She gave him a sad look. “You mock me, sir.”

“No. Not at all. Talk to me, then. Do you dislike the idea of the king’s marriage?” He thought it would not be surprising if Inahwen felt protective toward Hugh, and Tylleth was certainly no subservient virgin bride.

“Marriage is a necessity. Do you know how many children he has fathered without benefit of one? Seven. Seven that are known. Can you imagine the furor if he died without a chosen heir?”

The mere idea of a half-dozen claimants to the Hernystiri throne was enough to make Eolair suppress a shudder. “Yes, I think I can. So the marriage will be a good thing, then?”

“If he wed someone else, it would be.” And although they were alone in the spacious room, she lowered her voice. “But not to that little witch.”

Eolair could not help being startled by the harshness of her words. “She is so bad, then? Or is it her father whose ambitions reach too high? He was a loyal bondsman to King Lluth, as I remember.”

“No, her father is trustworthy enough—a fat old gentleman farmer now that his fighting days are past, fond of meat and drink and bragging about his cattle. He gained much land when he married Tylleth to the Earl of Glen Orrga. It is the daughter herself, Tylleth, that I fear.” The dowager queen pursed her lips. “She is a witch.”

“You’ve used that word twice. Does it mean more than your dislike?”

Inahwen looked down at her glass for a moment. The firelight filled the room with long, dark shapes that moved as though in anticipation of something. “I do not know, Eolair, but I have heard many rumors and some of them are frightening to me.”

“What do those rumors say?”

“If I tell you, you will be certain my wits are gone.” She shook her head. “Some say Tylleth has brought back a very old, very evil worship.”

“Worship?” He was puzzled. “I am not sure I understand, my lady, nor would I believe it anyway. You of all people should know that king’s favorites often attract ugly tales.”

Inahwen grimaced. “Yes, some cruel things were said of me also. But nobody ever accused me of reviving the rituals of the Crow Mother.”

“The—” Eolair could scarcely believe he had heard it. “The Maker of Orphans—the Morriga?” Even indoors beside a fire, a shiver traveled up his backbone. “Nobody would be so mad. It took Hernystir hundreds of years to destroy that horrid cult.”

“Still, that is what I am told, and by those who have no reason to lie to me. They say she has become fascinated with the Dark Mother, and she and some followers try to summon her.”

“Why?” Eolair had not thought of Morriga the Crow Mother in years. No Hernystirman had openly sacrificed to her since before King Tethtain’s day, three centuries gone. The last of her worshippers, a filthy, inbred remnant in the northern deeps of the Circoille forest, had been destroyed by Lluth’s father King Llythin long before Eolair’s own parents were born. Surely not even a self-absorbed creature like Lady Tylleth could hope to revive such a fearsome practice, he thought. “Why would she do such a mad thing?”

“How should I know? They say she claims the Morriga came to her in dreams.” Now that they were sitting by the bright light of the fire, he thought Inahwen looked pale and exhausted. “I hope it is only some passing fashion, Eolair—the pastime of bored courtiers. But I remember my grandmother’s tales of the Morriga’s followers from when she was a girl, how frightened people in her village were, how they would walk a long way to avoid the gaze of one of the Crow Mother’s worshippers.”

Eolair felt a pang of uneasiness, but would not show it. “Surely, even if there is any truth to this rumor, Lady Tylleth thinks of it only as an amusement—something to shock the Taig’s elders.” He essayed a smile. “Elders like you and me.”

“Perhaps,” said Inahwen, but with no answering cheer. “But this I can swear to you, dear Count—Hugh has not been the same since he took up with her. He was always flighty, always changeable. You remember that, surely?”

“I do indeed. There were many times in his boyhood I wished I could take him across my knee.”

“I wish you had. I wish someone had. But now . . . I don’t know, Eolair. He has changed, and it frightens me. The way he looks now, always as though he has some delicious secret! It is as though she has convinced him of something, something that makes him think he is beyond danger. Surely you can see that! Everything he did today, everything he arranged, was meant to snub the High Throne in some way or other. That was not the Hugh I watched grow. That child might have been spoiled, perhaps, headstrong . . .” She frowned and fell silent. A moment later the maid came in, unsteadily bearing a large jug.

“Found it, Mistress,” she said.

“Do you hear that?” Inahwen tried to smile. “Mistress. Not even ‘Highness’ any more.”

The maid looked stricken. “My apologies, Highness, I . . .”

“Put it down, child.” Inahwen waved her to set the jug on the low table. “Now take yourself to bed. The count and I have almost finished our talk. He can let himself out.”

The maid nodded and set down her burden before scurrying toward the stairs.

Eolair waited until the door closed on the landing. “Is there anything else I should know? Or can do?” He reached out and touched the back of Inahwen’s hand. “I would see you happier.”

“Speak to the gods, then. Only their plans matter, not ours.”

He looked at her fondly, at the lines on her once-smooth face that told the story of the miseries and the passing moments of happiness. Not enough moments of happiness.

Not enough for either of us, he thought. And certainly not enough that the two of us shared. During the great war against the Storm King, both of them had lost someone who could never be replaced, Inahwen her royal husband and Eolair King Lluth’s daughter Maegwin. Eolair had not realized how much he cared for brave, bedeviled Maegwin until she was gone. Was he making the same error now with Inahwen?

There is so little comfort in this world, he thought. Have I been foolish to let duty guide me always?

“Lady . . .” he began, but she was already shaking her head.

“I can guess a little of what you’re thinking, my brave Count. There is no use in it. We are what we are, and our roads ran side by side for only a short while. But you will always be dear to me, Eolair.”

“And you to me, Highness.” He finished his second cup of mead, and felt it in his legs as he stood to return to the great hall. “I will think carefully about the things you’ve said, and I will do some asking of my own. And rest assured, Queen Miriamele and King Seoman will know your fears.” He bent and kissed her hand with careful attention. “May the gods take good care of you.”

“Of all of us, dear Eolair.” She finally smiled, but it was a half-hearted thing. “It is so strange to see you with your hair all gray! I cannot even think how I must look to you. Yes, may the gods watch over us closely, because we are all in need of the gods’ good care.”

5 Awake

She blinked. Tzoja always blinked when she stepped out of the great Nakkiga Gates, and her eyes always watered. Freezing winter had imprisoned her under the mountain for months: even the cloud-smothered white ember that was the northern sun dazzled her to blindness.

She signaled to her escort to wait until she could see properly. The household guards halted at a carefully calculated distance, demonstrating both her high status as a magister’s property and their own mute indignation at having to protect a mortal, any mortal, even their lord’s most valued concubine.