The Witchwood Crown

  Confused, Viyeki looked back and saw Marshal Muyare being led out of the Chamber of the Well by his officers, some consoling him over his loss, others congratulating him on the singular honor he had been given. The high marshal did not look at any of them, but stared ahead helplessly, as lost and baffled as if he had been struck by lightning.

  11

  The Third Duke

  People had dressed warmly, and the great chapel of St. Helvard’s Cathedral smelled of furs and grease and torch-smoke. Miriamele had thought she was impervious to the reek of many people pressed together, but she was feeling dizzy.

  Frode, the Escritor of Elvritshalla, was ancient and not particularly swift of foot. As he ascended to the pulpit the queen found herself wanting to help push him up the stairs, but reminded herself that patience with others, especially the old and infirm, was one of the virtues the Aedon had most emphatically preached.

  When he reached his spot, the escritor took a pair of lenses in a frame from his gold vestments and perched them on the bridge of his long, thin nose.

  “Morgenes used to have something just like that,” Simon whispered to her. “It’s called a ‘spectacle’.”

  Frode looked out over the gathering, which, in addition to the visitors from the south, comprised several hundred of Rimmersgard’s most important people, and cleared his throat. To Miriamele, it felt like the trumpet of an invading army. She had never liked funerals, and she liked them even less at her age, when they were no longer rare occurrences.

  “Long ago,” the escritor began, his voice reedy but surprisingly strong, “these lands were a wilderness, a place where darkness of all kinds ruled. Before we came to Rimmersgard, our people lived across the ocean in Ijsgard, a green land in the west, and although they prospered there, they did not thank God for their fortune but worshipped instead the pagan demons of their fathers. Because of their heedlessness, the Lord sent a great catastrophe. The greatest mountain of that land burst into flames and fell down upon their chiefest cities, and all the skies went dark. Then Elvrit Far-Seeing led his people in their many ships through that darkness and across the ocean to this land, and thus were his people saved. And he built in these lands a great kingdom for himself, and his children ruled after him. The mightiest of those was Fingil, and during his life he ruled from the Himilfells south to the Gleniwent, and was called ‘Fingil the Great’.”

  Fingil the Great, Miriamele thought. Or as the people called him who had lived here before the Northmen came, Fingil the Bloody-Handed. What does any of this nonsense have to do with dear Isgrimnur? She looked sadly at their old friend’s coffin, draped in the banners of his house and of Elvritshalla, with the ducal crown perched atop them all.

  “But Elvrit’s people brought their old gods into this new land,” the escritor went on, “and still did not heed the words of our Lord, the true God. So the Lord sent unto them a punishment, the great dragon who came into the Hayholt and destroyed King Ikferdig, Fingil’s successor, driving our people back into the northernmost lands, home of Norns and giants and other grim enemies.

  “And although Aedonite priests like our St. Helvard tried to save our people from the Lord’s wrath by leading them to the true faith, it was King John of Erkynland, the mighty Prester John, who slew the great dragon and finally brought the Lord God to his proper seat in Rimmersgard.

  “Later John fought the last king of Rimmersgard, Jormgrun Redhand, who carried the relics and token of the old gods into battle, and at Naarved Prester John defeated him.

  “And then John in his wisdom chose that good man Isbeorn from all the other nobles to rule the people of this new-conquered land—but only if Isbeorn would cast away his false gods and accept the true God, who sent his son Usires to die that Man might live forever.

  “Duke Isbeorn did embrace the true God—praise the Highest—and afterward ruled long and well. His son Isgrimnur ruled even longer than his father had, granted a long life by the God he served so faithfully, and today it is that life we celebrate.

  “Our beloved Duke Isgrimnur fought the Lord’s battles up and down the length of Osten Ard. He battled the barbarians of the Thrithings and the terrible Storm King at the very gates of the Hayholt, John’s capital, helping to save it and the Aedonite people—perhaps all people—from destruction. And then Isgrimnur pursued the Norns all the way to their foul seat in the Nornfells, driving them into hiding with so much loss that they have not troubled mankind again.

