Isgrimnur waited a few moments after Simon finished, letting some of the youth’s anger pass. “But don’t you see,” the duke said gently, “it doesn’t matter whether it changes anything or not. As I said, I don’t think it really matters much if it’s true or not. Dror’s red mallet, Simon, Prester John’s story was a myth—a lie! I’ve had to struggle with that discovery myself in the last few days. But does it make him any less a king? People need to believe something whether you want them to or not. If you don’t give them things to believe, they will make things up.
“Right now they are frightened of the future. Most of the world we know is in a shambles, Simon. And the survivors are wary of Miriamele because of who she is and because of uncertainty about what she’s done—and because she’s a young woman, to speak bluntly. The barons want a man, someone strong but not too strong, and they want no civil wars over a reigning queen’s choice of husbands.” Isgrimnur reached out to touch Simon’s arm, but decided against it and drew his hand back. “Listen to me. The people who followed Josua love you, Simon, almost as much as they loved the prince. More in some ways, perhaps. You know and I know that what blood flows in you makes no difference—it’s all red. But your people need to believe in something, and they are cold and hurting and homeless.”
Simon stared at him. Isgrimnur could not help feeling the force of the young man’s rage. He had grown indeed. He would be a formidable man—no, he was so already.
“And for such tricks you would have me betray Miriamele?” Simon demanded.
“Not betray,” Isgrimnur said. “I will give you a few days to think about it, then I will go and put it to her myself. We will bury our dead tomorrow, and the people will see us all together. That will be enough for now.” The duke shook his head. “I’m not going to lie to her, Simon—that’s not my way—but I wanted you to have a chance to hear me first.” He suddenly felt immensely sorry for the young man.
He probably thought he would have a chance to lick his wounds in peace—and he’s got plenty of them. We all do.
“Think about it, Simon. We need you—all of us. It will be hard enough for me to pull my own dukedom together, not to mention what will happen to young Varellan, orphaned in Nabban, and whoever still remains in Hernystir. We need at least the appearance of the High King’s Ward again, and someone the people trust sitting on the throne at the Hayholt.”
He rose from the low stair, trying not to show how much his back hurt, bowed stiffly to Simon—which in itself was an odd sensation—and stumped away across the throne room, leaving the rest of the circle in silence. He could feel Simon’s eyes on his back.
God help me, Isgrimnur thought as he emerged into the twilight. I need a rest. A long rest.
He looked up from the fire at the sound of footsteps. “Binabik?”
She moved forward into the light. Despite the cool spring night and the patches of still unmelted snow, her feet were bare. Her cloak fluttered in the breeze that swept down the hillside from the Hayholt.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said.
For a moment Simon hesitated. He had not expected anyone, least of all her. After the day-long memorial for Josua, Camaris, Isorn, and the other dead, Binabik had gone off to spend the evening with Strangyeard and Tiamak, leaving Simon alone to sit before his tent and think. Her arrival seemed a thing he might have dreamed while staring into the campfire.
“Miriamele.” He clambered awkwardly to his feet. “Princess. Sit down, please.” He gestured to a stone near the fire.
She sat, drawing her cloak close around her. “Are you well?” she asked at last.
“I’m ...” He paused. “I don’t know. Things are strange.”
She nodded. “It’s hard to believe it’s finished. It’s hard to believe they’re all gone forever.”
He moved uncomfortably, not certain if she spoke of friends or enemies. “There are still lots of things to be done. People are scattered, the world has been turned upside-down....” Simon waved his hand vaguely. “There’s lots to do.”
Miriamele leaned forward, stretching her hands toward the fire. Simon watched the light play across her delicate features and felt his heart clutch hopelessly. All the royal blood in the world might run in his veins, rivers of it, but it did not matter if she did not care for him. During all of today’s rites for the fallen, she had not once met his eyes. Even their friendship seemed to have faded.
It would serve her right if I let them force me to take the throne. He turned away to stare at the flames, feeling low and mean-spirited. But it is hers by right. She was Prester John’s granddaughter. What difference did it make that some ancestor of Simon’s had been king two centuries ago?
