Tiamak hid his smile. A king who apologized! No wonder he was tied to his two monarchs with bonds stronger than iron. “I will confess, it was not like you, Majesty.”
“Well, find him for me, would you?”
“In truth, I think he is just outside the tent, Majesty.”
“Oh, for the love of St. Tunath and St. Rhiap, Tiamak, would you please stop calling me ‘Majesty’ when we’re alone? You said he was nearby?”
“I’ll go see, Simon.”
The minstrel was indeed near, cowering from the brisk Marris winds in a fold of tent wall beside the doorway. He followed Tiamak back into the pavilion like a man expecting a death sentence.
“There you are,” the king said. “Come. Your name is Rinan, yes?”
The eyes, already wide, grew wider still. “Yes, Majesty.”
“I was harsh to you, Rinan. Today . . . I am not a happy man today.”
Tiamak thought that the harper, like everyone else in the royal court, knew only too well what day it was, but was wise enough to stay quiet while the king struggled to find words.
“In any case, I am sorry for it,” the king said. “Come back to me tomorrow, and I will be in a better humor for songs. But have that old scoundrel Sangfugol teach you a few lays that at least approach the truth, if not actually wrestle with it.”
“Yes, sire.”
“Go on then. You have a fine voice. Remember that music is a noble charge, even a dangerous charge, because it can pierce a man’s heart when a spear or arrow cannot.”
As the young man hurried out of the pavilion, Simon looked up at his old friend. “I suppose now I must bring back all the others and make amends to them as well?”
“I see no reason why you should,” Tiamak told him. “You have already given them all the hours since you broke your fast. I think it might be good for you to eat and rest.”
“But I have to reply to King Hugh and his damned ‘suggestions,’ as he calls them.” Simon tugged at his beard. “What is he about, Tiamak? You would think with all these nonsensical conditions, he would rather not have us come to Hernysadharc at all. Does he resent having to feed and house even this fairly small royal progress?”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not so. The Hernystiri are always finicky with their rituals.” But secretly Tiamak did not like it either. It was one thing to insist on proper arrangements, another thing to keep the High King and High Queen waiting in a field for two days over issues of ceremony that should have been settled weeks ago. After all, the king of Hernystir would not have a throne at all were it not for the High Ward that Simon and Miriamele represented. Hernystir only had a king because Miri’s grandfather, King John, had permitted it under his own overarching rule. Still, Tiamak thought, Hugh was a comparatively young king: perhaps this rudeness was nothing more than a new monarch’s inexperience. “I am certain Sir Murtach, Count Eolair, and I will have everything set to rights soon,” he said aloud.
“Well, I hope you’re right, Tiamak. Tell them we agree to everything and to send us the be-damned invitation tomorrow morning. It’s a sad errand that brings us this way in the first place, and today is a sad anniversary. It seems pointless to dicker about such things—how many banners, how high the thrones, the procession route . . .” He wagged his hand in disgust. “If Hugh wishes to make himself look important, let him. He can act like a child if he wants, but Miri and I don’t need to.”
“You may be doing the king of Hernystir a disservice,” said Tiamak mildly, but in his heart of hearts he didn’t think so. He truly didn’t think so.
“Can we swim in it, Papa?”
The black river was fast and silent. “I don’t think so, son.”
“And what’s on the other side?” the child asked.
“Nobody knows.”
It was a mixture of Simon’s dreams and memories, made partly from the time he had taken young John Josua down to Grenburn Town near the river to see the flooding. In the wake of the Storm King’s defeat the winters had grown warmer, and in the years after the fall of the tower, spring thaws had swollen the rivers of Erkynland until they overflowed their banks, turning fields on both sides of the Gleniwent into a great plain of water, with islands of floating debris that had once been houses and barns. John Josua had been nearly five years of age when Simon took him to Grenburn, and full of questions. Not that he had ever stopped being full of questions.
