Into the Narrowdark, page 65
Simon had thought himself beyond surprise. “Jemmy? Jeremias? Good God, man, what are you doing here?”
“I suspect that the Lord Chamberlain has come to beg your forgiveness,” said Pasevalles. “But I suspect just as strongly that he will not get it—not when you hear what he has done.”
If all had seemed nightmarish before, now Simon felt as though he had fallen into some pit in the Adversary’s bleak fortress, haunted by impossible things, unimaginable betrayals. “What is he talking about, Jeremias? Did you do something?”
“Did he do something?” Pasevalles leaned in close and patted the Lord Chamberlain on his cheek as if he were a child. Jeremias’s face was swollen and tearful, his usually immaculate clothes disarranged by rough handling. “Only the most important thing of all! He gave me access to your royal seal, King Simon—the symbol of your rule. I used it in a hundred different ways to smooth your path to ruin. Look at him! Look at your friend.”
“Is this true?” Simon asked, though Jeremias’s misery seemed to confirm it. “Tell me it’s not, Jeremias.”
“He tricked me!”
“Give me a straightforward traitor every day.” Pasevalles twisted his voice a little to sound sober and sad. “Not these weaklings with their attempts to shift the blame, to claim they were misled. It always disappoints me.”
“Lord Pasevalles told me that he needed my help,” Jeremias said through his tears. “He said I could help him get his work done and make less work for you, if only I let him use your seal from time to time. I thought I was doing something good.”
“Liar,” said Pasevalles. “Hulgar, shake him.” As Jeremias shrieked in the clansman’s grasp, Pasevalles took the torch from its bracket, then turned back to Simon, light gleaming along one side of the noble’s face. “Your childhood friend knew what he did was wrong—of course he did. But he is an unhappy little man with a small soul, full of jealousy that his friend was king and he was nothing.”
“No! That’s not true!” Jeremias struggled to get free, but Hulgar grabbed his head and struck it against the window bars. Both Thrithings-men held him up when he swayed and would have fallen.
“Why?” Simon asked. “I have loved you like a brother. Why would you do something so foolish?”
Jeremias, his lip and nose now bleeding, said, “You were always so busy, Simon. You gave me a position, but then made fun of it.” Something else crept into his voice, a shadow of grievance. “I thought I could be useful. Pasevalles told me I could, that I would help him do great things, even if no one ever knew. But I would know, you see. That’s all I wanted.”
Simon felt sick, his thoughts in chaos. “But I still don’t understand. Why, Jeremias? If you were unhappy, why didn’t you tell me? I would gladly have given you more—.”
“You would have given me,” Jeremias cried. “Given! Like a rich man tossing coins to a beggar! I wanted to give something for once.”
“Oh, but you did, Lord Chamberlain,” said Pasevalles. “You gave me what I needed to destroy your friend. By handing me the royal seal, you gave money from the exchequer, and laws that angered and confused our allies—oh, Jeremias, you gave and gave.” He lifted his hand. “Zhadu, Hulgar, take this pathetic creature back and lock him up again. You will be pleased to know, Simon, that this crawling villain is not walking free while you are confined. No, for who would trust him? Certainly not me, not with Erkynland and the High Ward now my sole responsibility.”
“You will never keep any of it!” Simon said, pulling his chains nearly straight in his desire to reach Pasevalles’s throat. “There are others who will take my place—!”
“No, no.” He shook his head in mock sadness. “There is no one to rule but me. Duke Osric is half-dead. Your grandson Morgan is gone, and if he happens to turn up—well, kingdoms have faced usurpers pretending to be heirs to the throne before. Some of them may even have been the true heirs, but once those who rise against the throne are dead, the lie is all that remains.”
The clansmen had dragged Jeremias away. Simon heard a door in the corridor open and slam closed. Pasevalles still stood behind the barred window, lit by the single torch, still half an angel, half a demon. “I will kill you myself,” Simon said.
