“No. No, thank you, my lord. I am needed back at St. Sutrin’s for Nonamansa, and I would not have His Eminence Archbishop Gervis smell it on my breath.”
“Well, by the Bowl of Saint Pelippa, what would he have you drink instead? Nothing but well water? It would be a short, sad, and sickly life for you then, wouldn’t it?”
Etan smiled, but his heart did not seem to be in it. “I suppose it would, my lord. But there is something else I wish to talk to you about. It concerns the princess. Dowager Princess Idela, that is.”
“Ah.” Pasevalles did his best to keep a cheerful expression on his face. “Of course. I asked you to help her with those books of her husband’s. Did you know the prince, Etan?”
“Prince John Josua? No, Lord Chancellor. I was still at the abbey of St. Cuthman’s in Meremund when he was taken from us. I know the prince was a much-loved young man, a great scholar.” There was still something odd in Etan’s expression, but Pasevalles could not unpuzzle it.
“Yes, he was a very fine man, Brother. But God did not give him a strong body, and he was often sickly. That is one reason, I think, that he grew so bookish. The volumes he collected could take him to many places that his frail body could not.”
Pasevalles wished he could return to the matter of Froye’s letter. “And were the volumes worthy of being preserved in the new library? Of course, simply having belonged to the prince would give them value, I think, since the library is being created in his honor.”
“Yes, lord. Most of them were interesting but not unusual. However . . .”
Etan trailed off. Pasevalles could hear it too, the noise of a scuffle just outside the door. His hand dropped to the dagger at his waist, but a moment later he recognized one of the voices—a small but distinctly high-pitched voice.
The door popped open and Princess Lillia spilled into the room, followed closely by a flustered Erkynguardsman, who might as well have been trying to capture an oiled serpent. “Pasevalles!” the child shouted. “Lord Pasevalles! Have you heard the news?”
“I’m sorry, my lord,” the red-faced guard said. “I was afraid I might hurt her if I grabbed too hard . . .”
Pasevalles waved him out, but before the guard could retreat, another face appeared in the door behind the princess.
“Oh, you wicked child!” said Countess Rhona. “Mircha love you, you are quick as a cat! I’m sorry, Lord Pasevalles, she simply outran me.”
“Have you heard?” said Lillia, jumping up and down in excitement. “Have you heard? Grandma and Grandpa are coming!”
Pasevalles tried to make sense of the sudden eruption. “Have I heard what? Yes, they are coming soon. A fortnight, perhaps . . .”
Lillia stopped and her eyes grew wide at the importance of her message and at Pasevalles’ amazing, wonderful ignorance. “No! They’re here!”
He turned helplessly to the countess. “What is she talking about?”
“She’s telling the truth, actually, Lord Pasevalles. The messenger just arrived. They’re not here, Lillia, you silly girl, but they are very close. The messenger says they stayed last night at Dalchester, but are already on the road for home today.”
“Dalchester? But they will be here by tomorrow night! Why are they so early?”
Countess Rhona shook her head. “The messenger from the king and queen would not say—not to me, anyway. He’s waiting for you down in the post hall. Will you go to him?”
“Of course.” Pasevalles stood. “This is excellent news! Brother Etan, we will continue our conversation some other time, yes?”
“Yes, my lord.” The monk looked a bit grim, but Pasevalles supposed it was the memory of dealing with the dowager princess that made him so.
He is a little unhappy with me for using him as a shield against Princess Idela, perhaps. Still, no matter. Etan’s discontent, whatever caused it, could wait. The king and queen were returning—early, yes, but not a moment too soon as far as Pasevalles was concerned. Many things had to be made ready to welcome them home as they deserved.
26
The Inner Council
The Avrel gusts were so strong they made the banners on tower tops jump and snap—“a wind so hard you could hang your clothes on it,” as old Rachel the Dragon, the mistress of chambermaids during Simon’s youth, used to say. Simon even saw a few green and gold pennants whisked from people’s hands and thrown up into the sky to race with the clouds. Market Square was filled with cheering people, thousands of them, along with hundreds of merchants busily selling them beer and food, as well as at least a few other folk, Simon felt sure, intent on picking their pockets. All of Erchester, it seemed, had come out to welcome home their queen and their king.
“Can you believe it?” he asked his wife.
Miriamele was smiling, but it was the smile she wore when her days holding court ran long, when she was worried and tired. “Believe what?”
“This.” People in the crowd were actually calling out his name, familiar as old friends. He could never quite make her understand how strange it seemed to him. His wife had been looked at all her life, praised and scorned by folk she had never met, her clothes and appearance and even her facial expressions discussed by strangers as comfortably as if she were a member of their household. “All right, me. They all came out to see me—a kitchen boy. Because someone else decided I’m a king, so they all said, ‘Well, that’s all right then. Hooray for King Simon!’”
Like Rinan, he thought, and the memory of the boy’s pale, slack face came back to him, as it had for days. The harper hadn’t seen someone who had once been a confused, frightened youth like himself, he’d seen only a grown man. He’d only seen the king. And he’d done what his king had told him to do. Now that boy is dead, Simon thought, buried with two dozen more men in a field by the side of the Frostmarch Road. Because he believed—
“You hear cheers only for the king?” Miriamele asked him.
“I didn’t mean it that way, dear one,” he told her. “I meant because you’re used to this.” He looked at the children leaning perilously out of the upper windows as they left Market Square and entered Main Row, took a deep breath, and did his best to stop thinking about the harper. “I’m not. I never will be. What do they see?”
“They see the king—and the queen. They see us and they know that things are as they should be, that God is still watching over them.” She looked out across the field of faces. “They see that the seasons will come and go as they should, that the rain will fall and the crops will grow. They see that someone is here to protect them from the evil things they fear.”
“You don’t sound as if you believe any of that.”
“Oh, Simon, what does it matter?” Miri looked at him, but only for a moment, then turned back to the crowds, her queenly smile once more in place. “It’s all a pageant, like St. Tunath’s Day. We pretend to take care of them and they pretend to love us.”
“But they do love us,” Simon said. “Don’t they?”
“As long as the seasons turn and the rain falls and the barley sprouts, yes. Not that you and I have much to do with any of that. And if we go to war and their brothers and sons die, they’ll blame us.”
He looked at her face, her wise, familiar, beloved face. “You’re frightened by what happened on the road—aren’t you? And that White Hand fellow’s message?”
“Of course I’m frightened, and you should be too. Because you were almost killed, Simon. Because we thought we had pushed those pale-skinned things back into the mountains for good. And now it’s going to start all over again. The war with the Norns almost killed us when we were young and strong, and we are neither of those things now.”
“I was frightened for you as well,” he said, not certain what he was defending, but still feeling a need. “I heard your voice just before they charged. I didn’t know where you were!”
Miri reached across to touch his hand but said nothing more for a while.
They rode through the widest streets and into St. Sutrin’s Square. Here the crowds were making festival in front of the great church; they cheered loudly as the royal procession made its way past. Musicians were playing and those who had room to dance were dancing. Simon and Miriamele stopped to exchange greetings with Archbishop Gervis and the mayor of Erchester, Thomas Oystercatcher, a fat, shrewd man who made sure everyone saw him bow to the king and queen—but not too low—and be acknowledged in turn. The merchants and city government of Erchester always fiercely protected their independence, even on a day of celebration. After his bows, the mayor straightened and waved his cap to the crowd as though he were the one being celebrated.