(Shadowmarch #1) Shadowmarch

by Tad Williams

  He picked his way with aching caution back down the wall, so heavy with despair that he was almost surprised that he did not sink deep into the ground when his feet finally touched it.

  It was only a day like many others, but as she awakened in the early hours to hear the bell in the Erivor Chapel tolling as the mantis and his acolytes began the morning’s worship, Briony was almost as gloomy and disturbed as if it were the day of an execution.

  Rose and Moina and her maids came into the room, exaggeratedly quiet as though the princess regent were a bear that they feared waking, but still managing to make as much noise as a pentecount of soldiers in Market Square. She groaned and sat up, then allowed them to surround her and pull off her nightclothes.

  “Will you wear the blue dress today?” Moina asked with only the smallest hint of pleading in her voice.

  “The brown,” suggested Rose. “With the slashed sleeves. You look so splendid in that . . .”

  “What I wore yesterday,” she said. “But clean. A tunic—the one with the gold braid. A riding skirt. Tights.”

  The maids and the two ladies did their best not to look upset, but they were very poor mummers. Rose and Moina in particular seemed to feel that Briony’s boyish costumes were a personal affront, but on this morning the tender feelings of her ladies were of little interest to her. Briony was tired of dressing for other people, tired of the forced prettiness that she thought gave others the unspoken right to ignore what she said. Not that anyone dared completely ignore the princess regent, but she knew that when they were in private, the courtiers wished for Olin back, and not simply because he was the true king. She felt it in their glances: they did not trust her because she was a woman—worse, a mere girl. It made her almost mad with resentment.

  Is there a one of them, male or female, who did not issue from a woman in the first place? The gods have given our sex charge of the greatest gift of all, the one most important to the survival of our kind, but because we cannot piddle high against a wall, we do not deserve any other responsibility?

  “I don’t care if you’re angry with me,” she snapped at Rose, “but don’t pull my hair like that.”

  Rose dropped the brush and took a step backward, real upset on her face. “But, my lady, I didn’t mean . . .”

  “I know. Forgive me, Rosie. I’m in a foul mood this morning.”

  While the women braided her hair, Briony took a little fruit and some sugared wine, which Chaven had told her was good for healthful digestion. When her ladies had succeeded in piling her tresses into a tight but intricate arrangement on top of her head, she let them pin the hat into place, although she was already anxious to be moving.

  Underneath it all, threatening to pull her down like the sucking black undertow in Brenn’s Bay that sometimes formed beneath a deceptively placid surface, lay the horror of what Barrick had told her. She was frightened for her brother, of course, and she ached for him, too; he had taken to his rooms in the days since, making the excuse of a recurrence of his fever, but she felt certain that what was really going on was that he was ashamed to face her. As if she could love him any the less! Still, it was a shadow between them that made all their other differences seem small.

  But even worse, in a way, was what he had told her about her father. Briony had never been the kind of foolish girl who thought her father could do no wrong—she had felt Olin’s sharp tongue enough times not to feel overly coddled, and he had always been a man of dark moods—but Barrick’s story was astounding, devastating. To think that all through her childhood her father had carried that burden, and had kept it secret . . . She didn’t know which was the stronger feeling, her pain at his suffering or her fury that he had hidden it from those who loved him best.

  Whatever the case, it felt as though a hole had been torn through the walls of a familiar room to reveal not the equally familiar room presumed to be on the other side but a portal into some unimaginable place.

  How could it be? How could all this be? Why did no one tell me? Why didn’t Father tell me? Is he like Barrick—does he think I’d hate him?

  Briony had always been the practical child, at least compared to her twin—no brooding, no flickering changes of mood—but this went beyond anything she had experienced. In some ways it was worse than Kendrick’s death, because it turned upside down all that she had thought she knew.

  She was in mourning again, not for the death of a person this time, but for her peace of mind.

  I’m tired. I’m so tired. It was only ten of the morning. She couldn’t help being angry at Barrick. Whatever dreadful thing he was suffering, he was letting all of the duties of ruling Southmarch fall onto her.

  The throne room was jostlingly full of people with claims on her time, and some of those claims were inarguable. Just now the Lord Chancellor Gallibert Perkin and three gentlemen of his chambers were going into painful detail about the need either to find more money for the government of Southmarch or to use some of the ransom money collected for King Olin on expenses. The merchants were worried about the coming year, the bankers were being careful with their funds, and the crown had in any case already borrowed more than it should have, which made dipping into the ransom an attractive alternative. It was ultimately a problem without solution, although a solution would have to be found—to spend the ransom would be to betray not only her father but the people who had given, not always happily, to free him. But the household of Southmarch ate money like some gold-devouring ogre out of a folktale. Briony had never understood how much work there was in simply keeping an orderly house—especially when that house was the biggest in the north of Eion and the center of the lives of some fifty thousand souls—let alone an entire orderly country. The crown would have to come up with some other way of making money. As always, Lord Chancellor Perkin recommended levying more taxes on the people who had already given hugely toward ransoming her father.

