“But we survived those lands when we were much the same age,” he pointed out. “In even more dangerous days. And whatever you may think of me now, I would have grown to be much more foolish had I not spent that year and more fighting for my life and seeing unlikely things. The lessons I learned were hard, painful, but they serve me still.”
“I know. And God Himself knows that Morgan needs experience beyond dodging his debts and cozening tavern girls. But you know you also had luck, and Morgan may not. Oh, my husband, I could not bear it if something happened to him! I don’t think I could live if we lost him as we lost his father.”
“I should tell you that is blasphemy,” Simon said after a little while. “That we never truly lose anyone—that John Josua’s soul watches us from Heaven, and that we will all meet again. And I do believe it. But a lifetime is a very long time to wait for a reunion.”
“Too long. Far, far too long.”
Again they fell silent, or mostly so.
“Are you crying?” he asked at last.
“A little. I do when I think of him. It can’t be helped.”
Simon took a breath. It felt as if he had something to say that was so important it would change everything, like a magic word from an old story but also as ordinary as wishing someone good day. “I don’t want to ever lose you, Miriamele. That’s another reason I’m afraid.”
“The world is a frightening place, husband.” He could almost hear her wiping her eyes, beginning to restore the serene, queenly face she showed to the court and, usually, even to their close friends. “Did we imagine that once we found each other, once the Storm King was thwarted, that nothing bad could ever happen again? Instead we still have war and murder, sickness and death, danger to all we love. But we of all people must go on, no matter what threatens. We are the High Queen and the High King, so we have no choice. We must be brave.”
“I do not like those words,” he said. “We must be brave. Every time I’ve heard them, it meant something bad was about to happen.”
“We can only have what we have, we can only know what we know,” she said. “Come here, Simon. Hold me and let me hold you.”
Nothing had been resolved. Nothing could be resolved until all this was over and they were safe together. Possibly that could never be, on this side of the grave. But the fight was ended, at least for now, and they clung to each other in the dark.
Sometimes, thought Simon, that really is all we can do.
Lord Chamberlain Jeremias and his minions had been busy as bees in flowering spring, and the great throne room was almost unrecognizable. Great, swooping banners billowed between the ancient pennants, and a canopied entranceway with scalloped edges of white and gold had been built over the inside of the hall’s main door, so that the lector’s handpicked spokesman would walk to the table in a splendor similar to that of the Sancellan Aedonitis.
When Miriamele found her husband, he was with Jeremias, who was excitedly describing the other preparations: the cleaning of the best silver for the evening’s state dinner, the aromatic spices in the hand-bowls, and the special meal now being prepared, whose highlight was an immense lamprey pie made in the shape of the Hayholt itself.
“A bit of a strange message,” Miriamele said as the king’s childhood friend rhapsodized over the Kynslagh full of gravy and the tiny oyster shell boats. “Are we inviting Mother Church to swallow us?”
The Lord Chamberlain looked confused. Simon laughed, despite trying not to. “Don’t be cruel, wife. It sounds splendid, Jeremias. Escritor Auxis cannot fail to be impressed and honored.”
“I hope so.” Jeremias gave Miriamele a look that was almost a challenge. “It is to honor the church we have done all this, not just the escritor, although he is himself a famous and godly man.” Jeremias ostentatiously made the sign of the Tree. “We are lucky that the Sacred Father sent him.”
It was all the queen could do not to make a face. Jeremias was very pious, as Miriamele considered herself to be, but somehow his fervor always made her feel a little sour. As for Escritor Auxis, Jeremias was right when he called him famous—many thought that despite his comparative youth, he was the most likely to succeed the present Lector—but she was not as certain about the godly part. The escritor’s reputation for hard bargaining and high-handedness outstripped anything known of his piety.
When the Lord Chamberlain had shot off to see to some other details, Miriamele took her husband by the arm. “Shall we go in?”
“I suppose.” With Jeremias and his excitement now gone from the anteroom, the king seemed to sag. “I have told you, I think, that I do not approve of any of this?”
“A dozen times, at least. And you may tell me again if you wish—but not in front of the lector’s messenger. Is that agreed?”
He sighed. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Don’t play the scolded kitchen boy with me, Seoman Snowlock. I know you too well. You get your way far more often than you deserve. Show some good grace that, for once, I have won the toss.”
“It wasn’t a toss. That would have been fair. You just told me what we were going to do.”
She pulled herself closer. “But you know I am right. Now, shall we go in?”
He made a growling noise that she decided to take for assent.
Miriamele had to admit that Jeremias and his legion of helpers had done a fine job. The great chamber hadn’t looked so clean in years, perhaps since Queen Inahwen’s visit with young Prince Hugh more than ten years ago. How does time slide past us so quickly? she wondered. There is nothing more precious in all the world, not gold, not jewels, not even love itself. So how does it so easily slip through our fingers? A strange thought came to her. And what of the Sithi? Or what of an eternal horror like the Norn Queen, Utuk’ku? What can time mean to those who have so much of it? Does it creep past, each moment a stretching misery, as it did for me when I was a child? As during some of those endless summer afternoons in Meremund, when I had nothing to do but stay quiet and sew? In fact, the air was hot and still today, just like those long-ago afternoons.
What would it feel like to live forever?
But even as she thought it, she saw Jeremias’s great canopy with the golden Trees of Mother Church artfully painted on it, and was ashamed of herself for such a question, which suddenly seemed like the worst sort of ingratitude. Was not Heaven itself an eternal afternoon, and had God and Usires not promised that gift to everyone?
“Perhaps if we go and sit down,” Simon said, “everyone will get the hint and things can begin.”
“Nothing can begin until the escritor arrives,” she reminded him. “But I would not mind sitting down. It’s so hot today, and this dress is very heavy.”
? ? ?
It turned out to be a good choice, because even after the escritor left Saint Sutrin’s in the city—Jeremias came to tell them of it as soon as the archbishop’s messenger informed him—his procession through the streets to the castle took a long time, limited to the speed of the slowest priests in the procession, some of whom were extremely old. But none of them would have missed this chance, and in fact there were as many dignitaries lined up for the escritor’s visit as for the only visit the lector himself had ever made, when he had come to the Hayholt to preside at John Josua’s funeral.
Miriamele would not let that gloomy memory distract her. This was more than a state visit from one of the princes of the Sancellan Aedonitis. She had work to do, bargains to make, and she wanted to keep her wits sharp. She nodded as all the great and good of Erkynland filed in, Lord Constable Osric, the inescapable Count Rowson, Feran the castle’s marshal and dozens of other nobles, all in their finest clothes. The queen was fairly certain that ostentation was against the church’s teachings, but she also knew Auxis himself was said to have a weakness for expensive robes.
At last the procession led by Auxis and Erchester’s own Archbishop Gervis reached the throne room. Miriamele and Simon went out onto the steps to greet their important guests. After a blessing was said, and the crowd gathered outside had a chance to see their monarchs and the lector’s representative together, the escritor and the rest of his escort from St. Sutrin’s were ushered into the throne hall so the official visit and negotiations could begin in earnest.
Escritor Auxis was surprised when he was informed of what was to come by Lord Pasevalles, acting as Hand of the Throne in Eolair’s absence. “Negotiations?” Auxis turned to the king and queen, looking almost more annoyed than surprised. “What is there to negotiate, Your Majesties? I come on behalf of His Sacredness, Lector Vidian.”