The Witchwood Crown
Etan realized he was staring at the creamy expanse of flesh above her bodice and felt himself flush. Idela gave no sign she had noticed, except what might have been the wisp of a smile at the corner of her mouth.
“Let us drink the health of the king and queen,” she said.
“And their safe return.” Etan took what he hoped was a dignified sip, and was astonished at how many flavors he could taste. This was certainly not the sour stuff he and his brothers drank at the refectory table on feast nights, nor the over-sweetened Nabbanai sack he had occasionally shared at the archbishop’s table. He took another, longer swallow.
“Ah, here is Begga,” the princess said. “Loosen your cowl, Brother. It is a privilege to give aid to a man of God.”
Already the young Rimmerswoman was running her cool fingers on his cheek, gently touching the long scratches. To cover a new rush of heat to his face, Etan took another drink. “My lady is too kind.”
“Nonsense. I wish we could help Lord Pasevalles as well. You said he has had a wearying day.”
“I think every day for him is wearying, Highness. His responsibilities are great, especially in the absence of the king and queen.”
“Ah, yes. I miss them both so.” She sipped from her own cup, and her tongue came out for a moment to take a drop left on her lower lip. When she noticed him looking, she smiled shyly. The young Rimmerswoman was rubbing something onto Etan’s cheek, and the sting was strangely mixed with a growing chill where the skin had been scraped. “And my dear son Morgan, of course,” Idela said. “God grant that he comes back safe as well.”
“We all keep him in our prayers, Highness. Always. And your daughter, too. Surely it is some comfort to have Princess Lillia with you.”
“Lillia? Yes, certainly.” But this seemed to distract her. “May I ask you a question, Brother? Do you know Lord Pasevalles well?”
“Well? I would not say so, Highness. I sometimes help him with some minor matters.” But as he said it, Etan thought that sounded small and foolish, as though he were the sweeper of the Lord Chancellor’s chambers. “I have some gift with numbers and letters. Lord Chamberlain Jeremias calls on me from time to time as well.”
“I am certain he does. A man of learning is a jewel whose sparkle pleases many, even if he belongs only to God.” She smiled, and this time it was full and broad. “Tell me a little about Pasevalles, though. He is always so busy; I have scarcely had a chance to speak with him in all the years I have been here. I’m told he is a very good man.”
“Oh, yes, Highness. So everyone says, and so I have found it myself.” He thought of the events of only an hour past, Pasevalles struggling to preserve the life of a woman that some would look on as a treacherous, uncanny danger, no matter the fondness the royal couple were said to have for the Sithi. “He is a good man.”
“But his life, it has been hard, has it not? I have heard stories.”
“I do not know the tales, Highness,” he said with less than complete candor. Etan was beginning to feel as though something was going on that he did not understand, and he also realized that the wine had gone to his head, making everything in the room seem to bend toward him, including Princess Idela’s fine green eyes, fixed attentively on his. Also, the dark-haired woman Begga was still dabbing soothing unguent on his face, a strange mixture of pain and pleasure which made Etan shiver. “Truly, my lady, I am a dull tool to discover the lord steward’s history. I can claim no special knowledge, except of his kindness.” He forced himself to sit straighter. Begga at last ended her ministrations, and at a signal from her mistress, packed up her jars and took her basket out of the room. “But it is op . . . opportune that you mention history.” He swallowed the last of his wine without thinking, then suppressed a wince when the princess directed that it be filled again. Etan swore to himself he would drink no more, no matter how good it was. God hates drunkards, he reminded himself, because they make themselves beasts in His eyes, rejecting His most precious gifts. “Lord Pasevalles tells me that you have some books of your late husband’s and seek some advice on their worth.”
She looked amused by his attempt to rally himself. “Ah, you are a dutiful servant of your lords, both temporal and divine, Brother Etan.”
