The Witchwood Crown
“Majesty . . . husband . . .” Miriamele said, putting aside her resolve for a moment. “Let us remember what we do here.”
Simon darted her a cross look, but saw that Binabik and Count Eolair were watching him worriedly as well. He took a moment to recover his calm before speaking again. “I will tell you once more, Prince, that this is a task very close to my heart, and to your grandmother’s heart as well. We send you, not to see you punished, but to see you succeed. We send you because we need you to do good for the throne. That throne will be yours someday.” He looked at Morgan, who had folded his arms across his chest and was clearly not going to kneel again. “You may go and see to your preparations now. St. Callistan’s Day is in three days, and you will leave then.”
Morgan’s face was wan with outrage, and he clearly considered further argument, but for the first time he looked to his grandmother. She shook her head, slowly but firmly. Some of his color returned. He bowed his head.
“As Your Majesties wish,” was all he said, then bowed with careful correctness, turned, and walked out of the throne hall. His squire scuttled after him, trying to keep up without turning his back on the king and queen, something that made him walk an uneven, awkward path.
“Binabik and I will take good care of your grandson, Majesties, never fear,” Count Eolair said. “And he will be a credit to you when all is done. Prince Morgan is a good young man, never doubt it.”
“Yes, he will be well and growing to a fine man, I am thinking, Simon.” Binabik spoke so quietly that none in the great hall could hear him but the count, the king, and the queen. “I have been reminded by him sometimes of another young man I once knew, confused and angry.”
“If you’re talking about me, I pray he doesn’t have to go through what I did,” said Simon. “But now I am cross with myself for losing my temper. I didn’t mean to send him off yet. There is one important thing still to do.” He sat up straight, raising his voice to silence the murmuring courtiers. “One more thing do we send with these brave envoys, to help them on their way. An object of great veneration. Tiamak, do you have it?”
Tiamak limped forward with a large wooden chest, which he handed to Simon. When the king opened it and lifted up what was inside, a stir went through the room, although few could have guessed exactly what it was he held.
“Here is the horn Ti-tuno.” Simon held it up to the light streaming through the windows and the silver chasing glinted. “This belonged to Camaris the Great, Prester John’s finest and most godly knight. It was found broken on the field of battle here at the Hayholt, where the war against the Storm King ended.”
“May God rest that brave old man’s soul,” said Miriamele, remembering the sadness of bringing Camaris out of the contentment of madness and back to cruel sanity.
“The story has long been told that this horn is of Sithi make, carved from a tooth of one of the great worms,” Simon continued, then waited until another wave of whispered conversation broke and fell back. “If you wind it at each stopping place when you reach Aldheorte Forest, I feel sure the Sithi will know you are there.” He lowered the horn back into the box, then signaled the lord steward to step forward. “Take it with our blessing, Count Eolair, and our love. May it bring you success in your mission, and then lead you safe home again as well.”
Eolair took the box. “I pray it is so, Majesty.”
“We all do,” said Miriamele. “We will pray for your safety every day until you and Prince Morgan come home to us.” Her eyes felt warm and suddenly wet. “Every day.”
38
The Factor’s Ship
Eolair knew he should have sent one of his underlings to deal with the royal kitchens. On the best of days the heat there was overwhelming, and what might be a cozy refuge in deep winter would be sweating agony on a hot day like this. But he knew Benamin the royal butler well, and knew that the man’s pride made him difficult on those with a less important position than himself. Sometimes Eolair wondered if Benamin realized that the Hand of the Throne actually outranked him, but at least he was respectful.
Several months’ worth of supplies finally arranged for the trip to Aldheorte Forest and the eastern lands along the Thrithings border, Eolair was heading back toward his chambers when he saw a small man kneeling on the floor just outside the pantry door. The man was shaking, and for a moment Eolair drew back, fearful of disease, but the little man looked up toward the ceiling and cried out, “Och, cawer lim!” in the count’s own Hernystiri tongue—“Help me!”—and began to weep. His wide-eyed face showed no taint of disease, only despair, and Eolair’s heart was touched to hear such a piteous cry from a countryman.
