by Tad Williams
“I sense there is something else you want to say to me, my lord,” Miri ventured at last. “Please, feel free. Today this room is mine, not your brother’s. Everything will be for my own ears and no one else’s.”
Drusis nodded. “Very well, Majesty. Yes, there is something, but I must say first that I mean it in no other way but as your loyal servant.”
“Go on.”
He scowled, but Miri knew it was not aimed at her so much as a grimace of general frustration. It was a habitual look of his, as though words were always a poor substitute. “Simply this, Majesty. You must leave Nabban.”
“What?”
He shook his head. “It is not a threat, I promise you. You are of our people by blood, but you have been a long time away in the softer, kindlier lands of the north. You do not understand this place.”
She could not help smirking slightly at the idea of the north, especially blizzard-scarred Rimmersgard, as soft and kindly. “And what will my lack of understanding cause, my lord?”
“It will cause nothing. It will do nothing. And this idea to have the Ingadarines and the Benidrivines and all the rest come together to sign a pact with the blessings of Lector Vidian will do nothing either. Nothing will change, except that the argument will grow sharper and take longer to be settled.”
She gave him a hard look. “It seems to me that it is up to the signatories—and that includes you, Earl Drusis—whether such a pact will work or not. Are you saying that you have already decided not to abide by it?”
“This pact, this . . . covenant . . . is naïve.” Color came into his cheeks, turning the sun-browned skin brick red. “It is meddling by outsiders and it will only make things worse.”
“Explain, please.”
“You and your husband—” he began loudly, then caught himself. “The High Throne believes it can change the nature of men by words. That is foolish, and also dangerous. Here in Nabban we have settled our problems ourselves for centuries. Sometimes those problems were solved by a change of rulers. Other times, by giving more power to the families in the Dominiate, or by taking some away from them—usually the better idea of the two, because that place is full of those who desire success without risk. When my ancestors were shedding blood in Nabban’s wars the ancestors of the Dominiatis Patrisi were selling faulty goods to the imperatorial throne and starving the troops in the field by failing to deliver what they had promised.”
“But we are not making an agreement solely with the Dominiate,” she said calmly enough, though she did not at all enjoy being treated like a fool who did not know history. “We are bringing together all the family houses—yours and Dallo’s, but also the Claveans, Sulians, Doellenes, and Hermians.”
“Nothing good was ever done by talking,” Drusis said firmly, “and the only treaties worth signing are written after the fighting, when who has won and who has lost is clear. And on top of it all, you are bolstering my brother’s hand at a very bad time, when his cowardice is the greatest danger to this country—to your entire High Ward—that there could be.”
“You talk of the Thrithings, I assume, but I find it hard to believe that a man who was almost attacked at his own wedding by other Nabbanai could make that claim.”
Drusis shook his head and did not speak for some moments as he struggled to contain his frustration. His size and obvious anger made Miriamele wonder whether meeting him in private had been a bad idea. She was not frightened, but she was no longer comfortable.
“Do you remember the last war with the Thrithings?” he demanded.
She looked at him flatly, searching for temperate words, though she was growing angry. “Yes, Earl Drusis, I do. My husband led our armies in that fight, you might remember.”
Her unhappiness seemed to escape his notice. “Exactly. The Thrithings-men had spilled over your borders as they currently spill over ours, attacking and pillaging and murdering your citizens. And your husband led an Erkynlandish army—”
“Not just Erkynlandish. The Hernystiri and the Rimmersmen fought beside us.”
“Yes, yes,” Drusis said, clearly impatient with the interruption. “But when they had finally broken the grasslanders’ resistance, instead of going on to solve the problem, they simply turned back home again. Your husband never bothered to make common cause with us, when Nabban would eagerly have undertaken a second attack in the south. Together we could have crushed the horsemen, but instead we let them all ride away again, barely chastened. Which is why we have them on Nabban’s doorstep today, in greater force than ever.”
Miriamele could feel herself reddening too at hearing a long, painful war described so dismissively. She took a sip of wine before speaking. “First off, my lord, you have made light work of facts. The Thrithings-men that spilled over our borders—some clans warring with old Fikolmij in the High Thrithings—attacked our citizens, slaughtered livestock, burned villages. But here in Nabban you have moved your citizens onto their lands—lands that used to belong to the Thrithings-men. That is not the same.”
“Pfah. A trick of language.”
“I have not finished, sir. You also talk of crushing the horsemen between Nabbanai armies and our own. Where would the rest of the Thrithings-men have gone while this ‘crushing’ took place? Might war have not spilled out in all directions, destroying much more than the outlaws would ever have done? And what of the grasslanders’ women and children, along with the rest of the Thrithings-men who had nothing to do with the fight?”
“You talk as if they were civilized folk,” said Drusis, scowling. “They are not. They are vermin, breeding until they are everywhere and then stealing from others to feed their young.” He made a visible effort to regain his composure. “Majesty, no matter what you think of me, we are on the same side. You have a mission to bring your High Ward and its laws and benefits to all men—why not the Thrithings-folk too? If you worry for them—which I think is foolish, but it shows your womanly heart is kinder than mine—then why not bring them under the sway of the High Ward like you have all the rest of us? Whether we wanted it or not.”
