A Crown Disowned Read online

  Ashen, who is my dearest friend." She kissed his left cheek. "This is for Lord

  Royance, whose bravery and valor is an inspiration to us all." Then she kissed

  Chevin lightly on the lips. "And this is for my sweet husband, whom I would fain have by my side, were all well with the world."

  "I will convey these dear messages as faithfully as I will your letters," Chevin said, "and count myself fortunate to be your messenger. Farewell, Lady, until I see you again."

  Ashen settled once more into the routine of the camp as she awaited Zazar's arrival—always supposing that Rohan would be able to persuade her to leave the

  Bog and journey northward.

  Boredom always being a soldier's worst enemy, it became a great diversion to the warriors to occupy themselves, when they were not constructing catapults or working on the windlass that would propel the giant crossbow, to make bricks of snow and construct walls around every tent and shelter, replacing the casual piles and drifts.

  Some of the men, stationed to the north side of the encampment where the winds were strongest, had discovered that such a snow wall, instead of making them colder, had the opposite effect. Consumption of wood for fires and braziers went down sharply, and warmth was conserved. Soon, little could be seen of individual dwellings as snow walls arose everywhere. The command tent, the infirmary, and the tents occupied by the officers were enclosed first and then the men worked on other areas. Ashen was amused to see signs appearing on the walls to aid the men in finding their way, now that other landmarks had quite disappeared inside what was becoming known as the Snow Fortress.

  To her further surprise and sometime amusement, every war-kat in the Fortress, once it had come into her presence and sniffed her and, presumably, found her acceptable, became her friend. If she ate with the officers in the command tent,

  Bitta would try to climb up into her lap and, if rebuffed, would hold up her injured paw for Ashen to massage gently while Keltin blatantly stole tidbits from her platter. Pyegan and Rosela, Hynnel's war-kats presently under Lord Roy-ance's care, sat by, patiently waiting their turn for Ashen's attentions. If she took an hour to go back to the tent she now shared with

  Gaurin to lie down and rest from her nursing duties, either Rajesh or Finola would come and stretch out close beside her. More than once she awoke to discover one on either side, keeping her warm, as now. She sat up, yawning.

  "You are very good, faithful creatures, and very big nuisances," she said affectionately, giving them kisses on the tops of their heads. "I would stay, but there is much work to do."

  She eased the stiffness out of her back. Warm she might be, but two war-kats took up a lot of room on the narrow camp bed.

  She put on her cloak and stepped outside, grateful for the snug, fur-lined boots she wore. It was snowing again. It seemed to her that it was always snowing here. The best thing one could say was that the falling snow made battle impossible, and also provided the cooling packs and chilled water for the men suffering from the effects of Dragon's Breath. As she made her way down a passageway of snow-brick walls toward the infirmary tent, the war-kats pacing beside her, she passed one of the laundresses who carried a stack of clean clothing that steamed slightly in the cold air.

  "Is that for Lord Gaurin?" Ashen asked.

  "Aye, marm, and a bit for you as well," the woman replied. She eyed Rajesh and

  Finola warily and gave them a wide berth. "Now that yon beasties not be within his tent, I will go in and leave all upon the bed, if it please you."

  "The—the beasties won't harm you," Ashen said. "Only our enemies."

  "They be in residence, I dasn't go in," the woman said stubbornly, "but leave all outside."

  "Very well," Ashen said. "I thank you for your good service."

  The woman bobbed her head, blushing, and slogged on through the deepening snow, leaving a faint sulphur smell in her wake. Ashen wondered idly how the laundresses managed to find water for washing and air hot enough to dry the garments that they were still steaming later. She promptly forgot about the matter as she entered the infirmary tent.

  Dragon's Breath victims, segregated from the others in a curtained-off area to make caring for them more efficient, had not improved since last she checked on their condition. However, Ashen thought as she made her rounds, they were not much worse and the rest were healing rapidly enough that several could be discharged on the morrow. Hynnel seemed the most ill, but then, she thought, that must have been because he had taken the mist from the hollow rod Flavielle had wielded full in the face whereas the others had encountered such only in passing. The armsman, she learned, who had charged full at the Dragon atop the mound of snow after the avalanche had been afflicted as badly as had Hynnel, and he had since died. Only one of the warriors, Norras, seemed close to being as ill as her kinsman.

  "Water," Hynnel whispered when she came to his bedside. "Please, water with ice in it. The jug is empty."

  He lay drenched in sweat. Ashen peered around the curtain and called to two of the other women busy at the other end of the tent to help her change his bed and the clothing he wore.

  "Let me sponge you off as well," she said. "Would that make you feel better?"

  "Whatever you do, you make me feel better, dear cousin," Hynnel said. He made a gallant effort to smile, and Ashen's heart cramped with pity for him.

