“No!” she said. “No. Take it off.”

“What? Take what off, Majesty?”

“The face paint. I will not look like this. Not today.” What had stared back from the mirror was not her own familiar, aging features but something like the hideous apparitions she had seen rushing toward her out of the blackness beside the North Road, the corpse faces of the escaping Norns. “Now, Shulamit. It makes me look like one of the White Foxes.”

The ladies were surprised enough that they barely hid their startled looks, but Lady Shulamit dutifully began to scrub away the lead and vinegar whitener with a damp cloth.

Miriamele’s hands were shaking so badly that she had to clasp them together in her lap. She knew her ladies must be confused. How could they know what she had seen, what she had felt? Those who had accompanied her to Elvritshalla had been in the tents and under guard when the Norns fought their way down the steep hill, whereas Miriamele had been out in the darkness, in the crush of men and animals, looking for her husband. The ladies had seen nothing but each others’ worried faces as they huddled together in the royal tent, waiting for the whole frightening thing to end. But their queen had seen that huge monster crash through the trees toward them like an ogre from the earliest hours of time, when God’s misfit creatures still roamed the land, and men could only hide from them and pray for salvation.

The giant had been bad enough, but these women could not even dream of what it had been like as the Norns had swept down in the monster’s wake, lying close against their dark horses, their faces appearing out of the night like funeral masks, shrieking and laughing as they plunged through ten times their number of armed men and vanished into the grasslands beyond the road, leaving behind only the bodies of those who had been unable to get out of their way.

No, Miriamele decided. I will not go to council looking like one of those horrid demons.

“Go to, scrub it all off,” she said. “Better I should be as sun-pinched as any peasant. And I will not wear the black mantle, either. Bring me the blue one, with the stars, the one like an evening sky. Yes, we continue to mourn Duke Isgrimnur, but today I must wear something different.”

Her ladies, not entirely understanding the queen’s strange mood, hurried to obey.

•   •   •

To Miri’s surprise, her husband was waiting for her outside the throne room.

“Where are the others?” she asked. “Why haven’t you gone in?”

“Because I wished to go in with my wife—my queen.” He smiled, but she could tell he was as troubled as she was. “I went to see the Sitha messenger.”

“Did she speak to you?”

He shook his head. “Thelía has done all she can for her, and she rests peacefully, but she scarcely moves. They say she seems to be slipping farther away each day.”

“Is there nothing to do for her?”

“Yes—or at least I think there might be. We must send her back to her people, Miri. They have healers that know more than even Tiamak or his lady, especially about healing their own folk.”

Now it was Miriamele’s turn to shake her head. “Sweet Elysia! I had hoped we would have a few days to take our rest, to think and talk and take council about this attack by the Norns and the message on the arrow. But I should have known better.”

“Yes, my dear one, you probably should have.”

She sighed. “Did you see our granddaughter?”

“I did, but only for a moment. I swear Lillia has grown a handspan since we left. She scolded me for going straightaway to a council meeting, so I’ve promised to watch her ride her pony later.” He crooked his elbow. “Shall we go in, my dear? The others are waiting for us.”

The great throne room had been cleaned and the banners carefully dusted for the return of the High King and High Queen, but the months away made it seem almost unfamiliar, Miriamele thought. The vast chair of dragon’s bones, Prester John’s famous throne, sat on the daïs at one end of the hall, soaked in sunlight that arrowed down from the high windows, its back shadowed by the lowering, monstrous skull of the dragon Shurakai. The beast had been the centerpiece of a great and momentous lie, its death claimed by King John when, in fact, it had been killed by Simon’s ancestor Ealhstan the Fisher King. For that and other reasons, Simon had never much liked the object, and for a while had even banished it from the throne room entirely: for a year or more after they had been crowned the great chair languished in the courtyard outside, exposed to the elements. But though Simon disliked it, the people of Erkynland felt very differently, and eventually he had given in and allowed it to be moved back into a position of honor in the hall. Still, neither he nor his wife would sit in it. Miriamele understood that it meant continuity to the common people, but she hated it for the memory of her father’s last mad years.

In any case, she reminded herself, we are two, not one—a king and a queen, ruling together, even if some of the nobles seem to forget that sometimes. A single throne would not do for us both. And suddenly she felt a flush of gratitude for the man at her left, the kitchen boy she had married.

I tried to keep him out of my heart, she thought. The saints know that I tried! I did not wish this life for him. I was raised for this duty that never ends—he should have had something better. But thank God I have him!

She gave Simon’s arm a squeeze. He could not have guessed what she was thinking, but he squeezed back.

•   •   •

The Pellarine Table sat at the base of the daïs. The long table had been in the castle for centuries, a gift from the Nabbanai imperator Pellaris to King Tethtain, the Hernystiri conqueror who had briefly added Erkynland to his domains, and who in his last few years of life had even used the Hayholt as one of his royal residences. Seated around it, attended by a number of serving-folk, waited over a dozen people in a surprising assortment of shapes and sizes, the greatest gathering of the Inner Council since Miriamele and Simon had begun to put their own more cautious stamp on the government of Erkynland and the High Ward.

To the left of Simon’s empty chair sat Count Eolair in his post as Hand of the Throne, so deeply caught up with a pile of correspondence that at first he did not realize the king and queen had entered the throne room. To his right was Pasevalles, the Lord Chancellor, carrying his own wooden box full of letters. On the other side, next to Miriamele’s chair, pride of place went to Lord Constable Osric, Duke of Falshire and Wentmouth as well as father of John Josua’s widow Idela. Miriamele did not much like her son’s widow, but she had better feelings about Osric himself, a careful, sensible land-owner who had distinguished himself in the Second Thrithings War before his daughter had been born.

Ranged on either side of them sat several more friends and court notables: Tiamak; Sir Kenrick and his commander, Sir Zakiel, prominent officers of the Erkynguard; and His Eminence, Archbishop Gervis of St. Sutrin’s, the highest religious authority in Erkynland, a generally benevolent and occasionally useful fellow who also served as the Royal Almoner. Gathered at the table as well were Lord Feran, Master of Horse and marshal of the castle; and Earl Rowson of Glenwick, whom Simon and Miriamele referred to privately as “Rowson the Inevitable.” Because he was head of one of Erkynland’s most powerful families—some of old King John’s earliest supporters—Rowson had to be included in even the most intimate gatherings of power, despite being one of the stubbornest and least inquiring people in Erchester. Simon had a slightly more optimistic view of him, which was another of the many reasons Miriamele felt that her husband was as lucky to be married to her as she to him: she was his only defense against his abiding flaw of too much kindness. Simon found it hard to say no to even the scruffiest and laziest ne’er-do-wells.