Cinda Chima - The Crimson Crown

Willo’s lips tightened. “You just said that you want to diminish Bayar’s power by challenging him, by showing face , as you call it. You want to prove that he doesn’t always win. Who better to do that than me—the person he wronged in the first place?”

Han pictured the council’s reaction to a copperhead in their inner sanctum. “You don’t want to put yourself through that,” he said.

“I agree,” Dancer said. “If you confront Bayar, then it should be at Fellsmarch Castle, not on Gray Lady.”

Willo turned to Han. “But you just said that Gray Lady would be the best place.”

“I did,” Han admitted. “It would be the best place for me to do it.”

Dancer pushed to his feet. “You? You’re not even involved with this. I’ll do it.”

Han rose also. “I am involved. You’re my best friend. I have to go to Gray Lady anyway, being on the council. At least I’d have some hope of getting in.”

“What about getting out?” Willo said. “You already told us that Bayar is likely to set a trap for you.”

“I’m the one should take the risk,” Han said. “I’m the one who might gain from it.”

“How is that?” Dancer broadened his stance and folded his arms. “I thought we were doing this to protect ourselves and hold Bayar accountable.”

“Well. Right,” Han said. “But anything that damages the Bayars benefits me.”

Now Willo levered to her feet, making it a three-way stand-up argument. “Bayar has been haunting me for years. Don’t you think I deserve to go face-to-face with him? This isn’t about politics. And it can’t be about what’s between you and Bayar. Consider this: If Bayar kills you, it enhances his reputation. If he kills me, it damages him.”

“That’s too high a price to pay,” Dancer whispered, touching her shoulder. “For us, anyway.”

“Look,” Han said. “I think I know a way to get in and out of the Council House on Gray Lady. Tomorrow, I’ll take Dancer with me as far as the entrance, so he knows the way. If that goes well, we’ll all go there together to confront Bayar.”

After a bit more back and forth, they came up with a rudimentary plan, contingent on what Han learned at the council meeting.

That night, Han tossed and turned on his narrow sleeping bench, consumed by worry. I can’t believe we’re arguing about who gets to risk his skin facing off with Bayar, he thought. Of one thing, he had no doubt—if Dancer or Willo went to Gray Lady and ended up dead, he’d never forgive himself.

He had to find a way to minimize the danger.

Han and Dancer left Marisa Pines before dawn the next morning. Willo saw them off, embracing them as if giving a benediction. She stood watching until they rode out of sight.

Han and Dancer would circle wide around the city of Fellsmarch, and come at Gray Lady on the south flank, to Crow’s secret entrance to the tunnels within the mountain.

Han had transcribed the sketches Crow had made in Aediion to the map he’d taken from Bayar Library. It was like trying to sing a half-remembered song. He hoped it was close enough, that the tunnels had not been discovered, and the landscape of the mountain hadn’t changed. A lot could happen in a thousand years.

On another page, Han had scribbled the opening charms for the doors and corridors inside the mountain. He made two copies—one for himself and one for Dancer.

He had aimed to be on the mountain by midday so he’d have time to search for the tunnels and make his way through in time for the meeting at four in the afternoon. In his panniers, he carried his council clothes—his fine blue coat, the wizard stoles Willo had made for him, and his best black wool trousers.

Gray Lady had loomed ahead of them all morning, her moody peak shrouded in cloud and mystery.

At the base of the mountain, Han and Dancer left the road to the Council House and rode cross-country around the base, always moving upward. They kept a close eye on their back trail, hoping that any ambush they might encounter had been laid closer to their destination.

Eventually, they climbed into the clouds. Han drew the mist around himself like a cloak, a supplement to the glamours they’d constructed that morning.

On the other peaks surrounding the Vale, small crofts, cabins, and clan lodges peppered the land and clung to the high benches wherever the land was level enough to build. Herds of sheep grazed on all but the most vertical, inhospitable slopes.

There were few signs of human life on the wizard stronghold of Gray Lady. Han and Dancer crossed game trails and little-used horse tracks filling in with summer growth. Farther from the road, they wound through stands of stunted trees, the branches twisted by prevailing winds.

Han couldn’t shake the knowledge that he was deep in Bayar territory. That’s what you wanted , he said to himself. Toe-to-toe and blade-to-blade.

He and Dancer had to leave their horses behind when the way became too steep for the animals to navigate. They staked them in a tiny upland meadow, within reach of grass and water, setting charms against four-legged predators.

Slinging his panniers over his shoulders, Han led the way upward, sometimes walking upright, sometimes scrambling on hands and knees, his saddlebags slamming against his hips.

He used his sleeve to blot mist and sweat from his face. His hair was plastered down on his forehead. I’ll be in fine shape at the council meeting, he thought. “We must be getting close,” he said aloud, pausing on a small ledge until Dancer caught up.

Rummaging in his pannier, Han surfaced his notes from his session with Crow. Putting one hand on his amulet, extending the other in a wide sweep, he spoke the first charm, one intended to reveal magical barriers and power channels.

Tendrils of magic flicked out over the mountainside, and it lit up like solstice fireworks. Webs of spellwork covered the ground, layer on layer of brilliance. It was elegant, beautiful, fragile as spun glass, reflecting a fierce and desperate genius that crackled with power. The texture of it was familiar to him from his sessions with Crow. Exquisitely efficient.

Han and Dancer looked at each other, eyes wide.

Han set his feet, closed his hand on his amulet again, and spoke the first of a series of unraveling charms. Gently, he teased away the magic layer by layer, sweat beading on his forehead, exercising a level of patience he didn’t know he had. Crow had drilled into him the consequences of careless mistakes.

Gradually, a new landscape emerged that had not been visible before—a fissure between two huge slabs of granite; a rocky pathway leading upward.

When all magic had been scraped away, Han let go of his amulet and stood breathing hard, as if he’d climbed the mountain at a dead run.

“I think it’s clear now,” he said, when his breathlessness eased. “But my amulet is half drained. Anyone with less power on board would be done for the day.”

“I wonder if the barriers are designed to do that,” Dancer said. “To wear down any wizard who tries to enter on his own.”

Cautiously, they began to climb again, Han in the lead, his notes tucked inside his coat. Periodically, they came across new magical traps, cleverly hidden around turns, designed to send them over cliffs or into dead ends or sliding into ravines. Han disabled each one, acutely conscious of his dwindling magic supply. If he’d had any doubts about Crow’s identity, they’d been scoured away. If he’d had any lingering question that his ancestor was a magical genius, it was answered.

Dancer looked back the way they had come. “Did you notice?” he said, pointing. “The barriers go back up after we pass.”