“I won’t.” Simon didn’t laugh, but in life he had, amused by the boy’s solemn warning. “It’s too wide, John Josua. I’m a grown man but I don’t think I could swim so far.” He pointed to the far side, a place where the fields were higher. It was farther than Simon could have shot an arrow.
“If I went across, would you come after me?” the child asked. “Or if I fell in?”
“Of course.” He remembered saying it with such certainty. “I would jump in and pull you out. Of course I would!”
But something was distracting him, some dream noise that he knew he should ignore, but it was hard not to notice the hard-edged baying of hounds. All his life since the weird white Stormspike pack had chased him, Simon had found that the noise of howling dogs chilled his blood.
“Papa?” The boy sounded farther away than he had a moment before, but Simon had turned his back on the river to look out across fields that were darkening as the sun disappeared behind the clouds. Somewhere in the distance a shape moved across the ground, but it moved like a single thing—no hunting pack, but a single hunting thing . . .
“Papa?”
So faint! And the little prince was no longer holding his hand—how had that happened? Even though it was only a dream, though Simon half-knew he was in bed and sleeping, he felt a dreadful cold terror rush through him, as if the very blood was freezing in his brains. His son was no longer beside him.
He looked around wildly but at first saw nothing. In the distance the mournful, scraping noise of the hounds grew louder. Then he saw the little head bobbing on the dark river, the small hands lifted as if to greet some friend—a false friend, a lying friend—and his heart shuddered as though it would stop. He ran, he was running, he had been running forever but still he came no closer. The clouds thickened overhead and the sunlight all but vanished. He thought he could hear a terrible, thin cry and the sound of splashing, but although he threw himself toward the place he had last seen the child, he could get no closer.
He screamed, then, and leaped, as if he could cross all that uncrossable difference by the sheer strength of his need . . . of his regret.
? ? ?
“Simon!”
A cool hand was on his forehead, not so much soothing him as holding him back, prisoning him. For a moment he was so maddened with terror that he reached up to strike the obstacle out of his way, then he heard her gasp, surprised by his sudden movement, and he remembered where he was.
“M-Miri?”
“A bad dream, Simon. You’re having a bad dream.” When she felt his muscles unknot, she took her hand from his head. She also had an arm around his chest, which she loosed before letting herself back down beside him in the disordered bed. “Shall I call for someone to bring you something?”
He shook his head, but of course she couldn’t see him. “No. I’ll . . .”
“Was it the same dream as last time? The dragon?”
“No. It was about John Josua when he was little. Of course—I haven’t been able to think of anything else for days.”
Simon lay staring up into the darkness for a long time. He could tell by her breathing she had not gone back to sleep either. “I dreamed of him,” he said at last. “He got away from me. I chased him but I couldn’t reach him.”
She still didn’t speak, but she put a hand against his cheek and left it there.
“Seven years gone, Miri, seven years since that cursed fever took him, and still I can’t stop.”
She stirred. “Do you think it is any different for me? I miss him every moment!”
He could tell by her voice that she was angry, although he did not know exactly why. How could the priests say that death came as the great friend when instead it came like an army, taking what it wished and destroying peace even years after it had withdrawn? “I know, dear one. I know.”
After a while, she said, “And think—we have the ninth of Marris every year from now until the end of time. It was such a happy day once. When he was born.”
“It still should be, my dear wife. God takes everyone back, but our son gave us an heir before we lost him. He gave us a great deal.”
“An heir.” The edge in her voice was brittle. “All I want is him. All I want is John Josua. Instead we are lumbered with her for the rest of our lives.”
“You said yourself that the Widow is a small price to pay for our granddaughter, not to mention our grandson and heir.”
“I said that before Morgan became a young man.”
“Hah!” Simon wasn’t actually amused, but it was better than cursing. “Scarcely a man yet.”
Miriamele took a careful breath before speaking. “Our grandson is seventeen years old. Much the same age that you were when we were first wed. Man enough to be taking his fill of the ladies. Man enough to spend his days drinking and dicing and doing whatever takes his fancy. You did not do the same at that age!”
“I was washing dishes, and peeling potatoes and onions, and sweeping the castle, my dear—but not by choice. And then I fought for Josua—but that was not really by choice, either.”
“Still. With ne’er-do-well companions like the ones he has, how will Morgan grow? He will bend to their shape.”
“He will grow out of this foolishness, Miri. He must.” But Simon didn’t entirely believe it. Their living grandson sometimes seemed as lost to him as the son who had been swept away into the black river of death.
After another silent time in the dark, she said, “And I miss our little one, too. I mean our granddaughter.” Miriamele put her arm across her husband’s belly, moving closer. He could feel the tightness in her muscles. “I wish we hadn’t left her home. Do you think she’s being good for Rhona?”
“Never.” He actually laughed a little. “You worry too much, my love. You know we could not bring Lillia. It’s still winter in Rimmersgard and the air will be full of ice and fever. We brought the grandchild who would benefit from being with us.”
“Benefit. How could anyone who has already lost a parent benefit from watching a good old man die?”
“Prince Morgan needs to learn that he is not just himself. He is the hope of many people.” Simon felt sleep pulling at him again, finally. “As are you and I, my wife.” He meant it kindly, but he felt her stiffen again. “I must sleep. You, too. Don’t lie there and fret, Miri. Come closer—put your head on my chest. There.” Sometimes, especially when she was unhappy, he missed her badly, even though she was only a short distance away.
Just as she began to settle her head on his chest, she stiffened. “His grave!” she whispered. “We didn’t . . .”
Simon stroked her hair. “We did. Or at least Pasevalles promised in his last letter that he would take flowers, and also that he would make certain Archbishop Gervis performs John Josua’s mansa.”
“Ah.” He felt her stiff muscles loosen. “Pasevalles is a good man. We’re lucky to have him.”
“We are indeed. Now we should both sleep, Miri. It will be a busy day tomorrow.”
“Why? Is Hugh finally going to let us in?”
“He’d better. I’m losing my patience.”
“I never liked him. Not from the first.”
“Yes, but you don’t like many people at the first, dear one.” He let his head roll sideways until it touched hers.
“That’s not true. I used to.” She pushed a little closer. The wind was rising again, making the tent ropes hum outside. “I had more love in me, I think. Sometimes now I fear I have used it all.”
“Except for me and your grandchildren, yes?”
She waited an instant too long for Simon’s liking. “Of course,” she said. “Of course.” But this anniversary had always been blighted since their son had died. Small wonder that she was bitter.
Somewhere during the wind’s song, Simon fell asleep again.
2
The Finest Tent on the Frostmarch
He had been following his father for a long time, it seemed, although he did not remember when or where they had begun. The sky had grown dark and the familiar tall shape was only a shadow in front of him now, sometimes barely visible as the path twisted through the deepening twilight. He wished he wasn’t too old to hold his father’s hand. Or was he?
He did not know how old he was.
“Papa, wait!” he cried.
His father said something, but Morgan couldn’t understand him. Something seemed to be muffling his father’s voice, doors or distance or simply distraction. He hurried after, out of breath, short legs aching, trying not to notice the sounds in the trees that seemed to follow him, the strange voices hooting as softly as the ghosts of doves. Where was this place? How had they come here? So many trees! Were they in the forest of Grandfather’s stories, that dark, unknowable place full of odd sounds and watching eyes?