by Tad Williams
The man looked up, his thin, dusty face streaked by tears. “Don’t you understand? That’s what frightens me! We’re out!”
Barrick shook his head. “You make no sense.”
“It’s Repose. The time when all the Dreamless shut themselves inside their houses.”
“All the better. How long does it last? We might find Crooked’s Hall before they come out again . . .”
“You fool!” The man’s eyes filled with tears again. “The skrikers are out—they’re a thousand times worse than any Dreamless!” He reached out and grabbed Barrick’s arm. “Don’t you understand? It would be better if we were back in Qu’arus’ house, beaten to death by his sons, than for the Lonely Ones to find us.” He stared out over the water. “It would be better if we had never been born.”
PART THREE
PALL
26
Born of Nothing
“It is said that perhaps the most powerful among the many tribes of the Qar are the Elementals, although no mortal man has yet seen one. They are few in number, according to Ximander, Rhantys, and others, but said to be as invisible as the wind and capable of tricks no other fairy can play . . .”
—from “A Treatise on the Fairy Peoples of Eion and Xand”
PRINCE ENEAS LEFT HER when they reached the front doors of Broadhall Palace. “I hope you will forgive me,” he told Briony. “I have duties to my troops and we are later than I had thought we would be.”
“Of course. Thank you so much for coming with me, your Highness. I hope I did not cause you too much trouble or offense.”
His expression was indeed a bit troubled, but he did his best to smile before he bent to kiss her hand. “You are a most unusual woman, Briony Eddon. I do not know exactly what you have brought to us, but I can sense things here in Tessis will never be the same.”
Oh, dear, she thought. “I only wish to do my best for my family and my people.”
“As do we all,” the prince said. “But your path seems a bit stranger than most.” He smiled again; this time it seemed more genuine. “Stranger, but also more interesting. I would like to speak more of this and . . . other matters soon. Will I see you at supper tonight? Perhaps we could walk in the garden afterward and talk.”
“As you wish, Prince Eneas.” But what Briony really wanted was some time on her own—time to think. Could her brother really be alive, or was she making too much of a strange message in the Funderlings antiquated drum language? But if it was true, then what was she doing here in a foreign land? She should be at his side, ruling Southmarch or fighting against the Tolly usurpers. Dawet dan-Faar had been right: the Eddon family could expect no loyalty from their subjects unless the people could see that the Eddons were loyal to them. But did she dare to go back without an army, simply because of a single, confusing message?
Of course not—too much is at risk for such foolishness. I must be patient. But it was hard, of course, and even more so now that there was a chance Barrick might be waiting for her in Southmarch.
“It’s not enough to think you’re a leader,” her father had always said—“you must think like a leader. You must honor the people who risk their lives for you—honor them every day, in your thoughts and your deeds.”
The memory made her feel ashamed. She had not been to see Ivvie all day—the friend who had almost died for Briony’s sake. She was exhausted and didn’t want to go just now, but a leader could not dishonor a sacrifice like that.
Ivgenia e’Doursos had been given a room of her own for her recuperation, a small, sunny chamber in the southern wing of the palace. Briony suspected that Eneas had ordered it so, and although she feared too many obligations to the prince, she was grateful for this favor.
Ivvie was pale with dark circles under her eyes and a tremor in her hands when she reached up as Briony bent to kiss her. “It is so kind of you to come, Highness.”
“Nonsense.” She sat down beside the bed and took one of the girl’s cold hands in her own. “Lie back. Do you need anything? Where is your maid?”
“She is fetching me more cold water,” Ivvie said. “Sometimes I am cold myself, but then other times I feel so hot it is as though I am burning up! She mops my brow and that helps a little.”
“I am so angry that I let this happen to you.”
Ivgenia gave her a weak smile. “It is not your fault, Princess. Someone was trying to kill you.” Her eyes grew wide. “Have they caught him yet?”
