“Death is a stain,” Simon said. “It leaks into everything and taints it.”
“Aedon preserve me, I know the truth of that! Every memory, every keepsake. I could not even look at John Josua’s possessions for a long time, and still I cannot see them as anything but things he will never use again.” She laughed, short and bitter. “Perhaps that is why I sometimes dislike Idela so. Because to me she is something of his, left behind.”
Simon considered. “Doctor Morgenes once told me that, in old Khand, they would kill the king’s wives and concubines when he died, so that they could accompany him to the next life.”
“Dear Simon,” she said. “I will leave word in my testament that they are not to kill you when I die.”
He smiled, but she could not see that in the dark, so he reached out and found her hand again, then squeezed it. “And I will do the same for you, dear Miri. But you may feel free to leap into my grave, as long as it’s your own idea.”
Miriamele giggled. “Oh, how horrible we are,” she said. “What if God hears us?”
“God always hears us. But He made us, so He must know what we’re capable of. That’s probably God’s First Rule—let nothing shock You.”
After another silence, Miriamele said, “I lied to you a moment ago, Simon, but I didn’t mean to. I’m not just frightened of being a disappointment. I’m afraid for Morgan. I do not like it that he has gone away into those wild lands. I’m angry I can’t protect him.”
“But we survived those lands when we were much the same age,” he pointed out. “In even more dangerous days. And whatever you may think of me now, I would have grown to be much more foolish had I not spent that year and more fighting for my life and seeing unlikely things. The lessons I learned were hard, painful, but they serve me still.”
“I know. And God Himself knows that Morgan needs experience beyond dodging his debts and cozening tavern girls. But you know you also had luck, and Morgan may not. Oh, my husband, I could not bear it if something happened to him! I don’t think I could live if we lost him as we lost his father.”
“I should tell you that is blasphemy,” Simon said after a little while. “That we never truly lose anyone—that John Josua’s soul watches us from Heaven, and that we will all meet again. And I do believe it. But a lifetime is a very long time to wait for a reunion.”
“Too long. Far, far too long.”
Again they fell silent, or mostly so.
“Are you crying?” he asked at last.
“A little. I do when I think of him. It can’t be helped.”
Simon took a breath. It felt as if he had something to say that was so important it would change everything, like a magic word from an old story but also as ordinary as wishing someone good day. “I don’t want to ever lose you, Miriamele. That’s another reason I’m afraid.”
“The world is a frightening place, husband.” He could almost hear her wiping her eyes, beginning to restore the serene, queenly face she showed to the court and, usually, even to their close friends. “Did we imagine that once we found each other, once the Storm King was thwarted, that nothing bad could ever happen again? Instead we still have war and murder, sickness and death, danger to all we love. But we of all people must go on, no matter what threatens. We are the High Queen and the High King, so we have no choice. We must be brave.”
“I do not like those words,” he said. “We must be brave. Every time I’ve heard them, it meant something bad was about to happen.”
“We can only have what we have, we can only know what we know,” she said. “Come here, Simon. Hold me and let me hold you.”
Nothing had been resolved. Nothing could be resolved until all this was over and they were safe together. Possibly that could never be, on this side of the grave. But the fight was ended, at least for now, and they clung to each other in the dark.
Sometimes, thought Simon, that really is all we can do.
Lord Chamberlain Jeremias and his minions had been busy as bees in flowering spring, and the great throne room was almost unrecognizable. Great, swooping banners billowed between the ancient pennants, and a canopied entranceway with scalloped edges of white and gold had been built over the inside of the hall’s main door, so that the lector’s handpicked spokesman would walk to the table in a splendor similar to that of the Sancellan Aedonitis.
When Miriamele found her husband, he was with Jeremias, who was excitedly describing the other preparations: the cleaning of the best silver for the evening’s state dinner, the aromatic spices in the hand-bowls, and the special meal now being prepared, whose highlight was an immense lamprey pie made in the shape of the Hayholt itself.
“A bit of a strange message,” Miriamele said as the king’s childhood friend rhapsodized over the Kynslagh full of gravy and the tiny oyster shell boats. “Are we inviting Mother Church to swallow us?”
The Lord Chamberlain looked confused. Simon laughed, despite trying not to. “Don’t be cruel, wife. It sounds splendid, Jeremias. Escritor Auxis cannot fail to be impressed and honored.”
“I hope so.” Jeremias gave Miriamele a look that was almost a challenge. “It is to honor the church we have done all this, not just the escritor, although he is himself a famous and godly man.” Jeremias ostentatiously made the sign of the Tree. “We are lucky that the Sacred Father sent him.”
It was all the queen could do not to make a face. Jeremias was very pious, as Miriamele considered herself to be, but somehow his fervor always made her feel a little sour. As for Escritor Auxis, Jeremias was right when he called him famous—many thought that despite his comparative youth, he was the most likely to succeed the present Lector—but she was not as certain about the godly part. The escritor’s reputation for hard bargaining and high-handedness outstripped anything known of his piety.
When the Lord Chamberlain had shot off to see to some other details, Miriamele took her husband by the arm. “Shall we go in?”
