by Tad Williams
Soft voices were coming from behind the arras through which Dinivan had disappeared. She moved closer, straining to make out the words, but they were too faint. She cautiously pulled the hanging aside to expose a sliver of light from the room beyond.
It seemed to be the lector’s audience room, for it was ornate beyond anything she had seen since the entry chamber which she had sleepily traversed the night before. The ceilings were high, painted with hundreds of scenes from the Book of the Aedon. The windows were slices from the gray morning sky. Behind a chair at the room’s center hung a great azure banner embroidered with the Pillar and Tree of Mother Church.
Lector Ranessin, a slender man in a tall hat, was sitting on the chair listening to a fat man who wore the tentlike golden robes of an escritor. Dinivan stood to one side, scuffing his foot back and forth impatiently in the deep carpet.
“... But that is the point, Your Sacredness,” the fat one said, his face shiny, his tone beautifully measured. “Of all times to avoid offending the High King ... well, he is not in the most receptive mood just now. We must think carefully of our lofty position, as well as the welfare of all who look to Mother Church for moderation and good influence. He pulled a small box from his sleeve and popped something into his mouth. His round cheeks flattened briefly as he sucked at it.
“I understand, Velligis,” the lector responded, raising his hand with a gentle smile. “Your counsel is always good. I am eternally grateful that God brought us together.”
Velligis tilted his round head in a bow of acknowledgment.
“Now, if you will be so good,” Ranessin continued, “I really should give some time to poor Dinivan here. He has been riding for days and I am anxious for his news.”
The escritor dropped to his knees—not an easy feat for a man his size—and kissed the hem of the lector’s blue robe. “If you need me for anything, Your Sacredness, I will be in the chancelry until afternoon.” He rose and left the room in a graceful waddle, prying another sugar-sweet from his box.
“Are you truly grateful God brought you together?” Dinivan asked with a smile.
The lector nodded. “Indeed. Velligis is a living reminder to me of why men should not take themselves seriously. He means well, but he is so blessedly pompous.”
Dinivan shook his head. “I am willing to believe he means well, but his advice is criminal. If there is ever a time when Mother Church must show herself a living force for good, this is the time.”
“I know your feelings, Dinivan,” the lector said gently. “But this is not a time in which decisions may be hastily made, lest they be repented later at tragic length. Did you bring the princess?”
Ranessin’s secretary nodded. “I’ll fetch her. I left her in my workroom.” He turned and headed across the Audience Chamber. Miriamele hurriedly dropped the hanging back into place; when Dinivan came through, she was standing before the brazier once more.
“Come with me,” he said. “The lector is free now.”
When she reached the chair, Miriamele curtseyed, then kissed Ranessin’s hem. The old man reached down a surprisingly strong hand and helped her to her feet.
“Please, sit beside me,” he said as he gestured for Dinivan to bring her a chair. “On second thought,” he told his secretary, “fetch one for yourself as well. ”
While Dinivan was getting the chairs, Miriamele had her first chance to look at the lector. She had not seen him for over a year, but he seemed little different. His thin gray hair hung down beside his pale, handsome face. His eyes were as alert as a child’s, with an air almost of hidden mischief. Miriamele could not help comparing him to Count Streáwe, the lord of Perdruin. Streáwe’s lined face had been suffused with cunning. Ranessin looked much more innocent, but Miriamele did not need Dinivan’s assurances to believe that a great deal went on behind the lector’s gentle exterior.
“Well, my dear princess,” Ranessin said when they had seated themselves, “I have not seen you since your grandfather’s funeral. My, you have grown—but what odd clothes you wear, my lady.” He smiled. “Welcome to God’s house. Do you lack for anything?”
“Not in the way of food or drink, Your Sacredness.”
Ranessin frowned. “I am not a lover of titles, and mine is particularly awkward upon the tongue. When I was a young man in Stanshire, I never dreamed I would end out my life in far Nabban, being called ‘Sacred’ and ‘Exalted’ and never hearing my birth name again.”
“Isn’t Ranessin your real name?” Miriamele asked.