“I have heard that before,” said Pasevalles. “Yet here I stand.” He stepped back from the door, then paused. “I had not planned to keep you alive, at least not for long. But I find myself enjoying our conversations. It is hard to keep so many secrets for so long with no one to share them, so I think I will return so we can talk more. After all, when you are dead, it will all be secret again.”
“God will know!”
“Ah, yes. God will. But God has known about me since I began my quest twenty years ago, and yet He has done nothing to stop me. Think on that if you grow bored here in your new royal residence—which will also be your last.” He returned to the door. “But fear not, Simon—I have enough stories to tell that your death is still a distance away. Next time we meet I will tell you about your beloved Josua, for whom you have searched all these years.” He grinned. “If I may spoil the suspense a little, it ends with me killing him.” He made a mocking bow, then set the torch back in its bracket and walked away.
Simon heard the door open and close one more time, then silence swept in.
* * *
As Miriamele described her escape from Nabban, Archbishop Orvyn kept interrupting to exclaim in horror, to assure the queen of his outrage, and to wonder, with shaking head and fierce frown, what had happened to the world.
“Yes,” said Miri in growing frustration, “it is all terribly shocking, Your Grace. But I have a more practical need this moment than to decry how bad things have become. I must see Earl Durward as quickly as possible—within the hour. Not just Erkynland but all the High Ward are in danger.”
“Of course, of course,” said the archbishop. “But you will get little help from Durward, I fear. He has been failing for a long time. He never leaves his bed, and I am told his mind wanders—.”
“I still must see him.” Miri looked at Jesa, who at the queen’s request had told the archbishop about the deaths of Duchess Canthia and her little son Blasis. Jesa’s voice had quivered a few times during the telling, but otherwise the young woman had spoken clearly and carefully. Miriamele could not help wondering if one of her own court ladies would have done half so well. She has already helped save me once. I must not underestimate her. “Who is caring for the earl?” she asked out loud.
“His daughter and son, of course. The boy is his heir.”
By his expression, the archbishop seemed to have thoughts he was not sharing, but Miriamele did not want to waste any more time. “Then take me to them,” she said. “We must all go to Prince’s Hall, quietly and without being noticed.”
“But, Your Majesty.” The priest, Father Swidelm, was startled into speech. “I have many tasks still before me today. And the archbishop, too—!”
“You both have perhaps the most important task of your lives in front of you.” Miri was exhausted and angry and struggling to keep the unfathomable horror of Simon’s death from overwhelming her. It was all she could do to remain civil. “That task is to save the High Ward and the kingdom from a murderous usurper. What else calls more loudly for your attention?”
The priest could not meet her eye. Another day, Miri might have felt sorry for being so harsh, but this was not that day.
“Nothing more?” she asked. “Then let us go to the castle. And, Father Swidelm, perhaps you might find Lady Jesa and myself a pair of cloaks that will hide our faces.”
* * *
* * *
Prince’s Hall had been built just over a century earlier by a self-styled king who had ruled the city in the years before Miri’s grandfather John had brought all Erkynland under the sway of his High Throne. It sat on a tall rock called the Peck, overlooking Meremund’s great harbor. It had three concentric moats, and by the time the archbishop’s carriage with its two overworked horses had reached the innermost gate, the sun had begun to set, painting the square white towers with fiery color.
For Miriamele, everything was becoming more and more dreamlike. She had spent so much of her childhood in this place that no corner or wall was simply a thing of stone, but the center of some memory instead. Here stood a wall where she had hidden from her guards when her mother died; there was a courtyard where she had played lonely games in the garden because her father did not think a princess should be seen behaving like an ordinary child. Some sights even reminded her of lost loves: She had formed a deep romantic yearning for her horse’s groom when she was only nine years old.
She had grown up in Meremund, but Prince’s Hall had always felt like a waystation to her. She had known since early childhood that one day she would go to the Hayholt with her father, but her grandfather had lived so long that the day hadn’t arrived for years and years, until she was almost a woman. During those in-between years, she and her father had grown further apart, so that by the time they moved their household to the Hayholt, Miriamele had wanted to be somewhere else—anywhere that she was not just Elias’s daughter, not just a playing piece to be moved around a board at will until she was given to some man in marriage, to benefit the crown.
