“Seven years gone, Miri, seven years since that cursed fever took him, and still I can’t stop.”

She stirred. “Do you think it is any different for me? I miss him every moment!”

He could tell by her voice that she was angry, although he did not know exactly why. How could the priests say that death came as the great friend when instead it came like an army, taking what it wished and destroying peace even years after it had withdrawn? “I know, dear one. I know.”

After a while, she said, “And think—we have the ninth of Marris every year from now until the end of time. It was such a happy day once. When he was born.”

“It still should be, my dear wife. God takes everyone back, but our son gave us an heir before we lost him. He gave us a great deal.”

“An heir.” The edge in her voice was brittle. “All I want is him. All I want is John Josua. Instead we are lumbered with her for the rest of our lives.”

“You said yourself that the Widow is a small price to pay for our granddaughter, not to mention our grandson and heir.”

“I said that before Morgan became a young man.”

“Hah!” Simon wasn’t actually amused, but it was better than cursing. “Scarcely a man yet.”

Miriamele took a careful breath before speaking. “Our grandson is seventeen years old. Much the same age that you were when we were first wed. Man enough to be taking his fill of the ladies. Man enough to spend his days drinking and dicing and doing whatever takes his fancy. You did not do the same at that age!”

“I was washing dishes, and peeling potatoes and onions, and sweeping the castle, my dear—but not by choice. And then I fought for Josua—but that was not really by choice, either.”

“Still. With ne’er-do-well companions like the ones he has, how will Morgan grow? He will bend to their shape.”

“He will grow out of this foolishness, Miri. He must.” But Simon didn’t entirely believe it. Their living grandson sometimes seemed as lost to him as the son who had been swept away into the black river of death.

After another silent time in the dark, she said, “And I miss our little one, too. I mean our granddaughter.” Miriamele put her arm across her husband’s belly, moving closer. He could feel the tightness in her muscles. “I wish we hadn’t left her home. Do you think she’s being good for Rhona?”

“Never.” He actually laughed a little. “You worry too much, my love. You know we could not bring Lillia. It’s still winter in Rimmersgard and the air will be full of ice and fever. We brought the grandchild who would benefit from being with us.”

“Benefit. How could anyone who has already lost a parent benefit from watching a good old man die?”

“Prince Morgan needs to learn that he is not just himself. He is the hope of many people.” Simon felt sleep pulling at him again, finally. “As are you and I, my wife.” He meant it kindly, but he felt her stiffen again. “I must sleep. You, too. Don’t lie there and fret, Miri. Come closer—put your head on my chest. There.” Sometimes, especially when she was unhappy, he missed her badly, even though she was only a short distance away.

Just as she began to settle her head on his chest, she stiffened. “His grave!” she whispered. “We didn’t . . .”

Simon stroked her hair. “We did. Or at least Pasevalles promised in his last letter that he would take flowers, and also that he would make certain Archbishop Gervis performs John Josua’s mansa.”

“Ah.” He felt her stiff muscles loosen. “Pasevalles is a good man. We’re lucky to have him.”

“We are indeed. Now we should both sleep, Miri. It will be a busy day tomorrow.”

“Why? Is Hugh finally going to let us in?”

“He’d better. I’m losing my patience.”

“I never liked him. Not from the first.”

“Yes, but you don’t like many people at the first, dear one.” He let his head roll sideways until it touched hers.

“That’s not true. I used to.” She pushed a little closer. The wind was rising again, making the tent ropes hum outside. “I had more love in me, I think. Sometimes now I fear I have used it all.”

“Except for me and your grandchildren, yes?”

She waited an instant too long for Simon’s liking. “Of course,” she said. “Of course.” But this anniversary had always been blighted since their son had died. Small wonder that she was bitter.

Somewhere during the wind’s song, Simon fell asleep again.

2 The Finest Tent on the Frostmarch

He had been following his father for a long time, it seemed, although he did not remember when or where they had begun. The sky had grown dark and the familiar tall shape was only a shadow in front of him now, sometimes barely visible as the path twisted through the deepening twilight. He wished he wasn’t too old to hold his father’s hand. Or was he?

He did not know how old he was.

“Papa, wait!” he cried.

His father said something, but Morgan couldn’t understand him. Something seemed to be muffling his father’s voice, doors or distance or simply distraction. He hurried after, out of breath, short legs aching, trying not to notice the sounds in the trees that seemed to follow him, the strange voices hooting as softly as the ghosts of doves. Where was this place? How had they come here? So many trees! Were they in the forest of Grandfather’s stories, that dark, unknowable place full of odd sounds and watching eyes?

“Papa?” He raised his voice almost to a scream. “Where are you? Wait for me!”

The trees were everywhere and the moonlight was so faint that he could hardly see the path. As he hurried around each bend in pursuit of his father’s ever-dwindling figure the roots seemed to writhe in the mud beneath his feet like moon-silvery snakes, grabbing at him and tripping him. Several times he stumbled and nearly fell, but forced himself on. The entire forest seemed to be twisting around him now, the trees spinning and drooping like exhausted dancers. He stopped to listen, but heard only the ghastly, breathless hoots from above.

“Papa! Where did you go? Come back!”

He thought he heard his father’s measured voice float back to him from somewhere far ahead, but he could not tell if he was saying “I’m here!” or “I fear . . . !”

But fathers were never afraid. They stayed with you. They protected you. They weren’t afraid themselves.

“Papa?”

The path was gone. He could feel the roots moving beneath his feet as the branches reached down to enfold him and smother the light.

“Papa? Don’t leave me!”

He was alone—abandoned and crying. He was just another orphan, a stray.

“Papa!”

No answer. Never an answer. He fought to get free, but the trees still clung.

It was the same every time . . .

•   •   •

Morgan, Prince of Erkynland and heir to the High Throne of Prester John’s empire, tumbled off his cot and onto the ground, fighting with the cloak that tangled him. Half lost in the dream-forest, he lay for long moments on the damp rugs, his heart thundering in his chest. At last he sat up, trying to make sense of where he was and what had happened. He was cold even with the blanket still clinging to his neck like a spurned lover, and something nearby was making a nasty, rasping noise. Morgan peered worriedly into the darkness, but after a moment realized the sound was only the snoring of his squire, Melkin.