Of course, it could just as well be a her, Briony thought. “No. But I’m certain they will find the villain and he will be punished. I only wish it had not happened to you.” Briony did not want to speak too much about it for fear of making the girl feel unwell again, so she steered the conversation in another direction, telling Ivvie of her strange trip to meet the Kallikans. By the time Briony had finished the girl’s eyes were wide again.
“But who would ever have guessed! Tunnels down into the earth? The same place that I showed you?”
“The same,” Briony laughed. “I am beginning to learn the truth of the old saying about oracles in ragged robes.”
“And they truly had a message for you from your home in Southmarch? What was it?”
Briony suddenly felt she might have said too much. “Perhaps I exaggerated a bit when I said it was for me. In truth it was almost impossible to tell what it might have meant—I cannot even remember all the words. Something about the Old Ones. I was told that it meant the fairy folk who have besieged the castle—those monsters attacking my home. I can scarcely stand to think about it.”
“Your Highness must be in anguish to be so far away from your family and your subjects! That’s what I told those stupid women.”
“What women?”
“Oh, you know, Seris, the duke of Gela’s daughter, Erinna e’Herayas—that group who are always hovering around the Lady Ananka. They came to see me.” Ivvie frowned. She looked as though the visit had tired her already. “They were talking and talking about everyone—this one is so fat she has to have three maids to pull her stays tight, that one will never take her hat off because she’s beginning to lose her hair. Most unpleasant. They know you’re my friend so they didn’t say anything foul about you—or at least they didn’t come right out and do it—but they were saying that you must be happy to be here in such a civilized place, so far away from all those dreadful things happening in Southmarch. They also said of course you’d want to stay here as long as you could, especially when Prince Eneas himself is paying you such attention.”
Briony realized she was grinding her teeth together. “All I think about is getting back to my people.”
“I know, Highness, I know!” Now Ivvie looked worried, as though she had done something wrong. Briony fought down the urge to walk out of the girl’s sickroom and go straight off to pick a fight with Lady Ananka and her little witches’ coven. Instead, she steered the conversation back toward milder matters.
When Ivgenia’s maid returned with a pail of water, puffing and muttering and looking quite sorry for herself about having to carry it so far, Briony stood and kissed Ivvie good-bye. She met the prince’s physician on the stairs, a bony older man with a brisk, distracted air who was stopping to look in on Ivgenia. “Ah, Princess,” he said, bowing. “May I trouble you for a moment?”
“What is it? She is getting better, isn’t she?”
“Who? Oh, young Mistress e’Doursos, yes, yes, never fear. No, I only wanted to ask you about Chaven Ulosian. You were his patron, I understand. Do you know his current whereabouts?”
“I have not seen him nor heard anything of him since the night I left Southmarch.”
“Hmmm. Pity. I have sent several letters but they are never answered.”
“The castle is besieged,” she pointed out.
“Oh, certainly, certainly. But ships are landing—other letters have got through. I heard from an old friend there, Okros Dioketian, only a month past.”
Briony dimly remembered Okros, a colleague of Cha
ven’s who had treated her brother during his fever. “I am sorry I cannot help you, sir.”
“And I am sorry to trouble you, Highness. I hope Chaven is well, but I fear for him. He was always very reliable in the past when I needed an answer from him, very prompt.”
By the time she had returned to her own chambers, Briony was full of frustration with her lot and itching to take some action. She burst in on Feival so abruptly that he jumped with a squeak and dropped the letter he was reading on the floor. “I want Finn,” she announced.
Feival swept up the sheets of paper. “Want him for what? Zosim’s fire, you gave me a start.”
“Hurry and send for him. I want to talk to him.” She glared at the letter. “What’s that? Another admirer for me? Or a threat of death, perhaps?”
“Nothing you want to bore yourself with, Highness.” He slipped the pages into his sleeve and stood. He was wearing a beautiful green doublet of slashed silk with gold underlining, and looked every inch the young Tessian nobleman. “I’ll fetch him. Have you eaten? There’s some chicken under a dish and some good brown bread. There might be some grapes left, as well . . .”