  In a few moments, she and the other women had stripped the soiled garments from him and had efficiently made up the bed with fresh linen from the pile the laundresses had brought. It, too, was still warm and also smelled faintly of sulphur. Ashen sat down on a stool beside the bed and began to wash Hynnel's face and limbs with cool water as he drank thirstily from the newly filled goblet she gave him.

  "I wish I could do more for you," she said. "And those others who are suffering from the same malady. Would you like something to eat?"

  "Just water for now," Hynnel answered. "Please, be sure the jug is filled to the brim. Perhaps you could leave a second one as well."

  She shook her head. Since he had been brought back he had refused everything but a few bites of bread, and now she could count his ribs. "You must eat something.

  You are wasting away."

  "Perhaps a little cold meat, later."

  "I must go and tend others now," she said, "but I will be back." On impulse, she dared to tease, to threaten him playfully. "With a dish of cold roast fallowbeeste if I have to go and hunt it myself."

  To her pleasure, he smiled again and it reached his eyes.

  "I said you were a fierce woman," he said. "And now you prove it again."

  "Sleep if you want to," Ashen told him. "I will be nearby." Then she arose and went back to her duties.

  Far to the north, the Dragon-rider Farod waited outside the curtain of ice that shielded the Great One Whom All Served from the blasphemy of being viewed by unworthy eyes. Soon enough he would speak, and Farod was in no hurry to learn what the Great One would say. The fact that he had been sent for boded ill for him, and he cringed at the thought of taking full blame for the disastrous loss they had suffered.

  The hood on Farod's light cloak was thrown back and, had he wished, he could have looked at his reflection in the ice curtain that would have shown him what service to the Great One had wrought upon his features. Once golden of hair with skin that turned dark brown in the summer months, Farod now was bleached from the cold, his hair and skin as white as if frost-bitten. This frosty skin was stretched taut over sharp bones and his eyes, the only color to be seen in his face, were sunk into the sockets and covered by lashless lids.

  Flavielle's body lay on the bier carved of ice that occupied the center of the chamber where Farod waited. With his own hands he had washed her clean of the blood of her death-wound, a wound that she would not have suffered had he been nearby, and caressed her covertly as he had done on too few occasions while she was living. Then he had composed her limbs, dressed her in transparent white and laid her here, to wait.

&n
bsp; He stared at her, full of longing, fingering the hollow metal rod he had taken from her body. "From this day forward I vow I will use no other weapon in battle," he murmured. "Ah, my Flavielle, most brave, if only—"

  An answering whisper came from behind the curtain. "She is dead. She cannot hear you."

  Soft as it was, the sound filled the chamber and echoed from the icy walls.

  "You loved her." The Great One had not posed a question.

  "She was my commander. My superior. I gave her my love, yes, and my respect."

  "You gave her more. You loved her and still do, the way a man loves a woman."

  It was true. He had loved her more than his life—more than anything, even the

  Great One, so much that he was happy even for the few crumbs of her affection she tossed him now and then, when she was not otherwise occupied. He begrudged every moment she spent with someone else, but to no avail. She ruled this aspect of her life completely, as she did in every other matter.

  He had never known such rage as when he returned for her and discovered her dead, with her latest lover with her, and a force of the hated Nordors ranged against him, bearing long and heavy spears that presented even him with a threat. He had had to retreat, for a time, until they had departed and he could gather the lifeless form of his beloved and bring her back to the icy palace wherein dwelt the Great One. If her lover's body had still been with her, he would have worked great mischief upon it, but it was gone. He could only surmise that the Nordors, for reasons of their own, had made off with it.

  The voice behind the ice curtain whispered on. "And why should you not be in thrall to her? I desired and loved her as well—yes, even I. She would have been the greatest of consorts, by my side, after she conquered the world for me. She was perfect except for—shall we say, certain weaknesses of her flesh. She was indiscreet. She wanted Power for her lover, equal to her own. I found it hard to overlook."

  Farod's limbs would not support him and he went down to his knees. Thus had

  Flavielle whispered in his ear, on occasion, of Power that they two could share.

  This was worse than being blamed for her death. The Great One knew alü "Forgive me, my lord."

  "Oh, it is not you to whom I refer." The voice, still a whisper, filled his head. "I was willing to let her have some indulgences. You are forgiven, for you are among those who are in my trust. But she went outside our circle, searching for other pleasures. That was her undoing, I fear."

  Farod bowed his head in silence, hoping that the Great One was truly as indifferent as he seemed to be, and would not order his death with his next words. Then a tendril of thought, as fragile as mist, wafted through the ice curtain and insinuated itself into Farod's head.

  Instinctively he fought against this invasion as he realized what memories were being sought. "No—" The cry was as suddenly stilled as more tendrils emerged and wrapped him in a cocoon from which there was no escape.

  —the first time, long ago, when he had dared touch her, and first her denial and then her eager response—her summons that brought him and the Ice Dragon to

  Rendel and their flight with the half-conscious girl they had abandoned in the Bog—Flavielle locked in an embrace with him as they flew back north—another embrace as they waited atop the mountain before the avalanche—

  Farod writhed, as much as his bonds would allow. Surely this—this probing that uncovered every secret would bring him to painful death. He could only hope that it would be swift coming.

