by Tad Williams
“I repeat: you will do yourself an injury. Read.”
Before Strangyeard could do so, they were interrupted by new arrivals.
“Praise God,” Isorn cried. He and Deornoth struggled out of the trees upslope. “We are out of the cursed forest and on open ground!” The pair carefully set down the litter they had been dragging, glad to rest Sangfugol’s weight for a moment. Under the witch woman’s ministrations, the harper was healing well and swiftly from what should have been a fatal corruption of his blood, but he still could not walk more than a few hours at a time.
Geloë turned to look back. “Praise God all you wish,” she warned, “but we may regret the loss of those sheltering trees before long.”
The rest of the party limped down out of the woods. Prince Josua was helping Towser, who walked dazed and unspeaking; the old man’s eyes were rolled up, as though he contemplated a distant heaven hidden behind the fog-blanketed sky. Vorzheva and Duchess Gutrun walked a little way behind them.
“It has been many years since I have seen the Thrithings,” Josua said, “even this tamer part. I had almost forgotten its beauty.” He closed his eyes in thought for a moment, then opened them once more to gaze out toward the indistinct horizon. “It is like no other land in all of Osten Ard—some call it ‘God’s tabletop.’ ”
“If this is indeed God’s tabletop,” Sangfugol said with a weak smile, “my prince, He uses us for dice. Aedon save me, I am meant to sing of Jack Mundwode and his naughty bandits, not ape their forest-traipsing.” He struggled out of the litter. “I need to get out of this thumping, bouncing torture device and sit down—no, the grass is fine for me. I fear my sore leg more than the wet.”
“Some gratitude,” Isorn said, smiling. “I think I shall show you what thumping really is, harper.”
“Very well,” Josua said. “We shall rest. No one stray far, and if you go more than a stone’s throw, take someone with you.”
“So we have escaped the forest,” Deornoth sighed. “If only Einskaldir could have seen it.” He thought of the Rimmersman’s grave in one of the quiet glades of Shisae’ron, a simple mound marked only by his helmet and Strangyeard’s wooden Tree. Even Geloë’s healing skills had not been enough to save him from the terrible wounds he had received leading their escape from the Norns. Now, fierce Einskaldir would lie forever in a place of timeless calm. “He was a stern bastard, bless him.” Deornoth shook his head. “He never gave up, either—but I don’t think he believed we would ever get away.”
“We wouldn’t have, if not for him,” Isorn said. “He’s another mark on the list.”
“List?”
“The list of what is owed to our enemies—to Skali and Elias and all the rest.” Isorn’s broad face was grim. “We owe them a blood feud. Someday, they will pay for what they did. And when it happens, Einskaldir will be watching in heaven. And laughing.”
Deornoth could think of nothing to say. If Einskaldir could watch battles from heaven, he would be laughing. For all his piety, it seemed a shame that Einskaldir had missed the old pagan days of Rimmersgard, and would instead be forced to spend his eternity in the quieter environs of Aedon’s paradise.
As the others milled about, Vorzheva said a quiet word to Duchess Gutrun, then walked down the short slope and onto the damp meadow. She moved as if in a kind of dream, her eyes fixed on nothing, her track aimless and elliptical as she made her way through the damp grasses.
“Vorzheva,” Josua called, his voice sharper than usual, “do not go alone. The mist is very thick and you would soon be out of sight. ”
“She would have to go very far before she would be out of earshot, Prince Josua,” said Duchess Gutrun, leading Towser with a gentle hand on his elbow.
“That may be,” Josua said, “but I would prefer we were not stumbling through the fog, shouting our presence to any listening ears. Surely you have not so soon forgotten our escort from Naglimund.”
Gutrun shook her head in dismay, conceding the point. Vorzheva, seemingly oblivious to the discussion, was now only a dim upright shape slipping through the mists like a ghost.
“Damn her frowardness,” Josua said grimly, staring after her.
“I will go with her.” Geloë turned to Gutrun. “Keep the child close to you, please.” She pointed Leleth in the general direction of the duchess, then strode off after the fast-fading Vorzheva.
