Josua nodded as he approached the left-hand stockade, then turned to Simon. “Say nothing,” he said firmly. “Just listen.”
In the dim, torchlit cavern, Simon at first had trouble making out its occupants. The smell of urine and unwashed bodies—something Simon had thought he could no longer notice—was strong.
“I wish to speak with your captain,” Josua called. There was slow movement in the shadows, then a figure in the tattered green surcoat of an Erkynguardsman stepped up to the rough bars.
“That is me, your Highness,” the soldier said.
Josua looked him over. “Sceldwine? Is that you?”
The man’s embarrassment was plain in his voice. “It is, Prince Josua.”
“Well.” Josua seemed to be taken aback. “I never dreamed to see you in a place like this.”
“Nor did I, Highness. Nor expected to be sent to fight against you either, sire. It’s a shame …”
Freosel abruptly stepped forward. “Don’t you listen to him, Josua,” he sneered. “He and his murdering cronies will say anything to save their lives.” He thumped his powerful hand against the stockade wall hard enough to make the wood quiver. “The rest of us haven’t forgot what your kind did to Falshire.”
Sceldwine, after drawing back in alarm, leaned forward to see better. His pale face, exposed now by the torchlight, was drawn and worried. “None of us were happy about that.” He turned to the prince. “And we did not want to come against you, Prince Josua. You must believe us.”
Josua started to say something, but Freosel, astonishingly, interrupted him. “Your people won’t have it, Josua. This ben’t the Hayholt or Naglimund. We don’t trust these armored louts. If you let them live, there’ll be trouble.”
A mumbling growl ran through the prisoners, but there was more than a little fear in it.
“I don’t want to execute them, Freosel,” Josua said unhappily. “They were sworn to my brother. What choice did they have?”
“What choice have any of us got?” the Falshireman shot back. “They made the wrong one. Our blood be on their hands. Kill them and have done. Let God worry about choices.”
Josua sighed. “What do you say, Sceldwine? Why should I let you live?”
The Erkynguardsman seemed momentarily at a loss. “Because we are just fighting men, serving our king, Highness. There is no other reason.” He stared out between the bars.
Josua beckoned for Freosel and Simon and walked away from the stockade to the center of the cavern, out of earshot.
“Well?” he said.
Simon shook his head. “Kill them, Prince Josua? I don’t …”
Josua raised his hand. “No, no. Of course I won’t kill them.” He turned to the Falshireman, who was grinning. “Freosel has been working on them for two days. They are convinced he wants their hides, and that the citizens of New Gadrinsett are demanding they be hung before Leavetaking House. We just want them in the proper mood.”
Simon was again embarrassed: he had misjudged. “What are you going to do, then?”
“Watch me.” After stalling for a few moments more, Josua assumed an air of solemnity and walked slowly back to the stockade and the nervous prisoners. “Sceldwine,” he said, “I may regret this, but I am going to let you and your men live.”
Freosel, scowling, snorted a great angry snort and marched away. An audible sigh of relief rose from the prisoners.
“But,” Josua raised his finger, “we will not keep you and feed you. You will work to earn your lives. My people would hang me if I did any less—they will already be very displeased to be cheated of your executions. If you prove yourselves trustworthy, we may let you fight at our side when we push my mad brother from the Dragonbone Chair.”
Sceldwine gripped the wooden bars with both his hands. “We will fight for you, Josua. No one else would show us such mercy in these mad times.” His comrades gave ragged shouts of agreement.
“Very well. I will think further on how this is to be accomplished.” Josua nodded stiffly, then turned his back on the prisoners. Simon followed him out into the middle of the room once more.
“By the Ransomer,” said Josua, “if they will fight for us, what a boon! A hundred more disciplined soldiers. They may be the first of many more defections, when word begins to spread.”
Simon smiled. “You were very convincing. Freosel, too.”
Josua looked pleased. “I think that there may be a few strolling players in the constable’s family history. As for me—well, all princes are born liars, you know.” His expression turned serious. “And now I must deal with the mercenaries.”
