Chapter 342: His Grace, the High Priest Ormund of Valorhold

His voice was soft and pleasant. It carried perfectly in the still air.

"Who are you?" said Draeven.

"A servant, my lord. Nothing more."

"Whose?"

"His Grace, the High Priest Ormund of Valorhold." The man straightened. His eyes, pale and mild, went from face to face with a clerk’s patient attention. "He arrived this afternoon. He has taken the upper room at the inn, and he asks that you join him for supper."

Kaelen laughed.

It was short, and cold, and not remotely amused. Frost crackled across his reins. The horse beneath him shifted, with a low unhappy sound.

"Supper," he said.

"At eight, my lord. A simple meal."

"He’s invited us to supper."

"His Grace is a most courteous man."

"He’s sent a man in a nice coat to stand in the road and bow."

"I am only the messenger, my lord."

"Kaelen," said Draeven.

"I’m calm."

"You are standing in a puddle that was not there a moment ago."

Kaelen looked down. A skin of ice had spread across the lane around his horse’s hooves, wide and white and perfectly smooth. He breathed out through his nose, and it thinned, and ran, and soaked back into the earth.

"Sorry," he said.

"Mm."

"It was very calm."

"It was," said Draeven, "adequate."

He turned back to the man in the lane. His voice was quiet and level, and it didn’t change at all.

"Where is the lady’s mother?"

"At home, my lord. In the cottage at the end of the lane. She is comfortable, and unharmed." The envoy’s smile was faint and polite. "His Grace has taken the liberty of leaving her undisturbed. He felt that a daughter would wish to see her first."

Morgana’s throat closed.

"He felt," she said.

"Yes, my lady."

"How kind."

"His Grace has a great deal of regard for you."

"I’m sure."

She did not trust her voice. She tightened her hands on the reins, and felt Shadowmere shift beneath her, and said, very clearly, "I’ll see my mother first."

"Naturally."

"Before supper. Before anything."

"Of course, my lady." The envoy bowed again. "His Grace would not have it otherwise. We have waited eighteen years." A thin, gentle smile. "A little longer will not trouble us."

Nobody moved.

Draeven’s hand rested on his thigh, perfectly still. The first king looked down at the man in the lane for a long moment. When he spoke, it was almost kindly.

"You may tell your master that we will come at eight."

"Thank you, Majesty."

"You may also tell him," said Draeven, "that if one hair of that woman’s head has been disturbed, he will discover what the word waited means."

The envoy inclined his head.

"I shall convey it exactly," he said.

He put on his hat. He turned, and walked, unhurried, to the door of the inn, and went in. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

The lane was silent.

"Well," said Kaelen. "He’s a charmer."

"Come," said Draeven.

She heard it before she saw it.

It came from behind a squat stone building at the corner, a heavy, hollow bang, like a barn door flung open against a wall, and then a roar. It was a huge, rolling, joyful noise, ringing out over the rooftops like a trumpet blown by a very happy man.

"MORGANA!"

She was off the horse before she knew.

She did not remember sliding down. She only knew that the cobbles struck her boots, hard, and that something enormous was bearing down on her through the dusk, a vast figure in a flour-white apron with a head of curly red hair and a beard to match. He swept her up off her feet, and swung her around, and her feet kicked uselessly in the air, and he was laughing, and sobbing, and shouting all at the same time.

"Morgana! By all the saints! Morgana!"

"Thomas....."

"Look at you!"

"Thomas, put me down....."

"Never! Not in this life!" He crushed her against a chest like a barrel. He smelled of yeast and woodsmoke and warm bread. "Two months! Two months and not a word! And then these great men come riding in in the dead of night, with swords, and say, where is the girl’s mother, and I thought....." His voice cracked on a great breaking sob. "I thought you were dead."

"I’m not."

"I can see that."

"I’m sorry."

"What have you got to be sorry for?" He set her down, at last, and held her at arm’s length by the shoulders. His round red face was wet. Tears ran down into his beard. He looked, she thought, like a gigantic child. "Look at you. You’re so thin. They’ve been starving you."

"They’ve been feeding me constantly."

"Not enough."

"Thomas."

"I’ll fix it." He wiped his face with the back of one huge floury hand, and left a white streak across his nose. "Wait there. Wait."

He lumbered back to the red door of the bakery, and vanished, and reappeared a moment later with a round brown loaf the size of a cartwheel. It was still warm. It steamed in the cold.

"Eat."

"I’m not...."

"Eat."

She tore a piece. It was soft, and heavy, and sweet with honey. It tasted like every morning of her childhood. Her eyes began to burn all over again.

"There," said Thomas, watching her chew. "That’s better. You’ve a bit of color."

"It’s very good."

"It’s my mother’s recipe. Your Ma will tell you. She’s a hard woman to feed, your Ma. I send the boy round every morning with a loaf, and she gives it back half eaten. Half. I’ve told her. She says she isn’t hungry." He shook his head. "I stand there. I glare. She won’t have it."

"She was always like that."

"I know." His face softened. "She’s been very brave, you know. Very quiet. I don’t think she’s slept in a week."

Morgana swallowed.

"She’s all right?"

"She’s alive. And she’s cross." His mouth twitched. "That’s a good sign, with her. She threw a ladle at a soldier."

"I heard."

"Missed."

"Did she?"

"By an inch." He grinned. It was a vast, wet, glorious grin. "He had to change his breeches."

She laughed. It came out as a hiccup, half a sob, and she pressed the heel of her hand against her mouth.

"Thomas," she said. "Rowan sent a message."