The Witchwood Crown

  Eolair carefully shook his head. “A Hernystirman who had been working for some time in the castle bake house. He was quiet and kept to himself. Nobody heard him say anything against me or anyone else. He was in distress, and I tried to help him. I do not even know if it was only me he wished to harm—he could not have known when I would be coming.”

  “Praise God you were spared,” said Morgan. He would have liked an excuse to call off the journey, but not at the expense of a good old man like the lord steward. “Did you kill the man?”

  Eolair’s laugh was rueful. “As I said, I was light-headed. It was all I could do to hold onto him and keep him from a vital blow until others heard me and came to help.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re safe and that it wasn’t worse.”

  “As are we all,” said his grandfather. “Pasevalles has been trying to find out what the fellow wanted, or whether he is simply moon-mad and that’s an end on it, but without luck.”

  “I cannot believe it was anything planned,” said Eolair. “Too slapdash. Just a madman, babbling about being ‘summoned.’ Perhaps he followed me here from our country with some insane grudge, perhaps he simply fixed on me because I spoke Hernystiri to him.” The count rose slowly from the chair. “With your permission, Majesty, I will leave you and the prince to say your goodbyes while I see to the last of the details.” He turned to Morgan. “When the noon bells ring, Highness?”

  “I will be there.” But Morgan was worrying now. What if Eolair was too weak to command the mission? Or what if he died along the way? He was quite old, after all. Then even more responsibility would fall on Morgan’s own shoulders. And no doubt, if things went wrong, the blame would fall on him as well.

  “So, lad,” said the king. “Here we are. No, here you are, about to undertake a mission for the High Throne. How does it feel?”

  Morgan knew what his grandfather wanted to hear, although he felt like a Hyrka’s dancing dog for giving it to him. “It feels like a great honor, Your Majesty.”

  Any idea of telling the king what he thought he had seen on Hjeldin’s Tower now sifted away like sand in an hourglass. If they did not even want him around, why would they care what he thought he saw?

  King Simon smelled the insincerity, catching Morgan by surprise. “Come, would you try to peddle me a branch of the Aedon’s Execution Tree? I asked you how it felt, not what you thought you should say.”

  “Very well.” Morgan didn’t like being pulled up short, even by the king. “It feels as though you want to be rid of me. Your Majesty.”

  His grandfather looked at him with surprise and hurt. “Do you really think that? Merciful Rhiap, Morgan, do you truly think that?”

  “Why shouldn’t I? You have done nothing but disapprove of me for longer than I can remember.” He glanced around the nearly empty throne room. “Where is the queen?”

  “What?”

  “Where is my grandmother? Is she too ashamed to say goodbye to me? Or is she angry because you forced her into going along with the idea?”

  For a moment the king’s face reddened, and the prince, full of righteous anger himself, braced himself for the bellowing to come. Instead—and now it was Morgan’s turn to be surprised—the king forced a laugh and leaned back in his seat. “I had that coming, didn’t I? No, the queen’s not avoiding you. Your grandmother will be out to see you off. I just wanted to speak to you myself.”

  “Well, then, you have. May I go?”

  The king’s long face now clouded like a sky preparing to rain. “God’s Holy Tree, boy, do you really think that of me? That I dislike you so?”

  “I didn’t say that, but I think it’s probably true. I said you disapproved of me, and you have said that yourself enough times. Do you take it back?”

  “No, damn it! But I don’t disapprove of you, lad, I disapprove of what you’ve been doing. Tournaments, gambling, drinking, in and out of bawdy-houses, your only real friends men twice your age but half your wit! Let alone climbing around on that God-cursed tower in the middle of the night. Do you have any idea, young man, of the evil that’s buried there? Any idea at all?”

  A chill squeezed Morgan’s heart at the memory of a spectral, hairless head, but he was determined not to show it. “I’ve heard all the stories, sire. Gossips’ tales, to frighten children.” He did not truly believe that after what he had seen, but admitting it in front of his grandfather would be like conceding that the old man was right about everything.

