When the King Comes Home

A legendary king becomes a sorcerer’s puppet in this novel of art and artifice from the author of The Glass Magician. “This book is a gem.” —Tor.com   When artist’s apprentice Hail Rosamer replicates a coin bearing the visage of the long-dead King Julian, she does so to practice her craft, not to be accused as a counterfeiter. In danger of being imprisoned, Hail flees the city of Aravis—only to come face-to-face with the man whose profile appears on the coin . . .   A necromancer has aligned herself with enemies of the current king. Her goal: to sow chaos throughout the empire by resurrecting King Julian two hundred years after his death. If she succeeds, the throne will be hers.   While Hail was growing up, the phrase “when the king comes home” meant that all well-meaning promises would be kept. But Hail knows that nothing good can come of it now, not with such malevolent forces at play. As spirits from the past begin to arise, Hail joins the battle, riding into an arena of the darkest magic with only her vision, her craft, and her courage to guide her . . .   “Absolutely the best I’ve read in ages! Each chapter is a new revelation on the nature of art or magic, friendship or creativity, heroism or home . . . Stevermer captures the gritty reality that makes fantasy believable; and also finds magic in the most commonplace details.” —Ellen Kushner, World Fantasy Award–winning author   “[A] glittering Renaissance triumph set in world an angel’s-wing away from our own. Stevermer brings both hearts and crowns vibrantly to life.” —eluki bes shahar (pseudonym of Rosemary Edghill, New York Times–bestselling author of Book of Moons )   “Beautifully rendered . . . fantasy of a high order.” —Kirkus Reviews

Amazon.com Review

When the King comes home... miracles will occur, the rivers will run with wine, all wishes will be granted. The kingdom of Aravis believes its beloved King Julian, dead 200 years, will return in the hour of its greatest need--and surely that hour is now. The current king is ancient, witless, and dying without an heir, the sinister Prince Bishop controls both church and state, and rebellion is brewing in the provinces. Hail Rosmer has no interest in politics or legends. The daughter of a rural wool merchant, Hail wishes only to be a great artist. And her wish is granted, it seems, when she is sent to the city of Aravis to apprentice with Madame Carriera and study the works of King Julian's artist, the infamous Maspero. But Hail's fate is forever changed--as changed as the fate of Aravis itself--when she sees a man who looks exactly like King Julian. Marvels and wonders there will be--and events far darker and more dangerous than were ever imagined in legend.When the King Comes Home is a smart, sly, unpredictable, and fascinating fantasy that lives up to the high standards of Caroline Stevermer's critically acclaimed previous novels, A College of Magics and River Rats. --Cynthia Ward

From Booklist

In this well-wrought fantasy, Hail Rosmer, the daughter of affluent wool merchants, is apprenticed to an artist in the city of Aravis. As she studies, she observes the city's rich collection of art and comes across a medal of the legendary Good King Julian, two centuries dead, who had been very unlike the present aged and childless ruler, a puppet of the theocracy. Hail becomes obsessed with the medal and the prophecy concerning Julian, which states that when the king comes again, all dreams will be made real. Then one day she sees a man fishing on the river. He looks exactly like King Julian, but he is far too healthy to have been dead 200 years. Hail befriends the fisherman, and the rest of the book is a witty tale of what really can happen when legends come to life. Roland GreenCopyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

