The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  “I’ve seen what you’re willing to sacrifice—not just you, but your whole family. I’ve never known loyalty and duty to run true in a bloodline before, but it seems to in yours. I may disagree with your choices and I may want to chain you down to keep you from stupidly wandering into dangers that not even someone like you with your lifetime of training can handle, but I have had a change of mind and heart. You have to trust me. Crosspointe needs the Ramplings. I know that now. I also know that it needs you sitting on the throne and wearing the crown. Not Ryland, not Vaughn. You.”

  Margaret just shook her head silently and turned around. It’s not just because of the way I feel about you. Of all the things he’d said, that one sentence kept ringing in her ears. How did he feel? Did she even want to know?

  “Do you believe me?”

  He was standing right behind her. She been too caught up in herself to hear him approach. She took a step away before facing him. She gave him a wordless shrug. Childish, but she could manage nothing better.

  “What’s it going to take? What do you need me to do to convince you?” He spoke gently, the anger leaching out of his voice. “I can’t undo the past. But I think I’ve proven to you these last sennights that you can trust me. I won’t fail you. You know enough about me to know I don’t make idle promises.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I know that.”

  “Then what more can I do?”

  She looked down at her hands. They were knotted together. “Nothing.” She faced him again.

  “Nothing?”

  “No. I believe you. I have to.”

  “Do you? Why?”

  “I should get back. I’m sure they’ve found the seneschal. There’s a great deal to be done.”

  She started to edge around him, but he caught her arm. His grip was firm, not tight, but he held her fast. “Why?”

  Of course he would push. He wasn’t the kind of man to let it go. She ran her tongue over the edge of her teeth. She was acting like a coward. “Because I need you.”

  That was true enough. People believed in him as much or more than they believed in the Crown, and he had resources she didn’t. It was also another prevarication.

  The muscles along his jaw rippled as he clenched his teeth, and then he gave a little nod and let her go. “Come on, then. Let’s get to work.” He started back toward the gate. Margaret watched him go, her eyes narrowed. She was a coward.

  “Nicholas.”

  He stopped. His expression was carefully bland.

  “I have to believe you because I want you so damned much it hurts,” she told him baldly.

  He stared. “Is that true?”

  She grimaced. “Yes. Unfortunate, but true.”

  He started walking back to her, his gaze sharp and fixed. She suddenly had a feeling she knew exactly what it was like to be a chicken in a house of foxes.

  “Unfortunate?”

  She tossed a hand. “I was taught never to let anyone get close or I wouldn’t be able to do my job, and with you—”

  He stopped, just inches away. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, the backs of his fingers whispering over her skin. “With me . . . ?” he prompted.

  She resisted the urge to back away. “I don’t seem to think very clearly when it comes to you,” she said, even as her cheeks flushed red. What was the point in keeping silent? She’d said too much already to bother trying to hide anything. In for a copper, in for a dralion, after all.

  One side of his mouth turned up. “I don’t think clearly when it comes to you either,” he said.

  She frowned suddenly, remembering something he’d said after he, Keros, and Ellyn had rescued her from the Jutras. “We’re friends and allies for now,” she said. “That’s what you said.”

  He nodded. “Because I wanted . . . I hoped . . . for more. As impossible as it seemed.”

  “More?”

  His expression turned fierce. “Everything. I want everything. Don’t say no.”

  He’d said that, too, she remembered. In the inn after they’d defeated Forcan. It was stupid and impossible. Oil and fire. Ryland and Vaughn were going to have kittens. A slow grin spread over lips. It was the first time she’d felt happy since . . . never. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this good.

  Beyond the trees she could hear her name being called. She jerked her head toward the sound and then took a slow breath, her stomach wriggling with what felt like a dozen snakes. “Time to get back to work.”

  “Not yet,” he said and pulled her back. He was kissing her before she knew what he was going to do. Her mouth opened beneath his and she clutched his shirt for balance.

  “Oh! Your pardon, Your Highness.”

  Margaret slowly eased away from Nicholas and turned to look at the Crown Shield standing just under the trees. She wasn’t one Margaret recognized. She had been running and clutched a parchment in her hand. Sweat trickled down her face and cut streaks of clean pink on her dusty skin. She was panting and her eyes were wide as she looked first at Margaret, then Nicholas, then back.

  “What is it?” Margaret asked.

  The Shield held out the parchment and Margaret took it. The seal had been cracked so that she couldn’t recognize it and the outside of the missive was streaked with dried blood and dirt. Quickly she opened it.

  She felt the blood drain from her face as she read the stark words. She read them again. It was addressed to the regent and the inside of the parchment was as bloody as the exterior. The writer had been wounded when he wrote it. Some of the words were unreadable:

  Three Jutras . . . sitting at anchor . . . cove . . . east of Black Sea. Trying to stop them. Taking heavy wounded. Villagers . . . won’t . . . soon. Need help as . . . possible.

  Margaret handed the page to Nicholas and looked at the exhausted messenger. Several more had gathered silently behind her. “Where did you get this?”