But Briony had begun pacing back and forth and was no longer listening.
“Does everyone in this cursed city think I have my eyes set on marrying the prince?” she demanded.
Finn looked at Feival. “What have you said to her?”
“Nothing! She came back in this temper.”
“Do me the courtesy of talking to me, not each other.” Still, she stopped pacing and sat in her chair facing Finn, who perched anxiously on the small bench that was ordinarily the resting place of diminutive ladies-in-waiting. “What do people think?”
“Of you, Highness? To be honest, your name is not much on the tongues of the Tessian groundlings, at least on the streets of the neighborhood in which you have so kindly lodged us. Southmarch is much discussed, of course, but that is because of the siege there and the presence of the fairies. The latest news is that the fairies have finally begun their siege in earnest—that they are trying to breach the walls—may the gods protect Southmarch!”
“May they hear all our prayers, yes.” Briony made the sign of the Three. “But that is what the message from the Funderlings suggested—that the Qar were no longer content to sit and wait.” She felt a momentary lift of her spirits—if the message had been right about that, then perhaps Barrick really had returned!
Finn nodded. “But there are always fools—even now some folk in Syan still do not believe the fairy folk have come back—they dismiss an entire war as exaggeration.”
Briony scowled. “I wish they could see what I saw on Winter’s Eve, my last night in Southmarch—or hear the stories the soldiers told . . .” Thoughts of that night always troubled her, but of all the strange things that had happened it was something much smaller that tugged at her memory now.
That doctor today talked about how reliable and prompt Chaven is. But that night, he came back after having been gone most of a tennight, without explanation. Where was he? Was Brone right to suspect his loyalty? Why would a man disappear in the middle of such dire happenings and not come back for days . . . ?
“Pay no attention, Highness,” Finn was saying. “Such people are fools, we all know it. But you asked us to keep our ears and eyes open so I tell you all we have heard.”
“And how about you?” Briony asked, turning to Feival. “You spend a great deal of time out and about in the castle—sometimes I do not see you for hours. I hope my wayward secretary is doing more than simply following the handsome young page boys.”
She thought it was to Feival’s credit that he still had the grace to color a bit. “I . . . I hear many things, Highness, but as Finn says, so much of it is simply the babbling of fools . . .”
“Do not explain it to me, please, simply relate it. What are the courtiers saying?”
“That . . . that you are determined to have Eneas as your husband. Those are the more . . . honorable rumors.” He rolled his eyes. “Truly, Highness, it is all rubbish . . .”
“Continue.”
“Others say that you have your sights set on a . . . a higher target.”
“What does that mean?”
“The king.”
Briony bounced up out of her chair, her wide skirts nearly sweeping the dishes and cups from the low table. “What? Are they mad? King Enander? What would I want with the king?”
“They ask, what more certain way to get your throne back than to . . . to flaunt yourself to the king? Forgive me, Briony—Highness—I am only saying what I hear!”
“Go . . . on.” She was squeezing the fabric of her dress so hard that she was ruining the velvet.
“Feival is right,” Finn said. “You should not concern yourself with such dreadful gossip . . .”
She raised her hand to silence him. “I said, go on, Feival.”
He looked strangely angry at having to pass on this news. “Some of the folk of the court are suggesting that your idea from the first was to take Lady Ananka’s place, to use your youth and your position to catch the king’s eye. And there are uglier rumors, many of which you have already heard. That you and Shaso tried to steal the Southmarch throne. That your brother Kendrick’s death was . . . was your fault.” He wrapped his arms across his chest like a furious child. “Why do you make me say such things? You know the poison people can spout.”
Briony threw herself back down in her chair again. “I hate them all. The king? I would sooner wed Ludis Drakava—at least he is an honest villain!”
Finn Teodoros clambered from the bench and kneeled beside her, not without difficulty. “Please, Highness, I beg you, mind your words! You are surrounded by spies and enemies here. You do not know who might be listening.”