Josua watched her go, then laughed unhappily. “If this is the way I command a kingdom of nine or ten,” he told Deornoth, “then my brother can rest easily on the Dragonbone Chair. People used to beg to do my father John’s bidding.”
Even his queen? Deornoth wondered, but he did not say it. He watched the dark shape of Geloë catch up to the wraith that was Vorzheva. If you have a proud and headstrong woman, you would be better off not to judge your success by her obedience.
“Please, my lord,” he said instead, “do not speak ill of yourself. You are hungry and tired and cold. Let me build a fire.”
“No, Deornoth.” Josua rubbed the stump of his wrist as though it hurt. “We will not stay so long.” He turned to look back at the forest fringe and the gaping shadows that lined it. “We must move farther before we do more than pause to rest. We will stop somewhere that puts us in open ground on all sides. At least then, even though we are exposed, anything that stalks us will be exposed as well.”
“A happy thought,” grunted Sangfugol from his seat on the turf. “S’truth, but we are a merry band of pilgrims.”
“Pilgrims on the road through hell cannot afford too much merriment,” Josua said. He strode a little way out onto the greensward to stand by himself in thought.
“Then why don’t you tell him?” There was exasperation in Geloë’s voice, but her hawk-yellow eyes betrayed little emotion. “By bough and branch, Vorzheva, you are not a young girl, you are a woman. Why do you carry on so?”
Vorzheva’s eyes were moist. “I do not know. I cannot understand him.”
Geloë shook her head. “I cannot understand any of you. I have spent little of my life with human folk, and it is because of this ridiculous uncertainty—‘I want this, I do not want that ...’ The animals are more sensible, it seems to me. They do what they must and do not fret over what cannot be changed.” The witch woman laid a callused hand on Vorzheva’s arm. “Why do you worry so about things that do not matter? Prince Josua obviously cares for you. Why do you not tell him the truth?”
Her companion sighed. “He thinks me a foolish wagon-girl. It makes him cold to me. If I tell him, it will only be worse ... I am sorry.” She angrily wiped at her face with her tattered sleeve. “It was seeing the Feluwelt again—that is what my people call this place, where the meadow runs in the forest’s shadow. It brought many memories to my mind, and made me unhappy....”
“Valada Geloë?” It was Father Strangyeard’s voice, sourceless in the mist, but quite near. “Are you there? Valada Geloë?”
A little frustration showed itself on Geloë’s stern face. “Here, Strangyeard. Is anything wrong?”
The archivist appeared, a lanky, flapping shape materializing from gray obscurity. “No, no, I just wanted to ...” He stopped, staring at Vorzheva’s tear-stained face. “Oh. Oh, I’m so terribly sorry. How rude of me. I will leave you.” He turned to lurch off into the mist once more.
“Don’t go!” Strangely, it was Vorzheva who spoke. “Do not leave us, Father. Walk with us.”
Strangyeard looked at her, then to Geloë. “I do not wish to intrude, Lady. I fear I was thinking only of something I found in Morgenes’ book.” Eyepatch askew, thin fringe of reddish hair curling in the damp, he looked like a startled woodpecker. He seemed about to bolt once more, but the witch woman raised a calming hand.
“Walk with us, Strangyeard, as Vorzheva said. Perhaps your need is one for which my talents are better suited.” The priest looked at her nervously. “Come. We will walk back toward the others as we talk.”
Strangyeard was still carrying the loose sheaves of Mo
rgenes’ book in his hand; after a few silent paces he began to leaf through them. “I’m afraid I’ve lost the section,” he said, shuffling the parchments. “I thought it might be significant—it was a bit about magic—The Art, that’s what Morgenes called it. I’m amazed by the things he knew, quite amazed ... I would never have dreamt ...” A triumphant smile came to his face. “Here it is.” He squinted. “Wonderful way with words ...”
They walked several more paces in silence. “Will you read?” Geloë asked at last.
“Oh! Of course.” Strangyeard cleared his throat.
