Puzzled, Tinwright almost shook his head in confusion, but realized it might be mistaken as a denial of Hendon Tolly’s words. Did the guardian fancy himself a poet? What would that mean for Tinwright? “Yes, Lord, of course, it is a metaphor. A very good one, I daresay.”
“Hah.” Tolly toyed with the grip of his sword. Other than the royal guardsmen, he was the only one in the room with a visible weapon. Tinwright had heard enough stories about his facility with it that he had to struggle not to stare as Tolly caressed the hilt. “I have a commission for you,” the guardian of Southmarch said at last. “I heard your song about Caylor and thought it quite good work, so I have decided to put you to honest labor.”
“I beg your pardon?” Matt Tinwright could not have listed a group of words he had less expected to hear.
“A commission, fool—unless you think you are too good to take such work. But I hear otherwise.” Tolly gave him that blank, contemplative stare again. “In fact, I hear much of your time is spent making up to your betters.”
This made Tinwright think uncomfortably about Elan M’Cory again. Was the talk of commission just a ruse? Was Tolly just playing some abstract, cruel game with him before having him killed? Still, he did not dare to behave as anything other than an innocent man. “I would be delighted, Lord. I have never received a greater honor.”
His new patron smiled. “Not true. In fact, I hear you were given an important task by a highborn lady. Isn’t that true?”
Tinwright knew he must look like a rabbit staring at a swaying serpent. “I don’t catch your meaning, my lord.”
Tolly settled back in the chair, grinning. “Surely you have not forgotten your poem in praise of our beloved Princess Briony?”
“Oh! Oh, no, sir. No, but...but I confess my heart has not been in it of late...”
“Since her disappearance. Yes, a feeling we all share. Poor Briony. Brave girl!” Tolly did not even bother to feign sorrow. “We all wait for news of her.” He leaned forward. Havemore had reappeared beside his chair and was rattling his papers officiously. “Now, listen closely, Tinwright. I find it a good idea to keep a man of your talents occupied, so I wish you to prepare an epic for me, for a special occasion. My brother Caradon is coming and will be here the first day of the Kerneia—Caradon, Duke of Summerfield? You do know the name?”
Tinwright realized he had been staring openmouthed, still not certain he would survive this interview. “Yes, of course, sir. Your older brother. A splendid man...!”
Hendon cut off the paean with a wave of his hand. “I want something special in honor of his visit, and the Tolly family’s...stewardship of Southmarch. You will provide a poem, something in a fitting style. You are to make your verses on the fall of Sveros.”
“Sveros, the god of the evening sky?” said Tinwright, amazed. He could not imagine either of the Tolly brothers as lovers of religious poetry.
“What other? I would like the story of his tyrannical rule— and of how he was deposed by three brothers.”
It was the myth of the Trigon, of course, Perin and his brothers Erivor and Kernios destroying their cruel father. “If that is what you want, Lord...of course!”
“I find it highly appropriate, you see.” Tolly grinned again, showing his teeth and reminding the poet that this man was a wolf even among other wolves. “Three brothers, one of them dead—because Kernios was killed, of course, before he came back to life—who must overthrow an old, useless king.” He flicked a finger. “Get to work, then. Keep yourself busy. We would not want such a gifted fellow as you to fall into idleness. That breeds danger for young men.”
Three brothers, one dead, overthrow the king, Tinwright thought as he bowed to his new patron. Surely that’s the Tollys taking Olin’s throne. He wants me to write a celebration of himself stealing the throne of Southmarch!
But even as this idea roiled in his guts, another one crept in. He’s as much as said he’ll kill me if I cause him any trouble—if I go near Elan. Clever Zosim, protector of fools like me, what can I do?
“You will perform it at the feast on the first night of Kerneia,” Tolly said. “Now you may go.”
Before going back to his rooms Tinwright stumbled into the garden so he could be alone as he threw up into a box hedge.
“What are you doing, woman?” Brone tried to get up, grimaced in pain, and slumped back down into his chair.
“Don’t speak to me that way. You will refer to me as ‘Your Grace.’”
“We’re alone now. Isn’t that why you sent the priestess away?”
“Not so you could insult me or treat me like a chambermaid. We have a problem, Brone, and by that I mean you and I.”
“But what were you thinking? You have kept the secret for years, and now it seems that everyone in the castle must know.”
“Don’t exaggerate.” Merolanna looked around the small room. “It’s bad enough you stay seated when a lady is in the room, but have you not even a chair to offer me? You are nearly as rude as Havemore.”
“That miserable, treacherous whoreson...” He growled in frustration. “There is a stool on the other side of the desk. Forgive me, Merolanna. It really is agony to stand. My gout...”
“Yes, your gout. Always it has been something—your age, your duties. Always something.” She found the stool and pulled it out, settling herself gingerly on its small seat, her dress spreading around her like the tail of a bedraggled pheasant. “Well. Now is the time when you can make no more excuses, Brone. The fairies are across the bay. Olin and the twins are gone and their throne is in terrible danger —the Eddons are your own kin, remember, however distant.”
“You don’t need to tell me that I have failed my family and my king, woman,” Brone growled. “That is the song I sing myself to sleep with every night.” He didn’t seem anywhere near as bleary as he had only a short time ago.
“Then listen now. The Tollys have their hands around the throat of the kingdom. And somehow—somehow, though I don’t pretend to understand it—my child is involved. Our child.”
“I cannot believe you told Barrick and Briony.” She scowled. “I am not a fool. I said the father was dead.”
He looked at her and his face softened. “Merolanna, I did my best. I never turned my back on you.”
“Too little and too late, always.” “I offered to marry you. I begged you...!”
“After your own wife was dead. By then I had grown quite used to widowhood, thank you. Twenty years after I was foolish enough to fall in love with you. Too late, Avin, too late.”
“You were the wife of the king’s brother. What was I to do, demand he give you a bill of divorce?”
“And I was older than you, too. But I recall that neither of those things stopped you when you wanted my favors.” She paused, took a ragged breath. “Enough of this. It is also too late for fighting this way. We are old, Brone, and we have made terrible mistakes. Let us do what we can now to repair some of them, because the stakes are bigger than our own happiness.”
“What do you want me to do, Merolanna? You see me— old, sick, cut off from power. What do you want me to do?”
“Find Chaven. Find this moon-stone. And help me to cross the bay so I can meet these fairy folk and ask them what they did with my son.”
“Do you mean it? You are mad. But mad or not, I can’t help you.”
She dragged herself to her feet. “You coward! Everything you worked for your entire life is being stolen by the Tollys, and you sit there, doing nothing...!” She leaned across the table and raised her hand as though she would strike him. Brone reached up and caught at it, folding his immense paw around hers.