Miri waved the title away. “You came all the way from your mountains to see Isgrimnur! Bless you!”
“We could not be doing other,” Binabik said. “The best Rimmersman we ever had the luck of knowing.”
Miri smiled at that. “And Simon says your daughter is here in Elvritshalla too. I so look forward to seeing her. She must be a grown woman now!”
Sisqi smiled. “Grown is Qina, yes. And here with her man, too.”
“Is she married?” Simon asked.
“Soon,” said Binabik. “When again they reach Mintahoq, Qina and Snenneq will go together to Chidsik Ub Lingit—do you remember that place, friend Simon, where you once were pleading to Sisqi’s parents for sparing my life?—and then they will bind together their hands before the ancestors and our people.”
The door to the duke’s chamber swung open and Grimbrand came out to greet them. With his dark hair and his broad face and figure, Simon thought he looked more like his father than his older brother Isorn ever had. Still, it was strange to see how much gray and white now flecked Grimbrand’s beard.
By the Ransomer’s Tree, when did we all grow so old?
Grimbrand had been too young to fight in the Storm King’s War, and had spent the time of his family’s exile with relatives. He had grown into a just and thoughtful man who possessed many of his father’s best traits. It was good to know that at least one of the lands of the High Ward would be in good hands. “He has just woken up, Majesties.” Grimbrand’s smile was weary. “I think if you all go in at once it might be too much. May I take the High King and High Queen first?”
Simon turned to Binabik. “With certainness,” said the small man, smiling. “Go in.”
“Tiamak should be here, too,” said Miriamele. “He and the duke love each other well. But he is still searching for our grandson, Prince Morgan.”
“Come then,” said Grimbrand. “The others can join you shortly, and if your grandson’s absence is anything serious, I will send men to look.”
“Oh, please don’t,” said Miriamele hurriedly. “I’m certain we will find him quickly enough.”
“As you wish, Majesty.” Grimbrand beckoned them toward the door.
The duke’s chamber was much as Simon remembered from his last visit ten years ago or more, still kept as a sort of shrine to Isgrimnur’s beloved wife Gutrun, Grimbrand’s mother. Candles burned everywhere, but especially on a low table in front of a painted portrait of her. Her chair and her sewing chest still sat beside the room’s largest window, which to Simon’s surprise stood open. The Rimmersfolk did not seem to mind an airiness that would have terrified Erkynlanders. At the center of the room, the canopy of the huge bed fluttered in the night air. Simon could not help thinking of a ship drifting out to sea, its sails filling with wind.
But the Rimmersmen no longer take to the waves, Simon remembered.
Two priests who had been praying at the foot of the bed rose and left the room. For a moment, as he and Miriamele approached the bedside, Simon was confused. Surely this sleeping stranger could not be Isgrimnur! It wasn’t possible that this old man propped on the pillows, unable to hold his head up, was their friend the duke, one of the largest and strongest men Simon had ever known. This almost-stranger’s cheeks were sunken, his hair and beard snow-white and sparse, and his neck seemed far too frail to have ever lifted a head as noble as Isgrimnur’s.
The old man’s eyes fluttered open. For a moment they could not seem to fix on anything, and roved from the ceiling to the walls. Grimbrand stepped forward and kneeled beside him.
“Is . . . is that you, Isorn?” The voice was a ragged ghost of the duke’s booming tones.
Simon guessed that Grimbrand had been called by his dead brother’s name many times in the last months, because he did not bother to correct his father. “Sire, some friends of yours are here to see you. Queen Miriamele and King Simon have come all the way from Erkynland.”
And now the rolling eyes touched Simon’s, and the man inside the worn, spent body seemed finally to take control. Isgrimnur frowned, squinted, and then his eyes opened wide. “By the good God, it is you.” His gaze slid to Miriamele, and he smiled. “You have both come, God bless you and keep you. Come, give me your hands. We’ll not meet again on this earth, I fear, so give me your hands.”
