“We men beat back the witch-queen and defeated her.” He spoke only to himself, and so quietly that no other creature heard him, not a bird, not a squirrel. “If she has truly returned, this time men like me will destroy her.” But Jarnulf had made promises to himself and God before, and those pledges had now been proved nothing but air.

No, save your words for fitter things, he told himself. Like prayer.

Jarnulf the White Hand tipped the long spear across his shoulder and began walking back to the part of the snowy woods where he had left his horse.

4 Brother Monarchs

As if to crown the entrance of the High King and High Queen, the sun had emerged from behind the morning clouds and was spreading its light generously across the hills of Hernysadharc. Even the disc of gold atop the Taig’s distant roof glittered like a coin spun into the air, as though the great hall celebrated their arrival as well.

Simon was fidgeting with a golden coin of his own—a medallion of unusually large size and uncomfortable edges that held his cloak and was currently rubbing against his neck. His friend the Lord Chamberlain had insisted that he wear it.

“Remember, you are the High King and High Queen,” said Jeremias, pushing the pin through the heavy cloak with enough force to make the high king wince. “I didn’t come all this way to see you two looking like beggars.”

“Then you should have stayed at home,” Simon growled. Waiting had put him out of temper. The hurt on Jeremias’ round face was so profound that Simon almost apologized, but the edge of the medallion was still digging painfully into his jowls and he resisted the impulse.

“I am the Royal Chamberlain, in charge of the king’s and queen’s household,” Jeremias said stiffly.

“That household is in Erkynland,” Simon pointed out. “We are in Hernystir.”

“The household is wherever you and the queen are . . . Majesties.” Jeremias put a little twist on the last word to make Simon feel it. The king knew it was difficult sometimes for his childhood friend to live happily with the distance that now yawned between them, even when Jeremias was close enough to breathe on his cheek, as he was doing now. “In the old days, they say old King John would travel from castle to castle for a year before coming back to the Hayholt, so you have little to complain about. There. Now please don’t fiddle with it. It looks splendid.”

Simon stared into the hand mirror one of Jeremias’ servitors held before him. “It looks like I am ready to be buried. The Heavens know I couldn’t do much else wrapped up like this.”

“Some might think that was not a very nice joke,” his wife told him, frowning. “In fact, some might think the king is taking his own bad temper out on everyone except the one who caused it.”

Now it was Simon’s turn to send a warning look. Neither of them were happy with Hernystir’s King Hugh at this moment, but such things were not to be shared in front of any but the most important advisers. “Enough, Lord Chamberlain,” Simon said, gently lifting away Jeremias’ hand as he tried to give the medallion one last burnishing with a kerchief. “You are right and I apologize, I suppose. It looks splendid.”

“I should hope so,” said Jeremias, his face red from effort.

•   •   •

The royal procession slowly climbed the main road through the city of Hernysadharc, past waving and cheering Hernystiri lined up on both sides, many crowded on overhanging balconies, or even perched precariously on sloping roofs. The houses and shops had been done up in festive style, bright banners and fresh paint so that sunlight seemed to jump back into the air as soon as it landed, full of new life. Simon and Miriamele rode side by side as they always did—monarchs together, not monarch and royal spouse. In the early days Simon had been the stickler for that distinction, but as the years had rolled past Miriamele had become increasingly determined to remind people that she herself was the daughter of a king, however blackened his name might now be, and also the grandchild of Prester John, founder of the High King’s Ward that gave them dominion over much of Osten Ard.

“Hugh should have come to meet us at the gate,” the queen said, in words so quiet only Simon could hear them. “I will tell him so myself.”

“Give him a chance, my dear.” Simon waved his hand at the crowd. “You see he has brought the people out for us.”

“He could not have kept them inside,” she said. “And why shouldn’t he bring them out? We are High King and High Queen. He is only a king himself because his great-grandfather did my grandfather a favor, so Hernystir kept its crown.”

“Still, he is a king for all that, and kings have their pride. As do queens.”

“Do not make it my complaint, Simon.” Her voice was firm but her look contained love and a little amusement as well as irritation. “You are too kind and you hate a fight, but there are people—and I suspect Hugh is one of them—who take that for weakness.”

“Yes, I do hate a fight. Let’s not have one now.” He waved to the cheering Hernystir-folk again. Near the road, a group of small girls were leaping up and down, waving colored ribbons that curled and snapped like a frayed rainbow. “Look at them. It makes me miss Lillia.”

“Our granddaughter would be out in the road, trying to lead the procession.”

Simon smiled. “Yes, she would.”

Miriamele sighed. “Sweet God give me strength.” She squinted up the road, lined as far as they could see with well-wishers. “We will not reach the Taig until nightfall at this rate.”

“Patience, my dear. Patience.”

“No more for me, thank you.”

Count Eolair covered his goblet with his hand and kept it there until the servant had gone away. He would have enjoyed a little more wine, and after a long day in bright sun after a fortnight of clouds and dark days he certainly deserved another cup or few, but Eolair’s sense for conflict, as trained as the nose of a hunting hound, suggested restraint. Queen Miriamele’s and King Simon’s Lord Steward, more commonly known as the Hand of the High Throne, did not want a haze of wine slowing his thoughts tonight.

The scene itself could scarcely have been more familiar to him, of course. The wooden palace called the Taig had been Eolair’s second home for much of the early part of his life, when he had become first a messenger to kings and eventually an esteemed advisor. The atmosphere in the Great Hall, where ancient wooden carvings of animals and other totems hung from the rafters, was unquestionably festive, the bright colors of the Hernystiri gentry in their best clothes mingling with the sounds of tipsy laughter and the succulent smell of roast pork. But something was off-kilter here. Queen Miriamele and King Simon were out of sorts with the delays and confusions King Hugh had put them through, of course, but Eolair could not help feeling that something deeper and more troubling was going on.

A few seats away, Queen Miriamele was being entertained—“distracted” she would doubtless have termed it—by Lady Tylleth, an attractive widow who was almost certain to become King Hugh’s wife. Many at the Hernystiri court thought her too old, nearly thirty years, though her children by her husband, the late Earl of Glen Orrga, showed that at least she was fertile. In fact, with her handsome, womanly figure, glossy chestnut hair, and high color, Lady Tylleth looked a bit like Eolair’s idea of the Hernystiri goddess Deanagha, or even great Mircha herself, the mistress of the rains.