The Witchwood Crown
At the far end of the long table, looking even smaller because of the distance, sat Binabik and Sisqi, who were receiving curious stares from those who had not traveled north with the royal couple. Beside them sat Tiamak, but his wife was absent, tending the wounded Sitha. Miriamele was also pleased and relieved to see her good friend Countess Rhona seated nearby. Both she and Simon valued the countess’s common sense, and the things to be discussed today would require level heads. Also, as Miriamele knew well, the countess noticed things that many of the male courtiers did not, and often understood currents in the life of the castle that the men did not even know existed.
The queen was much less pleased to see that her grandson was again absent, and hoped her husband had not noticed. He was already angry with Morgan over his many transgressions during their northern travels.
Simon gave his wife a significant look, and at first she thought he had guessed what she was thinking, but she realized her misunderstanding a moment later when he turned to Count Eolair. “I know your heart is elsewhere, old friend,” Simon said quietly. “But we need you now. The queen and I ask you to lead the Inner Council today.”
The lord steward nodded. “Of course, Majesty.”
Miriamele could not help feeling a pang of sorrow for him. She could guess what it had cost him to refuse Queen Inahwen’s request for his help. Thirty years and more Eolair had served the High Throne—a man who refused all titles and rewards, a man who could have and perhaps should have taken Hernystir’s throne for himself after the Storm King’s War, or at least so Miriamele had always thought, and she knew Simon agreed. Surely no man more politic and more useful lived anywhere beneath the High Ward.
And that is his one true failing, she thought. If Simon is too kind, Eolair is too dutiful. He has never been selfish enough. It had been her idea to have him lead the council meeting. She knew the count was pained at the thought of having failed Queen Inahwen, and Miri had learned from her grandfather and father that the best way to recapture the attention of a useful man was to give him an important task. If only her father had not strayed from the wisdom his own father had taught him!
“Hear me, all!” announced the royal herald at Miriamele’s signal, and stamped his staff on the stone flags, checking the quiet conversations along the table. “His Majesty the king and Her Majesty the queen command you to audience!”
When the room was silent, Simon said, “We thank the good Lord for bringing us safely back to you all. It is good to be in Erkynland once more. We wish it could be in happier times, but this coming week will be a busy one for all of us. Drorsday next will see a memorial mansa for Duke Isgrimnur, our dear friend.” For a moment the ghost of a smile flitted across his face. “Appropriate, I think. As good an Aedonite as Isgrimnur was, he could never lose the habit of swearing by the old gods in moments of upset.”
A few who had known the duke laughed, and others nodded. News of Isgrimnur’s death had arrived with royal dispatches from Elvritshalla a fortnight or more earlier, so the king’s words came as no surprise.
“After the memorial service, Freyday next will see a meeting of the Great Council, at which there will be much to discuss. Many of you have heard some stories of the attack we suffered as we left Rimmersgard. Events in Nabban, as Lord Pasevalles has made clear, also call for our attention, and there is the strange matter of the Sithi envoy, too.”
At this, Sir Kenrick and some of the others who been traveling with the king and queen looked confused. “Please, Majesty,” the guard captain asked, “have we had some message from the Sithi people, after all these years?”
“As I said, we will discuss it in the Great Council,” the king said. “Today we have a more pressing matter. Lord Steward, now is your moment.” Simon gestured for Eolair. “Tell everyone all of what has happened, and together we will try to puzzle out what it means. Understand, though, that you people gathered here are the closest to the throne, our dearest friends and closest allies. Until the queen and I say otherwise, this news is not to leave this room.”
“But the attack by the whiteskins has already been trumpeted around Erchester, Majesty,” said Count Rowson with the air of someone who would soon put everything right.
“The attack, yes,” said Miriamele, nettled as she often was by the man’s presumption. Simply being the scion of one of the oldest families in Erkynland did not give anyone the right to freely interrupt her husband. “But there are details known only to a few—important details. Surely you would like to learn those details, Count, so that your always-excellent counsel can be fully informed . . . ?”
Rowson could seldom tell when she was employing irony, one of the things she disliked most about him. He sat a little taller in his chair and stroked his beard in a way he clearly thought bespoke wisdom. “Of course, Majesty. My only goal is to serve the High Throne.”
“Then let me tell you the facts we know, my lords,” said Eolair.
As always, Eolair spoke concisely and carefully, laying out what was known, not what was supposed. Still, despite Eolair’s passion for the truth, he did not relate Lady Alva’s story of Norn and Sithi corpses in far-off Engby. Simon and Miriamele had agreed it was too soon to make it generally known because some of the nobles might decide that the only conflict was between two clans of immortals and then refuse to heed the other signs of danger. Most of them had never completely understood or trusted their rulers’ friendship with the Fair Ones, as they called them.
“Those of us who were on the North Road are agreed that we have never seen a giant of such a size,” Eolair finished. “Fully twice the height of a man and perhaps ten times the weight.”
“Have the fairies bred them so big, then?” Duke Osric asked. “That would be grim indeed. I’ve been told that in past battles we lost a dozen men or more for every one of those things we killed.”