  “Now our beloved duke is with the Lord once more. Now he sits at the right hand of a master even greater than King John Presbyter. But he has not left us unguarded. His son Grimbrand will take up the Sea Rover’s Crown and rule over all the lands of Rimmersgard under John’s High Ward in the name of John’s heirs, King Seoman and Queen Miriamele. Two dukes Rimmersgard has been given under God’s leadership, and now a third to come, another godly man, and peace has prevailed.”

  Here the escritor paused to remove his lenses and polish them on his stole. Miriamele felt a tickle of hope that the long afternoon might be coming to an end, at least the part that took place in the smoky, drafty cathedral. As far as she was concerned, it could not end too soon: the days since the duke’s passing had been filled with every kind of obligation. She had met so many northern nobles she could no longer remember what Grimbrand had told her about a single one of them.

  “But let us remember that God’s favor is only granted to the righteous,” Escritor Frode resumed in a ringing voice. “As Grimbrand follows his father and grandfather as the third Duke of Elvritshalla, let us remember that we must all follow him in the ways of the Lord. For only by God’s hand can our people survive and prosper.”

  To the queen’s relief, he then led the congregation in the final prayers of the Mansa sea Cuelossan. She reached out for Simon, wanting to feel her husband’s warm, real presence. He jumped a little, perhaps startled to be reminded of what was going on around him, but after a moment folded his large hand around hers.

  • • •

  “It’s bloody strange, if you ask me,” Simon said as they followed the duke’s effigy out to the dock.

  “In the old days the Rimmersmen used to burn all their dead,” she explained.

  “Yes, and in the old days the Rimmersmen used to kill Erkynlanders as well. Not to mention Sithi and everyone else.”

  “Ssshhh! Do you want Grimbrand to hear you?” The duke’s heir walked only a few yards behind them with his wife and children. Behind them came Isgrimnur’s daughters, Signi and Ismay, and their husbands, Valfrid and Tonngerd of Skoggey. Signi was a grandmother herself now, Miri realized. She was overwhelmed once more by the realization of how the years had spun on so swiftly since they had last visited, since Signi had been a pink-cheeked bride and Grimbrand a youth with his first beard. But it had been a long time since anyone had thought him a youth; he had waited long, patient years to take his father’s place. Grimbrand was a good man, and she felt sure Rimmersgard was in trustworthy hands, but it still felt strange beyond understanding to be following the great straw funeral effigy of Elvrit’s ship Sotfengsel, and to know that their friend Isgrimnur was truly gone.

  “How did it come to be that we are the old ones now, Simon?”

  “Same way it always does.” The sun was coming out now after a gray morning full of snow flurries—snow that had now all turned to puddles of water. Her husband squinted. “People tell you what to do. You do your best, but you don’t always succeed. Then one day, you realize that you’re the one doing the telling.”

  “Yes, but nobody is listening. Look at Grimbrand’s son, Isvarr. See how respectful he is? But where is our grandson? I have not seen him since the cathedral, slouching in the back. Morgan should be with us. At the very least, his disappearance is an insult to Isgrimnur’s memory.”

  Simon set his teeth. “I don’t want to talk about Morgan. If he’s crept off somewhere with his so-called friends again,
I’ll deal with him later. As it is, I’m so angry I’m half-tempted to leave him out on the Frostmarch to find his own way home.”

  Miriamele was frustrated with her grandson too, but it was slowly turning to a kind of desperation. No matter what they said or did, the boy seemed to go out of his way to disappoint them. “This is what I meant, husband. How did we become the old people, always furious with the young? It was not like we were so well-behaved when we were of such an age. You were beaten more often than a lazy plowhorse for not doing what you were told.”

  Simon made a face. “Shem would never have done to a plowhorse what Rachel used to do to me. With a broomstick! On the backs of my legs!”

  “Ssshhhh!” said Miriamele, surprised into laughter despite the solemn occasion. “Not so loud. I daresay you had it coming.”

  “Says the girl who ran away from the Hayholt against her father’s wishes, then from Naglimund against her uncle’s, and then from our camp against everybody’s wishes—even mine.”

