, without fighting Klemath every step of the way. If Dunedain checks out, I’ll make the switch. Keep it quiet, though. The last thing I need is a general in the field who knows he’s going to be replaced.”

Amon nodded. He continued standing, looking at Raisa, a crease between his dark brows, until she said, rather sharply, “What?”

“You’ve changed, Rai,” he said. “You seem so—so confident. Like you know what you’re doing.”

Another backhanded Byrne compliment. A few months ago, she would have reacted to that. Oh? So you’re saying I was timid before?

Instead, she shrugged and said, “We’ll see if I know what I’m doing. I’ll need all the help I can get to pull this off.”

CHAPTER NINE

OF CONSORTS AND KINGS

Han walked on down the passageway, heading roughly north according to his internal compass, and deeper into the mountain.

The tunnel bored straight back for what Han guessed might be a mile or so, though it seemed much farther underground. He didn’t allow his wizard light to penetrate more than a few feet forward. He didn’t want to advertise his presence to anyone who might be in the tunnel ahead. Eventually, the path turned west and began sloping upward.

Han trotted along as fast as he dared, not knowing how long it would take him to walk through the mountain to the western slope of Gray Lady.

Once, a nearly transparent cobweb of magic stretched across the corridor, and Han barely managed to skid to a stop in time. That particular barrier had not been in his notes. It looked different—cruder than the others he’d seen. He disabled it with a standard fix.

From then on, the way was open, with only trivial traps and hazards. He’d half expected to find natural barricades—from cave-ins over the past thousand years—but these tunnels were well lit and clear of dust and rock debris.

Han passed steaming pools, their banks frosted with mineral stains, bubbling hot springs that fed underground rivers, steam geysers that stank of sulfur. He saw no one, and no real evidence that anyone had passed this way in a millennium. Currents of fresh air brushed his face from unseen sources.

Some of the branching tunnels were mapped, some not, their entrances obscured under veils of magic revealed only by the charm Crow had given him. Where do they go? Han wondered. Nobody would tunnel through solid rock for no reason.

But he had no charms to get him through those barriers, and no time for it anyway.

As the tunnel sloped gently upward, side tunnels and intersections came more often. Magical barriers reappeared—simpler, less-elegant charms.

The tunnel ends in an apparent dead end, a large chamber centered by a hot spring, Han’s notes said. The walls opened and the ceiling soared, and he was there.

The pool before him resembled the bottomless springs scattered throughout the Fells—places where the fires within the earth came close to the surface. Deep and clear, rippling with heat, it looked like it could boil the flesh off a carcass in a matter of minutes.

The spring is a mirage, Han’s notes said. You’ll find a stone staircase leading down into the water on the far side. At the bottom of the spring, there’s a door leading into the cellars of the Council House.

Han circled the spring. Extending his hand, conjuring more light, he saw steps extending down into the clear water. The moist heat of the spring scalded his exposed skin. He could smell the sulfur bubbling up from its depths, see the steam rising from its surface. If it was a mirage, it was convincing.

He fingered his amulet, debating. What if it was real? What if Han’s note-taking was faulty? What if something had changed in the past thousand years?

He didn’t have time to dither about it if he didn’t want to be late. Sending up a prayer to any god who might be listening to someone like him, he stepped down into the pool, searching with his foot for the first step, his heart hammering, every nerve firing.

From the evidence of his eyes, he stood knee-deep in a boiling hot spring. But there was no blistering pain, no water spilling into his clan-made boots. He took another step, and another, gritting his teeth, forcing himself to go on. He slitted his eyes, trying to limit the warring sensations in his brain.

Now he was waist-deep, then up to his neck. Two more steps, and the boiling water closed over his head. He continued to breathe normally, continued to descend until he reached the bottom of the steps.

The mirage dissolved, and Han stood, still alive and totally dry, in a rock chamber. The walls weren’t even damp.

His heart thudded in his chest, and he felt dizzy and sick. Surely Alger Waterlow didn’t go through this trauma every time he came and went from his tunnel system. There must be another way in, he thought.

A web of magic opposite the steps marked the exit. When Han’s heart settled a bit, he pried away the barricade charm and gently pushed at the door.