“You will not make them the same offer, will you?” Simon asked, suddenly worried.
“Why not?”
“Because … because someone who fights for gold is different.”
“All soldiers fight for gold,” Josua said gently.
“That’s not what I mean. You heard what Sceldwine said. They fought because they thought they must—that’s at least partly true. Those Thrithings-men fought because Fengbald paid them. You can’t pay them with anything but their lives.”
“That’s not an inconsiderable sum,” Josua pointed out.
“But after they’re armed again, how much weight will that have? They’re different than the Erkynguard, Josua, and if you want to make a kingdom that’s different than your brother’s, you can’t build it on men like the mercenaries.” He stopped abruptly, horrified to discover he was lecturing the prince. “I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I have no right to speak this way.”
Josua was watching him, eyebrow raised. “They are right about you, young Simon,” he said slowly. “There is a good head under that red hair of yours.” He laid his hand on Simon’s shoulder. “I had not planned to deal with them until Hotvig could join me, in any case. I will think carefully on what you have said.”
“I hope you can forgive me my forwardness,” Simon said, abashed. “You have been very kind with me.”
“I trust your thoughts, Simon, as I do Freosel’s. A man who will not listen carefully to advice honestly given is a fool. Of course, a man who blindly takes any advice he receives is a bigger fool.” He gave Simon’s shoulder a squeeze. “Come, let us walk back. I would like to hear more about the Sithi.”
It was strange to use Jiriki’s mirror for such a mundane purpose as trimming his beard, but Simon had been told by Sludig—and none too subtly—that he was looking rather straggly. Propped on a rock, the Sithi glass winked in the failing afternoon light. There was a faint mist in the air which continually forced Simon to clean the mirror with his sleeve. Unfamiliar with the art of grooming with a bone knife—he could have borrowed a sharper steel blade from Sludig, but then the Rimmersman probably would have stood by and made comments—Simon had accomplished little more than causing himself a few twinges of pain when the three young women approached.
Simon had seen all three of them around New Gadrinsett—he had even danced with two of them the evening he had become a knight, and the thinnest one had made him a shirt. They seemed terribly young, even though he was probably no more than a year older than any of them. One of them, though, a dark-eyed girl whose round figure and curly brown hair was a little reminiscent of the chambermaid Hepzibah, he thought was rather fetching.
“What are you doing, Sir Seoman?” the thin one asked. She had large, serious eyes which she hooded with her lashes whenever Simon looked at her too long.
“Cutting my beard,” he said gruffly. Sir Seoman, indeed! Were they making fun of him?
“Oh, don’t cut it off!” the curly-haired girl said. “It makes you look so grand!”
“No, don’t,” her thin friend echoed.
The third, a short girl with straight yellow hair and a few spots on her face, shook her head. “Don’t.”
“I’m just trimming it.” He marveled at the silliness of women. Just days before, people had been killed defending this place! People that these girls knew, most likely. Yet here they were, bothering
him about his beard. How could they be so flittery? “Do you really think it looks … grand?” he said.
“Oh, yes,” Curly-Hair blurted, then reddened. “That is, it makes you … it makes a man look older.”
“So you think I need to look older?” he asked in his sternest voice.
“No!” she said hurriedly. “But it looks nice.”
“They say you were very brave in the battle, Sir Seoman,” said the thin girl.
He shrugged. “We were fighting for our home … for our lives. I was just trying not to be killed.”
“Just like Camaris would have said,” the thin girl said.
Simon laughed aloud. “Nothing like Camaris. Nothing at all.”
The small girl had sidled around and was now looking intently at Simon’s mirror. “Is that the Fairy Glass?” she asked.
“Fairy Glass?”
“People say …” She faltered and looked to her friends for help.
Thin One jumped in. “People say that you are a fairy-friend. That the fairies come when you call them with your magic looking glass.”
Simon smiled again, but hesitantly. Bits of truth mixed up with silliness. How did that happen? And who was talking about him? It was odd to think about. “No, that’s not quite right. This was given to me by one of the Sithi, yes, but they do not simply come when I call. Otherwise, we would not have fought by ourselves against Duke Fengbald, now would we?”