The lector laughed. “Oh, no. I was born an Erkynlander, hight Oswine. But since Erkynlanders are seldom elevated to such heights, it seemed politic to take a Nabbanai name.” He reached out to pat softly at her hand. “Now, speaking of assumed names, Dinivan tells me you have traveled far and seen much since you left your father’s house. Will you tell me something of your journeys?”
Dinivan nodded encouragingly, so Miriamele took a deep breath and began to talk.
As the lector listened attentively, she spoke of her father’s growing madness and how it had at last driven her from the Hayholt, of the evil counsels of Pryrates, and of the imprisoning of Josua. Brighter sunlight began to creep in through the windows high overhead. Dinivan got up to have someone bring them some food, as the noon hour was fast approaching.
“This is fascinating,” the lector said as they waited for his secretary to return. “It confirms many rumors that I have heard.” He rubbed his finger along the side of his thin nose. “Lord Usires grant us wisdom. Why can men not be content with what they have?”
Dinivan soon returned, followed by a priest with a heaping salver of cheese and fruit, as well as a posset of mulled wine. Miriamele began again. As she talked and ate, and as Ranessin plied her with gentle yet shrewd questions, she began to feel almost as though she spoke with some kindly old grandfather. She told him of the Norn hounds that had pursued her and the maidservant Leleth, then of their rescue by Simon and Binabik. As she told of the revelations in the house of the witch woman Geloë, and related Jarnauga’s dire warnings at Naglimund, Dinivan and the lector exchanged glances.
When she had finished, the lector pushed his tall hat back into place—it had slipped down several times during the course of the audience—and sat back in his chair with a sigh. His bright eyes were sad.
“So much to think about, so many dreadful questions unanswered. Oh, God, You have seen fit to test Your children sternly. I have a premonition of dire evil coming.” He turned to Miriamele. “Thank you for your news, Princess. It is none of it happy, but only a fool desires cheerful ignorance and I try not to be a fool. That is my heaviest burden.” He pursed his lips in thought. “Well, Dinivan,” he said at last, “this lends an even more ominous air to the news I received yesterday.”
“What news is that, Sacredness?” Dinivan asked. “We have had little chance to talk since I returned.”
The lector took a sip of wine. “Elias is sending Pryrates to see me. His ship arrives tomorrow from the Hayholt. His mission, the message said, is an important one from the High King.”
“Pryrates is coming?” Miriamele asked, alarmed. “Does my father know I’m here?”
“No, no, do not fear,” the lector said soothingly. He patted her hand again. “It is Mother Church with whom he would trade words. No one knows you are here but Dinivan and myself.”
“He’s a devil,” she said harshly. “Do not trust him.”
Ranessin nodded gravely. “Your warning is well taken, Princess Miriamele, but sometimes it is my duty to speak with devils.” He lowered his eyes to stare at his hands, as if hoping to find clutched therein a solution to all problems. When Dinivan took Miriamele out, the lector bid her good-bye courteously, but he seemed wrapped in melancholy.
10
The Mirror
Simon found himself in the grip of a stubborn anger that would not go away. As he and Sludig followed the mounted trolls away down the mountain, away from the solemn piles of stone lying nakedl
y beneath the sky, he felt a rage seeping through him that muddled all his thoughts, so that he could scarcely think of anything for more than a moment at a time.
He walked stiffly, his body still bruised and sore, his stomach churning with anger. As he walked, he brooded. Haestan was dead. Another friend was dead. There was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t change it. He couldn’t even cry over it. That was the most infuriating thing: he could do nothing. Nothing.
Sludig, pale-faced and shadow-eyed, did not seem anxious to break the silence. The two lowlanders trudged along side by side down broad, flat sheets of weathered granite and waded through drifts of snow churned into a white froth by rams’ hooves.
The foothills seemed to be growing up to meet them. At each bend in the trail the snowy-shouldered hills emerged once more into the travelers’ view, each time larger than before. Sikkihoq, in turn, seemed to be stretching away into the sky behind them as they steadily descended, ever taller, as though the mountain had finished its business with these mortals and now returned to the loftier and more congenial company of the sky and clouds.
