The Gray Wolf Throne

by Chima, Cinda Williams

  “What’s the arrangement for the memorial?” Elena said.

  “They’ve pitched several large pavilions around the queen’s pyre,” Night Bird said. “One flies the Gray Wolf banner, so it is likely the Princess Mellony is there. Another bears the Bayar pennant. A third carries the unlidded eye, though I didn’t see Lord Demonai. The tomb is upslope from the memorial site, built into the side of the mountain. A number of people are milling around, making preparations.”

  “Did you see Corporal Byrne?” Raisa asked.

  Bird shook her head. “He’s escorting the queen’s body. A smaller tomb for the late captain is to be built downslope from the queen’s. I saw several flatland soldiers guarding the site.”

  So Captain Byrne would be buried near his queen, Raisa thought. In the arms of her mountain. And Amon was there, waiting for her. And the rest of the Gray Wolves—friends she hadn’t seen since Oden’s Ford. Friends she could depend on. She took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. Good.

  “Fallon said that Speaker Jemson would conduct a brief service—first for Captain Byrne, and then for the queen. Then Queen Marianna’s body will be committed to the flame, freeing her spirit to take up residence in the mountain. The High Wizard and a representative of the Council of Regents will also speak.”

  “But not the Princess Mellony?” Raisa asked.

  Bird shook her head. “They say the princess is too grief-stricken to speak.”

  Or too intimidated by her keepers, Raisa thought grimly. If she would be queen, she needs to learn to speak up. Her people need to hear directly from her.

  They set up a temporary camp under cover of the forest, then gathered one last time—Raisa, along with Reid Nightwalker Demonai, Willo Watersong, Elena Cennestre, Han Alister, and Fire Dancer.

  “Briar Rose,” Elena said. “I know that you want to be present for your mother’s service. I still say it would be safest if you watch from the crest of the mountain. We could leave a party of warriors with you as guard. That way, you can see everything and yet be out of harm’s way.”

  Raisa shook her head. “I will attend my mother’s service,” she said. “We have already discussed this.”

  Elena sighed and rubbed her chin. “I thought you would say that.” She put a hand on Raisa’s arm. “Then I beg of you. You are dressed like a Demonai. If you must descend to the tomb, then you’re unlikely to be recognized if we ride as a group, with you hidden in our midst.”

  “Grandmother, I must participate in the service as the princess heir,” Raisa said. “Before as many witnesses as possible, so that they cannot later deny that I have returned to the queendom. It’s the only way to secure my succession to the throne.”

  “You cannot ascend the Gray Wolf throne if you are dead,” Elena retorted. “We cannot protect you if you wade into a crowd. I know you are eager to prove that you are not a coward, but—”

  “I’m not doing this to prove anything except my presence and intention to ascend to the throne,” Raisa said. “I am doing this to honor my mother.”

  “If you live to be crowned, I hope that obstinacy will serve you well as queen,” Elena growled.

  “Han Alister is pledged to secure my safety—that was your doing, remember?” Raisa said. “And Fire Dancer has agreed to help. We’ve worked out a plan, and we need to follow it.”

  All eyes turned to Han, who stood, feet slightly apart, arms folded across his chest, his brilliant hair feathered by the downslope breeze. His hunter amulet glowed against the sober black of his tunic.

  Fire Dancer had left the group to fetch the panniers he’d been carrying all day. Unstrapping the lids, he lifted out a glittering steel breastplate and gauntlets with the Gray Wolf emblem emblazoned on them.

  “Armor?” Elena said. “You’re wearing armor? That’s the plan? You think that will protect you against wizard flame?”

  “No, Grandmother, but it will protect me against other kinds of assassins,” Raisa said. “Remember, Queen Marianna died in a fall from a tower. Captain Byrne was shot through with arrows. This way, wizards won’t be able to hire others to do their dirty work for them. They’ll have to come out into the open if they want to take me on.”

  Elena fingered the breastplate, running her worn fingers over the beading at the neck and the faint runes etched into the sides. She looked up at Raisa, eyes glittering. “This is Demonai work. Who made this, Briar Rose, and when? There’s considerable power in it.”