“I killed him, Simon,” she said abruptly. “I traveled all that way to speak to him, to try to let him know I understood ... but instead I killed him.” There was devastation in her words. “Killed him!”
Simon searched frantically for something to say. “You saved us all, Miriamele.”
“He was a good man, Simon. Loud and short-tempered, perhaps, but he was ... before my mother ...” She blinked her eyes rapidly. “My own father!”
“You had no other choice.” Simon ached to see her in such pain. “There was nothing else you could have done, Miri. You saved us.”
“He knew me at the end. May God help me, Simon, I think he wanted me to do it. I looked at him ... and he was so unhappy. He was in so much pain!” She rubbed at her face with her cloak. “I will not cry,” she said harshly. “I am so weary of crying!”
The wind grew stronger, sighing through the grass.
“And sweet Uncle Josua!” she said, more quietly now, but with a core of urgency. “Gone, like everyone else. Gone. All my family gone. And poor, tormented Camaris. Ah, God. What kind of a world is this?” Her shoulders were heaving. Simon reached out and awkwardly took her hand. She did not try to pull away, as he felt sure she would. Instead, they sat in silence except for the crackling of the fire. “And C-Cadrach, too,” she murmured at last. “Oh, Merciful Elysia, in some ways he is the worst. He wanted only to die, but he waited for me ... for us. He stayed, despite all that had happened, despite all the terrible things I said to him.” She lowered her head, staring at the ground. Her voice was painfully raw. “In his way, he loved me. That was cruel of him, wasn’t it?”
Simon shook his head. There was nothing to say.
She suddenly turned to him, eyes wide. “Let’s go away! We can take the horses and be half a dozen leagues from here by morning. I don’t want to be a queen!” She squeezed his hand. “Oh, please don’t leave me!”
“Go away? Where? And why would I leave you?” Simon felt his heart speed. It was hard to think, hard to believe he had truly understood her. “Miriamele, what are you talking about?”
“Curse you, Simon! Are you really as foolish as people used to think you were?” She now grasped his hand in both of hers; tears gleamed on her cheeks. “I don’t care if you were a kitchen boy. I don’t care that your father was a fisherman. I only want you, Simon. Oh, do you think I’m an idiot? I am an idiot, I suppose.” Her laugh had a touch of wildness to it. She let go of his hand for a moment to wipe at her eyes again. “I’ve been brooding about this ever since the tower fell. I can’t stand it! Uncle Isgrimnur and the others, they’re going to make me take the throne, I know they will. And I’ll go back to being the old Miriamele again, except this time it will be a thousand, thousand times worse! It will be a prison. And then I’ll have to marry some other Fengbald—just because he’s dead doesn’t mean there aren’t a hundred more just like him—and I’ll never have another adventure, or be free, or do what I want to ... and you’ll go away, Simon! I’ll lose you! The only one I really care about.”
He stood, then pulled her up from the stone so he could put his arms around her. They were both shaking, and for a little time all he could do was grapple her to him and hang on, as though the wind might sweep her away.
“I’ve loved you so long, Miriamele.” He
could not keep his voice steady.
“You frighten me. You don’t know how you frighten me.” Her voice was muffled against his chest. “I don’t know what you see when you look at me. But please don’t go away,” she said urgently. “Whatever happens, don’t go away.”
“I won’t.” He leaned back so he could see her. Her eyes were bright, fresh tears trembling on the lower lashes. His own eyes were blurring as well. He laughed; his voice cracked. “I won’t leave you. I promised I wouldn‘t, don’t you remember?”
“Sir Seoman. My Simon. You are my love.” She sucked in her breath. “How did it happen?”
He leaned forward, pressing his mouth against hers, and as they clung to each other the starry sky seemed to spin around the place where they stood. Simon’s hands moved beneath her cloak and he ran his fingers down the long muscles of her back. Miriamele shuddered and pulled him closer, rubbing her damp face against his neck.
Feeling the length of her pressed against him filled Simon with a kind of drunken, joyous madness. With his arms still locked around her, he took a few staggering steps toward the tent. He tasted the salt of her tears and covered her eyes and cheeks and lips with kisses as her hair swirled around him and stuck to his damp face.
