by Tad Williams
The hot air was pushing in at the windows like a hungry beast. Tiamak folded the note and slipped it into his sheath. He must attend to Ink-daub. Then he would think. Perhaps it would be cooler as evening drew closer. Surely he could wait one more day before leaving, wherever he was to go? Surely?
Tiamak wrapped the bird’s small body in oil palm leaves, then wound it in a length of thin cord. He stilted through the shallows to a sandbar behind his house, where he set the bundle of leaves on a rock and surrounded it with bark and precious strips of old parchment. After uttering a prayer for Ink-daub’s spirit to She Who Waits to Take All Back, he used his flint and steel to set the tiny pyre aflame.
As the smoke coiled upward, Tiamak reflected that there was something to be said for the old ways after all. If nothing else, they provided something to do at a time when the mind was weary and hurting. For a moment, he was even able to push aside the troubling thoughts of duty, feeling instead a strange sort of peace as he watched Ink-daub’s smoke take flight, rising slowly into the feverish gray sky.
Soon, though, the smoke was gone and the ashes were scattered across the green water.
When Miriamele and her two companions came down off the hill path onto the North Coast Road, Cadrach jogged his mount ahead, putting several lengths between himself and Dinivan and the princess. The morning sun was at their backs. The horses Dinivan had brought trotted along with heads waving, nostrils wide to catch the scents on the early breeze.
“Ho, Padreic!” Dinivan shouted, but the monk did not reply. His round shoulders bounced up and down. His hood was lowered as if he hung his head in thought. “Very well, then—Cadrach,” the priest called, “why do you not ride with us?”
Cadrach, a graceful horseman despite his bulk and short legs, reined up. When the other two had nearly caught him, he turned.
“It is a problem with names, brother,” he said, showing his teeth in an angry smile. “You call me by one that belongs to a dead man. The princess, well now, she’s given me a new one—”traitor“—and baptized me with it in Emettin Bay to seal the bargain. So you see, don’t you, it would be all too confusing, this—one might say—multiplicity of names.” With an ironic bow of the head, he dug his heels into his horse’s ribs and forged ahead, slowing again to match their pace when he had extended his lead to a dozen ells or so.
“He is very bitter,” Dinivan said as he watched Cadrach’s hunched shoulders.
“What does he have to be bitter about?” Miriamele demanded.
The priest shook his head. “God knows.”
Coming from a priest, she decided, it was hard to tell exactly what that phrase might signify.
Nabban’s North Coast Road meandered along between the ridge of hills and Emettin Bay, sometimes jogging inland so that the hills’ tan flanks rose on the right, blocking all view of the water. Farther on, the hills fell away again for a short time and the rocky coastline appeared once more. As the trio approached Teligure, the road began to fill with other traffic: farm wains shedding streams of loose hay, foot peddlers carrying their wares hung on poles, small troops of local guardsmen marching officiously from one place to another. Many travelers, seeing the golden Tree that hung on Dinivan’s black-robed chest and the monkish robes of his companions, bowed their heads or made the Tree-sign across their breasts. Beggars ran alongside the priest’s horse, crying: “Father, Father! Aedon’s mercy, Father!” If they seemed truly crippled in some way, Dinivan reached into his robes and produced a cintis-piece, which he tossed down to them. Miriamele noticed that few of the beggars, no matter how hobbled or deformed, ever let the coin strike the ground.
They stopped at midday in Teligure itself, a sprawling market town set in the lap of the hills, where they refreshed themselves with fruit and hard bread bought from stalls in the town square. Here, in the crush of commerce, three religious travelers drew little notice.
Miriamele was basking in the bright sun, hood pushed back so that she could feel the warmth on her forehead. All around her echoed the cries of the hawkers and the outraged shrieks of swindled buyers. Cadrach and Dinivan stood nearby, the priest bargaining with a seller of boiled eggs while his sullen companion eyed a wine-merchant’s booth next door. Miriamele realized with some surprise that she felt happy.
