The last of them, holding the Hayholt’s ceremonial keys, was Lord Chancellor Pasevalles himself. He knelt before them and presented the box and its shiny contents, but did not immediately rise. His straw-colored hair still showed no gray, Simon noted with a touch of envy, since Pasevalles was only a few years younger.

“I fear we have much to discuss,” he told them now. “I know Your Majesties are both weary—”

“No, you are right, Lord Chancellor,” Simon said, and Miri nodded. “There are things you must know immediately as well. In fact, once we eat and take a short rest, the queen and I will need you in the Great Hall when the clock strikes two. Count Eolair and Duke Osric and the others of the Inner Council will be wanted as well. Oh, and make sure Prince Morgan is there too, please.”

“Of course, Majesty.” But Pasevalles looked ill-at-ease.

“What’s wrong, Lord Chancellor?” Miri asked.

“Just . . . many things have happened in your absence.” He leaned forward and spoke quietly, although the nearest of the courtiers stood some distance away. “We have received what seems to be an envoy from the Sithi.”

“From Jiriki and Aditu? We have?” Simon was astonished, and his heart seemed to swell in his chest—this was good news indeed. “Excellent! Where is he? Miri, did you hear?”

“I heard.” But the queen was looking at the Lord Chancellor’s face, and saw there what Simon had not noticed. “But there is more, is there not? You said ‘seems’.”

Pasevalles nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty. The envoy is not a he, but a she. And somebody tried to kill her. Whether they succeeded still remains to be seen, but she is in grim condition.”

With the return of the royal party, the stables hosted a bustling, noisy throng of horses, grooms, stable boys, muckers, and of course several dozen squires, each watching jealously over his master’s or mistress’s prize mount. The returning animals blew and nickered loudly as they were led to their stalls, as though greeting all the friends and relatives they had left behind.

In other circumstances, especially after the morning’s long ride, Morgan would have happily let his own squire Melkin take charge of Cavan, but the gelding had begun to limp during the last part of the journey through Erchester, and Morgan wanted to make sure that he would be looked after properly. He saw one of the older grooms and beckoned him over.

“Yes, Highness? And welcome back home, Prince Morgan.”

“Here now, Cavan, settle.” Morgan patted the horse’s neck. “He’s favoring his right front foot. I think there might be a small stone under his shoe, but I couldn’t find it.”

“I’ll have the farrier see to him directly, Your Highness,” the groom said, bowing and taking the reins. “And we’ve got plenty of good, sweet summer grass for him as well, don’t you worry.”

As Morgan watched the groom lead his palfrey off through the surge of bandy-legged men, scurrying boys, and snorting horses, something struck him on the back of the legs so hard that his knees almost buckled, and a pair of arms snaked around his waist and squeezed. A brief instant of surprised panic vanished at the sound of a familiar voice.

“I’m so angry at you! You said you would write me letters, and you didn’t!”

He tried to reach back to pry his sister loose, but she was already scrambling around to the front and had begun clutching at his tunic and stamping on his feet as though she meant to climb him like a tree.

“Hold, hold!” he laughed. “I did write to you.” He bent down and picked her up and embraced her. “You’re heavier. Have you been sneaking sweetmeats out of the kitchen? Wasn’t anyone watching over you?” He held her away from him, although her vigorous wriggling made it difficult to keep his grip. It was more than a little shocking to see that she looked older, too, her face clearly longer and thinner, even as she stretched it in a grimace. “And you’ve lost a tooth, Lil! You look like an old beggar woman!”

She tried to slap his head but he avoided the blow. “You wrote one letter, Morgan,” she said, “and that was so long ago—in Feyever-month! I know because I got it just after Candlemansa. Grandma and Grandpa sent me lots of letters in the royal post, and Uncle Timo too, but you only sent that one!” Lillia stared at him with the fiercest of scowls, then suddenly she brightened. “Did you know there’s a Sither here in the castle? She’s nearly dead but Aunt Tia-Lia said she’s a real fairy.”

He had no idea what his sister was talking about, and could not help laughing. “I missed you too. I’m sorry I didn’t write more.” He embraced her and kissed her cheek, but she still struggled. “Now I need something to eat, and badly. Can you help me with that?”

“Silly.” She gave him a look that contained as much disgust as love, and in that instant Morgan felt himself to be truly home. “You don’t need help. Someone will get it for you. You’re a prince.”

“Ah, you’re right. I forgot. Very well, then I command you to go and find me something so I can break my fast.”

She shook her head. “That’s silly, too. I’m a princess. I don’t have to.”

“Then I suppose I will have to kidnap you and force you to do my bidding!” He bent suddenly and grabbed her around the waist, then lifted her up and dumped her over his shoulder. “Captured by a fierce giant! Princess Pigling is surely doomed!”

She stopped kicking and squealing for a moment. “A giant! I forgot! One of the soldiers told us there was a giant where you were, and the knights all fought with it! Is that true, Morgan? Did you really fight with a giant?”

Something like a shadow swept across his thoughts, darkening the moment of happiness into something more complicated. He carefully set her down on the hay-strewn floor. “Nothing to worry about,” he told her. “I never saw any giant.”

“We missed you so! You must be delighted to be home, Your Majesty. Back where things can be done properly.” Smelling of orris root and ever so slightly of perspiration (because the day had turned warm) Lady Tamar, wife of the Baron of Aynsberry, bent and began lacing up Miriamele’s corset. A young woman of fragile health, Tamar had not traveled north.

“Oh, yes. Delighted.” But after the comparative freedom of months of travel, of many days’ riding for every day spent on the heavy, public business of state, Miriamele was in no hurry to return to more formal attire for this Inner Council meeting. She had never liked wearing a corset at the best of times, but now it felt like being nailed into a coffin.

In quick order, the women arranged her jewelry and pinned her heavy headdress into place. Lady Tamar, who had discovered she was with child just when the royal progress had set out for Rimmersgard, was now very distinctly rounded. “You are so beautiful, my queen,” Tamar said as she viewed the ladies’ handiwork. “How proud your husband will be!”

Miriamele only sighed. She felt like a saint’s statue being prepared for a feast day.

Lady Shulamit leaned in. “By your leave, Majesty, may I paint your face? Forgive me for saying so, but your skin has been much reddened by the sun.”

“Oh, very well.” Miriamele hated this too, but suffered it for high occasions—times when she felt she must look the part of the perfect queen. She wrinkled her nose at the vinegary smell of the whitener, but let the young noblewoman apply it. She could feel it drying her already dry skin when Lady Tamar passed her a mirror. It was difficult to lift the glass to a position where she could see her reflection with three women leaning over her and another one bumping uncomfortably against her shins while she put Miriamele’s shoes on. When the queen finally caught a glimpse of herself, smeared white as a phantom, she nearly dropped the mirror.