“What is it, fellow?” he asked in their shared tongue. “What afflicts you?”
“The summons!” the man said. “Do you hear? She calls us all! She calls us! Help me go home!”
Eolair recognized him now—a kitchen worker, one he had seen but never spoken with before. He had not known the man was Hernystiri, but the fellow’s obvious misery made the count wish he had found it out sooner. Homesickness was a terrible thing, especially at the end of a long life in a strange land. But Eolair also knew there was nothing he could do, not when his own journey was so close at hand. “Surely this is your home, too,” Eolair said, still in the Hernystiri tongue. “You have friends here, do you not?”
The man stared at him for a long moment, as though seeing him for the first time. “Help me,” he said again, more firmly this time. “I must go. She calls me.”
“Who calls you?”
“I said, help me! You must!” The weeping man had stopped weeping, and now he reached up and grabbed at Eolair’s wrist with surprising strength, so much so that it felt like he was squeezing the bones together.
“Let go!” The count yanked his arm free. “That is no way to treat a countryman.”
He was so busy rubbing his sore wrist that he did not see the change in the man’s face, the way the bulging eyes grew narrow and heavy-lidded. Neither did he see the carving knife the man had drawn from his ragged shirt; but then Eolair felt a burning pain in his chest and a harsh thump as blade hit bone, and looked down in amazement to see blood seeping through his doublet just below his shoulder. The kitchen worker, with a desperate grimace on his face, was lifting the knife to strike again. Eolair knew he should reach out to stop him, but for some reason could not. A coldness began to steal over him and his thoughts drifted like ashes on a hot wind. The room was quickly growing dark, filling with shadows that murmured as they surrounded him.
“Why have you . . . done this?” Eolair asked, but his own voice sounded far away.
“They will not stop me!” the man with the knife shouted, even as the shadows began to clutch at him, too. “I hear you, Summoner, and I am coming! Your servant hears you!”
The royal packet ship was called The Princess, a small, handsome cog bobbing at anchor just inside the Kynslagh breakwater, the dragons of the High Throne entwined in bright colors across its square sail.
Tiamak and Brother Etan descended the long, steep stairway toward the quay behind the Hayholt’s seagate, where the longboat waited that would take Etan out to the Princess. The smell of hot tar made him wrinkle his nose, and the gulls knifing past his head with their high-pitched cries made him fear for his balance on the damp stone steps. Tiamak had to go slowly, always leading with his stronger leg, and his halting pace made the monk even more anxious.
“You did not need to come down to see me off,” said Etan. “I hate to see you give yourself pain on my account.”
“How could I send you off into the world without even a proper farewell, my young friend?” Tiamak smiled. “That is how I left my home in Village Grove the first time, without even a niece or nephew waving to me. Such loneliness! Besides, there is someone I wish you to meet.”
This surprised Etan, who could only guess that Lord Tiamak meant the captain of the roy
al packet, but before he could ask him, the little man slipped on a wet stone and would have tumbled down to the nearest landing if Etan had not grabbed his arm.
“Now I am really worried,” the monk said as he helped Tiamak back to safe footing. “How are you going to climb back up?”
“More slowly than I am climbing down, for one thing,” said Tiamak with a slightly breathless chuckle. “It is easier going up—at least with stairs.”
Etan didn’t understand Tiamak’s remark, but they were on the last leg of the staircase now and the steps were slippery with spray from the waters splashing in through the sea gate. The seawall loomed high above them, blocking the morning sun and casting the stone stairs into shadow. Only a few ships and boats floated in the small harbor behind the seawall, but most of them contained goods for the castle, so the docks were alive with sailors and workmen.
