“Morgan, prince of the land and heir to the High Throne, you have been chosen for a great task,” Simon said, using his Important Things To Say voice that Miriamele found slightly annoying.

The prince looked as though he had come from a rough night. Miriamele would have felt more sorry for him as he blinked and shrugged and shook his head if he had managed to wash and dress himself first. Instead, he looked as though he had been dragged straight in from some Erchester gutter. Many of the courtiers present, and there were more than a few, whispered behind their hands at his condition, but they knew better than to openly mock the prince in front of his grandparents. She wished her husband had chosen to speak to the prince in private, but Simon had lost his patience over the hours it had taken to find him, and no longer seemed interested in sparing Morgan’s feelings.

As Simon explained the nature of the great task, a vital mission to the court of the Sithi coupled with the need to get the poisoned Sithi envoy back to her own healers, Morgan only listened with mouth open. When Simon announced that Count Eolair and Morgan himself would be the ambassadors, the prince stared at him with a look of such incomprehension that Miriamele momentarily lost all her sympathy and in fact wanted to slap him.

“Me? Why should I go?” Morgan demanded.

Simon was cold. Too cold, Miriamele thought, but still she kept her promise and held her tongue. “The first and best reason, young man, is because your king and your queen have told you to do so. There are other reasons which I will gladly share with you in private.”

“But I don’t know anything about the Sithi!”

“And they know nothing about you. Let us hope they don’t regret the loss of that innocence after they meet you.” Simon looked like a thunderstorm, but he was struggling to find gentler words, Miriamele could see. “You will be traveling with Count Eolair. The lord steward knows them as well as almost any man alive. But what is more important, you are traveling to see them as a prince of the High Ward, and as the heir to the throne. That is something important, boy, very important. Do you see that? Tell me you do, I pray you.”

Morgan only stared sullenly, so Simon took a breath, then laid out the rest of the charge he and Miriamele were putting upon them. Mounted knights and a foot troop of Erkynguard would accompany the envoys, and the trolls would ride with them until the groups went their separate way and Binabik’s family continued back to Yiqanuc.

The prince listened for a while, then stirred. “And who can I take with me to fill the long days? Melkin is a rather poor conversationalist.” He stared at his squire, who tried to make himself look even smaller.

“If you do not think that Eolair and Binabik, two of the cleverest, wisest men in all of Osten Ard are company enough,” Simon said with a sour face, “I suppose we can permit you to take one of your companions—I’m not certain I would call them friends—with you on the journey.”

“Praise the saints and angels,” said Morgan, for the first time showing something other than resentment. “I shall hate to leave the others behind, but Astrian is a good man with a jest as well as a sword—”

“Ho, lad, ho!” said Simon. “I didn’t say you could pick one of your friends, I said you could take one of your friends. You may bring Sir Porto. He has carried a sword on behalf of the throne, at least, and proved himself a good man, even if that was long ago. We plan to surround you with wisdom and experience, Morgan—not accomplices.”

“Porto! But he is a hundred years old! A thousand!” Morgan stood up now, his face white and his hands shaking from the prior night’s indulgence as much as from anger. “This is all meant to punish me, isn’t it? All because I won’t do what you want from me. You hope they will lose me in the forest or in the eastern mountains somewhere and I will never embarrass you again.”

“By merciful Rhiap!” Simon hunched forward, his beard spreading against his breastbone, and for a moment Miriamele saw something in her so-familiar husband that looked more like one of the ancient prophets than the kind man she knew. “Do you think that I would risk a mission this important, risk my best counselors and soldiers, just to punish you? Boy, you make me angry indeed. Very angry.”

“Majesty . . . husband . . .” Miriamele said, putting aside her resolve for a moment. “Let us remember what we do here.”

Simon darted her a cross look, but saw that Binabik and Count Eolair were watching him worriedly as well. He took a moment to recover his calm before speaking again. “I will tell you once more, Prince, that this is a task very close to my heart, and to your grandmother’s heart as well. We send you, not to see you punished, but to see you succeed. We send you because we need you to do good for the throne. That throne will be yours someday.” He looked at Morgan, who had folded his arms across his chest and was clearly not going to kneel again. “You may go and see to your preparations now. St. Callistan’s Day is in three days, and you will leave then.”

Morgan’s face was wan with outrage, and he clearly considered further argument, but for the first time he looked to his grandmother. She shook her head, slowly but firmly. Some of his color returned. He bowed his head.

“As Your Majesties wish,” was all he said, then bowed with careful correctness, turned, and walked out of the throne hall. His squire scuttled after him, trying to keep up without turning his back on the king and queen, something that made him walk an uneven, awkward path.

“Binabik and I will take good care of your grandson, Majesties, never fear,” Count Eolair said. “And he will be a credit to you when all is done. Prince Morgan is a good young man, never doubt it.”

“Yes, he will be well and growing to a fine man, I am thinking, Simon.” Binabik spoke so quietly that none in the great hall could hear him but the count, the king, and the queen. “I have been reminded by him sometimes of another young man I once knew, confused and angry.”

“If you’re talking about me, I pray he doesn’t have to go through what I did,” said Simon. “But now I am cross with myself for losing my temper. I didn’t mean to send him off yet. There is one important thing still to do.” He sat up straight, raising his voice to silence the murmuring courtiers. “One more thing do we send with these brave envoys, to help them on their way. An object of great veneration. Tiamak, do you have it?”

Tiamak limped forward with a large wooden chest, which he handed to Simon. When the king opened it and lifted up what was inside, a stir went through the room, although few could have guessed exactly what it was he held.

“Here is the horn Ti-tuno.” Simon held it up to the light streaming through the windows and the silver chasing glinted. “This belonged to Camaris the Great, Prester John’s finest and most godly knight. It was found broken on the field of battle here at the Hayholt, where the war against the Storm King ended.”

“May God rest that brave old man’s soul,” said Miriamele, remembering the sadness of bringing Camaris out of the contentment of madness and back to cruel sanity.

“The story has long been told that this horn is of Sithi make, carved from a tooth of one of the great worms,” Simon continued, then waited until another wave of whispered conversation broke and fell back. “If you wind it at each stopping place when you reach Aldheorte Forest, I feel sure the Sithi will know you are there.” He lowered the horn back into the box, then signaled the lord steward to step forward. “Take it with our blessing, Count Eolair, and our love. May it bring you success in your mission, and then lead you safe home again as well.”

Eolair took the box. “I pray it is so, Majesty.”

“We all do,” said Miriamele. “We will pray for your safety every day until you and Prince Morgan come home to us.” Her eyes felt warm and suddenly wet. “Every day.”