The Witchwood Crown
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.”
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 . . .”
“Binabik? The troll is here? Send him in! Send them all in!” The duke even managed to work himself up a little higher on his pillows. For the first time, Simon could truly see their old friend in the feeble, sharp-boned scarecrow stretched on the bed. “Aedon and his angels can wait for me. They will have me for a long time.”
Binabik and Sisqi entered first, small as children. Behind them came somber Eolair, accompanied by Tiamak, whose limp always slowed him. The Wrannaman stepped aside to whisper to Simon, “I cannot find Morgan, Majesty. Binabik’s daughter and her friend are looking, too.”
Simon had to take a deep breath to contain his temper. “Did you check the alehalls?”
“There are dozens just along the main road,” Tiamak whispered. Simon looked to his wife and shook his head. Her mouth set in a thin line.
“Go and see Isgrimnur,” Simon said quietly. He patted his old friend on the shoulder, although inside the king was boiling like a pot forgotten on the fire. It was not Tiamak’s fault that their grandson was a scapegrace.
“And wait, who is that?” Isgrimnur’s voice was again growing thin, his breath short, but he lifted his head high off the pillow. “Is that Tiamak? Is that my Wrannaman?”
“It is indeed, Duke Isgrimnur.” Tiamak hobbled to the old man’s side.
“Miriamele, come back.” Isgrimnur lifted his hand to her. “Come back. Look, Grimbrand, do you see the three of us?” He nodded toward Tiamak and the queen. “Do you see us?”
“Of course, Father.”
“Looking at a feeble ruin like me, you would not know it, but we three crossed half the known world. From Kwanitupul across the Wran, then across all the Thrithings to the Farewell Stone, on foot. We even went down into the foul ghants’ nest together and we came out again! There’s a story, eh? That’s the equal of any tale you’ll ever hear, I’ll wager. And Sir Camaris, the greatest warrior of any age, was with us!”
“And Cadrach, too,” said Miriamele. “Poor, sad, mad Cadrach.”
“You were as brave as a she-wolf,” Isgrimnur told her. “You were . . .” He had to stop to catch his breath. He coughed for a while before he could speak again, and had to do it with his son begging him to save his breath. “A noble tale,” he said, wheezing. “Someone should make a song of it.”
“Someone has,” said Simon, laughing. “Several. Dozens! Good lord, have you avoided the songs up here? I would have moved our court to Rimmersgard long ago had I known!”
“The song . . . the song . . .” Isgrimnur had seemed keen to say something, but trailed off. “What were we saying?”
“That we are together again,” said Miriamele, and bent to kiss him on his hollow cheek. “And nobody can take those times from us.”
“Bless you,” said Tiamak quietly. He was weeping unashamedly, holding Isgrimnur’s hand against his face. The old man hardly seemed to notice.
“I think . . . I think I must sleep . . . for a little . . .”
“Of course,” said Miriamele, straightening up. “We will come to see you later, Uncle, when you are rested.”
“We will be here for days,” Simon said. “Never fear—there will be plenty of time for news and old tales, both.”
Binabik stroked the old man’s hand, then placed his own fist against his chest, a troll gesture that Simon knew signified all that was in the troll’s heart. Sisqi bowed her head, then the two of them turned and walked out of the room.
Eolair was next. He kneeled beside the bed and kissed the duke’s hand. “It is good to see you, my lord,” was all he said before he too rose and went out. Simon was about to bid the old man goodnight when he saw a familiar face in the antechamber beyond. “Morgan!” he said in a loud whisper. “Come here!”
“Our grandson is here?” asked Miriamele. “Thank God.”
The prince’s eyes had the look of something hunted as he entered the bedchamber. “I have been trying to find you,” he said quietly, looking at anything and everything but the old man on the bed. “This place is a maze!”
“This place, or the Kopstade?” Simon fought down his unhappiness. “Just come here.”
Isgrimnur’s eyelids had been sagging, but as Simon bent and kissed him on the cheek, he opened them again. “Simon, lad? Is that you? Are you truly a king, or did I dream all that?” He seemed to fight a little for breath. “I have so many dreams . . . and it all mixes together . . .”
“You did not dream it, Duke Isgrimnur. And Miriamele and I rule in large part because of you, your son Isorn, and a few other noble souls. And now I want you to meet the heir to the High Throne, Prince Morgan. I hope you will give him your blessing.”
“Prince Morgan?” Isgrimnur looked surprised. “You brought an infant all this way?”
“No, look, Uncle,” said Miriamele. “He is grown now.”
“Kneel down, boy,” Simon whispered to the prince. “Take his hand.”
Morgan looked as though he would rather be almost anywhere else in the world than this draughty bedchamber, but he reached out and enfolded the duke’s crabbed, bony hand. For a moment Isgrimnur only stared at the ceiling, but then he seemed to come back to himself and looked searchingly at the heir where he knelt beside the bed. “Bless you, young man,” the duke said. “Do as God would have you do, and you cannot help but succeed. Listen carefully to your mother and father.”