As they reached the bottom, Etan saw a man waiting for them. The stranger was small and thin, and because his skin was darker than most of the Erkynlanders unloading cargo, at first Etan thought the man might be another of Lord Tiamak’s folk. Only as they stepped off onto the quay could he see that the man’s face was longer and bonier than any Wrannaman’s, and his skin a bit more pale; also unlike the royal counselor, he had dark whiskers all over his face, a short growth that looked as if it had been shaved a sennight earlier and not touched since.
“Ah, glory to the Aedon!” the stranger said, showing a wide smile full of black gaps. “There you are, Lord Tiamak, our darling. But it is good to see you safe and well!”
Tiamak gave a little snort. “Save your congratulations until I’ve reached the top again.” He turned to Brother Etan. “This is Madi. He will be your guide on your journey.”
Etan was startled. This was the first he had heard of anyone accompanying him. “Your pardon, Lord, but I do not understand.”
“Bless him, of course he doesn’t,” the stranger said. “He’s never been nowhere, you see? He doesn’t understand about the wide world.”
“And you still don’t understand anything about staying quiet until it’s your turn,” said Tiamak sternly. “Don’t fear, Brother. Madi’s a good man, even if his tongue wags a bit too much. He’s been to Kwanitupul and Nabban and all over the South. And he’s also very, very good with horses.”
“I can find ’em by smell, I can train ’em from colts, and I can make ’em dance if someone plays the music. That’s my Hyrka blood.”
“You’re a Hyrka?” All Etan knew about Hyrkas was what everyone knew, that they were wild folk who moved around. He had only ever seen them at local markets, where they sold inexpensive trinkets and mended pots and pans. He had heard that they also had a magical way with horses, and certainly those animals he had seen attached to Hyrka carts had looked healthy enough.
“Aye, my lovely man, that I am. Our wheels never rest.”
Etan turned in confusion to Tiamak. “Do I really need a guide?”
“You are on royal business, Brother, do not forget. What if something happens to you? What if you fall and hit your head—who will tend you? Who will tell us where you are? The men of some monkish orders may travel as solitaries, but that is not the way to conduct the business of the king and queen.”
“Then it seems to make more sense to send a larger party. What if we are attacked by bandits?”
Tiamak wagged his finger. “Do not try to teach an old uncle how to dig for turtle eggs. There is a balance in this, as in all things. Too many people traveling and everyone will be curious about your business. People will find you just to sell information, and that is likely to be only what the seller thinks you want to hear. And those who do not want you to discover the answers you seek will also know of your coming. It is like a long journey through the swamp by boat. One person may disappear without trace. Too many will sink the canoe. No, there is a balance, and Madi will perform many useful tasks for the amount I am paying him.”
“For the pittance you are paying me, my sweet little lord,” the Hyrka said loudly, laughing. “Surely that’s what you mean.”
“Silence, Madi.” Tiamak turned to Etan. “That is a phrase you will find very useful, by the by. I suggest you memorize it.”
Etan just stood. He understood Tiamak’s logic, but the idea of having a companion, especially one who seemed so unlike himself, was daunting. Where would he find the quiet hours to pray?
Madi was grinning. “Here, you’ve scared the poor fellow to death, Lord Tiamak. Don’t fear, Brother. I won’t rob you and leave you dead by the road. I like priests. And I like Lord Tiamak. Lovely fellow for a mud man.”
“Considering you’re not getting paid more than what your food and expenses will cost until you finish the job to my satisfaction,” Tiamak told him, “I suggest you find a more respectful name to call me than ‘mud man.’”
“Begging your pardon, Lord,” said Madi. “You are right, so right.” But he did not seem particularly chastened.
Tiamak handed the purse to Etan. “This must last you until you reach Kwanitupul. Do not let this reprobate use it to buy drink, whatever he tells you. He is a good man, I swear that he is, but he is a worthless devil when he’s been drinking.”
“Ah, but I have truly given it up, my lord,” said Madi. “The poison will not pass my lips again. I am a changed man. Did you know, dear one, I’ve even married my wife!”