  “Runner brought it from Gale and I carried it the rest of the way.”

  “Do you know where he got it?”

  “No, ma’am.” The girl wilted under Margaret’s stare.

  “When did it come?”

  “Early this morning. I’ve been running since just before dawn.”

  “Good work. Get some food and rest.” Margaret turned to the other Shields. “Where’s your captain?”

  “Coming now, ma’am.”

  A handful of grains later, the lanky captain shouldered through and came to stand in front of Margaret. He eyed her compass pendant and then examined her face. “Princess Margaret, you have certainly changed,” he said dryly.

  She smiled despite the roaring fear surging through her. “Captain Strawler, I am very glad to see you. I thought the regent might have had you retired.”

  “No, Your Highness. But then I didn’t give him much opportunity to notice me.”

  “You’re a good man. But there’s news and it’s not good. Here.” She took the message from Nicholas and handed it to the captain.

  He read it, his long face hardening. He looked at her. “Them warships hold at least fifty warriors, more if they’ve packed them in.”

  “Expect them to be stuffed to the gills. And there are bound to be more ships coming. I want you to take three hundred Shields and find those Jutras. Stop them.”

  “Are you sure? That will take most everyone out of the castle. You won’t have any defense.”

  “I’ll call up my men. And there are the delats,” Nicholas said.

  Strawler tossed him a suspicious look and then turned back to Margaret. “Ma’am?”

  “Get going, Captain. I want you out of the gates within a glass. Leave me Sergeant Digby and whatever people are left. I’ll call on the Blackwatch, Howlers, Eyes, and Corbies as well. Dismissed.”

  He nodded and tossed her a salute before marching away with the other Shields in tow.

  Margaret looked at Nicholas, her mouth taut. Warships. She’d hoped they’d have more time to prepare. “I need you to send someone on horseback to
Vaughn,” she said. “He’s been building an army in Brampton.”

  “Of course.”

  “I also want you to bring the rest of your stable here. We’ll have to commandeer every horse and mule we can find. We’ll need them to stay ahead of the Jutras.”

  She turned and started for the castle to find parchment and ink, her mind reeling beneath the flood of all that needed to be done, anxiety chewing at her. She had no experience with war. The Jutras had a caste devoted to it. How could Crosspointe hope to defend itself, especially with most of the majicars dead or insane?

  “I’m not going to let the mother-dibbling bastards have us,” she said, hardly aware she was speaking aloud. “One way or another, no matter what it takes, Crosspointe isn’t going to be swallowed up by the Jutras.”

  Nicholas took her hand, striding beside her. She glanced up at him. His expression was somber and she could fairly see his mind spinning. She wasn’t alone in this. She had him, she had Keros and Ellyn and Red and many other smart, loyal people. She’d killed a Jutras priest and Forcan. Her father had made her to fight and to kill. He’d made her to be the queen Crosspointe needed now. Her shoulders squared. They would fight. She’d call back Lucy and Marten, Shaye and Fairlie, the Jutras rebels and all the spawn from the Root. She would forge an army that the Jutras invaders would never expect and she’d slaughter them all.

  A sudden image rose up in her mind. She’d dreamed it.

  In silver dark, sunlight blooms and petals fall in a swirl of still wind. A storm.

  The storm.

  Beneath it boils a sea of gold, silver, green, and black in a glittering cauldron made of white ice. Shapes rise and fall—amorphous, hard-edged, sinuous. Mist and fire, flesh and root, smoke and spirit. Snow.

  The cauldron cracks.

  The storm had arrived. Margaret lifted her chin, striding quickly across the castle grounds, her fingers tightening firmly on Nicholas’s. When it passed, Crosspointe would still be standing, if she had to assassinate every single Jutras warrior herself. She would not let Crosspointe fall.

  “You’re smiling,” Nicholas said, sliding a gentle knuckle down her cheek.

  She looked at him. “Am I?” In fact she was. “That’s because we’re going to win,” she said after a moment. “The Jutras think they’ve pulled all our teeth and now we’ll roll over and let them take us. They are in for an ugly surprise. Before I’m done with them, they’ll wish they’d never heard of Crosspointe.”

  “And what about us?” he asked quietly. “You never answered.”

  “Didn’t I?” Her smiled widened. “Yes. I say yes.”

  About the Author

  Diana Pharaoh Francis has been a storyteller for as long as she can remember. She tells broad, sprawling, epic stories, and loves magic and its possibilities. She also loves courage and honor and fear and looking at how one person’s actions can impact an entire culture or world. She is interested in the way heroes and villains are created.

  Diana is a lover of Victorian literature and nineteenth-century Britain, and consequently the Crosspointe books have a strong Victorian flavor. She also loves chocolate, spiced chai, sharp weapons, spicy food, and sparkly jewelry. Diana teaches English at the University of Montana Western. She was raised on a cattle ranch in northern California and spent most of her childhood on horseback or in a book. She spends much of each day writing, and everything becomes fodder for her books. For more about Diana, visit her Web site at www.dianapfrancis.com.