by Tad Williams
Simon was staring at the almost invisible towers, fading streaks in the prisoning ice. “Where did the Sithi go who lived there?” he asked. The mournful words of Binabik’s songs echoed in his thoughts. You have slipped into cold shadows. He could feel those shadows tightening around his heart like bands of ice. You have slipped into cold shadows. His face throbbed where the dragon’s blood had marked him.
“Where the Sithi always go,” the troll replied. “Away. To lesser places. They die or pass into shade, or live and become less than they were.” He stopped, eye’s downcast as he strove to find the proper words. “They were bringing much that had beauty into the world, Simon, and much that was beautiful in the world was admired by them. It has been many times said that the world grows less fair because of their diminishing. I do not have the knowledge to tell if that is so.” He thrust his hands into Qantaqa’s thick pelt and urged her about once more, cantering away from the mountains. “I wanted you to remember that place, Simon, but do not grieve. Still there is being much of beauty in this world.”
Sludig made the sign of the Tree above his cloaked breast. “I cannot say I share your love of these magical places, troll.” He snapped his reins, urging his horse into a walk. “The good Lord Usires came to free us from paganism. It is no accident that the heathen demons who threaten our world are cousins to these Sithi you mourn for.”
Simon felt a surge of anger. “That’s stupid, Sludig. What about Jiriki? Is he a demon?”
The Rimmersman turned to him, an unhappy smile flashing in his blond beard. “No, youngling, but neither is he a magical playmate and protector, as you seem to think him. Jiriki is older and deeper than any of us can know. Like many such things, he is also more dangerous than mortals can know. God knew what He did when he aided mankind to scourge the Sithi from this land. Jiriki has been fair, but his people and ours can never live together. We are too different.”
Simon choked back a furious response, turning his eyes to the snowy path before them. Sometimes he did not like Sludig very much at all.
They rode on for a while, silent but for the chuffing of breath and the scraping of their horses’ hooves, before Binabik spoke again.
“You have been having luck of great rarity, Simon,” he said.
“Being chased by demons, you mean?!” Simon growled. “Or seeing my friends killed?”
“Please.” The troll raised his small hand in a calming gesture. “I do not refer to luckiness of that sort. Clearly, it has been a terrible road we have walked. No, I meant only that you have seen three of the nine great cities. Few if any mortals can be making such a statement with truthfulness.”
“Which three?”
“Tumet’ai, of which you have just seen all that is left to see, now that ice has buried her.” The troll spread his fingers, counting. “Da’ai Chikiza, in Aldheorte Forest, where I received my unfortunate arrowing. And Asu’a itself, whose bones are the underpinnings of the Hayholt where you had your birth.”
“The Sithi built Green Angel Tower there, and it’s still standing,” Simon said, remembering its pale sweep, like a white finger pointing at the sky. “I used to climb in it all the time.” He thought for a moment. “Was that other place…the one called Enki…Enki…?”
“Enki-e-Shao’saye?” Binabik prompted
“Yes. Was Enki-e-Shao’saye one of the great cities?”
“It was. And we shall see its ruins, too, one day—if any remain—for it is near to where we will be finding the Stone of Farewell.” He leaned low as Qantaqa leaped up and over a small rise.
“I’ve seen it already,” Simon said. “Jiriki showed it to me in the mirror. It was beautiful—all green and gold. He called it the Summer City.”
Binabik smiled. “Then you have seen four, Simon. Few of even the wisest ones can say as much after a whole length of life.”
Simon considered this. Who would ever have dreamed that Morgenes’ history lessons would be so important? Old cities and old stories were now part of his very life. It was strange how the future seemed tied inseparably to the past, so that both revolved through the present, like a great wheel…
The wheel. The shadow of the wheel…
An image from a dream rose before him, a great black circle pushing relentlessly downward, a huge wheel that drove everything before it. Somehow the past was forcing its way right into this very moment, casting a long shadow across the what-would-be…
Something was there in his mind, but just beyond reach, some occult shape that he could feel but not recognize. It was something about his dreams, something about Past and Future…
“I think I need to know more, Binabik,” he said at last. “But there are so many things to understand, I’ll never remember them all. What were the other cities? He was momentarily distracted by a movement in the sky before him, a scatter of dark, moving shapes like breeze-blown leaves. He squinted, but saw that it was only a flock of high-soaring birds.
