The Stone of Farewell

by Tad Williams

  The monk folded his arms. He spoke patiently, but did not meet her eyes. “Will you not listen to me, Lady? This last time? My advice is not half so bad as you make out and you know it. How long will you listen to the honeyed words of this... this court beauty? You are like his little bird that he takes from the cage to play with, then puts back. He does not care for you. ”

  “You are a strange person to talk of that, Brother Cadrach. The earl has given us the captain’s cabin, fed us at his own table, and treated me with complete respect.” Her heart sped a little as she remembered Aspitis’ mouth at her ear, his firm, gentle touch. “You, on the other hand, have lied to me, taken money for my freedom, and struck me senseless. Only a madman could put himself forward as the better friend after all that.”

  Now Cadrach did lift his eyes, holding her gaze for a long moment. He seemed to be looking for something, and his probing inspection brought warmth to her cheeks. She made a mocking face and turned away.

  “Very well, Lady,” he said. From the corner of his eye she saw him shrug and walk off down the deck. “It seems they teach little of kindness or forgiving in Usires’ church these days,” he said over his shoulder.

  Miriamele blinked back angry tears. “You are the religious man, Cadrach, not me. If that is true, you are the best example!” She did not receive much pleasure from her own harsh rejoinder.

  When she had tired of watching the dockyard crowds, Miriamele went down to her cabin. The monk was sitting there, staring resolutely at nothing. Miriamele did not want to speak to him, so she turned and made her way above deck once more, then paced restlessly back and forth along the length of the Eadne Cloud. Those of the ship’s crew who had remained on board were refitting her for the outgoing voyage, some clambering in the rigging checking the state of the sails, others effecting various small repairs here and there about the deck. This was to be their only night on Vinitta, so the crewmen fairly flew through their tasks in a hurry to get ashore.

  Soon Miriamele found herself at the rail by the top of the gangplank, staring down once more at the eddying citizenry of the island. As the cool, moist wind ruffled her hair, she found herself thinking about what Cadrach had said. Could he be right? She knew that Aspitis had a flattering tongue, but could it be possible he did not care for her at all? Miriamele remembered their first night on deck, and the other sweet and secret kisses he had stolen from her since, and knew that the monk was wrong. She did not pretend that Aspitis loved her with all his soul—she doubted that her face tormented him at sleeping time, as his did to her—but she also knew beyond question that he was fond of her, and that was more than could be said of the other men she knew. Her father had wanted her to marry that horrible, drunken braggart Fengbald, and her uncle Josua had just wanted her to sit quietly and not cause him any trouble.

  But there was Simon ... she thought, and felt a flicker of warmth cut through the gray morning. He had been sweet in his foolish way, yet brave as any of the noblemen she had seen. But he was a scullion and she a king’s daughter... and what did it matter anyway? They were on opposite sides of the world. They would never meet again.

  Something touched her arm, startling her. She whirled to find the wrinkled face of Gan Itai gazing up into hers. The Niskie’s usual look of wily good humor was absent.

  “Girl, I need to speak to you,” the old one said.

  “Wh—what?” Something in the Niskie’s expression was alarming.

  “I had a dream. A dream about you—and about bad times. ” Gan Itai ducked her head, then turned and looked out to sea before turning back. “The dream said you were in danger, Miri ...”

  The Niskie broke off, looking past Miriamele’s shoulder. The princess leaned forward. Had she misheard, or had Gan Itai been about to call her by her true name? But that could not be: no one beside Cadrach knew who she was, and she doubted that the monk would have told anyone on the ship—what such news might bring was too unpredictable, and Cadrach was trapped out on the ocean just as she was. No, it must have been only the Niskie’s odd way of speaking.

  “Ho! Lovely lady!” A cheerful voice rang up from dockside. “It is a wet morning, but perhaps you would like to see Vinitta?”

  Miriamele whirled. Aspitis stood at the base of the gangplank with his men-at-arms. The earl wore a beautiful blue cloak and shiny boots. His hair danced in the wind.