Miriamele stood. “My lord, you keep talking of things that I know very well, as if I were some innocent girl from the farm country instead of a queen. My grandfather’s High Ward came about because he defeated every country that tried to conquer him. Instead of enslaving them, he made them a part of his kingdom. When he defeated Nabban, did he dissolve the Dominiate? Did he destroy the last imperator’s family after the Battle of Nearulagh? No, he didn’t—because that was your family.
“After Ardrivis surrendered, my grandfather, King John, gave rule over Nabban to your great-grandfather Benidrivis under our royal ward. Your people were not enslaved. I daresay most of the ordinary folk, the farmers and shepherds and merchants, noticed no change at all, except perhaps for the better.”
She walked toward him. “If the day comes when the choice is between our own freedom and that of the Thrithings-people . . . well, on that day we will talk again, you and I, and perhaps I will agree with you. But not today, Earl Drusis.”
He stood his ground, and not only mastered his rage but even looked a little contrite, which surprised her. “Your Majesty,” he said, and to her surprise dropped to one knee, “let us not part on these terms. We argue about the words that might be written in a book of history someday, but what happens now is all I truly care about. It is not just Nabban that is in danger if you stay and force this foolish policy on us, these pacts and treaties that cannot survive the way things truly happen here. You put yourself in danger, too. There are currents flowing here you cannot even see, let alone navigate. We have always solved our own problems here. ‘Sometimes a family must bleed to live,’ is one of our oldest sayings. I beg you, even if you care nothing for anything else I say, believe that my concern is not just selfish.”
“I never thought so,” she said, but did not find herself entirely convincing.
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br /> “An empire must grow or die, even the High Ward. Even now our ships have begun to find ways through the Southern Straits that have been denied us for so many centuries. We may find new lands there, or the people or creatures living there may find us, but either way, things cannot remain the same. Peace never lasts.”
“Saying peace never lasts, or that an empire must grow or die, is like saying that only birth and death matter,” she told him. “Most of life is what comes between—the simple hard work of living. I think women may understand that better than men.” She reached out a hand toward him, bidding him rise. “Know this, my lord Drusis. You have your duty, as you see it, but so do I have mine. Just because it is a woman’s heart that beats in my breast does not mean my bravery or my belief is any the less than yours. I will do what I think best for the High Ward and for Nabban. I can do no other.”
He rose, kissed her hand quickly, then bowed again, once more as brisk as any field commander after a hasty conversation with a superior officer. “I hope I never have the opportunity in future to say, ‘But I warned you,’ Majesty. I bid you good day. Please give my brother and sister-in-law my good wishes.”
After Drusis had gone out, she stayed in the duke’s retiring room a long time, looking at the paintings hung on the wall, reminders of martial triumph and military splendor. So few of them, she thought, no matter how gory, ever showed the blood of the innocents that was always spilled when men came together to fight over their noble causes.
31
Unbeing
Tanahaya had spent the night exploring the scorched ruin of Himano’s house and gardens, trying to turn her grief into something useful but without success. The destruction of this familiar, beloved place was so much like her arrow-poison dreams that she could almost believe herself still in the grip of a murderous fever.
When the sun finally reached the sky again, the mortal youth woke, groggy and anxious. Tanahaya wished she had something better to offer him than her own devastated sorrow. As her master had taught her, she did her best to show Morgan a reassuring outer face, but inside she felt as empty and lifeless as wind-scoured rock.
“Aren’t we going to go?” he asked after he had returned from drinking and washing himself at the spring. He too was doing his best to appear steadfast, but was not as practiced as Tanahaya: she could smell his fear and see it in every line of his body. “Surely there’s no point in staying here. What if the Norns come back?”
“They never left,” she told him. “The Hikeda’ya have come to the great forest in greater numbers than ever, that is obvious. I thought the ones who followed you were merely scouts, but I see now that the wrong is deeper than I understood. No small company, not even a hand of the Queen’s Talons, would have been able to take Himano unaware—my master had too much knowledge, too many resources. No, he was overwhelmed by a superior force. They came down swiftly and with numbers and deliberately murdered him, a teacher who never did harm to anyone, who lived only for learning. I cannot imagine—” Her voice broke off.
“All the more reason we should go,” said Morgan. “Go back to my country, like you said, where we’ll be safe. My grandfather and grandmother will welcome you. They love your people, Tanahaya. They’re always talking about them.”
She did her best to smile in a reassuring manner, but her mood was still grim. “That is good to hear, and your people treated me well after I was attacked—or at least, so I am told. But I still do not entirely understand what happened here in the Flowering Hills. I would like to spend more time looking and thinking, because soon the forest will cover the marks of what happened and the truth will be as lost to us as Enki e-Shao’saye, devoured by vines and rot.”
“Enki . . . ? I don’t know what that is.”
“One of my people’s famous Nine Cities—deserted now.”
Morgan’s face was tight with the effort of keeping his emotions controlled. “We don’t need old stories, Tanahaya. We need to get away from here now, before the Norns come back.”
