The Witchwood Crown
Or with one shove of my foot, she suddenly thought, I could push them both over the edge. Just a brief instant, then it would all be over and the mortal and his questions and his lies would trouble her thoughts no longer.
Instead she leaned forward, shielding her face from the flailing attacker, and groped until her hand found living fur. Then she set the point of her sword against it and pushed hard. The thing squealed, a rasping cry of fear and pain. She shoved the blade deeper. The creature struggled for a moment, trying to fight its way up the blade toward her, and for an instant she saw its face close up, the weird, whiskery snout too long for any wolf or bear. Then Jarnulf managed to get enough of a grip to shove the thing off him and kicked out with his booted foot. The beast slid from her blade as she clung to the hilt with both hands, then it tumbled over the narrow ledge and out into the void.
For a long moment after the creature disappeared they both lay panting at the edge of the precipice. Nezeru’s legs and arms felt as boneless as mushroom stalks. Jarnulf choked and wheezed, trying to get his breath, then finally sucked in enough air to crawl farther from the drop.
“What was it?” Nezeru asked at last. She rolled over and was relieved to see the dead goat still lying where they had dropped it.
“Yukinva, they are called by the trollfolk. A kind of giant rat of the snowy heights.” He got up, absently wiping blood from his face. His skin had been torn in several places by the thing’s claws and teeth. “It must have smelled the blood of our kill.”
“Then let’s hurry and get back down to the cave before another arrives,” said Nezeru. “We’ll put snow on your scratches when we reach somewhere safer.”
Jarnulf got to his feet and nocked another arrow. “We won’t bother,” he said. “A little blood is a good sacrifice to the mountain gods, I think, and we should not spend more time out here than we need to.”
Nezeru had to admit that was an even better plan.
44
Charms and Tokens
The early days of Yuven had brought a flurry of rain; it took the visitors no little time to remove their dripping cloaks. Archbishop Gervis was accompanied only by a pair of priests, clearly suggesting the meeting would be an informal one, but when he had removed his outerwear he kneeled before the king and queen and kissed each of their hands, something that Miriamele could see made Simon restless, even anxious.
“I don’t know what it is with these religious fellows,” Simon whispered to his wife as the archbishop retreated to his seat. “Always down on their knees kissing something.”
On another day Miriamele might have smiled or even laughed, but she did not want to be distracted now. She nodded to the archbishop and said, “It is good to see you, Your Eminence. I hope no sad errand brings you to us.”
“Would that it were a happier one, Your Majesty.” Gervis, in all other ways almost the model of what an archbishop should look like—tall, slender, and even-featured, with a fringe of snowy white hair showing below his mitre—had a habit of gnawing at his fingernails when he was distracted or worried. As Miriamele watched, he lifted one of his hands to his mouth before remembering where he was and quickly lowering it again. “But I come to you today not as archbishop of Erchester, but as a humble servant of Mother Church and of our great father, Lector Vidian.”
“And away we go,” said Simon under his breath.
“As always,” Miriamele said loudly, “you bring honor enough by yourself, Archbishop, but we are eager to hear what His Sacredness wishes to be made known.”
“Then let me move swiftly to the matter that brings me here.” Gervis was clasping his hands together as though to thwart any treacherous move one might make toward his mouth. It was clear to Miriamele that he was more than just ordinarily disturbed by something, and she began to feel it herself, as though it were a fever that could pass through the air. “You know of the troubles in Nabban, of course.”
“Nabban? Nothing but trouble most of the time,” Simon said. “Seems like if they’re not stabbing each other in the street, they’re complaining about not being allowed to stab each other.”
“Yes, Archbishop, we are aware of the problems,” Miriamele said with a stern look at her husband. “The king and I have spent much time discussing the current situation, especially the conflict between Duke Saluceris and his brother Drusis. Does the Sacred Father have something to say on the subject?”
“Oh, much and much, Your Majesties. He is fearful for the state of the duchy, but even more, he is fearful for the state of Mother Church and all Osten Ard.”
