by Tad Williams
He leaned forward, his balance abruptly uncertain, and goggled at the alarmed faces of Herder and Huntress and their daughter Sisqinanamook.
“He is terrible…” he said again, staring straight into the troll maiden’s dark eyes.
Binabik called her Sisqi, he thought disjointedly. He must have loved her…
Something seemed to grab his mind and shake it, as a hound shakes a rat. Suddenly he was tumbling forward, down a long, spinning shaft. The dark eyes of Sisqinanamook deepened and grew, then changed. A moment later, the troll woman was gone, her parents, Simon’s friends, and all of Chidsik ub Lingit vanished with her. But the eyes remained, transmuted now into another grave stare that slowly filled his field of vision. These brown eyes belonged to one of his own kind—the child who had haunted his dreams…a child he finally recognized.
Leleth, he thought. The little girl we left in the house in the forest, because her wounds were so awful. The girl we left with…
“Simon,” she said, her voice reverberating oddly in his head, “this is my last opportunity. My house will soon fall and I will flee into the forest—but first there is something I must tell you.”
Simon had never heard the girl Leleth speak. The reedy tones seemed fitting for a child her age—but something about the voice was wrong: it was too solemn, too articulate and heavy with self-knowledge. The pace and the phrasing sounded like a grown woman’s, like…
“Geloë?” he said. Although he did not think he actually spoke, he heard his voice echo out through some empty place-“Yes. I have no time left. I could not have reached you, but the child Leleth has abilities…she is like a burning-glass through which I can narrow my will. She is a strange child, Simon.” Indeed, the nearly expressionless child’s face that’s poke the words did seem somehow different than that of any other mortal child. There was something in the eyes that saw through him, beyond him, as though he himself were insubstantial as mist.
“Where are you?”
“In my house, but not long. My fences have been thrown down and my lake is full of dark things. The powers at my door are too strong. Rather than stand against such gale winds, I will flee to fight another day.
What I have to tell you is this: Naglimund is fallen. Elias has won the day—but the real victor is He of whom we both know, the dark one in the north. Josua, however, is alive.”
Simon felt a chilly twist of fear in his stomach. “And Miriamele?”
“She who was Marya—and also Malachias? I know only that she is gone from Naglimund: more than that, friendly eyes and ears cannot tell me. Now I must say something else: you must remember it and think of it, since Binabik of Yiqanuc has closed himself to me. You must go to the Stone of Farewell. That is the only place of safety from the growing storm—safety for a little while, anyway. Go to the Stone of Farewell.”
“What? Where is this stone?” Naglimund fallen? Simon felt despair settle into his heart. Then all was truly lost. “Where is the stone, Geloë?”
Without warning a black wave crashed through him, sudden as a blow from a giant hand. The little girl’s face disappeared, leaving only a gray void. Geloë’s parting words floated in his head.
“It is the only place of safety…Flee!…the storm is coming…”
The gray slid away, like waves receding down a beach.
He found himself staring into the shimmering, transparent yellow light of a pool of blazing oil. He was on his knees in the cavern of Chidsik ub Lingit. Haestan’s fearful face was bent close to his.
“What devils ye, lad?’* the guardsman asked, supporting Simon’s heavy head with a shoulder as he helped him up onto a stool. Simon felt as though his body were made of rags and green twigs.
“Geloë said…she said a storm…and the Stone of Farewell. We must go to the Stone of Fare…” Simon trailed off, looking up to see Binabik kneeling before the dais. “What’s Binabik doing?” he asked.
“Waitin’ th’ word,” Haestan said gruffly. “When y’fell swoonin’, he said would fight no longer. Spoke t’king an’ queen some while, now he bewaitin’.”
“But that’s not right!” Simon tried to rise, but his legs buckled beneath him. His head hummed like an iron pot struck by a hammer. “Not…right.”