ONE(In which I am born into a family of wool merchants.) I was born on the coldest day of the year. When the midwife handed me to my father, he said, "Hail the newcomer! Hardy the traveler who ventures forth on such a day."After four sons, my family was pleased to have a daughter at last. My father persuaded my mother that I should be named Hail, to commemorate the welcome I'd been given. My name is a greeting, dignified and sober, not a form of bad weather.My family is in the wool trade and are as hardworking as they are prosperous. My earliest memory is of chasing my brothers through the wool market, a maze of bundles and bales, a mob of people haggling. Fleece in every shade from purest white to dusty black, in every stage, from unwashed and full of burrs to neat bales ready to be shipped downriver--all were there in plenty, for Neven was a busy place in those days, the most prosperous town in northwestern Galazon.I am not too old to travel home to Neven, even yet. That day will come, but I could still make a journey of moderate length, given a proper escort and sufficient preparation. I don't choose to visit there, though I have no doubt my brothers' families would welcome me. I'd rather remember it as it was, a clean an quiet town. My memories range beyond the town itself, from the heights where the flocks spent the summer in wild and open country above the forests that filled the crooked valleys below. Stands of the great old trees were cut even in my youth, sent down the river tied in rafts to feed the shipwrights of Shene. Since then, I'm told, the forests have been much reduced. (I don't wish to see it now.) Neven was always a sleepy place, and I prefer the city. Aravis itself can seem sadly quiet to me now.There are benefits to a quiet life. I have more work to do than there are hours of daylight, but the nights are long. The time has come to write down what I've learned. I've studied the notebooks and treatises written by the masters who have gone before me. It is my turn to set down what I have learned and to explain how I learned it. May this work please those with the wit to read it and instruct those with the wish to learn. I have only the ordinary skill at writing, but if I do not at least attempt to set down my experiences, all will go to waste when I am dead.Waste was something my family could never abide. My parents expected all their children to work, and to work hard, boy and girl alike. To allow us to neglect our wits through insufficient education was folly, and so we were all set to study with Master Nicholas, a schoolmaster engaged to teach the children of the members of the wool merchants guild.In addition to our hours at school with Master Nicholas, my brothers and I learned everything about the family business, from tending a flock to keeping the accounts. I was not permitted to do any of these things unaccompanied, at any rate not for long, but by the time I was thirteen I had a full understanding of what we Rosamers did for a living and of just how many of us there were. With so many brothers ahead of me to choose the tasks they liked the best, I had to work hard at each thing to learn the work and earn praise for my skill. At that age, it was not yet clear to me what my role would be.Some families might have stinted a fifth child, boy or girl, but mine was determined to make the best use of each of us, just as our family made a point of making the best use of each part of every sheep, from a hank of fleece to the toughest mutton chop. My mother held me to an even higher standard than my brothers, for in addition to my schooling and my work in our family trade, I was taught how to keep household accounts. I learned what was needed to make sure that we had sufficient food, shelter, and clothing. Aside from the size of the numbers in the ledger, it was not very different from learning the business. Smaller sums, but the work was just as hard.For the first few years of my life, I displayed no more genius than any child does, though I liked to make pictures with bits of charcoal or chalk or anything else of that nature which came my way. My brothers delighted in teasing me for this, but I learned soon enough that there was an element of envy in their merriment.Each year at Twelfth Night, my brothers helped Father's apprentices with the revels, sometimes devising masques or plays. When I was fourteen, I began to help with the costumes. This gave my mother false hope. She was well versed in the arts of needlework and would have taught me much had I shown the slightest interest. But I had no use for practicality. To set a sleeve into a gaudy doublet, that it might adorn the Master of the Revels, was worth squinting over for hours. To hem a petticoat, for no better reason than to adorn myself, I considered a waste of time.This is folly, and one common to young artists. For the same apprentice who will work hours, days, and weeks to design and cast a frippery cloak pin will scorn the pains it takes to make a simple pewter spoon. Look well to the spoons, the tankards, and the porringers, for in the old simplicity is found greater art than in the new style. More art and use in that honest petticoat hem than in a dozen such doublets, run up in haste for holiday