“Please explain,” said Miriamele, and reached out her hand to Simon, ostensibly in the loving gesture of a royal wife, but really with the intention of giving his knuckles a hard squeeze if he didn’t stick to the course they had planned. “We are eager to hear what His Sacredness has to say.”
“There is nothing to hear from me, Majesties. Lector Vidian has sent a formal envoy to you. He will arrive sometime in the next sennight, I am told.” The archbishop looked a bit sheepish at this. “I was informed so that I might prepare to welcome him. I do not want to tread on the privilege of His Sacredness, but I believe it is in everyone’s interest for me to tell you of this matter first, before the formal delivery of the Sancellan’s request.”
“And are you going to tell us what this request is?” Simon asked. “Or are we to play guessing games, like children at Aedonmansa trying to win a sweet? Ouch!” The king scowled. “You hurt my hand, woman.”
“Many apologies, husband. I was distracted by an irritating noise.” She smiled as sweetly as she could, then turned her smile on the archbishop. “Forgive us, Your Eminence, for the interruption. Please continue.”
Between Simon’s muttering and the seriousness of the matters discussed, it was all Archbishop Gervis could do to keep his hands away from his mouth. He pulled a ring of prayer beads from his pocket and began to tell them, one after another, around and around. “Here is the root of the matter, Majesties,” he said. “In Tiyagaris month, the duke’s brother Drusis is to marry Lady Turia, niece of Count Dallo Ingadaris.”
“Oh,” said Miriamele, genuinely surprised. “Little Turia! I thought he meant to marry the older sister. Surely Turia is not old enough to be married.”
“She will have twelve years that month, Majesty, which both custom and Mother Church accept. It is not the bride’s age that concerns His Sacredness, but the idea that the wedding will strengthen Drusis because he will become Count Dallo’s son, and that it may be the occasion of even more serious fighting between the supporters of the Benidrivine and Ingadarine Houses.”
“I know a little something about this,” Simon said abruptly. “First, making Drusis his son-in-law won’t change anything old Dallo’s doing, because he’s already backing him against his brother, the lawful duke.” He held up his hand when the archbishop would have replied. “And—and, the lector himself, the Sacred Father, is a member of the Clavean family as I recall, who have long been allied to Dallo and the Ingadarines. So why his sudden concern?” The king turned to the queen. “You thought I was not paying attention during all those council meetings, didn’t you?” The only thing missing was a childlike, “Ha!” of triumph.
Miriamele had no cheerful reply to that, so instead she turned to the archbishop. “You were about to say something, Eminence.”
The beads were making a furious circuit through his fingers now. “Yes, well, the king is quite right, of course. But that is part of the problem. You see, His Sacredness is in an awkward position. Ordinarily, especially with the Sancellan Mahistrevis and the Sancellan Aedonitis such close neighbors, he would have intervened long before, when this conflict was first beginning. And do not misunderstand, Your Majesties—His Sacredness has called for peace many times in the last year, tasking all parties with the disruptions and unhappiness caused by their fighting. But things are getting worse in Nabban—just a short time
ago the death of some Ingadarines led to rioting in the street, and Duchess Canthia, the Duke’s wife, was caught in it. She survived without harm, thanks to our merciful God, but it was a near thing.”
“Well, I agree that we can’t have these bullyboy Kingfishers and Stormbirds rioting in the streets,” Simon said. “But what can be done?”
“The High King and High Queen can come to the wedding,” said Gervis so hurriedly that it almost seemed he tried to gasp it out with insufficient breath. “That is what the Lector’s messenger will request. His Sacredness will work with Duke Saluceris and the other parties so that during your visit, all will be brought to the table together. With Your Majesties’ presence to demonstrate the importance of concord, agreements can be reached that will protect the peace.” He took a deep breath, then slipped his hand and the beads it held into a pocket of his robe. “That is what the Holy Father will ask. I did not wish you to be surprised.”
Miriamele was, in fact, surprised, and for a moment she could think of nothing to say. A trip to Nabban was a daunting thought with so much else already swirling around the High Throne.
