“But why?” Count Rowson demanded. “I can’t keep all this straight, but surely an attack by a dozen or so bloody White Foxes and a single giant doesn’t signify the end of the world. Why do you all look like the sky is about to tumble on our heads? Why all this nonsense about leagues and scrollbringers and such?”
“Because of what the message from this Jarnulf says, my lord.” Count Eolair had been quiet for a long time, and even Miri found his sudden words a bit startling. “The man claims connection to the League, or implies it, and says that the queen of the Norns is awake and seeking vengeance against us. But we are dealing with far more than words! Here is something else we have not told you yet—something important we heard from an old friend and his wife.” A few murmured conversations faltered and fell into silence. Eolair looked to the king and queen for permission. The royal pair conferred with silent glances, then Miriamele nodded. “Thank you, Majesties,” Eolair said, then turned back to the council. “Our old ally Sludig of Engby and his wife discovered that the White Foxes are again crossing their land in eastern Rimmersgard after decades of absence, and that the Norns also seem to be at war with their Sithi kin. Now, consider that the Norns also attacked soldiers of the High Ward—the king’s and queen’s own soldiers!—only a short distance from the borders of Erkynland itself, when they could easily have hidden from us instead. This is not one small exception to the ordinary, but two great ones, and they have come at much the same time. Are these not reasons to be concerned, my lord?” It was rare to see Eolair angry, but the lord steward was not hiding his unhappiness very successfully. “The king and queen both fought against the Norns in the Storm King’s War. So did I. We saw at first hand what they can do—and what they almost did. King Seoman and Queen Miriamele saw this very castle ablaze with unreal fire and cast back hundreds of years into the past. Is that not true, Majesties?”
Simon nodded. “Dear God, yes. It sounds like a song or a tale but it’s all true. We saw it.”
“And that is why we are concerned, good Lord Rowson,” Eolair finished. “If we had been only a small bit less fortunate in our other struggles with the Norns, we would none of us be here today to have this council meeting.”
Even Rowson’s bluster was stilled by Eolair’s hard tone. Miriamele guessed that some of the count’s unhappiness came from the terrible timing, this new threat that had pulled him away from the country of his birth and of his heart, Hernystir.
“What then are we to do?” Duke Osric asked. “Even if everything you fear is true, Lord Steward, how are we to act on such vague warnings? If the fairies come against us in the open we can fight them, but unless that happens they can hide inside their mountain until doomsday, and we cannot reach them, as Isgrimnur found out all those years ago.”
Eolair looked to the king and queen. Simon was lost in thought, so Miriamele nodded and said, “We do not plan to act on anything yet, except to acknowledge that we need to know more, and that these are troubling signs. Certainly with most of the trouble so far confined to the north, it seems too early to call for more soldiers, although it would be wise to make certain those soldiers will be ready when we need them.” She paused, considering. “Tiamak—and Binabik, too, if he will be so kind while he is our guest—should do their best to discover more about this Black Rimmersman Jarnulf. Perhaps more importantly, they will see if they can find the meaning of his words about ‘witchwood crown.’ We know too well what witchwood is—the Norns use it in their swords and armor—but we have never heard of any ‘crown’ made from it. Still, whatever it might be, if Utuk’ku wants it, it almost certainly means nothing good for us. And that must be all for now, I think, because the rest of us have much to do simply dealing with the problems that already beset us, especially since the king and I have been absent from the Hayholt for long months.” She turned to Simon. “Is there anything else to be said?”
Simon started. “Sorry, my love. I was just thinking about Gelo? and Morgenes. God in His heaven, what I would not give to have those two wise ones with us now—” He trailed off.
“We do not know these people, my king,” Archbishop Gervis said after waiting a long moment for Simon to finish.
“No,” he said, and Miriamele could hear the sadness in Simon’s voice that he did not let his face show. “No, you don’t.”
He felt things deep in his bones, her husband.