“Don’t cross the river, Papa,” his dream-son told him.
“I won’t.” Simon didn’t laugh, but in life he had, amused by the boy’s solemn warning. “It’s too wide, John Josua. I’m a grown man but I don’t think I could swim so far.” He pointed to the far side, a place where the fields were higher. It was farther than Simon could have shot an arrow.
“If I went across, would you come after me?” the child asked. “Or if I fell in?”
“Of course.” He remembered saying it with such certainty. “I would jump in and pull you out. Of course I would!”
But something was distracting him, some dream noise that he knew he should ignore, but it was hard not to notice the hard-edged baying of hounds. All his life since the weird white Stormspike pack had chased him, Simon had found that the noise of howling dogs chilled his blood.
“Papa?” The boy sounded farther away than he had a moment before, but Simon had turned his back on the river to look out across fields that were darkening as the sun disappeared behind the clouds. Somewhere in the distance a shape moved across the ground, but it moved like a single thing—no hunting pack, but a single hunting thing . . .
“Papa?”
So faint! And the little prince was no longer holding his hand—how had that happened? Even though it was only a dream, though Simon half-knew he was in bed and sleeping, he felt a dreadful cold terror rush through him, as if the very blood was freezing in his brains. His son was no longer beside him.
He looked around wildly but at first saw nothing. In the distance the mournful, scraping noise of the hounds grew louder. Then he saw the little head bobbing on the dark river, the small hands lifted as if to greet some friend—a false friend, a lying friend—and his heart shuddered as though it would stop. He ran, he was running, he had been running forever but still he came no closer. The clouds thickened overhead and the sunlight all but vanished. He thought he could hear a terrible, thin cry and the sound of splashing, but although he threw himself toward the place he had last seen the child, he could get no closer.
He screamed, then, and leaped, as if he could cross all that uncrossable difference by the sheer strength of his need . . . of his regret.
• • •
“Simon!”
A cool hand was on his forehead, not so much soothing him as holding him back, prisoning him. For a moment he was so maddened with terror that he reached up to strike the obstacle out of his way, then he heard her gasp, surprised by his sudden movement, and he remembered where he was.
“M-Miri?”
“A bad dream, Simon. You’re having a bad dream.” When she felt his muscles unknot, she took her hand from his head. She also had an arm around his chest, which she loosed before letting herself back down beside him in the disordered bed. “Shall I call for someone to bring you something?”
He shook his head, but of course she couldn’t see him. “No. I’ll . . .”
“Was it the same dream as last time? The dragon?”
“No. It was about John Josua when he was little. Of course—I haven’t been able to think of anything else for days.”
Simon lay staring up into the darkness for a long time. He could tell by her breathing she had not gone back to sleep either. “I dreamed of him,” he said at last. “He got away from me. I chased him but I couldn’t reach him.”
She still didn’t speak, but she put a hand against his cheek and left it there.
“Seven years gone, Miri, s
even years since that cursed fever took him, and still I can’t stop.”
She stirred. “Do you think it is any different for me? I miss him every moment!”
He could tell by her voice that she was angry, although he did not know exactly why. How could the priests say that death came as the great friend when instead it came like an army, taking what it wished and destroying peace even years after it had withdrawn? “I know, dear one. I know.”
After a while, she said, “And think—we have the ninth of Marris every year from now until the end of time. It was such a happy day once. When he was born.”
“It still should be, my dear wife. God takes everyone back, but our son gave us an heir before we lost him. He gave us a great deal.”
“An heir.” The edge in her voice was brittle. “All I want is him. All I want is John Josua. Instead we are lumbered with her for the rest of our lives.”
“You said yourself that the Widow is a small price to pay for our granddaughter, not to mention our grandson and heir.”
“I said that before Morgan became a young man.”
“Hah!” Simon wasn’t actually amused, but it was better than cursing. “Scarcely a man yet.”