  “I made it,” Dancer said, setting the panniers aside. He stood and turned to face her. “It’s my work.”

  An angry murmur arose among the Demonai warriors.

  “You?” Elena stared at him. “But that’s impossible. You’re a—”

  “I’m a flashcrafter, Elena Cennestre,” Dancer said, lifting his chin. “Or mean to be.”

  “Who’s teaching you?” Elena demanded. “Because whoever it is plays a dangerous game.”

  “Just stop it!” Raisa said. “How can we expect to win against our enemies when we keep bickering among ourselves?”

  This is my life from now on, she thought. Sorting out squabbles among wizards, clan, and Valefolk.

  “Wizards are not allowed to craft magical weaponry, Your Highness,” Elena said. “It concentrates too much power in their hands.”

  “That’s not part of the Næ´ming,” Dancer said, setting his feet stubbornly. “That’s not written.”

  “It’s not written because no one ever expected that a jinxflinger would be born into the camps,” Nightwalker said. “Or would live long enough to—”

  “Fire Dancer’s gifts come from the Maker,” someone said in a loud clear voice. “Who are we to question the Maker’s will?”

  Raisa swung around. It was Night Bird, the young Demonai warrior. The one who still worshipped at the altar of Reid Nightwalker.

  There followed a stunned silence. Dancer and Han flat-out stared at her, but Nightwalker looked the most astonished of all.

  “Perhaps Dancer’s unique talents are just what we need right now,” Night Bird went on. “Perhaps we should welcome any gift that helps keep this queen safe.”

  Reid Nightwalker’s expression turned from astonishment to betrayal. “Night Bird, think again,” he said. “Some gifts are better declined.”

  “Who decides that?” Han said. “Not the Demonai.”

  “I have decided,” Raisa said in a loud voice. “I have decided to accept Fire Dancer’s gift, and that ends the discussion. You all will go down and join the others at the memorial site. Han, Dancer, and I will remain here until it is time for the service to begin.”

  “Why don’t you ride down with us now?” Nightwalker asked, eying Han, making no attempt to hide his mistrust.

  “I need to be seen as queen of all the people of the Fells—Valefolk, wizards, and the Spirit clans,” Raisa said. “I’m already dressed in clan garb. If I ride in with upland clan, I’ll appear to belong to you.” Surveying the sea of frowns around her, she added, “Don’t worry, I don’t mean to die today.”

  Reid Nightwalker insisted on staying behind with Raisa and a small party of Demonai—in case of ambush, he said. Whether by Han Alister or somebody else, he didn’t say. Raisa and her party stood in the fringes of the trees, watching the rest of the Demonai descend to the tomb. Including Bird, whom Nightwalker sent on with the others.

  Raisa sat down with the copy of the Book of Temple Prayers and Liturgy she’d brought from Marisa Pines. Han and Dancer rested under a tree, talking softly, their hands on their amulets, storing as much power as possible in the time they had left. Reid Nightwalker and his warriors kept watch on events below. Willo sorted through the bundles of cloth that had come out of her saddlebags.

  Raisa read and reread the passages assigned to her, struggling to concentrate, speaking the powerful words under her breath, committing them once again to memory.

  Raisa had studied the prayers in preparation for her name day, but she’d never actually attended a state funeral. Queen Lissa, h
er grandmother, had died before Raisa was born. Marianna, too, had ascended to the throne at a young age. Raisa couldn’t help wondering if her mother would have done better had she had more time to grow into the job.

  Now Raisa faced the same dilemma. Would it be too much power, too soon, for her?

  A slight noise broke into her thoughts. She looked up to find Nightwalker standing in front of her. “They’re bringing Queen Marianna’s body in procession up the mountain,” he said. “It’s time for us to go.”

  Raisa stood, and Nightwalker put his hands on her shoulders, leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Be safe today, Briar Rose,” he said. He shifted his eyes to Han and Dancer, then back to her. “Be wary.”

  “All will be well, you’ll see,” Raisa said, looking into Nightwalker’s eyes, willing him to believe her. Willing it to be true.