  “Gossips’ tales, is it?” The king glowered. “Shall I tell you of what I saw the night I fled this castle, when I was no older than you? A man sacrificed, a high noble of this kingdom, his throat slit by White Foxes and his blood used to seal a pact between King Elias and the Storm King himself. And do you know who arranged that bargain? It was Pryrates, the man whose tower you so stupidly climbed.”

  Morgan flinched. The thing was, the king was right—he had been stupid. But that didn’t make hearing it any easier. “And what should I have feared?” he demanded. “Norns crawling out of the shadows with white, clawed hands to drag me to Hell? The ghost of a mad priest? Or perhaps just a few rats? Old buildings have plenty of rats, they say, and their scratching is commonly mistaken for ghosts.”

  His grandfather shook his head. “I was in that tower, boy, when Pryrates was still alive. If you had seen a quarter of what I saw, you would never dare make such a jest. Rats! If only . . . ! Blessed Elysia, please forgive this fool of a boy, because he doesn’t know any better.”

  “If that’s all you have to say to me, Your Majesty, then I might as well be on my way. With your permission, of course.”

  For a moment they stayed that way, Morgan on one knee but poised to rise, his grandfather leaning forward on the second-best throne, pawing at his beard in frustration. “Well, then,” the king said at last. “Be on your way. But the day will come—I pray it will, anyway—when you will look back and realize that all your grandmother and I wanted was what was best for you.”

  “And on that day, I’ll thank you, I’m sure.” Morgan stood, barely able to hide the way his body was quivering with anger and sorrow and other feelings that had no names. “But now it seems to me that what you really want is me gone—gone where I can’t embarrass you any longer with my bad behavior and my dubious friends. In truth, none of you ever cared for me very much anyway. Not you, or my blessed mother, or even my father.”

  His grandfather’s face twisted into an expression that Morgan felt certain was fury, but he didn’t care. Should he make the old man feel good for forcing him off on some bootless, fool’s errand?

  “Has a devil got into you, boy?” The king’s hand trembled as he raised it, as if he tried to protect himself from something. “Bad enough you say such cruel things about the rest of us who have cared for you so long, but your father? By the sacred blood of the Ransomer, your poor father loved you!”

  “Yes, I’m certain he did. For a time.” He bowed stiffly. “I go now at your order, Majesty.” He turned and marched toward the door, waiting for King Simon to say something else, but he had fallen silent—doubtless too enraged to speak. It did not matter: his grandfather had won the argument simply by being the more powerful.

  There is no victory when you fight a king, Morgan thought, and did not look back as he left the throne room. Kings always win.

  But someday I will be the king.

  Lord Chancellor Pasevalles watched from the highest window of Holy Tree Tower as the prince’s procession set out. He had planned to see Prince Morgan and the Hand of the Throne off on their journey, but when the time came, and to his surprise, he found himself awash in painful memories. It had been a bright, warm day when his own father and uncle had set out for Nabban, having cast their lots with Prince Josua, Camaris, and the rest in the great war. That long-ago day had been like this one in other ways, too, especially the mixture of pride, hope, and fear the crowd h
ad felt as loved ones set out into the unknown. As a child he had cheered without reservation, thrilled that his uncle Baron Seriddan and his father Brindalles were off to do a splendid thing on behalf of splendid people. After all, if Sir Camaris himself, the greatest warrior of his age or perhaps any age, had turned up after all hope was past, then how could their cause fail?

  And it had not failed. In fact right here in the Hayholt they had sent the undead Storm King back to hell and defeated his mortal lackeys, King Elias and his warlock-priest, Pryrates. But that did not mean that all those who fought against them had survived to enjoy the victory: Pasevalles’s father and uncle would never see their home again, and with them gone, the fabric of his life had begun to fall apart.

  All his childhood Pasevalles had devoured stories of heroism and knightly ideals, but after his father’s death, those stories no longer made sense. It was not only people that had died in the Storm King’s War.

