There was another afternoon when raindrops the size of pebbles plummeted to the ground, and the thin static in the air made everyone’s clothing itch. The horses were skittish, and the clouds in the distance flashed white and pink as if a rageful fire was burning inside them. The party camped early because the men wanted to praise Hyrold and enjoy the tempest to come. Mira was summoned to the king’s tent.

“I have work to do, my lady, but I thought you might like somewhere warm and dry to wait out the storm.”

It was not a very Northern thing for him to say, but Mira was grateful for it. As Arik scribbled away at his desk, Mira peeled Halvar’s drenched clothing off and wrung it out in a bowl. She draped the matted baby furs on the back of a chair near a roaring brazier.

Though the king was working, he was also watching. “You can wrap him in something of mine,” he said, nodding to an oaken crate with ornate bronze panels. “There are furs in the chest over there—”

It was fun to look at the king’s belongings, as everything he owned was foreign and intricate. The trunk was no exception. The panels depicted only the gentlest of creatures—fawns and rabbits and birds. The detailed scenes were hammered into the bronze, each hair of each animal separate and clear. Mira knew it was the sort of craft that would take many moons to be made. It had a strange lock as well. There was a bronze pin, shaped like a fish, that needed to be pulled out before the hinged lock would lift. The weight of the lid surprised her, and Mira had to use both hands to push it up and away. To be polite, she took the top fur out of the chest and closed it quickly. Mira did not want to be going through the man’s things in front of him.

Arik laughed at this. “You are raising the closest thing I have to a grandson. There’s no need for such formality between us. Look at the things that interest you.”

Mira spent the better part of an hour going through the curious objects that Arik had gathered and decided to bring with him as he travelled throughout his country. There was a doll of sorts that she especially loved. Made of wood, the doll was painted with bright colours and polished so that it shone like water. Each of its cheeks had a red, rosy circle in the center, making it feel like the doll was smiling.

“Open it,” Arik said.

At first, Mira didn’t understand, but as she began to pull at the head and feet, the doll popped open and inside, there was another doll. This one was smaller but painted to match. There was another identical doll inside that one. And another inside that one. It was marvellous. Who would have thought to make such a thing? Halvar liked them as well, though Mira did not let him hold the smallest one because she didn’t want him to put it in his mouth and choke.

As Mira played with Arik’s possessions, he asked her opinion on his work. He was writing a story—his own story.

Mira had trouble with the idea. “Why would you write down the things you’ve done?”

He shrugged. “I am a king. Maybe someday someone will want to know about my life. Maybe a king in the future will find himself with a problem that I also faced. He can learn from my mistakes or, if he sees my solution and is pleased with it, he could act as I have acted.”

Mira must have been frowning because the king laughed. “I’ll have you know, I am a very interesting man. Just because I seem old and boring to you does not mean other people will feel the same way.”

“I do not think you’re boring,” she said, a little nervous that the king assumed she thought poorly of him.

“Perhaps you’re right. Maybe no one will want to read it. Maybe I am only trying to be sure that there is something left of me in the world when I’m gone.” For a moment, he looked old and worn, and Mira felt sorry for him even though he was a king.

“I am sure it is a good story,” she said. “People will like it.”

The king laughed. “My lady, there is no need for your Ilish diplomacy here.”

Despite him saying this, Mira felt like her words did cheer him some. He sat up a little straighter and asked if he could read some of the story aloud to her. Mira agreed, and the king read three or four pages, all having to do with his first meeting of Halvar.

Mira did not like the story at all.

“You say you did not like him?” It hurt more than Mira could ever explain to anyone who didn’t have a child. She wanted her son to be liked, to have friends, to be well thought of by each and every person he encountered.

The king laughed, “Of course I like him. I am only leaving space in the story so that I can have him do something impressive later and change my mind. Then people who read it will also be impressed with him. They will say, ‘he changed the mind of a king at a young age; think of what he will do when he is grown.’ I write it this way to give Halvar more choices as a man.”

Mira was still bothered. She did not want people to hear Arik’s story and think of Halvar as unlikable. She did not want Halvar in the king’s story at all.

Halvar had been at the center of Mira’s time travelling across the country with the king. The child felt bigger every day. His arms got stronger, and she could see he was trying desperately to pull himself towards things.

Even as Arik read his story to her, Halvar was squirming and straining, reaching forward with his shoulders, desperate to reach the smallest doll which Mira had placed out of his reach.

Often Fell would laugh and shout, “Come, come, come! You can do it! Look how strong you are!” And then he and Halvar would laugh together and roll around in the grass.

Watching the two of them together gave Mira so much joy that sometimes she would cry. There were moments when the three of them—her, Fell, and Halvar—were laughing and playing, and she would think to herself, Remember this, remember each detail. Never let yourself forget.

“My Lady disagrees with her king?” Arik said, a playful smirk on his face, indicating that Mira was likely still frowning.

Mira did, but she did not want to say so, just in case it was the sort of thing that irritated the man.

“Think of the purpose of a story, my dear girl. Think of the feelings that a listener has that make a story good or boring. There must be conflict. There must be danger and struggle. But maybe even more importantly, there must be complexity.”

The king’s tone was light and friendly, and Mira knew he would not mind her challenging his point. In truth, she suspected him of having chosen such an odd point to kindle a debate between them. Arik seemed to love debating.

“Complexity?” she said, raising her eyebrows in disbelief.

“Yes.” Arik laughed. “There must be elements of good mixed in with the bad, and bad mixed in with the good. This is how life is, and so it makes a tale more believable.”

Mira had no real understanding of what the man was getting at.

“As an example, my lady, I cannot simply write down all the good that I have done as king. People would find the tale dull and would begin to suspect it was not truthful. I must include some of my flaws or failures. Of course, I still want people to like me at the end, so I must be selective. I must emphasize the follies of my youth—wine and women and foolish fights where I came too hard at men who were already to lose—and the occasional important error of adulthood.”

Mira’s head hurt a little. “You write down bad things about yourself?”

Arik grinned, once again transforming into a young and eager man. “Yes, my lady. This way, when there is a true terror of my own doing that I wish to keep secret, I can leave it out. Everyone will think: he has been truthful so far, he has shared things that did not reflect well upon his character, this part must be true as well.”

“You are lying then?”

“No, my lady. I am telling the truth. I am saying: this is how I want to be remembered.”