  The parade continued. Two Trigonate mantises spoke on behalf of Hierarch Sisel’s ecclesiastical court, which believed it had jurisdiction over the town court in a particular case. This, too, was about money, since the crime was a major one—a local landowner accused of the death of a tenant by negligence—and whichever court supplied the judge would keep any levies or fines. Briony had hoped that being the princess regent would mean she would get to solve problems, punish the guilty, reward the innocent. Instead she had discovered that what she mostly did was decide who else got to hear suits of law, the town magistrate, the hierarch’s justices, or—and this very occasionally, usually just in cases of nobility accused—the throne of Southmarch.

  Midday came and went. The pageant of people and their problems dragged on and on like some official celebration of boredom and pettiness. Briony wished she could stop and have a rest but the line of supplicants seemed to stretch out to the ends of the earth and whatever remained undone today would need doing tomorrow, when she was supposed to have a lesson with Sister Utta. She had learned to be fierce in protecting her few moments of private time so, instead of resting, she called for some cold meat and bread and shifted back and forth in her seat to ease her aching fundament. It was strange but true that even two or three pillows could not make spending an entire day in a chair comfortable.

  It was Lord Nynor the castellan who leaned in toward her now, wrapping his beard around his finger in a distracted way, waiting for her attention to return.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “What did you say? Something about Chaven?”

  “He has sent me a rather odd letter,” the old man explained. Briony had been horrified and fascinated to learn that overseeing this wretched parade of demanders and complainers was the sort of thing Nynor had been doing every day of his long career, or at least through the several decades since he had become one of her grandfather Ustin’s chief courtiers. He didn’t look mad, but who would choose such a life? “The physician has had to leave on an unexpected journey,” Nynor said. “He suggests I summon Okros of Eastmarch to the castle in his absen
ce, which he says may be a few days or perhaps even more.”

  “He often goes to consult with other learned men,” said Briony. “Surely that is not so surprising.”

  “But without telling us where to find him? And with the queen so close to giving birth? In any case, the letter itself struck me as strange.” Nynor’s eyes were red-rimmed and watery, so that even at the happiest of times he looked as though he had been crying, but he was sharp-witted, and his long years of service to the Eddon family had proved him worth listening to.

  “He says nothing that is directly alarming? Then give it to me and I will examine it later.” She took the folded parchment from the castellan and slipped it into the hart-skin envelope in which she carried her seals and signet ring and other important odds and ends. “Is there anything else?”

  “I need your permission to summon Brother Okros.”

  “Given.”

  “And the poet fellow . . . ?”

  “Tinlight? Tin . . . ?”

  “Tinwright. Is it true you wish him added to the household?”

  “Yes, but not in any grand way. Give him an allowance of clothing, and of course he is to be fed . . .”

  There was a murmur in the crowd as someone pushed his way forward, a drawing back as though an animal, harmless but of doubtful cleanliness, had been set loose in the room. Matty Tinwright burst out of the front row of courtiers and cast himself down on the stones at the foot of the dais. “Ah, fair princess, you remembered your promise! Your kindness is even greater than is spoken, and it is spoken of in the same proverbial way as the warmth of the sun or the wetness of rain.”

  “Gah. Perin hammer us all dead,” rumbled Avin Brone, who had been lurking beside the throne all day like a trained bear, growling at those he deemed were wasting the monarchy’s time.

  The poet was amusing, but just now Briony wasn’t in the mood. “Yes, well, go with Lord Nynor and he will see you served, Tinwright.”

  “Do you not wish to hear my latest verse? Inspired this very day in this very room?”

  She tried to tell him no, that she did not wish to hear it, but Tinwright was not the type to wait long enough for rejection—a trick he had needed to learn early, judging by his verse.

  “ ‘Dressed all in mannish black she stands, like the thunderheads of Oktamene’s dour wrath in the summer sky. Yet beneath those sable billows there is virgin snow, white and pure, that will make the land in cool sweetness to lie . . .’ ”

  She couldn’t help sympathizing with the lord constable’s groans, but she wished Brone might be a little more discreet—the young man was doing his best, and it had been her idea to encourage him: she didn’t want him humiliated. “Yes, very nice,” she said. “But at the moment I am in the middle of state business. Perhaps you could write it down for me and send it so that I can . . . appreciate its true worth without distraction.”

  “My lady is too kind.” Smiling at the other courtiers, having established himself as one of their number—or at least believing so—Tinwright rose, made a leg, and melted into the crowd. There were a few titters.

  “My lady is too kind by half,” Brone said quietly.

  Steffans Nynor still lingered, a slightly nervous look on his face. “Yes, my lord?” Briony asked him.

  “May I come near the throne, Princess?”

  She beckoned him forward. Brone also moved a bit closer, as though the scrawny, ancient Nynor might be some kind of threat—or perhaps simply to hear better.

  “There is one other thing,” the castellan said quietly. “What are we to do with the Tollys?”

  “The Tollys?”

  “You have not heard? They arrived two hours ago—I am shamed that I did not inform you, but I felt sure someone else would.” He gave Brone a squint-eyed look. The two were political rivals and not the best of friends. “A company from Summerfield Court is here, led by Hendon Tolly. The young man seems much aggrieved—he was talking openly about the disappearance of his brother, Duke Gailon.”

