“They would no longer be children,” Simon said gently. “They were born the year the Storm King was defeated.”

“Even so.” Isgrimnur’s reedy voice took on something of its infamous growl. “Is it your habit to travel so far just to interrupt a dying man?”

It was hard not to smile. “Sorry, my lord Duke. What would you have us do?”

“Find them. If you cannot find their parents, find the children. Do for them what Gutrun and I were promised to do, but failed—find them and keep them safe. See that they have what they need for a happy life.”

“We have looked for them and we will keep looking, old friend. One day we will find them.”

Isgrimnur stared at him as though he did not know whether to believe him or not. “Do you promise it to me?”

“Of course,” Simon told him, stung and sad. The king looked to Miriamele. “We promise you on the honor of our house and yours.”

“Gutrun would have sent me after them long ago, but her illness . . .” The duke shook his head. “I will see her soon, thank God and all the blessed saints. I will see her soon!”

“You will, Uncle,” said Miriamele. “She is waiting for you.”

“And Isorn, too.” Isgrimnur’s lip trembled. “So long since I have seen their beloved faces . . . !” The old man’s eyes were red. “So long . . .”

“You are tired, Father,” said Grimbrand from the foot of the bed. “There are others waiting to see you, but perhaps they should come back after you’ve rested.”

“Others?” Isgrimnur seemed to find a reserve of strength. With a last squeeze he let go of Simon’s hand, then Miriamele’s. “What do you mean?”

“Other friends are waiting for you outside,” Miriamele said. “Count Eolair, and Binabik and his wife . . .”

“Binabik? The troll is here? Send him in! Send them all in!” The duke even managed to work himself up a little higher on his pillows. For the first time, Simon could truly see their old friend in the feeble, sharp-boned scarecrow stretched on the bed. “Aedon and his angels can wait for me. They will have me for a long time.”

Binabik and Sisqi entered first, small as children. Behind them came somber Eolair, accompanied by Tiamak, whose limp always slowed him. The Wrannaman stepped aside to whisper to Simon, “I cannot find Morgan, Majesty. Binabik’s daughter and her friend are looking, too.”

Simon had to take a deep breath to contain his temper. “Did you check the alehalls?”

“There are dozens just along the main road,” Tiamak whispered. Simon looked to his wife and shook his head. Her mouth set in a thin line.

“Go and see Isgrimnur,” Simon said quietly. He patted his old friend on the shoulder, although inside the king was boiling like a pot forgotten on the fire. It was not Tiamak’s fault that their grandson was a scapegrace.

“And wait, who is that?” Isgrimnur’s voice was again growing thin, his breath short, but he lifted his head high off the pillow. “Is that Tiamak? Is that my Wrannaman?”

“It is indeed, Duke Isgrimnur.” Tiamak hobbled to the old man’s side.

“Miriamele, come back.” Isgrimnur lifted his hand to her. “Come back. Look, Grimbrand, do you see the three of us?” He nodded toward Tiamak and the queen. “Do you see us?”

“Of course, Father.”

“Looking at a feeble ruin like me, you would not know it, but we three crossed half the known world. From Kwanitupul across the Wran, then across all the Thrithings to the Farewell Stone, on foot. We even went down into the foul ghants’ nest together and we came out again! There’s a story, eh? That’s the equal of any tale you’ll ever hear, I’ll wager. And Sir Camaris, the greatest warrior of any age, was with us!”

“And Cadrach, too,” said Miriamele. “Poor, sad, mad Cadrach.”

“You were as brave as a she-wolf,” Isgrimnur told her. “You were . . .” He had to stop to catch his breath. He coughed for a while before he could speak again, and had to do it with his son begging him to save his breath. “A noble tale,” he said, wheezing. “Someone should make a song of it.”

“Someone has,” said Simon, laughing. “Several. Dozens! Good lord, have you avoided the songs up here? I would have moved our court to Rimmersgard long ago had I known!”

“The song . . . the song . . .” Isgrimnur had seemed keen to say something, but trailed off. “What were we saying?”

“That we are together again,” said Miriamele, and bent to kiss him on his hollow cheek. “And nobody can take those times from us.”

“Bless you,” said Tiamak quietly. He was weeping unashamedly, holding Isgrimnur’s hand against his face. The old man hardly seemed to notice.

“I think . . . I think I must sleep . . . for a little . . .”

“Of course,” said Miriamele, straightening up. “We will come to see you later, Uncle, when you are rested.”

“We will be here for days,” Simon said. “Never fear—there will be plenty of time for news and old tales, both.”

Binabik stroked the old man’s hand, then placed his own fist against his chest, a troll gesture that Simon knew signified all that was in the troll’s heart. Sisqi bowed her head, then the two of them turned and walked out of the room.

Eolair was next. He kneeled beside the bed and kissed the duke’s hand. “It is good to see you, my lord,” was all he said before he too rose and went out. Simon was about to bid the old man goodnight when he saw a familiar face in the antechamber beyond. “Morgan!” he said in a loud whisper. “Come here!”

“Our grandson is here?” asked Miriamele. “Thank God.”

The prince’s eyes had the look of something hunted as he entered the bedchamber. “I have been trying to find you,” he said quietly, looking at anything and everything but the old man on the bed. “This place is a maze!”

“This place, or the Kopstade?” Simon fought down his unhappiness. “Just come here.”

Isgrimnur’s eyelids had been sagging, but as Simon bent and kissed him on the cheek, he opened them again. “Simon, lad? Is that you? Are you truly a king, or did I dream all that?” He seemed to fight a little for breath. “I have so many dreams . . . and it all mixes together . . .”

“You did not dream it, Duke Isgrimnur. And Miriamele and I rule in large part because of you, your son Isorn, and a few other noble souls. And now I want you to meet the heir to the High Throne, Prince Morgan. I hope you will give him your blessing.”

“Prince Morgan?” Isgrimnur looked surprised. “You brought an infant all this way?”

“No, look, Uncle,” said Miriamele. “He is grown now.”

“Kneel down, boy,” Simon whispered to the prince. “Take his hand.”

Morgan looked as though he would rather be almost anywhere else in the world than this draughty bedchamber, but he reached out and enfolded the duke’s crabbed, bony hand. For a moment Isgrimnur only stared at the ceiling, but then he seemed to come back to himself and looked searchingly at the heir where he knelt beside the bed. “Bless you, young man,” the duke said. “Do as God would have you do, and you cannot help but succeed. Listen carefully to your mother and father.”

Morgan looked to his grandfather in confusion, but Simon shook his head to silence him. “Thank you, Isgrimnur,” the king said. “We’ve done our best to make him ready.”

“I’m sure you’ve done very well,” said Isgrimnur. “He’s a fine young man.” But the old duke’s eyes had fallen closed again. “Bless you, son,” he said, his voice faint and weary. His fingers released the prince’s hand. “May Usires and . . . and the saints watch over you and . . . keep you safe.”

“You are tired, Isgrimnur.” Simon nodded to Morgan, who sprang up as though released from a trap. “We will go now and let you rest. We have only just arrived—there will be time to talk again later.”

Isgrimnur’s eyes half opened, looked first on Simon, then Miriamele. “Don’t forget what you told me,” he said with surprising intensity. “Don’t forget our godchildren, Deornoth and Derra. It was my last promise to Gutrun, and I could not look her in the eye when we meet again unless I know you will work to repair my failure.”