“ ’Tis th’ will o’ God,” Haestan murmured unhappily. Uammannaq turned from a whispered colloquy with his wife to stare at the kneeling Binabik. He said something in the guttural Qanuc-tongue that sent a windy moan through the spectators. The Herder lifted his hands to his face, slowly covering his eyes in a stylized gesture. The Huntress solemnly repeated the gesture. Simon felt a chill descend, heavier and bleaker even than winter’s cold. He knew beyond doubt that his friend had been given a judgment of death.
4
A Bowl of Calamint Tea
Sunlight filtered through the swollen clouds, falling mutedly on a great party of horses and armored men riding up Main Row toward the Hayholt. The light of their bright banners was dulled by uneven shadow, and the click of the horse’s hooves died in the muddy road, as though the brave army rode silently along the bottom of the ocean. Many of the soldiers held their eyes downcast. Others peered out from the shadow of their helms like men who feared to be recognized.
Not all appeared so dismayed. Earl Fengbald, soon to be a duke, rode at the head of the king’s party beneath Elias’ green and sable dragon-banner and his own silver falcon. Fengbald’s long black hair spilled down his back, held only by a scarlet band knotted around his temples. He smiled and waved a gauntleted fist in the air, eliciting cheers from the several hundred spectators lining the roadway.
Riding close behind, Guthwulf of Utanyeat restrained a scowl. He, too, held an earl’s title—and supposedly the king’s favor—but he knew beyond doubt that the siege of Naglimund had changed everything.
He had always envisioned the day when his old comrade Elias would reign as king and Guthwulf would stand at his side. Well, Elias was king now, but somehow the rest of the story had gone wrong. Only a fat-headed young idiot like Fengbald could be either too ignorant to notice…or too ambitious to let it bother him.
Guthwulf had shorn his graying hair close to his head before the siege had started. Now his helmet fit loosely. Even though he was a strong man still in the prime of his health, he felt almost as though he were shrinking away inside of his armor, becoming smaller and smaller.
Was he the only one uneasy, he wondered? Perhaps he had grown soft and womanish in his too many years away from the field of battle.
But that could not be true. It was true that during the siege a fortnight ago his heart had beaten very swiftly, but that had been the racing pulse of exhilaration, not of fear. He had laughed as his enemies had swept down upon him. He had broken a man’s back with a single blow of his longsword, and taken blows in turn without losing his scat, handling his mount as well as he had twenty years ago—better, if anything. No, he had not grown soft. Not that way.
He also knew that he was not the only soul who felt a gnawing disquietude. Though crowds stood by cheering, most of them were young bravos and drunkards from the town. A goodly number of the windows facing Erchester’s Main Row were shuttered; more than a few others showed only a stripe of darkness, out of which peered those citizens who did not care to come down and cheer the king.
Guthwulf turned his head to look for Elias, then experienced an unsettling chill when he discovered the king was already staring at him—a rapt, green stare. Almost against his will. Guthwulf nodded his head. The king stiffly returned the gesture, then looked sourly out on the welcoming folk of Erchester. Elias, feeling the pains of some undisclosed but minor illness, had only left his tented wagon to climb atop his black charger a furlong or so before their arrival at the city gate. Nevertheless, he was riding well, concealing any discomfort he might feel. The king was thinner than he had been in some years; the firm line of his jaw could be seen quite plainly. Except for his pale skin—not as obvious in the blotchy afternoon light as it sometimes was—and the
distracted glare of his eyes, Elias looked slender and strong, as befitted a warrior king returning in triumph from a successful siege.
Guthwulf stole a worried glance at the double-guarded gray sword bumping in its scabbard against the king’s hip. Cursed thing! How he wished that Elias would throw the damned blade down a well. There was something wrong about it, Guthwulf knew that beyond question. Some among the crowd obviously felt the uneasiness the blade engendered as well, but only Guthwulf had been in Sorrow’s presence often enough to recognize the true source of their distress.
And the sword was not the only thing troubling the people of Erchester. Just as the mounted king of the afternoon had been a sick man in a wagon at mid-morning, so also had the breaking of Naglimund been something less than a glorious victory over a usurping brother. Guthwulf knew that even far from the scene, the citizens of Erchester and the Hayholt had come to hear something about the odd, terrible fate of Josua’s castle and people. Even if they had not, the faintly sickened expressions and bowed posture of what should be an exulting, victorious army proclaimed that all was not as it should be.