“We do not know the answer to that, Your Grace,” said Eolair. “But even if the White Foxes now breed those monsters as though they were hounds or horses, it is still not the greatest of our problems.” He unrolled the blood-smirched piece of parchment. “After the Norns escaped us—fleeing east, we discovered—one of Sir Kenrick’s soldiers found this in the road. Archbishop, do you recognize this writing?”
Gervis rose and came closer to inspect it, leaning against Eolair’s chair for support. “Those are Rimmersgard runes!” he said. “Why should the Norns write in such a way?”
“Because as Lord Tiamak explained, Your Grace,” Eolair answered him, “the message itself—and it is a message—claims that the writer is not one of the Norns, but only one who travels with them, perhaps as a prisoner or slave. Tiamak?”
The Wrannaman came slowly forward. His limp, acquired in the days Miriamele had first met him, had grown worse with the passing years. He explained the ancient source of the runes to the Inner Council, then read the message out loud. When he had finished, the throne room was silent for no little time.
“It is a trick,” said Earl Rowson at last. “Some damnable bit of trickery by the whiteskins, to put us off our guard.”
“That is possible, my lord,” said Tiamak mildly. “But if they would cozen us somehow, why concoct a story designed, not to make us think them harmless, but to put us on our guard? And why go to such strange lengths to pass it to us instead of just leaving it behind in an abandoned camp to be found?”
“The name Jarnulf means nothing to me, but I have heard rumors of something called the White Hand,” Duke Osric said. “It’s a tale told in the northern lands that sometimes makes its way south, a tribe of bandits by that name who prey on the Norns, killing them whenever they cross the border into mortal lands. But I thought it most likely only the memory of some ancient hero and his band, like Jack Mundwode.”
“That could be true,” the king said. “Or it could be an old name taken by someone new—someone with a grudge against the Norns. Tiamak, show them what else was with the m
essage.”
Tiamak nodded and drew something shiny from the inner folds of his loose mantle, then set it out on the table. All of the council who had not seen it before leaned closer to look.
“But what is it?” Osric asked. “I do not recognize this badge.”
“I am not surprised,” Tiamak said. “For we keep our membership and our business quiet.”
“We?” asked Archbishop Gervis. “Do you mean you are somehow connected to this person, Lord Tiamak? The one who sent this message?”
Tiamak turned to Simon and Miriamele. “How much of the story do I tell, Majesties? For it is a long one.”
“As much as you need to,” Miriamele said. “Enough to show the members of the Inner Council why we must take this seriously.”
Tiamak nodded, and ran a hand through his dark, thinning hair. “First, my noble lords and ladies, you do not realize it but you have already met more than one member of the group that uses this symbol—the League of the Scroll.” He pointed to the end of the table. “Like me, Binabik of Yiqanuc is part of the League, and has been since his master gave him an emblem much like this one, back in the early days of the Storm King’s War.”
Binabik reached into the collar of his homespun shirt and pulled out a shining object, then held it up in his small, thick fingers. “And I have been wearing it with proudness ever since,” he said. “The League has done much for protecting peace and wisdom from those who are valuing neither one.”
“Your pardon, Lord Tiamak,” said Archbishop Gervis, “but I find this somewhat alarming. Do you mean that all the time you have been acting as advisor to the High Throne you have been also part of a secret guild? Are all your members foreigners?”
Tiamak shook his head. “If by ‘foreigners’ you mean those who look different from yourself, Your Excellency, then the answer is no. In fact, for many years before he disappeared, Prince Josua himself, King John’s younger son, was one of our number. And if Josua still lives, as Heaven grant, he may still be wearing the same token.” He smiled politely. “But this secret guild, as you name it, comes closer to home than that. My friend Father Strangyeard was also a part of it. You remember him, I trust?”
“Strangyeard? The royal chaplain?” Now Gervis looked openly baffled. “Of course I remember him, and still mourn his passing. A fine man, a godly man. What do you mean? What is this mysterious society?”
“With their Majesties’ leave, I will explain,” Tiamak told him. “The members of the League of the Scroll are scholars, bound by oath to preserve wisdom. It is a great honor, but also an onerous and sometimes fatal duty, since sometimes the only way to preserve wisdom is by fighting against those who would drag the world back into darkness. Several of our members died in the Storm King’s War. But dangerous as it may be, that duty cannot be asked for, as a man might ask for a royal favor. A position in the League must instead be granted by a current Scrollbearer—that is what we call ourselves—often when that member thinks his or her own time is short. If possible, the shiny emblem you see here, or at least one much like it, is given as well. You have seen Binabik’s, the gift of his master. I received mine from another good Aedonite, Father Dinivan of Nabban, when he fell defending the lector himself from Pryrates the red priest.”
“Father Dinivan? Lector Ranessin’s secretary?” Gervis seemed astonished to find another churchman involved. “I remember him, too!”
“Yes, Dinivan. And Strangyeard received his from Jarnauga of Tungoldyr when that good, wise man stayed behind, giving his life to enable Josua and his people to escape from Naglimund when all seemed lost.”
