by Tad Williams
“So many visitors today,” she said. “And all unwanted.” She came closer. Even when he closed his eyes Vansen could feel her nearness like the approach of a winter storm. Beside him, Antimony let out a noise that might have been a whimper. “I suppose you hope to convince me that we should band together against the common foe.”
Vansen blinked. Was she talking about Hendon Tolly? “I . . . I’m not ...” It was hard to look at her, but it was also hard to look away. He felt like a moth circling a candle flame, hopelessly drawn and yet knowing the mere touch of it would scorch him to ashes. “I do not know what you mean, Lady.”
“Then the world spins more strangely than even I thought,” she said. “This small delegation here has come to inform me that the human creature known as the Autarch of Xis will soon enter the bay with a force of ships and men.”
Vansen stared, seeing for the first time that it was not only armed guards who accompanied the Lady Yasammez: looking cowed and fearful beside her stood three hairless, long-armed folk.
“Skimmers!” Vansen was utterly surprised. “Are you from Southmarch?” he asked, but the hairless men only looked away as if he had said something shameful. Vansen turned back to the dark lady. “The Autarch of Xis is the most powerful man on the two continents. Why would he come here?” Vansen looked around. Even in this moment of ultimate danger, he could not help marveling at how the world he had known had been so thoroughly shattered and rearranged into this—fairy warriors, giants, Funderlings . . . and now, apparently, the monster of Xand was joining this mad Zosimia festival. “He has the greatest army in the world,” he said loudly, as much for Yasammez’ supporters as the dark lady herself. “Even the terrible Lady Porcupine cannot defeat him. Not without help ...”
“Fool.” Her voice snapped like a drover’s whip. “Do you think that just because my folk will soon stand between two human armies I must sue for peace?” She glared around the chamber as though daring any of her minions to speak. Clearly, from their blank faces and downcast eyes, none of them even contemplated it. “I would rather die in the mud of the Hither Shore than make another pact with treacherous mortals!” She turned to the giant ettin. “This prattle is meaningless, Hammerfoot. Go on about your sport. Kill them quickly or slowly, as you choose.”
Antimony cried out in fear, but Vansen took a step toward her, crying “Wait!” In an instant a dozen Qar bows were drawn and aimed at him. He stopped, realizing he could easily be killed before saying what he needed to say. “You spoke before of a pact, Lady Yassamez. I know of another one—the Pact of the Glass!”
She looked at him, her expression unfathomable. “Why should I care? It has ended—the Son of the First Stone’s gambit has failed. There is nothing now not even this southern wizardling on his way here with all his warriors . . . that can prevent me burning this house of treachery to its foundations.”
“But the Pact of the Glass hasn’t ended!”
It might have been some trick of the shadows and the flickering torches, but for a moment Ferras Vansen thought he saw the dark lady become bigger, saw her silhouette grow and become spiny as a black thistle. “How dare you speak thus to me!” she cried, and he could feel the raging words clamoring in his head. He fell to his knees, clutching at his skull, almost weeping from the pain. “My father is dead! Kupilas the Artificer is dead! Despite imprisonment and solitude and pain you could not even imagine, he kept this world safe for century upon century . . . but now he is dead. Do you think I will bandy any more words with creatures like you—the destroyers of my family? Let this mortal autarch come! He will find nothing waiting for him but ruins. In my father’s name and memory, and in the memory of all the lives you mortals have stolen from us, no living thing shall survive here and the gods will sleep on in exile forever!”
But as she turned away again Vansen dragged himself up onto his knees and reached toward her. His head was throbbing, and blood dripped from his nose and into his mouth, so that he tasted salt.
“Kill me if you wish, Lady Yassamez,” he called, “but hear me first! I knew Gyir Storm Lantern. We traveled together behind the Shadowline. He was . . . he was my friend.”
She spun and took two long steps back toward him, hand on the hilt of the white sword. “Gyir is dead.” The words landed cold as hailstones. “And he was no mortal’s friend. That is not possible.”
