by Tad Williams
The general and her closest followers moved like a wave through the gathered Hikeda’ya until they left the common square and mounted the stair to the second tier, to the great clan compounds and the order houses where the common people could not follow her. A trail of flowers lay on the steps behind them.
After Suno’ku had gone the people finally began to disperse, but they left slowly, reluctantly, as if someone had awakened them from a happy dream they did not want to relinquish.
Despite the great age and degraded condition of the Norn road, the journey from Three Ravens Tower into the Norn lands was the least of Porto’s problems. Endri, weak and feverish, could no longer ride behind him, so Porto set him on the front of the saddle as though he were a child and rode with one arm holding the wounded man upright.
The snow continued to flurry, and what was left of the old road quickly became a roil of icy mud as Duke Isgrimnur’s army wound its way between the lesser peaks of the Nornfells, headed always toward the ominous, upright bulk of the great mountain that mortals called Stormspike. Nobody was singing now, and the soldiers kept even their speaking voices low, awed to be trespassing in a land that had for so long been the stuff of tales to frighten unruly children. The cloudy, slate-gray sky hung low, like the ceiling of a humble crofter’s hut. Porto, like many others, felt as though he was being watched from above, as though tall Stormspike itself had eyes.
Can they see us yet? he wondered. With their magic tricks? What are they thinking?
“Is that you, Porto?” Endri asked, each word an effort.
“I’m here, lad.”
“I want to go home now. I’m cold.”
“I know. We all want to go home.” He could feel the younger man shivering, although the day was warmer than most had been since they crossed the Rimmersgard frontier. “We have one more thing to see to, that’s all. Then I’ll help you get back to Ansis Pelippé—back to Harborside.”
“Is it still summer?”
Porto was heartened. Endri hadn’t talked this much in days. He hoped it meant that the blackened place in his back was actually beginning to heal, but every time the wind changed direction he could smell the corruption of the young man’s wound. “Yes. Still summer.”
Endri was silent for a while. “They’ll be having the race, the harbor race,” he said at last. “My uncle . . . won it once. He had the biggest arms I’ve ever seen. Like a wrestler. He drowned.”
“How could he win the race if he drowned?” Porto leaned forward, hoping to see a smile, but the gape-mouthed emptiness of Endri’s face was like that of a dead man. And God save me, I’ve seen too many dead men, Porto thought. I want to see people I know again. I want to see my Sida, alive and smiling and far, far away from this cursed, freezing place. Thank the Holy Ransomer for Count Streáwe, who kept Perdruin out of the worst of this dreadful war.
“Uncle didn’t . . . drown then. That was another time.” Endri sighed, but it turned into a cough that Porto could feel rattling the frail chest through both their armor. “It was all another time,” he said when he had his breath back, so softly that Porto had to lean forward again to hear him.
Endri did not say any more and soon his head sagged in sleep as the horse continued to pick its way over the bumpy track that had once been a road as large and as magnificent as the Avenue of Triumph leading to the Sancellan Mahistrevis palace in Nabban. Porto did not know enough about the Norns to guess how long the road had lain like this, all but unused, nor had he heard of a time when the white-skinned northern fairies did anything but lurk in their snowy wastes and plot vengeance against mankind. For a moment the depth of what he did not know, the incomprehensible vastness of history, almost made him dizzy. He looked to the other riders nearby, some Rimmersmen, some southerners like himself, and wondered if the rest thought like he did. By their faces, whatever thoughts they had were just as grim.
Isgrimnur had already grown weary of staring at the mountain, but it had become hard to look at anything else. The great dark cone of Stormspike seemed to swell and spread as they approached until it covered most of the horizon and threatened to pierce the low sky with its sharp peak. Wispy clouds of steam drifted up from crevices in the mountain’s flank, then twined upward until the winds of the upper heights snatched them away, leaving only a few faint wisps to wreathe Stormspike’s head.
