“Of course,” said Pasevalles, and traced the holy Tree on his own breast as well. “God protect our king and queen.”
“But surely you have noticed the trouble Morgan has been in of late, Pasevalles! Surely you have seen the bad company he keeps, the fecklessness of his habits!”
“Some of his company may be less harmful than you think, Prin . . . Idela. Fighting men cannot teach smooth speech, and there is no doubt he and his companions spend too much time drinking in low establishments, but there are lessons that soldiers can teach him. Useful lessons. A king must not only rule his kingdom from the court, but sometimes must defend it in the field as well.”
“I know! Merciful Elysia, how I know! I have horrid dreams about it. And there is not only the battlefield to worry about, but all the rest—assassins, madmen like the one who struck at Count Eolair!”
“You must know how beloved your son is by all of Erkynland, my lady. But for any man, from the least to the greatest, there is no defense against madmen but a loving God. Soothe yourself with this. There is no man in all the world who will be better guarded against ill chance than your son.”
For a moment it seemed she would speak again, but instead the princess suddenly turned away from him. Her shoulders trembled a little.
“Idela? My lady? Have I said aught to offend you?”
When she turned back he thought he saw a tear in her eye, but she quickly wiped it away. “Oh, Pasevalles, no, no. You could never offend me. But that is exactly what I was told about my husband, Prince John Josua—that no man in all of Osten Ard was safer, better guarded, more protected. But all of that was worth nothing when Death reached out for him.”
Pasevalles was wondering whether his words had truly made her weep, or whether the shininess on her fingertip was a bit of the acrid juice from one of the ramps that she had rubbed in her eyes to bring tears. It was hard to tell with as skilled a campaigner as the princess, but it did not matter: simple courtesy required him to reply. “I am so sorry, Idela. The pleasure and informality of our evening have made me clumsy. Of course you have more reason to worry than most mothers.”
Her smile was brave. “I am greedy. I did not have him long, my kind, handsome husband, but at least it was long enough for me to give him two beautiful children.” She looked down at her own hands as she wrung them together, then looked up again, eyes wide and, Pasevalles thought, quite impressively beseeching. There was no getting around it: Idela was a very, very handsome woman. “But that is why I fear for our son. He has had no father for most of his life. His schooling has been of the roughest sort. What will become of him when he must take on the responsibilities of his blood?”
Pasevalles could finally see the line of her attack, but he was still not quite sure he had perceived the object. “I will do anything I can to help, my lady. Like everyone else in this court, my concern and love for Prince Morgan is complete.”
She wiped her eyes again. “You think me a fool.”
“On the contrary, I think you a good, caring woman.”
“Then may I confess something to you? Something unworthy, but that preys upon me nevertheless?”
“Of course.”
“I fear that the king and the queen keep my son too far away from responsibility, and from those things he most needs to learn.”
This was slightly astonishing—the idea that anyone was keeping responsibility from Morgan was a bit like claiming that a groom chasing a runaway horse was keeping it from its bridle—but Pasevalles only nodded. “I understand your concern.”
“I did not want him sent off on this strange mission—I do not even understand all this talk of fairies and magical horns and whatnot—but it was not my place to object. Still, when he comes back”—here she allowed a tremor back into her voice—“if, God willing, he comes back safely . . . I would hope that they make better use of him, not just for his own sake, but for the sake of the kingdom itself.”
Pasevalles nodded. “I think I follow you, but if you could explain for me just a bit—”
“Could he not be given something more to do?” The weight she gave the word told him that she had finally reached her objective. “Morgan will rule the land one day. He will be king of the entire High Ward. Nabban, Hernystir, Perdruin, all of them will bow to him. And yet he knows nothing of how to be a king.”
In truth, Pasevalles thought, there is some sense in what she says. He doubted, though, that her reasons matched his own. “I heartily agree, my lady. He could and should be given more responsibility.”
She spoke eagerly now. “His grandparents—well, there is no getting around it, Pasevalles. They are wonderful rulers, we are all grateful to them for what they have done, but they are old now—fifty years and more! Morgan could be such a help to them, if he . . . if he had a position in which he could do so.”
Pasevalles nodded as if it was all just sinking in. “Ah. Do you mean if they made him . . . What would it be called? A sort of co-ruler?”
“Exactly.” She reached out and clutched his hand, which caught him by surprise. Her grip was cool and dry, not in the least unpleasant. “You go beyond what I thought, but you are much wiser about these things than I am. A co-ruler—exactly! He would learn by doing, and the king and queen could teach him all he needed to know. Will you help convince them, dear Pasevalles?”
“But, Idela, are you not in a better position to do that than I am?”
“Oh, they would never understand if it came from me.” She shook her head forcefully. “They would think I was meddling, that I was trying to improve my own place in things somehow.”
It was hard for him not to smile. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“I know I am, sadly. But if it came from you, they would listen. King Simon thinks the world of you. He raised you above all those other . . . those other . . .” She faltered.
“Those other more suitable candidates? You need not fear that you will hurt my feelings, Idela. I know there are many nobles with grander names than mine, and many with larger fortunes. It is well known that my family, while never the richest to begin with, fell on hard times after the Storm King’s War.”