“What does that mean?” Etan asked, interested despite himself.
“He can tell you later,” Tiamak said. “I am sure it is a story that will take up many hours of travel between here and Meremund, where you will take ship for Nabban. But right now the packet is waiting for you both, and I still have more to say.” Tiamak drew a bundle wrapped in oilcloth from under his robe. “I myself copied these for you so you could take them with you. They are letters from Prince Josua and other Scrollbearers, from the year before he vanished. They may help you in your quest. At the least, they will give you some idea of the kind of man that Prince Josua was, why he was so loved and why his loss has been felt so keenly.”
“I will read them all, my lord,” said Etan, taking the package.
“You may write to me as well. In the bundle you will find a list of places where you can find someone to carry letters safely back here to the Hayholt. I hope you share any news you find as quickly as is possible. The king and queen are most anxious to learn about the prince and his children.”
“Of course. I will write as often as I can.”
“Don’t worry too much about how often,” said Tiamak with a smile. “Write when you have something important to tell me or something important to ask. I suspect this task will keep you quite busy, and you will be traveling as well.”
Somebody on the ship’s boat was ringing a bell.
“That means they are waiting for you,” said Tiamak. “Have you been on boat or ship before?”
“Boats? Only as a boy. Only on the shallow bits of the Ymstrecca.”
“Well, as you will see, the Gleniwent is different from any stream, and the ocean is more different still. Do not fear. The Princess is a fine ship and its captain is one of Erkynland’s best. He will have you in Meremund in a day or so, and then I have bought you passage on a respectable merchant ship around the Horn of Nabban and into Firannos Bay. It will be fine weather for traveling, and I’m sure you will be in Kwanitupul before the Day of the Sister Saints.”
Etan’s heart sank at the thought of a month on pitching, rolling ships, but he had promised both his God and his monarchs that he would perform this task, so he gave Tiamak a sickly smile and clasped his hand. “Thank you, my lord. I will do my best.”
“You will do splendidly, I know.” He looked over the monk’s shoulder. “You had better hurry, now, Brother. Madi is already taking your bag onto the landing boat.”
Etan turned to see that the scrawny Hyrkaman was indeed dragging his precious possessions up t
he gangplank and onto the boat, which was piled so high with jars and sacks that the brackish water of the castle harbor almost reached the rails.
Several of the oarsmen made the sign of the Tree as Etan passed. For a moment, as he squeezed himself into a spot in the center of the boat between two sacks of grain, that cheered him. Then Madi came and squatted beside him. “Don’t take it to heart, Brother, sir.”
“What?”
“Sailors always hate having a priest on board. Bad luck, they say. In the old days, sometimes they’d push one overboard in a bad storm or when the kilpa-beasts were particular bad, just to see if it helped.” He noticed Etan’s expression. “Oh, but they don’t do that no more, sir. Not this close to shore, anyway.”
Etan closed his eyes and began to pray as the lines were loosed and the little boat steered toward the sea gate and the Kynslagh beyond.
Pasevalles found Sir Porto in the guard barracks, where the old soldier still had a bed, despite having passed beyond his years of useful service. Unlike many of the other knights, Porto was not descended from landed gentry—his knighthood had been bestowed for deeds of honor in the long-ago war against the Norns—so without his place in the barracks the ancient soldier would have had nowhere to go. That, along with the pittance soldiers were paid, even when they were too old or injured to fight, had been one of King Simon’s cleverest ideas, Pasevalles had long thought, and it had helped to cement the loyalty of his guardsmen.
“You have heard the news, I’m sure,” said Pasevalles.
Porto was sitting on his cot, a pile of meager belongings lying beside him, but he rose to bend an ancient knee. “I am to go east, Lord Chancellor, with the prince. We are in search of the fairies, I am told.”
“You sound as if that were a punishment, not an honor,” Pasevalles said.
Porto gestured helplessly. “I have only just returned from the north. I am old, m’lord, and tired.”