The Crown of Dalemark (The Dalemark Quartet 4)

“Only if you promise to come back and see me after the war,” Maewen said. “I’ll come after you if you don’t.”

“All right,” said Mitt. “I promise. In two years.” In the strange scented gold mist it did not seem ridiculous to talk of these things.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Maewen said, laughing.

They wandered on. Shortly they came out into a wide golden courtyard where they found the other three, none of whom seemed to notice that Mitt and Maewen must have come by a side way. Ynen was pointing to a statue on a pedestal.

“Ours are the only shadows, here,” he said. “Look.”

He was right. All their shadows were long and blue-black. The statue ought to have laid a zigzag shadow up a flight of stairs, but it did not. Moril stumbled on the stairs because they were so hard to see. Kialan caught his elbow to stop him falling, all in a crisscross of inky shadows, and accidentally jarred the cwidder. It sang out melodiously. The sound seemed to shake the entire place. Everything blurred. For a moment, even the inky shadows were faint. Nobody dared breathe. They all stood still until the sound died and the faint golden buildings came back.

The tall building at the head of the steps, though it was lost upward into mist, was remarkably like the Tannoreth Palace. Like, but quite unlike, too, Maewen realized, staring up at it while the others tiptoed gently up the steps. It had almost no windows, and its roof was supported on mighty pillars shaped like buds—long whorled buds, like the ones on magnolias—and yet it had the same shape and gave her the same feel as the palace she knew. She climbed the difficult steps on cautious, whispering feet and joined the others in the long gold-stone tunnel.

They trod forward as gently as they could, all horribly aware that this palace of gold was only the most fragile illusion. The stony air from the tunnel made both Ynen and Mitt want to cough. Neither of them dared make that much noise, and they had to keep clearing their throats as gently as they could. Then the tunnel branched.

“Where to?” Moril whispered.

“Follow your cwidder,” Kialan breathed.

Moril seemed to consider this meant straight on. They tiptoed after him, deep into the heart of the palace. Now they seemed to be in a corridor whose golden stone roof was only an inch or so above Kialan’s head or Mitt’s. Both of them ducked when Moril led them under a heavy lintel and down misty steps into a warm oblong room. It was not a big place. It had stone benches along each side and a large stone seat at the far end. The first thing they all noticed was that this seat had a strange gap underneath, as if something that was meant to go there was missing. The second thing they saw was a thick golden circlet on the seat of the chair.

They all knew this was the crown. Everyone waited for everyone else to go forward and pick it up. Before any of them could sort out the courage to do it, a young man jumped up from the right-hand bench.

“At long last!” he said. He was very glad to see them. He strode joyfully over to the stone seat and picked up the crown. “I thought I would never do this again!” he said as he turned round, holding it in both hands.

Everyone stood very still. He was a tall young man, with ro

unded shoulders wider than Kialan’s or Mitt’s, and there was a sort of gawkiness to him that reminded them all of Mitt. His face, when he turned sideways to look from Moril, along the line to Maewen, was like Ynen’s. He had the same nose, long and pointed. When he turned full face, to look at the whole group of them in a puzzled way, he reminded Maewen of Wend, though everyone else was reminded of Maewen, with a fleeting likeness to Moril and Kialan. And Mitt was reminded of Old Ammet, too, because the young man had the same flying white hair.

“What’s the matter?” said the young man. “Why don’t you speak?”

“Is it all right? It won’t shake the place apart?” Moril whispered.

The young man laughed. “Not here. This part has to be more solid. It used to be my strongroom.”

“Er—then, who are you?” Mitt asked. “If you don’t mind being asked.”

“My name’s Hern,” said the young man. “I used to be King here a long while ago.”

All five of them gasped, and then drew breath, one after another, to ask the King if he was of the Undying—and then let the breath go, not quite sure. He had the same unshadowed golden look as the rest of the palace. If you caught him out of the corner of your eye, bright rays seemed to stand out from him, and across him, that almost canceled him out of sight.

Hern laughed again. “Don’t be afraid. I’m only here because I asked the One on my deathbed if I could present the crown to the new King.”

“Whatever possessed—” Kialan, Moril, and Ynen all began together.

“—me to do such a stupid thing?” Hern asked. “I know. What you ask the One for, you get.”

“Then you are of the Undying,” Mitt said. “In a manner of speaking.”

Hern looked at him. His face was bleak and ribby as Mitt’s face had been in Gardale. “In a manner of speaking is right. I was afraid all my life that I was going to turn out to be of the Undying. And because of that, I was always very careful never to let anyone make a picture or an image of me—that’s how the Undying are bound into godhead, you know—and then I go and ask for the wrong thing, and my reward is this half-life.” Mitt opened his mouth to say something, but Hern shook his head. His face relaxed and went businesslike. “No. Let me first ask who claims this crown. All but one of you have a perfect right to it.”

Nobody answered. Each of them shot dubious looks at the others.

“Oh come on!” said Hern. “Isn’t this what you came for?”

Maewen cleared her throat. “Yes. But I think we were supposed to get it for Amil the Great.”

Hern shrugged. “That’s news to me,” he said. He came toward them, carrying the golden circlet. All of them made a move to back away and then stood, feeling cowardly. But it was alarming. Hern was misty and shot with beams of light, but his personality was as strong as it must have been when he was a King. As if that was the main thing left of him, Mitt thought. And the crown itself was thick, real, and solid between Hern’s misty hands, of such pure gold that it shone orange in the golden light.