“... In truth, articles useful to The Art seem to fall into two broad categories, ”
the priest began,“those whose worth is bound in themselves, and those whose worth is bound in their derivation. In contradiction to popular superstition, an herb gathered in a graveyard is not generally useful because it came from such a place, but rather because of the herb itself. Since a graveyard may be the only place that herb is found, the connection becomes established and is then almost impossible to disentangle.
“The other category of useful objects are usually ‘made’ objects, and their virtue is in their shaping or their raw beginnings. The Sithi, who have long possessed secrets of crafting hidden from mortals, made many things whose creation itself was a practice of The Art—although the Sithi would not exactly term it so. Thus, the virtue of these objects is in their making. The famous arrows of Vindaomeyo are an example: carved from common wood and fletched with the feathers of ordinary birds, yet each one is a talisman of great worth.
“Other objects take their power from the stuff of their making. The great swords alluded to in Nisses’ lost book are examples here. All seem to derive their worth from their materials, although the crafting of each was a mighty task. Minneyar, King Fingil’s sword, was made of the iron keel of his boat, iron brought to Osten Ard by the Rimmersman sea-raiders out of the lost west. Thorn, most recently the sword of Prester John’s noblest knight, Sir Camaris, was forged from the glowing metals of a fallen star—likeMinneyar’s iron, something foreign to Osten Ard. And Sorrow, the sword that Nisses claims Ineluki of the Sithi used to slay his own father the Erl-king, was made of Sithi witchwood and iron, two elements long thought to be antithetical and unmixable. Thus, such objects derive their strength primarily, it would seem, from the unearthly origins of their substance. Stories tell, however, that powerful Spells of Making were also wound in the forging of all these three blades, so the power of the Great Swords may come from both their substance and their making.
“Ti-tuno, the hunting horn crafted in fabled Mezu’tua from the tooth of the dragon Hidohehbi, is another clear example of how sometimes an object of power may be made by both the crafting and the materials crafted...”
Strangyeard broke off. “It goes on to talk of other things. It is all fascinating, of course—what a scholar that man was!—but I thought the section on the swords might be interesting.”
Geloë nodded her head slowly. “It is. I wondered about these three swords that have become the object of our hopes. Morgenes seems to make a good argument as to the reason for their value. Perhaps they will indeed be useful against Ineluki. It is good that you found that, Strangyeard.”
The priest’s pink cheeks went a deeper red. “Too kind. You’re too kind.”
Geloë cocked her head. “I hear the others. Are you composed, Vorzheva?”
Vorzheva nodded her head. “I am not such a fool as you think me,” she said quietly.
The witch woman laughed. “I do not think you a fool, particularly. I think most people are foolish—and I count myself as well, for here I am without a roof, wandering over the grasslands like a stray heifer. Sometimes obvious foolishness is the only answer to grave problems.”
“Hmmm,” said Strangyeard, baffled. “Hmmm.”
The ragged band continued out onto the fog-ridden meadowlands, heading south toward the river Ymstrecca, which meandered along the breadth of the High Thrithings. They made camp on the open plain, shivering in the rain-sodden wind, huddling close to their small fire. Geloë made a soup of herbs and roots she had gathered. It was filling and warmed the stomach, but Deornoth mourned the absence of something more toothsome.
“Tomorrow let me go farther afield, my lord,” he implored Josua as they sat by the fire. All the others but Geloë had wrapped themselves in their cloaks to sleep, bundled close together like a family of sleeping kittens. The witch woman had gone a-wandering. “I know I could find a hare or two, and the underbrush must be full of grouse, even in this cold summer. We have had no meat for several days!”
Josua permitted himself a chilly smile. “I wish I could say yes, faithful friend, but I need your strong arms and good wit close by. These people can scarcely walk another step—those who can still walk, that is. No, a brace of hares would be tasty indeed, but I must keep you here. Besides, Valada Geloë tells me that one can live years without tasting meat.”
Deornoth grimaced. “But who would want to?” He studied his prince carefully. Josua’s already slender frame had grown even thinner; the play of his bones was plain beneath the skin. With what little fat he had worn long gone, the prince’s high forehead and pale eyes made him seem a statue of some ancient philosopher-monk, his gaze fixed always upon the infinite while the busy world spun on before him, ignored.
