by Tad Williams
Why are people always making decisions for me without asking first? Am I a child?
He stood for some moments, red-faced from more than the chill, until Binabik reached out a small, gentle hand.
“My friend, I am sorrowful this was not the honor I was hoping it to be—an honor of dreadful, dreadful danger, of course, but an honor. I have explained of what importance we think this quest, of how the fate of Naglimund and all the north may hang on its accomplishing. And, of course, that all may be perishing without fame or song in the white northern waste.” He patted Simon’s knuckles solemnly, then reached into the pocket of his fur-lined jacket. “Here,” he said, and put something hard and cold into Simon’s fingers.
Momentarily distracted, he opened his hand to look. It was a ring, a plain, thin circlet of some golden metal. On it was inscribed a simple design: a long oval with a tipped triangle at one end.
“The fish sign of the League of the Scroll,” Binabik said. “Morgenes tied this thing to the sparrow’s leg, along with the note of which I was speaking before. The end of the note told this was for you.”
Simon held it up, trying to catch a gleam of the dull sunlight. “I never saw Morgenes wear it,” he said, a little surprised that it startled up no memories. “Do all the League members have one? Besides, how could I be worthy to wear it? I can hardly read. My spelling isn’t very good, either.”
Binabik smiled. “My master did not have such a ring, or at least I never was seeing it. As for the other: Morgenes was wanting you to have it, and that is permission enough, I have sureness.”
“Binabik!” Simon said, squinting, “it has writing on the inside.” He held it up for the troll to inspect. “I can’t read it.”
The troll narrowed his eyes. “It is writing in some Sithi tongue,” he said, turning the ring to peruse its inner rim, “hard to read for being very small, and in a style I do not know.” He studied it a moment longer.
“ ‘Dragon,’ that character means,” Binabik read at last. “And this one means, I believe, ‘death’…‘Death and the Dragon’?…‘Death of the Dragon’?” He looked up at Simon, grinned and shrugged. “What it might be meaning, I have no idea. My knowledge is not deep enough. Some conceit of your doctor’s, is my guessing—or perhaps a family motto. Perhaps Jarnauga could read it with more ease.”
It slid easily on the third finger of Simon’s right hand, as though it had been made for him. Morgenes had been so small! How could he have worn this?
“Do you think it’s a magic ring?” he asked suddenly, narrowing his eyes as though he might detect spells swarming around the golden circle like minuscule bees.
“If so,” Binabik said, mock-somberly, “Morgenes included no grammarye for explaining its using.” He shook his head. “I think it is not a likelihood. A keepsake, from a man who was caring for you.”
“Why are you giving it to me now?” Simon asked, feeling a certain sorrowful tightness behind his eyes that he was determined to resist.
“Because I must be leaving tomorrow night to go north. If you decide for remaining here, we might not have opportunity to meet again.”
“Binabik!” The tightening increased. He felt like a small child pushed back and forth between bullying elders.
“The truth it is, only.” The troll’s round face was entirely serious now. He raised his hand to forestall more protests and questions. “Now you must be deciding, my good friend. I go into the snow and ice country, on an errand that may be foolishness, and which may claim the lives of the fools who are following it. Those who remain are facing the anger of a king’s army. An evil choosing, I fear.” Binabik nodded his head gravely. “But, Simon, whichever it is for you, going north or staying to fight for Naglimund—and princess—we will be the best of comrades still, yes?”
He stood on tiptoe to clap Simon on the upper arm, then turned and walked away across the courtyard toward the archives.
Simon found her standing alone, tossing pebbles into the castle well. She wore a heavy traveling cloak and hood against the cold.
“Hello, Princess,” he said. She looked up and smiled, sadly. For some reason she seemed much older today, like a grown woman.
“Welcome, Simon.” Her breath made a halo of mist about her head.
He began to bend his knee in a bow, but she was no longer looking. Another stone rattled down the well. He considered sitting down, which seemed the natural thing to do, but the only place to sit was the edge of the well, which would either put him uncomfortably close to the princess or leave him facing in the wrong direction. He decided to remain on his feet. “And how have you been?” he said at last. She sighed.