“But you were the best for the position and the king recognized that.” She squeezed his hand so hard it was almost uncomfortable. “Surely he will listen to you when you suggest something that will help Morgan be a better king someday.”
“I cannot promise that.” He did not want her to think she had hooked him too easily. “The king and queen are both rare in the stubbornness of their minds. I say that as a compliment! They see things their own way, not as others tell them things must be. But I will try my best.”
“Oh, may God bless you for your kindness!” Idela reached for the wine and, quite daringly, poured for both of them. “Say we are partners in this endeavor, and I will be the happiest woman in the Hayholt.”
“I was always your partner, my lady, even if I did not know your cause, because I want the same things you want. Security for the High Ward, and happiness and health for your son.”
“Pasevalles, you are the finest man I know.” She drained her goblet with the vigor of a soldier just escaped from a deadly and blisteringly hot battlefield. “Come, let us take the rest of this and go and look at my husband’s books.”
She had caught him off balance by returning to the books, but when she stood, he did too. She took him by the hand and led him away from the table. He hesitated a little as they passed Lady Wilona’s chair. The older woman was fast asleep, her plate set down carefully on the floor, her sewing muddled in her lap. “Will she not . . .?”
“Leave the poor dear be. What does she know about books that are even older than she is?” Idela giggled like a girl, then tugged at his hand. “Come away. We do not need her supervision this moment.”
He let himself be led toward what he expected would be her late husband’s library, or perhaps a
storage room where the books were kept, but when she pulled him through the doorway, it was into a room completely without light.
“Oh, dear,” she said, sounding quite undisturbed. “I seem to have led you into the wrong room. I must have had too much of this lovely wine.”
“Should I go back for a candle?”
Even in the darkness, he was quite aware that she had turned to face him and was standing very close. She had let go of his hand, but now she reached up to touch his shoulder, then follow the line of his neck with her finger until her hand reached his face. “I think not,” she said softly. “We can do without light and company for a little while, can we not?” She moved closer, so that he could feel her slender form touch him in several places. He could smell the wine on her breath and the floral sweetness of her scent.
“Idela . . .”
Her finger touched his lips, silencing him. “You know, it is not only a man’s voice I have missed.”
He kissed the finger, then gently pulled it away from his mouth. “My lady, I am only—”
“Hush. You are a man, and that is something truly wonderful. No, you are the finest man I know. Oh, and I have admired you so long!”
“But the servants—”
“Know better than to come stumbling into my chamber. Yes, I told you a lie, I confess it, my lord. This is not where my husband’s books are, this is my own bedchamber. Do you hate me for my falsehood?”
“I could never hate you, dear lady. Sweet Idela.” He took her hand again and kissed her fingertips, each one. He heard her breath, deep and unsteady, so he leaned forward again and found her lips. Long moments passed before he spoke again. “I could never do anything to hurt you, in any way.”
“Oh, glory!” she said, and in that moment he could detect nothing false in her words. “I am all goosebumps—and my heart beats so! Here, can you feel it?” She took his hand and put it on her breast, naked now, her skin warm, the nipple nearly as hard as a cherry stone. In the darkness, she had quietly unlaced the top of her dress and pulled it down. “Can you love me, Pasevalles? Just a little?”
“Yes,” was what he said, then squeezed her flesh, gently, until she gasped. “Yes, my lady, I can.”
The first night they camped within sight of Aldheorte, as Binabik and the trolls were caring for the Sitha, Count Eolair waited until the knights and their squires began eating their suppers, then asked Morgan if he would like to accompany him into the forest.
“But why?” said Morgan, who had been about to go in search of Porto and the wineskin the old man generally had somewhere close by.
“To blow the horn, Highness,” said Eolair, patting the wooden box tied to his saddle. “There seemed no sense in doing it while we were still within the bounds of Erchestershire.”
Morgan could only say yes. He found his horse cropping contentedly in the thick, green grass, and climbed into the saddle. The mare gave him such a look that he almost felt he should apologize.
“We are not far from Hasu Vale,” Eolair said as they headed their mounts toward the dark edges of the forest. “It was a dark place, once. Your grandparents were captured there and nearly killed by Fire Dancers, worshippers of the Storm King.”
“I know all about the Fire Dancers,” said Morgan. “Believe me, Count, I have heard all the stories.” He was missing his sister and his grandmother and didn’t much want to talk. He even missed his mother.
Morgan had a sudden memory of his grandfather drolly suggesting that the women in the family were conspiring to keep the king and his grandson from having any proper fun. His grandfather had wanted to go out and catch frogs in the Royal Puddle, which was his joking name for a large pond at the edge of the castle’s common green. Morgan hadn’t been particularly interested in catching frogs—already he was concerned to appear a young man, not a small boy—but he had been pleased his grandfather wanted to spend time with him. When had that been? After his father’s death, certainly. As he thought of it now, he remembered more than a few occasions when the king had tried to interest him or amuse him.
