“We are not far from Hasu Vale,” Eolair said as they headed their mounts toward the dark edges of the forest. “It was a dark place, once. Your grandparents were captured there and nearly killed by Fire Dancers, worshippers of the Storm King.”

“I know all about the Fire Dancers,” said Morgan. “Believe me, Count, I have heard all the stories.” He was missing his sister and his grandmother and didn’t much want to talk. He even missed his mother.

Morgan had a sudden memory of his grandfather drolly suggesting that the women in the family were conspiring to keep the king and his grandson from having any proper fun. His grandfather had wanted to go out and catch frogs in the Royal Puddle, which was his joking name for a large pond at the edge of the castle’s common green. Morgan hadn’t been particularly interested in catching frogs—already he was concerned to appear a young man, not a small boy—but he had been pleased his grandfather wanted to spend time with him. When had that been? After his father’s death, certainly. As he thought of it now, he remembered more than a few occasions when the king had tried to interest him or amuse him.

“You and I, Morgan. That’s what it will come down to, you mark your grandfather’s words,” the king had said. “They’ll never let you do anything if you listen to them, your mother and my wife. They’re afraid you’ll be hurt. But what’s wrong with a bloody nose from time to time?” Then he had told some story about Rachel, a chambermaid who had apparently frightened him badly when he was young.

His grandfather had been kind to him in those days, it was true. Why had everything changed since then? Why was the king always so angry at him now over a few foolish scrapes and mistakes?

“You have gone quiet, Highness,” Eolair said, startling Morgan a little. “Is all well?”

“Yes, yes,” he said, although his thoughts were so confused and uncomfortable that he truly did feel unwell. “I am just tired of talking.”

So they rode silently through the trees spotted with failing afternoon light, Eolair in front and Morgan just behind him, grateful that the older man respected his wish for silence. The sun was low in the west, but such sky as Morgan could see between the branches was orange and red except for high above their heads, where it showed somber blue. In the new quiet, he could hear the sounds of the forest, or in this case, the absence of sounds. But for a few birds piping far away, safely distant, Morgan heard nothing but the soft crunching of twigs and leaves beneath their horses’ hooves. The camp was only a short ride behind them, but it suddenly seemed leagues away.

“Ah, I think we can tie our mounts here,” said Eolair at last. He dismounted, still impressively nimble for a man his age, and knotted his horse’s reins around the slender trunk of a birch, then began to remove from his saddle the box that held the horn. Morgan tied his horse beside Eolair’s, staring around at the shadowy glade.

“It’s so quiet.” Even to Morgan’s own ears that sounded like a foolish thing to say, but Eolair only nodded.

“The forest is careful,” the count replied. “It does not welcome visitors, but it does not repel them, either. At least that is what my father used to say, although he was talking about our own Grianspog woods. This forest, the Aldheorte, though . . . many say it is the oldest place there is. That is why it is named ‘Oldheart’.”

“How could one place be older than another?” Morgan demanded, unsettled by his recollections and by the forest stillness. Eolair had taken the velvet sack out of the box and now slid the cloth from the horn as carefully as if the strange instrument were a sleeping child. Morgan said, “I mean to say, if God made the world then He didn’t make a forest first, then the rest of everything later on, did He? That doesn’t make sense.” The sound of his voice in the quiet clearing seemed harsh as a hectoring crow’s.

“No, you are right.” Eolair held the horn up to admire it in the dying daylight. “And I would be the first one to agree that we need more sense in this world.”

Morgan had never seen the horn before, although it been mentioned in many stories about Sir Camaris and the Storm King’s War. He was surprised to discover that it disturbed him, although he could not have said precisely why. In some ways it seemed crude, just a curving cone incised with small, precise carvings, a silver mouthpiece, and simple silver decorations around the wide end its only ornaments. But something about it held Morgan’s eye, made his heart slow and then speed again.

“That’s it?” he said. “That’s the horn of great Camaris, like in the songs?”

“It was, but I think he was not the first to wind it—not by centuries. Do you see these marks?” The count drew his finger along the carvings. “These were made by the Sithi, and not recently, or so I have been told. This horn was crafted when the Sithi still ruled Osten Ard.”

“Are you going to blow it?” Morgan asked.

“Of course. Or at least, I am going to try.”

“Try?”

“The horn is like other great and powerful things, Highness—not always easy for us to understand. When Prince Josua brought it to Sir Camaris, who had lost his wits, the old man seemed at first not to recognize it, then suddenly Camaris took it up and blew it loudly and clearly. After that great blast his mind became clear again. Why should that have been? You can ask the Sithi when we meet them—if we meet them—because I doubt anyone else could say.”

“Then . . . may I try?”

“To sound the horn? Of course, Highness.” Eolair lifted the hem of his cloak and rubbed the mouthpiece until it shined.

Morgan took the horn. It was surprisingly heavy, not like something made of bone or antler at all, but more like stone. He lifted it to his lips and then lowered it, feeling the hush of the woods press in upon him. “If they hear it, the Sithi . . . they’ll come?”

“No one can know,” Eolair told him. “But if they do hear it, I doubt they will ignore it. Not something like Ti-tuno.”

Morgan lifted it to his mouth, steadying it with his other hand. He pursed his lips and blew, but nothing came out but a splutter of air. “I didn’t think it would work,” he said.

“Try again,” said Eolair, and for once an adult’s urging did not feel like an order or a scolding. “Think of the Sithi. They have lived here since long before mortal men walked this land. Think of them in their forest deeps, listening.”

Despite having seen the Sitha woman on her sickbed, and having heard many stories of the old days, it was hard for Morgan to imagine the Fair Ones. Old stories kept creeping in, stories he had heard from older children and from servants in which the pale-haired Sithi were more like ghosts than men. He closed his eyes and tried to think of the wounded Sitha’s catlike eyes, which had opened once when he had gone to see her, blazing golden against her bloodless features, startling him badly. He tried to imagine eyes like that here in the forest, perhaps watching the prince and the old count this very moment, golden eyes staring from the shadows. This time, the horn gave out more spit than air, but still did not sound.

“I can’t do it,” he said, and held the horn out to Eolair.

“If you can’t, I doubt I can either, Highness—not with these weary lungs of mine.” The count shook his head. “If the horn has something of the Sithi’s making in it, your claim to it is at least as great as mine. It passed from Camaris to your grandparents. Try once more.”

It was strange for Morgan to think of having any claim on such a thing, especially by the mere accident of birth into the royal family. But of course, that was why he was expected to be king someday, was it not? By the accident of his birth? By the accident of surviving his father? The thought made him feel empty. He lifted the horn to his lips and blew mightily, blew until his cheeks ached, but no sound came.