“My uncle treats me as though I am made of eggshells and cobwebs—like I would shatter if I lifted anything, or if anyone bumped into me.”
“I’m sure…I’m sure that he is only worried for your safety, after the dangerous journey you had to get here.”
“The dangerous journey we had, but nobody’s following you around to make sure you don’t skin your knee. They’re even teaching you how to fight with a sword!”
“Miri…Princess!” Simon was more than a little shocked. “You don’t want to fight with swords, do you?!”
She looked up at him, and their eyes met. For an instant her stare burned like the noonday sun with some inexplicable longing; a moment later she wearily dropped her gaze again.
“No,” she said, “I suppose not. But, oh, I do wish to do something!”
Surprised, he heard the real pain in her voice, and in that moment remembered her as she had been on the flight up the Stile, uncomplaining and strong, as good a companion as could be wished.
“What…what do you want to do?”
She looked up again, pleased by the serious tone of his question. “Well,” she began, “it’s no secret that Josua is having trouble convincing Devasalles that his master Duke Leobardis should support the prince against my father. Josua could send me to Nabban!”
“Send you…to Nabban?”
“Of course, you idiot.” She frowned. “On my mother’s side I am of the Ingadarine House, a very noble family of Nabban. My aunt is married to Leobardis! Who better to go and convince the duke!?” She clapped her gloved hands for emphasis.
“Oh…” Simon was unsure of what to say. “Perhaps Josua thinks that it would be…would be…I don’t know.” He considered. “I mean to say, should the High King’s daughter be the one to…to arrange alliances against him?”
“And who knows the High King’s ways better?” Now she was angry.
“Do you…” He hesitated, but his curiosity won out. “How do you feel toward your father?”
“Do I hate him?” Her tone was bitter. “I hate what he has become. I hate what the men around him have put him up to. If he would suddenly find goodness in his heart, and see the error of his ways…well, then I would love him again.”
A whole procession of stones went down the well as Simon stood uncomfortably by.
“I’m sorry, Simon,” she said at last. “I have become very bad at talking with people. My old nurse would be shocked at how much I have forgotten, running around in the forest. How are you, and what have you been doing?”
“Binabik has asked me to go with him on a mission for Josua,” he said, bringing the subject up more abruptly than he had meant to. “To the north,” he added significantly.
Instead of showing the expressions of worry and fear he had expected, the princess’ face seemed to light up from within; although she smiled at him, she did not truly seem to see him. “Oh, Simon,” she said, “how brave. How fine. Can you…when do you leave?”
“Tomorrow night,” he said, dimly aware that somehow, by some mysterious process, asked to go had become going. “But I haven’t decided yet,” he said feebly. “I thought I might be more needed here, at Naglimund—to wield a spear on the walls.” He tacked on the last just in case there was any possibility she thought he might be staying behind to work in the kitchens, or something like.
“Oh, but Simon,” Miriamele said, reaching up suddenly to take his cold hand in her leather-gloved fingers. “If my uncle needs you to do it, you must! We have so little hope left, from all I have heard.”
She reached up to her neck and quickly unfastened the sky-blue scarf she wore, a slender gauzy strip; she handed it to him. ‘Take this and bear it for me,” she said. Simon felt the blood come roaring up into his cheeks, and struggled to keep his lips from stretching into a shocked, mooncalfish grin.
“Thank you…Princess,” he said at last.
“If you wear it,” she said, standing up, “it will be almost as though I were there myself.” She did a funny little dance step, and laughed.
Simon was trying without success to understand what exactly had happened, and how it had happened so fast. “It will be, princess,” he said. “Like you were there.”
Something in the way he said it tripped up her sudden mood: her expression turned sober, even sad. She smiled again, a slower, more rueful smile, then quickly stepped forward, startling Simon so that he almost raised a hand to ward her off. She brushed his cheek with her cool lips.
“I know you will be brave, Simon. Come back safely. I shall pray for you.”