“Why can’t the lector of Mother Church do this himself?” Simon asked. “What good is having a lector if he can’t tell people to stop fighting? Isn’t that what our faith teaches us, that the Lector is the father of the world’s family? Well, that’s what a father does—stops the family fighting. The good God knows I’ve had to do it enough times myself. Only the Lord knows how many times I’ve had to give Morgan a talking-to when he flouted his mother or grandmother.”
And only the Lord knows how little good it ever did, thought Miriamele.
“But you see,” Gervis said, “you already spoke the difficult truth at the heart of it, Majesty, when you pointed out that His Sacredness comes from a house allied with the Ingadarines. Without the help of Count Dallo, the Holy Father would never have been elected by the escritors to the Sacred Chair. Nabban is a city—an entire nation—whose history has been written by the great family houses. ‘Words are less than blood,’ is one of their oldest expressions. Duke Saluceris and his supporters . . . well, they do not trust His Sacredness to be fair to both sides.” The beads came out again after only moments in his pocket. “It will take someone from outside to make peace.”
“But I myself am related to the Ingadarines,” Miriamele pointed out.
Archbishop Gervis shook his head. “Your rulings on matters pertaining to Nabban have always been fair, Majesties, and it is known that despite your Ingadaris blood, you also have an attachment to the Benidrivines . . .”
“Because without Duke Saluceris, the whole country will turn to shit,” said the king, and didn’t seem to notice the archbishop nearly drop his beads. “He is the closest thing Nabban has to a man who puts what is best for the people ahead of his own desires.”
This time Miriamele did smile a little, although she was not entirely pleased with her husband’s contributions. Gervis clutched his beads in both hands, as if they were a floating spar and he was lost at sea. “Yes, I’m sure your Majesty is correct,” the archbishop said through a wince. “But I am certain you and the queen will need to discuss this matter in private, so I will take my leave. The Holy Father’s legate is already on his way.”
“Do you know who it is?” Miriamele asked.
“Escritor Auxis, I am told.” It was clear that the archbishop was pining for the security of St. Sutrin’s. “He is a good man, godly and fair-minded.”
“I’m sure,” said Miriamele. “Thank you for sharing your concerns with us, Your Eminence, another of your many services to the High Throne.”
When Gervis had departed, Simon turned to her and said, “Well, a lot of nonsense, isn’t it? The Nabbanai are always squabbling. Rachel the Dragon used to say that the Hernystiri liked hunting best, the Erkynlanders liked fishing, but the Nabbanai preferred arguing to all other sport.”
Miriamele gathered her dress and rose from her chair. “I don’t think the Mistress of Chambermaids, however much she may have meant to you, is the best guide to the strife of nations.”
“By all the bloody saints, what have I done now?” Simon called after her. “You are angry again, Miri, aren’t you? Miri?”
29th Day of Yuven, Founding Year 1201
My dear Lord Tiamak,
Greetings to you, and I hope this finds you well. The ship that will take me to Nabban and then on to Kwanitupul leaves this afternoon, so I will try to finish this in time to give it to the royal post before I embark.
The first part of my journey was largely uneventful, but I fear I will never make a traveler. The trip down the Gleniwent had a most grievous effect on my innards, though the river pilot kept assuring me that the waters were unusually smooth and it must have been something I ate. That is not impossible, because what I was given to eat on board the river-ship seemed to be as much beetle parts as biscuit, but I fear I may suffer from a more general indisposition to traveling on water. I am not looking forward to the longer trip, although the abbot here at St. Sallimo’s has kindly informed me that, except for an unusual amount of activity among the kilpa, the seas are calm at this time of year and my journey should be a good one.
I have never seen a kilpa, but I confess that after hearing some of the rivermen’s tales, I am in no hurry to end my ignorance.