27
Noontide at The Quarely Maid
It was a relief for Morgan to be back in his favorite place again, the seat of his empire, the secure heart of his principality; still, and for reasons that he couldn’t quite understand, he was not enjoying it the way he had imagined he would.
The window by the door was open. It was a matter for the philosophers whether the stink of the hot day was drifting into the tavern or the stink of the tavern was drifting out. All Morgan knew was that it was hideously warm, and that after months on the road, mostly in open wilderness, the odor of civilization was hard to ignore. The street outside was still littered with the remnants of yesterday’s procession, when he had ridden in with his grandparents and the rest of the royal company. The people had cheered for him, but not in the same way they cheered for the king and queen.
I’ll wager they’re already telling tales about me, he thought. Saying that I hid in the camp back on the Frostmarch while others fought the Norns—even my old grandfather fought! As if I didn’t try to join the soldiers. Grandmother even posted a guard to keep me from helping.
“If you are feeling glum, Highness,” Sir Astrian remarked, “—as the sour look on your face suggests—then I recommend you dedicate yourself to a life of service to others, thus redeeming yourself. And another stoup of ale for all would be a fine first step in your new life.”
“I wouldn’t mind a little more ale, either,” said Sir Porto. “But it hardly seems proper to send the prince after it.” He frowned and considered. “Olveris, you go.”
Sir Olveris only raised one eyebrow and stared at Porto down his long, thin nose.
“Since no one here has the initiative to do what must be done,” said Astrian, “I will essay the labor that the rest of you shirk.” He turned toward the far side of the room, where the taverner was berating the potboy. “Hatcher! Another pot for the prince’s table!”
The landlord looked at him for a moment, appearing something less than delighted, then returned to saying things about the potboy’s ancestry that seemed clearly fanciful even to Morgan in his only slightly inebriated state.
“Is he going to bring some?” Porto asked at last.
“To deny service to the heir-apparent is to flout the High Ward itself,” said Astrian. “Society itself would founder and Erkynland would soon be overrun by barbarian hordes. And barbarian hordes are notably unwilling to pay tavern owners for ale that they can take more easily by force of arms. Of course Hatcher will bring some.”
“When we were in the north,” said Olveris, “I kept hoping Astrian would freeze. I was curious to see if, when he finally thawed, he’d just continue on with whatever he’d been saying.”
“Listen to you, Olveris.” Astrian gave him a look of disgust. “Everything I say glitters with wisdom—the more I speak, the brighter the day for everyone. You, you speak ten words in two years and none of them are worth waiting for.”
Morgan was only half listening; something was gnawing at him, like a mouse in the wall of a house.
It’s those damned trolls, he thought. Before Snenneq dragged me up onto that mountain in the middle of the night, I was splendid. Everything was splendid. Now, I feel like I was in love and the girl ran off with another man.
“What troubles you, Highness?” said Astrian. “Honesty compels me to say that you have the face of a constipated martyr.”
Morgan did not want to be poked just now, although most times he welcomed it. But something had changed and he felt he had to puzzle out what it was. It was ruining his appreciation of a day’s drinking, for one thing. “Nothing. Nothing troubles me.”
“Bravely said and bravely lied, my prince. Come, you must tell us. What more sympathetic ears could you find than mine and Olveris’s, although his are rather high, and he will be forced to bend down to hear you.”
“What of me?” Porto sounded as querulous as a child in need of a nap. “Are my ears not sympathetic?”
“Only the Lord God himself could guess what those great flaps are meant for,” said Astrian. “Listening? No, more likely to capture the wind and sail to Harcha.”
“I grow my hair long to hide them,” said Porto sadly. “It’s true, they are large.”
“Large? You might as well call the great, rolling ocean ‘slightly wet.’ You might as well call a lion a stray cat!”
Hatcher, the taverner, appeared, bowing to Morgan. He held a filthy cloth in his hands and wrung it continually in his fingers as he spoke, like a pious man telling his station beads.