The fire hissed, working away at the damp wood. “One other question, then, my lord,” Deornoth said softly. “Are we so sure of this Stone of Farewell that we should drag these sick, wounded people across the Thrithings in search of it? I speak no ill of Geloë, who is plainly a good-hearted soul, but to go so far? The edge of Erkynland is only a few leagues to the west. Surely we could find a loyal heart in one of the towns of the Hasu Vale—even if they were too frightened of your brother the king to give us shelter, we could find food and drink and warmer clothing for our wounded, surely.”
Josua sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Perhaps, Deornoth, perhaps. Believe me, the thought has occurred to me.” He stretched his long legs before him, nudging at the edge of the coals with his boot heel. “But we cannot risk it, nor can we spare the time. Every hour we walk in the open means more time for one of Elias’ patrols to find us, or something worse to catch us unprotected. No, the only place that it seems we can go is Geloë’s Stone of Farewell, so the sooner we do, the better. Erkynland is lost to us—at least for now, perhaps forever.”
The prince shook his head and fell into thought once more. Deornoth sighed and poked at the fire.
They reached the banks of the Ymstrecca in the morning of their third day on the grasslands. The wide river shone faintly beneath the gray sky, a dim streak of silver passing like a dream through the dark, damp meadows. The water’s voice was as muted as its sheen, a faint murmur like distant conversation.
Josua’s people were content to pause and rest a while on the riverbanks, enjoying the sound and sight of the first swiftly-moving waters they had seen since deep in Aldheorte Forest. When Gutrun and Vorzheva made known their plan to follow the river downstream a short distance to where they could bathe their limbs in privacy, Josua was quick to object, worried for their safety. When Geloë offered to go with them, the prince reluctantly consented. It was difficult to think of a situation beyond the witch woman’s enormous competence.
“Ah, it is somehow as if I never left,” Vorzheva said, dangling her feet in the current. They had chosen a sandy bank where a stand of birch trees in midstream widened the rivercourse, shielding them from the view of their distant fellow travelers. Her voice was careless, though her face belied her. “It is like when I was a little girl.” She frowned as she splashed water on the numerous scratches covering her legs. “But it is so cold!”
Duchess Gutrun had loosened the neck of her garment. She stood a little way out from the bank, the river eddying around her plump calves as she splashed water on her throat and scrubbed at her face. “It is not so bad,” she laughed. “The river Gratuvask that runs by our home in Elvrit
shalla—now that is cold water! Every year at spring the maidens of the town go down to the river to bathe—I did when I was young.” She straightened up, staring at nothing. “The men must stay inside all morning, on penalty of a beating, so the maidens can splash in the Gratuvask. And cold! The river is born from the snows of the northern mountains! You have not heard shrieking until you hear a hundred young girls plunge into a chilly river on an Avrel morning!” She laughed again. “There is a story, you know, about one young man who was determined to see the Gratuvask maidens—it is a famous tale in Rimmersland, perhaps you have heard it... ?” She broke off, water sluicing from her cupped hands. “Vorzheva? Are you ill?”
The Thrithings-woman was bent over, her face pale as milk. “Just a pain,” she said harshly, straightening up. “It will go away soon. See, I am better now. Tell your story.”
Gutrun looked at her suspiciously. Before the duchess could say anything, Geloë spoke up from her seat on the bank nearby, where she had been tidying Leleth’s hair with a comb made from fishbone.
“The story must wait.” The witch woman’s tone was sharp. “See—we are not alone.”
Vorzheva and the duchess turned to follow Geloë’s pointing finger. Across the meadows, some three or four furlongs away to the south, a mounted rider stood poised on a hillock. He was much too far away for his face to be discernible, but there was little doubt he was looking in their direction. All the women stared back, even Leleth, her strange eyes wide. After several silent moments in which it seemed that no hearts beat, the solitary figure turned his horse and rode down the hillock, vanishing from sight.
“How ... how frightening,” the duchess said, clutching the neck of her dress closed with a damp hand. “Who is it? Those horrible Norns?”