The Witchwood Crown

  When they had finished eating, Sisqi rose and signaled her daughter to come with her.

  “The meal was good,” Sisqi said. “Now we go, but first we say our thanking.”

  “Where are you off to?” Miri asked.

  “They are off to find Little Snenneq,” Binabik said. “Qina is convinced that her young man is not receiving enough nourishment, and she wishes to take him some of what we ate for our luncheon.”

  Simon, thinking of the stout young troll, who despite his short stature was wider than the king himself, could only chuckle. “Very sensible,” was all he said out loud, but Binabik saw his look and smiled.

  “You will be understanding the pity we show him,” said his friend, “in memory of another young man lost in strange lands who also was being always hungry.”

  “I still sometimes dream of those pigeons you roasted for me when we first met in the woods,” Simon admitted. “I think those were the finest things I’ve ever eaten.”

  “No better sauce there is being than hunger.”

  When mother and daughter had gone, Miri and Simon looked at each other, then at the three who remained, Binabik, Eolair, and Tiamak.

  “You are not just our oldest friends,” Simon said. “But more important, you were with us in the Storm King’s War. You all know we’ve seen many strange signs of late—Lady Alva’s Norn and Sithi corpses, the Norns and their tame giant far to the south of their usual haunts. And an envoy to us from the Sithi, after all these years, ambushed in our own Kynswood.”

  “Don’t forget the message from this Jarnulf man traveling with the Norns,” his wife said. “He says the Norn Queen is awake, and that she seeks a witchwood crown.”

  “I think we all take the threat of trouble from the Norns seriously, Majesties,” said Eolair. “But remember, Isgrimnur said he thought very few of them were left when he besieged Nakkiga, and they are slow to breed, like the Sithi. Still, I have dispatched messages to our allies to prepare against the possibility of war—but quietly, for now. It is the border forts that are most important, to protect us, but even more importantly, to let us know of any attack from the north as quickly as possible.”

  They discussed how to get more soldiers into the Frostmarch forts without causing an alarm, and about establishing a more trustworthy system of sending and receiving messages.

  “I will inform Sir Zakiel, Majesties,” Eolair said when they had done. “The arrangements can be underway by tomorrow.”

  “Good,” said Simon. “Then, Tiamak, perhaps you can tell us whether you have learned anything new about the message on the arrow. Do you know yet whether this Jarnulf fellow is in fact some relative of Jarnauga’s, or what he means by the Witchwood Crown?”

  Tiamak shook his head. “About Jarnulf we have nothing to tell you. Binabik and I have studied everything we can find here in the Hayholt, and he is mentioned in no Scrollbearer’s letters. There is also no mention in letters or books of any witchwood crown. The nobleman Cais Sterna of Nabban, who visited old Asu’a in the days the Sithi still ruled there, said that the fairy rulers wore crowns that, though beautifully carved, were made of ordinary birchwood.”

  “Is there anyone else who might know?” Simon asked. “Mother Church must have lots of books. And you mentioned Scrollbearers. Is there still a League?”

  “Of sorts,” said Tiamak, frowning. “Binabik and I, of course, and Josua—if he yet lives. Geloë once was offered a place, but she suggested we give it instead to Faiera of Perdruin. Geloë never much liked to tie herself down to the things of men and women. She was happier in the forest, with her animals and birds.”

  “Then what of this Lady Faiera?” asked Miriamele. “Now that you say her name I remember it, but I have not heard you speak of her in years.”

  “She fell silent at much the same time as Josua disappeared,” Tiamak said. “I sent her many letters, but never had reply. There was plague in Ansis Pellipé at the time, and also a bad fire in the quarter of the city where she lived, so it is all too sadly possible that she is dead.” He paused as Simon and Miriamele both made the sign of the Tree. “I am sorry to have so little hopeful news to tell you, Majesties. So many things have taken my attention. Also, since we have been at peace for most of the last twenty years I did not feel it as urgently as I might have. In fact, I confess that after we failed in our search for Josua, I several times put off restoring the League, saying to myself, ‘There is too much to do here, and we may yet hear from Josua. Even so, when spring comes, I will take a trip to Nabban and begin the search for more Scrollbearers,’ or ‘When the king and queen return from Meremund, I will begin the task in earnest.’” He was morose. “Thus do years slip by and so do our chances to do what we know we should.”