“About the past is a good thing to know, Simon,” said the little man, “but it is deciding which things are important that separates a wise one from others. Still, although it is my guessing that the names of the Nine Cities will be little use, it is good to know of them. Once their names were known to every child in its cradle. “Asu’a, Da’ai Chikiza, Enki-e-Shao’saye, and Tumet’ai you are knowing. Jhiná T’seneí lies drowned beneath the southern seas. The ruins of Kementari stand somewhere on Warinsten Island, birth-home of your king Prester John, but no one, I think, has seen them for years and years. Also long unseen are Mezutu’a and Hikehikayo, both lost beneath Osten Ard’s northwestern mountains. The last, Nakkiga, now that my thought is upon it, you have already seen as well—or you have in a way…”
“What does that mean?”
“Nakkiga was the city the Norns built long ago in the shadow of Stormspike, before they were retreating into the great ice mountain itself. On the dream-road with Geloë and myself you visited it, but doubtless you overlooked its crumbling remains beside the mountain’s immensity. So in a way, then, you have visited Nakkiga also.”
Simon shuddered, remembering a vision of the endless icy halls within Stormspike, of the ghost-white faces and burning eyes that shone in its depths. “That was as close as I ever want to be,” he said. He squinted his eyes, staring at the sky. The birds still circled lazily overhead. “Are those ravens?” he asked Binabik, pointing. “They’ve been staying just above our heads for some time.”
The troll looked upward. “Ravens, yes, and large ones they are as well.” He grinned wickedly. “Perhaps they are waiting for us to fall down very dead, and so aid them in their searching for sustenance. A pity it is to disappoint them, is it not?”
Simon grunted. “Maybe they can tell I’m starving—that I won’t last much longer.”
Binabik nodded solemnly. “How thoughtless I am being. Of course, Simon, it is indeed true that you have had no food since breaking your fast, and—Chukku’s Stones! You poor fellow! That has been an hour ago! You must be fast approaching the awful moment of finalness.” Finished with this bit of sarcasm, he began to rummage in his pack, steadying himself against Qantaqa’s back with his other hand. “Perhaps I can discover for you some dried fish.”
“Thank you.” Simon tried to sound enthusiastic—after all, any food was better than no food.
As Binabik performed his laborious search, Simon looked up at the sky once more. The swarm of black birds still hovered silently, wind-tossed beneath the somber clouds like tattered rags.
The raven strutted on the windowsill, feathers fluffed against the chill air. Others of his kind, grown fat and insolent on gibbet-leavings, crowed raucously in the leafless branches beyond the window. No other sounds drifted up from the silent, deserted courtyard.
Even as it preened its shiny black feathers, the raven kept a bright yellow eye cocked, when the goblet came flying toward it like a sling-stone, it had more than enough time to drop from the sill with a harsh cry, spreading its wings to flutter up and join
its kin in the barren treetop. The dented goblet rolled in an uneven circle on the stone floor before lurching to a halt. A thin wisp of steam rose from the dark liquor that had splattered beneath the windowsill.
“I hate their eyes,” King Elias said. He reached for a fresh goblet, but used this one for its proper and intended purpose. “Those damned sneaking yellow eyes.” He wiped his lip. “I think they’re spying on me.”
“Spying, Majesty?” Guthwulf said slowly. He did not want to send Elias into one of his thunderstorm rages. “Why would birds spy?”
The high king fixed him with a green stare, then a grin split his paleface. “Oh, Guthwulf, you are so innocent, so undefiled!” He chuckled harshly. “Come, pull that chair closer. It is good to speak with an honest man once more.”
The Earl of Utanyeat did as his king bade him, sliding forward until less than an ell separated his stool from the yellowing mass of the Dragonbone Chair. He kept his eyes averted from the black-scabbarded sword that hung at the High King’s side.