Despite the white wisps at its brow, the mountain was not enfeebled; it towered over the smaller peaks nearby like a great thane among his kneeling housecarls. The stripes of snow trailing down from the mountain’s white cap only made its black stone immensity loom larger, as though Nature had sought to restrain it and failed. Yet Isgrimnur and a few thousand mortals planned to bring it under their sway.
“We are fools,” said Sludig from just behind him.
Isgrimnur turned and looked at him. “Fools? Why?”
“Why? By the good God, my lord, look at that. That is no tower or crumbling wall. That is the Lord’s own work, set down in the first days of Creation and still burning with His fires. How can we think to conquer it?”
Isgrimnur was disquieted by how closely Sludig’s doubts echoed his own, but he only said, “If we do God’s work, we need not fear God’s creations, however mighty. Besides, we do not seek to conquer the mountain, old friend, just the creatures hiding within it. All that holds us back is a gate, made by the work of hands, not God.”
“Fairy hands,” said Sludig glumly. “Fairy magic.”
Isgrimnur spotted the Sitha-woman on her white horse just a short distance behind them, her soft gray garments fluttering in the wind. Unlike the rest of the riders, huddled deep in their saddles with hoods pulled close against the flying snow, she seemed utterly unconcerned about such trivialities as wind and weather. “Ho, Lady Ayaminu!” he called. “Will you talk with me?”
She made no discernible movement but her horse sped its pace until she was riding between Isgrimnur and Sludig. “I am here,” she said.
“What of the gate?” He did not trust her forbearance toward the Norns, but she had not yet told him anything false and was the best resource they had until they could send out scouts. “Is it as strong as stories tell? Are there spells or some other Norn trickery protecting it?”
She gave him a look that had a small edge of amusement. “You do not really understand the ways of our people, Duke Isgrimnur. The two great doors of the gate were forged of bronze and witchwood long ago. What you call ‘spells,’ the tools used in making them, are a part of them, not something that has been put on like a coat of whitewash on a mud hut.”
“Are you saying that we cannot knock them down, even if we rebuild the great Bear? Our weapons are iron—we can smash through any bronze. But this witchwood . . .” He shook his head. “That is something I do not understand, a magical wood as strong as forged metal.”
Ayaminu made a swift gesture with one hand, as though catching a bird in mid-flight and then letting it go. “Anything can be knocked down. And even witchwood can be broken. Surely you have shattered a few Hikeda’ya swords in battle, so you know that it can be destroyed. But the older it is—the closer it is to its roots in the Garden and the purer its preparation—the more difficult it is to destroy. The gates are old. They have stood for thousands of years. Can you defeat them with a single iron ram? Only the Dance will tell.”
“The dance?” Isgrimnur saw that Sludig was glaring. His liegeman did not like talk of spells and magic even in the context of preparing for a fight.
“The Dance of Time,” the Sitha said, weaving her fingers in a swift pattern the duke could not follow. “The Dance of What Will Be. It is going on all around us and inside us. It seems to follow a set course of steps, but in truth there is no fixed pattern.”
Isgrimnur scowled. “In other words, you don’t know if we can knock the gate down.”
“Of course not.” This time she actually smiled. “But the tide seems t
o be with you. If there is ever a time when the gates might fall, that time is now. But many things still remain to be seen, and many steps must still be danced.” Before Isgrimnur could protest the uselessness of her answers, Ayaminu pointed to a tall ring of standing rocks at the nearest edge of the ruined outer city. “There,” she said. “Do you see that vast jumble of unroofed stone? That was once the great Sky Palace, the observatory where the Queen’s Celebrants watched the stars.”
“What happened to it? And why do you point it out?”
“What happened was that it was abandoned when men became too many and too fierce, as was all the rest of Nakkiga-That-Was, the city outside the mountain we are approaching. The reason I show it to you is because it would make a good place for camp. You do not wish to get too close to the mountain before you are ready, I think.”
“Of course not. We will need to send out our scouts.”