  “I hope you are right,” Nightwalker said. “This is difficult for me.” He smiled faintly, bowed his head, then turned away. The remaining Demonai warriors mounted up, then clattered over the hill and out of sight, leaving Willo, Han, Dancer, and Raisa alone.

  Raisa geared up for the war ahead, knowing that when it comes to politics, looking the part is often half the battle.

  Willo had sorted several garments into piles. She gave Han a bundle of black-and-silver fabric. “It is not my best work, Hunts Alone, since it was done so quickly,” she said. “But I think it will serve.” Her dark eyes studied him as if trying to divine his purpose.

  Han only nodded, clutching the garment in his arms. “Thank you.” He turned and strode away, toward his horse.

  Raisa had little time to be curious. Willo handed her a thick quilted jacket—armor padding of a sort. Raisa removed the shadow cloak and put the jacket on over her clan garb.

  Dancer unbuckled the breastplate, then held it open as Raisa slipped her arms through. He fastened it down the front, shifting it so it sat squarely on her shoulders. She poked her arms into the gauntlets, and he fastened those as well. He did good work—they were lightweight and well finished. The magic in them buzzed against her skin.

  Willo draped a crimson cloak across Raisa’s shoulders. It carried an image of a snarling gray wolf in intricate stitches. “I hope you know what you are doing,” she said, shifting her gaze from Raisa to Han to Dancer. “This will mark you out like a banner.”

  “So Lord Bayar won’t need his magic glasses to see me,” Raisa said. “Perfect.” She ran her fingers over the stitches. “This is beautiful,” she breathed. “How in the world did you… ?”

  “I had made it ahead to honor your coronation,” Willo said. She smiled sadly. “I had no idea I would be giving this gift so soon.”

  “Thank you,” Raisa said, and embraced her, the armor a barrier between them. “What will you… ?”

  “I will stay here and wait for you,” Willo said quickly, as if she’d been anticipating the question. “I have already mourned Marianna according to the Old Ways. I’ve spoken to Averill. He understands, as I hope you do.”

  “Of course,” Raisa said, confused. “But…”

  “Your Highness?” Han’s voice broke into their conversation. Raisa looked up to see that Han and Dancer were already mounted.

  Dancer waved his hand and galloped over the crest of the hill and disappeared. He would ride ahead, finding a vantage point where he could keep an eye on the Bayars and other wizards present and prevent any magical attacks.

  Han sat on his horse with his back very straight, his face as cold, still, and pale as sculpted marble, his vivid blue eyes the only color. He wore the coat Willo had made for him. It was black and silver, decorated with paint and stitching. Metallic serpents squirmed up the sleeves from hem to shoulder. A gray wolf and a raven faced each other on the lapels of the coat, and the back was embroidered with a wizard staff coiled with serpents, thrust through the Gray Wolf crown.

  What’s that about? Raisa wondered. He was of common birth, so would have no family crest. Then again, some commoners devised a signia when they rose in the world.

  Han didn’t seem to be the sort to care about those sorts of things.

  The gray wolf must signify that he was in her service. But why would he go to so much trouble to proclaim an obligation that he no doubt found onerous? Also, he must have discussed it with Willo long before their trailside conversation. The feeling returned that she was being played by a master.

  “Your Highness?” Han repeated. It still sounded peculiar when he said it. He jerked his head toward the top of the hill. “Are you ready?”

  Raisa managed to haul herself into Switcher’s saddle despite the added weight of the armor. The mare crow-hopped a little at the unexpected burden.

  “Yes,” Raisa said, steadying herself. “Let’s go.”

  C H A P T E R T W E N T Y-F O U R

  FAREWELLS

  Han looked down the freshly named Marianna Peak to the preparations under way downslope. From this distance he could make out spots of color, like splashes of paint. Bright bluejacket blue splashed around what must be Captain Edon Byrne’s modest tomb.

  Han wished he’d had a chance to discuss his plans with Corporal Byrne. That bluejacket was a good one to have at your back.

  He wished he’d had a chance to pick Crow’s brain in preparation—to ask his advice. It had been a mistake to surprise Crow by introducing him to Dancer just when he needed his help the most. He wondered if he’d ever see him again.

