Pasevalles looked down. “You are kind, as always, my king, especially to one as unworthy as myself. I have already been given a gift by you and the queen greater than any I could have hoped to receive otherwise, just by the bestowal of your trust.”

“Good God, man, you talk like all the other courtiers around here. Don’t start complimenting me too much, or I won’t trust you anymore. It’s your honesty I crave. No king—or queen, for that matter—can live without honesty from at least one person they trust.”

“I hear your rebuke, Sire.” He smiled. “I will strive to tell you more unpleasant truths.”

Simon laughed. “That was good! More unpleasant truths.”

“But you are surely fortunate, Sire, that you have a queen who is both honest and extremely wise. And I do not say that to flatter.”

“No, you’re right. The problem with my Miri is that when she’s angry at me, I don’t want to listen to her good advice because it makes me feel like a fool.”

“You have my sympathy, Majesty.”

“And you have never married yourself, Pasevalles. Can you find no one who appeals? From what I hear, there are many ladies here in the court who have set their caps for you.”

“I am married to my work, Your Majesty. It leaves me little time for things like a family.”

“But what of the future? What of your name?”

By now his smile had vanished. “My family name, I am afraid, likely died with my uncle, the baron. Perhaps someday when my labors are over—or at least have become less all-consuming—I will think about changing that.”

“There’s no shame to waiting,” Simon said hurriedly. “Don’t get me wrong. Dear old Tiamak is older than I am, and he married only a few years ago. He’s as happy as can be.”

“Lady Thelía is a fine woman.”

“She is, she is.” But Simon was a bit confused now. Had he offended his lord chancellor? He hadn’t meant to. Perhaps Pasevalles was one of those men who didn’t like women. Simon had always found the idea strange himself, but it seemed too commonplace to be merely sin. God had made all kinds of people upon His Earth, from Simon’s old harper Sangfugol, who even in his old age had still had an eye for attractive young men as well as women, to those like Archbishop Gervis, whom Simon had once seen walk past a drunk, half-naked woman without even noticing her as she lay singing on her back in Market Square.

Despite his own marriage and his still powerful desire for his wife, the dark secrets of the bedchamber often confused Simon. If God had meant the act to be only between married men and women, why did He fill the world with so many temptations? Why did He make the desire so strong and the act so pleasurable . . . ?

“I am sorry, Majesty, I have distracted you from your thoughts,” Pasevalles said. “Please just fix your seal on these last few and I will leave you in peace.”

“No, I was woolgathering,” Simon said, dripping wax on the last document. “But this talk of ours has put me in mind of another thing I would discuss with you. This visit from the legate.”

“I have made the arrangements, Sire. The only question remaining is whether he should stay here in the Hayholt or at St. Sutrin’s, which is the usual place for important religious visitors.”

“I feel no strong urge to put him up in the castle,” Simon said. “But it is not the arrangements I want to discuss, it’s the thing itself.”

“Sire?”

“The thing itself. The wedding of the duke’s brother Drusis. You have heard that the Lector is requesting the queen and myself attend, and then use the opportunity to force the two arguing sides to make peace. You are from Nabban and you know the southern mind better than I do. What do you think?”

Pasevalles stood, his arms now full of vellum rolls with dangling seals. “Well, Majesty,” he began.

“Oh, sit down, man, before you drop everything,” Simon said, pointing to a bench. “I want your thoughts.”

Once seated, Pasevalles was quiet for some time, considering. At last he stirred and said, “If I may be perfectly truthful, my king, I think you should go. Both of you.”

“Really?” Simon was pleased, but he wanted something more he could offer to Miriamele, because he knew she thought it a bad idea. “Why?”

“Because this is no mere feud between families, though feuds are nearly as common in Nabban as an afternoon meal. It stems from a real problem, but there is another cause too.”

“What is this real problem, do you think?”

“For years now, the northern and eastern lords of Nabban have been pushing into the grasslands, building castles and settlements in lands the horsemen have always thought theirs. The Thrithing-folks, as you know, Sire, are a disorganized rabble, each band with its petty chieftain, and even the most powerful chief that they have, Rudur Redbeard, is only Marchthane of the Meadow Thrithing, and cannot call all the clans to war. But still there are many of them, many thousands of armed men who are raised to fight. In the past, most of their fighting has been against each other. Now they perceive two common enemies—Nabban and Erkynland.”

“Erkynland?” Simon was startled. “What have we done to them?”

“Nothing like what the Nabbanai are doing, but the grasslanders have a long memory, and they still are angry about the last war they fought against us, despite it being one of their own who roused them to violence and led them into defeat. We also share a long border with their lands, and many new settlements have been built along the river road as far west as Gadrinsett, the town that had grown from a camp where Prince Josua fought against his brother, King Elias.”

“Still, there has been very little fighting in the High Thrithing lately, Lord Chancellor. We have kept a close watch on those towns for exactly that reason, so as not to follow the bad example of Nabban.”

“True, Majesty, but the horsemen have trouble distinguishing between the Nabbanai nobles and the High Throne here in Erkynland that permits those nobles to encroach on Thrithings land.” He raised both his hands at Simon’s outraged expression. “I do not say it is true, Majesty, simply what I fear the grasslanders believe.” The chancellor leaned forward, his face serious. “I know these people, my king. I grew up on the verges of the Lake Thrithing. They are a fierce folk, and they not only nurse grudges, they pass them down from generation to generation. If nothing is done, one day another leader will rise among them and there will be bloodshed all along the border—not skirmishes, but all-consuming war. I am sad to say it, but I believe it is true.”

“Good God, man! Good God.” Simon was shaken. “But what does all this have to do with that damnable wedding?”

“It is the greatest issue dividing the two sides in Nabban. Most of Dallo Ingadaris’ followers are eastern lords. They fear the Thrithings-men despite the fact that it is they themselves who have angered the horsemen. They want to punish the grasslanders so fiercely that they will give up their raids entirely. But Duke Saluceris is of a more careful mind, so the Stormbirds, Dallo’s faction, call him a coward who will not defend his own people. Thus, any end to the struggle between the two factions will require some solution to the towns and great houses being built on Thrithings territory.”

“Good God,” said Simon again. “Now that is a poser. But I think you said there was something else at work as well? Or have I misunderstood?”

“No, Sire, you are right. And it is this: Drusis is a leader who is loved and respected by his men because he is fierce. He plays on the fears of the easterners, who live near the threatening horsemen, or perhaps he truly believes it all himself—I could not say. But I think that those who lived through the days of the Storm King’s War can appreciate exactly what the problem is between him and his brother.”

Simon was a little confused again. “Which is?”