I stood on that very rampart and watched a seagull with a broken wing trying to fly, she remembered. And hid from my nurse in that culvert over there, then received twice the punishment for coming back wet and dirty.
As they reached the keep, guards and servitors sprang from the gatehouse to meet the archbishop’s carriage and escort his guests inside. Miriamele kept her hood low even after they were under a roof again, waiting impatiently while Orvyn whispered with the earl’s chamberlain. She had forbidden him to name the guests he was bringing, and it seemed obvious that despite the power and respect the archbishop enjoyed, the chamberlain was reluctant to let them into the family residence.
Miri was only a few moments away from revealing herself to the chamberlain, if only to wipe the annoyed look from his face at these unwanted visitors, when he capitulated at last.
“He did not want anyone but me to go to the earl,” explained the archbishop as they were led through the courtyard outside the residence. “But I said that I could not leave you behind.”
“You did not tell him—”
“No, Majesty, I told him only that you and the other lady had important information for the earl and his family. I swore upon my ring and my reputation that you were trustworthy.” The archbishop’s wrinkled face showed his worry. “You will not do anything to make me a liar, will you, Majesty?”
Miri made a noise of disgust and shared a swift look with Jesa. “By Holy Elysia, no. Do not be foolish, Your Grace. And forgive me for pointing this out, but if I did need to do something drastic, the necessity would outstrip even the need to protect your reputation.”
“Oh. Of course.” But her answer clearly did not make Orvyn feel any better. “But remember, the earl is very ill.”
Miri sighed but said nothing.
It took no little time to make their way through the throngs of courtiers, servants, and guards that seemed to crowd every hall of the residence. Several of them tried to prevent Jesa bringing the baby into the suffering earl’s presence, but at last the door of the bedchamber closed behind them, leaving them alone with Durward, his family, the stubborn chamberlain, and a pair of suspicious guards, who only eased their martial readiness when the Archbishop Orvyn went to the earl’s side and offered his ring to be kissed.
Earl Durward was not an old man: the archbishop, Miri guessed, had twenty years on him. Still, to see them side by side, it would have been hard to guess which one was the elder. Durward’s long hair was white and sparse, his face sickly pale, with the strained, distracted look of a man with one foot already in the next world. Miri remembered hearing that he had suffered a fall while riding and that, although his broken bones had healed, his wits had never fully recovered.
“Is that you, Father Timmas?” asked Durward in a faint, quavering voice. He did not seem to see the ring, and Orvyn at last withdrew his hand.
“No, my lord, this is Archbishop Orvyn,” the chamberlain told him.
“Are the nuns and monks praying for me, Timmas?” he asked.
In quiet despair, Miri turned her attention to the earl’s two children. The younger, she knew, must be Dregan, the heir. He was perhaps twelve years of age, fair-haired and thin, with a serious, fretful face. The earl’s wife had died birthing him, and to the frustration of the Prince’s Hall courtiers (and Miri and Simon as well) Durward had never remarried, dedicating himself to hunting and other out-of-doors pursuits like a man who no longer cares for his own home.
“Come, Father,” said the boy, impatience clear in his voice. “You know the archbishop. Greet him properly!”
Durward’s daughter, Lady Dorret, was a young woman several years past the first bloom of youth. She had a handsome face but was stocky and tall—in no wise what would ordinarily have been thought lovely in an Erkynlandish court. Miriamele remembered occasional talk about the duke’s desire to find her a suitable husband but did not recall such a thing ever coming to pass before she herself had left on her last trip to Nabban. Something in the daughter’s posture, though, a sort of quiet watchfulness, made Miri think that this might be the most important ally to cultivate. Someone is making decisions here, she thought, and I doubt it is the son. He looks as green as spring grass.
