Do not let your petty jealousies get in your way, she chided herself. Think of the wise words of holy St. Yistrin—“God gives us all youth, and then takes it away again.” What have you gained to offset that loss? Patience? Perhaps a little wisdom? Then be patient, and perhaps you’ll also be wise. This banquet was work to be got through, just as much as reviewing the verdicts of the assizes or examining the exchequer with Pasevalles. She did her best to smile and said, “Pardon me for being clumsy, Lady Tylleth, but is there not concern still here in Hernystir about the succession?”

Tylleth waved her hand at this tiny matter. “Oh, believe me, Hugh has bastards enough if the need of an heir arises before he and I have made one.”

Miriamele found this young woman more than a little disconcerting. “You seem unworried.”

“We will conceive. The gods have promised me.” Her eyes, darkly lined in a style Miriamele thought of as almost exclusively southern, showed not a trace of doubt. “I hope I do not insult you by speaking of my belief in the gods of my own people—your Aedonite piety is well-known even here in Hernystir.”

Miriamele could only shake her head, although she could not help feeling that something less than complimentary had been delivered. “Of course not. The king and I have never tried to force our own faith on others.” She did her best to smile. “And of course we pray that Heaven will bless you both with a healthy child.” Miri could not help wondering whether the woman was a little mad. Was she really certain that making an heir would be so easy, even with divine help? Miriamele and Simon had only managed one child in all their years together, and that child was dead. Had John Josua not married while still young there would be no male heir. The High Ward itself would be in danger, all its nations ready to plunge back into chaos when she and Simon died, as they someday must.

God grant I go first, she thought suddenly. I will not have the grace to put up with them all if Simon is gone. He was always the patient one. Miriamele turned to look for her husband. Sometimes too patient. At the moment, Simon was looking more than a bit like one of the weary old ones himself, smiling stiffly as King Hugh poked and prodded him, the younger monarch prattling on and on about hunting or something else that her husband could not care less about. Put to work in the Hayholt’s steamy kitchens from a young age, Simon had not enjoyed the sporting education most kings received. Nor did he much like the noise of belling hounds—and neither did Miri.

“Majesty?” Tylleth asked. “Have I said something that upset you?” But the hint of a smile seemed to lurk at the corners of the woman’s mouth. Something about this wife-to-be put Miriamele on edge, there was no escaping it. She was suddenly filled with a powerful desire to be anywhere else. “No. Of course not, Lady Tylleth. It has been a long day, that’s all.”

King Hugh’s heavy chair scraped on the floor—stone flags now, not the strewn rushes of the old days. Despite the ancient carvings still hanging in pride of place from the rafters, even the honest old wooden Taig was beginning to resemble something different—perhaps one of the palaces of Nabban. “A toast!” Hugh cried. “Let us raise our cups once more before the evening slips away! To our beloved fellow monarchs, who grace us with their company, King Simon and Queen Miriamele.”

“King Simon and Queen Miriamele!” shouted those still sober enough to get names and titles in the right order. The uproar was followed by an expectant silence. Simon looked to his wife, who nodded. He put a hand on the table and hoisted himself to his feet.

“To King Hugh and the throne of Hernystir,” Simon said, raising his own cup. “Long may the Stag of Hern’s house graze in these beautiful meadows. And I hear that the king is soon to be married as well.” He nodded toward Lady Tylleth, who straightened in her seat. “May the union be ever blessed.” The packed hall echoed to more toasts, more cheers.

Something else was needed, but Miriamele tried not to make it too obvious. Accustomed by years of practice, Simon caught her expression and, to her grim satisfaction, understood it.

“And,” he said, silencing the murmur and the returning hum of talk, “I would also like to make one more toast. This is a night of joyful reunion between old allies, and meetings with new friends, but as you know, it is not such joyful business alone that brings us here. The queen and myself are bound for Elvritshalla with the sad task of saying goodbye to a dear friend and a faithful ally, Duke Isgrimnur. Raise your cups in his honor, please.”

“Duke Isgrimnur!” many cried, but the response was more muted than to the previous toasts, and Miriamele distinctly heard someone down the table say, “One less frostbeard!” Before she could demand to know who had uttered such a vile remark, Simon caught her eye and shook his head. For a moment she felt almost as much anger toward him as toward the fool who had insulted the dear old duke, but Simon had earned her trust many times over. Patience, she told herself. He’s right. Not here, not this evening. She took a breath and did her best to let her fury seep away, just as wine spilled during the toasting was now soaking into the linen tablecloth. She could not help wondering whether the red stains could ever be completely washed out.

He caught up to her in the lower ward outside the great hall.

“Queen Inahwen! Highness!”

Inahwen’s maid continued a few discreet steps ahead as her mistress turned. For a moment Eolair saw not the mature, almost elderly woman who had left the hall, but Inahwen as he had once known her, golden-haired and fair of skin, threatened by shadows all around.

“You honor me, Count Eolair,” she said in Hernystiri.

The soft burr of his mother tongue reminded him of several things, not least the ticklishly warm feeling of Inahwen whispering it into his ear, so long ago that it seemed like another life. “Please, lady, in your mouth a title seems something shameful, at least for me. It has been too long, Inahwen. You look well.”

Her smile did not have much conviction. “I look like what I am—an old woman, old and in the way.”

“Never.” But her words struck him. “In the way of what? Do you object to the king’s upcoming marriage?”

She glanced at her maid, who was pretending to look up at the stars a short distance away, and at the two guards who had accompanied them from the great hall. “Oh, no. Who could object to the king’s happiness? But come to the Queen’s Little House and talk with me a while. I have no wine worth serving you, but there might be a little mead left from the midwinter festivities.”

“I have not had proper mead in months—no, two years, my good lady, since I was last in Hernysadharc. I would be honored.”

•   •   •

The Queen’s Little House was in truth not so little, a square, three-story structure in the modern style near the outer wall of the Taig. Eolair sat in a deep chair in the parlor as the maid was dispatched to the kitchen in search of mead.

“I have a bottle here we can start with,” said Inahwen, producing a ceramic jug from a sideboard and pouring it into two small glasses of fine workmanship. “It’s made from Circoille clover honey.”

Eolair took his glass and sniffed it as they settled into chairs by the fireplace. “Lovely. Then what use have we for the other?”

“The use of giving my maid something to do for a few minutes. You asked me a question. I gave you an answer. Did you believe it?”

He was almost amused to see this version of Inahwen. “You have become a plotter, then, my dear? What happened to the shy, truthful young woman I once knew?”