While he picked his way through this compliment, she rose and, with a gesture he did not see, dismissed her maids from the room. “Come with me then, Brother. I see that you are one of those excellent, frustrating men who cannot rest while a task remains undone. No wonder you are one of God’s chosen workers.”
He wished it were entirely so, but he felt uncomfortably certain the faint sheen of perspiration on Princess Idela’s breastbone and the sway of her walk as she led him into the next room would never so easily distract a soul whose only thought was to serve God.
Frailty, thou art Man, he told himself, quoting St. Agar. Distraction, thou art Woman. To his dismay, he discovered he was still carrying his recently filled wine cup.
“In here, Brother,” she said. “I had a few of the newer ones brought to me. In my husband’s old chamber, his study, there are dozens more, many of them close to ruin simply from age, and I feared to move them. But I would also like to keep at least a few to remember my dear John Josua.”
“Of course, Lady.” He could not help noticing that none of the ladies-in-waiting had followed them into the intimate chamber, clearly the princess’s dressing-room, as the one table held a standing mirror and an array of jewelry boxes. The room was paneled in velvet, so that it felt as though he was being cradled in soft gloves.
His face felt warm again. He started to take another sip, then thought better of it.
“There.” She gestured to a chest set against the wall, with a woven Hernystiri blanket thrown over it, perhaps so it could be used as a seat. “Please see if any of them should be given to the great library Lord Tiamak is building in my husband’s name. I know nothing of such things, and can read scarcely any of them. Most are in Nabbanai, but some are in writing such as I have never seen.” She shuddered. “I told my dear John Josua he closed himself too much away in dark rooms with old words. But it was his joy, God preserve him.”
“God preserve him,” Etan echoed, then knelt down beside the chest. He was finding himself a bit clumsy; it took him long moments to fold the cloth neatly and set it aside, and his fumbling movements were made worse by the knowledge that the slender princess was standing behind him, watching. He worked the clasp open and lifted the lid.
The chest was indeed full of books, a dozen or more, although at first glance he saw nothing much older than perhaps a century or two, and most were much more recent, a random assembly of history and old romances from what he could see, Anitulles’ Battles, The Tales of Sir Emettin, and others just as unexceptional. Etan himself owned a well-thumbed copy of A True History of the Erkynlandish People, and while it was nothing like this edition, bound in calfskin and its pages copiously illustrated, the words were no different. Thus the great truth first proposed by Vaxo of Harcha: “Even the rich and noble cannot read words that have not been written, and the poor man who can read may sup on those that are written just as well as a prince . . .”
Then Etan saw something at the bottom of the chest that made him pause. He moved the copy of Plesinnen that covered it, then lifted it out. Its binding was blackened and cracked with age. For a long moment, as he gently opened it, he did not believe, and his thoughts bounced wildly in his head like a spilled basket of hazelnuts.
I am drunk, he thought. Surely I am drunk and seeing things that are not there.
But there it was, written in careful script across the first page in archaic Nabbanai letters, Tractit Eteris Vocinnen—“A Treatise On The Aetheric Whispers.” It had to be a mistake—no, a trick, some kind of counterfeit. Etan had only heard of one copy of Fortis’ infamous book, and that was held deep in the bowels of the Sancellan Aedonitis, under the jealous eyes of the censor-priests.
How could there be a copy here in the Hayholt, as if it were merely another courtly love-poem or a disquisition on the best use of arable land?
The fumes of wine fled him as if blown away by a sharp winter wind. Etan’s hands were shaking; he did his best to hide it by closing the book. “This one is of some interest, Princess, and some of the rest may also be. I will confer with my superiors, if you will permit me to take this with me. Since it was your husband’s, God rest him, I shall guard it with my life.”
She waved her hand carelessly. The princess almost seemed disappointed, as if she had been hoping for more from his reaction. “As you see fit, Brother. It is all meaningless to me. Of course you may take it.”
“Please take good care of them all, Highness.” His heart was beating very fast. The book in his hands seemed as heavy as marble. “At least until I have a chance to talk to others who know old books better than I do. And perhaps it would be useful at some point to examine the rest of his collection as well.”
