Tiamak did not wait, but limped across the chamber before the knocking even began and opened the door to reveal a stout priest there, Tiamak’s secretary, all gasps and dripping sweat.

“Father Avner!” said Tiamak. “Is something wrong?”

“Lord Tiamak, your wife Lady Thelía bids you come swiftly! To the royal chapel! She says you must come now!”

“Take a breath, Father,” said Tiamak. Etan thought he sounded much calmer than he could truly be. “Take as many of them as you need to tell the story straight. Of course I’ll come. What’s amiss? Is it the Sitha woman?”

Father Avner wagged his shaven head in confusion. “Sitha? I don’t know about that, Lord. But the prince has fallen off the tower.”

Shocked, Brother Etan made the sign of the Tree. “God preserve him!” he said. “And us!”

“Is Prince Morgan badly hurt?” Tiamak demanded. “Dead?”

“I don’t know—she only told me to fetch you,” said Avner. “But they say he fell off Hjeldin’s Tower, and that is very, very tall . . .”

Tiamak hurried toward the door. Etan leaped to his feet and went after him. The messenger, his task accomplished, now bent over and put his hands on his knees, struggling to get his breath back.

33 Secrets and Promises

Every time the queen tried to get close to Morgan on his makeshift bed, hastily set up in the royal chapel, Lady Thelía frowned at her and politely asked her to move back again. Miriamele bristled at being waved away like a child, but did her best to keep her temper.

Thelía finally straightened up. “Now, Majesty, you may have your turn. The tidings are good—he merely fell while at the top of the tower, not off it, thank our merciful Lord. Other than a quite impressive lump on his jaw and a bloody foot, I have found nothing worse than some cuts and scrapes and bruises.”

“Blessed Elysia be praised!” Miri kneeled down and dabbed at Morgan’s forehead with a damp cloth. “Thanks to Almighty God you are not worse hurt. Poor lad!”

“Poor lad?” The king was pale, and his voice was hoarse, although Miriamele knew that was as much because of fear as anger. “Climbing on Hjeldin’s Tower! Climbing that evil, forbidden thing!”

Morgan groaned and opened his eyes. The royal couple and the others in the chapel—servants, a pair of vergers, and the chaplain, Father Nulles—all murmured their relief. “Where is Snenneq?” the prince asked after he had looked around for a few groggy moments. His eyes widened in fear. “Is he all right? Did he fall?”

“No, he didn’t fall,” his grandfather said. “He’s well, and thank the Lord and all His angels for that. Snenneq climbed down and found help. Binabik was already looking for you two after his daughter came back.” The king took a deep breath before speaking, but his voice still quavered with anger. “Boy, what were you thinking? Were you thinking at all?”

“Don’t shout at him now,” Miriamele said, dabbing Morgan’s brow. She had been so terrified when the servants came for her. The time it took her to get from her chambers to the chapel where the guards had brought her grandson seemed like a nightmare. In fact, it had been very much like the nightmares that had tormented her nearly every night in the first year after John Josua’s death—always hurrying, knowing he needed her, but always too late. Every one of those dreams had ended in a closed door, or an empty bed, or footprints in a grassy field, but no other sign of her lost, beloved son. She could only thank God over and over that this ending had been different.

“I need to talk to Snenneq,” said Morgan, who still looked frightened. “Can someone bring him here?”

“No, you need to sleep, Highness,” said Lady Thelía. “That is what you need. Sleep is the sovereign cure for almost any hurt that does not kill you. And Usires be praised, your fall, however unfortunate, does not seem to have done you any lasting damage.”

Tiamak and young Brother Etan appeared in the doorway of the chapel, their faces suggesting they had not yet heard that the prince had not actually fallen off the tower and was not too badly hurt. Miriamele watched as the chaplain went to speak to them.

“Oh, my heart is beating so fast,” she told her husband. “I was so worried.”

“Our grandson doesn’t seem to bring us much else,” Simon said. “But this is the worst.”

“Don’t you dare shout at him—not in front of all these people.” Miri kept her voice low. “You can wait until he’s in his own room again.”

“And that will happen soon enough,” Simon declared. “We are not going to leave him here in the chapel. He’s not lying in state, he’s just given his foolish chin a good thump. We’ll carry him upstairs that way, in the same blanket he’s lying on.” And before Miriamele could object, he began giving orders to the servants.

“Carefully, please!” said Thelía as two male servants and two Erkynguard took a corner each and lifted Morgan. “We do not know for certain that he has not cracked a rib.”

“All of them,” Morgan moaned as he was bumped a little in the process of lifting him off the steps in front of the altar. “Every damnable one is cracked, I’m sure.”

“And serves you right, you young . . . mooncalf,” the king said, but quietly, so that only Miriamele heard him. She was too weary with fright to smile, but she remembered how many times a younger Simon had been called that himself.

Lillia had heard the news, and was waiting breathlessly to see her brother. She was allowed to speak to him for a moment before he was carried out, just so she could see that Morgan was not badly hurt. The little girl scolded him so severely that Miriamele could not help feeling a little sorry for her grandson, much as he deserved it.

Lord Chancellor Pasevalles had arrived too, as pale with surprise and worry as everyone else. “How is he, Majesty?” Pasevalles asked after the procession had passed and he could step through the doorway. “I just heard. Pray God he is not badly hurt . . . ?”

“Took a thump on the jaw, that’s all,” growled Simon, although it was Miriamele that Pasevalles had addressed. “Hope it teaches him a lesson. God knows what everybody will think—everyone knows that tower is forbidden!” Simon shook his head, more of a shudder than a negation. “Why would anyone want to go near that cursed place? I’ve warned him about it enough times.”

“Too many times,” said Miriamele. “It’s just a story to him, like one of your Jack Mundwode tales.”

“Praise God, I am much relieved, Majesties,” said the Lord Chancellor, smiling. “So he will be well?”

“Only bruised and scraped, says Lady Thelía.” Miriamele’s own hands were still trembling. “And with a fine purple lump on his chin. Thanks be to our blessed Mother it was not worse.” She quickly explained what had happened, or at least what she had learned: that Little Snenneq had gone and found help, that several workmen with tools and harnesses had mounted to the roof of Hjeldin’s Tower, and then managed to lower the insensible Morgan to the ground.

“But he did not go inside the tower, I hope,” Pasevalles said.

“Apparently not,” said Simon. “Just slipped on the roof and hit his head. We have that to be grateful for, at least. Horrible, poisonous place. I was in it myself, you know. During the war. I still have dreams . . .” The king broke off, staring at nothing.

“If you will pardon me, then, Majesties, I will return to the Chancelry,” Pasevalles said. “I was in the middle of something most important, but of course the moment I heard I hurried straight here.”