“Then I think the Sky Palace will make a good camp. There are still some cells that have roofs, where men and horses can sleep out of the cold, and it is far from Stormspike itself and spying eyes.”
“This tumbledown Sky Palace of yours looks more like a trap than a refuge,” Isgrimnur said, “or at least like a spot where I would plan an ambush if I were the White Foxes.”
“I do not think you need fear an ambush. The Hikeda’ya are down to only a few fighters. They have not tried to stop you since you crossed into their lands because the mountain itself is their greatest defense. Their mistress Queen Utuk’ku is deep in what is called ‘the dangerous sleep’—the Hikeda’ya have never been so weak as at this moment. As to camping in the Sky Palace, Isgrimnur, though you may not understand me, I promise you the ancient observatory has a . . . spirit of its own. That is the best I can explain it, and that spirit is not at all warlike, which is why it became a spot to contemplate the mysteries of the Sky Dance. I think your army will be safe there. The true danger is farther ahead, at the foot of the mountain itself. At the gates.”
Isgrimnur looked from Ayaminu to Sludig, then at the array of titan stones before them, a few still suggesting the vague shapes of walls and arches and other structures, but far more of them toppled. The summer days were cold in these northern reaches but very long, and the men had been riding and marching for at least an hour or two longer than they normally would have.
“Well, then. I will take your advice,” the duke said at last. “Sludig, ride to Jarl Vigri and tell him we will make camp in the Sky Palace there, as the lady names it.”
Sludig, chewing on unspoken words, gave him a look that Isgrimnur thought bordered on insubordination; Sludig did not like magic, and he had good reason to fear it. Isgrimnur thought he might say something, but instead he only nodded and rode off to find Vigri.
Isgrimnur turned back to the great shadow of Stormspike, a spearhead jutting from the rocky ground and aimed at Heaven, a mute threat that could not be ignored however much he might have wished to turn back toward the lands he understood.
This is a lonely place, he thought. This is a cold, lonely place we’ve come to.
“Husband, come back to bed,” said Khimabu. “The bell has not yet sounded.”
It was true, the great stone bell in the Temple of the Martyrs had not rung the first hour of morning, but Viyeki had been awake for some time, sleepless and full of buzzing thoughts. “I must go, my wife. There is a meeting of the War Council.”
She threw a slender arm across her eyes as he lit a taper. “You are not a member of the War Council, husband. Why must you go? Will you leave me to stand outside the council hall with the commoners and slaves, waiting for news? Yaarike will name you as his successor, will he not?”
“That is not for me to say. All I know is that he wants me there.”
Khimabu sat up, the cover falling away. For a moment, as always, Viyeki was stunned by his wife’s beauty, her graceful limbs and perfect, narrow face. His mouth dried as he looked at her. How much more astounding that she, a member of venerable Clan Daesa, should have let herself be joined to him. “You have been gone for months. Surely you will not desert me so soon?” She swung her long legs out of the bed and stood up, as unconcerned with her nakedness as a forest creature.
Looking at her—staring at her—as she began to dress, Viyeki was seized by contrasting moods. He was astonished to realize that this flawless scion of one of the oldest Nakkiga clans was his, but that was quickly followed, as it usually was, with the nagging question of why her parents and clansfolk had chosen him as the recipient of this great gift. Certainly few others except High Magister Yaarike had seen much potential in him, and Viyeki had labored long in thankless, middling obscurity for the Order of Builders before being lifted up.
“My wife,” he said, and hesitated. She turned and saw him looking at her.
“Ah,” she said. “Is there something else on your mind beyond the honor the old man is giving you? Would you perhaps like to see if this is the day we create an heir?” Her morning gown was not yet fastened, and she let it fall open to reveal her body of shadowed ivory. “I would not be unwilling . . .”
“My wife, we cannot celebrate, and we cannot make an heir—not this morning.” He was surprised at how little he wanted her at this moment, when he should have been feeling triumphant and powerful. “This is the War Council. We are besieged. I cannot let my own selfish concerns keep me from attending Magister Yaarike. Leaders of all the orders will be there. How could I be the last to enter the Council Hall?”