“You and I, Morgan. That’s what it will come down to, you mark your grandfather’s words,” the king had said. “They’ll never let you do anything if you listen to them, your mother and my wife. They’re afraid you’ll be hurt. But what’s wrong with a bloody nose from time to time?” Then he had told some story about Rachel, a chambermaid who had apparently frightened him badly when he was young.
His grandfather had been kind to him in those days, it was true. Why had everything changed since then? Why was the king always so angry at him now over a few foolish scrapes and mistakes?
“You have gone quiet, Highness,” Eolair said, startling Morgan a little. “Is all well?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, although his thoughts were so confused and uncomfortable that he truly did feel unwell. “I am just tired of talking.”
So they rode silently through the trees spotted with failing afternoon light, Eolair in front and Morgan just behind him, grateful that the older man respected his wish for silence. The sun was low in the west, but such sky as Morgan could see between the branches was orange and red except for high above their heads, where it showed somber blue. In the new quiet, he could hear the sounds of the forest, or in this case, the absence of sounds. But for a few birds piping far away, safely distant, Morgan heard nothing but the soft crunching of twigs and leaves beneath their horses’ hooves. The camp was only a short ride behind them, but it suddenly seemed leagues away.
“Ah, I think we can tie our mounts here,” said Eolair at last. He dismounted, still impressively nimble for a man his age, and knotted his horse’s reins around the slender trunk of a birch, then began to remove from his saddle the box that held the horn. Morgan tied his horse beside Eolair’s, staring around at the shadowy glade.
“It’s so quiet.” Even to Morgan’s own ears that sounded like a foolish thing to say, but Eolair only nodded.
“The forest is careful,” the count replied. “It does not welcome visitors, but it does not repel them, either. At least that is what my father used to say, although he was talking about our own Grianspog woods. This forest, the Aldheorte, though . . . many say it is the oldest place there is. That is why it is named ‘Oldheart’.”
“How could one place be older than another?” Morgan demanded, unsettled by his recollections and by the forest stillness. Eolair had taken the velvet sack out of the box and now slid the cloth from the horn as carefully as if the strange instrument were a sleeping child. Morgan said, “I mean to say, if God made the world then He didn’t make a forest first, then the rest of everything later on, did He? That doesn’t make sense.” The sound of his voice in the quiet clearing seemed harsh as a hectoring crow’s.
“No, you are right.” Eolair held the horn up to admire it in the dying daylight. “And I would be the first one to agree that we need more sense in this world.”
Morgan had never seen the horn before, although it been mentioned in many stories about Sir Camaris and the Storm King’s War. He was surprised to discover that it disturbed him, although he could not have said precisely why. In some ways it seemed crude, just a curving cone incised with small, precise carvings, a silver mouthpiece, and simple silver decorations around the wide end its only ornaments. But something about it held Morgan’s eye, made his heart slow and then speed again.
“That’s it?” he said. “That’s the horn of great Camaris, like in the songs?”
“It was, but I think he was not the first to wind it—not by centuries. Do you see these marks?” The count drew his finger along the carvings. “These were made by the Sithi, and not recently, or so I have been told. This horn was crafted when the Sithi still ruled Osten Ard.”
“Are you going to blow it?” Morgan asked.
“Of course. Or at least, I am going to try.”
“Try?”
“The horn
is like other great and powerful things, Highness—not always easy for us to understand. When Prince Josua brought it to Sir Camaris, who had lost his wits, the old man seemed at first not to recognize it, then suddenly Camaris took it up and blew it loudly and clearly. After that great blast his mind became clear again. Why should that have been? You can ask the Sithi when we meet them—if we meet them—because I doubt anyone else could say.”
“Then . . . may I try?”
“To sound the horn? Of course, Highness.” Eolair lifted the hem of his cloak and rubbed the mouthpiece until it shined.
Morgan took the horn. It was surprisingly heavy, not like something made of bone or antler at all, but more like stone. He lifted it to his lips and then lowered it, feeling the hush of the woods press in upon him. “If they hear it, the Sithi . . . they’ll come?”
“No one can know,” Eolair told him. “But if they do hear it, I doubt they will ignore it. Not something like Ti-tuno.”
Morgan lifted it to his mouth, steadying it with his other hand. He pursed his lips and blew, but nothing came out but a splutter of air. “I didn’t think it would work,” he said.
“Try again,” said Eolair, and for once an adult’s urging did not feel like an order or a scolding. “Think of the Sithi. They have lived here since long before mortal men walked this land. Think of them in their forest deeps, listening.”
Despite having seen the Sitha woman on her sickbed, and having heard many stories of the old days, it was hard for Morgan to imagine the Fair Ones. Old stories kept creeping in, stories he had heard from older children and from servants in which the pale-haired Sithi were more like ghosts than men. He closed his eyes and tried to think of the wounded Sitha’s catlike eyes, which had opened once when he had gone to see her, blazing golden against her bloodless features, startling him badly. He tried to imagine eyes like that here in the forest, perhaps watching the prince and the old count this very moment, golden eyes staring from the shadows. This time, the horn gave out more spit than air, but still did not sound.