Simon and Miriamele each moved to one side of the bed, and each took one of the duke’s hands. Simon, whose eyes were already filling and threatening to overspill, thought the old man’s bones felt fragile, like eggshells. “Of course we’ve come,” he said, struggling against his suddenly treacherous voice. “Of course.”
“God bless you, Uncle.” Miriamele had always called him that, although there was no blood relation. “Bless you for waiting for us.” She fell silent, tears running down her cheeks.
“How goes the High Ward?” Isgrimnur asked. “Is all . . . well?”
“All well, Uncle,” Miriamele said.
“Good. Good.” So many words seemed to tire him out. The duke closed his eyes and for a moment only breathed, his chest rising and falling. “And Josua? Prince Josua? Is there any word?”
Simon swallowed. The subject of Miri’s uncle, their son John Josua’s namesake, was a painful one. “I’m afraid not. We have long searched for him, his wife Vorzheva, and their children, but we can find no trace of them.”
Isgrimnur shook his head. “Ten years—no, twenty! Twenty years. I fear he must be dead after such a long time.”
Simon squeezed the duke’s hand, but gently, very gently. “We will never stop searching.”
“I will not be here to see him found.” Isgrimnur opened his eyes again. “Simon, is that you? Tell me that is truly you. I have so many dreams lately, I scarcely know whether I am awake or not.”
“Yes, it’s me, Isgrimnur. The same scruffy boy you found on the Frostmarch near St. Hoderund’s, long, long ago.”
Isgrimnur smiled a little. “Scruffy! You rate yourself too high. I remember you as skinny and frightened as a wet cat!” His laugh became a cough, but he waved his hand to reassure them. “No, I am all right. The cough is nothing. It is the weight on my chest that is getting more difficult to bear.” He let his head sag back into the pillows. “Simon. Good boy. No, I forget myself. You are king! High King!”
“Do you forget his wife?” asked Miriamele, but in a tone of gentle mockery.
“Never, my queen.” Isgrimnur’s hand tightened on Simon’s. “I ask you a favor. I ask you both. You must promise me.”
Simon did not have to look at his wife to know what to answer. He used his free arm to wipe the tears from his cheeks. “Anything, Duke Isgrimnur. We owe you more than we could ever repay. As do all the kingdoms of men.”
“Gutrun and I were godparents to Prince Josua’s children. With Josua and Vorzheva both gone, I fear for those children . . .”
“They would no longer be children,” Simon said gently. “They were born the year the Storm King was defeated.”
“Even so.” Isgrimnur’s reedy voice took on something of its infamous growl. “Is it your habit to travel so far just to interrupt a dying man?”
It was hard not to smile. “Sorry, my lord Duke. What would you have us do?”
“Find them. If you cannot find their parents, find the children. Do for them what Gutrun and I were promised to do, but failed—find them and keep them safe. See that they have what they need for a happy life.”
“We have looked for them and we will keep looking, old friend. One day we will find them.”
Isgrimnur stared at him as though he did not know whether to believe him or not. “Do you promise it to me?”
“Of course,” Simon told him, stung and sad. The king looked to Miriamele. “We promise you on the honor of our house and yours.”
“Gutrun would have sent me after them long ago, but her illness . . .” The duke shook his head. “I will see her soon, thank God and all the blessed saints. I will see her soon!”
“You will, Uncle,” said Miriamele. “She is waiting for you.”
“And Isorn, too.” Isgrimnur’s lip trembled. “So long since I have seen their beloved faces . . . !” The old man’s eyes were red. “So long . . .”
“You are tired, Father,” said Grimbrand from the foot of the bed. “There are others waiting to see you, but perhaps they should come back after you’ve rested.”
“Others?” Isgrimnur seemed to find a reserve of strength. With a last squeeze he let go of Simon’s hand, then Miriamele’s. “What do you mean?”
“Other friends are waiting for you outside,” Miriamele said. “Count Eolair, and Binabik and his wife . . .”