She took a breath, considering, then threw back her hood.
“It is time for truth,” she said. All eyes except the earl’s turned toward her. “I am Queen Miriamele and I am alive, despite what you have heard. I need your help. Without it, Meremund and all of Erkynland may fall.”
* * *
* * *
Almost an hour had passed by the time all the questions had been answered. As Miriamele had suspected, Durward’s daughter Dorret had asked the most pertinent ones, though young Dregan had done his best to sound like the earl’s heir, mostly by saying over and over, “We will not stand for this!”
“We will go to war against this Pasevalles,” he announced when Miri had finished. “We will take a thousand men to the Hayholt and drive this traitor out.”
“Perhaps we should call the council to session, my lord,” suggested the chamberlain. “With all respect, your father is still the ruling earl.”
“My father is very ill,” said Dregan. “He does not even know what we are talking about.” And that at least was true—Earl Durward had given up on what was going on around him and had slumped back into his pillow, staring at the ceiling.
“We do not have a thousand men, Dregan,” his sister said gently. “We sent twice that number to the Hayholt at the last muster. They must be still at Winstowe Castle, fighting the grasslanders.”
“Then we shall levy men from the houses that have not yet filled their tally.”
His sister smiled, but there was strain in it. This sort of thing has played out many times before, Miri recognized. “We cannot draw water from a dry well. We have perhaps three hundred men we could spare—all the rest are necessary to hold Prince’s Hall against a siege.”
“Siege?” Dregan was irritated. “There will be no siege. Not if we strike before this Pasevalles has a chance to tighten his grip on the throne.”
Miriamele thought it was time to intervene. “I thank you for your bravery on my behalf, Lord Dregan, but Pasevalles has been planning this a long time, I think—years. He will not be so easily unseated, and the last thing we should do is try to besiege the Hayholt, however many men we can find, since it is my own subjects who would suffer. Also, from everything I’ve heard, there is a Norn army moving down from the north. Surely you do not want to see your soldiers caught between the walls of the Hayholt and the wrath of the White Foxes.”
Dregan’s eyes widened. “Truly, Majesty? White Foxes? We heard rumors, but—”
“I cannot speak for all rumors,” Miriamele said. “But those about the Norn Queen and her army seem true, and both my husband and myself tried to prepare for it in the last year.”
Dregan’s youthful bluster seemed to have dried up. “Then what do we do?”
“I think your chamberlain has made a good suggestion,” she said. “Convene your council—but in secrecy. Do not tell them who will speak to them. Does Baron Norvel still live and serve the crown?”
“He does,” said Lady Dorret. “A most faithful noble. The largest part of those who went to Winstowe were his, and only a hunting injury prevented him from leading them.”
“Good. I hope he has recovered. We will need him.” Miriamele ignored the brother’s hurt look. This rivalry would have to be dealt with at some point, but now was not the time. She needed resolve and unanimity from Meremund’s nobles, as well as from those of the surrounding shires. “Please send for him immediately.” She turned to Orvyn. “Archbishop, have you brought a Book of Aedon with you?”
The old man looked surprised but gestured to Father Swidelm, who hurriedly produced a copy.
“My father has one beside his bed as well,” offered young Dregan.
“One will do,” Miri said. “Everyone in this room must now take an oath on the Book, in front of Archbishop Orvyn and God, that they will not breathe a word of my presence to anyone—anyone—until the council has met.” She looked around. “Is there any objection?”
Nobody spoke until Dorret said, “Of course not, Majesty. It is a blessing from God Himself to find that you live.”
After they all had sworn on the Book of the Aedon, Miri felt her tension ease a little—but only a little. She gave Jesa what she meant to be a reassuring look. “All is well, then,” said Miri. “At least as well as it can be in these dreadful days. I want a room for myself, my lady-in-waiting, and the baby. Nothing large or grand!” she added as the chamberlain stood. “I do not want anyone to wonder about the secret guest being treated like royalty.” She took a deep breath. “Ah. I have one more question.”