It was more than shame, Guthwulf thought, and it was more than just feeling unmanned—for him as well as for the soldiers. It was fear they felt and could not quite hide. Was the king mad? Had he brought evil down on them all? God did not fear a fight, the earl knew, or a little blood—in such ink were His intentions written, a philosopher had once said. But, Usires curse it, this was different, was it not?
He sneaked another look at the king, his stomach churning. Elias was listening closely to his counselor, red-robed Pryrates. The priest’s hairless head bobbed near the king’s car like a skin-covered egg.
Guthwulf had considered killing Pryrates, but had decided it might only make things worse, like killing the houndkeeper when the dogs waited at one’s throat. Pryrates might be the only one left who could control the king—unless, as the Earl of Utanyeat sometimes felt sure, it was the meddling priest himself who was leading Elias down the road to perdition. Who could know, God damn them all? Who could know?
Perhaps in response to something Pryrates said, Elias bared his teeth in a smile as he looked over the sparseness of the cheering throng. It was not, Guthwulf saw, the expression of a happy man.
“I am very angry. My patience is strained by this ingratitude.” The king had taken to his throne, his father John’s great Dragonbone Chair.
“Your monarch returns from war, bringing news of a great victory, and all that greets him is a paltry rabble.” Elias curled his lip, staring at Father Helfcene, a slightly-built priest who was also the chancellor of the mighty Hayholt. Helfcene kneeled at the king’s feet, the top of his baldhead facing the throne like a pitifully inadequate shield. “Why was there no welcome for me?”
“But there was, my Lord, there was,” the chancellor stuttered. “Did I not meet you at the Nearulagh Gate with all your household who remained at the Hayholt? We are thrilled to have Your Majesty back in good health, awed by your triumph in the north!”
“My cringing bondsmen of Erchester did not appear to be either very thrilled or awed.” Elias reached for his cup. Ever-vigilant Pryrates handed it to him, careful not to slosh the dark liquid over the rim. The king took a long draught and made a face at its bitterness. “Guthwulf, did you feel that the king’s subjects showed him proper fealty?”
The earl took a deep breath before speaking slowly. “Perhaps they were…perhaps they had heard rumors…”
“Rumors? Of what? Did we or did we not throw down my treacherous brother’s keep at Naglimund?”
“Of course, my king,” Guthwulf felt himself far out on a slender branch. Elias’ sea-green eyes stared at him, as insanely curious as an owl’s. “Of course,” the earl repeated, “but our…allies…were bound to cause rumor.”
Elias turned to Pryrates. The king’s pale brow was furrowed, as though he were genuinely puzzled. “We have acquired mighty friends, have we not, Pryrates?”
The priest nodded silkily. “Mighty friends, Majesty.”
“And yet they have served our will, have they not? They have done what we wished done?”
“To the exact length of your intent, King Elias.” Pryrates snuck a glance at Guthwulf “They have done your will.”
“Well, then.” Elias turned, satisfied, and regarded Father Helfcene once more. “Your king has gone away to war and has destroyed his enemies, returning with the allegiance of a kingdom older even than the long-gone Imperium of Nabban.” His voice wavered dangerously. “Why do my subjects skulk like whipped dogs?”
“They are ignorant peasants, sire,” Helfcene said. A drop of sweat hung on his nose.
“I think that someone here has been stirring up trouble in my absence,” Elias said with frightful deliberation. “I would like to know who has been spreading tales. Do you hear me, Helfcene? I must find out who thinks they know the good of Osten Ard better than does her High King. Go now, and when I see you next, have something to tell me.” He pulled at the skin of his face, angrily. “Some of these be-damned, stay-at-home nobles need to see the shadow of the gibbet, I think. That may remind them who rules this land.”
The bead of sweat finally fell free of Helfcene’s nose, spattering on the tile floor. The chancellor nodded briskly and several other drops, strangely numerous on a cool afternoon, leaped from his face.
