“Why is the bridge so high over the river? I’ve never seen a bridge so tall.”
Simon had to admit it was a sensible question, and his annoyance faded. His grandson was no fool, at least. The Lyktenspan was set on a row of tall stone arches so that it stood far above even the leaping froth thrown up by the turbulent river.
“That’s because when the spring thaws come, the Gratuvask climbs over its banks and rises a man’s height or more, and stays there for weeks,” Simon explained. “The water rushes down from the mountains so fast that it’s full of white foam. And cold! I remember Isgrimnur talking about it. ‘It isn’t water, it’s melted ice,’ he used to say. ‘And it hasn’t melted much.’” He laughed.
Morgan had an unusual expression on his face, as though he was doing his best to understand a new idea. “You and Grandmother talk about the duke very often, Grandfather. You must have loved him. I’m sorry I never knew him.”
Simon was a bit surprised by Morgan’s words, worried that they were meant only as distraction, but after a moment he nodded and smiled. “Duke Isgrimnur was a great man,” he said, then corrected himself. “He is a great man, and we may yet greet him before this day is over. Isgrimnur is the best friend Erkynland and the High Ward ever had, a man who saved my life and your grandmother’s life many times over. I have prayed God would let him see you once more, now that you are grown, and not just because you will inherit the High Ward from us one day and rule over his people. It would mean much to the queen and to me if that good old fellow could give you his blessing.”
The perpetual rush and roar of the river filled their ears as they followed its course along the floor of the valley, past tidy farms and prosperous villages all but hidden under snow. In places the drifts were still piled so high that the houses were marked only by the smoke wafting from their chimneys. Morgan seemed to be enjoying the sights, but Miriamele just wanted the ride to end, in part to escape the cold, but in the largest part because she desperately wanted to see beloved Isgrimnur still alive.
The prince seemed most impressed by the house-sized chunks of ice floating past them down the churning, fast-moving Gratuvask. Miri could not help smiling at the look of wonder on Morgan’s face, and remembered her husband at a similar age, a kitchen boy seeing things that even the hardiest travelers had never experienced—the Sithi’s beautiful, ruined city of Da’ai Chikiza, the great stone pillar of Sesuad’ra . . . he had even fought a dragon, like someone in an old story! He might not want to speak of it now, might feel some strange modesty, but that did not change the fact that the king was no ordinary man.
Even in his middle age, Simon still stood almost two hands taller than Morgan, but Miri thought they were more alike than not. Stubbornness? Morgan had inherited a full measure of it from Simon, but as her husband liked to point out, Miriamele was no sapling bending to the wind herself. And of course trying to get Morgan’s father John Josua to do anything he hadn’t wanted to do had been like trying to pull a badger out of its den. And Morgan’s mother Idela was not much more tractable, although she pretended to be. No, if she was going to be fair, the queen had to admit that Morgan’s stubbornness was a family affair, generations in the making.
For a moment, as she watched them silhouetted against the lights of the bridge, Miri could picture her husband and grandson as the wings of a triptych, like the life of Usires that stood behind the altar in the royal chapel at home. There on one side was Simon the patriarch, tall, with gray in his red beard; on the other stood Morgan his descendant, still callow enough to think drinking and womanizing was proof of something other than drinking and womanizing. But the center panel was missing, that which should have been her son, John Josua, and which should have united the two on either side. Her child, her beautiful child, who had grown to be such a tall, clever young man, was now only a shadow even to his own children. His death had left a hole in their lives that could never be filled, no matter how she and the rest of the family pretended.
Her heart aching again, she tried to pray, but her own measure of the family obstinacy rose up and thwarted her. No matter what the priests claimed, how could such a loss be God’s will? Why had the Creator, whom Miriamele had always tried to serve, stolen her only child?