attire.By the time I was a gawky girl of fifteen I had used up the school-master's patience. Master Nicholas presented my parents with an ultimatum. I must either pretend to pay attention to his lessons or find some other use for my time. In any case, I was to stop drawing caricatures on my slate. It distracted the other girls and boys. He suggested I be put to some honest labor. As my brothers were all deeply interested in the family business, there was no need for me to manage accounts. But perhaps, with time and application, I might manage to make a competent shepherdess. With a qualified dog to help me, of course.There was some merit in this suggestion of his, for I had a strong back and long legs. Many other families would have considered my sturdy frame qualification enough for the outdoor life.Fortunately, my parents were in no particular hurry to see their youngest out the door. Since he had seen a good many of my caricatures, my father thought Master Nicholas was merely offended by my latest effort at portraying him.My mother found worth in what Master Nicholas said, however, and the pair of them spent a merry quarter of an hour suggesting trades for me. The thought of me as a nun made them laugh the hardest. I didn't see what was so funny, but I was of an age that seldom saw humor where people of my parents' advanced years did.When he had wiped his eyes and rested his ribs, Master Nicholas looked across the table at my mother and said, "Hail will be a nun when the king comes home. But I was at school with Angelica Carriera. She has an atelier in Aravis. Shall I write her to see if she has room for another apprentice?"I gaped at him. Even I had heard of Angelica Carriera. She was a famous painter. The old king himself had paid her to capture his likeness. Her paintings hung in palaces and Master Nicholas knew her? To write to? Why do people never tell one the important things? I made it clear to everyone that this was the most brilliant idea Master Nicholas had ever had.Mother glanced at Father, who was pretending to poke the fire. "It's too soon.""Aravis?" Father looked at me "It's too far.""It's just down the river," I protested. "You go there every year with the woolpack and the timber.""Only once a year. You're much too young to live in the city all alone.""Most apprenticeships begin at fourteen," said Master Nicholas. "Though Hail does sometimes seem quite young for her age. She would hardly be along in a studio like Angelica's.""Madame Carriera may not wish to have another apprentice," said Mother."If she is as prosperous as people say, she must keep several apprentices busy just cleaning her brushes," said Father, "I suppose it does no harm to inquire."* * *Master Nicholas sent his letter a few days later, and in a month the reply came back. Provisionally, I was acceptable. I was to travel downriver with the next shipment of wool. In Aravis, I might be chosen to join the apprentices who helped clean Madame Carriera's brushes. If I applied myself, and if I behaved myself, well, Madame Carriera would see what she could make of me.It was a very brief letter, considering how much I read into it. I had an entire filigree of meaning embroidered around each line. To me it all seemed clear beyond possibility of error. My opportunity at Madame Carriera's was a promise of success, for surely there would be no limit to my hard work. I would live in Aravis, the center of the world, and I would learn everything Madame Carriera had to teach me. I would learn all her techniques. I would invent new forms of art. Fortune was assured, and fame would surely follow. Undying admiration would be mine, deservedly, and any student of art would learn my name along with the greatest of painters.* * *There are no slower days in life than those between the promise and the performance of one's release into the world. I am better at waiting than I was then (not saying much), but I would not relive those impatient days before my departure for the great world of art. I couldn't survive it now. The strain would kill me. What I wanted, now that I knew at last what it was I wanted, I wanted with every fiber. What I knew, I wished the whole world to know. What I wondered, and in my impatience I wondered about almost everything, I wondered ceaselessly.I am surprised my family did not disown me during those fretful weeks. Certainly they must have been as glad to see me go as I was to take my leave.The way to Aravis was a familiar one to my father. The wool trade took him there every year. From Neven, the water route ran down the Ruger to the broader current of the Lida. The Lida, made stronger yet by its union with the sleepy Celle at Ardres, passed between the Folliard Hills to the east and the higher, bleaker Howlet Fells to the...

About the Author

Caroline Stevermer grew up on a dairy farm in southeastern Minnesota. She graduated from Bryn Mawr College in Pennsylvania with a B.A. degree in the History of Art. Almost twenty years later, she learned to drive a car. Her interests include Mark Twain, baseball, the portrait miniatures of Nicholas Hilliard, and learning how to parallel park. She lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

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