The Crimson Crown

“In Briar Rose is mingled the blood of all of the peoples of the Fells,” Willo said. “Let us hope that her crowning ushers in a new season of peace and cooperation among the Spirit clans, the gifted, and Valefolk.”

The reaction to this was mixed—scattered cheers amid murmured disapproval. Willo pressed her lips together, rounding her shoulders in disappointment. “Lord Demonai will speak now,” she said, and sat down.

Averill rose to full-throated cheering, and stood waiting until the noise died away. “Thank you, Willo Watersong. I must admit, grief and joy are at war within me—grief at the loss of my beloved Marianna, and joy that my daughter Briar Rose is now queen. Grief tempers joy, making it stronger through contrast, as the valleys between make the mountains higher.”

He rested a hand on Raisa’s shoulder. “These are difficult times. The speakers predict a descent into the valley of war. But on this day, from this height, we can see across our troubles to the victory on the other side. We will never settle for less.”

Cheers thundered through the trees. Well, Raisa thought, that’s a warlike speech in contrast to Willo’s conciliatory one. My father is a true Demonai.

“I have more to say,” Averill said, hushing the crowd. He waited until he was sure he had everyone’s attention, then went on.

“I will not marry again,” he said. “I am no longer young, and the death of those we love reminds us of our own mortality.” He paused, peering out from under his heavy brows. “Not that I intend to make an exit anytime soon. Life still brings many pleasures my way. I take great joy in making Lord Bayar miserable.”

Laughter rolled around the clearing.

Averill squeezed Raisa’s shoulder. “Ordinarily, Briar Rose would follow me as Matriarch of Demonai Camp when I go to meet the Maker,” Averill said. “But it seems she has found another calling.” He smiled down at her.

Raisa blinked back at her father. She had not expected a discussion of the Demonai succession at her coronation feast.

“I have another daughter, Daylily, also called Mellony, but she does not feel the call of her clan blood. She has no desire to learn the Old Ways. She will not come to the uplands.”

Mellony had resisted leaving court to foster in the camps. Queen Marianna had given in to her, saying there was no need, as Mellony was not the heir to the throne.

But she could be if anything happened to me, Raisa thought. That mistake would be difficult to remedy now. Any suggestion that Mellony go to the camps would likely be poorly received.

Averill’s next words yanked Raisa’s attention back to the present.

“It seems wise, in these dangerous times, to make the lines of succession clear. And so I have chosen a son to succeed me as Patriarch of Demonai Camp.”

This wasn’t unusual. Clan adoptions were informal affairs. They might happen at any age, to serve the needs of the family, or the camp at large.

Raisa’s breath caught as it came to her who Averill’s successor must be. She looked at Nightwalker, who sat loose-limbed and relaxed, eyes fixed on Raisa as if to measure her reaction.

“I name Reid Nightwalker Demonai my son and successor as Patriarch of Demonai Camp,” Averill said.

There arose a spate of clapping and cheering. Raisa looked from face to face. It seemed to be welcome news to most.

With three exceptions: Han and Dancer looked on with stony faces, then put their heads together, whispering.

Then there was Night Bird. The young Demonai warrior stared at Averill, eyes wide. She shook her head ever so slightly, rose and left the table, and disappeared into the darkness.

Raisa stared after her, confused. Then she realized that Night Bird understood what Averill was really aiming at—a match between Raisa and Nightwalker. A match Night Bird perhaps wanted for herself. And Averill Demonai was an excellent marksman.

When Averill sat down, Raisa struggled to maintain her trader face. Why didn’t you tell me? she thought. It seemed she should have participated in this decision, or at least have been notified ahead of time.

Averill smiled at her, patting her hand.

You have a trader face, too, Raisa thought. Too good at keeping secrets.

The dancing began with the youngest children, whose enthusiasm trumped any lack of skill as they showed off their steps to the Gray Wolf queen. There followed midsummer dances, and some traditional name day dances to honor those who would be celebrated the next day.

