The Moon’s Token
King Simon was in a good mood, Eolair noted, and that was a fine thing. The queen, too, was pleased that after months of travel, they were finally on their way home to Erkynland. In fact, of all the royal party, only Prince Morgan seemed off his feed—or off his drink, to be more precise, and Eolair had been told why: Binabik’s daughter and her man Little Snenneq had apparently exacted a promise from Morgan not to drink too much, due to an evening expedition they had planned. Unlike the illicit skating expedition, this foray had been approved ahead of time, although Queen Miriamele’s consent had been reluctant. The king had only convinced her by saying, “A bit of exertion will be good for him. You don’t want him to be a weakling king who can lift nothing heavier than an ale-cup, do you?”
So as the Hand of the High Throne watched with qualified sympathy, the prince drank nothing but watered wine that was more water than wine.
Outside the evening had finally grown quiet, although the wind had howled and the snow flown all day. Yet another surprise spring storm had caught the royal party in open land west of the Dimmerskog forest, forcing them off the Vennweg and onto the unsuspecting hospitality of one Baron Narvi. Narvi was an old knight of Rimmersgard blood, as attested by his name and the fair hair of his youthful portrait in the outer hall, but he spoke the Westerling tongue better than he spoke Rimmerspakk, and kept court at his tower house of Radfisk Foss in the spare, eastern Erkynlandish manner, with whitewashed walls and little ornamentation. The latter might have been as much due to penury as inclination—the Frostmarch borders were not rich territories at the best of times, and the salmon, on which the baron’s household made the largest part of their living, had not yet begun the year’s journey.
Thus nobody, least of all Baron Narvi himself, had expected the king and queen to stop and take shelter at his modest castle just south of the forest, above a steep river gorge where the Vestvenn River hurried down toward the distant sea. But the beginning of Avrel had brought harsh weather instead of sunshine, and although everybody in the royal party was now aching to get back to the Hayholt—they had been traveling since Jonever and the turn of the year—nobody wanted to risk trying to cross the wilderness of the eastern Frostmarch in the middle of a snowstorm.
Narvi, his lady wife, and his retainers were thrilled to entertain the royal couple, if somewhat ashamed of the meager fare they could offer, but as at Blarbrekk Castle, Jeremias supplemented the local supplies with stores from the High Throne’s traveling household, ensuring everybody had plenty to eat and drink. Radfisk Foss was too poor a house to keep its own jugglers and musicians, so the landlords were delighted that the king and queen had brought entertainment of their own, including tumblers—one of whom could also juggle knives—and of course, a harper. Rinan found himself with the most eager audience he had met since leaving Erkynland. As the evening went along and the wine flowed, the young bard performed not just Erkynlandish songs but new ones he had learned in Hernystir and Rimmersgard during the journey. The queen even joined him, lending her unpolished but sweet voice to “She Is Ever Fair,” earning herself and the harper a round of enthusiastic applause.
“Those shining lads and lasses will grow wan with age and care
But She walks on through all the years, and She is ever fair . . .”
At last, shortly before midnight, the baron and baroness excused themselves. “You have given us both honor and delight, Your Majesties,” said Narvi, “but we are not used to such hours. Can we not persuade you to take our bed? It is not what you are used to, but it is the best in the house.”
“Nonsense,” said Simon, his tongue just the smallest bit fuzzy with drink. “You have treated us admirably, my good lord. Our men-at-arms are comfortable in the stables, and we shall sleep in the hall here.”
Miriamele smiled and thanked them too, but she looked as though she might have preferred to take Narvi up on his offer of the best bed. Eolair, who seldom woke in the morning without some new aches apparently acquired in sleep, understood the queen’s reluctance, but it was a pleasure to see Simon in a good mood, which was exactly what the wine and music and the roaring fire had given him.
Soon enough, King Simon, the trolls, and some of the others began trading old, largely true stories of the Storm King’s War. The king much preferred that sort of tale, Eolair knew, especially those that painted Simon himself not as a hero but as the mooncalf boy he had once been. His pleasure in his own youthful foolishness seemed to grow with each cup of wine. “I was nothing when we started out—do you remember, Miri? I was a kitchen boy, green as grass. A kitchen boy!”
“Yes, Simon,” said Miriamele, with a tiny smile for Binabik. “I think that is reasonably well known to all.”
“But you were a kitchen boy of considerable braveness,” said Binabik, “—like it or not. Not many would do the things you did, I am thinking.” Sisqi murmured something to him and Binabik nodded. “My wife reminds me that you risked your life for me many times, even in our home on Mintahoq, when my own people had condemned me.”
Simon made a face. “Tired of talking about me. Where’s Morgan? Tell him about Isgrimnur. Tell him how Isgrimnur met me, first time. Tied over the back of a horse with my arse in the air!” He laughed. “There’s glory, for you! There’s glory.” He peered around again. “Morgan should be hearing what a picture his grandfather made, riding upside down on Sludig’s saddle . . .” He frowned. “But I don’t see him.”
“He has gone out,” Miriamele said. “Marching around in the snow with Qina and her young man. Don’t you remember?”
“Little Snenneq and Qina are at taking him to see some thing,” said Binabik. “Mysterious, they were making it.”
“Which is why I made him take guards,” said the queen. “Do you truly not remember this, husband?”
“Gone out in this weather? To see what?” Simon finished his cup and bumped it against the table until one of the servants poured him some more. “What is better than hearing about how his grandfather was carried around the Frostmarch, draped over a saddle like a Hyrka bride!” He tried to demonstrate the position, but overtipped and would have fallen off the bench had not Sir Kenrick caught his arm.
“I think it may be time we all had some sleep,” said Miriamele.
At first the king seemed inclined to argue, but a closer look at his wife’s expression convinced him not to. “Very well,” he said. “What is wrong with a few amusing stories, though, I’d like to know?”
As the king and Miriamele made their way across the hall to the sleeping spot prepared for them, and the rest of the courtiers and guards began to disperse, Binabik approached the royal couple and took Simon’s elbow. The troll seemed to be holding something in his hand. Eolair was caught between curiosity and his wish to give the royal couple their privacy, but he could not shrug off his first impulse, which was to know all the High Throne’s business.
“I have something for you, friend Simon,” said Binabik. “Wear it close to you when you sleep.”
Miriamele stared at the thing in Binabik’s hand with obvious distaste. “What is it?”
“It is a talisman that I have been making. To help Simon find his dreams again—or to help the dreams find him.”
Her husband reached for it, but she pulled his hand back. “No. It’s ugly. It scares me.”
The king’s safety outweighing any kind of discretion, Eolair stepped forward for a closer look. The object nestled in Binabik’s leathery palm was a bundle of bones, dried flowers, and black feathers, tied together with thread.
“I mean no offense, Binabik,” said the count, “but I like this no more than the queen. Those are crow feathers, are they not? Remember, such things are sacred to Morriga, the Dark Mother. My people had to drive her worshippers out of our midst, and lately we have heard her evil name again in worrying circumstances.”
The troll gave him a serious look. “Not the same at all, I am thinking, and we stand this night in Rimmersgard, not Hernystir. Things are being different in the north. Among my people, the crow is the messenger of all who are beyond the sky, Count Eolair, not just one cruel goddess. This is to help Simon’s dreams find him once more.”
“I don’t care . . .” Miriamele began, but Simon pulled his hand from her grip and took the bundle of feathers and bones with exaggerated care, then stared at it with slightly cross-eyed intensity.