The Crown of Dalemark (The Dalemark Quartet 4)

“That,” said Hestefan, “is not my Fenna. That Fenna is the daughter of Henda’s court musician. He sent her with me so that no one would know I had lost my daughter.”

“You think this is true?” Alk asked Navis. “Is it true?” he said to Fervold.

“No idea,” said Fervold. “But knowing our Henda, it could well be.”

“True or not, the man’s confessed to murder,” Earl Keril said, stepping in to take command. He nodded to some of his hearthmen. “Take him down to Dropwater—it’s nearest—and ask Earl Luthan to see him hanged.”

Mitt could see that Keril had stepped in because it was what he was used to. Keril was thinking of himself as the senior Earl here. It made him angry. In spite of all that had been said, Keril was simply discounting the crown on Mitt’s head. And it made him even angrier that Keril had done to Mitt himself exactly what Hestefan said Henda had done to him—and Keril had not even seemed to notice.

“Wait a minute!” he said. “You can’t hang him. We need him. Singers can go where other people can’t.”

Keril stared at Mitt with his lips pressed together hard. He glanced round and saw that everyone else, including the hearthmen he had nodded to, had turned respectfully to Mitt. He pressed his lips together harder still. But he said nothing.

“Hestefan,” said Mitt. Hestefan looked up, still not really seeing Mitt. “Hestefan, I want you to go and tell Henda that you carried out his orders. Tell him Noreth is dead. Can you do that?” Hestefan nodded, blinking, as if he were beginning to be able to see again. “But,” said Mitt, “you’re to go to Andmark through Holand. You’re to go to Hobin the gunsmith in Holand—got that?—and tell Hobin that I’ve got the crown and he’s to bring me the kingstone. Understand?”

“Well … yes…” Hestefan said slowly. “But if Henda hears I did that—No, no! I can’t!”

“Oh yes, you can!” Moril said. “My father did that kind of thing all the time! Do it!” Hestefan turned to Moril, shivering so that his beard juddered. This made everyone look at Moril. Moril was as white as a person can be, so white that he was lurid, and the look of betrayal on his face made everyone look away again quickly. “Do it,” Moril said, “or I’ll curse you, Singer’s curse, with the power of this cwidder, so that the curse will follow you beyond your grave! You’ve betrayed all Singers!”

“Ah no.” Hestefan held up a shaking hand against him. “I only did what any man—”

“You aren’t just any man!” Moril shrieked at him. “You’re a Singer! I thought you were a good one. I trusted you. I know better now. So go to Holand. Go now!” He turned his back on Hestefan, looking as if he was going to be sick.

Keril turned to Mitt. “And what about our Southern prisoners?” he said, with a politeness and sarcasm that outdid Navis. “Are you finding a use for them, too?”

This was enough to make Mitt find a use for them on the spot. “Of course! This crown is the crown of all Dalemark. I’m going to need an army that comes from the South as well as the North. They can all swear to me on the Adon’s cup, and the ones it doesn’t shine for can flaming well stay here under guard. I don’t want word out round the South until Hestefan’s got through to Hobin.”

“And what will they do here? Sit with their hands on their heads?” Keril asked.

&n

bsp; Mitt laughed. “No. They’ll be digging. They can start on the foundations for the palace I’m going to build here. After that they can go on and flaming well rebuild Kernsburgh.”

“That’s the stuff!” said Alk. “I’ll be the guard. Want me to make some drawings for the buildings? That’s much more my line than fighting. Let’s see—Luthan’s scribe had pen and paper.” He looked at the statue in his hand and then looked round for somewhere safe to put it. “Seeing you thought to look for it,” he said to Maewen, “just hold it for me while I do some sketches.”

He passed her the statue. As soon as her hands were on it, she was not there any longer.

PART FIVE

KANKREDIN

22

She was not there any longer. She was back in the museum gallery of the Tannoreth Palace, in exactly the same spot where she had been standing when she left. Wend, who was in the act of locking the golden statue away again, jumped round and stared at her.

Wend was as neat and trim and handsome as ever. Maewen was instantly aware that she was dirty, and moist all through with showers of rain she had given up noticing days ago. Her mail smelled of rust. Her boots were filthy. The livery of Dropwater smelled of wet wool, horse, and person. Under the little helmet her hair felt damp and clotted.

“You’re back!” said Wend.

“Yes.” The animal wariness she had acquired in those days of journeying told Maewen that Wend had not expected to see her again. It was in every line of Wend, as he carefully placed the statue on its shelf and locked the glass front. She noticed it, even though she was distracted by her hearthwoman’s clothes dissolving away from her, leaving her again in grubby shorts and shirt. Her hair tumbled back to her shoulders, and it still felt damp and clotted. She was even more distracted by the shrill beeping of the radio clipped to Wend’s uniform, but she still noticed.

“What happened?” Wend casually rattled keys, but that wariness showed Maewen he was, underneath, very eager to know.

“Hestefan the Singer murdered Noreth before she even set out from Adenmouth,” she said. She was ashamed of the wariness—it showed her Wend was full of fury and frustration, carefully hidden—but she could not help knowing it. They all had this wariness: Moril, Mitt, Hestefan, Navis, everyone. It was the way you lived in those days.

“I’d thought it was … one of the others,” Wend said, across the wheep-wheep-wheep from the radio on his chest.

Thought it was Mitt, you mean! Maewen thought. The wariness again. The noise from the radio was getting on her nerves, so she said, “I think you ought to answer that.”