I won’t forget you, Simon warned Sikkihoq as he looked back up the great dagger of stone. He fought the urge to shout it aloud. If he squinted, he thought he could still see the spot where the cairns stood. I won’t forget that my friend is buried on your slopes. I’ll never forget.
Afternoon passed swiftly. They made faster time as the mountain broadened and the paths began to level out, with longer stretches between switchbacks. Simon noticed signs of the mountain’s life that he had not seen higher up: a family of white and brown rabbits grazing between patches of snow, jays and squirrels bickering in the stunted, wind-curled trees. This evidence of life on what had seemed a barren and heartless rock should have made him feel better; instead, it served only to fuel his directionless anger. What right to exist did all these small and insignificant things have, when others were dying? He wondered why they should bother, when any moment a hawk or snake or hunter’s arrow might snuff out their lives. The thought of life scrabbling pointlessly beneath the shadow of death filled him with an oddly exhilarating disgust.
When evening came, the company chose a gently sloping expanse of stone and brush in which to make camp, sheltered by Sikkihoq’s body from the worst of the snow-laden wind. Simon shed his pack and began picking up deadwood for the fire, but stopped to watch the sun slip down behind the mountains to the west—one of which, he knew, was Urmsheim, the dragon-mountain. The horizon was streaked with light, as richly colored as any rose grown in the Hayholt’s gardens.
An‘nai, Jiriki’s Sithi kinsman, who had been killed while fighting for the lives of his companions, was buried there on Urmsheim; the soldier Grimmric, a wiry, quiet man, had been interred beside him. Simon remembered Grimmric whistling as they rode north from Naglimund, a thin trill of sound alternately annoying and reassuring. Now he would be eternally silent. He and An’nai would never see a sunset like the one that painted the sky before Simon, beautiful and meaningless.
Where were they? Heaven? How could Sithi go to heaven when they didn’t believe in it—and where did they think they went when they died? They were pagans, Simon supposed, which meant they were different—but An‘nai had been loyal and brave. More than that, he had been kind to Simon, very kind in his strange Sithi way. How could An’nai not go to heaven? How could heaven be such a stupid place?
The anger, which had abated for a moment, returned. Simon flung one of the sticks he had gathered as hard as he could. It whirled through the air, then struck and cartwheeled down the long stony hill, disappearing at last into the underbrush below.
“Come, Simon,” Sludig called from behind him. “We need your wood for the fire. Aren’t you hungry now?”
Simon ignored him, staring out at the reddening sky as he ground his teeth in frustration. He felt a hand on his arm and angrily shrugged it off.
“Please, come,” the Rimmersman said kindly. “Supper will be ready soon.”
“Where is Haestan?” Simon asked through tight lips.
“What do you mean?” Sludig cocked his head. “You know where we left him, Simon.”
“No, I mean where is Haestan? The real Haestan.”
“Ah.” Sludig smiled. His beard had grown very thick. “His soul is in heaven, with Usires and the Lord God.”
“No.” Simon turned to look at the sky again, darkening now with the first mortal blues of night.
“What? Why do you say that?”
“He’s not in heaven. There is no heaven. How can there be a heaven, when everyone thinks it’s different?”
“You are being foolish.” Sludig stared at him for a moment, trying to sense Simon’s thought. “Perhaps everyone goes to their own heaven,” the soldier said, then placed his hand again on Simon’s shoulder. “God knows what He knows. Come and sit down.”
“How could God let people die for no reason?” Simon demanded, hugging himself as though trying to keep something inside. “If God can do that, then He is cruel. If He isn’t cruel, well ... well, then, He just can’t do anything. Like an old man who sits at the window, but can’t go out. He’s old and stupid.”
“Do not talk against God the Father,” Sludig said, his voice chilly. “God will not be mocked by an ungrateful boy. He has given you all the gifts of life ...”
“It’s a lie!” Simon shouted. The soldier’s eyes widened in surprise. Heads turned from the campfire, looking to the sudden noise. “It’s a lie, a lie! What gifts? To crawl around like a bug, here and there, trying to find something to eat, somewhere to sleep—and then without warning something smashes you? What kind of gift is that!? To do the right thing, and ... and fight against evil, like the Book of the Aedon says—if you do that you get killed! Just like Haestan! Just like Morgenes! The bad ones live on—live on and grow rich and laugh at the good ones! It’s a stupid lie!” “That is terrible, Simon!” Sludig said, his voice also rising. “You speak from madness and grief . . .”