• • •
The royal progress had dispatched riders to alert the city to their approach. They had disappeared across the bridge and into the shadow of the gates more than an hour before, but still had not come back; Miriamele was beginning to wonder if something had gone wrong. She couldn’t imagine what the problem might be—thanks to the old duke, Rimmersgard was the High Ward’s most faithful ally: it seemed unlikely they would suffer the same kind of problems that had plagued the Hernystir visit.
“Ah! Look there!” Morgan announced. “Someone is riding toward us. See, he has just mounted the bridge from the far side.”
Simon squinted. “Oh, to have young eyes again! Is it one of our messengers?”
Morgan shook his head. “Too far away to tell, but I don’t think so. Something odd about the rider. Still, there is only one.”
“Odd?”
“I can’t say more yet, Grandfather. May I ride forward to get a better look?”
“No,” said Miriamele firmly. “No, Morgan, you may not.”
Simon gave her a look full of unspoken meaning—he thought she was being too cautious, she could tell. “I think he might—with the queen’s permission, of course. But only if he takes a troop of the Erkynguard with him. Remember, Morgan, these are some of our oldest allies and we have no reason to doubt their good will.”
“What if something happens to him?” Miriamele demanded. “He is our heir!”
“What if we all die in our beds from the Red Ruin? What if we are struck by lightning?” The king realized he had become loud and lowered his voice. “Be fair, Miri. When people told you to hold back, to do nothing dangerous, what did you do, my love? Rode off into the night on your own, with nobody but a thieving monk for a companion.”
She did her best to push down unqueenly anger. “Are we not allowed to learn anything from our own mistakes then? Should we let our children and grandchildren make the same errors without saying a word?”
“Making those errors may be the only way they will learn the lessons we did, my dear one,” Simon said. “Certainly for all Morgenes or Rachel tried to teach me, it never quite made sense until I had ignored their good advice and done something impressively stupid instead.” He put on his most innocently harmless face. “Come now, wife. Let Prince Morgan ride out with the Erkynguard to find out who is coming to meet us.”
As was often the case, Miri found herself caught between wanting to kiss her husband and briskly rattle his pate. Instead, she shot him a look that made it clear the larger discussion had not ended, but at last gave her reluctant consent.
While Morgan was gathering an escort of Erkynguards, Simon called for Rinan, the minstrel. Ever since he had scolded the young harper some days earlier, her husband had gone out of his way to be kind to him.
When at last the musician was located, he looked anxious as a cat in a room full of drunken dancers. “Majesty?”
“I want you to ride with me, harper,” the king told him. “Somebody find this lad a horse!”
“Of course, M-Majesty. I would be honored.”
“You are not still frightened of me from the other day, are you?” Simon shook his head. “Don’t be. I need your help.”
“Majesty?”
“You really need to think of something new to say, son. And you can leave that stringed thing hanging on your back. I don’t want your music—I want your eyes.” He saw the startled look. “Good God, I’m not going to take them from you! I want you to see what I can’t from this distance, with evening coming down.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
Morgan and his Erkynguard escort rode out, and soon reached the beginning of the Lyk
tenspan while the queen and king watched. At the center of the bridge a dark shape was moving toward them, though at such a distance Miri could make out little more than a blot of moving shadow.
“What do you see, harper?” the king demanded. “By the Tree, lad, talk to me!”
For a moment the young minstrel only narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “The rider from Elvritshalla,” he said at last, “is . . . is . . . well, there is something strange about him, Majesty.”
“People keep saying that! What in the name of blessed Saint Sutrin does that mean? Strange how?”
Miri was amused despite herself. “You really must calm yourself, husband. Let the poor man answer you.”
Simon scowled. “Go on, then. What do you see?”
The harper was still squinting. “He is quite small, I think. Now that our soldiers and the prince are getting closer. Yes, he is small. And . . .” Rinan licked his lips. “Majesty, I swear to you, that is no horse he is riding. It looks—it is hard to make out, but I would swear—” He turned to the king and queen with a look of shame and guilt. “Majesties, please do not punish me, but I think that the one coming from Elvritshalla is riding . . . some kind of dog.”
