by Tad Williams
We stopped the first night in a glen that reminded me of Serpent’s Vale, though the main likeness was in the lonely silence that hung over the spot. Even the reassuring stars were hidden by the all-shrouding mist. Ineluki’s oath and what might come from it weighed heavily on all of us. The brothers scarcely spoke after we stopped for the night but sat staring into the fire long after I finally dropped into fitful sleep.
We rode several more days, usually in silence, the stark shapes of the mountains looming always at our left, until we reached the farthest end of the range.
The northern heights of the Sunstep Mountains are rocky and steep, and except for the endless fields of heather and moss and bracken that cloak them are mostly bare but for a few trees on the highest slopes. Fogs rise out of the ground, but not far, hanging close to the slopes. We often rode through murk so thick I could see nothing beyond the brothers’ horses in front of me. As we reached the last cluster of peaks, the Beacon tallest among them, we turned onto a smaller road that wound steeply uphill. Our horses had to tread carefully to avoid the deep ruts left by wagon wheels.
My master told me that watch-towers with great signal fires had once stood at the top of the mountain, raised by the first Zida’ya to travel into those empty lands. These earliest settlers had built their guard-posts at the time the first mortal men began to cross over from the unknown west, but their early redoubts had long since crumbled away. After a long absence, a succession of both Zida’ya and Hikeda’ya nobles had rediscovered the spot and made homes for themselves near the peak, even as mortal men spread across the moors below. Most of these immortals did not care much for company, I suppose, although not always for such obvious reasons as the Beacon’s current master. Still, despite the dreariness of its weather and its great isolation, this part of the world has a strange, raw beauty that has never quite let go of me since that first journey.
I did not know much about Xaniko sey-Hamakha, the infamous Hikeda’ya noble we were on our way to see, except that he was a distant relative of Queen Utuk’ku. (She has lived so very, very long after the death of her only child that all of her living relatives are distant.) But I learned more about him later on. Xaniko was infamous among his own people for something they called the “Exile’s Letter,” a long and complex poem he had written before he left Nakkiga. It was forbidden to Utuk’ku’s subjects to possess that poem, to read it, or even to mention it, but that had not prevented it becoming known by many among both Keida’ya tribes, Hikeda’ya and Zida’ya—especially my master’s folk, who did not have to fear execution for acknowledging its existence. Xaniko’s poem spoke of living in a corrupt court under a ruler who had once been fair and good, but who had descended into vengefulness, and cruelty. Although this ruler was never named in the poem and the setting was clearly fanciful (perhaps because Xaniko still felt some small sympathy toward his Clan Hamakha kin) no one doubted who was being denounced, and the Exile escaped the stony fastness of Nakkiga only a short hour ahead of the Queen’s Teeth guards sent to arrest him. After wandering for many years and being rejected by my master’s people as well, Xaniko at last settled atop the Beacon, rebuilding an ancient castle now known as Ravensperch. He had married, too, a matter of much talk and gossip among my master’s folk, though as we rode up the winding way into the heights I did not know why his choice of a bride so fascinated the Zida’ya.
As we climbed higher and higher up the mountain I had trouble filling my lungs, though Seafoam, as always, seemed tireless. We passed a few farms perched on terraces along the mountainside and saw animals pastured in many of the high meadows, but no sign of the mortal owners, as if visitors were not just a rarity in that high country but something to be feared. The gloomy sky and the mists that clung to the hillside muted all the colors, and it was hard not to feel we rode through an alien world that did not care for us.
Ravensperch Castle stood, square and spare, on a high promontory where the earliest tower and its warning beacon had once stood. The castle’s empty black windows looked out over the somber meadowlands that blanketed the mountain’s foot; its slate roof tiles gleamed with rain even in the dimness of late afternoon. I only realized later that the castle seemed positioned to watch especially for enemies from Nakkiga in the north, Xaniko’s old home. But Ravensperch seemed to fear not just enemies but any visitors at all, hiding itself from the world with only a single main tower standing above its featureless walls of dark stone, like a suspicious face peering over a gate. A few armored guards stood atop those walls, the first creatures like ourselves that we had seen in some time, watching us in silence as we rode toward the gates.
To my surprise, the soldiers who stepped out of the gatehouse were mortals. After the brothers presented themselves, they made us wait for no little time, then the portcullis was raised and we were allowed in. The gateyard was narrow and as unornamented as the walls; the tall, stone-faced tower of the keep looked no more inviting.
A small troop of soldiers conducted us to the door of the great hall. When it opened, we were greeted by what I first thought must be a noblewoman of the Zida’ya. It was only as I drew close to her that I saw the color of her skin, a much paler gold than Hakatri’s or Ineluki’s, and realized she was not of either clan but was instead one of my own Tinukeda’ya folk. Her gown was modest homespun, but she carried herself like a great lady; I could not take my eyes off her. Something about her even reminded me of my master’s mother, Lady Amerasu—not the woman’s features so much as her calm self-possession.