“Murder my sweet Kendrick?” She was fighting tears now. “Gods! I wish I were the one who had died instead!”
After Finn Teodoros left Feival seemed almost as agitated as Briony herself. He went to the writing desk and sat for a while staring at the household accounts, but soon was up again and tidying things that didn’t need to be tidied.
Briony, who had finally begun to calm a bit, was not in the mood to watch Feival Ulian march back and forth across the small sitting room. Between her confusion over Eneas, the Funderlings’ message, Ivvie’s illness and a dozen other matters she had more than enough to trouble her peace. She was considering going out to walk in the palace gardens and enjoy the last bit of evening light when Feival came and sat down across from her.
“Highness, may I speak with you? I truly must say something.” He took a breath. “I think . . . I wish . . . I think you should leave Tessis.”
“What? Why?”
He straightened his stockings. “Because it is too dangerous for you. Because twice someone has tried to kill you. Because the people here in court are liars and traitors—you can trust no one.”
“I trust you. I trust Finn.”
“You can trust no one.” He got up and began to walk around the room, picking up and replacing things he had already moved several times. “Because everyone has a price.”
Briony was astonished. “Are you trying to tell me something about Finn?”
He turned, his face red with what looked like anger. “No! I am trying to tell you that this place is a nest of serpents! I know! I hear them talk every day—I see what they do! You are too . . . too good for this place, Briony Eddon. Go away. Don’t you have family in Brenland? Go to them instead. That’s a small court—I’ve been there. People aren’t so . . . ambitious.”
She shook her head. “What are you talking about, Feival? If I didn’t know you, I’d think you had lost your mind. Brenland? My mother’s family? I’ve scarcely even met them . . .”
“Then go somewhere else.” Feival turned back to her, his face distraught. “This is a terrible place.”
He went out then and shut himself in the tiny room, little more than a closet, where he had his bed. He would not explain what had
upset him so, and by the next day seemed too embarrassed even to discuss the incident.
Qinnitan awoke dizzy and unhappy and sick to her stomach. Half a tennight had passed since she and the nameless man had left Agamid and her life had settled into a familiar round of misery.
Her ankle was tied to a short length of rope knotted around one of the cleats on the boat’s rail. She could stand up and stretch, and sit awkwardly on the gunwale to urinate, but if she let herself fall overboard she would only dangle helplessly a little way above the water until someone pulled her back. Now that Pigeon was gone and her captor could not compel her with the boy’s life, he was making certain she could not kill herself. He was going to give her to the autarch alive, whether she wanted it or not.
Her tormentor had allies now, as well. The survivors of the fire, decimated and now without a ship, were waiting in Agamid for the rest of the autarch’s fleet to arrive, so her captor had been forced into other arrangements. This fishing shallop he had hired came complete with a dour captain named Vilas and his two thick-bodied sons. All three of them were burned brown by long exposure to sun, but still somehow gave the impression of dampness and stickiness, as if they had crawled from under a tidepool rock. They also shared a family trait of a single thick eyebrow and seemed to speak only gutter Perikalese, a language that her captor could understand but which sounded to Qinnitan like they were constantly clearing their throats to spit. Except for leering at her whenever the nameless man was looking away, the three fishermen seemed utterly uninterested in her: the fact that she was clearly a prisoner did not bother them in the least.
So Qinnitan had little to do as the coastline bobbed past but watch and wait . . . and think. As she gnawed the piece of tack one of Vilas’ sons had tossed her as offhandedly as if she had been a dog she wondered how long she had until the nameless man handed her over to the autarch. Agamid was days behind them but the Jellonian headlands were still out of sight ahead. Where were they going? If they were following the autarch, why was Sulepis traveling so far north? Surely he would gain more from conquering vast Hierosol with all its treasure and its control of the northern side of the Osteian Sea. Why would the most powerful monarch in the world sail all the way north to the forested hinterlands of Eion?