The Crimson Crown. Cinda Williams Chima

It is easy to fall into old habits, especially here.” He took a deep breath. “Do you remember how we used to slip away into the woods and—”

      “We’ve both changed,” Raisa interrupted. “So much has happened.”

      Nightwalker put his fingers under her chin, tilting her face up. “Do you have to be queen tonight?” he asked, searching her face.

      “I have to be queen every night, from now on,” Raisa said sharply. After an awkward silence, she said, “How long have you known that my father had chosen you as his successor?”

      “Not long,” Nightwalker said. “He told me of his intentions a few weeks ago. I hope you are pleased.” He studied her face as if looking for a sign.

      Raisa wasn’t sure what to say. “It makes sense,” she said. “You are a natural leader, and I know you have significant support—among the Demonai warriors, especially.” She paused, wondering whether to go on. “I just hope your new role won’t make it more likely we will go to war.”

      “Why would it?” Nightwalker said, his eyes on her lips.

      “We cannot continue on as we are, splintered and squabbling among ourselves,” Raisa said, trying to read his face in the shadows of the trees. “But you’ve never been good at compromise.”

      “We have already compromised,” Nightwalker said. “For a thousand years, we have allowed jinxflinger invaders to occupy lands that once belonged to us.”

      “That’s just my point,” Raisa said. “Nobody seems willing to forget the history that divides us. How long do wizards have to be here before you accept that they are here for good?”

      “We remember for good reason,” Nightwalker said. “That’s what the songs and stories and dances are for—to make sure we never forget.”

      “So it’s hopeless, then? Is that what you’re saying?”

      Nightwalker shook his head. “Whether or not there is a war is in the hands of the Wizard Council. And you.”

      “What do you mean?” Raisa asked.

      “You are queen now,” Nightwalker said. “You can choose who to marry.”

      “You mean I can choose not to marry a wizard,” Raisa said.

      “I mean, you could choose to marry me,” Nightwalker said, taking her hands.

      The words fell hard, like a stone between them.

      It was eerily similar to the argument Micah Bayar had made, the day he had asked permission to court her.

       For a thousand years, we have been imprisoned by the past. You have the power to make changes. The future is in your hands, if you will only seize it.

      “You’re saying there’ll be a war if I don’t marry you?” Raisa ripped her hands free.

      “That’s not what I meant,” Nightwalker said, raising his hands. “Please. Hear me out.”

      “I’m listening,” Raisa said, folding her arms.

      Nightwalker looked around as if help might come out of the trees. “I am not as good with words as some.”

      “Agreed,” Raisa said tartly.

      “Think about it,” Nightwalker said. “The clans were the first peoples in the Fells. We have lived here always, longer even than the Valefolk. And yet we have always been ruled by others. First by the Valefolk, who built wealth 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.”