•   •   •

“Are you awake, Highness? Would you like company?”

Morgan sat up, startled to find himself in the middle of the forest instead of the bed in his mother’s retiring room, and saw Sir Porto standing a short distance away. The old knight raised his hand in greeting, although none too steadily. He had stayed drinking with the soldiers longer than Morgan, which in itself told much about the prince’s current mood. “Awake, yes,” Morgan said. “As for company, though, I’m not certain . . .”

Missing the hint entirely, Porto seated himself on a rock nearby. “I know that look you wear, my prince.”

“You do?”

“Aye, yes. I left home when I was young myself to fight against the White Foxes. Left my family behind.”

“Very sad,” he said, hoping that by agreeing quickly he might cut short another recitation of how the old knight had single-handedly saved the mortal race from extinction at the hands of the Norns. “They must have missed you. Your mother, all of them.”

But Morgan’s words seemed to startle the old man, and when he spoke again, it was to say something the prince had never heard before, as if Porto had been jolted out of one rut and into another, like a carriage wheel. “My mother?” the old man said. “No, no. My mother was long dead. I speak of my wife and child.”

Morgan was surprised, and it made the memory of his father’s words wriggle again just at the surface of his thoughts, making unpleasant ripples. “You have children? You’ve never spoken of children before. Or a wife, as far as I can recall.”

“It is not a happy tale, Highness. That is why you have not heard it. I left them behind on Perdruin, which is where I was born. When I first went to war, following Prince Josua and the rest in hopes of making my fortune, my wife Sida and our little one stayed behind in her parents’ house. Now, I have spoken once or twice of the Battle of Nakkiga Gate—nay, please do not make such a face, my prince, I know I have told the tale before. Astrian has chided me for it enough times. So you know I was dubbed a knight on the field of battle by Duke Isgrimnur himself.”

Along with a few other men, Morgan had heard, which made it a little less impressive than it sounded, but this time he felt no urge to interrupt.

“And after I returned south, I was given a land holding by the new king and queen for my service, a parcel in Sudshire with rents worth several gold imperators every year! Not bad. More than I ever had from my own family. But when I returned to Perdruin, I found that Sida and our son had both died in the terrible sweating illness that struck there and in Nabban and in much of the south that year. You would not know, but many called it the Norn Fever, and said it was revenge for their defeat. My little boy—we called him Portinio, which means ‘Little Porto’—was not even two years old. They had already been buried a month by the time I returned. I didn’t even get to kiss them.” His voice became hard to make out. “I never said a proper farewell . . .”

After a long silence, Morgan said, “I didn’t see my father before he died, either. They wouldn’t let me.”

Porto looked at him but said nothing, still mired in his own grief.

“They said I shouldn’t see him that way,” Morgan said. “My mother said so. My grandfather and grandmother were with him . . .” He hated thinking about it, but it only took a single reminder to bring it all back in a rush.

The stairs had been wet because, a short while earlier, a maid had carried up a cloth and a sloshing bowl. Morgan had wondered why a servant was allowed in but he wasn’t. He had been standing on the stairs, and Countess Rhona held his hand so tightly he could not get free, and his mother barred the stairway, her face angry. She was furious at him for trying to get past her, and the two women had stopped him and then held him like a prisoner—like a criminal—and in that moment, the door at the top of the landing, where two armored Erkynguards stood sentry, had seemed as unreachable as a mountaintop fortress. Then Tiamak had emerged from his father’s chamber with a face so grave that his mother had cried out, and Morgan had instantly burst into tears at the sound.

He forced the memories away. Pointless. Foolish. He was angry at himself for speaking of it. “Tell me the rest,” he said.

Porto looked up, a little startled. “What? I beg your pardon, Highness.”

“What happened after you found out? About your family, I mean.”

The old knight sighed. “So long ago! It’s a curse to remember, sire, I tell you true. In any case, there I was with nothing left. I returned to Erkynland, but I soon sold the land I had been given there and drank the profits. Had I not fallen in with Astrian and Olveris, I suspect I would be dead now.” Porto shook his head. “They have always given me a roof . . . or at least a place to huddle and be warm with them.”

It had never occurred to Morgan, except in a general way, that Porto must have lived a great deal of life before he had met him. He had seen the old knight as a gentle, drunken clown without wondering what might have made him that way.

“Did you love your wife very much?” he said, although he was not entirely sure why he asked it.

“Did I what now?” Porto’s thoughts had apparently wandered again. “Oh, yes, I imagine so. But it is hard to say, so many years later. Sometimes I can scarcely remember what either of them looked like. I had a miniature of her in a locket, but that was lost somewhere.” He shook his head again. “Somewhere . . .”

“I hope you forget someday,” Morgan said. “So the pain goes away.”

“Oh, no.” The old man shook his head. “I beg your pardon, Highness, but I pray it never happens. That is all I have of them.” Porto levered himself upright. “Speaking of pain, my prince, the cold is creeping into my bones and making them ache. I shall set up a bit nearer the fire. Do not fret overmuch, Highness. You are a most important young man and the things that happen to others will not happen to you, I think. All those who love you will be safe and sound when you return—and you will return in glory, of that I am also sure. Trust me, the old can see things that youth cannot.”

Morgan was silent as he watched the ancient knight pick his way unsteadily between the camping places of the others, like a shorebird fording a rising tide in deep mud.

“Oh, my lord Pasevalles, I am so glad you remembered!” the dowager princess said, rising as one of her serving girls showed him into her retiring room. She spread her hands as if about to receive a gift.

“How could I possibly forget such a flattering invitation, Your Highness?” The lord chancellor could not help noticing that Princess Idela had not exactly set the room ablaze with light, which would have been a more sensible approach for inspecting old books. Instead, the candles had been put out so sparingly that for some moments he did not notice the straight-backed old woman sitting on a chair in the corner, sewing.

“Lady Wilona,” he said when his eyes could finally make out her face. “What a pleasure to see you, too.”

The Lord Chancellor was relieved but slightly confused by the older woman’s presence. Wilona was the wife of Sir Evoric of Haestall, a baron of no great family lineage or holdings, who had discovered there was more gold to be made in trade than in farming. Through a series of fortunate connections to Perdruinese relatives, Evoric had become one of the leading importers of dyed cloth from the south, and was now reputed to be richer than almost anyone. He and his wife were also great favorites of Osric, Princess Idela’s father.

Lady Wilona looked up from her sewing, squinting. “Ah, it’s you Lord Chancellor. Forgive me for not rising—I have an ache in my legs today that is tasking me fiercely.”