“I do not know what you mean by ‘innocent,’ Elias,” he said, inwardly cursing the stiffness he heard in his own voice. “God knows, we have both of us labored mightily in the Chapel of Sin in our time. However, if you mean innocent of any treachery toward my king and friend, then I accept the name gladly.” He hoped he sounded more certain than he felt. The very word “treachery” made his heart gallop these days, and the rotting fruit hanging from the distant gibbet was only one reason.
Elias seemed to sense none of Guthwulf’s misgivings. “No, old friend, no. I meant the word kindly.” He took another swig of the dark liquid. “There are so few I can trust these days. I have a thousand, thousand enemies.” The king’s face took on a brooding cast which only accentuated his pallor, the lines of weariness and strain. “Pryrates is gone to Nabban, as you know,” he said at last. “You may speak freely.”
Guthwulf felt a sudden spark of hope. “Do you suspect Pryrates of treachery, sire?”
The spark was quickly extinguished.
“No, Guthwulf, you misunderstand me. I meant that I know you are not comfortable around the priest. That is not surprising; I once found his company difficult as well. But I am a different man, now. A different man.” The king laughed oddly, then raised his voice to a shout. “Hangfish! Bring me more—and be swift, damn you!”
The king’s new cupbearer appeared from the next room, a sloshing ewer in his pink hands. Guthwulf watched him sourly. Not only was he positive that this pop-eyed Brother Hengfisk was a spy for Pryrates, but there was something else gravely wrong with him as well. The monk’s face seemed forever fixed in an idiot grin, as though he were burning up inside with some splendid joke he could not share. The Earl of Utanyeat had tried to speak to him once in the hallway, but Hengfisk had only stared at him unspeaking, his smile so wide it seemed his face might split in half. With any other servitor but the king’s cupbearer, Guthwulf would have struck him for such insolence, but he was uneasy about what Elias might take offense at these days. Also, there was an unpleasant look to the halfwitted monk, his skin slightly raw, as though the upper layer had burned and peeled away. Guthwulf was in no hurry to touch him.
As Hengfisk poured the dark liquid into the king’s goblet, a few smoking drops spattered onto the monk’s hands, but the cupbearer did not flinch. A moment later he scuttled out, still wearing his lunatic grin. Guthwulf restrained a shudder. Insanity! What had the kingdom come to?
Elias had ignored the whole episode, his eyes fixed on something beyond the window “Pryrates does have…secrets,” he said at last, slowly, as though carefully considering each word.
The earl forced himself to pay attention.
“But he has none from me,” the king continued, “– whether he realizes it or not. One thing he thinks I do not know is that my brother Josua survived the fall of Naglimund.” He raised a hand to still Guthwulfs exclamation of surprise. “Another secret-that-is-no-secret he plans to do away with you.”
“Me?” Guthwulf was caught by surprise “Pryrates plans to kill me?” The anger that welled within him had a core of sudden fear.
The king smiled, lips pulling back from his teeth like the grin of a cornered dog. “I do not know if he plans to kill you, Wolf, but he wishes you out of the way. Pryrates thinks I place too much trust in you when he deserves all my attention.” He laughed, a harsh bark.
“But…but Elias…” Guthwulf was caught off stride. “What will you do?”
“Me?” The king’s gaze was unnervingly calm. “I will do nothing. And neither will you.”
“What!?”
Elias leaned back into his throne, so that for a moment his face vanished in the shadow beneath the great dragon’s skull. “You may protect yourself, of course,” he said cheerfully. “I merely mean I cannot allow you to kill Pryrates—assuming you could, which isn’t something I’m too certain of. Quite frankly, old friend, at this moment he is more important to me than you are.”
The king’s words hung in the air, seeming so much the stuff of madness that for a moment Guthwulf felt sure he was dreaming. As moments passed and the chill room did not waver into some other shape, he had to force himself to speak once more.
“I don’t understand.”
“Nor should you. Not yet.” Elias leaned forward, his eyes bright as lamps burning behind thin green glass. “But someday you will, Guthwulf. I hope you live to understand everything. At this time, though, I cannot let you interfere with Pryrates, so if you feel you must leave the castle, I will understand. You are the only friend I have left. Your life is important to me.”