“I suppose.” With Jeremias and his excitement now gone from the anteroom, the king seemed to sag. “I have told you, I think, that I do not approve of any of this?”
“A dozen times, at least. And you may tell me again if you wish—but not in front of the lector’s messenger. Is that agreed?”
He sighed. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Don’t play the scolded kitchen boy with me, Seoman Snowlock. I know you too well. You get your way far more often than you deserve. Show some good grace that, for once, I have won the toss.”
“It wasn’t a toss. That would have been fair. You just told me what we were going to do.”
She pulled herself closer. “But you know I am right. Now, shall we go in?”
He made a growling noise that she decided to take for assent.
Miriamele had to admit that Jeremias and his legion of helpers had done a fine job. The great chamber hadn’t looked so clean in years, perhaps since Queen Inahwen’s visit with young Prince Hugh more than ten years ago. How does time slide past us so quickly? she wondered. There is nothing more precious in all the world, not gold, not jewels, not even love itself. So how does it so easily slip through our fingers? A strange thought came to her. And what of the Sithi? Or what of an eternal horror like the Norn Queen, Utuk’ku? What can time mean to those who have so much of it? Does it creep past, each moment a stretching misery, as it did for me when I was a child? As during some of those endless summer afternoons in Meremund, when I had nothing to do but stay quiet and sew? In fact, the air was hot and still today, just like those long-ago afternoons.
What would it feel like to live forever?
But even as she thought it, she saw Jeremias’s great canopy with the golden Trees of Mother Church artfully painted on it, and was ashamed of herself for such a question, which suddenly seemed like the worst sort of ingratitude. Was not Heaven itself an eternal afternoon, and had God and Usires not promised that gift to everyon
e?
“Perhaps if we go and sit down,” Simon said, “everyone will get the hint and things can begin.”
“Nothing can begin until the escritor arrives,” she reminded him. “But I would not mind sitting down. It’s so hot today, and this dress is very heavy.”
• • •
It turned out to be a good choice, because even after the escritor left Saint Sutrin’s in the city—Jeremias came to tell them of it as soon as the archbishop’s messenger informed him—his procession through the streets to the castle took a long time, limited to the speed of the slowest priests in the procession, some of whom were extremely old. But none of them would have missed this chance, and in fact there were as many dignitaries lined up for the escritor’s visit as for the only visit the lector himself had ever made, when he had come to the Hayholt to preside at John Josua’s funeral.
Miriamele would not let that gloomy memory distract her. This was more than a state visit from one of the princes of the Sancellan Aedonitis. She had work to do, bargains to make, and she wanted to keep her wits sharp. She nodded as all the great and good of Erkynland filed in, Lord Constable Osric, the inescapable Count Rowson, Feran the castle’s marshal and dozens of other nobles, all in their finest clothes. The queen was fairly certain that ostentation was against the church’s teachings, but she also knew Auxis himself was said to have a weakness for expensive robes.
At last the procession led by Auxis and Erchester’s own Archbishop Gervis reached the throne room. Miriamele and Simon went out onto the steps to greet their important guests. After a blessing was said, and the crowd gathered outside had a chance to see their monarchs and the lector’s representative together, the escritor and the rest of his escort from St. Sutrin’s were ushered into the throne hall so the official visit and negotiations could begin in earnest.
Escritor Auxis was surprised when he was informed of what was to come by Lord Pasevalles, acting as Hand of the Throne in Eolair’s absence. “Negotiations?” Auxis turned to the king and queen, looking almost more annoyed than surprised. “What is there to negotiate, Your Majesties? I come on behalf of His Sacredness, Lector Vidian.”
Miriamele had not seen the escritor for many years, although she had followed his rise through the church from a distance. He had aged much as she had imagined he would—handsomely, his bold nose and strong chin, and bushy eyebrows, along with his height, giving him more the look of a warrior-king than a mere churchman. She had to admit he cut an impressive figure in his heavy golden robes.
She saw no need to explain, not yet, but only held out her hand so that he could kiss it. She was pleased that Simon remembered to do the same—it was important to remind the escritor that he stood before the High Throne of all Osten Ard, not just that of some ordinary ruler. When Auxis had been seated and the rest of the preliminaries finished, she squeezed Simon’s hand to let him know she was going to speak.
“We know why you are here, Your Eminence,” she said, “and we hope we will be able to find a way to help our beloved Sacred Father, the lector.”
“And His Sacredness is grateful to you for making time for his humble servant and messenger.”
Miriamele almost looked around in comic confusion, because nobody would ever mistake Escritor Auxis for a servant, especially not the humble sort, but she restrained herself. It was just the sort of thing she had scolded Simon for in the past. What was it about Auxis that brought out these childish resentments in her? “We all have the same interests, Your Eminence—” she said, “— you, His Sacredness, my husband, myself. We all want peace for our people.”
After that conventional opening, Auxis clearly felt he had a grip on the situation again. He nodded and began a disquisition on the current state of affairs in Nabban, one that although it stuck more or less to the truth, played down the sins of House Ingadaris and played up the efforts of the Sancellan Aedonitis to find a solution. The fact that His Sacredness owed his position largely to his connection with Count Dallo, one of the main authors of the problems, was not a part of the escritor’s summation—not that Miriamele had expected it would be.