  “You didn’t try to stop me, you liar. You invited yourself along.”

  “I wanted to protect you. Even then . . .” His face suddenly changed, the lines of his brow deepening. “Even then I loved you more than anything, Miri.”

  She was touched but also saddened. “I know. And we have made a good life, haven’t we? When it is our turn to be trundled off to Swertclif, we won’t have any regrets, will we?”

  He frowned. “How could we not have regrets? Is there nothing left you want to do?”

  “I don’t know, my love. Sometimes I wonder whether the ideas I had when I was young weren’t just foolishness. The things that seemed so clear then . . . well, they aren’t nearly so clear now.”

  Simon looked up to see the effigy ship being lowered to the water. “We’re here. I still think it’s damnably strange to make a puppet out of straw and burn it.”

  “Don’t curse. Everybody has their customs.”

  “But the Rimmersfolk hate the sea.”

  “Because it has swallowed their home,” she said. “And no matter what it has done, you can’t defeat an ocean.” They stopped and waited for the rest of the procession to come to a halt.

  When the boat was floating at the edge of the wide Gratuvask and the straw figure that represented Isgrimnur’s body had been laden with funeral gifts, a black-robed priest walked up the bank to offer the torch to Simon and Miriamele. As agreed, they declined, directing him to pass it to Grimbrand instead. The duke’s son, his wide frame and greyshot black beard making him look eerily like the man they were all mourning, walked carefully down the muddy bank to the edge of the water, and with a prayer no one else could hear, tossed the torch into the boat. The priests then pushed the flimsy craft out into the water.

  “His ship, to the sea!” cried Escritor Frode. “His soul, to the sky!”

  The straw boat caught quickly, and the effigy of the duke soon vanished in flames. As the burning boat drifted out into the current, for a moment it seemed that a piece of the setting sun had fallen into the great river.

  My father, my uncle Josua, Camaris, Isgrimnur—nearly all our elders are gone, Miriamele thought. They have left us a world, but have they left us enough wisdom to protect it?

  A wind swept down from the mountains and sent a scatter of sparks from the burning straw glittering across the river’s back, to fall at last hissing into the water.

  “Ah, ah, you forgot to toast St. Gutfrida.” Sir Astrian was laughing so hard he could hardly speak. “Fill another one for the prince!” A few of the Northmen in the alehouse were laughing and catcalling too, but others looked a little less than pleased to have the day of the duke’s funeral turned into a drinking and toasting contest. Morgan was annoyed in turn by their disapproval. Hadn’t they already toasted the late duke with great thoroughness? Weren’t the Rimmersmen supposed to be such great folk for drink? How could anyone have a funeral and not bend an elbow?

  Astrian took a new ale bowl and scooped up a healthy helping, sloshing some on the table as he did so. Olveris looked at the puddle, his long face sad. “You are wasting perfectly good drink.”

  “No, I am sharing it with the gods of the north.” Astrian folded Morgan’s hands around the wooden bowl. “Do it properly this time, Highness.”

  “But they are Aedonites here,” said Morgan, staring at the liquid sloshing back and forth in his unsteady hands. “Aren’t they? Yes, they are. The old gods are . . . old.”

  “Not as old as Porto!” crowed Astrian.

  At the sound of his name, the ancient soldier groaned and lifted his head from the pillow of his arm. He peered, slit-eyed, at the prince. “Highness, what are you doing here? We thought you were with your family.”

  “Oh, be quiet, Porto, you old broomstick,” said Astrian. “He’s been here for an hour.”

  “A man can only be sad so long,” Morgan declared. In truth, it had been that bore of an Elvritshalla courtier who had driven him away from the funeral feast, Thane Somebody-Or-Other. The old fool had visited the Hayholt once years ago, and, braced with this experience, had spent far too long forcing his patchy memories of Prince John Josua on John Josua’s son. In an attempt to silence him, Morgan had even said, “I scarcely remember my father,”—a terrible lie, but it had only sent the courtier into further windy wheezing about the wisdom and nobility of the late and lamented John Josua, and the tragedy of his early death, to the point where Morgan had felt his only choice was either to knock the man’s head off or escape to a suitably quiet place and try to forget the yammering fool completely.