“I am more sorry to hear of his death than you know. I was there in Greatdeeps with him in his last hour, and if we were not friends we were certainly allies.”
The reptilian gaze fixed him. “I doubt that. But what does it matter anyway, little man? He failed me. Gyir is dead, and in a moment you will be too.”
“You may be wrong, Lady. I think there is a chance that despite his death Gyir may yet succeed, and if he does, it will be because of a gift you sent to the king of the Qar—a gift named Barrick Eddon, prince of Southmarch.”
Her hand curled more tightly around the sword’s hilt. She was close enough, Vansen realized, to decapitate him with one swing. He bowed his head, resigned to whatever would happen next. “Gyir did not fail you, Lady, and if he died, it was doing your bidding. The pact could yet succeed.”
He waited for the blow but it did not come.
“You will tell me all you know about Gyir Storm Lantern,” she said at last. “You will live that long, at least.”
37
Under a Bone-white Moon
“The Qar’s Book of Regret is not their only written record. It is said that they also have a collection of oracles called the Bonefall that has been kept since early times. Both are said to be part of some larger book or story or song called “The Fire in the Void”, but no scholar, not even Ximander, can say for certain what that is.”
—from “A Treatise on the Fairy Peoples of Eion and Xand”
BRIONY COULD NOT STOP marveling at the size of the Syannese camp. She had expected a group of men waiting on horseback, perhaps as many as a pentecount of soldiers camped beside the Royal Highway. Instead, after reaching the road and riding on through the rain for perhaps an hour Briony and her captors reached a muddy meadow full of tents—hundreds of them, she felt sure, an entire military encampment crowded with foot soldiers, mounted knights, and their attendants. As they turned to look at her, curiosity plain in even the sternest faces, her stomach clenched. Would they execute her? Surely not—not simply for running away! But she couldn’t get Lady Ananka’s cold-eyed stare out of her head. Briony had learned early that when you were a king’s daughter people might hate you without ever knowing you.
“Remember, you are not quite real in their eyes,” her father had often said. “You are a mirror in which people, especially your own subjects, see what they wish to see. If they are happy then they will see you in that light. If they are unhappy they will see you as their persecutor. And if a demon is in them they will see you as something to be destroyed.”
If the gods only touched people in dreams, as Lisiya had said, then could they sow lies there as well as truth? Had an evil god set Ananka and the king of Syan against her?
Listen to me! she chided herself. Isn’t it bad enough that I take pride in the number of soldiers sent to shackle me and drag me back to Tessis? Now I flatter myself that the gods oppose me as well. Stupid, prideful woman!
But whatever happened, she would give no one the satisfaction of seeing an Eddon weep and beg for mercy. Not even if she went to the headsman’s block.
When they reached a large pavilion near the center of the camp the captain dismounted and helped her from the saddle with silent and ungracious efficiency. Now that she could see the emblem on his surcoat more clearly she saw that the red hound was almost skeletal, its ribs showing so clearly that they resembled a lady’s comb. It sent a shiver across her skin.
The captain steered her past the sentries outside the pavilion. Once inside, he squeezed her arm hard enough to make her wince to stop her. At the center of the room several more soldiers, all in armor, were bent over a bed cove
red in maps. Nobody seemed to have noticed the visitors.
“Your pardon, Highness . . . ?” the captain said at last, clearly unwilling to wait to share his good news and receive his praise. “I have found her—the northern princess—and made her prisoner.”
The tallest of the armored men turned and his eyes widened. It was Eneas, the king of Syan’s son. “Briony . . . Princess!” An instant later he turned on the captain. “You have done what? What did you say, Linas—made her prisoner? ”
“As you ordered, Highness, I found her and captured her.” But the captain’s voice, so firm and proud only a moment before, now sounded less certain. “You see, I have brought her . . . brought her to you ...”
