“We hardly need a royal command for that, husband,” Miriamele pointed out. “And in any case, it’s not truly a royal command unless I add my voice.”

“Well?” He took a long drink from the cup that had already been twice refilled by helpful servitors. “Do you?”

“Do you need to ask?” she said. “With all our friends here? Yes, husband, I agree that we have wept more than enough. Let us put away our grief for one night and celebrate Isgrimnur’s life.”

“And our own lives, too,” said Eolair, smiling. “For we have all endured much to be here today.”

“And some would even say the world is a better place for it,” said Tiamak, wiping beer froth from his mouth. “Isgrimnur contributed much to that.”

Simon was amused—he could almost believe that the usually abstemious Wrannaman was getting a bit tiddly. “You speak truth, Brother Tiamak—and I salute what Eolair said as well. We are all friends here, but we are friends with a history few can match.” He looked around the hall where the duke’s great-grandchildren frisked on the rug-draped floors and a large, comforting fire burned in the hearth. “Friends . . . and the family of friends, who are as good as family—or do I mean as good as friends? Never mind.” He raised his cup. “Let us drink also to the new duke, Grimbrand, the new duchess, Sorde, and all Isgrimnur’s fine family!”

The others echoed him. Isgrimnur’s daughter Signi and her husband had brought a large array of children and grandchildren to the gathering, and Duke Grimbrand’s son Isvarr and his fair-haired wife had contributed four towheaded boy-beasts who seemed to do little except shout, run, and wrestle. Two of Isvarr’s sisters and their husbands also had broods of their own. It was hard to tell exactly how many children were present, but it was not a small number.

Look at all Isgrimnur’s grandchildren and great-grandchildren, thought Simon with a momentary pang. What a fine, big family he and Gutrun made. He looked to Miriamele to see if she shared his mood, as she so often did, but his wife was on a bench by one of the fireplaces talking to Sisqi and Duchess Sorde and she looked happy enough.

Just me, he thought as he drained his cup. Just me being a mooncalf. “God bless old Isgrimnur!” he shouted, then waved for one of the servants to come fill his cup again.

“And with that,” said Grimbrand, rising, “I think it is time for my clan to head back to our chambers and leave our distinguished guests to their own conversations. You have much to discuss, I think, and even more to remember.” He bowed to Miriamele, then beckoned to his wife.

As the new duke and duchess and their large party of children and servants went out they paused to greet an older couple in the doorway.

“Sludig!” Simon stood up so quickly he nearly knocked the pitcher from the serving-boy’s hand. “God bless you and keep you, you old badger, I have been looking for you since the funeral!”

The Rimmersman, who had broadened considerably since the days they had marched across the north together, spread his arms. “Am I allowed to embrace the king and queen?”

“The king would be angry if you didn’t.” Simon let himself be enfolded in the northerner’s bearlike grasp. “Miri! Come see who’s here! It is Sludig the Dour, masking as the Earl of Engby.”

“Jarl of Engby,” Sludig told him, smiling deep in his beard as he returned the embrace. His whiskers were still mostly yellow, despite all his years, but he truly had grown a bit wider than when the king had seen him last. “We also say ‘thane’ here instead of ‘baron’. We have not been entirely enslaved by Your Majesties’ overcivilized southern ways.”

“Ha!” said Sludig’s wife. “My husband has largely given up beer for Perdruinese wine brought north to us at great expense, so do not pay too much heed to his bragging about northern pride.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Simon said. “And welcome, Lady Engby.” Simon had met Sludig’s wife for only a few moments at Isgrimnur’s funeral, but had liked her instantly. She was younger than her husband, a tall, broad-shouldered woman with an open, friendly face and a swift wit.

“‘Alva’, please, Your Majesty, or ‘Lady Alva’ if you must. My old man is right about one thing—we’re not so civilized up here as some others.”

“Lady Alva, it is so good to see you again,” said Miri from her bench beside the fire. “Come and have a proper talk with me while the men bellow drunken lies at each other.”

“Are all those stories of the old days truly made up?” Alva asked with false innocence. “I suspected as much, you know. Dragons and fairies and deeds of heroism that only they witnessed—what nonsense these men like to talk!” But her words were belied by a sudden seriousness that crossed her face like a shadow, and Simon did not miss the quick glance that traveled between husband and wife.

If there was something bothering them, Sludig was not going to be the one to broach it. “Can you credit that?” he said, gratefully accepting a large flagon of beer from a servant. “Treacherous woman. She is the one for dragons and fairies, far more than me—she’s practically a witch! Alva grew up in the superstitious north and has not an ounce of Aedonite piety, for all the time she spends in church.”

“Oh, good,” said Miriamele. “Someone worth talking to, then. Come and join us, Lady Alva, and hurry!”

Simon steered Sludig toward the men, who were occupying their own set of benches on the other side of the massive hearth. Now that the children and many of the servants had left with the duke’s family, the great hall had grown quieter and seemed larger, at least to Simon. But the north always makes me feel that way, he thought. Dark so early, and so long—and the cold! And knowing that there are things out there in that darkness who do not love us, of course.

Binabik leaped up with a glad cry and hurried toward Sludig to embrace him, something that could have been comical because of their different sizes had it not tugged so strongly at Simon’s heart. “If we had managed nothing else,” he said to the others as they watched this reunion, “we would still be remembered for allowing a Rimmersman and a troll to find a love to make the poets sing.” He was rather pleased with this, and repeated it loudly.

Sludig gave him a sour look. “Your Majesty still likes to make jokes. I will not apologize for what I feel for this little man.”

Binabik grinned. “Or I for what I feel for this large one.” He called to his wife. “Sisqi! Sludig is here!”

“She knows, I think,” Eolair said. “She is talking to Sludig’s lady even now.”

“Look at us all,” said Sludig, spreading himself gratefully on a bench beside Binabik.

“A little fatter, some of us,” Simon pointed out.

“Some of us, Majesty, are not all legs and nose, like a stork,” growled Sludig. “It is only right for a man to become more substantial with age. But a great scarecrow like you, king or no, is something that only frightens the children.”

“Hah! You are still too sober to make sense. Drink up!” Simon found himself a spot on another bench where he could watch the others talk from a little distance. With Sludig’s arrival, he felt as though a circle had closed and something was completed. The old friends, who had known each other since the days of the Storm King’s War, were quickly lost in reminiscence, talking of old terrors and of equally distant moments of joy and wonder. The beloved voices washed over him.

Someone sat down beside him. “Are you being well, friend Simon?”

“I am well indeed, Binabik, and so much better for seeing you and hearing your voice. Where are your daughter and her man tonight?”

“You may believe or not believe, old friend, but they are with your Prince Morgan. Little Snenneq has taken a liking to the prince, and they are spending much time together.”