“Enter, Lord Hakatri and Lord Ineluki,” she said. “Be welcome, guests. I am Sa-Ruyan Ona, mistress of this house. My husband will come down to you soon.” She smiled—it almost seemed as though she directed that smile at me, though I knew I must be mistaken—then gestured for us to follow her into the dark, modest hall. When we were seated, she sent servants to fetch us refreshment. After we had been served with food and wine she told us she had pressing tasks to see to, but that her husband would join us very soon. Then, to my surprise, she looked straight at me and said, “You, too, are most welcome here, fellow Child of the Garden. Din so-nosa beya Vao-ya ulluru.”
I had no idea what those last words meant. I could only stare in confusion as she walked away.
Ineluki turned to my master, saying, “I had heard the Exile took one of the Ocean Children for a bride, but I thought it only another fanciful tale. Still, she is pretty enough. I would not chase her from my bedchamber.”
Hakatri frowned. “We are guests, brother.”
Before Ineluki could reply a very tall figure appeared in the inner doorway of the hall, accompanied by several soldiers. Ineluki jumped up—he might even have closed his fingers around the hilt of his sword—but Hakatri put a hand on his arm.
“Greetings, Lord Xaniko,” my master said, rising and bowing. “My brother and I thank you for your hospitality and your time.”
“All I have offered you so far is bread and salt,” the newcomer said in a deep, slow voice. “Whether I give you anything else depends on what you have to say.”
Xaniko was one of the tallest people I have ever seen. The top of his white-haired head loomed a full handspan above those of my master and his brother, who were considered of good size among their own people. Xaniko wore only black, and he had the deathly pale skin of all his Hikeda’ya clansmen. His snowy flesh looked so thin as to be almost translucent, suggesting advanced age, but his bearing was surprisingly youthful, his movements precise but graceful. He gestured for Hakatri and Ineluki to sit, but he remained standing. “So,” he said. “Speak. Have you come to redress some wrong you think I have done your house?”
Ineluki made a sound that almost sounded like a laugh, but Hakatri ignored him, saying, “We have no interest in old slights and old grievances, my lord. We come to you because we were told you might be able to help us.”
Xaniko looked at him as if with no real interest. “I doubt it, and I certainly have no de
sire to help any of the Sa’onserei, in any case.”
“But this is not a matter of clans or houses,” said my master. “This is a matter of concern for all living things. We seek your wisdom, Xaniko sey-Hamakha, because a Great Worm has come down into the lands south of here and has already taken many lives, mortals and Keida’ya alike.”
Xaniko’s lip curled. “It is amusing, in a way, how it is only when one clan wants something from the other that the old word Keida’ya is brought out and dusted off. But your folk and mine are not one people anymore, as you know, and I have no allegiance to either clan.”
“So we have heard.” Ineluki’s tone made his brother squeeze his arm again, but Ineluki ignored him. “They say you call yourself the Exile and want nothing to do with either our clan or your own.”
“What of it?” asked Xaniko, cold as his windy mountaintop. “I do not dwell in their lands or in yours, unless Year-Dancing House and its meddling master and mistress have now declared this place to be their fiefdom. If we have already run out of things to discuss, you Zida’ya princelings should be on your way as swiftly as possible.”
The way he said this made me look anxiously toward the soldiers still standing in the doorway. They too were mortals, which seemed strange to me, but they looked well-armed and strong and not afraid of even two Dawn Children as famed as my master and Ineluki.
“I beg pardon for my brother’s unconsidered words—” began Hakatri.
“Do not apologize for me!”
My master went on as if Ineluki had not spoken. “—but as I said, we did not come here to air old grievances, Lord Xaniko. Hidohebhi has come down out of the north, and Lady Vinadarta of Skyglass Lake told us that you of all living folk would be most able to advise us how to deal with this beast.”
“Not by brave charges or stirring songs,” said Xaniko. “No, I have nothing to offer you Sa’onserei. Still, you may spend the night. The road down is too steep and treacherous even to walk upon at night.”
“Thank you, Lord Xaniko. Go and see to the arrangements, Pamon,” Hakatri told me.
The lady of the house was waiting in the chamber outside. I bowed to her and asked where I should put my master’s things. She only looked at me for a long time, until I became dismayed.
“Yanum dok sin ro danna bir?” she said at last.
It was complete nonsense to me. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but I don’t understand.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, but I found her expression odd and unsettling. “I asked, what is your name?”
“I am called Pamon, my lady.”
“Not your family’s name—your name.”
I was surprised. Not even my master addressed me by anything other than my family name. “Kes, my lady.”
“I apologize for staring at you, it has just been so long since I saw a male of my own kind. That was my people’s tongue I spoke—your people’s, too, since we are of the same kind.”
“I confess I did not recognize it.”
“But that is strange . . . Kes. Are you and the lords you serve not from Asu’a?”
“To put a finer edge on it, my lady, I serve Hakatri, the elder brother. But yes, Asu’a is our home.”
“And do none of our people there still use the old tongue we Tinukeda’ya brought from the Garden?”
I shrugged. “I do not doubt some do, Mistress. Certainly many Tinukeda’ya live there, but they do not speak much about old days and old things. As for me, I never learned any such things, and my parents, if they knew, did not teach me.” I was uncomfortable and suddenly a bit ashamed by something that was no fault of my own. “I take it from what you said earlier that Tinukeda’ya are rare in this part of the world.”