The door opened into a cellar that stank of earth and stone. Han scanned the room. There, in one corner, the joining between walls and ceiling was smudged with glamours. Running his sensitive fingers over the surface, Han found two long bolts embedded in stone. When he slid them back, a hatch dropped open.

Han leaped, caught the edges of the hatchway, and pulled himself up and through. He was in a small storeroom, stacked with dusty barrels and bins.

Feeling filthy and dank-smelling from his journey, Han set down his saddlebags and changed into his wizard finery, doing his best to steam out the wrinkles with the heat from his fingers. He finished with the stoles that Willo had made for him, emblazoned with the Waterlow ravens. Stuffing his old clothes back into his saddlebags, he dropped them down through the hatchway, then dragged a barrel over to cover it.

He wove his way through the maze, in what he hoped was the direction of the exit. It was as nasty as any cellar. Nobody would spend any more time here than necessary. Each time he encountered a staircase, he climbed to where the ceilings were higher and the walls less damp. Rounding a corner at a near trot, he came face-to-face with an apple-cheeked girlie, her apron loaded with onions. She stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Sorry, love,” Han said. “Lost my way.” As he passed her, he brushed his fingers across her forehead, gently wiping away the memory of their encounter. He was glad when he reached the main floor, where his presence could be more easily explained.

Using the servants’ corridors, he traveled out of the pantries and into the more formal areas. Ahead, he could hear a jumble of blueblood voices. Seeing stairs off to the right, he loped up them, looking for a place to clean away the traces of his journey.

Han swerved down a corridor, into an area of plush private apartments, testing the doors on both sides. The first few he tried wouldn’t budge, but he found one door unlocked, and ducked inside, closing the door behind him.

It was a lady’s bedroom, and obviously recently occupied. A gown lay crumpled on the floor next to the bed, and shimmies and cammies and petticoats were scattered about like the remnants of some smallclothes disaster. A fresh dress was laid out on the bed.

A clock on the dressing table told him he had a half hour before the meeting began. Leaning down, he peered into the mirror. His clothes were clean, but there was a smudge of dirt on the bridge of his nose and a long scratch down his cheek, beaded with dried blood, collected somewhere on Gray Lady. Snatching up a washcloth from a basin, he scrubbed at his face.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” somebody said behind him, in a deadly cold voice.

He whirled around, still holding the towel.

Fiona Bayar stood there in a silk dressing gown and slippers, her white hair piled on top of her head. He saw the open door behind her, and realized that she must have just stepped out of her bath.

From what Han could tell (and he could tell a lot), she had nothing on underneath the silk. Well, he thought, at least she isn’t carrying an amulet.

“Alister!” As if she’d heard his thoughts, she groped for her flash, which wasn’t there.

“Fiona! Ah … what are you doing here?” Which wasn’t the smartest thing to say, since he was the one who had kept her off the council. And she was the kind to hold a grudge.

“What am I doing here? What are you doing up here?” She looked past Han, to where her amulet lay on the bed, next to her change of clothes.

Fiona leaped toward her amulet just as Han moved to intercept her. She slammed into him, and they both tumbled onto the bed, Fiona on top. He could feel her amulet under his spine, but she was busy diving into his neckline, trying to get her hands on the serpent amulet. He grabbed her hands and held them tight, her face inches from his nose.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said.

“I thought you’d be at the council meeting,” she gasped, struggling to free herself.

“I’m on my way,” Han said.

And the next thing he knew, Fiona had wrapped her long legs around him and was kissing him like she hoped to suck the breath right out of him. The silk wasn’t much of a barrier, and anyway, the robe had slid open. Han couldn’t help reacting. He was human, after all.

Fiona finally came up for air, looking down at him with glittering eyes as if to assess the effect. “I’m actually glad to see you, Alister,” she said. “I planned to catch you after the council meeting. How did you find me so quickly? I hope no one saw you come up here.” She kissed him again, molding her body against his. “I promised I’d have a new proposition for you,” she murmured into his ear. “I hope you’ll hear me out.”