The king was not a violent man, although over the years he had broken a few things in his angriest moments, as the servants in the Hayholt could attest, but Miri knew he had never struck and never would strike one of his subjects. Still, when King Simon swore in loud astonishment, she saw young Rinan brace himself for the blow he must have felt sure was following such a ridiculous pronouncement. But the harper looked even more surprised when his liege lord suddenly spurred his horse toward the bridge as though leading a battle charge, leaving the queen and the harper to watch him go. Several of the Erkynguard even cried out in surprise, but when they would have pursued Simon, Miri lifted her hand to hold them back.
As the echo of hoofbeats faded, Rinan turned to the queen. “Majesty?” he managed at last. “Did I do wrong? Majesty?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Forgive me, my queen—but what just happened? Is the king angry?”
She smiled. “Oh, do not fear, young man. All of that was nothing to do with you. He is hurrying to meet an old friend.”
Morgan and his guardsmen had just reined up their mounts, filled with surprise and not a little superstitious dismay at the apparition before them, when they heard the clatter of hooves coming up the stone bridge behind them. Already unnerved by the odd little man riding toward them on a huge, white wolf, the sound of swift pursuit startled Morgan’s horse so badly that he had to fight to stay in the saddle. His balance finally regained, he yanked his sword out of its scabbard, wondering if he would now have to fight to the death like some ancient hero. Caught up in the moment, several of the Erkynguard drew their blades as well.
“Put up!” someone shouted. “Put up your blades! It is the king coming!” The wedge of men on the bridge milled in confusion as they struggled to make a way between them for their fast-moving monarch. Morgan could only watch as King Simon, standing in his stirrups, gray-shot red hair flying, sped through their midst. He scarcely glanced at Morgan as he careened past.
“Grandfather . . . ?” Morgan called. “Majesty?”
But both the king and the wolf-riding apparition had stopped in the middle of the bridge and were climbing down from their mounts, paying attention to nobody but each other.
“Binabik!” his grandfather shouted, then pulled the small figure into his arms like a father whose child has been returned to him after a long, frightening absence.
“Friend Simon!” cried the little man, who was scarcely higher than the king’s waist, and then laughed as the king whirled him around so violently that Morgan was frightened they both might tumble off the bridge into the freezing Gratuvask. The prince spurred his horse forward, partly to be sure they stayed on the bridge, partly to better make sense of what was happening. Clearly this must be his grandfather’s troll friend, a nearly legendary character.
“My people are saying that to meet an old friend is like the finding of a welcoming campfire in the dark,” the little man said, slightly breathless from the king’s powerful embrace. “Just the sight of your face warms me, Simon.”
“It is wonderful to see you, Binabik,” Simon said happily, finally setting him down. “But why have only you come out to greet us?”
“In Elvritshalla, the spools and cranks of the Frostmarch Gate somehow are not working to open it. A great many horses and riders are there waiting to honor you, but they are being caught on the far side. Only noble Vaqana and I were small enough for squeezing through.” He patted the monstrously large wolf, a creature of shaggy, spotless white who seemed utterly at ease with the humans that surrounded her, although the same could not be said for most of those humans. “But have no fearfulness, old friend,” Binabik said. “I think they will be repairing it by the time your people are reaching there. Where is Miriamele, your beloved? She is well, I am hoping?”
“She’s back there on the bridge, clucking her tongue at me for riding off like a madman,” said the king, smiling so broadly that Morgan thought he looked demented. “Ah, but it is good to see you.” Simon looked at the wolf, now seated and calmly grooming. “And you said this was . . . ?”
“Vaqana, ever loyal,” said the troll. “Yes, one of noble Qantaqa’s descendants, she is being. And it is so very good to be seeing you, too, friend Simon, after too many years!” Binabik grabbed a thick tuft of snowy fur and climbed onto the wolf’s broad back, which bore it with the patience of long experience. At last the small man noticed Morgan. “Ha! I think I am seeing a face that is now much changed from my first seeing of it. Is this truly being your grandchild?”