“Of course, my Lord. It is good, so good, to have you back once more.” He rose to a half crouch, bowed again, then turned and walked quickly from the throne room.
The thump of the great door closing echoed up amidst the ceiling beams and serried banners. Elias leaned back against the vast spreading cage of yellowed bones, rubbing at his eye sockets with the backs of his powerful hands.
“Guthwulf, come here,” he said, voice muffled. The Earl of Utanyeat stepped forward, feeling a strange but compelling urge to flee the room. Pryrates hovered at Elias’ elbow, his face smooth and emotionless as marble.
Even as Guthwulf reached the Dragonbone Chair, Elias dropped his hands to his lap. The blue circles beneath his eyes made it seem as though the king’s gaze had pulled back farther into his head. For a moment it almost seemed to the earl that the king was peering out of some dark hole, some trap into which he had fallen.
“You must protect me from treachery, Guthwulf.” A ragged fringe of desperation sounded in Elias’ words. “I am vulnerable now, but there are great things coming. This land will see a Golden Age such as the philosophers and priests have only dreamed of—but I must survive. I must survive, or all will be ruined. All will be ashes.” Elias leaned forward, grasping Guthwulf s callused hand with fingers cold as fish tails.
“You must help me, Guthwulf.” A powerful note ran through his straining voice. For a moment, the earl heard his companion of many battles and many taverns the way he remembered him, which only made the king’s words all the more painful. “Fengbald and Godwig and the rest are fools,” Elias said. “Helfcene is a frightened rabbit. You are the only one in all the world I can trust—besides Pryrates here, that is. You are the only ones whose loyalty to me is complete.”
The king slumped back and covered his eyes again, clenching his teeth as though in pain. He waved Guthwulf’s dismissal. The earl looked up to Pryrates, but the red priest only shook his head and turned to refill Elias’ goblet.
As he pushed open the door of the chamber and walked out into the lamplit hallway, Guthwulf felt a heavy stone of fear settle in his gut. Slowly, he began to consider the unthinkable.
Miriamele pulled away, freeing her hand from Count Streáwe’s grasp. She took a sudden step backward and fell into a chair that the man in the skull mask had slid up behind her. For a moment she only sat, crapped.
“How did you know it was me?” she asked at last. “That I was coming here?” The count chuckled, extending a crabbed finger to tap the fox mask he had discarded. “The strong rely on strength,” he said. “The not-so-strong must be clever and quick.”
“You haven’
t answered my question.”
Streáwe raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” He turned to his skull-faced helper. “You may go, Lenti. Wait with your men outside.”
“It’s raining,” Lenti said mournfully, bone-white face bobbing, eyes peering from the black sockets.
“Then wait upstairs, fool!” the count said testily. “I will ring the bell when I need you.”
Lenti sketched a bow, then darted a glance at Miriamele and went out.
“Ah, that one,” Streáwe sighed, “he is like a child sometimes. But still, he does what he is told. That is more than I can say for many of those who serve me.” The count pushed the decanter of wine toward Brother Cadrach, who sniffed at it suspiciously, obviously torn. “Oh, drink it,” the count snapped. “Do you think I would go to all this trouble to drag you across Ansis Pellipé and then poison you in one of my own residences? If I had wished you dead, you would have been facedown in the harbor before you reached the end of the gangplank.”
“That doesn’t make me any easier,” Miriamele said, beginning to feel like herself again—and more than a little angry. “If your intentions are honorable. Count, then why were we brought here by the threat of knives?”
“Did Lenti tell you he had a knife?” Streáwe asked.
“He certainly did,” Miriamele responded tartly. “Do you mean that he doesn’t?”
The old man chortled. “Blessed Elysia, of course he does. Dozens of the things, all shapes, all lengths, some sharpened on both sides, some forked into a double blade—Lenti has more knives than you have teeth.” Streáwe chuckled again. “No, it’s just that I keep telling him not to announce it constantly. All around the town they call him Lenti ‘Avi Stetto.’ ” Streáwe stopped laughing for a moment, wheezing slightly.