“Hold a moment,” said Duke Osric. “You say ‘Jarnauga’? But this fellow with the arrow is named Jarnulf, and obviously he is a Rimmersman too. Could he be some relative of the fellow you knew?”
Tiamak shook his head. “I never knew Jarnauga myself, because I was not at Josua’s castle, Naglimund, when Jarnauga came there. But Strangyeard thought very highly of him, especially considering the short time they had together. As to your question, it has occurred to Binabik and to me as well. But we have no answer. If Jarnauga had kin, no record of their names survive. Strangyeard never mentioned them, and Jarnauga’s own scroll and quill pendant is on my neck at this moment.” Tiamak reached into his mantle and produced another pendant, then carefully removed it and put it on the table beside the first. “By the form of his writing, though, this Jarnulf is from the tribe of Rimmersmen enslaved long ago by the Norns. Jarnauga of Tungoldyr was of the free Rimmersfolk, our allies under the dukes of Elvritshalla and the High Ward.”
“So if this Jarnulf is a member of your group of scholars,” Osric asked, “who made him so? Who gave him this?”
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but you move forward too swiftly. There are other things that are strange here. See how the League symbols of the honorable troll and myself are made of gold? This one is not. In truth, I have never heard of the League making such things in silver, not even in the earliest days of our company. But that is not all that puzzles us,” Tiamak said. “Binabik and I have examined this token carefully and made an interesting discovery.” He picked up his own chain and the necklace that had accompanied Jarnulf’s message, then handed them both to the duke. “Look closely. Tell me what you see.”
Osric held them close, squinting. “I see nothing. Perhaps this new one is a little less finely made.”
“You are right, my lord. Now turn it over.”
Osric raised an eyebrow, but did as the little man asked. “I see nothing of import.”
“Exactly. Now look at mine. Turn it over as you did the other.”
The duke stared for a moment, then his brow lifted in surprise. “There is writing on yours, but it is too damnable small for me to read.”
“There is writing because a Scrollbearer pendant must have it,” Tiamak said. “Those tiny letters, ‘POQM,’ signify the Nabbanai words, ‘Podos orbiem, quil meminit’—‘He who remembers can make the world anew.’
“But it’s not on the pendant this Jarnulf fellow sent, and his is silver, not gold. What does all that mean?” asked Simon.
“That we are fearing this letter found on the Frostmarch Road is likely not being from a true Scrollbearer, Duke Osric,” Binabik explained. “Or at least that the pendant itself is not being a genuine thing.”
“The motto goes back to King Simon’s ancestor, Ealhstan the Fisher King,” Tiamak said. “The one who founded the League. It is our credo, and you will find those letters scribed minutely on Binabik’s pendant as well, and Josua’s wherever he may be, and that of Lady Faiera of Perdruin. Together we are the last of the Scrollbearers.”
“The last?” asked Archbishop Gervis. He sounded as if that might almost be a relief.
“We have lost many of our wisest, and those of us who are still loyal to the League have been searching for new candidates equal to the responsibility. I confess that we Scrollbearers have let ourselves be distracted by other things in these years of relative peace. But now . . . well, suffice it to say that it seems there is need for the League once more.”
“But why?” Count Rowson demanded. “I can’t keep all this straight, but surely an attack by a dozen or so bloody White Foxes and a single giant doesn’t signify the end of the world. Why do you all look like the sky is about to tumble on our heads? Why all this nonsense about leagues and scrollbringers and such?”
“Because of what the message from this Jarnulf says, my lord.” Count Eolair had been quiet for a long time, and even Miri found his sudden words a bit startling. “The man claims connection to the League, or implies it, and says that the queen of the Norns is awake and seeking vengeance against us. But we are dealing with far more than words! Here is something else we have not told you yet—something important we heard from an old friend and his wife.” A few murmured conversations faltered and fell into silence. Eolair looked to the king and queen for permissio
n. The royal pair conferred with silent glances, then Miriamele nodded. “Thank you, Majesties,” Eolair said, then turned back to the council. “Our old ally Sludig of Engby and his wife discovered that the White Foxes are again crossing their land in eastern Rimmersgard after decades of absence, and that the Norns also seem to be at war with their Sithi kin. Now, consider that the Norns also attacked soldiers of the High Ward—the king’s and queen’s own soldiers!—only a short distance from the borders of Erkynland itself, when they could easily have hidden from us instead. This is not one small exception to the ordinary, but two great ones, and they have come at much the same time. Are these not reasons to be concerned, my lord?” It was rare to see Eolair angry, but the lord steward was not hiding his unhappiness very successfully. “The king and queen both fought against the Norns in the Storm King’s War. So did I. We saw at first hand what they can do—and what they almost did. King Seoman and Queen Miriamele saw this very castle ablaze with unreal fire and cast back hundreds of years into the past. Is that not true, Majesties?”
Simon nodded. “Dear God, yes. It sounds like a song or a tale but it’s all true. We saw it.”
“And that is why we are concerned, good Lord Rowson,” Eolair finished. “If we had been only a small bit less fortunate in our other struggles with the Norns, we would none of us be here today to have this council meeting.”