“In Elvritshalla, the spools and cranks of the Frostmarch Gate somehow are not working to open it. A great many horses and riders are there waiting to honor you, but they are being caught on the far side. Only noble Vaqana and I were small enough for squeezing through.” He patted the monstrously large wolf, a creature of shaggy, spotless white who seemed utterly at ease with the humans that surrounded her, although the same could not be said for most of those humans. “But have no fearfulness, old friend,” Binabik said. “I think they will be repairing it by the time your people are reaching there. Where is Miriamele, your beloved? She is well, I am hoping?”
“She’s back there on the bridge, clucking her tongue at me for riding off like a madman,” said the king, smiling so broadly that Morgan thought he looked demented. “Ah, but it is good to see you.” Simon looked at the wolf, now seated and calmly grooming. “And you said this was . . . ?”
“Vaqana, ever loyal,” said the troll. “Yes, one of noble Qantaqa’s descendants, she is being. And it is so very good to be seeing you, too, friend Simon, after too many years!” Binabik grabbed a thick tuft of snowy fur and climbed onto the wolf’s broad back, which bore it with the patience of long experience. At last the small man noticed Morgan. “Ha! I think I am seeing a face that is now much changed from my first seeing of it. Is this truly being your grandchild?”
King Simon smiled and nodded; for a moment, Morgan could almost convince himself his grandfather looked proud. “Yes, indeed! I’m sure he does look a bit different. This is Prince Morgan, our grandson and heir.”
“Look at him, a grown man!” crowed the troll. “As we also say on Mintahoq, hanno aia mo siqsiq, chahu naha!—as easily be trying to catch an avalanche in a thimble as to make the seasons stand still.”
The king turned to his grandson. “Morgan, this is Binabik of Yiqanuc, my dearest friend. You have not seen him since you were a child, more than ten years ago. Do you remember?”
Morgan was about to say no, but then a scrap of memory fluttered up—a group of small men and women, and Morgan himself brought to meet them. He had seen dwarves at the court many times, but these had been something different, with dark, serious faces and strange clothes, and they had frightened him. “A little, I think.”
“Well, you will meet no better man in all Osten Ard, of any height.” The king seemed happier than Morgan had seen him in a long while. “And your good lady wife, Binabik? She is well? And your child?”
“Both are being well, and both are also being with me, but the girl has been growing from child to woman. And she has brought her nukapik—her marrying friend. We all were riding here together, the others on their rams, myself on bold Vaqana.” As he scratched behind the wolf’s ears, Binabik’s brown face creased into a broad smile surrounded by wrinkles that showed it was a frequent expression for him. “You will see them all tonight, I am thinking. Well, perhaps not the rams, who will be resting and eating.”
“And how is Isgrimnur?”
“The duke still is alive, praise to Sedda our Dark Mother, but he is very old and his weakness is growing. Still, he will be pleased to see you, friend Simon, so very pleased.”
At that moment, Morgan was startled again by a screech from somewhere at the other end of Lantern Bridge, near the walls of Elvritshalla; his horse was startled too and had to be calmed.
“And that, if I am making a good guess,” said Binabik, “is the sound of the city’s Frostmarch Gate being at last opened. Come, Simon-king and almost grown Morgan-prince! Isgrimnur’s son Grimbrand and the duke’s subjects have all come out for welcoming you—it was only that I was slipping out first and spoiling their plan. Come!”
? ? ?
Morgan was quite happy to be out of the cold Frostmarch winds at last and inside the city walls. All of Elvritshalla seemed to have lined the streets to see the royal party enter, or at least lined the main road between the gates and the duke’s palace atop the stony hill at the center of the city. People shouted and waved torches and lanterns, others hung from upper floor windows, and despite the late hour, all cheered loudly as King Simon and Queen Miriamele rode by, as if the High Monarchs had come to make their dying duke well again.