Immediately she was gone, running across the courtyard like a little girl, her dark cape a smoky swirl as she disappeared into the twilit archway. Simon stood holding her scarf. He thought of it, and her smile when she kissed his cheek, and he felt something smolder into flame inside of him. It seemed, in some way he did not fully understand, that a single torch had been lit against the vast gray chill looming in the north. It was only a single point of brightness in a dreadful storm…but even a lone fire could bring a traveler home safe. He rolled the soft cloth into a ball and slipped it into his shirt.
“I am glad you have come so quickly,” Lady Vorzheva said. The brilliance of her yellow dress seemed reflected in her dark eyes.
“My lady honors me,” the monk replied, his eyes straying about the room.
Vorzheva laughed harshly. “You are the only one who thinks it honorable to visit me. But no matter. You understand what it is you must do?”
“I am sure that I have it correctly. It is a matter difficult in execution, but easily grasped in concept.” He bowed his head.
“Good. Then wait no longer, for the more wait, the less chance of success. Also more chance for tongues to wag.” She whirled away to the back chamber in a rush of silks.
“Uh…my lady?” The man blew on his fingers. The prince’s chambers were cold, the fire unlit. “There is the matter of…payment?”
“I thought you did this as honor for me, sir?” Vorzheva called from the back room.
“Welladay, madam, I am but a poor man. What you ask will take resources.” He blew on his fingers again, then thrust his hands deep into his robe.
She came back bearing a purse of shiny cloth. “That I know. Here. It is in gold, as I promised—half now, half when I receive proof that your task is completed.” She handed him the purse, then drew back. “You stink of wine! Is that the sort of man you are, trusted with this grave task?”
“It is the sacramental wine, my lady. Sometimes on my difficult road it is the only thing to drink. You must understand.” He favored her with a diffident smile, then made the sign of the Tree over the gold before stowing it in the pocket of his robe. “We do what we must to serve God’s will.”
Vorzheva nodded slowly. “That I can understand. Do not fail me, sir. You serve a great purpose, and not just for me.”
“I understand, Lady.” He bowed, then turned and left. Vorzheva stood and stared at the parchments strewn on the prince’s table and let out a deep breath. The thing was done.
Twilight of the day after he spoke to the princess found Simon in the chambers of Prince Josua, preparing to say farewell. In a sort of daze, as though he had just awakened, he stood listening as the prince had his final words with Binabik. The boy and the troll had spent the whole of the dark day preparing their kit, obtaining a new fur-lined cloak and helmet for Simon, along with a light mail shirt to wear beneath his outer clothing. The coat of thin ringlets, Haestan had pointed out, would not save him from a direct sword blow or an arrow to the heart, but would stand him in good stead in the case of some less than deadly assault.
Simon found the weight of it reassuring, but Haestan warned him that at the end of a long day’s journey he might not feel so cheerful about it.
“Y’r soldier carries many burdens, boy,” the big man told him, “an’ sometimes keepin’ alive’s th’hardest one.”
Haestan himself had been one of the three Erkynlanders to step forward when the captains had called for men. Like his two companions, Ethelbearn, a scarred, bushy-mustached veteran nearly as big as Haestan, and Grimmric, a slender, hawkish man with bad teeth and watchful eyes, he had spent so long preparing for siege that any sort of action was welcome, even something as dangerous and mysterious as this quest looked to be.
When Haestan found out Simon was going too, he was even more adamant in his desire to join them.
“T’send such a boy’s madness,” he growled, “ ’special when he’s not finished learning t’swing sword or shoot arrow. I’d best go an’ keep at teachin’ ’im.”
Duke Isgrimnur’s man Sludig was also there, a young Rimmersman attired like the Erkynlanders in furs and conical helmet. In place of the longsword the others carried, blond-bearded Sludig had two notch-bladed hand axes thrust in his belt. He grinned cheerfully at Simon, anticipating his question.
“Sometimes one gets stuck in a skull or rib cage,” the Rimmersgarder said. He spoke the Westerling tongue nimbly, with almost as little accent as the duke. “It is nice to have another to use until you get the first one out.”
Nodding, Simon tried to smile back.
“Well met again, Simon.” Sludig extended a callused hand.