  Pasevalles stared down at the tide of men on foot and horseback preparing to make their way out of the Middle Bailey and down to the castle gates. From high above, the small army looked almost like a single creature, one of the weird little monstrosities that lived in pools along the shores of the Kynslagh, something with no guiding thought that nevertheless reached for and grasped and consumed what it needed. What were the Sithi going to make of this party of armed mortals? Would they welcome them in, as the king and queen hoped, or would they avoid them as unwanted intruders? Worse still, would they see them as something more dangerous? Pasevalles was not happy that Prince Morgan, the heir-apparent, was being sent on such a mission. Everything he had fought for since becoming Lord Chancellor, every piece of hard work and subtle negotiation, would come to nothing if the prince was lost. And yet King Simon and Queen Miriamele insisted on sending him away. It seemed so careless to Pasevalles, so foolish, that he was just as glad he had exiled himself to this high perch in the castle’s tallest tower.

  Do they not understand how close they are to loss at every moment? Do they not understand how suddenly Fate can take their loved ones—just sweep them away, like crumbs brushed from a tablecloth?

  He saw a flash of dull gold below—the prince’s hair: Morgan had pulled back his hood to kiss his grandmother’s cheek. Pasevalles felt like a thief or spy, watching their private moment from above.

  Is that how God feels sometimes? When He watches but does nothing? Like a spy?

  It was a strange, disturbing thought, and Pasevalles shook it off. He walked to the next window, then leaned out until he located Count Eolair, who was talking with the commander of the Erkynguards platoon that would accompany them. Pasevalles knew he would miss Eolair: The lord steward was someone Pasevalles understood, someone who had experienced tragedy in his life and been chastened by it. Like Pasevalles, Eolair recognized the power of Heaven to knock down anything that a man could create, to make a mockery of all hopes and plans. And yet there was Bishop Gervis, only a few yards from Eolair, waving his censer and reciting prayers as though his reedy voice might make God Himself sit up and take notice.

  I am angry today, Pasevalles told himself. I must be careful. That is no mood in which to make decisions.

  But some days the old wounds simply ached, and there was nothing he could do to soothe them except to take himself away from other people.

  He looked up at the sky. That, at least, augured well. A few clouds blew past overhead like sheep who had lost their flock, carried on a wind from the Thrithings, but otherwise the sky was a serious, solemn blue.

  A single trumpet’s blare wafted up from below, then several more. He watched the procession, led by the prince and Eolair, as it made its way toward the Nearulagh Gate and the journey down Main Row through Erchester. How small they were already becoming! How distant! From this height, he could still make out Prince Morgan, but like all the rest of the company, when he turned to look back at his home, the prince had no face. He was nothing more than an actor in all this, as they all were.

  As we all of us are, Pasevalles thought. Taking whatever role God gives us and being grateful for it, without ever knowing if we are to be the hero of the story or the butt of the jest.

  Too much bitterness, Pasevalles told himself—in fact, too much thinking. He had work to do.

  The lord chancellor turned away from the window. He did not watch as the prince, the count, and their company passed through the Hayholt gates and out into the wide, dangerous world.

  PART THREE

  Exiles

  . . . Bring the lute—I will sing,

  Fashioning a song of the Desolate City.

  The song says:

  Border winds hurrying

  Above the castle cold.

  Well and pathway gone from sight,

  Hill and grave mound crumbling.

  A thousand years,

  Ten thousand ages,

  All end thus—

  What is there to say?

  —Pao Chao

  Inhale, exhale

  Forward, back

  Living, dying

  Arrows, let flown each to each

  Meet midway and slice

  The void in aimless flight—

  Thus I return to the source.

  —Gesshu Soko

  This final scene I’ll not see

  to the end—my dream

  is fraying.

  —Choko

  41

  Hern’s Horde

  A spring storm was rushing across the Frostmarch. The horizon was black and full of swirling movement, the mountains invisible, as if someone had dumped a bucket of pitch across the northern world. Aelin thought the great wavefront of clouds looked like something alive.

