The Singer's Crown by Elaine Isaak Page A

princess glowing before him. Kattanan lifted the brush then and brushed out Melisande’s soft hair.
    Laura started to go back to the wardrobe, but the princess’s voice stopped her, “I think green will be fine, Laura. And my suede slippers; I am going to court, after all.” She followed her maid to the bedroom to dress. Another servant came in shortly after with a tray of bread and honey butter and a pitcher of fresh milk for the princess’s breakfast. The handful of servants left for their other duties, and Kattanan noticed the lady who had slipped in earlier. She waited calmly on the far side of the fireplace.
    â€œWould my lady care to sit?” he asked.
    She turned to look at him with a rustle of her long veil, a deep purple with threads of gold. Her skin was dark, but her face was lit by a lovely smile. The lady herself was neither so tall nor fair as the others of Melisande’s service, but with rounded hips and full chest accentuated by a neckline a touch too low. When she spoke, her voice hinted of laughter, and a foreign air. “I will sit at court for many hours, no doubt, so I would stand now. You are the singer. I was not there to hear you at the ball, but I did enjoy your prayer. I am Faedre, late of the east.”
    â€œIt is a pleasure to meet you, my lady.” He remained standing, twitching the brush.
    â€œYou have been brushing her hair.” Lady Faedre took a step toward him, hands gently clasped at her waist. “The hair is very important here, is it not?”
    Kattanan asked uneasily, “Do you not know the Goddess?”
    â€œI was raised in the arms of a joined god and goddess, so if you mean do I worship your Finistrel, I must say I do not. What is this taboo about the hair?”
    â€œWe are taught that women grew from Her hair and Her tears. It is why monks and priestesses shave their heads, to show that they are not part of the cycle of creation.”
    â€œThen should not you also be bald?” Her smile shone as sweet, but there was a twitch of her brow like the flick of a bowstring.
    â€œThat has been said before.” Kattanan drew away a little.
    â€œBut you do not do this. Are you not so enamored of your Goddess as to make that gesture?” She advanced toward him. Her eyes were as dark as a snake’s but as warm as a snake’s eyes are cold. “I only ask because I wish to understand.”
    â€œI am”—he hesitated—“I would not be the same.”
    â€œWithout your hair, you might be a monk, rather than a singer. Your hair determines your worth.” She turned back toward the door from which Melisande would emerge.
    Kattanan pulled a chair out and sat down, trembling slightly, glad to escape those eyes. When the door opened, he rose but kept his head bowed.
    â€œFaedre! I am so glad you’re here. Are you to escort me to court?” Melisande took the lady’s hands in hers and led her toward the breakfast tray.
    â€œI am, and you do not want to be late.” She took a post by the princess’s chair as Melisande set into her bread. Laura trailed out soon after, polishing a coronet.
    â€œDone, Your Highness.” Laura held out the coronet, and Faedre accepted it.
    Melisande devoured most of her food, quickly wiped her mouth, and stood.
    â€œShall we be going, Highness?” Faedre asked, placing the coronet on the princess’s head.
    â€œOh, yes. I’m sure Wolfram will have some words for me before court anyhow.”
    â€œHe always does.”
    â€œWith me, Kattanan,” the princess called over her shoulder as the lady led her away. The singer flicked a glance at Laura, who was cleaning the butter bowl with a finger. She smirked at him and tossed him a slice of leftover bread. He munched on this as he followed after the women. Faedre walked with a gentle sway, her gown clinging at the waist. The veil ended just above in a row of tassels. Occasionally, a tassel