  If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, Mam used to say.

  The Demonai pavilion flew the unlidded eye banner, and the Demonai themselves were clustered upslope from the dais, like the brown and pale green of the springtime forest. Bird was down there somewhere.

  She’d surprised him by defying Reid Demonai. She’d always been strong-willed and opinionated, and he guessed that was likely to cause friction with Nightwalker. It would be interesting to see what would happen from here on.

  Well. Not all that interesting. What happened between Bird and Nightwalker was not his business.

  The Gray Wolf banner snapped in the breeze, high atop the tent where the Princess Mellony must be housed. And the Wizard Council had its own pavilion, bearing the flame-and-sword motif of the High Wizard.

  They reminded Han of armed camps facing each other, like what he’d seen in war-torn Arden. He recalled what Crow had said about leverage. Apply a little pressure where it will do the most good, and a lot can be accomplished. There was opportunity in the thousand-year-old faults that split the peoples of the Fells. Han meant to take advantage. It was the only way to win this thing. The only way to get what he wanted—once he decided what that was.

  The dais was a flower garden of color—packed with the nobility dressed in their best. It was, after all, a joyous occasion for somebody. Another queen would soon rule over the Vale.

  Somebody had made that happen, and Han needed to find out who, and why.

  The lower slopes of Marianna were layered with the muted tones commoners favored—colors that wouldn’t show dirt with repeated wearings. Five-day colors, Mam would have called them.

  The very ground seemed to heave and ripple as thousands of people jockeyed for a better view. Latecomers had no hope of getting within miles of the ceremony. Cat would be down there somewhere, too, working her own kind of magic.

  A long procession of mounted bluebloods snaked its way toward the pavilions at the center of the burial site. Even at a distance, Han could tell they had their rum togs on. That would be the dead queen’s body making its way to the site of the memorial. The crowds on the lower slopes parted grudgingly to let her through. Han was accustomed to a festival atmosphere at executions and blueblood funerals. It was something out of the ordinary, at least, for those with monotonous lives. But the mood of this crowd seemed grim and threatening.

  A thin blue line of guards divided the crowds from their betters upslope.

  The queen’s bier was followed by an honor guard of bluejackets. Amon Byrne rode in the lead, cradling the
urn holding his father’s ashes. And immediately behind him, a riderless horse, standard military issue, with boots reversed in the stirrups.

  Han looked sideways at Rebecca—Raisa—the queen. She might have been an elven warrior from stories, with her magicked armor, her made-to-measure sword, and her windblown cap of hair. Her Gray Wolf cloak fluttered out behind her in the breeze.

  A memory came to him—Rebecca in the alleyway at Oden’s Ford, stalking toward him, her blade in her hand, leaving a would-be attacker flat on his back on the cobblestones. Rebecca promising Han the same treatment if he didn’t get out of her way.

  The images reverberated in his mind until he felt half sick. Were these really one and the same? The friend he knew and the heir to the throne of the Fells?

  When he focused on Raisa, he saw that her nose had gone pink, and her eyes fixed on the queen’s bier glittered with unshed tears.

  He looked away, beating back sympathy. The only words spoken over Mam’s and Mari’s bodies were his own awkward prayers—and they’d nearly died unspoken on his tongue. What use would it be to call on a Maker who would allow Mam and Mari to burn to death?

  Raisa was learning the lessons he’d been taught a long time ago—what could happen when you crossed a powerful blueblood.

  Those bearing the casket had reached the pavilion where the memorial was to be held. The linen-wrapped body was lifted into place on the flower-decked bier that had been prepared for it. Corporal Byrne handed down the urn, which was placed in a position of honor below the queen’s casket. Then he dismounted and stood at attention with the rest of the honor guard. The bluebloods flowed into the high-priced seats close to the stage.

  It was time.

  Han looked up at the sky. Storm clouds piled up behind Hanalea, streaming over the lower peaks like long arms reaching out for the crowd. The sky to the west was a peculiar green, and lightning flickered over the West Wall. The wind picked up, sweeping down over Marianna, reminding any who had forgotten that spring was a fickle season in the mountain home.