Eneas scowled and came toward them. “Fool. When did I ever say ‘make her a prisoner’? I said find her.” He extended his hands to Briony, then to her astonishment dropped to one knee before her. “I crave your pardon, Princess, please. I have confused my own soldiers and that is nobody’s mistake but mine.” He turned to the man who had brought her in. “Be glad you did not put her in irons, Captain Linas, or I might have had you whipped. This is a noblewoman and we have already treated her dreadfully.”
“My . . . my apologies, Princess,” the captain stammered. “I had no idea . . . I have wronged you ...”
She did not like the man but she did not want to see him whipped. Or at least not too badly. “Of course, you are forgiven.”
“Go now and tell the others to call off the search.” He watched as the chastened captain hurried out of the tent, then turned to the other armored men, who were watching with amused interest. “Lord Helkis, you and the others may leave me. I would speak to the princess alone.” He thought about it. “No, stay. I do not want this poor woman’s reputation any further besmirched—she has suffered enough at the hands of my family, and quite unfairly.”
The handsome young noble bowed. “As you wish, Highness.” He retired to a stool in the corner of the pavilion. Briony felt almost as though she floated in a dream. One moment she had been wondering whether she would be executed, the next moment a prince was kneeling before her and kissing her hand.
“Please,” said Eneas, “I cannot expect you to forgive my family, or even hope for such a thing—it is not deserved, in any case—but I can apologize again. I was sent away soon after we returned from Underbridge. By the time I found out what had happened and returned to Tessis you were already gone.” He squinted at her. “This is strange, but I could swear that is my old traveling cloak you’re wearing. Still, never mind.”
The prince went on to explain how he had only learned the truth because Erasmias Jino had sent a messenger who had caught up to him as he led his troops south along the southern Kingsway, toward the border. Briony found herself wishing she could thank Jino, whose goodwill—or at least his loyalty to Eneas—she had clearly underestimated.
“When I read the letter, even though it was the middle of the night, I called my Temple Dogs to fold their tents and we turned back to Tessis,” Eneas said.
“Temple Dogs?”
“You see them all around you. They are my own cavalry troop,” he said with more than a little pride. “I picked each one of them. Do you remember how I asked you questions about Shaso and his teachings? The Temple Dogs are modeled after Tuani horsemen. Do not let Linas and his foolish error mislead you—they are the best Syan has, trained to move quickly and efficiently, both on the road and in battle. I am sorry you had such a bad first meeting.”
Briony shook her head. “It was by no means all bad. They saved us from bandits.” She remembered Dowan Birch’s bloodless face and half-opened, unseeing eyes. “Most of us ...” Her joy at having been spared turned into something cold and heavy. “Can we send for my companions, the players? They do not know what has happened to me. They probably think I am going to be beheaded or dragged back to Tessis.” She stopped in confusion. “Am I going back to Tessis? What will happen to me now that I am your prisoner, Prince Eneas?”
He looked startled. “Never my prisoner, Lady. Never. Do not even think such a terrible thing. Of course, you are free to go where you will . . . although, yes, I pray you will let me take you back to Tessis. We can clear your name of these offensive, baseless charges. It is the least I can do.”
“But your stepmother, Ananka, hates me ...”
For a moment Eneas’ expression hardened. “She is not my stepmother. With the grace of the gods my father will soon end this unseemly relationship.”
Briony doubted it would be so easy. “Still,” she said, “Two people close to me were poisoned by someone trying to murder me.”
“But you would be at my side,” Eneas said. “Under my personal protection.”
The idea of letting someone as kind and strong and competent as Eneas take charge of her was certainly tempting—Briony had been on her own a very long time. Her father was gone, both her brothers were gone, and it would be such a relief just to rest . . . “No,” she said at last. “I thank you, Highness, but I can’t go back to Tessis.”
He did his best to smile. “So be it. Still, whatever refuge you choose, Princess, I hope you will let me escort you there safely. That is the least I owe you for your harsh treatment in my father’s court.”
“Then take me back to the players—your captain knows where they are. And tell me everything you’ve heard and seen since we last spoke,” said Briony. “But I think no matter what I hear, I’ll still want the same thing—to go back to Southmarch. My people are in sore need.”