Suddenly, Raisa’s father stood before her, hands extended. “Dance with me, daughter,” he said, smiling. “It has been a long time.”

And so Raisa did, circling the fire with her sturdy Demonai father. Though Raisa was small, her father stood only a few inches taller than her, so they were a good match for dancing. Her body recalled the movements of the familiar Dance of Many Braids. The pace accelerated, and Raisa allowed herself to be carried away by the music, her feet flying in her new moccasins. The dancers wove intricate patterns, coming together and then shattering apart.

As the night went on, the older dancers dropped out, but the young people continued, shouting out requests, fueled by upcountry wine, seeming to draw energy from each other. Bats fluttered drunkenly in the trees overhead, singing their silent mating songs.

More and more, Raisa found herself dancing opposite Nightwalker, her pulse picking up the cadence of the drums. Her clan blood thrummed in her veins as sweat trickled between her breasts, and her skirts swirled around her legs. They danced the Dance of the Berry Moon and the Dance of the Flower Moon. During the Dance of the Gray Wolf, the shadows outside the glare of the torches seethed with yellow eyes and lithe, furred bodies.

Shilo Trailblazer called out, “Demonai Woman!”—a traditional war dance of matched pairs that dated from the Wizard Wars.

Voices shouted out support. The Demonai loved battle dances—stylized depictions of battles between wizards and the Demonai, culminating in a symbolic slaughter of the gifted.

A flicker of motion caught Raisa’s eye. Willo Watersong rose and left the circle of onlookers, leaving Han and Dancer sitting alone. Han watched Raisa, his eyes in shadow, head cocked to one side as if waiting to see what she would do.

It was one thing for the Demonai to dance battle dances among themselves. It was another to confront two wizards with their history of bloodshed.

Raisa mopped her face with her sleeve. “I’ll sit out,” she said, turning toward the sidelines.

But Elena stepped into her path. “Please,” she said, looking into Raisa’s eyes. “Dance with us, granddaughter. We danced the flatlander dances yesterday. This celebration is for us.”

“Please,” Nightwalker said, taking Raisa’s hand. “Dance with me, Briar Rose.”

And when Raisa looked back for Han, he had disappeared. “All right,” she said. “Just a few more.”

As the round began, men and women danced opposite each other, shaking their weapons, tossing catcalls and challenges back and forth, competing for the honor of confronting the armies of wizards that had invaded the Fells. Raisa and Nightwalker came together in mock combat, glaring into each other’s eyes.

The men chorused, “Wait by the fire, wife, and have babies. Your sons will grow up to fight jinxflingers.” Nightwalker struck a pose, scowling down at Raisa, lips twitching as he fought back a smile.

“Wait by the fire, husband,” Raisa replied. “And bind up my wounds when I return. I will fight jinxflingers so my sons won’t have to.”

They split apart and danced some more.

“Wait by the fire, wife, and prepare a meal to restore me when I return from the wars,” the men said.

“Wait by the fire, husband,” Raisa called with the others. “Heat the water to wash jinxflinger blood from my clothes.”

And, finally, the last chorus.

“Ride beside me, wife, and kill the jinxflinger that gets past me,” the men said.

“Ride beside me, husband, and we will drive the jinxflingers into the sea,” the women sang.

By the time the dance ended, Raisa was trembling and weak in the knees. She looked for Han again, but he was still missing.

When demands for Hanalea’s Triumph could no longer be ignored, Raisa agreed to dance the part of Hanalea, and Nightwalker, of course, chose the Demonai role. They donned the ritual amulets signifying their parts and picked up their ceremonial weapons. Other players selected their roles as demons, warriors, and soldiers. But no one volunteered for the unpopular role of the Demon King.

Until Han Alister stepped forward, out of the darkness. “I’ll dance the Demon King part,” he said in Clan. “It’s fitting, don’t you think?” He paused for a heartbeat, then added into a charged silence, “Since I’m one of only two wizards here.”