King Simon smiled and nodded; for a moment, Morgan could almost convince himself his grandfather looked proud. “Yes, indeed! I’m sure he does look a bit different. This is Prince Morgan, our grandson and heir.”
“Look at him, a grown man!” crowed the troll. “As we also say on Mintahoq, hanno aia mo siqsiq, chahu naha!—as easily be trying to catch an avalanche in a thimble as to make the seasons stand still.”
The king turned to his grandson. “Morgan, this is Binabik of Yiqanuc, my dearest friend. You have not seen him since you were a child, more than ten years ago. Do you remember?”
Morgan was about to say no, but then a scrap of memory fluttered up—a group of small men and women, and Morgan himself brought to meet them. He had seen dwarves at the court many times, but these had been something different, with dark, serious faces and strange clothes, and they had frightened him. “A little, I think.”
“Well, you will meet no better man in all Osten Ard, of any height.” The king seemed happier than Morgan had seen him in a long while. “And your good lady wife, Binabik? She is well? And your child?”
“Both are being well, and both are also being with me, but the girl has been growing from child to woman. And she has brought her nukapik—her marrying friend. We all were riding here together, the others on their rams, myself on bold Vaqana.” As he scratched behind the wolf’s ears, Binabik’s brown face creased into a broad smile surrounded by wrinkles that showed it was a frequent expression for him. “You will see them all tonight, I am thinking. Well, perhaps not the rams, who will be resting and eating.”
“And how is Isgrimnur?”
“The duke still is alive, praise to Sedda our Dark Mother, but he is very old and his weakness is growing. Still, he will be pleased to see you, friend Simon, so very pleased.”
At that moment, Morgan was startled again by a screech from somewhere at the other end of Lantern Bridge, near the walls of Elvritshalla; his horse was startled too and had to be calmed.
“And that, if I am making a good guess,” said Binabik, “is the sound of the city’s Frostmarch Gate being at last opened. Come, Simon-king and almost grown Morgan-prince! Isgrimnur’s son Grimbrand an
d the duke’s subjects have all come out for welcoming you—it was only that I was slipping out first and spoiling their plan. Come!”
• • •
Morgan was quite happy to be out of the cold Frostmarch winds at last and inside the city walls. All of Elvritshalla seemed to have lined the streets to see the royal party enter, or at least lined the main road between the gates and the duke’s palace atop the stony hill at the center of the city. People shouted and waved torches and lanterns, others hung from upper floor windows, and despite the late hour, all cheered loudly as King Simon and Queen Miriamele rode by, as if the High Monarchs had come to make their dying duke well again.
No one seemed to recognize Morgan himself, but the prince was not too unhappy about that. He had worked hard to please his grandparents of late, but the last thing he wanted was to be dragged into more of the endless rituals and court functions that would fill the next few days. He wanted instead to find Astrian and the rest as soon as possible, then find a place to drink, some warm, dark refuge hidden away from the numbing boredom of official life. As he observed the mostly fair-skinned citizens of Elvritshalla he noted more than a few young women as tall and comely as anything that even Erchester, capital city of the High Ward, had to offer, many of them with hair as golden as a shiny, unspent coin. He had believed he was weary of northern girls, but suddenly he felt less certain. In fact, Morgan was beginning to look forward to conversing with some of the duke’s young female subjects.
My subjects too, some day, he thought suddenly. When I am king. It was a strange but interesting thing to consider.
“There you are, my prince!” Sir Porto rode up beside him. The old knight had a scarf wrapped around his throat and lower face, as if he had ridden through a howling blizzard. “It is good to be here, yes? I have not seen the place for many years—not since the days after the siege, when we came this way with Duke Isgrimnur.”
“And I have heard that story so many times I could tell it myself and be no less truthful than you,” said Morgan. “More so, probably, since according to Astrian half your tale is invented and the rest is exaggeration.”