In an instant the cold look that he so dreaded swept over her like a sudden storm around the mountain’s peak. “No, how could you? And do you think you alone have tasks to do, husband? It is war, after all, as you said.” She stared at him now as though he were not her mate but only a lowly servant. “I have my own work maintaining this household that you have so seldom visited lately, but I have also to feed and find places for all our workers and slaves whose homes near the gates have been sealed off at your own magister’s orders.”
“So that it can be better defended,” he said with a calmness he did not feel. His wife’s sudden angers always left him surprised and unprepared. “What else can be done? We are at war and that is where the enemy will attack.”
“Of course, husband. But apparently your beloved master will not even allow you and your household the simple pleasure of celebrating your return and your long-deserved advancement.”
“Khimabu, this is not the way . . .”
“I understand.” She turned from him with a definite air of dismissal. “Your wife can wait. Making an heir can wait. Do you even desire an heir, Viyeki sey-Enduya, or have the mortals at our doorstep changed your mind about that, too?”
“Don’t be foolish,” he said, but seeing her expression he softened his tone. “You know that I do. If the Garden desires it and fate permits it, yes, my wife, of course I wish to make an heir with you.” But after many Great Years without one, he wondered whether they would ever succeed, war or no.
“Then go to your council,” she said as if that were something of little import, an amusement. “I will do my own work and think of how best to announce your rise to my kin and your underlings.”
“No word of that can be spoken yet, Khimabu! Until my master informs the Celebrants, he still might change his mind.”
“Is old Yaarike a fool?”
Even in the privacy of their bedchamber, such talk worried him. “No, of course he is not a fool.”
“Then he will not change his mind. He will give my husband what my husband so richly deserves. And if my husband remembers what is important, so will I.” She had banished the fury from her face, and now moved toward him, stopping just short. She took his hand and placed it on her breast through the thin fabric of the morning gown. He could feel her heart beating slowly and steadily. “So will I.”
Outside the Council Hall, the Martyrs’ Temple bell tolled again to mark the middle ho
ur of morning, a deep, flat sound that always made Viyeki think of a heavy door falling shut. It was time for the council to begin.
He was surprised at how sparsely attended it was, how empty the huge, columned hall. Looking across the archaic witchwood table and its centerpiece, an arrangement of stones and living plants meant to symbolize the Garden that had birthed their race, Viyeki could not help wondering why so many of the other orders were not present—not Luk’kaya, High Gatherer of the Order of Harvesters, nor any representatives of other powerful orders like the Echoes.
Zuniyabe, chief of the Celebrants, was of course at the table with several lesser nobles of his order, but it could not have been a Queen’s War Council without him, since he was the ultimate authority on tradition and the governing principles of the people.
Lord Akhenabi was absent, but his chief lieutenant Jikkyo, whose blind, white eyes belied his knowledge of all that concerned the Singers’ order, had come in his master’s place with underlings of his own, explaining that the Lord of Song was busy tending the slumbers of Queen Utuk’ku.
The Order of Sacrifice was doubly represented, both by General Suno’ku and the order’s leader, Muyare, who had replaced dead Ekisuno as high marshal. Broad, stern-faced Muyare was Suno’ku’s distant cousin, her senior, and—despite her fame and growing popularity among the lesser castes of Nakkiga—her commander.
When High Celebrant Zuniyabe indicated that they could start, Viyeki’s master Yaarike extended his fingers in a gesture of polite inquiry. “What of the Harvesters, the Summoners, and the Echoes?” he asked. “I do not see any of them. Have they nothing to say to this council?”
“We thought it best to keep this small, so that we might talk as openly as possible.” Suno’ku spoke before Zuniyabe or her superior had even opened their mouths. Viyeki thought Marshal Muyare looked a little regretful when he finally spoke.