  “Come now, my prince,” Astrian urged. “Leave the old beanpole Porto to his rest and his dreams of faded glory. Drink up!”

  “Right, then.” Morgan lifted the bowl high. “A toast to St. Gutfrida, may she watch over all tradesmen.”

  “Travelers, not tradesmen,” Olveris said. “You will have to drink another if you’re not careful.”

  “There are surely worse fates,” said Astrian.

  “So. A toast to St. Gutfrida, may she watch over all travelers.” Morgan brought the bowl to his lips and downed the whole thing, although there was a bit of choking and spluttering at the end that Astrian tried to convince him would necessitate yet another bowl. “No, by God,” the prince said. “Now it’s your turn. I am going to piss.”

  “Not here,” said Sir Porto. “Begging your pardon, Highness, but not here, if you please.”

  “What, do you imagine I am some Thrithings barbarian?” Morgan rose, not without a bit of work, and staggered toward the door of the ale hall. It was strange how quiet this and the other taverns were today, the drinkers silent and almost sullen. It was not as if the duke’s death had been a surprise, not at Isgrimnur’s advanced age.

  As he passed the innkeeper’s daughter, a buxom young woman who looked as if she knew a few interesting things, Morgan spun to watch her walk. This maneuver did not turn out well, and he had to grab at a table for support, vexing a group of men sitting there. “My very deepest apologies,” Morgan told them, and bowed, which did not turn out much better than the spin. By the time he had reached the door he had caromed off more tables, as though someone was using a prince to play ninepins.

  Damned Frostmarch baron, he thought, more than a bit dizzy now. Tell me about my own father, why don’t you? Oh yes, can’t shut him up. But was he there? Did he hear my father moaning and weeping in his last fever? See the look of fear on his face . . . ? Morgan shook his head, trying to rid himself of the evil memories that had settled on him like snow sifting down from the gray sky, but memories did not melt as swiftly as snowflakes.

  It was a great relief to empty his bladder against the outside wall of the alehouse, but Morgan could not escape the feeling he was being watched. He turned and found a hairy white monster staring up at him, fangs gleaming, red tongue lolling.

  He did not even realize that his knees had buckled an
d that he was now sitting on the slushy ground until the little man standing beside the wolf extended a hand to him. “Vaqana is not a danger,” he said. “She did not mean to be frightening.”

  Which was easy enough to say, but a little harder to believe, at least for Morgan as he stared at the wolf’s powerful, grinning jaws just inches from his face. “You’re that troll,” he said at last. “Grandfather’s friend.”

  The little man nodded and smiled. “Binabik, I am being called—yes, a troll. And your grandfather’s friend, yes, and forever. And you are being Prince Morgan.”

  “Believe so. Are you sure he won’t bite?”

  “He?” The troll looked around. “Ah, it is Vaqana you are meaning. She. No, she will not bite.” He looked up. Several locals were watching their conversation, and not all of them looked particularly friendly. “She will not bite unless I am telling her, Bite,” the troll corrected himself.

  Morgan ignored the offered hand and climbed slowly to his feet, just in case the wolf was not as committed to pacifism as her master. He noticed that he had not done up his clothing quite as well as he’d thought, and paused to remedy the situation, grateful he had not pissed himself completely at the unexpected sight of the white wolf. He felt quite sober now. Terror might have been the cause, but he told himself it was the cold wind. Living in such a chilly, gray place, it was a miracle these Rimmersgard folk ever chose to be sober.

  Finished with the laces on his breeks, he regarded the troll and the grinning wolf. “Umm,” he managed at last. “Ah. I have to go back to my friends now.” He knew he should say something else, because his grandparents were bound to hear of the meeting, so he added “I give you good day,” with all the drunken articulation he could muster. But the little man would not stop staring at him. The troll’s eyes were brown and quite disturbingly intent.

  “I was seeing you in the church earlier, when they spoke for Duke Isgrimnur,” Binabik said. “You had a look of sadness, was my thought. Were you knowing that good old man well?”