“Can your looking glass grant wishes?” Curly-Hair asked.
“No,” Simon said firmly. “It’s never granted any of mine.” He paused, remembering his rescue by Aditu in Aldheorte’s wintery depths. “I mean, that’s not really what it does,” he finished. So he, too, was mixing truth with lies. But how could he possibly explain the madness of this last year so that they could understand it?
“We were praying that you would bring us allies, Sir Seoman,” the thin girl said seriously. “We were so frightened.”
As he looked at her pale face, he saw that she was telling the truth. Of course they had been upset—did that mean that they could not be glad that they were alive? That wasn’t the same as being flittery, really. Should they brood and mourn like Josua?
“I was frightened, too,” he said. “We were very lucky.”
There was a pause. The curly-haired girl arranged her cloak, which had fallen open to reveal the soft skin of her throat. The weather was getting warmer, Simon realized. He had been standing motionless here for some time, but had not shivered once. He looked up at the sky, as if hoping to find some confirmation of winter’s dwindling.
“Do you have a lady?” the curly-haired girl said suddenly.
“Do I have a what?” he asked, although he had heard her perfectly well.
“A lady,” she said, blushing furiously. “A sweetheart.”
Simon waited for a moment before replying. “Not really.” The three girls were staring at him raptly, expectant as puppies, and he felt his own cheeks grow hot. “No, not really.” He had been clutching his Qanuc knife so long that his fingers had begun to ache.
“Ah,” said Curly-Hair. “Well, we should leave you to your work, Sir Seoman.” Her slender friend pulled at her elbow, but she ignored her. “Will you be coming to the bonfire?”
“Bonfire?” Simon furrowed his brow.
“The celebration. Well, and the mourning, too. In the middle of the settlement.” She pointed toward the massed tents of New Gadrinsett. “Tomorrow night.”
“I didn’t know. Yes, I suppose I might.” He smiled again. These were really quite sensible young women when you talked with them a while. “And thank you again for the shirt,” he told Thin One.
She blinked rapidly. “Maybe you will wear it tomorrow night.”
After saying good-bye, the three girls turned and walked off across the hillside, leaning their heads very close together, wriggling and laughing. Simon felt a moment’s indignation at the thought that they might be laughing at him, but then he let it pass. They seemed to like him, didn’t they? That was just the way that girls were, as far as he could tell.
He turned to his mirror once more, determined to finish with his beard before the sun began to set. A bonfire, was it …? He wondered if he should wear his sword.
Simon pondered his own words. It was true, of course, that he had no lady love, as he supposed knights should—even the ragtag sort of knight he had become. Still, it was hard not to think about Miriamele. How long had it been since he had seen her? He counted the months on his hand: Yuven, Anitul, Tiyagaris, Septander, Octander … almost half a year! It was easy to believe she had forgotten him entirely by now.
But he had not forgotten her. There had been moments, strange and almost frightening moments, when he had been certain that she felt as drawn to him as he was to her. Her eyes had seemed so large when she looked at him, so careful to take him in, as though she memorized his every line. Could it be only his imagination? Certainly they had shared a wild and almost unbelievable adventure together, and almost equally certainly, she considered him a friend … but did she think anything more of him than that?
The memory of how she had looked at Naglimund swept over him. She had been dressed in her sky-blue gown and had been suddenly almost terrible in her completeness—so different from the ragged serving girl who had slept on his shoulder. And yet, the very same girl had been inside that blue dress. She had been almost hesitant when they had met in the castle courtyard—but was it out of shame at the trick she had played him, or worry that her resumption of station might have separated them?