“It’s a lie—and you are an idiot to believe it!” Simon yelled, throwing his wood down at Sludig’s feet. He turned and ran down the mountain path with a great, grieving pain in his middle that almost took his breath away, following the twisting course until the camp had disappeared from view. Qantaqa’s bark wafted after him, faint and percussive as someone clapping in another room.
At last he sank down on a stone beside the path, rubbing his hands back and forth over the worn cloth of his breeches. There was moss growing on the stone, burnt brown by frost and wind, but still somehow vital and alive. He stared at it, wondering why he could not cry and whether he even wanted to.
After some time he heard a clicking noise and looked up to see Qantaqa pacing toward him over the sloping rocks above the path. The wolf nose hovered low, sniffing close to the stone. She hopped down onto the path, and regarded him quizzically for a moment with her head cocked to one side, then walked past, brushing against his leg. Simon trailed his fingers along the thick pelt of her flank as she went by. Qantaqa continued on down the path, a dim gray shape in the growing darkness.
“Simon-friend.” Binabik appeared around the bend in the track. “Qantaqa is off to hunt,” he said, watching her disappearing form. “It is hard for a wolf to be walking all day where I ask her. She is a good companion to make such sacrifice for my sake.”
When Simon did not respond, the troll came forward and squatted at his side, his walking stick balanced on his knees.
“You are much upset,” he said.
Simon took a deep breath, then let it out. “Everything is a lie,” he sighed.
Binabik raised an eyebrow. “What is ‘everything’? And what is making it a lie?”
“I don’t think we can do anything at all. Anything to make things better. We’re going to die.”
“At some time,” the troll nodded.
“We’re going to die fighting the Storm King. It’s a lie if we say we’re not. God’s not going to save us, or even help us.” Simon pi
cked up a loose stone and flung it across the path, where it went rattling into darkness. “Binabik, I couldn’t even pick up Thorn. What good is the sword going to be if we can’t even use it? How is a sword—even three Great Swords or whatever they’re called—going to kill an enemy like him? Kill someone who’s already dead?”
“These are questions that need answering,” the little man replied. “I do not know. How do you know that the sword is for killing? And if it is for that, what makes you think any of us is to be the killer?”
Simon chose another rock and threw it. “I don’t know anything, either. I’m just a kitchen boy, Binabik.” He felt immensely sorry for himself. “I just want to go home.” The word caught in his throat.
The troll stood, brushing off his seat. “You are not a boy, Simon. You are a man in all the ways for measuring. A young man, true, but a man—or with great nearness. ”
Simon shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I thought ... I don’t know. I thought that it would be like a story. That we would find the sword and it would be a powerful weapon, that we would destroy our enemies and things would be right again. I didn’t think any more people would die! How could there be a God who would let good people die, no matter what they do?”
“Another question I cannot be answering.” Binabik smiled, but gently, mindful of Simon’s pain. “And I cannot be telling you what is right for belief. The truths that became our stories of gods are far away in the past. Even the Sithi, who live for eons, do not know how the world began or what began it—at least not for certain, I am thinking. But I can tell you something important ...”
The troll leaned forward, touching Simon’s arm, waiting until his young friend had raised his eyes from the moss once more. “Gods in the heaven or in the stone are distant, and we can guess only at what they intend.” He squeezed Simon’s forearm. “But you and I, we are living in a time when a god walks the earth once more. He is not a god who intends kindness. Men may fight and die, they may build walls and break stone, but Ineluki has died and come back: that is something no one else has ever been doing, not even your Usires Aedon. Forgive me, because I am not meaning blasphemy, but is not what Ineluki has done a thing like a god can do?” Binabik gave Simon a little shake, staring into his eyes. “He is jealous and terrible, and the world he can make will be a terrible place. We are having a task of great fear and very great difficulty, Simon—it may even be that there is no possibility of succeeding—but it is not a task we can be fleeing.”