Inside the tent, hidden from the prying stars, they wrapped themselves tightly around each other, clutching, drowning together. The wind plucked at the tent cloth, the only sound beside the rustle of clothes and the urgent hiss of their breathing.
For a moment the wind tugged the tent door open. In the thin starlight, her skin was pale as ivory, so smooth and warm beneath his fingers that he could not imagine ever wanting to touch anything else. His hand slid across the curve of her breast and ran down her hip. He felt something catch inside him, something almost like terror, but sweet, so sweet. She held his face between her hands and drank his breath, murmuring wordlessly all the while, gasping quietly as his mouth moved dbwn her neck and onto the delicate arch of her collarbone.
He pulled her closer, wanting to devour her, wanting to be devoured. His eyes overspilled with tears.
“I’ve loved you so long,” he whispered.
Simon awakened slowly. He felt heavy, his body warm and boneless. Miriamele’s head nestled in the hollow of his shoulder, her hair pressed softly against his cheek and neck. Her slender limbs were wrapped around him, one arm splayed across his chest, the fingers tickling beneath his chin.
He pulled her nearer. She murmured sleepily and rubbed her head against him.
The tent flap rustled. A silhouette, a slightly darker spot against the night sky, appeared in the gap.
“Simon?” someone whispered.
Heart pounding, suddenly ashamed for the princess, Simon tried to sit up. Miriamele made an unhappy sound as he slid her arm lower.
“Binabik?” he asked. “Is that you?”
The dark shape pushed in, letting the flap fall shut behind.
“Quiet. I am about to light a candle. Say nothing.”
There was a muted clinking as flint met steel, then a tiny glow sprang up in the grass near the tent door. A moment later a flame bobbed at the end of a wick and soft candlelight filled the tent. Miriamele made a groggy noise of protest and buried her face deeper in Simon’s neck. He gaped in astonishment.
Josua’s thin face hovered above the candle.
“The grave cannot hold me,” said the prince, smiling.
34
Leavetaking
Simon’s heart thumped.
“Prince Josua... ?”
“Quietly, lad.” Josua leaned forward. His eyes widened for a moment as he saw the head pillowed on Simon’s chest, but then his smile returned. “Ah. Bless you both. Make her marry you, Simon—not that it will take much coaxing, I think. She will make a splendid queen with you to help her.”
Simon shook his head in amazement. “But ... but you ... surely ...” He stopped and took a breath. “You’re dead—or everyone thinks you are!”
Josua seated himself, holding the candle low so that the gleam was mostly shielded by his body. “I should be.”
“Tiamak saw your neck broken!” Simon whispered. “And no one could have gotten out of that place after we did.”
“Tiamak saw me struck,” Josua corrected him. “My neck should indeed have been broken—as it is, it still hurts fiercely. But I had my hand up.” He extended his left arm and the tattered sleeve pulled back. Elias’ manacle still hung on the swollen wrist, the metal flattened and scarred. “My brother and Pryrates forgot the gift they had given me. There is some poetry in that—or perhaps God wished to send a message about the value of suffering.” The prince’s sleeve rustled back into place. “I could barely use the hand for two days after I awoke, but the feeling is coming back now.”
Miriamele stirred and opened her eyes. For a moment they widened in dread, then she sat up, clutching the blanket to her breast. “Uncle Josua!”
Smiling crookedly, he lifted his finger to his lips. She pulled the top part of the blanket around her—leaving most of Simon exposed to the cold air—and threw her arms around him, weeping. Josua, too, seemed almost overcome. After a few moments Miriamele pulled away, then looked down at her bare shoulders and colored. She hurriedly lay back on the bedroll again and pulled the blanket up to her chin. Simon took back his half of it with gratitude.
“How can you be alive?” she said, laughing and dabbing at her eyes with the blanket’s edge.
Josua explained again, showing her the dented manacle.
“But how did you escape?” Simon was anxious now for the story to continue. “The tower fell!”
The prince’s head moved from side to side. Shadows flittered on the tent wall. “That is one thing I cannot know for certain, but my guess is that Camaris picked me up and carried me down in the first moments. I have come close to many campfires in the past nights, and heard many things. It sounds as though the confusion and smoke and flames were such that he could have gone down the stairwell ahead of you. We first came into the tower from beneath, through the tunnels; I believe he went out that way as well. All I know for certain is that I woke up beneath the stars, alone on the beach beside the Kynslagh. But who except Camaris would have had the strength to carry me so far?”