“Of course. And if they are of some value, perhaps Lord Pasevalles would like to see them, too. Feel free to bring him with you next time.”
“Thank you, Highness. It could be some of these will be a boon to the scholars who will one day flock to use your husband’s library.” The princess’s pale skin and strong wine, her pretty, laughing ladies, the cool fingers on his cheek, none of them meant anything to Etan at this moment. He made his farewells as quickly and graciously as he could and left her, the book clutched against his chest.
As he hurried down the corridor, it felt almost as if he held a burning hot coal to his chest instead of an old book—this infamous, dark thing, banned by Mother Church and spoken of in hushed tones by scholars for hundreds of years, and now it was clutched in his own hand! Could it be true? Who could he tell? The archbishop? He would not dare bring such a thing to him—Gervis was a good, pious man who would order the whole chest full of books burned without further exploration, simply to protect the faithful. And Master Tiamak was still several sennights from returning to the castle. But could Etan keep it secret so long? Who else could be trusted?
More important, he wondered, would God Himself understand and forgive Etan’s fascination? Or was he holding not just a book, but his own damnation?
16
A Layer of Fresh Snow
“Why should I?” Morgan couldn’t look directly at her. When he was angry in front of her this way he felt like a child again, foolish and irresponsible, and that only made him more angry. “Grandfather doesn’t want me there.”
“Well, I want you there,” the queen told him. “That should be enough.” She blew on her fingers to warm them. Seeing his grandmother’s red, cold hands, Morgan was unhappy with both her and himself, although he was not sure why.
After they had left Elvritshalla to begin their trip home, a spring blizzard had forced the royal progress off the road south, so for the moment they were guests at Blarbrekk Castle, the home of Jarl Halli and his family. The jarl was still in Elvritshalla because of Isgrimnur’s funeral and Grimbrand’s succession, but Halli’s daughter and servants had welcomed the king and queen in their lord’s absence. Lady Gerda was still apologizing for the lack of food and clean linen, but thanks to the able planning of Sir Jeremias, the royal progress carried enough of both to serve in most unexpected calamities.
“Don’t sulk,” the queen said. “Your grandfather does want you to attend the council.”
“Oh, does he? You heard him, Grandmother—he was going to send me back to Erchester in disgrace. That’s what he said. Because I’m irresponsible.”
“And why did he say that, Morgan? Because you deliberately left your guards behind and went out into a strange city in the middle of the night. And onto a frozen lake!”
“Why does the king care so much? He’s not the one who’s got bruises from head to toe.” Morgan knew this was not a very good argument, but even days later and leagues away from the scene of his embarrassment, he was still aching. “And why isn’t Little Snenneq in trouble? It was his idea.”
The queen shook her head, half amused, half appalled. “Saints defend us.”
“What?” He realized he was getting loud, which was another useful way to humiliate himself. Look, Prince Morgan is outside shouting at the queen. He’s like a spoiled child, you know. “Why is everyone always furious with me?”
“I said, don’t sulk, young man.” Queen Miriamele took her hands out of the sleeves of her robe long enough push a strand of wet, red-gold hair out of Morgan’s face, reminding him that to the aged king and queen he would probably never seem a grown man. “I can think of few less attractive traits in a prince,” the queen continued. “And your sister Lillia is beginning to do it, too. Yes, your grandfather lost his temper with you, but with good reason. You are the heir to the High Throne, Morgan. The lives of all the people in all the lands we’ve traveled since the new year will depend on you. If you fall into a freezing lake and drown, who will be our heir?”
“I know! I’m not stupid.”
His grandmother sighed. “I do not have the strength for this, Your Highness. Come to the council or stay away as you wish. But a real prince must learn to overcome his feelings for the good of his people.”
