'If she can't find the Lion's Child,' said the innkeeper, 'what she'll do is moot. Now that she's becoming secure on her throne, he might want to send her some certain word concerning his future participation in the Feast and the other bindings. Seven years is too long for the Two Lands to go without the royal magics being properly enacted. Disaster is just over the mountain, unless something's done.'
'She can't do anything anyway,' Lorn said disconsolately. 'Any move on her part to support the Lion's Child could antagonize the conservative factions in the Forty Houses. Their people are in an uproar over the poor harvests lately, and all they want is to avoid war with Arlen, or anyone else. If the Queen of Darthen gives Arlen's heir asylum or supports him in any way, war is what she'll have. Then she'll go out into the Palace Square on Midsummer Morning next year, to hammer out her crown, and some hireling of the conservative Houses will put an arrow through her, and that'll be the end of it—'
'A queen, like a king, is made for fame, not for long living,' the innkeeper said quietly.
Freelorn's head snapped up. The suspicion that had been growing in Herewiss for some minutes now flowered into fear. She knows, she knows who he is! Oh, Lorn, why can't you keep your mouth shut—!
'It's possible,' Lorn said, so quietly that Herewiss could hardly hear him, 'that the Lion's Child isn't too excited about dying in an ambush, or in someone's torture-chamber. He may be able to do more good alive, even if he's a long way from home.'
That is between him and the Goddess,' the innkeeper said. 'But as for the other, royalty is not about comfort or safety. Painful death, torture, many a king or queen of both the Lands have known them. It's not so many centuries since the days when any king's lifeblood might be poured out in the furrows any autumn, to make sure that a poor harvest wouldn't happen again, that the next year his people wouldn't starve. But that's the price one agrees to pay, if necessary, when one accepts kingship. Put off the choice, and the land and the people that are both part of the ruler suffer. Who knows what good might have been done for the Two Lands, and all the Kingdoms, if the Lion's Child had somehow found the courage to go through with that Feast three years ago, instead of panicking and fleeing when it was half- finished? He might not have died of the wound he took. He might be king now.'
'Yes,' Freelorn said, looking very thoughtful.
'And as for the queen,' the innkeeper said, 'it wouldn't matter if that was "the end of it" for her, would it? Even if she died in the act of one of the royal magics, she has heirs who will carry on after her. Heirs who know that the only reason for their royalty is to serve those bindings, and the people the bindings keep safe from the Shadow. But as to other heirs to Arlen, who knows where they may be? And who knows what the Lion's Child is thinking, or doing?'
'The Goddess, possibly,' Lorn said.
'Men may change their minds,' the innkeeper said, 'and confound Her. I doubt it happens often enough. But I suspect She's usually delighted.'
Freelorn nodded, looking bemused.
Herewiss looked over at the innkeeper. She gazed back at him, a considering look, and then turned to Segnbora and began gossiping lightly with her about one of her relatives in Darthen.
Freelorn once again became interested in the wine, and Herewiss sighed and did the same. It was real Brightwood white, of three years before, from the vineyards on the north side of the Wood. A little current of unease, though, still stirred on the surface of his thoughts. Where is she getting this stuff? he wondered. It's a long way south from the Wood, through dangerous country. And I've never heard mention of this place — which is odd—
There was motion at the end of the table; the lady had risen. 'It's been a pleasure having you,' she said. 'I could go on like this all night — but I have an assignation.' She smiled, and Segnbora smiled back at her, and most of Freelorn's people chuckled. 'If one or two of you will help me with the dishes — maybe you two,' and she indicated Dritt and Moris, 'since you obviously liked the looks of my kitchen earlier—'
Everyone got up and started to help clear the table — all but Herewiss, who hated doing dishes or tablework of any kind. Out of guilt, or some other emotion perhaps, he did remove one object from the table — the carafe full of Brightwood white. He went up the stairs with it, into the deepening darkness of the second story, feeling happily wicked — and also feeling sure that someone saw him, and was smiling at his back.
Herewiss's room had a little hearth built of rounded riverstones and mortar. It also had something totally unexpected, a real treasure — two fat overstuffed chairs. Both of them were old and worn; they had been upholstered in red velvet once, but the velvet was worn pale and smooth from much use, and was unraveling itself in places. Herewiss didn't care; they were both as good as kings' thrones to him. He had pulled one of them up close to the fire and was sitting there in happy half-drunken comfort, toasting his stocking feet. The red grimoire was open in his lap, but the light of the two candles on the table beside him wasn't really enough to read by, and he had stopped trying.
A steady presence of light at the far corner of his vision drew his attention. He looked up, and gazing across the bare fields saw the full Moon rising over the jagged stony hills to the east. It looked at him, the dark shadows on the silver face peering over the hillcrests at him like half-lidded eyes, calm and incurious.
He stared back for a moment, and then slumped in the old chair and reached out for the wine cup.
There was a soft knock at the door.
So comfortable was Herewiss that he didn't bother to get up, much less reach for his knife. 'Come in,' he said. The door edged open, and there was the innkeeper, cloaked in black against the night chill.
At sight of her Herewiss started to get up, but she waved him back into his seat. 'No, stay put,' she said. Pulling the other chair over by the hearthside, she sat down, pushing aside her cloak and facing the fire squarely.
Herewiss let himself just look at her for a moment. Beauty, maybe, was the wrong word for the aura that hung about her, though she certainly was beautiful. Even as she sat there at her ease, she radiated a feeling of power, of assurance in herself. More than that — a feeling of certainty, of inevitability; as if she knew exactly what she was for in the world. It lent her an air of regality, as might be expected of someone who seemed to rule herself so completely. A queenly woman, enthroned on a worn velvet chair that leaked its stuffing from various wounds and rents. Herewiss smiled at his own fancy.
'Would you like some wine?' he said.
'Yes, please.'
He reached for another cup and poured for her. As he handed her the cup their hands brushed, ever so briefly. A shock ran up Herewiss's arm, a start of surprise that ran like lightning up his arm and shoulder to strike against his breastbone. It was the shock that a sensitive feels on touching a body that houses a powerful personality, and Herewiss wasn't really surprised by it. But it was very strong—
And he was tired, and probably oversensitive. He lifted his cup and saluted the lady.
'You keep a fine cellar,' he said. 'To you.'
'To you, my guest,' she said, and pledged him, and drank. He drank too, and watched her over the rim of the cup. The fire lit soft lights in her hair; unbound, it was longer than he had expected, flowing down dark and shimmering past her waist. Some of it lay in her lap, night-dark against the white linen of her shift and the green cord that belted it.