For a moment, as she watched them silhouetted against the lights of the bridge, Miri could picture her husband and grandson as the wings of a triptych, like the life of Usires that stood behind the altar in the royal chapel at home. There on one side was Simon the patriarch, tall, with gray in his red beard; on the other stood Morgan his descendant, still callow enough to think drinking and womanizing was proof of something other than drinking and womanizing. But the center panel was missing, that which should have been her son, John Josua, and which should have united the two on either side. Her child, her beautiful child, who had grown to be such a tall, clever young man, was now only a shadow even to his own children. His death had left a hole in their lives that could never be filled, no matter how she and the rest of the family pretended.
Her heart aching again, she tried to pray, but her own measure of the family obstinacy rose up and thwarted her. No matter what the priests claimed, how could such a loss be God’s will? Why had the Creator, whom Miriamele had always tried to serve, stolen her only child?
? ? ?
The royal progress had dispatched riders to alert the city to their approach. They had disappeared across the bridge and into the shadow of the gates more than an hour before, but still had not come back; Miriamele was beginning to wonder if something had gone wrong. She couldn’t imagine what the problem might be—thanks to the old duke, Rimmersgard was the High Ward’s most faithful ally: it seemed unlikely they would suffer the same kind of problems that had plagued the Hernystir visit.
“Ah! Look there!” Morgan announced. “Someone is riding toward us. See, he has just mounted the bridge from the far side.”
Simon squinted. “Oh, to have young eyes again! Is it one of our messengers?”
Morgan shook his head. “Too far away to tell, but I don’t think so. Something odd about the rider. Still, there is only one.”
“Odd?”
“I can’t say more yet, Grandfather. May I ride forward to get a better look?”
“No,” said Miriamele firmly. “No, Morgan, you may not.”
Simon gave her a look full of unspoken meaning—he thought she was being too cautious, she could tell. “I think he might—with the queen’s permission, of course. But only if he takes a troop of the Erkynguard with him. Remember, Morgan, these are some of our oldest allies and we have no reason to doubt their good will.”
“What if something happens to him?” Miriamele demanded. “He is our heir!”
“What if we all die in our beds from the Red Ruin? What if we are struck by lightning?” The king realized he had become loud and lowered his voice. “Be fair, Miri. When people told you to hold back, to do nothing dangerous, what did you do, my love? Rode off into the night on your own, with nobody but a thieving monk for a companion.”
She did her best to push down unqueenly anger. “Are we not allowed to learn anything from our own mistakes then? Should we let our children and grandchildren make the same errors without saying a word?”
“Making those errors may be the only way they will learn the lessons we did, my dear one,” Simon said. “Certainly for all Morgenes or Rachel tried to teach me, it never quite made sense until I had ignored their good advice and done something impressively stupid instead.” He put on his most innocently harmless face. “Come now, wife. Let Prince Morgan ride out with the Erkynguard to find out who is coming to meet us.”
As was often the case, Miri found herself caught between wanting to kiss her husband and briskly rattle his pate. Instead, she shot him a look that made it clear the larger discussion had not ended, but at last gave her reluctant consent.
While Morgan was gathering an escort of Erkynguards, Simon called for Rinan, the minstrel. Ever since he had scolded the young harper some days earlier, her husband had gone out of his way to be kind to him.
When at last the musician was located, he looked anxious as a cat in a room full of drunken dancers. “Majesty?”
“I want you to ride with me, harper,” the king told him. “Somebody find this lad a horse!”
“Of course, M-Majesty. I would be honored.”
“You are not still frightened of me from the other day, are you?” Simon shook his head. “Don’t be. I need your help.”
“Majesty?”
“You really need to think of something new to say, son. And you can leave that stringed thing hanging on your back. I don’t want your music—I want your eyes.” He saw the startled look. “Good God, I’m not going to take them from you! I want you to see what I can’t from this distance, with evening coming down.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
Morgan and his Erkynguard escort rode out, and soon reached the beginning of the Lyktenspan while the queen and king watched. At the center of the bridge a dark shape was moving toward them, though at such a distance Miri could make out little more than a blot of moving shadow.
“What do you see, harper?” the king demanded. “By the Tree, lad, talk to me!”
For a moment the young minstrel only narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “The rider from Elvritshalla,” he said at last, “is . . . is . . . well, there is something strange about him, Majesty.”
“People keep saying that! What in the name of blessed Saint Sutrin does that mean? Strange how?”
Miri was amused despite herself. “You really must calm yourself, husband. Let the poor man answer you.”
Simon scowled. “Go on, then. What do you see?”
The harper was still squinting. “He is quite small, I think. Now that our soldiers and the prince are getting closer. Yes, he is small. And . . .” Rinan licked his lips. “Majesty, I swear to you, that is no horse he is riding. It looks—it is hard to make out, but I would swear—” He turned to the king and queen with a look of shame and guilt. “Majesties, please do not punish me, but I think that the one coming from Elvritshalla is riding . . . some kind of dog.”
The king was not a violent man, although over the years he had broken a few things in his angriest moments, as the servants in the Hayholt could attest, but Miri knew he had never struck and never would strike one of his subjects. Still, when King Simon swore in loud astonishment, she saw young Rinan brace himself for the blow he must have felt sure was following such a ridiculous pronouncement. But the harper looked even more surprised when his liege lord suddenly spurred his horse toward the bridge as though leading a battle charge, leaving the queen and the harper to watch him go. Several of the Erkynguard even cried out in surprise, but when they would have pursued Simon, Miri lifted her hand to hold them back.
As the echo of hoofbeats faded, Rinan turned to the queen. “Majesty?” he managed at last. “Did I do wrong? Majesty?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Forgive me, my queen—but what just happened? Is the king angry?”
She smiled. “Oh, do not fear, young man. All of that was nothing to do with you. He is hurrying to meet an old friend.”
Morgan and his guardsmen had just reined up their mounts, filled with surprise and not a little superstitious dismay at the apparition before them, when they heard the clatter of hooves coming up the stone bridge behind them. Already unnerved by the odd little man riding toward them on a huge, white wolf, the sound of swift pursuit startled Morgan’s horse so badly that he had to fight to stay in the saddle. His balance finally regained, he yanked his sword out of its scabbard, wondering if he would now have to fight to the death like some ancient hero. Caught up in the moment, several of the Erkynguard drew their blades as well.
“Put up!” someone shouted. “Put up your blades! It is the king coming!” The wedge of men on the bridge milled in confusion as they struggled to make a way between them for their fast-moving monarch. Morgan could only watch as King Simon, standing in his stirrups, gray-shot red hair flying, sped through their midst. He scarcely glanced at Morgan as he careened past.
“Grandfather . . . ?” Morgan called. “Majesty?”
But both the king and the wolf-riding apparition had stopped in the middle of the bridge and were climbing down from their mounts, paying attention to nobody but each other.
“Binabik!” his grandfather shouted, then pulled the small figure into his arms like a father whose child has been returned to him after a long, frightening absence.
“Friend Simon!” cried the little man, who was scarcely higher than the king’s waist, and then laughed as the king whirled him around so violently that Morgan was frightened they both might tumble off the bridge into the freezing Gratuvask. The prince spurred his horse forward, partly to be sure they stayed on the bridge, partly to better make sense of what was happening. Clearly this must be his grandfather’s troll friend, a nearly legendary character.
“My people are saying that to meet an old friend is like the finding of a welcoming campfire in the dark,” the little man said, slightly breathless from the king’s powerful embrace. “Just the sight of your face warms me, Simon.”
“It is wonderful to see you, Binabik,” Simon said happily, finally setting him down. “But why have only you come out to greet us?”