Descriptions and counter-descriptions of the exact problems went on for the best part of an hour, couched in courteous language as befitted a meeting between Mother Church and the High Throne, but Miriamele could see that Escritor Auxis was already frustrated. He had expected an agreement to the lector’s request for the king and queen to attend the wedding of Drusis and Turia Ingadaris as a matter of form only, and was dismayed by the idea he might actually have to bargain for it.
“I beg both Your Majesties’ pardon,” he said at last, “but we have talked half the day and I fear I do not understand whether or not you will answer His Sacredness regarding the counsel he has given you.”
“If by ‘counsel’ you mean the Sacred Father’s request that the High Throne give its blessing by attending the wedding, the answer is yes.” She smiled. The escritor, relieved, smiled back. He was indeed a fine-looking man when he was in a good mood, Miriamele noted. She wondered if that would still be true when his mood changed. “It is most likely that the High Throne will be present at the wedding and will work with the feuding parties in Nabban to make peace.”
“I am very pleased to hear that, Majesties,” Auxis said, spreading his arms as if in benediction. “And I can assure you that our Sacred Father, Lector Vidian, will be pleased, too.”
“Excellent.” Miriamele squeezed Simon’s hand beneath the table to let him know the time had come. He made a little snorting noise.
“You always think I’ll say something to spoil things,” he whispered.
“Shush, husband,” she said, “the fish is almost in the net.” She raised her voice. “And the High Throne will formally agree to the invitation as soon as His Sacredness grants us a few small kindnesses in turn that would please us very greatly.”
The ordinary background of murmured asides and the skritch-skratch of pens on parchment suddenly ceased.
“Are you proposing that His Sacredness should... strike a deal?” said Auxis, making it sound like the sort of thing usually done in dark alleyways. All eyes now went from his pale, strained features to the queen.
“Surely not,” Miriamele said. “The Blessed Patriarch has kindly offered us advice—his counsel, as you so neatly put it—to which we are giving very careful thought. And since we have this splendid opportunity, due to his so generously sending a high official of the church like yourself, we have some counsel we would like to tender in turn.” Beside her, Simon did his best to stifle a laugh, but was not entirely successful. She squeezed his hand again, slightly harder this time.
“I know, I know,” he said so that only she could hear.
It was all Auxis could do not to glare. He leaned and whispered something to his clerks, and when he turned back to the table, his expression had been wiped clean of all emotions except patient interest. “I would be very happy to hear what counsel the High King and Queen would offer to His Sacredness.”
Miriamele’s smile was a little tighter this time. “Very well. The High Queen and the High King suggest that we are overdue another escritor from the north. The last three have been from Nabban or Perdruin or the islands. Surely His Sacredness would not wish his northern flock to think we are forgotten by the Sancellan Aedonitis.”
“Ah,” said Auxis. “I see. And would you have a suggestion for the Blessed Father?”
“How about Archbishop Gervis?” proposed Simon, a little too abruptly for Miriamele’s taste.
She closed her eyes and said a little prayer, then put on a pacific smile. “Yes, how about Gervis? The lector could raise no one to the synod we favor more. He is a man of high learning and high ideals.”
Archbishop Gervis, caught by surprise, stared open-mouthed from his seat as at a holy miracle.
Auxis lifted an eyebrow in a finely calibrated gesture of bemusement. “Well, of course
, the archbishop is held in great esteem by His Sacredness . . .”
“Good,” said Simon. “That’s settled, then.” Securing an escritor’s golden robe for Gervis had been the part that her loyal husband had most favored.
Auxis was clearly realizing that if his master only had to raise one northern archbishop to the Escritorial Synod, it was not much to give up. Some of the tension went out of his posture, and he even smiled and nodded at Gervis, who still looked flustered.
But all this means, Miriamele thought, is that things must be worse in Nabban than we realized. Vidian would never let anyone dictate to him, not even us, if he did not need our help badly. That gave her a bit of a chill, but she had set her course and could not slacken now.
“So,” said Auxis, in the tone of someone about to make a summary speech, “if we have heard and satisfied the desires of our revered High Monarchs . . .”
“There is yet a bit more counsel from us, Your Eminence.”
The escritor turned to her, and this time his eyes were wary. “Of course, Majesty. Forgive me for anticipating.”
“As far as the visit itself,” she said, “if a peace between two antagonistic parties is to be brokered, the lector himself must be part of the process. And that means he must show his support by a public embrace of both parties and an equally public promise to show no favoritism between the noble houses of Nabban in any matter in which the Church has discretion.” Nabbanai lectors had a centuries-old history of partisanship in holy office, which had made the lectorship a prize worth uncountable riches. “The High Ward, of course, will stand behind—and enforce—the Sacred Father’s promise.”
The corner of the escritor’s lip twitched. He had almost smiled. “Ah. A noble idea, Majesties. I cannot say for certain, of course, but I think His Sacredness might give his assent to such a suggestion.” Which meant that Auxis believed business could continue as usual in Nabban, despite the High Ward inserting itself into the process.