  “Oh, yes!” she said, pleased and excited. How wonderful it would be to get off this ship! “I’ll be right down!”

  When she turned, Gan Itai had vanished. Miriamele frowned slightly, puzzled. She suddenly thought of the monk sitting stone-faced in the cabin they shared and felt a twinge of pity for him.

  “Shall I bring Brother Cadrach?” she called down.

  Aspitis laughed. “Certainly! We may find use in having a holy man with us who can talk us out of temptations! That way we may come back with a few cintis-pieces left in our purses!”

  Miriamele ran downstairs to tell Cadrach. He looked at her oddly, but drew on his boots, then carefully chose just the right heavy cloak before following her back up the ladder.

  The wind rose and the rainshowers became heavier. Although at first it was enough merely to walk along the busy waterfront with the handsome, sociable earl beside her, soon Miriamele’s excitement at being off the ship began to wear away. Despite the pushing crowd, Vinitta’s narrow streets seemed sad and gray. When Aspitis bought her a chain of bluebells from a flower seller and tenderly hung them around her neck, she found it all she could do to smile for him.

  It is the weather, she guessed. This unnatural weather has turned high summer into a dismal gray murk and put the cold right into my bones.

  She thought of her father sitting alone in his room, of the chilly, distant face he sometimes wore like a mask—a mask that he had come to wear more and more frequently in her last months in the Hayholt. Cold bones and cold hearts, she sang quietly to herself as the Earl of Eadne led his party down Vinitta’s rain-slicked byways.

  Cold bones and cold hearts

  Lie in the rain in battle’s wake,

  On chilly beach by Clodu-lake,

  ‘Til Aedon’s trumpet calls ...

  Just before noon Aspitis took them into an eating hall, where Miriamele immediately felt her flagging spirits begin to revive. The hall had a high ceiling, but the three large fire pits kept it warm and cheery while at the same time filling the air with smoke and the smell of roasting meat. Many others had decided the hall might be a nice place to be on this bitter morning: the rafters echoed with the tumult of diners and drinkers. The master of the hall and his several assistants were being worked to the utmost, thumping jugs of beer and bowls of wine onto the wooden tables, then snatching the proffered coins in a single continuous movement.

  A crude stage had been set up at the hall’s far end. At the moment a boy was juggling between acts of a puppet play, doing his best to keep several sticks in the air while suffering the drunken jests of spectators, using his feet—his only available extremities—to stop the occasional coin that came bouncing up onto the stage.

  “Will you have something to eat, fair lady?” Aspitis asked. When Miriamele nodded shyly, he dispatched two of his men-at-arms. His other guardsmen unceremoniously removed a large family from one of the pitted tables. Soon the original pair of soldiers returned with a crackling haunch of lamb, bread, onions, and a generous supply of wine.

  A bowlful soon drove away much of Miriamele’s chill, and she found that the morning’s walk had given her a considerable appetite. The noon bell had scarcely rung before her food was gone. She readjusted her position on the seat, trying to avoid an unladylike belch.

  “Look,” she said, “they’re starting the puppet play. Can we watch?”

  “Certainly,” Aspitis said, waving his hand generously. “Certainly. You will forgive me if I do not come with you. I have not finished my meal. Besides, it looks like a Usires play. You will not think me disrespectful if I say that, living in the lap of Mother Churc
h, I see them frequently enough—in all varieties, from the grandest to the meanest.” He turned and signaled one of his men to accompany her. “It is not a good idea for a well-dressed gentle lady like yourself to go unprotected among the milling crowd.”

  “I am done eating,” Cadrach said, standing. “I will come too, Lady Marya.” The monk fell in beside the earl’s guardsman.

  The play was in full swing. The spectators, especially the children, shrieked with delight as the puppets capered and smacked each other with their slapping-sticks. Miriamele, too, laughed as Usires tricked Crexis into bending over, then delivered a kick in the seat to the evil Imperator, but her smile soon faded. Instead of his usual horns, Crexis wore what looked like a crown of antlers. For some reason this filled her with unease. There was also something panicky and desperate in Usires’ high-pitched voice, and the puppet’s painted, upturned eyes seemed unutterably sad. She turned to find Cadrach looking at her somberly.