  "There, there," the Great One whispered soothingly inside his head. "This is good. Very good. Your remembrances will give me much pleasure. I am grateful for them. So much so that I will award you her position. You, Farod, are now the leader of the Ice Dragon Riders."

  Abruptly the tendrils withdrew. Farod discovered that he was lying on the floor of the ice chamber, on his face.

  "I must not drain you of all your memories at once. I will savor them instead, one by one. It may take years."

  "My lord." Farod could only mouth the words, but he knew that the Great One heard.

  "Arise. You must now advise me. The war has not gone well. What shall we do now?"

  Shakily, Farod pulled himself to his feet by holding onto the ice bier. He did not dare risk a glance toward the occupant. "Our Frydian allies are no match for any but the Bog army. Chaggi, their commander, agrees. Three of our Ice Dragons have been destroyed. Snow now falls where our enemies are encamped and there will be no fighting until it ceases. My lord, we need more allies—strong, able men."

  "We have them," came the whisper from the Great One behind the ice curtain. "I have already sent for the Baron Damacro and his human army. When the snowfall stops, you will lead them, the remaining Frydians, and the three Ice Dragons in an all-out attack." Then the Great One seemed to change the subject. "Do you know a man called Piaul? Or one called Duig?"

  "No, my lord."

  "Duig is true, but Piaul and his followers were in her thrall as well. They came to me, following after her when she left Rendel. They did not know they were going to war. Yes, she convinced them to turn to our cause, and I think it takes no imagination to know how she did it. Piaul and his soft-handed friends have had some interesting times, being trained by Duig. They will fare worse than you. Much worse. You will put them in the vanguard, where they will be destroyed in the next battle."

  Relief that he was still in the Great One's uncertain favor made him bold. "Our enemies will be demoralized with this bold action and we will surely triumph!"

  Farod said, louder than he intended. The echoes boomed from the chamber walls, nearly deafening him.

  "I will personally see that you do."

  Farod remained there, unmoving, for a moment, uncertain as to whether or not he had been dismissed. Then, to his amazement and alarm, the floor around the column of ice began to shift, to change, and walls sprang up with great swiftness. In moments Flavielle's body and the bier on which it lay were encased in a shimmering, crystal dome. If he had not leaped back quickly into the only obvious entrance into the chamber and pressed himself against the icy wall of the corridor outside, he would have been enclosed with her.

  As he watched, the transparent tomb floated toward the ice curtain that did not part but yet allowed it passage through. In another moment, all had disappeared.

  Farod discovered that he was shaking, as if from an ague, and all his limbs were weakened. The Great One Whom All Served had granted him a reprieve, that much was certain, but he had no illusions that this was anything but temporary. He lived only because he was still useful. He had detected, through the pain and fear of the tendrils that had penetrated his skull, an even greater depth of malice than he had ever observed the Great One display. When the war was over, whatever the outcome and supposing that he survived it, and his memories had been thoroughly wrenched from him, he could look forward to nothing but the most painful, agonizing death that the Great One could devise.

  Any direction he looked, he found nothing but death staring back. If he had been free, he would have fled to the other side, even as Harous had turned traitor, but he knew that even that avenue of escape was blocked for him. The Great One would smite him down before the thought was half-formed.

  Perhaps, if these new allies could bring the swift victory he had promised, and the world was the Great One's to savor, he could crave the boon of a swift death. That wan hope was all that was left to him.

  Sixteen

  The return ofTusser with his little army bearing their trophy of war, the mysterious hollow cylinder that spat Dragon's Breath, was almost completely eclipsed a few days later by the arrival of the Wysen-wyf of the Bog. Men crowded the walls of the Snow Fortress, eager to get a glimpse of this famous and mysterious being, and were rewarded by the sight of a stocky figure stumping doggedly through the snow as if she hurried toward a welcome shelter. "ZazarV

  With a cry of pleasure and relief, Ashen hurried toward the stockade gate and the Wysen-wyf. At the las
t moment, she restrained herself from embracing the older woman, knowing that Zazar had never encouraged or even allowed such open gestures of affection. Nevertheless, Ashen was glad to see her Protector and not only because Zazar's skills were so sorely needed.

  "It's cold out here. Where am I to live?" Zazar asked by way of greeting. She stared at the walls of snow-bricks. "You can't expect me to dig a hole in this miserable mess." She was dressed in many layers of oddly assorted clothing and in addition had slung a shawl over her heavy cloak, which gave her a very peculiar appearance.

  "There is a snug tent already prepared for you," Ashen said, "close by my own."

  She glanced beyond Zazar. "Where is— Oh. I see him." Rohan came staggering up the path, lugging a large pack with his good hand, followed by others of the