  “That’ll be on us soon, sir,” said one of the soldiers as he caught up with Aelin on the hillcrest. “Long before we reach Carn Inbarh.”

  “Can’t be helped.” Like the others, Aelin had pulled his hood up against the growing wind. Just in the last hour the day had gone from ordinary to stormy and dark as ink. “We need to reach the earl with my uncle Eolair’s message, and we need to do it swiftly. We’ll just have to ride faster and stay ahead of the worst of the weather.”

  His squire Jarreth shook his head. “Not Brynioch in his silver chariot could stay ahead of that, sir. It will bring darkness within the hour, I warrant. The meadows are still wet and muddy from the winter, and full of holes. The horses’ will break their ankles or we will break our necks.”

  “Bagba’s Belt!” Aelin reined up, turned to look directly at the northern sky. Jarreth was right, of course—the storm looked more like an avalanche than any ordinary weather, something that would roll over them and not just soak them, but crush them. Still, his great-uncle Eolair had been very firm that his letter must reach Earl Murdo as quickly as possible. Aelin only wished he knew what was in it, so that he could judge how much risk was necessary, but Count Eolair had been very firm: no one but Murdo was to open it, and if it seemed likely to fall into anyone else’s hands it was to be destroyed first. Sir Aelin did not know what the message contained, but he felt certain it had something to do with King Hugh, and Hugh had already shown himself not to be the forgiving sort, so Aelin had kept its existence secret even from his own men. But hanging onto that secret would do no good if they lost their way in the dark, or tumbled into a ravine. And outlaws also roamed this part of the southern Frostmarch. Aelin’s band of well-armed men would discourage ordinary cutpurses but not an organized troop of brigands like Flann’s Crows or even the Skalijar, who did sometimes range this far south.

  One of the younger soldiers, a fellow who’d grown up in this outlying part of Hernystir, cleared his throat and said, “Sir?”

  “What is it, Evan?”

  “We are not so far from Dunath Tower.”

  “The border station? How near are we?”

  The young man lifted his visor and
squinted across the glen. “Unless I miss my guess, that is the valley of the Inniscrich just beyond these hills.”

  “The Inniscrich? So near?”

  “We have been riding fast, Sir Aelin.” He said it almost as an apology.

  “Well, by old One-Arm, I believe you’re right.” He almost thought he could make the tower out, but knew it must be a trick of the storm: in truth, it had to be too far away to see. Still, they could be there in only an hour or so of hard riding. They would get wet, but they would have somewhere to dry off and stay the night while they waited for the storm to pass. Important as the message to Earl Murdo must be, it could wait until the next day, surely. What other choice did they have?

  Aelin turned to the others. “Let us thank the gods that we have Evan with us, who has the sense to know where in the world he is. And while we’re at it, let us pray that Mircha will hold back the worst of her downpour until we’ve reached the border station.”

  Jarreth pulled his cloak tighter. “And let us pray also that they have their cookfires burning and a spigot in the ale cask. We’ll need a lot of warming by the time we get there.”

  Aelin smiled, but shook his head. “I’m afraid you will be building your own fires, my friend. The tower will be empty. King Hugh recalled the Dunath Tower garrison, and I doubt the replacements from Rimmersgard will reach it until the roads are dry up north. Except for a few bats and an owl or two, we’ll have the place to ourselves.”

  “Don’t say that, Sir Aelin.” Young Evan looked unexpectedly pale. “There are things . . .” He could not find the words he wanted, and only shook his head. “I grew up here. There are things in these hills, bad things. Not all of them are natural.”

  “Natural or not, they will have several good men of Hernystir to deal with if they prove themselves awkward,” Aelin said, with more cheer than he felt. He was angry at Evan for sharing his peasant superstitions with the others, undercutting what should be a moment of relief. “And if your bad things try to keep any of us from getting warm and dry, well, they will spend the night on the Frostmarch themselves, and wonder how it happened!”