“If that is your choice,” said Eneas solemnly, “then I will take you there, though the legions of black Zmeos himself block my way.”
“Please, don’t talk about the gods, especially the angry ones,” Briony said in sudden alarm. “They are too much with us already.”
When it happened, it happened quickly.
Many days had passed as the fishing boat on which Qinnitan was a prisoner followed the coast of Syan into lower Brenland and into the straits that separated Brenland from Connord and the many smaller, rocky islands surrounding it. As a young woman who had spent most of her life in the Hive or the Royal Seclusion Qinnitan would have known none of this, but she had discovered that during the morning hours after he had swallowed his potion or whatever it was, Daikonas Vo would now sometimes answer questions. Clearly, something of his iron control was slipping, but Qinnitan did her best to speak to him only sparingly for fear of this unlikely spring of knowledge suddenly drying up.
Qinnitan had known for a few days that Vo was taking his physick every night as well as in the morning: he became more and more agitated as the afternoons wore away until he quieted himself with the potion a short time after dark. She did not understand exactly what this meant but she was grateful for the slackening of his attention, which allowed her time to think and saw through her rope with an iron rail.
For some time all she could see on the coast sliding past had been stony headlands, cruel cliffs with waves beating at them like beggars pounding on a bolted door. But today, as Vo paced the deck and old Vilas plied the tiller, his sons sitting at his feet like stones, the fishing boat slid past a last bulwark of hills. The rocky front suddenly dropped away to reveal a great, flat expanse of wet sand dotted here and there with massive round stones like the dropped toys of giant children. Beyond this wet tidal flat the land rose into grassy hills spotted with groves of white-barked trees; beyond lay a forest lay spread like a dark green blanket on the knees of distant hills.
Tonight, she decided: if it was ever to happen, it must be tonight. Soon the coastline might be all rocky cliffs again as it had been for days, stones against which even a good swimmer would be crushed and drowned. It had to be tonight.
It wasn’t hard to stay awake, but it was very hard to remain still. She forced herself to keep her eyes closed as much as she could, fighting the urge to make certain that the moon she had just looked at a few moments before was still as bright.
Vo was mumbling to himself, a good sign.
When she had last dared to look at him he had been scratching his arms and neck with his fingernails as he paced, and rubbing his belly as though it pained him.
“ . . . Waking up,” he said, then let loose a string of curses in gutter Xixian that would have made the Qinnitan of a year earlier blush and grow dizzy. “Tricked!” he growled. “Not asleep at all. Both of them! They knew! Did it to me!”
He stopped pacing at last and Qinnitan lay as still as she could, doing her best not to breathe. She risked opening her eye just a slit. Vo had his back to her and was licking the needle that he used to take his potion. To her surprise, he dipped into the bottle again, then lifted the needle to his mouth.
Licking the needle three times in a day! Was that good for her or bad? She thought for a moment and decided it could only be good. She found it even more difficult to wait now, but the gods were kind to her: after only a short while, Vo sagged down to sit on the deck.
Through half-shut eyes she watched until the moon had dropped behind the mainsail. Then, after taking a long breath and letting it out slowly, Qinnitan rolled over, snapped the last threads of rope, and crawled toward the shadowed figure leaning against the mast.
“Akar,” she whispered, using the Xixian word for master. “Akar Vo, can you hear me?” She reached out and gave him a carefully measured shake. His head lolled. His mouth opened a little as though he might say something, which made her start back in alarm, but his eyes remained shut and no sound came.
She gave him another gentle shake and as she did she let her hand slide into his cloak. She searched until she found his purse and drew it out. It was heavier than she’d expected, made of heavily oiled leather. She shoved the bits of hard bread she had saved into it, then froze in terror for a moment as her captor stirred and mumbled. When he had once more gone still, she quickly tied the purse to the piece of cord she wore as a belt over her tattered, threadbare servant’s dress from Hierosol. Her heart was beating very fast. Did she really dare to do this?