The Crimson Crown. Cinda Williams Chima

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СКАЧАТЬ from their croplands. And later by the wizards, who conquered the Valefolk.”

      He paused as if waiting for a response, and Raisa said, “Go on.”

      “Wizards and clan are divided by our natures. Even our magical traditions put us in opposition. Wizards destroy the earth with their magics. We celebrate the natural world.” Nightwalker shrugged. “We will never surrender, Briar Rose. But that doesn’t mean there has to be bloodshed.”

      He touched Raisa’s hand cautiously, as if aware that she might snatch it back. “It’s time the Spirit clans ruled the Fells, as we were meant to do. It begins with you.”

      “How so?”

      “You are of the Gray Wolf line, but you are also clan royalty, through Lord Demonai. Marry me, and our children will be three-quarters clan. Our children can marry into one of the other camps, strengthening the line further. Together, Valefolk and clan can rein in the excesses of the wizards.”

      “By that reasoning, Lord Bayar would say that since I am already of mixed blood, I should marry a wizard, to join wizards to the throne.”

      “Wizards had five hundred years of the Captivity to mingle their seed with the Gray Wolf line,” Nightwalker said, his voice low and bitter. “That’s enough.”

      “Marrying me will not win over most Valefolk,” Raisa said, thinking of flatland attitudes toward the Spirit clans. “What makes you think they will ally with you?”

      “All I need is you, Briar Rose,” Nightwalker said. Digging into his carry bag, he pulled forth a bundle wrapped in deerskin and extended it toward her.

      Raisa cradled it in her arms, her heart sinking, knowing what it was before she unwrapped it.

      Nightwalker must have seen the hesitation in her eyes. “Look at it, at least,” he urged. “It is Marisa Pines–made, and it comes with Averill’s blessing, since I am his adopted son.”

      Raisa unfolded the leather, revealing a handwoven blanket of wool and linen spun together, lightweight and warm. It was decorated with stitched and painted symbols: Gray Wolves, the clan symbol for Hanalea the Warrior; the Demonai unlidded eye; the mortar and pestle of Marisa Pines.

      It was a handfast blanket, given to signify betrothal among the Spirit clans, the joining of two camps and two beds.

      “I have a question for you,” Raisa said, fingering the fabric. “Who offers this blanket—the boy I hunted with, or the heir of Demonai?”

      Nightwalker shrugged. “You cannot stop being queen, and I cannot stop being Demonai.”

      “I am sorry,” Raisa said, folding the leather back into place. “I cannot accept this.”

      “Are you worried about my reputation between the blankets?” Nightwalker said, brushing her cheek with his fingertips. “I am not perfect, but there is no one else in the uplands that heats my blood the way you do.”

      “Am I to assume, then, that if you succumb to temptation, I would be free to take other lovers as well?” Raisa snapped back.

      “Please don’t be angry.” Nightwalker leaned forward. “I am no poet, to whisper lies in your ear and do as I please, after. You will be as free as you want to be. None of that matters. What matters is what happens between us.”

      “That’s not it,” Raisa said, sorry that the conversation had taken this turn. “I’m not looking for you to make a promise you cannot keep. But it is even more important now, after my mother’s death, and given the threat from Arden, that I choose a marriage strategically. It will be about politics, not passion.” She handed the blanket back to Nightwalker. “It may yet happen, but I cannot commit to you now. I need to make a good decision for everyone in the Fells.”

      “You have a fiery heart,” Nightwalker said. “I cannot believe it will be only politics that drives your choice.”

      If I married you, Raisa thought, it would be politics, not passion.

      Both Micah Bayar and Nightwalker seemed to think that she had a real choice. Then why did she feel so trapped? Was it because she couldn’t choose the match she really wanted?

      Nightwalker slid the bundle back into his carry bag. “This blanket was made for you, Briar Rose. It will keep. However. Politics should be discussed during the day. The nighttime hours were meant for other pursuits.” He pressed his fingers into her back, pulling her close. “I’m staying at the visitors’ lodge,” he murmured. “It’s less crowded than the Matriarch Lodge. Let’s go there and talk further.”

      “No,” Raisa said, knowing that Nightwalker would do his best to change her mind. “It has been a long day, and I am tired.” She pulled free of his hands and stood. “Good night, Nightwalker.”

      She turned and walked away, feeling his gaze on her back until the forest came between them.

      Right now, I couldn’t stay awake for Hanalea herself, not even if she offered to answer all of my questions, Raisa thought. I just want to go to sleep.

      She passed through the common room, where her father sat talking with Elena and Willo. Averill looked up, startled, as if he hadn’t expected her so soon. Then he looked past her, as if he expected Nightwalker to be right behind her.

      “It has been a wonderful day,” Raisa said. “I am worn out. I’m going to bed. Don’t worry about keeping me awake. I’d sleep through an earthquake right now.”

      She ducked through the curtains into her room. She wanted to dive face-first onto her sleeping bench, but took the time to strip off her dancing clothes. When she slid under the covers, something crackled beneath her. Fishing around in the woolen blankets, she pulled out a note.

      Unfolding it, she held it up to the lamp.

      Stay away from Nightwalker, the note said, in sharp, fierce printing. It was written in Clan, and unsigned.

      Raisa recalled the footfall in the forest, the sense of being watched on the riverbank. Had someone followed them?

      Was it Han Alister? Night Bird? Or someone else entirely?

      Chewing her lower lip, she touched a corner of the page to the lamp flame, watching until it dwindled to ash.

       CHAPTER THREE

       CREWING FOR ABELARD

      Han jerked awake in a cold sweat, groping for the knife he always kept under his pillow. It took a moment for his head to clear, to recall where he was. To realize that he wasn’t in the Matriarch Lodge at Marisa Pines, or in his garret room at Oden’s Ford. To remember that Rebecca was alive, not dead, but transformed into someone else—someone unattainable.

      He shifted on his cushy blueblood mattress (not straw-tick) and rolled the binding of the fine linen coverlet between his thumb and forefinger. Right. He was back in his rooms in Fellsmarch Castle, and someone was pounding at the door.

      He slid naked from СКАЧАТЬ