  “So we labor to build our little dams,” the monk said, barely audible above the shouting throng, “while the waters rise all around us.” He made the sign of the Tree above his gray vestments.

  Before she could ask him what he meant, a rising howl from the crowd drew her attention back to the puppet stage. Usires had been caught and hung wrongside-up on the Execution Tree, wooden head dangling. As Crexis the Goat prodded the helpless savior, another puppet appeared, rising from the darkness. This one was clothed all in orange and red tatters of cloth; as it swayed from side to side in an eerie dance, the rags swirled, as though the puppet were covered with licking flames. Its head was a black, faceless knob, and it carried a small wooden sword the color of mud.

  “Here comes the Fire Dancer to throw you down into the dark earth!” Crexis squealed. The Imperator did a little dance of joy.

  “I do not live by the sword,” the puppet Usires said. “A sword cannot harm that which is God within me, that which is silence and peace.” Miriamele almost believed she could see its motionless lips mouthing the words.

  “You can be silent forever, then—and worship your God in pieces!” the Imperator shouted triumphantly as the faceless Fire Dancer began to hack with its sword. The laughing, screaming crowd grew louder, a sound like hounds at the kill. Miriamele felt dizzy, taken as though with a sudden fever. Fear growing within her, she turned away from the stage.

  Cadrach no longer stood beside her.

  Miriamele turned to the guardsman on the other side. The soldier, seeing her questioning look, whirled in search of the monk. Cadrach was nowhere to be seen.

  A search of the eating hall by Aspitis and his men turned up no trace of the Hernystirman. The earl marched his party back to the Eadne Cloud through the windswept streets, his furious mood mirroring the angry skies. He was silent all the long walk back to the ship.

  Sinetris the fisherman looked the new arrival up and down. The stranger was a full head taller than him, broad as a gate, and soaking wet from the rain that hammered on the ceiling of the boat stall. Sinetris weighed the advantages and disadvantages of circling slowly around this newcomer until he could address the man from outside the tiny shelter. The disadvantages of such a plan were clear: it was the kind of day today that made even the hardiest shiver by the fire and praise God for roofs. Also, it was Sinetris’ own stall, and it seemed terribly unfair that he should have to go outside so that this stranger could growl and champ and suck up all the air while the fisherman stood miserably in the storm.

  The advantages, however, were equally clear. If he were outside, Sinetris could run for his life when this panting madman finally became murderous.

  “I don’t know what you’re saying, Father. There are no boats out today. You see how it is.” Sinetris gestured out at the sheeting rain, flung almost sideways by the force of the wind.

  The religious man stared at him furiously. The gigantic monk, if that was indeed what he was, had gone quite red and mottled in the face, and his eyebrows twitched. Strangely enough, Sinetris thought the monk seemed to be growing a beard: his whiskers were longer than even a week’s razorless travel would cause. To the best of the fisherman’s knowledge, Aedonite monks did not wear beards. Then, again, this one was some kind of barbarous northerner by his accent, a Rimmersman or some such: Sinetris supposed that those born beyond the River Gleniwent would be capable of just about any eccentricity. As he looked at the ragged whiskers and the chafed pink skin gleaming beneath, his unwholesome opinion of the monk grew more pronounced. This was definitely a man with whom to have as little to do as possible.

  “I don’t think you understand me, fisherman,” the monk hissed, leaning forward and squinting in a truly frightening way. “I have come nearly through Hell itself to get this far. I’m told that you are the only one who would take his boat out in such bad weather—and that the reason is because you overcharge.” A beefy hand closed on Sinetris’ arm, occasioning a squeal of shock. “Splendid. Cheat me, rob me, I don’t care. But I’m going downcoast to Kwanitipul and I’m tired of asking people to take me. Do you understand?”