New proposition? Oh. Right. Now it came back to him. She’d mentioned that when they’d danced together at one of the pre-coronation parties.

Fiona pressed her lips to his neck, then behind his ear, and began fumbling with the closure on his coat.

Finally regaining his senses, Han rolled out from under her and off the bed, scooping up her amulet as he did so. He stood, his feet slightly apart, her amulet dangling from one fist, glad his coat extended to the top of his thighs.

She slid off the bed and walked toward him, her robe gaping open in front. Han struggled to keep his eyes on her face. She was probably trying to make him late to the meeting.

“You said you had a proposition for me,” Han said. “Spit it out quick, or I’m gone. As you know, I have to be somewhere.”

Fiona halted a few feet away. “I’ve underestimated you,” she said. “Oh, I knew you were attractive and clever. I guessed that a dalliance with you could be … interesting, in a dangerous sort of way. To put it bluntly, I thought you could be useful, and entertaining, and easily discarded when I no longer needed your services.”

Flatterer, he thought. “And now?” he said.

“I’ve been impressed with what you’ve accomplished on your own. And I think you can help me get what I want. Partner with me, and when I am queen, I will make you consort.”

She stood just in front of him now. Gripping his stoles, she pulled his head down and kissed him again. Han, distracted by a torrent of thoughts, didn’t resist.

“We have to act fast, though,” she whispered. “My family—my father—intends to marry me off to cement some political alliances.”

“Who’s the lucky groom?” Han asked.

Fiona shuddered. “Adam Gryphon. Can you imagine? Me married to a joyless, bookish, shriveled-up cripple like Adam?” She pressed herself against him. “We can’t let that happen.”

Han felt a rush of sympathy for his former teacher.

“Think of it,” Fiona murmured, against his chest. “You are bodyguard to the queen—in a perfect position to eliminate her and that pallid sister of hers. Then they’ll have no choice but to make a change in the succession. I’ll be there to step in, and you can support me on the council. Once I’m queen, my father will no longer be giving the orders.”

Murder Raisa. Fiona meant to murder Raisa and claim the throne for herself. Han’s pulse pounded in his ears, making it difficult to put two thoughts together.

You’re the one needs murdering, he thought.

She leaned back from him, studying his face, still keeping hold of his stoles. “Well? Do we have a bargain?”

It would be so easy, he thought, looking down into Fiona’s impatient face. Nobody knew he was in the Council House. A quick killing charm or a blade to the throat, and this threat to Raisa would be handled.

But only one threat among many. He had to keep his game going—he had to play for it all if he was ever going to make Raisa safe.

He couldn’t very well pretend to sign on to murder Raisa, but he didn’t want Fiona going off and hiring her own bravo to do the job. Better to be on the inside of this little plan.

He struggled to control the rage in his voice, make his tone cold and sardonic.

“Will you be there to support me when I climb the deadly nevergreen and dangle for murder?” Han said. “Seems like I’m putting in a lot more than you.”

Fiona looked confused, as if the offer to couple with her was all he could ever hope for. “What else do you want?”

“You say you’ll make me consort,” Han said. “If I’m to do the killing, I mean to aim higher.”

She blinked at him, nonplussed. “Higher than consort? You? What else could you possibly want?”

“Maybe I want to be king,” he said. “Help me, and I’ll make you consort.”

He’d never seen Fiona Bayar totally speechless before. It was far more pleasant than hearing her talk.

“You? A king?” The color drained from her face, leaving it sheet-white with anger. “A jumped-up, gutterbred thief—son of a—a ragpicker? I present you with a serious and generous proposal, and you answer with this preposterous—”

And then Han lost his temper. He was so bloody tired of hearing the who do you think you are line from the Bayars. And he was afraid—afraid he’d make a misstep and Raisa would die.

He gripped Fiona’s elbows, gripped them hard. “Is it preposterous? Is it?” He gazed into her eyes. “Do you know who I am?”

Fiona’s usually icy eyes had gone wide and a little frightened. “You’re Han Alister. A … street thief turned wizard.”

“Look at me, Fiona,” Han said. “Really look at me. Do you think that’s all I am?” Unchanneled magic stormed through him, buzzing under his skin.