Miriamele took a careful breath before speaking. “Our grandson is seventeen years old. Much the same age that you were when we were first wed. Man enough to be taking his fill of the ladies. Man enough to spend his days drinking and dicing and doing whatever takes his fancy. You did not do the same at that age!”
“I was washing dishes, and peeling potatoes and onions, and sweeping the castle, my dear—but not by choice. And then I fought for Josua—but that was not really by choice, either.”
“Still. With ne’er-do-well companions like the ones he has, how will Morgan grow? He will bend to their shape.”
“He will grow out of this foolishness, Miri. He must.” But Simon didn’t entirely believe it. Their living grandson sometimes seemed as lost to him as the son who had been swept away into the black river of death.
After another silent time in the dark, she said, “And I miss our little one, too. I mean our granddaughter.” Miriamele put her arm across her husband’s belly, moving closer. He could feel the tightness in her muscles. “I wish we hadn’t left her home. Do you think she’s being good for Rhona?”
“Never.” He actually laughed a little. “You worry too much, my love. You know we could not bring Lillia. It’s still winter in Rimmersgard and the air will be full of ice and fever. We brought the grandchild who would benefit from being with us.”
“Benefit. How could anyone who has already lost a parent benefit from watching a good old man die?”
“Prince Morgan needs to learn that he is not just himself. He is the hope of many people.” Simon felt sleep pulling at him again, finally. “As are you and I, my wife.” He meant it kindly, but he felt her stiffen again. “I must sleep. You, too. Don’t lie there and fret, Miri. Come closer—put your head on my chest. There.” Sometimes, especially when she was unhappy, he missed her badly, even though she was only a short distance away.
Just as she began to settle her head on his chest, she stiffened. “His grave!” she whispered. “We didn’t . . .”
Simon stroked her hair. “We did. Or at least Pasevalles promised in his last letter that he would take flowers, and also that he would make certain Archbishop Gervis performs John Josua’s mansa.”
“Ah.” He felt her stiff muscles loosen. “Pasevalles is a good man. We’re lucky to have him.”
“We are indeed. Now we should both sleep, Miri. It will be a busy day tomorrow.”
“Why? Is Hugh finally going to let us in?”
“He’d better. I’m losing my patience.”
“I never liked him. Not from the first.”
“Yes, but you don’t like many people at the first, dear one.” He let his head roll sideways until it touched hers.
“That’s not true. I used to.” She pushed a little closer. The wind was rising again, making the tent ropes hum outside. “I had more love in me, I think. Sometimes now I fear I have used it all.”
“Except for me and your grandchildren, yes?”
She waited an instant too long for Simon’s liking. “Of course,” she said. “Of course.” But this anniversary had always been blighted since their son had died. Small wonder that she was bitter.
Somewhere during the wind’s song, Simon fell asleep again.
2
The Finest Tent on the Frostmarch
He had been following his father for a long time, it seemed, although he did not remember when or where they had begun. The sky had grown dark and the familiar tall shape was only a shadow in front of him now, sometimes barely visible as the path twisted through the deepening twilight. He wished he wasn’t too old to hold his father’s hand. Or was he?
He did not know how old he was.
“Papa, wait!” he cried.
His father said something, but Morgan couldn’t understand him. Something seemed to be muffling his father’s voice, doors or distance or simply distraction. He hurried after, out of breath, short legs aching, trying not to notice the sounds in the trees that seemed to follow him, the strange voices hooting as softly as the ghosts of doves. Where was this place? How had they come here? So many trees! Were they in the forest of Grandfather’s stories, that dark, unknowable place full of odd sounds and watching eyes?
“Papa?” He raised his voice almost to a scream. “Where are you? Wait for me!”