Just like that? she chided herself, but the sun felt too nice for self-vilification. She had been fed, had ridden all morning free as the wind, and nobody around was paying the slightest attention to her. At the same time, she felt strangely protected.
She thought suddenly of the kitchen boy Simon and her contented mood expanded to touch the memory of him as well. He had a nice smile, Simon had—not practiced, like one of her father’s courtiers. Father Dinivan had a good smile, too, but it never looked surprised at itself, as Simon’s almost always did.
In a strange way, she realized, the days spent traveling to Naglimund with Simon and Binabik the troll had been some of the best of her life. She laughed at herself, at such a ridiculous notion, and stretched as luxuriously as a cat on a windowsill. They had faced terror and death, had been chased by the terrible hunter Ingen and his hounds, and had nearly been killed by a Hunë, a murderous, shaggy giant. But still she had felt very free. Pretending to be a servant, she had felt more herself than ever before. Simon and Binabik talked to her—not to her title, not to her father’s power or their own hopes for reward or advancement.
She missed them both. She felt a sharp and sudden pang thinking of the little troll and poor, gawky, red-thatched Simon wandering in the snowy wilderness. In the frustration of her imprisonment in Perdruin she had almost forgotten them—where were they? Were they in danger? Were they even alive?
A shadow fell across her face. She flinched, startled.
“I don’t think I can keep our friend out of the wine-stalls much longer,” Dinivan said. “Nor am I sure I have a right to. We should take to the road again. Were you sleeping?”
“No.” Miriamele pulled her hood forward and stood up. “Just thinking.”
Duke Isgrimnur sat wheezing before the fire, thinking seriously about breaking something or hitting someone. His feet hurt, his face had itched like sin ever since he had shaved off his beard—and what kind of be-damned madman was he to have agreed to that?!—and he was not one whit closer to finding Princess Miriamele than he had been when he left Naglimund. All that was bad enough, but now things had gotten even worse.
Isgrimnur had felt sure he was narrowing the gap. When he had followed Miriamele’s trail to Perdruin, and confirmed with the old tosspot Gealsgiath that the captain had left her and the criminal monk Cadrach here in Ansis Pellipé, the duke had been certain it was only a matter of time. Even hobbled by his monk’s disguise, Isgrimnur knew Ansis Pellipé well, and could find his way through most of its seedier neighborhoods. Soon, he had felt sure, he would have her in hand and could take her back to her uncle Josua at Naglimund, where she would be safe from her father Elias’ doubtful charities.
Then the twin blows had fallen. The first had been slower in effect, the culmination of many fruitless hours and a small fortune in pointless bribes: it had gradually become clear to Isgrimnur that Miriamele and her escort had disappeared from Ansis Pelippé, as completely as if they had sprouted wings and flown away. Not a single smuggler, cutpurse, or tavern harlot had seen them since Midsummer’s Eve. She and Cadrach were a hard pair to miss—two monks traveling together, one fat, one young and slender—but they had vanished. Not a single boatman had seen them carried away, or even heard of them inquiring after passage at the docks. Gone!
The second blow, falling on top of his personal failure, struck Isgrimnur like a great stone. He had not been on Perdruin a fortnight before the wharfside taverns were alive with stories of the fall of Naglimund. The sailors repeated the rumors cheerfully, talking of the slaughter Elias’ mysterious second army had wreaked on the castle’s inhabitants as if reveling in the twists and turns of an old fireside tale.
Oh, my Gutrun, Isgrimnur had
prayed, his innards knotted with fear and rage, Usires protect you from harm. Let you come out safe again, wife, and I will build a cathedral to Him with my bare hands. And Isorn, my brave son, and Josua and all the rest ...
He had cried that first night, in a dark alley by himself, where no one would see the huge monk sobbing, where for at least a little while he need not falsify. He was frightened in a way he had never quite been before.
How could it have happened so swiftly? he wondered. That damnable castle was built to last out a ten-year siege! Was it treachery from within?