No one seemed to recognize Morgan himself, but the prince was not too unhappy about that. He had worked hard to please his grandparents of late, but the last thing he wanted was to be dragged into more of the endless rituals and court functions that would fill the next few days. He wanted instead to find Astrian and the rest as soon as possible, then find a place to drink, some warm, dark refuge hidden away from the numbing boredom of official life. As he observed the mostly fair-skinned citizens of Elvritshalla he noted more than a few young women as tall and comely as anything that even Erchester, capital city of the High Ward, had to offer, many of them with hair as golden as a shiny, unspent coin. He had believed he was weary of northern girls, but suddenly he felt less certain. In fact, Morgan was beginning to look forward to conversing with some of the duke’s young female subjects.
My subjects too, some day, he thought suddenly. When I am king. It was a strange but interesting thing to consider.
“There you are, my prince!” Sir Porto rode up beside him. The old knight had a scarf wrapped around his throat and lower face, as if he had ridden through a howling blizzard. “It is good to be here, yes? I have not seen the place for many years—not since the days after the siege, when we came this way with Duke Isgrimnur.”
“And I have heard that story so many times I could tell it myself and be no less truthful than you,” said Morgan. “More so, probably, since according to Astrian half your tale is invented and the rest is exaggeration.”
Porto gave him a hurt look. “The Nabban-man knows nothing about it and only seeks to tease me. He was a suckling babe in his mother’s arms when I fought the Norns.”
Morgan grinned. “To be quite honest with you, it is not fighting Norns I want to know about just now, you old villain. Where does one go to find a decent spot for drinking and singing and not having to put up with all the nonsense that my grandparents came for?”
Astrian rode up, looking as well turned out as if he had just set forth instead of having suffered the same long ride as the rest of the company. “My prince! I was afraid you had already gone with your family to the castle.”
“I’m trying to get Porto to tell me where the good spots in this city are, since he claims to have been here before.”
“Claims?” Porto lifted himself to his full height in the saddle, which made him look like a stork trying to take off from a chimney-nest. “I promise you that even after so many years they will not have forgot Porto of Ansis Pellipé in the better taverns of the Kopstade!”
“Now we are getting somewhere,” said Morgan. “What is this Kopstade?”
“The market and its surroundings,” the old knight said. “We have passed it already, Highness. It was near the gates.”
“Then let’s turn back.”
“My prince, I think not.” Unusually, it was Astrian preaching moderation. “Not tonight, at least. You will be expected to partake in at least a few . . . formalities with your grandparents. The old duke, all of that . . .” He waved his hand in a vague way.
“No!” Morgan realized he had almost shouted it. He could feel himself reddening. “No, I don’t need to watch some old man die. It’s none of my business—he’s my grandparents’ friend.”
Astrian shrugged. “As you wish. But at the very least, Highness, you must find out where you are to be housed before you spend an evening out. Elvritshalla Castle is not a small place. You’ll need to know how to find your way to wherever you will be sleeping.”
“Sleeping? Who wants to sleep?” Morgan gave him a bitter look. “It is cruel to break my heart this way, Astrian, and I certainly didn’t expect it of you. All I want is a tankard of beer and a bit of a laugh.”
“Still, Highness, it was you who warned us your grandparents were angry with you.” Astrian looked up as Olveris approached, guiding his war horse through the procession that crowded the wide road. “Come help me, my friend,” Astrian called to him. “I am trying to convince our good prince that this first night, at least, he must appear to honor the king’s and queen’s wishes.”
Olveris made a face. “Astrian calls for good behavior? We clearly have taken a wrong road and wound up in the land of Faerie.”
“Do not make such a jest!” said Porto, alarmed. “Not here in the north. Because the fairies are closer and fiercer than you think. In the morning, you will be able to see Stormspike Mountain in the distance.”
“As long as it stays distant,” said Morgan.
It was coincidence, of course, but just as the prince finished speaking a cold wind blew down the street, whipping the banners on the houses, making Morgan shiver even through his armor and surcoat.
“It is a pleasure to see you again, Sisqinanamook,” Miriamele said as they stood together around the fireplace in a low-ceilinged but sumptuous antechamber in the ducal residence. Simon knew that after weeks of repeating these words across the length and breadth of Hernystir and Rimmersgard, this time she truly meant them: Miri had always been fond of Binabik’s wife, since the days they had all fought together.
Sisqi bowed her head, clearly pleased to hear Miriamele use her full name. “As it is for seeing you, great queen.”