“Again?”
“We met once before, at Hoderund’s abbey,” Sludig laughed. “But you spent the journey arse-end-up across Einskaldir’s saddle. I hope that is not the only way you know how to ride.”
Simon blushed, clasped the northerner’s hand, then turned away.
“We have turned up little to help you on your way,” Jarnauga was regretfully telling Binabik. “The Skendian monks left scant word about Colmund’s expedition besides the transactions of its outfitting. They probably thought him a madman.”
“Most likely they had it correctly,” the troll observed. He was burnishing the bone-handled knife he had carved to replace the missing piece of his staff.
“We did find one thing,” said Strangyeard. The priest’s hair stood up in wild tufts, and his eye patch sat a little off-center, as though he had come straight from spending an entire night poring over his books…which he had. “The abbey’s book-keeper wrote: ‘the Baron does not know how long his journeying to the Rhymer’s Tree shall last…’ ”
“It is unfamiliar,” Jarnauga said, “in fact, it is probably something the monk misheard, or got third hand…but it is a name. Perhaps it will make more sense when you reach the mountain Urmsheim.”
“Perhaps,” said Josua thoughtfully, “it is a town along the way, a village at the mountain’s foot?”
“Perhaps,” Binabik answered doubtfully, “but from what I am knowing of those places, there is nothing lying between the ruins of the Skendi monastery and the mountains—nothing there is but ice, trees, and rocks, of course. Plenty of those things there are.”
As final farewells were spoken, Simon heard Sangfugol’s voice drift out from the room in back, where he was singing for the Lady Vorzheva.
“…And shall I go a-wandering
Out in the winter’s chill?
Or shall I come now home again?
Whate’er thou sayest, I will…”
Simon picked up his quiver and looked for the third or fourth time to make sure the White Arrow was still there. Bewildered, as though caught in some slow and clinging dream, he realized that he was se
tting off on a journey once more—and again he was not quite sure why. His time at Naglimund had been so brief. Now it was over, at least for a long while. As he touched the blue scarf tied loosely at his throat he realized he might not see any of the others in this room again, anybody at Naglimund…Sangfugol, old Towser, or Miriamele. He thought he felt his heart trip for a moment, the beat stuttering like a drunkard, and was reaching for something to lean on when he felt a strong hand clasp his elbow.
“There you be, lad.” It was Haestan. “Bad enow that ye’ve no learnin’ with the sword an’ bow, now we’re goin’ t’put you t’horseback.”
“Horseback?” Simon said. “I’ll like that.”
“No y’won’t,” Haestan smirked. “Not for month or two.”
Josua said a few words to each one of them, and then there were warm, solemn handclasps all around. A short while later they were in the dark, cold courtyard where Qantaqa and seven, stamping, steaming horses awaited them, five for riding and a pair for carrying heavy gear. If there was a moon, it was hidden like a sleeping cat in the blanket of clouds.
“Good it is that we have this darkness,” Binabik said, swinging up into the new saddle on Qantaqa’s gray back. The men, seeing the troll’s steed for the first time, exchanged wondering looks as Binabik clicked his tongue and the wolf sprang out before them. A group of soldiers quietly raised the oiled porticullis, and they were out under the broad sky, the field of shadowy nails spread around them as they made for the close-looming hills.
“Good-bye, everyone,” Simon said quietly. They started up the sloping path.
High above on the Stile, at the crest of the hill overlooking Naglimund, a black shape was watching.
Even with his keen eyes, Ingen Jegger could make out little more in the moonless murk than that someone had left the castle by the eastern gate. That, however, was more than enough to raise his interest.
He stood, rubbing his hands, and considered calling one of his men to go down with him and get a better look. Instead he lifted his fist to his mouth and hooted like a snow owl. Seconds later a huge shape appeared from the scrub growth and leaped onto the Stile beside him. It was a hound, bigger even than the one killed by the troll’s tame wolf, shining white in the moonlight, its eyes twin pearl slots in a long, grinning face. It growled, a deep, cavernous rumble, and swiveled its head from side to side, nostrils wrinkling.