“And,” he said, silencing the murmur and the returning hum of talk, “I would also like to make one more toast. This is a night of joyful reunion between old allies, and meetings with new friends, but as you know, it is not such joyful business alone that brings us here. The queen and myself are bound for Elvritshalla with the sad task of saying goodbye to a dear friend and a faithful ally, Duke Isgrimnur. Raise your cups in his honor, please.”
“Duke Isgrimnur!” many cried, but the response was more muted than to the previous toasts, and Miriamele distinctly heard someone down the table say, “One less frostbeard!” Before she could demand to know who had uttered such a vile remark, Simon caught her eye and shook his head. For a moment she felt almost as much anger toward him as toward the fool who had insulted the dear old duke, but Simon had earned her trust many times over. Patience, she told herself. He’s right. Not here, not this evening. She took a breath and did her best to let her fury seep away, just as wine spilled during the toasting was now soaking into the linen tablecloth. She could not help wondering whether the red stains could ever be completely washed out.
He caught up to her in the lower ward outside the great hall.
“Queen Inahwen! Highness!”
Inahwen’s maid continued a few discreet steps ahead as her mistress turned. For a moment Eolair saw not the mature, almost elderly woman who had left the hall, but Inahwen as he had once known her, golden-haired and fair of skin, threatened by shadows all around.
“You honor me, Count Eolair,” she said in Hernystiri.
The soft burr of his mother tongue reminded him of several things, not least the ticklishly warm feeling of Inahwen whispering it into his ear, so long ago that it seemed like another life. “Please, lady, in your mouth a title seems something shameful, at least for me. It has been too long, Inahwen. You look well.”
Her smile did not have much conviction. “I look like what I am—an old woman, old and in the way.”
“Never.” But her words struck him. “In the way of what? Do you object to the king’s upcoming marriage?”
She glanced at her maid, who was pretending to look up at the stars a short distance away, and at the two guards who had accompanied them from the great hall. “Oh, no. Who could object to the king’s happiness? But come to the Queen’s Little House and talk with me a while. I have no wine worth serving you, but there might be a little mead left from the midwinter festivities.”
“I have not had proper mead in months—no, two years, my good lady, since I was last in Hernysadharc. I would be honored.”
? ? ?
The Queen’s Little House was in truth not so little, a square, three-story structure in the modern style near the outer wall of the Taig. Eolair sat in a deep chair in the parlor as the maid was dispatched to the kitchen in search of mead.
“I have a bottle here we can start with,” said Inahwen, producing a ceramic jug from a sideboard and pouring it into two small glasses of fine workmanship. “It’s made from Circoille clover honey.”
Eolair took his glass and sniffed it as they settled into chairs by the fireplace. “Lovely. Then what use have we for the other?”
“The use of giving my maid something to do for a few minutes. You asked me a question. I gave you an answer. Did you believe it?”
He was almost amused to see this version of Inahwen. “You have become a plotter, then, my dear? What happened to the shy, truthful young woman I once knew?”
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.”