“In this particular part, yes. As you have seen, all our servants and guards are mortals—Sunset Children.”
I was curious about that, so I did something rare for me: I asked her a question that a mere servant should not ask a noblewoman. “Was that by your choice, my lady?”
She shook her head. “No, that was my husband’s doing. I think he did it for me, however. He thought I would not want to see my people forced to serve.”
“And do you feel more comfortable with mortal servants?”
She made a gesture I did not recognize, though it stirred a dim memory. “There is no easy answer to that. And what of you, Kes? Are you happy in service to the Dawn Children—to the Zida’ya?”
I told her very firmly that my master had always treated me very well.
“That does not answer my question, but I do not wish to be rude,” she said. “Let me ask it another way. Are you happy in your life?”
I found this astonishing. “Of course! I told you, I have been lucky beyond almost any of my kind—of our kind, my lady. As have you, it seems, if you will pardon me for speaking when it is not my place.”
“Your place?” She laughed, which I did not understand. “Yes, I suppose I have done well for myself in this world—I have found a mate who does not despise my heritage. The rest of his kind are not so forgiving, though, which is why we live in this out-of-the-way spot.”
“I am told that the Cloud Children banished your husband from Nakkiga.”
“Yes, but your Zida’ya masters would not have us either, Kes. The people of my husband’s clan and of your master’s once could live together, but it was never truly accepted that either of them might marry one of our kind.”
I did not know what to say. I had never considered such things, and until that moment I could not have imagined it. Why would one of the immortals want to marry one of my race instead of one of their own? “I know nothing about such things, my lady,” was all I said.
“I have discomforted you, I fear.” Her smile looked sad. “Still, I wish to ask you one more discomforting question—why do you serve Lord Hakatri and his brother?”
“Because they are good to me,” I said, then amended it to, “Lord Hakatri has always been good to me.” I do not know why I qualified my response. Ineluki had always treated me well enough—as well as he treated any of his inferiors, whether Zida’ya or Tinukeda’ya.
“Yes, but why do you serve him? Why is Hakatri the master and you the minion?”
Again, I did not understand her question. “Because we Ocean Children have always served the Dawn Children, since back in the Garden.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “And your master’s Dawn Children revere the memory of the Garden. They celebrate the Garden even long after they left it behind.” She leaned closer, a strangely intent look on her face. “But our people were the Garden.”
Before I could even try to make sense of this, her husband Xaniko emerged from the great hall of the keep with my master and Ineluki. They seemed to be arguing.
“I owe nothing to anyone, but I owe less than nothing to the House of Year-Dancing,” Xaniko said with a face full of bitterness. “In any hap, my days of struggling against the great worms are over.”
“Have you lost your courage, then?” Ineluki’s handsome face was flushed with anger, the gold of his cheeks suffused with a mild bloom of sunset red.
“Brother, I bid you be silent,” said Hakatri in a voice soft but sharp. “Do not insult our host.” It seemed that Ineluki would say something more, but a look passed between the two of them and the younger brother turned away. “Lord Xaniko,” my master said, “forgive us. We have been discourteous, I fear. We do not ask you to join us. We want only your advice, your wisdom. You are known for your brave deeds, and the songs of your fight against the fire-drake called Snareworm say that you faced it by yourself and killed the terrible creature with only a witchwood spear. What can we learn from you?”
Xaniko looked at my master for a long, silent moment, then at Ineluki, who stood regarding a wall tapestry of birds and branches as though it were the most engaging sight he had encountered in a long time.
“Come with me,” he said at last.
Hakatri signaled me to accompany them. Xaniko’s wife bowed and went out.
We followed The Exile out of the keep and toward the stables where our horses were stabled with those of the household. For a moment I thought Xaniko would order us to take our mounts and go, but instead he pointed up toward the stable’s high, slanted ceiling. In the rafters hung a great witchwood spear, as big around as my master’s strong forearm and more than twice his height in length.
“Do you see the black stains along the shaft?” Xaniko asked. “Those are from the Snareworm’s blood. I trow that if you handled the spear now, even after so many years, that dried blood would burn your flesh. That is why it is hung there, out of reach. And do you see how heavy the spear is, how thick?”
My master and his brother stared up at the long, dark thing. “It looks a mighty weapon,” Hakatri said at last.
“It had to be. And even so, it was almost not strong enough. It bent like an archer’s bow while I held it braced against the earth until the beast was close enough to spew its foul stench into my face before it died. I am only here because the Snareworm had no fire left to belch. But that did not keep it from burning me.” He pulled off one of his gauntlets and held up his hand. It was misshapen, the white skin covered with ropy red flesh and the two smallest fingers melted together like candle wax. “A few drops of the dragon’s blood did that—scorched through my mailed gauntlet as though it were the thinnest parchment. Witchwood will not burn at the touch of dragon blood, but all else will—including you.”
“But still, you killed it,” said Ineluki, looking at Xaniko’s hand with more fascination than horror. “Surely that is all that matters. You killed the Snareworm. And if you help us, we will kill the Blackworm.”