  “B-but you could go overland!” Senitris squeaked. “This is no weather to be on the water ... ”

  “And how long would it take to go overland from here?”

  “A day! Two, perhaps! Not long!”

  The monk’s grip on his arm tightened cruelly. “You lie, little man. In this weather, through that marshy ground, it would take me a solid fortnight. But you’re rather hoping I’ll try, though, aren’t you? Hoping I’ll go away and sink into the mud somewhere?” An unpleasant smile flitted across the monk’s broad face.

  “No, Father! No! I would never think so of a holy man!”

  “That’s strange, because your fellow fishermen tell me you’ve cheated everyone, monks and priests by the score among ’em! Well, you shall have your chance to help a man of God—and you shall have your just and more than ample payment.”

  Sinetris burst into tears, impressing even himself. “But Eminence! We truly dare not go out in such weather!” As he said it, he realized that for once he was telling the truth and not merely trying to raise his price. This was weather that only a fool would brave. His pleading took on a note of greater desperation. “We will drown—you, God’s holiest priest, and poor Sinetris, hard-working husband and father to seven lovely children!”

  “You have no children, and pity the woman who will ever be your wife. I talked to your fishing-fellows, don’t you remember? You are the scum that even Perdruin the Mercenary has driven from her shores. Now, name your price, damn you. I must get to Kwanitupul as soon as possible.”

  Sinetris sniffled a bit to give himself time to think. The standard ferrying charge was one quinis, but with rough weather—and they certainly had that today, with no exaggeration—three or even four quinis would not be out of line.

  “Three gold Imperators.” He waited for the bellow of anger. When none came, he thought for a delirious moment he might have made his summer’s income in two days. Then he saw the pink face drawing close, until the monk’s breath was hot on his cheeks.

  “You worm,” the monk said softly. “There is a difference between simple robbery and rape. I think I should just fold you up like a napkin and take the damnable boat—leaving a gold Imperator for your imaginary widow and seven nonexistent brats, which is more than the whole leaky thing is worth.”

  “Two gold Imperators, Eminence? One for my imag ... widow, one to purchase a mansa for my poor soul at the church?”

  “One, and you know that is a gross overpayment. It is only because I am in a hurry. And we will leave now.”

  “Now? But the boat is not fitted out... ! ”

  “I’ll watch.” The monk let go of Sinetris’ throbbing wrist and folded his arms across his broad chest. “Go ahead, now. Hop to it!”

  “But kind Father, what about my gold piece... ? ”

  “When we get to Kwanitupul. Do not fear you will be cheated, as you have cheated others. Am I not a man of God?” The strange monk laughed
.

  Sinetris, snuffling quietly, went looking for his oars.

  “You said you had more gold!” Charystra, the proprietress of the inn known as Pelippa’s Bowl put on a practiced look of disgust. “I treated you like a prince—you, a little marsh-man—and you lied to me! I should have known better than to trust a dirty Wrannaman.”

  Tiamak struggled to keep his temper. “I think, good lady, that you have done very well from me. I paid you on arrival with two gold Imperators. ”

  She snorted. “Well, it’s all spent.”

  “In a fortnight? You accuse me of lying, Charystra, but that might as well be theft.”

  “How dare you speak that way to me! You had the best accommodations and the services of the best healer in Kwanitupul.”

  The ache of Tiamak’s wounds only added to his anger. “If you are referring to that drunken person who came to twist my leg and hurt me, I am sure his fee was scarcely more than a bottle or two of fern beer. As a matter of fact, he appeared to have enjoyed the payments of a few other victims before he came here.”

  The irony! To think that Tiamak, author of the soon-to-be definitive revision of Sovran Remedys of the Wranna Healers, should be forced into the care of a dryland butcher!

  “Anyway, I am lucky I kept my leg,” he growled. “Besides, you moved me out of the best accommodations quickly enough.” Tiamak waved his thin arm at the nest of blankets he now shared with Ceallio, the simpleminded door keeper.