She shook her head, staring into his face as if looking for clues. “I … I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“You bluebloods are fixed on bloodlines,” Han said. “I am the perfect marriage of royal lineage and wizardry, of legitimacy and magic. I’m heir to a legacy even you Bayars can’t match, that was stolen from us centuries ago.”

“Royal lineage!” Fiona was going for disdainful, but not quite pulling it off. “Who do you think you—”

“What you need to know is that I won’t stop until I get what I want. You can be with me or against me. But choose carefully.”

He gave Fiona’s amulet a toss, and she leaped forward to catch it in her two hands.

“Let me know what you decide.” Han turned on his heel and walked out.

CHAPTER TEN

INTO THE SNAKE PIT

Han strode down the corridor, back the way he’d come, all his senses on alert in case Fiona came after him, either to attack him or to accept his proposal.

As he walked, he berated himself, sorry he’d lost his temper and spoken so plainly. Once something was said, it couldn’t be unsaid. How could he forget that?

He hadn’t spilled it all, but with what he’d given her, Fiona might figure it out. And if she did, she might tell her father. Or she might not, since she was so far into her own schemes.

If he heard back from her, it might keep Raisa safe for a little while, even if Fiona meant to renegotiate later on—after he hushed the queen. But if she didn’t contact him—

He had ten minutes to find the meeting room. He hadn’t meant to arrive at the last minute, but now there was no avoiding it.

He clattered down the stairs two at a time, and turned down the first-floor hallway. He could no longer hear voices funneling down the corridor.

The hallway emptied into a large foyer, two stories tall. Massive walnut doors stood opposite the front door. They were shut tight.

A nervous-looking servant in sword-and-flame High Wizard livery hurried forward to intercept Han. “I’m sorry, my lord, but the council is now in session and cannot be interrupted.” He motioned to a salon off the main foyer. “If you would care to wait in there, I will bring you refreshment. Some wine, perhaps?”

“The council is already in session?” Han glanced up at the massive clock on the mantel in the salon. “Already? Isn’t it early?”

The servant nodded. “Everyone had arrived, so Lord Bayar called the meeting to order.”

“If the council is meeting, I should be in there,” Han said. “I’m Hanson Alister, the queen’s representative.”

The servant blanched. “Lord Alister? But Lord Bayar said that you were not coming.” He raised both hands as if he thought Han might strike him dead on the spot.

“What is your name?” Han asked the trembling man.

“H—Hammersmith, my lord,” the servant said. “I assure you, had I known that—”

“Don’t worry, Hammersmith.” Han patted the man on the shoulder, nearly giving him a seizure. “You’re not in any trouble. Lord Bayar didn’t know my plans had changed, that’s all. I’ll just go on in.”

“B—b—but, the door, sir. It’s magicked. Anyone who enters risks—”

“I believe I might have the key,” Han said. “Let’s just see.”

Taking hold of his amulet, he used Crow’s charm to reveal the magic overlaying the door. It was familiar; Crow had taught him the countercharm at Oden’s Ford.

“I can handle this.” Han disabled the charm and stood aside. “Would you announce me, please?”

Hammersmith approached the door as one might a dud firework. Gingerly, he tugged it open a crack, sweat pebbling his forehead. Then smiled back at Han when nothing exploded.

Throwing the doors wide, he stepped forward and called out in a carrying voice, “Lord Hanson Alister, representing Her Majesty, Queen Raisa ana’Marianna.”

Han walked through the doorway. Heads turned all around the room.

It was a plush space, for sure. One entire wall was glass, overlooking the Vale and the city of Fellsmarch. Banners of the wizard houses hung on the other three walls.

The scene was oddly festive yet funereal. Fancy food and drink were laid out on a sideboard, and ornate chairs with carved arms ringed a massive walnut table. Black candles sputtered in candelabras the length of the table, and those seated around the perimeter wore grim, solemn expressions. Black ribbons decorated their amulets.

Two chairs stood vacant. One was wrapped with black crepe. For one wild moment, Han thought perhaps this memorial was for him, that his death had already been announced.