“What does this council have to do with the good of anyone? A lot of talking, a lot of tired old stories—”
His grandmother closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “There is a grave difference between ‘old stories’ and ‘history,’ young man, although sometimes it’s hard to know which is which. Some stories seem old but they never end, and they are just as important today as they were a century ago. The Norns were here long before our Erkynland existed, and they still live in their dreadful mountain up north, swarming in the dark like white beetles. If they come out again, they will gladly kill every one of us, even your younger sister. Is that nothing but an ‘old story’?”
He looked down at his feet for a bit. Morgan understood that she was trying to make peace, in a way, but something dark and raging had a grip on him, and he couldn’t shake it loose.
“If the Norns are so dreadful and terrible,” he said at last, “then why didn’t you kill them all when you had the chance? Why didn’t Grandfather do anything about them then, instead of staying home and sending that old Northman Duke Isgrimnur to chase after them?” He felt a kind of sick satisfaction at seeing his grandmother’s features go pale with fury.
“You do not know how lucky you are that I love you as much as I loved your father, Morgan.” The queen’s words were carefully measured, colder than the fluttering snow, “or I would slap your face for that. You speak of things you know nothing about. No, look at me.”
Morgan had not expected his flailing to result in an actual wound and did not want to look at her. He was much more interested in his snow-flecked boots.
“By Saint Rhiappa and the Holy Mother, boy, I said look at me and I meant it.”
Morgan raised his eyes and wished he hadn’t. The shocked anger on the queen’s face had become something more daunting, an expression that was no expression at all, like the parade figure of a warrior-saint. He was not sure he’d ever seen her so unhappy with him, and his stomach churned. “Very well,” he said with what he knew was poor grace, “I’m sorry. The duke was your friend—I know, I know. He was a great man. I’m sorry and I’m a fool and I take it all back.”
“You take it all back?” The queen leaned forward and dropped her voice. “Listen to me well, child. Unless you manage to kill yourself with some stupid prank and break our hearts, you will be a king someday. You must learn to think not only before you act, but also before you speak. Among your family and our courtiers and servants, you might only hurt feelings, but with others you might begin a war—yes, a war—just by talking stupidly about people and situations you don’t understand.” She took a deep breath. “But I do not have the time to correct all your ig
norance now. I am going inside. You have been invited to join us—which, I may remind you, is what is expected of a prince your age, and is not some irksome chore—but you may do as you please.” She turned as if to go, but stopped in the doorway. “This is not the end. If you cannot manage to consider your words first, then I advise that you learn to speak less, young Prince Morgan. Much less.”
Morgan knew he should follow her, but the unhappiness inside him wanted cold and suffering and solitude, so he lingered in the colonnade after she’d gone. Despite the quiet, he heard nothing until he felt the touch on his arm. “Holy Ransomer!” he cried, startled, but when he turned he saw, not a creeping Norn, but a figure like a fat child in a hooded jacket. “Snenneq, you startled me!”
“It is true,” said the troll, grinning, “that I am silent like the u’ituko beast, who can cross snow without breaking even the crust.”
Qina came up behind her betrothed. “Yes, silent,” she said with a nod and a fond smile. “Klomp, klomp! Crunch, crunch! Oh, no, rabbit run away!”
“She teases only, friend Morgan,” Snenneq assured him. “She knows that I have many gifts, but she likes to take fun of me. Women are not always having enough seriousness, do you agree?”
“Doubtless. Where have you two been?” Despite his irritation at the trouble that had come to him from the trolls’ ice-sliding expedition, he was grateful for the company, or at least the distraction. It was quickly becoming clear that standing outside in the cold had not been one of his better ideas. “I looked for you earlier.”
“The kitchen,” said Snenneq promptly. “It was very instructing and full of nice smelling. The kitchen woman-lady has a name of great power and longness—she said it is, ‘Erna But May God Save Me If They Ever Call Me Anything But Where’s My Supper.’ We were being much impressed. Nobody in Yiqanuc has such a mouth full of name!”
“And I eat a dimple!” said Qina proudly.