And how, even if his family had been saved by some miracle and he could find them again, how would he ever get back his lands that Skali Sharp-nose had stolen with the High King’s help? With Josua broken, with Leobardis and Lluth dead, there was none who could stand in Elias’ way.
Still, he must find Miriamele. He could at least discover her, rescue her from the traitor Cadrach and take her somewhere safe. That one piece of misery still remained which he could prevent Elias from accomplishing.
So, defeated, he had come at last to The Hat and Plover, an inn of the lowest sort, which was just what his aching spirit craved. His sixth jug of sour beer sat at his side, as yet untouched. Isgrimnur brooded.
He might have dozed, for he had been walking the long waterfront all day and was very tired. The man who stood before him might have been there for some time. Isgrimnur did not like his look.
“What are you staring at?” he growled.
The stranger’s eyebrows came together over his eyes. His lantern jaw was set in a contemptuous smirk. He was tall and dressed in black, but the Duke of Elvritshalla did not find him nearly as impressive as the stranger obviously felt himself to be.
“Are you the monk who has been asking questions all over the city?” the stranger demanded.
“Go away,” Isgrimnur replied. He reached to take a draught of beer. It made him feel a little more alert, so he took another swallow.
“Are you the one who has been asking about the other monks?” the stranger began again. “About the tall and short ones?”
“I might be. Who are you, and what business do you have with me?” Isgrimnur grunted, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. His head hurt.
“My name is Lenti,” the stranger said. “My master wishes to speak with you.”
“And who is your master?”
“Never mind. Come. We will go now.”
Isgrimnur belched. “I do not wish to go meet any nameless masters. He can come to me if he wishes. Now go away.”
Lenti bent forward, his eyes keenly fixed on Isgrimnur’s. There were pimples on his chin.
“You will come now, fat old man, if you don’t want to be hurt,” he whispered fiercely. “I have a knife. ”
Isgrimnur’s hamhock fist struck him right where his eyebrows met. Lenti pitched backward and dropped bonelessly, as though he had been struck with a slaughtering-hammer. A few of the other tavern-goers laughed before turning back to their various unpleasant conversations.
After a while the duke leaned forward, pouring a stream of beer onto his black-clad victim’s face. “Get up, man, get up. I have decided I will go with you and meet your master.” Isgrimnur grinned wickedly as Lenti spluttered foam. “I was feeling poorly before, but by Aedon’s Holy Hand, I suddenly feel a great deal better!”
Teligure disappeared behind the three riders. They continued west on the Coast Road, following its winding course through a handful of compact towns. The work of bringing in the hay was going forward at full speed on the hillsides and in the valley below, haycocks rising all over the fields like the heads of wakened sleepers. Miriamele listened to the chanting voices of the field-masters and the joking cries of the women as they waded out into the tawny pastures with bottles and wallets containing the workers’ mid-afternoon meals. It seemed a happy, simple life, and she said as much to Dinivan.
“If you think working each day from before sunup to dark, breaking your back in the fields is happy and simple work, then you are right,” he answered, narrowing his eyes against the sun. “But there is little rest, and when the year is bad, little food. And,” he said, smiling wickedly, “most of your crop goes out as tithes to the baron. But that seems to be what God intended. Certainly, honest labor is better than a life of beggary or theft—in the eyes of Mother Church, anyway, if not in the eyes of some beggars and most thieves.”
“Father Dinivan!” exclaimed Miriamele, a little shocked. “That sounds ... I don’t know ... heretical, I suppose.”
The priest laughed. “God the Highest gifted me with a heretical nature, my lady, so if He regrets his gift, he will soon gather me back to His bosom again and make all right. But my old teachers would agree with you. I was frequently told that my questions were the devil’s tongue speaking in my head. Lector Ranessin, when he offered me the position of his secretary, told my teachers: Better the devil’s tongue to argue and question than a silent tongue and an empty head.’ Some of the Church’s more proper priests find Ranessin a difficult master.” Here Dinivan frowned. “But they know nothing. He is the best man on earth.”