Lest you think that I have nothing but complaints to share, my lord, Meremund is a very goodly city, and I am pleased to have finally seen it. As we approached it I could see its white towers from a great distance, standing high above the walls. The harbor is very large, with cunning canals to allow the ships to come very close to the warehouses where most of them load and unload cargo. I could not disembark immediately because my own small pile of belongings had somehow been put behind a large quantity of barrels, and my guide, your friend Madi, was nowhere to be found. Remembering what you said about experiencing more of the world, I should mention that as I waited I was able to learn a number of new words that, although common among rivermen and dockside laborers, are not generally heard among the monks of St. Sutrin’s.
At last my belongings were found and cheerfully tossed out onto the dock. As I stood beside them, waiting to see if Madi would be thrown onto the dock as well, I was accosted by two of the dirtiest children I have ever seen. So ill-kempt and filthy were they that at first I thought they might be southern apes, such as I hear the mariners sometimes make pets of, and even dress in clothes. In fact, I doubt many sailors dress their apes as poorly as these children. Even as I looked them over, these two creatures ran at me and, evidently mistaking me for someone else, began to paw and embrace me, all the time calling me “Good old uncle!” although I had never seen them before in my life. When I noticed that the smaller of the two, a girl, somehow had her hand deep in the pocket inside my robe and was attempting to lift my purse from it, while the boy had hooked one of my small trunks with his foot and was pushing it away from me even as he hugged and petted me, I realized that not only were they not confusing me with someone else, they actually meant to steal my possessions! I engaged in a struggle with the girl, and though she was but a slight thing with a wrist no wider than a Halfmansa candle, while I arrested her removal of my purse, I could not induce her to let go of it.
We stood there for long moments, and to an outsider it must have looked like some strange dance—me clutching one child by the arm while trying to yank the other back from the trunk he was trying to shove beyond my reach. At last someone called, ‘Children, stop that,’ and to my relief, they did, but not before the girl child made one last attempt to slip the purse out, which I thwarted forcefully enough that she kicked my shin.
My rescuer turned out to be Madi, and instead of telling me where he’d vanished to, he said, ‘I see you’ve met my lovely young ones. Plek, Parlip, give His Worship room to breathe, my dear little fleas, or I’ll smack the skin off you.’
I was a bit taken aba
ck to learn these apes were his. He told me their full names were Plekto and Parlippa—the latter, I assume, named after beloved Saint Pelippa. I was even more startled when Madi let slip the information that they would be accompanying us on the journey to Nabban. When I said, and rather firmly, that you had told me nothing of any children, Madi sadly bowed his head and said that he had no choice, that the children’s mother had demanded it. ‘She’s ill with the summer ague, my darling,’ he explained, ‘and cannot even get out of her bed. The older ones are trial enough, she says, and I’m to bring these two with me.’
I feel I must note that among his other habits, my guide refers to everyone he meets as ‘darling,’ ‘my dear,’ ‘sweetness,’ or ‘my love.’ Perhaps it is common among the Hyrka, but it seems to me an odd way to address strangers.
So it was that I was led away from the Meremund docks by Madi and his two young charges, and although the children helped me to carry my belongings, they also made free with my possessions when their father was not looking, which seemed to be often. I still have not found my candles.
Instead of leading me to Meremund’s main Agarine abbey, where I had planned to spend the night and where you told me the abbot was expecting me, Madi insisted on bringing me to his own house, a ramshackle dwelling in a neighborhood called the Stews, to meet his family. This despite the apparently dreadful illness suffered by his wife—I call her such because charity demands it, but I suspect no Aedonite vows were ever exchanged. Once inside, I was reminded again of my first impression, that the children were in fact apes. The rest of the children at home were larger, but no better dressed and no better in their manners. The oldest, a homuncule of Madi himself but with wispier whiskers, asked me what terrible secrets I learned by listening to rich women giving their confessions. Madi asked me for the loan of a few coppers so that he could buy some meat for the pot, but after I gave it to him he was gone a long time, leaving me with the loud, boisterous children—their mother remained under the covers, groaning that she was dying, though with such a strong voice that I doubted it. And when he returned home he had the distinct semblance of someone who has drunken several beers. Nor did I ever see any sign of meat in the soup I was served, although the bread was hard enough, I was just as grateful not having anything else to chew, for fear my teeth would not survive the meal.