  “You are hardly the only one who can claim that, Tiamak,” said Miriamele. Simon knew, despite her tone, that she had a soft spot for the Wrannaman after all they had survived together with Isgrimnur and Camaris in the south.

  “So it is only the Sithi who might tell us something,” the king said. “But their envoy seems to be dying.”

  “Poisoned, she told us when she could still speak,” said Tiamak. “Certainly something is stealing away her strength even so long after she was attacked.”

  “Which may be the end of any chance of help from the Sithi.” Simon looked pointedly at the queen.

  She nodded. “Yes, you need not worry—I was just going to speak of it.” She turned back to the others. “The king and I have decided to send the Sitha-woman back to her people. We hope they can heal her. At the very least, though, we must find out if they know what the Norns are planning, and tell them what we’ve learned. Whatever shadow has fallen between our races, the Sithi were our allies in the last war, and they know more of the Norns and their dreadful, evil queen than anyone else.”

  Miriamele paused, then looked to Count Eolair. She seemed almost shamefaced. “The king and I are sorry to have to call on you again, old friend, but because we do not know why the Sithi have shunned us, or why they have changed toward us, we need to send someone with their wounded envoy who has had dealings with the Sithi before, someone who can also speak for the king and myself. You are by far the best choice.”

  Simon was watching Eolair closely, and was certain he saw a slight, almost imperceptible flinch.

  “Of course, Majesty.” It was hidden again an instant later, and Eolair was all duty. “I will do as you and the king say. But I do have one concern. It will be a long journey, and I am old now. What if something should happen to me on the way?”

  Miri frowned. “Do you think it would be too much for you?” She was clearly disappointed.

  “No, Majesty. But it is foolish to pretend that I am still a young man. At my age, the gods might call me back at any time. If this mission is as important as we all believe, then perhaps I should have a companion who could deliver the Sitha woman and be your ambassador if something happened to me.”

  “Of course, you may choose to bring someone appropriate with you,” Miriamele said. “But we have confidence in you and your strength, dear Count.”

  “Thank you.” He smiled. “I hope the gods agree with you. But may I make a suggestion?” he said. “Perhaps it would be good for Prince Morgan to accompany me as another envoy.”

  “That seems an excellent idea!” said Simon quickly, and earned himself a glare from his wife.

  “Absolutely not! The king and I have already discussed this. Our grandson is too young, and the journey is too dangerous—we’re not even certain where the Sithi can be found. And Morgan is the heir to the throne!”

  “An heir who has never done anything but waste time in taverns and other low places . . .” Simon began, but did not get far.

  “No. It is impossible.” She spoke with such harsh finality that Binabik, Eolair, and Tiamak all stirred uneasily and tried to find something worth looking at.

  ??
?Well,” said Count Eolair at last, “then it seems I must consider who else might accompany me. Also, I suppose I should begin making arrangements for the journey itself. Binabik, Tiamak, where do you think we should search for the Fair Ones? It seems a difficult task to find a people so famously skilled at hiding from mortals.”

  “They will be somewhere in the southern reach of Aldheorte Forest, I am thinking,” Binabik said. “What I have learned from my master, and from Simon himself, tells me their woodland city of Jao é-Tinukai’i is somewhere there, but they range far on all sides of it. I am guessing that if you follow the Forest Road eastward and stop with frequency to announce yourself, the Sithi will hear of your approach.”

  “Thank you, good Sir Troll. You would make a very good Hand of the Throne.” Eolair’s smile was weary now. “I will consult what maps we have of that part of the world, then. When would Your Majesties like me to set out?”

