Free The Singer's Crown by Elaine Isaak Page A

suddenly stern gaze.
    â€œI am still unsure about these suitors. Eadmund was a man I had faith in, these others”—he spread his hands wide—“may be as loyal as their titles, or they may want to increase their attachment to me. I do not believe Melisande will be guided by me in this.” Something in his face let the singer know that he had not spoken his true concern, and would not, but a hint of urgency appeared as he continued, “You are in a place to know her mind, and she may speak freely before you as she would not before me.”
    â€œYou want me to spy on her, Your Highness.”
    â€œI’m not asking you to tell me her deepest secrets, nor do I mistrust her, but there are things I may need to know of which she will not speak. Do not answer today, but think on it,” the prince urged him, then repeated softly, “Do not fear me.”
    Kattanan rose, and Wolfram gave him leave to go, but he turned partway to the door, “Your Highness, might I ask a boon of you?” His voice, so drained, felt very small now.
    â€œWhat would you have of me?”
    â€œThere is a page in the baron’s household named Thomas. If you could bring him to your service, Your Highness; he is young yet, but loyal. I know I have no claim on your goodwill—”
    â€œYou have a claim equal to any other, more so because you have my sister’s trust.”
    Kattanan bowed again and left, but his heart was troubled. Though he had but come into the princess’s service, he already shared the castle’s concern for her, and the prince asked him to betray that. The singer found himself returned to the Great Hall, empty of dancers and musicians, before the thrones. The largest throne drew his eyes upward in a shaft of sunlight colored by stained glass. Though it had been kept dusted, there was no depression on the cushion, nor wineglass set out for its occupant. The absence dominated the room. As he stood staring, he heard the trot of small feet into the space, in a familiar stride, then Thomas hurried toward him.
    â€œKat!” The boy’s livery was disheveled, and he was quite out of breath.
    â€œSlow down, Tom. I had not hoped to see you, but am I glad anyway.”
    â€œI came from the chapel for you.” The boy looked behind him as if expecting pursuit. “They are preparing the baron, and Sir isn’t there. I thought you might want to come.”
    Kattanan stroked his hair. “I will come to see him off. Go back before you are missed, and I’ll follow as if I hadn’t seen you. Thank you!” As Thomas trotted back the way he had come, Kattanan set out for the princess’s chambers. As he hoped, he found several maids there and pulled one of them aside. “May I borrow your badge?” He pointed to the embroidered ribbon she wore that marked her as the princess’s staff. “I need to run an errand.”
    â€œDon’t forget to give it back.” She untied the ribbon from her belt and passed it over.
    â€œThank you. You shall have it for Evening Prayer. Which way to the chapel?” He followed the direction she pointed at a run, until he was within sight of the doors, where he paused to catch his breath before entering. The royal chapel had the traditional peaked roof, with an opening above the altar to allow in both sunlight and rain. The room was round, with pews rippling out from the altar, and smaller niches at the cardinal directions. In the easternmost of these, the Cave of Death, the baron’s corpse had been laid, covered with a red cloth and his sword. Several of his servants worked there, twining ritual cords about bundles of sanctified branches for the cremation at dusk. Kattanan made the sign of the Goddess as he entered and crossed quietly to the Cave. A carved band running along the wall told the times of Her Walking in elegant Strelledor. No one looked up until he picked up a cord and bundle and knelt on