The Earl of Utanyeat wanted to laugh at such a bizarre statement, but the sense of sick unreality would not leave him. “But not as important to you as Pryrates?”
The king’s hand leaped out like a striking serpent, fastening on Guthwulf’s sleeve. “Don’t be a fool!” he rasped. “Pryrates is nothing! It is what Pryrates is helping me to do that matters. I told you that there were great things coming! But there will be a time first when things are…changing.”
Guthwulf stared at the king’s feverish face and felt something die within him. “I have sensed some of the changes, Elias.” he said grimly. “I have seen others.”
His old friend looked back at him, then smiled oddly “Ah The castle, you mean. Yes, some of the changes are happening right here. But you still do not understand.”
Guthwulf was not practiced in patience. He fought to hold down his rage. “Help me to understand. Tell me what you do!”
The king shook his head. “You could not possibly make sense of it—not now, not this way.” He sat back again, his face sliding into shadow once more, so that it almost seemed as though the great fanged and black-socketed head was his own. A stretching silence followed. Guthwulf listened to the bleak voices of ravens in the courtyard.
“Come here, old friend.” Elias said at last, voice slow and measured. As Guthwulf looked up, the king slid his double-hiked sword part way from its scabbard. The metal gleamed darkly, black and crawling gray like the mottled belly of some ancient reptile. The ravens abruptly fell silent. “Come here,” the king repeated.
The Earl of Utanyeat could not tear his eyes from the sword. The rest of the room became gray and insubstantial, the sword itself seemed to glow without light, to make the very air heavy as stone. “Will you kill me now, Elias?” Guthwulf felt his words grow weighty, each one an effort to use. “Will you save Pryrates his trouble?”
“Touch the sword, Guthwulf,” Elias said. His eyes seemed to shine more brightly as the room darkened. “Come and touch the sword. Then you will understand.”
“No,” Guthwulf said weakly, but watched with horror as his arm moved forward as if by its own will. “I don’t want to touch the damned thing…” Now his hand hovered just above the ugly, slow-shimmering blade,
“Damned thing?” Elias laughed, his voice seeming far away, He reached out and took his friend’s hand, gentle as a lover, “You can’t begin to gues
s, Do you know what its name is?”
Guthwulf watched his fingers slowly flatten against the bruised surface of the sword, A deadening chill crept up his arm, countless icy needles pricking his flesh. Close behind the cold came a fiery blackness. Elias’ voice seemed to be falling away into the distance.
“…Jingizu is its name…” the king called. “Its name is Sorrow…”
And in the midst of the dreadful fog that enwrapped his heart, through the blanket of frost that covered and then entered his eyes and ears and mouth, Guthwulf felt the sword’s dreadful song of triumph. It hummed right through him, softly at first but growing ever stronger, a terrible, potent music that matched and then devoured his rhythms, that drowned out his weak and artless notes, until it had absorbed the entire song of his soul into its darkly triumphant tune.
Sorrow sang inside him, filling him. He heard it cry out with his voice, as though he had become the sword, or the sword had somehow become Guthwulf. Sorrow was alive and looking for something. Guthwulf was looking, too: he had now been submersed in the alien melody. He and the blade were one.
Sorrow reached for its brothers.
He found them.
Two shining forms were there, just beyond his reach. Guthwulf longed to be with them, to join his proud melody to theirs, so that together they would make a music greater still. He yearned, a bloodless, warmthless desire, like a cracked bell straining to toll, like a lodestone aching for true north. They were three of a kind, he and these other two, three songs unlike any the world had heard—but each was incomplete without its fellows. He stretched toward his brothers as though to touch them, but they were too far away. Mere distance still separated them. No matter how he strained, Guthwulf could not bring them closer, could not join with them.
At last the delicate balance collapsed, sending him plunging down into an infinite nothingness, falling, falling, falling…
Slowly he came to himself again—Guthwulf, a man born of woman—but still he fell through blackness. He was terrified.