  “As soon as possible, I’m afraid.” Miriamele had regained her composure. She leaned forward and put her hand on Eolair’s. “And you must take a company of Erkynguards with you, of course. We want you back safe, noble Eolair. We could not do for long without you.”

  “Of course, Majesty.” Eolair began to climb to his feet, somewhat more slowly than he once would have. “Binabik, Tiamak, if you would come along and give me the loan of more of your good counsel as I begin to plan the journey, I would be grateful.”

  As the three got up to leave the garden, Simon asked Tiamak to stay.

  “They can wait for you,” he said. “We have another need, I’m afraid. All this talk of the past has reminded me that I made a promise to Isgrimnur—that I owe something to that good old man’s memory.”

  “Simon, what are you talking about?” the queen demanded.

  “You know, my dear. Your Uncle Josua’s children. The royal family who would have had the high throne had Prince Josua been willing to rule.”

  “Not now, Simon. There is too much else that needs our attention.”

  “Just so. And that’s why I’m asking Tiamak.” He turned back to the counselor, who was leaning on his stick to rest his lame leg. “You recall that Isgrimnur and his wife Gutrun were the godparents to Josua and Vorzheva’s two children, the twins Derra and Deornoth. On his deathbed, Isgrimnur told us his greatest regret was that he did not know what had happened to them.”

  Tiamak raised an eyebrow. “They have been missing a long time, Majesty—many, many years.”

  “Nearly a score, I think. When did the League last hear from Josua?”

  “I believe it was in the Founding Year 1176, the tenth of your Majesties’ reign. So, yes, well beyond twenty years. The trail must be very cold.” Tiamak gave them a look that Simon thought had more than a little dread in it. “What is it that you wish of me?”

  “Well, to find them, of course. All of them, if possible, but I promised Duke Isgrimnur that we would discover what happened to Josua’s and Vorzheva’s children.” He considered for a moment. “Blessed Rhiap, they might have children of their own by now!”

  “If they lived, yes.”

  Miriamele had finally heard enough. “Simon, this is . . . well, it is not foolishness. We do owe Isgrimnur this. But now is not the time. Nabban is in open conflict, the Thrithings-men are raiding its cities, and now this news of the Norns . . . how can we think of adding another problem to solve?”

  “And if we do not honor Isgrimnur’s wish now, then when do we?” Simon could be just as stubborn as his wife when he wanted to. “What if there is war in the grasslands? What if Nabban truly does fall into chaos? Then the trail that Tiamak says is already cold will only grow colder—if it remains at all! Josua and Vorzheva and their children are the last of your father’s family besides us. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

  “That is unfair,” his wife said, her face grim. “Most unfair.”

  “Just tell me what you need from me,” Tiamak said after a long silence. “I can gather all of the letters from Josua—I still have all mine, and of course Strangyeard had many from him as well.”

  “You said they were all examined and puzzled over long ago,” Simon said. “You had Miri’s and mine from him as well, as I recall, and they did not tell us where he had gone or what had happened. No, you must go there—to Kwanitupul, where he and Vorzheva lived, and to wherever the trail leads you. We must finally discover what happened to them all, especially the children. We owe that to Isgrimnur. We would probably none of us be here today if not for the duke. And if not for Prince Josua too, of course.”

  The look on Tiamak’s face was strange to Simon. It took him a moment to realize it was something he had not seen very often since he had taken the throne—the expression of someone who dearly wanted to say “no” to him.

  “I am not sure it is a good idea,” Tiamak said at last.

  “All thanks to our blessed Redeemer,” Miriamele said. “Someone is finally speaking sense.”

  “What? What do you mean, Tiamak? Josua is—or was—the prince of Erkynland, and he has simply vanished! Uncle of the queen! We argued of this in the past and nobody wished to hear me say it, but may God defend against it, should something happen to us and ours, Josua’s family would be the only remaining blood of old King John. And even if Morgan takes the throne, as the queen and I hope, how can we ignore Isgrimnur’s dying wish?” Simon felt heat in his face and knew he was getting red. “Come, Tiamak, Isgrimnur was your friend, too!”

