“Squeezing every last drop out of the teat, Lord Mayor?” the queen asked him, but quietly, so that only the mayor, the king, and the archbishop heard her.
The tall buildings on either side of Main Row now blocked the sun, and the returning royal party rode down a long corridor of shadow, horses’ hooves squelching in the mud. The soldiers in front of them had taken off their helmets to show their faces as they waved to the crowds on either side, many of them friends and loved ones who had not seen them since the beginning of winter.
“Look at them all,” Miriamele said. For a moment Simon thought she was talking about the unhelmeted soldiers, but then realized she meant the cheering residents of Erchester. Main Row had opened up into the wide thoroughfare just before the Nearulagh Gate and the entrance to the Hayholt. “Half of them have never known anything else but peace. Or you and I as their monarchs.”
“But surely that is good.” His own mood had been sorrowful all day, but his wife’s thoughts seemed even darker, grim enough to worry him. “That’s what we worked for. To give them peace and help keep them fed. That’s good, Miri.”
“It has been. Perhaps it won’t be from now on.”
He pursed his lips and kept silent. Simon had learned early in his marriage that there were times when he could only make things worse. She’s never forgotten what her father did to these people and this land, he thought. She’s never forgotten her father at all, more’s the pity.
For a moment he thought of King Elias back in his brief heyday, riding through this same gate on the way to his coronation, beneath these same wonderful, detailed carvings of Prester John’s century-old victory over Adrivis, the last imperator of Nabban. The decline of the ancient southern empire had begun long before, but after John’s victory, Nabban, once the master of the world, had become merely a part of John’s own empire—a domain stretching from the islands in the warm southern ocean to the freezing northlands of Rimmersgard. And when John had died at last in great old age, and Miriamele’s father, the king’s handsome, brave son Elias had taken the throne in peaceful succession, it had briefly seemed a great empire in truth, an empire of peace and plenty—and permanence.
But only a scant year later Erchester had become a haunted place, with men and women scuttling like beetles from one place of dubious shelter to another, houses collapsed under the weight of snow and neglect, and strange shadows walking the empty streets by night. The Hayholt and its proud towers had become something even more frightening, a warren of whispered secrets and heart-rending screams that could not be ignored but were never investigated, as the castle’s dwindling population hid behind locked doors after sundown.
In the end, Miriamele had been forced to kill her own father. It was to save him as much as to stop him, and had quite possibly saved them all, but she never spoke of it, and Simon tried never to mention it.
But it will never be that way again—we won’t let it. Miri must know that. Yes, bad things will still happen—that’s the lot of mortal man—but Miri and I, we are meant to be the happily-afterward.
The king found himself unconvincing.
? ? ?
If Erchester was a broil of banners and cheering throngs, the royal company found a slightly more reserved greeting in the castle itself, although the courtiers and servants were clearly delighted to see their monarchs returned. Simon, Miriamele, and the other nobles dismounted in the Outer Bailey and most of the troops dispersed from there to the barracks, although the royal guard still surrounded the king and queen. Simon did his best to look pleased and grateful as functionary after functionary came forward to greet the royal couple and welcome them home.
The last of them, holding the Hayholt’s ceremonial keys, was Lord Chancellor Pasevalles himself. He knelt before them and presented the box and its shiny contents, but did not immediately rise. His straw-colored hair still showed no gray, Simon noted with a touch of envy, since Pasevalles was only a few years younger.
“I fear we have much to discuss,” he told them now. “I know Your Majesties are both weary—”
“No, you are right, Lord Chancellor,” Simon said, and Miri nodded. “There are things you must know immediately as well. In fact, once we eat and take a short rest, the queen and I will need you in the Great Hall when the clock strikes two. Count Eolair and Duke Osric and the others of the Inner Council will be wanted as well. Oh, and make sure Prince Morgan is there too, please.”
“Of course, Majesty.” But Pasevalles looked ill-at-ease.
“What’s wrong, Lord Chancellor?” Miri asked.
“Just . . . many things have happened in your absence.” He leaned forward and spoke quietly, although the nearest of the courtiers stood some distance away. “We have received what seems to be an envoy from the Sithi.”
“From Jiriki and Aditu? We have?” Simon was astonished, and his heart seemed to swell in his chest—this was good news indeed. “Excellent! Where is he? Miri, did you hear?”
“I heard.” But the queen was looking at the Lord Chancellor’s face, and saw there what Simon had not noticed. “But there is more, is there not? You said ‘seems’.”
Pasevalles nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty. The envoy is not a he, but a she. And somebody tried to kill her. Whether they succeeded still remains to be seen, but she is in grim condition.”
With the return of the royal party, the stables hosted a bustling, noisy throng of horses, grooms, stable boys, muckers, and of course several dozen squires, each watching jealously over his master’s or mistress’s prize mount. The returning animals blew and nickered loudly as they were led to their stalls, as though greeting all the friends and relatives they had left behind.
In other circumstances, especially after the morning’s long ride, Morgan would have happily let his own squire Melkin take charge of Cavan, but the gelding had begun to limp during the last part of the journey through Erchester, and Morgan wanted to make sure that he would be looked after properly. He saw one of the older grooms and beckoned him over.
“Yes, Highness? And welcome back home, Prince Morgan.”
“Here now, Cavan, settle.” Morgan patted the horse’s neck. “He’s favoring his right front foot. I think there might be a small stone under his shoe, but I couldn’t find it.”
“I’ll have the farrier see to him directly, Your Highness,” the groom said, bowing and taking the reins. “And we’ve got plenty of good, sweet summer grass for him as well, don’t you worry.”
As Morgan watched the groom lead his palfrey off through the surge of bandy-legged men, scurrying boys, and snorting horses, something struck him on the back of the legs so hard that his knees almost buckled, and a pair of arms snaked around his waist and squeezed. A brief instant of surprised panic vanished at the sound of a familiar voice.
“I’m so angry at you! You said you would write me letters, and you didn’t!”
He tried to reach back to pry his sister loose, but she was already scrambling around to the front and had begun clutching at his tunic and stamping on his feet as though she meant to climb him like a tree.
“Hold, hold!” he laughed. “I did write to you.” He bent down and picked her up and embraced her. “You’re heavier. Have you been sneaking sweetmeats out of the kitchen? Wasn’t anyone watching over you?” He held her away from him, although her vigorous wriggling made it difficult to keep his grip. It was more than a little shocking to see that she looked older, too, her face clearly longer and thinner, even as she stretched it in a grimace. “And you’ve lost a tooth, Lil! You look like an old beggar woman!”
She tried to slap his head but he avoided the blow. “You wrote one letter, Morgan,” she said, “and that was so long ago—in Feyever-month! I know because I got it just after Candlemansa. Grandma and Grandpa sent me lots of letters in the royal post, and Uncle Timo too, but you only sent that one!” Lillia stared at him with the fiercest of scowls, then suddenly she brightened. “Did you know there’s a Sither here in the castle? She’s nearly dead but Aunt Tia-Lia said she’s a real fairy.”
He had no idea what his sister was talking about, and could not help laughing. “I missed you too. I’m sorry I didn’t write more.” He embraced her and kissed her cheek, but she still struggled. “Now I need something to eat, and badly. Can you help me with that?”
“Silly.” She gave him a look that contained as much disgust as love, and in that instant Morgan felt himself to be truly home. “You don’t need help. Someone will get it for you. You’re a prince.”
“Ah, you’re right. I forgot. Very well, then I command you to go and find me something so I can break my fast.”
She shook her head. “That’s silly, too. I’m a princess. I don’t have to.”