  “Merciful Zoria,” she said heavily. “That is dire news. Hendon Tolly? Here?”

  “The middle brother, Caradon, is doubtless too pleased to find himself next in line for the dukedom to want to come stir up trouble himself,” Brone said quietly. “But I doubt he tried very hard to stop his little brother—not that it would have done him much good. Hendon is a wild one, Highness. He must be closely watched.” As the lord constable finished this little speech, one of the royal guard appeared at his shoulder and Brone turned to have words with him.

  “Wild” was not the word Briony would have chosen. “Almost mad” would have been closer—the youngest Tolly was as dangerous and unpredictable as fire on a windy day. Her sigh was the only voice she gave to a heart-felt wish to be out of this, to turn back the calendar to the days when there had been nothing harder to think on than how she and Barrick would avoid their lessons.

  And curse Barrick for leaving this all to me! A moment later she felt a pang of sorrow and even fear about her unkind thought: her brother needed no more curses.

  “Treat the Tollys with respect,” she said. “Give them Gailon’s rooms.” She remembered what Brone had said about the Summerfield folk and the agents of the Autarch. “No, do not, in case there has been some communication left behind in a secret place. Put them in the Tower of Winter so they are not underfoot and will find it harder to move around unmarked. Lord Brone, you will arrange to keep them watched, I assume? Lord Brone?”

  She turned, irritated that he was not paying attention. The guardsman who had spoken to him was gone, but Brone himself had not moved and there was a look on his face Briony had never seen before—confusion and disbelief. “Lord Constable, what is wrong?”

  He looked at her, then at Nynor. He leaned forward. “You must send these people away. Now.”

  “But what have you heard?”

  He shook his great, bearded head, still as slow-moving and bewildered as a man in a dream. “Vansen has returned, Highness—Ferras Vansen, the captain of the guard.”

  “He has? And what has he discovered? Has he found the caravan?”

  “He hasn’t, and he has lost most of his company beside—more than a dozen good men. But, stay, Lady—that is not what is most important! Call for him. If what I hear is true, we will need to speak to him immediately.”

  “If what you hear is . . . But what do you hear, Brone? Tell me.”

  “That we are at war, Princess, or shortly will be.”

  “But . . . war? With whom?”

  “The armies of all fairyland, it seems.”

  26

  The Considerations of Queens

  THE DISTANT MOUNTAINS:

  We see them

  But we will never walk them

  Nevertheless, we see them

  —from The Bonefall Oracles

  SHE ARRIVED WITH SURPRISINGLY little ceremony, not mounted on a dove this time but on a fat white rat with a fine spread of whisker. She was accompanied only by a pair of guards on foot—their tiny faces pale and drawn because of this great responsibility—and by the scout Beetledown. Chert had been sitting longer than he would have liked and was glad he was not expected to rise; he was not certain his legs would bend that well without a little limbering first. But neither could he imagine greeting a royal personage without making some show of respect, especially when he hoped to beg a favor, so he bent his head.

  “Her Exquisite and Unforgotten Majesty, Queen Upsteeplebat, extends her greetings to Chert of Blue Quartz,” announced Beetledown in his small, high voice.

  Chert looked up. She was watching him in an intent but friendly way. “I thank you, Majesty.”

  “We heard your request and we are here,” she said, as birdlike in pitch as her herald. “Also, we enjoyed your generous gift and it has joined the Great Golden Piece and the Silver Thing in our collection of crown jewels. We are sad to hear that the boy is missing. What can we do?”

  “I don’t know, to tell you the truth, Majesty. I was hoping
you might be able to suggest something. I have searched all the places that I know—all of Funderling Town knows he is gone—but I have found no sign of him. He likes to climb and explore and I know little of the rooftops and other high places of the castle and city. I thought you might have an idea of where he might have gone, or even have seen him.”

  The queen turned. “Have any of our folk seen the boy, faithful Beetledown?”

  “Not hair nor hide, Majesty,” the little man said solemnly. “Asked in many holes and away down all the Hidden Hall last night, did I, without a sniff of un to be found.”

  The queen spread her hands. “It seems that we can tell you nothing,” she told Chert sadly. “We, too, feel the loss, because we believe the Hand of the Sky is on that boy and thus he is important to our people, the Sni’sni’snik-soonah, as well.”

  Chert sagged. He had not truly thought that the Rooftoppers could solve the mystery, but it had been the only hope left to him. Now there was nothing he could do but wait, and the waiting would be terrible. “Thank you, anyway, Your Majesty. I am grateful that you came. It was very kind.”

  She watched as he began to climb to his feet. “Hold a moment. Have you smelled for him?”

  “Have I what?”

  “Have you smelled for his track?” When she saw Chert’s expression, she raised an eyebrow more slender than a strand of spiderweb. “Do your people know nothing of this?”

  “Yes, we do, I suppose. There are animals used for hunting game and certain other things we eat. But I would not know how to try to find the boy that way.”