  Now it was the Wrannaman who gave him a grim look. “That is not it, Majesty . . . Simon.” Tiamak lifted his cane and gestured to his bad leg. “It is that I do not walk well these days. I cannot even ride in a wagon without pain.”

  “You just rode in one all the way to Elvritshalla.”

  “And I will be honest, my old friend—I suffered the whole way. But do not misunderstand me. It is not the pain I fear now, but the slowness. Who knows how far this trail will lead? I would have to stop frequently and rest, there is no getting around that. The most willing heart can only force a crippled body so far. It would take me a very long time, and—begging your pardon for what must sound very proud—I fear you will miss my counsel in the dangerous months ahead if I am not here. Binabik will be leaving soon with his family. You are sending Eolair away, too.”

  Simon scowled. “I am sorry for your hurts, of course—of course!—but I think you fear mostly to leave the library behind. You love that task more than anything else.”

  “Not true.” For a moment Simon was surprised to see something else he hadn’t encountered before—his quiet counselor showing anger, though of the most careful and controlled sort. “Not true and also not fair. It is my wife I would most hate to leave, but even so, if it were the best solution I would do so. Of course I would. I am sworn to the High Throne and to you two. You know that, and you wrong me to suggest otherwise.”

  Simon felt like a scolded child, but he also knew Tiamak was right—he had been unfair to him. “Enough. I apologize again for my foolish words. But what are we to do if you don’t go? As you pointed out, there is no one else to send, since Eolair is going to look for the Sithi. Must we postpone this yet again, and risk never finding what happened to them?”

  “Perhaps not.” Tiamak’s unhappiness seemed to have passed. “There is one who might be able to do this, I think—and, strangely, I was beginning to wonder what I might do to help him.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Brother Etan. You know him.”

  Simon waggled his hand impatiently. “Yes, the young monk with the startled look.”

  Tiamak smiled. “Now that you say it, I can see it. Yes, the one with the startled look. You do not know Etan well, but I do, and I have been impressed by him since the archbishop first sent him to us. He has a keen mind, a depth of curiosity I seldom see, and a good heart.”

  “But still, something so important . . .” Simon did not like
the idea of sending someone he barely knew. It felt like a slight to Isgrimnur’s memory.

  “Let me tell you one thing about Etan,” Tiamak said. “You may remember that when Father Strangyeard died—my dear old friend Strangyeard, how I miss him now!—his scroll was never passed along.”

  Miriamele nodded. “Because it happened so quickly. The fever took so many that summer.”

  Simon remembered. He had not guessed how much he would miss the old archivist until it was too late and he was gone. “God preserve us, it was a terrible time.”

  “He asked me, in his final hours, to keep the scroll until I found someone worthy of it. I have begun to think that Brother Etan is that person—that he should be invited to join the League of the Scroll. That should tell you what I think of him.”

  “Well, I suppose that is a strong recommendation indeed. Are you certain he’s up to it?”

  “The task itself? Yes. He is young and in good health. Also, he has the scholar’s way of never trusting easy answers. I can think of no better candidate. But even more importantly, I think it would be good for him.”

  “How so?”

  “He has been much troubled since our return from Rimmersgard by . . . by a certain matter.”

  Simon could tell that Tiamak had chosen to give the bare minimum of information, and for a moment he was irritated. “A certain matter?”

  “Nothing that either of you should worry about, Majesties—a thing important only to scholars like Etan and myself—but it has unsettled him. He has not been sleeping well, and like many of his sort of contemplative, religious folk, he has taken it much to heart. I think it might be a good thing for him to have something new on which to bring his thoughts to bear, and other sights beside the familiar castle and cathedral life.”

  Simon held up his hand. “If you can swear he is up to it, that is good enough for me. Miriamele?”