The trees were everywhere and the moonlight was so faint that he could hardly see the path. As he hurried around each bend in pursuit of his father’s ever-dwindling figure the roots seemed to writhe in the mud beneath his feet like moon-silvery snakes, grabbing at him and tripping him. Several times he stumbled and nearly fell, but forced himself on. The entire forest seemed to be twisting around him now, the trees spinning and drooping like exhausted dancers. He stopped to listen, but heard only the ghastly, breathless hoots from above.
“Papa! Where did you go? Come back!”
He thought he heard his father’s measured voice float back to him from somewhere far ahead, but he could not tell if he was saying “I’m here!” or “I fear . . . !”
But fathers were never afraid. They stayed with you. They protected you. They weren’t afraid themselves.
“Papa?”
The path was gone. He could feel the roots moving beneath his feet as the branches reached down to enfold him and smother the light.
“Papa? Don’t leave me!”
He was alone—abandoned and crying. He was just another orphan, a stray.
“Papa!”
No answer. Never an answer. He fought to get free, but the trees still clung.
It was the same every time . . .
• • •
Morgan, Prince of Erkynland and heir to the High Throne of Prester John’s empire, tumbled off his cot and onto the ground, fighting with the cloak that tangled him. Half lost in the dream-forest, he lay for long moments on the damp rugs, his heart thundering in his chest. At last he sat up, trying to make sense of where he was and what had happened. He was cold even with the blanket still clinging to his neck like a spurned lover, and something nearby was making a nasty, rasping noise. Morgan peered worriedly into the darkness, but after a moment realized the sound was only the snoring of his squire, Melkin.
Well, praise be to God that somebody can sleep.
Memory came slouching back. He was on the royal progress with his grandfather and grandmother. He and Melkin were in his tent in the middle of some field outside Hernysadharc, the capital, and it was cold because spring was still a fortnight away. Tonight there had been a meal and too much talk. Also too much wine, although now he was wishing he had drunk more of it—a great deal more, to chase the chill from his bones, the deep, feverish body-cold of another foul dream.
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His eyes were wet, he realized, his cheeks damp. He’d been crying in his sleep.
Papa. I couldn’t catch up to him . . . There seemed to be a hole where his heart should be, as though the wind were blowing right through him. Angry, he wiped his face with his sleeve.
Weeping like a child. Idiot! Coward! What if someone saw me?
Wine was what he needed. Morgan knew from experience that a large cup of sour, reliable red would warm the cold hole in his vitals and push the dream out of his thoughts. But he had no wine. He had drunk all that had been offered while he dined with the king and queen, but it hadn’t been enough to give him a dreamless night.
For a moment he considered simply trying to go back to sleep. The wind was blowing chill outside, and the camp was full of people who would gladly scurry to his grandparents with the tale if they saw him out staggering around at this hour of the night. But the memory of that endless forest track, of the horror of never being able to catch up to his father, was too much.
Wine. Yes, it would be good to hear the foolish arguments of his friends, an ordinary, reassuring thing. And it would be even better to be drunk again, drunk enough this time that he would not hear the voices in the forest, would not feel the chill of being left behind, perhaps would not even dream.
Morgan dragged himself to his feet and pushed his way out of the tent in search of accommodating oblivion. He had a good idea of where to look.
No royal proclamation or official announcement of any kind designated the tent shared by the Nabbanai knights Sir Astrian and Sir Olveris as the home of the makeshift tavern. The presence of seasoned drinker Sir Porto and a reasonably constant supply of wine was enough.
The sprawling royal camp was dark, but a pair of lanterns made the tent seem nearly festive. Old Sir Porto stared down into his cup and nodded. “Bless us when we are weak, O Lord,” he said in his most doleful tones. “And save some blessings, if You please, because soon we will be weak again.” He took a long swallow, then wiped his damp mouth and scruffy white beard with the back of his hand. “That is the last,” he said. “God be kind, what I wouldn’t give for a little of that red stuff from Onestris they keep back at the Maid. A man’s vintage, that is. This . . . this grape water is scarcely old enough to know of the existence of sin.”