“What this land needs,” Farvel was saying, leaning into the table conspiratorially and inviting the others to do likewise, “is kings and queens. The thrones in Castle Whitespire have been empty for too long, and they can only be filled by the sons and daughters of Earth. By your kind. But”—he cautioned them, stirringly—“only the stout of heart could hope to win those seats, you understand. Only the
Farvel looked on the verge of squeezing out a viscous, sappy tear. Jesus, what a speech. Quentin could practically have recited his lines for him.
Humbledrum farted mournfully, three distinct notes.
“So what would this involve, exactly?” Josh asked, in a tone of studied skepticism. “Winning, as you say, those seats?”
What it involved, Farvel explained, was a visit to a perilous ruin called Ember’s Tomb. Somewhere within the tomb was a crown, a silver crown that had once been worn by the noble King Martin, centuries ago, when the Chatwins reigned. If they could recover the crown and bring it to Castle Whitespire, then they could occupy the thrones themselves—or four of them could anyway—and become kings and queens of Fillory and end the threat of the Watcherwoman forever. But it wouldn’t be easy.
“So do we absolutely need this crown?” Eliot asked. “Otherwise what? It won’t work?”
“You must wear the crown. There is no other way. But you will have help. There will be guides for you.”
“Ember’s Tomb?” Quentin roused himself for a final effort. “Waitaminnit. Does that mean Ember’s dead? And what about Umber?”
“Oh, no-no-no!” Farvel said hastily. “It is just a name. A traditional name, it means nothing. It has just been so long since Ember was seen in these parts.”
“Ember is the eagle?” Humbledrum rumbled.
“The ram.” The uniformed bartender corrected him, speaking for the first time. “One of them. Widewings was the eagle. He was a false king.”
“How can you not know who Ember is?” Penny asked the bear disgustedly.
“Oh dear,” the tree said, hanging its vernal, garlanded face sadly down toward the table. “Do not judge the bear too harshly. You must understand, we are very far from the capital here, and many have ruled these green hills, or tried, since the last time you children of Earth walked them. The silver years of the Chatwins are long ago now, and the years since have been forged from baser metals. You cannot imagine the chaos we have suffered through. There was Widewings the Eagle, and after him the Wrought Iron Man, the Lily Witch, the Spear-Carrier, the Saint Anselm. There was the Lost Lamb, and the vicious depredations of the Very Tallest Tree.
“And you know,” he finished, “we are so very far from the capital here. And it is very confusing. I am only a birch, you know, and not a very large one.”
A leaf fluttered to the table, a single green tear.
“I have a question,” Janet said, unintimidated as ever. “If this crown is so damn important, and Ember and Umber and Amber or whatever are so powerful, why don’t they just go get it themselves?”
“Ah, well, there’s Laws,” Farvel sighed. “They can’t, you see. There’s Higher Laws that even such as They are bound by. It must be you who retrieve the crown. It can only be you.”
“We have lived too long,” the bartender said glumly, to no one. He’d been putting away his own wares with impressive efficiency.
Quentin supposed it all made sense. Ember and Umber absent, a power vacuum, an insurgent Watcherwoman emerging from whatever witchy quasi-death she’d suffered at the Chatwins’ hands. Penny had been right after all: they’d gotten a quest. Their role was clear. It had a pat, theme-park quality to it, like they were on some fantasy-camp role-playing vacation, but it did make sense. He could still hope. But let’s be sure.
“I don’t want to sound crass,” he said out loud. “But Ember and Umber are the big shots around here, right? I mean, of all those people, things, whatever you mentioned, They’re the most powerful? And morally righteous or whatever? Let’s be clear on this for a second. I want to be sure we’re backing the right horse. Or ram. Whatever.”
“Of course! It would be folly to think otherwise!”
Farvel shushed him, looking worriedly over at the table of beavers, who didn’t seem to be paying them any attention, but you couldn’t be too careful. Bizarrely, Farvel produced a cigarette from somewhere and lit it from the candle on the table, careful not to ignite any part of itself. It protruded jauntily from the tree’s little cleft mouth. The thing must have a death wish. Aromatic smoke rose up through the leafy corona of its face.
“Only do not judge us too harshly. The rams have been absent for many years. We have had to carry on without them. Make our own way. The forest must live.”