During the long afternoon Cadrach allowed the distance between himself and his companions to diminish gradually, until at last they were riding nearly side-by-side once more. This concession did not loosen his lips, however; although he seemed to be listening to Miriamele’s questions and Dinivan’s stories of the land through which they passed, he did not in any way join the conversation.
The cloud-strewn sky had turned orange and the sun was streaming into their eyes as they approached the walled town of Granis Sacrana, the spot Dinivan had chosen for them to spend the night. The town sat on a bluff overlooking the Coast Road. The hills all around, sunset brushed, were tangled with grape vines.
To the travelers’ surprise, a squad of guardsmen sat mounted at the broad gate questioning those who sought entrance. They were not local-levied troops, but armored men wearing the gold kingfisher of the royal Benidrivine House. When Dinivan gave their names—choosing Cadrach’s by default and offering “Malachias” on the princess’ behalf—they were told that they must ride on and harbor elsewhere that night.
“And why should such a thing be?” Dinivan demanded.
The sheepish guardsman could only stubbornly repeat his order.
“Then let me speak to your sergeant.”
The sergeant, when produced, echoed his subordinate’s words.
“But why, man?” the priest asked hotly. “By whose orders? Is there plague here, or something like?”
“Something like indeed,” the sergeant said, scratching his long nose in a worried manner. “It’s by the orders of Duke Benigaris himself, or so I take it to be. I have his seal on it.”
“And I bear the seal of the Lector Ranessin,” Dinivan said, producing a ring from his pocket and waggling its blood-red ruby beneath the startled sergeant’s nose. “Know that we are on the holy business of the Sancellan Aedonitis. Is there plague, or what? If there is no dangerous air or diseased water, we will stay here tonight.”
The troop-sergeant took off his helmet and squinted at Dinivan’s signet ring. When he looked up, his thick face was still troubled.
“As I said, Your Eminence,” he begun unhappily, “it’s like a plague. It’s those madmen, those Fire Dancers.”
“What are Fire Dancers?” Miriamele asked, remembering to imitate a boy’s gruff tones.
“Doom-criers,” Dinivan said grimly.
“If that were all,” the sergeant said, spreading his hands helplessly. He was a large man, broad-shouldered and thick-legged, but he looked quite undone. “They’re mad, the lot of them. Duke Benigaris has commanded that we ... well, keep a watch over them. We are not to interfere, but I thought that at least we could keep more strangers from coming in ... ” He trailed off, looking uneasily at Dinivan’s ring.
“We are not strangers, and as the lector’s secretary I am in little danger of falling under the sway of these peopl
e’s exhortations,” Dinivan said sternly. “So let us in, that we may find shelter for the night. We have ridden long. We are tired.”
“Very well, Your Eminence,” the sergeant said, waving for his troops to unblock the gates. “But I take no responsibility ...”
“We all take responsibility in this life, every one of us,” the priest responded seriously, then softened his expression. “But our Lord Usires understands about difficult burdens.” He made the sign of the Tree as they rode in past the sergeant’s jostling men-at-arms.
“That soldier seemed very upset,” Miriamele said as they clattered up the central row. Many houses were shuttered, but pale faces peeped from doorways, watching the travelers. For a town the size of Granis Sacrana, the streets were surprisingly empty. Small groups of soldiers rode back and forth from the gates, but only a few other folk hurried along the dusty street, darting uneasy glances at Miriamele and her companions before dropping their eyes and hustling on.
“The troop-sergeant is not the only one,” Dinivan answered as they rode along in the shadows of the tall houses and shops. “Fear sweeps through all Nabban like a plague these days.”
“Fear goes where it is invited,” Cadrach said quietly, but turned away from their questioning looks.
When they reached the marketplace in the center of town they discovered why Granis Sacrana’s streets were so preternaturally empty. A crowd stood half a dozen deep around the town square, whispering and laughing. Although the final glimmers of afternoon still warmed the horizon, the torches had been lit in their sconces all around the square, throwing quivering shadows into the dark places between houses and illuminating the white robes of the Fire Dancers, who swayed and shouted in the middle of the commons.