“If he went down before us, then Cadrach must have seen.” Miriamele fell silent, pondering this.
“It’s a miracle,” Simon breathed. “But why have you told no one? And what did you mean when you said Miriamele would be queen? Won’t you... ?”
“You do not understand,” the prince said quietly. There was a strange edge of merriment in his voice. “I am dead. I wish to stay that way.”
“What?”
“Just as I said. Simon, Miriamele, I was never meant to rule. It was ago r me, but I saw no other course but to try to push Elias from the throne. Now God has opened a door for me, a door that I believed forever shut. To die or to take the crown were my only choices. Now, I have been given another.”
Simon was stunned. For a long while he said nothing. Miriamele was silent, too. Josua watched them, a smile playing across his mouth.
“It is shocking, I know.” The prince turned to his niece. “But you will be a far better ruler than I ever would—as will Simon.”
“But you are John’s true heir,” Simon protested, “even more than Miriamele! And I’m just a kitchen boy you knighted! They say I’m a descendant of Saint Eahlstan, but that means nothing to me. It doesn’t make me fit to rule Erkynland or anything else.”
“I heard that tale, Simon. Isgrimnur and the others keep secrets poorly, if they ever meant to keep your heritage secret.” Josua laughed quietly. “And I was not at all surprised to hear that you are of Eahlstan Fiskerne’s blood. But as to whether that makes you more or less fit than me, Simon—you do not know all, even so. I am no more John’s heir than you are.”
“What do you mean?” Simon moved slightly so that Miriamele’s head found a more comfortable position on his breast. She was not looking at Josua now
, but up at Simon, her brow furrowed with worry or deep thought.
“Just as I said,” the prince replied. “I am not John’s son. Camaris was my father.”
Simon sucked in his breath. “Camaris... ?”
Now Miriamele did look at the prince, as startled as Simon. “What are you talking about?”
“John was old when he married my mother, Efiathe of Hernysadharc,” Josua said. “A measure of the distance in their years is that he felt no qualms about giving her a new name, Ebekah, as though she were a child.” He frowned. “What happened after that is not particularly surprising. It is one of the commonest and oldest stories in the world, although I do not doubt she loved the king and he loved her. But Camaris was her special protector, a young man, as great and fabled a hero as John. What began as a deep respect and admiration between them grew into something more.
“Elias was John’s child, but I was not. When my mother died birthing me, Camaris went mad. What could he think but that his sin had sentenced his beloved, who was also the wife of his closest friend, to death?” The prince shook his head. “His agony was such that he gave away everything he had, as one who knows he will die—and he must have felt he was dying, since every breath, every moment, was so full of pain and terrible shame. At last he took the horn Ti-tuno and went in search of the Sithi, perhaps to expiate the sin of participating in John’s persecution of them, or perhaps, like Elias, he hoped the wise immortals could help him reach his beloved beyond death. Whatever the aim of his pilgrimage, Amerasu brought him secretly to Jao é-Tinukai‘i, for reasons of her own. I have not discovered all that happened: my father was so distraught when he told me it was hard to make sense of everything.
“In any case, Amerasu met with him and took the horn back, perhaps to keep it for him, perhaps because it had belonged to her lost sons. Exactly what passed between them is still a mystery to me, but apparently whatever she told him was no comfort. My father left the forest deeps, still grieving. Soon after, when his despair finally outweighed even his terror of the sin of self-slaughter, he cast himself over the side of a ship into the Bay of Firannos. He survived somehow—he is fearfully strong, you know; that trait his blood certainly did not pass on to me!—but his wits were shadowed. He wandered through the southland, begging, living in the wilderness, subsisting on the charities of others, until he found his way at last to that Kwanitupul inn. In a way, I suppose, he knew peace for that time, despite the harshness of his life and his own poor wits. Then, after two score years, Isgrimnur found him, and soon peace was taken from him again. He awakened with the old horror still fresh in his mind, and the knowledge he had tried to murder himself added to it.”