He had seen her on a Hayholt tower top: her hair had been like golden floss. Simon, a poor scullion, had watched and felt like a mud-beetle catching a glimpse of the sun. And her face, so alive, so quick to change, full of anger and laughter, more mercurial and unpredictable than that of any woman he had ever met …
But it was fruitless to go on mooning this way, he told himself. It was unlikely in the extreme that she even thought of him as anything more than a friendly scullion, like the servants’ children with whom the nobility were raised, but who they quickly forgot upon reaching adulthood. And of course, even if she did care for him at all, there was no chance that anything could ever come of it. That was just the way of things, or at least so he had been taught.
Still, he had been out in the world long enough now and had seen enough oddities that the immutable facts of life Rachel had taught him seemed much less believable. How were common folk and those of royal blood different, anyway? Josua was a kind man, a clever and earnest man—Simon had little doubt that he would make a fine king—but his brother Elias had proved to be a monster. Could any peasant dragged from the barley fields do any worse? What was so sacred about royal blood? And, now that he thought about it, hadn’t King John himself come from a family of peasants—or as good as peasants?
A mad thought suddenly occurred to him: what if Elias should be defeated, but Josua died? What if Miriamele never returned? Then someone else must be king or queen. Simon knew little of the affairs of the world—at least those outside his own tangled journey of the past half year. Were there others of royal blood who would step forward and claim the Dragonbone Chair? That fellow in Nabban, Bigaris or whatever his name was? Whoever was the heir of Lluth, dead king of Hernystir? Or old Isgrimnur, perhaps, if he should ever come back. He, at least, Simon could respect.
But now the fleeting thought was glowing like a hot coal. Why shouldn’t he, Simon, be as likely as anyone else? If the world were turned upside down, and if all those with claims were gone when the dust settled, why not a knight of Erkynland—one who had fought a dragon just as John had, and who had been marked by the dragon’s black blood? One who had been to the forbidden world of the Sithi, and who was a friend of the trolls of Yiqanuc? Then he would be fit for a princess or anyone else!
Simon stared at his reflection, at the curl of white hair like a dab of paint, at his long scar and his disconcertingly fuzzy beard.
Look at me, he thought,
and suddenly laughed aloud. King Simon the Great! Might as well make Rachel the Duchess of Nabban, or that monk Cadrach the Lector of Mother Church. Might as well wait for the stars to shine in the middle of the day!
And who would want to be the king, anyway?
For that was it, after all: Simon saw little but pain in store for whoever replaced Elias on the chair of bones. Even if the Storm King could be defeated, which seemed a possibility small to the point of nonexistence, the whole of the land was in ruins, the people starved and frozen. There would be no tournaments, no processions, no sunlight gleaming on armor, not for many years.
No, he thought bitterly, the next king should be someone like Barnabas, the sexton of the Hay holt’s chapel—someone good at burying the dead.
He pushed the mirror back into the pocket of his cloak and sat down on a rock to watch the sun slipping behind the trees.
Vorzheva found her husband in Leavetaking House. The long hall was empty but for Josua and the pale form of Deornoth. The prince himself scarcely seemed like one of the living, standing motionless as a statue beside the altar that bore his friend’s body.
“Josua?”
The prince turned slowly, as though waking from a dream. “Yes, lady?”
“You are here too much. The day is ending.”
He smiled. “I have only just returned. I was walking with Simon, and I had some other duties.”
Vorzheva shook her head. “You returned long ago, even if you do not remember. You have been in this place most of the afternoon.”
Josua’s smile faltered. “Have I?” He turned to look at Deornoth. “I feel, I don’t know, that it is wrong to leave him alone. He was always looking after me.”
She stepped forward and took his arm. “I know. Come, walk with me.”
“Very well.” Josua reached out and touched the shroud draped across Deornoth’s chest.
Leavetaking House had been little more than a shell when Josua and his company had first come to Sesuad’ra. The settlers had built shutters for the gaping windows and stout wooden doors to make it a place where the business of New Gadrinsett could take place in warmth and privacy. There was still something of the makeshift about it, though—the crude contrivances of the latest residents made an odd contrast when set against the graceful handiwork of the Sithi. Josua let his fingers trail across a bloom of carvings as Vorzheva led him toward one of the doors in the back wall and out into the failing sunlight.