She shook her head. “They will not return to this spot. There is no need. Their purpose, although I cannot see the whole shape of it, was to destroy Himano, not to rule the Flowering Hills.”
“So we’re staying here?”
“No, not here. I have learned all I can. But others must be told. This act is more than the murder of my teacher, a kind scholar, a collector of wisdom. It is a piece of what I now suspect is Queen Utuk’ku’s wider war, so I need to make sense of it—and to warn others about what happened.”
The mortal youth’s worried face became more thoughtful. “My father told me once, ‘It’s not enough to know what happened, you have to try to understand why it happened.’ Do you mean something like that?”
“It seems your father John Josua was a scholar too.” She let the morning sun wash over her, strengthen her. “Years ago I came to the Flowering Hills and Lord Himano to learn how to learn. I would be failing my teacher if I simply mourned his death without doing my utmost to understand what happened—and why it happened.”
Prince Morgan frowned, but it seemed to signify more frustration than anger. It was a mortal quality she had seen already several times in the boy, but did not entirely understand. “What about that scroll you found?” he asked. “What did it say? Your master was trying to take it with him—was it important?”
She pulled the roll of parchment out of her jacket. “If this truly was something he tried to save, and did not merely have in his hand when the attack came, I cannot guess why. It is Hikeda’ya writing from Nakkiga and very old. I can read the words, but they add nothing to my understanding of what has happened here. It is a history of sorts from before the Parting, when we Keida’ya divided ourselves into two tribes, the Hikeda’ya and the Zida’ya—what you call Norns and Sithi.” She stared at the close-set runes, small and precise. It was fortunate, she thought, that so little of it had been obscured by her teacher’s blood. “It is the most narrow sort of history, lists of what was taken by the Hikeda’ya when they retreated to Nakkiga, what was left behind, and what things were disputed between the two separating peoples, but it is all old talk from long ago and mostly bitter complaints. The Hikeda’ya have always claimed that we kept the best part of our people’s legacy for ourselves.”
Morgan looked around, clearly still uneasy. “I don’t know all these stories. I don’t know what the Garden is.”
She rose from her crouch. “Then I shall enlighten you. Even if the Hikeda’ya fail in whatever they plan against us, I fear that one day only mortals will remain in these lands. It would be a shame if no memory of my folk remained.” She slid the parchment back into her jacket. “But we will not have your lesson here. I can do my thinking as we travel. Besides, we have another, greater task now.”
“Getting back to the Hayholt—to my home.”
“No, although I will take you there in time. But first I must tell my people back in H’ran Go-jao what has happened here. That I found you is important, but they already know that. It is more important than you can imagine that I tell them what I have found here.”
Morgan was gathering up his few belongings, but paused, a look of confusion on his face. “How could you have told them you found me? When? I thought you couldn’t find Himano’s mirror-thing. His Witness.”
“No, I did not. But when I first came upon your trail back in the forest days ago, and discovered you had taken to the trees, I knew I could not follow you on horseback. I set my mount free to return to my friends and let them know that I had discovered your track in the forest, but going in a different direction than your home.”
His look of incomprehension deepened until it became something quite amusing to her, even in the midst of her sorrow. “Can Sithi horses talk? How could it tell them all that?”
Tanahaya laughed, and a small bit of her sadness broke free and took wing, leaving her spirit just that amount lighter. Thank you,
O Life, she thought. Thank you for gifting me a memory of what was and what can be again someday. “No, our horses do not speak. What strange ideas you mortals must have of us! I wrote my words with a burned stick on bark and put it in the saddlebags. Even if they have read my message, though, Jiriki and Aditu do not know that I found you, and the news of Himano’s murder will be even more important to my people. My master was one of our greatest and most learned elders, well known even in Nakkiga. The Hikeda’ya who killed him did not wander here by accident. They came on purpose to destroy him.”
“But we can’t go all the way back to the Sithi camp! You said the Hikeda’ya are all around us!” He struggled for calm but could not entirely manage. “I . . . I miss my home. I want to go there. Please.”
She did her best to make her voice reassuring. “I do not plan to go all the way back to H’ran Go-jao. You are correct—it is too far, and the news is too ominous. We must find a Witness and swiftly.”
“Why don’t you have one if they’re so important?”
“There are very few left now. Mine, given to me for my embassy to your grandparents, was stolen when I came into your lands and was attacked.” She paused because she felt a flicker of unease at being so open, but would not give up honesty now. “And in truth, my leaving this time was even more strongly opposed by the Protector Khendraja’aro and others of my folk, so I was not able to obtain another Witness. But do not despair.” She pointed down the hillside, where the deep green of the treetops was still muted by the shadow of the hills. “Down there we will find a stream that winds its way out of the hills and at the bottom joins the great river T’si Suhyasei—I think your people call it ‘Aelfwent.’ If we then follow it north, within only a day or two we will come to Da’ai Chikiza, my people’s ancient city, deserted long ago.”
She could see plainly how little Morgan wanted to turn northward. “And you think there will be one of these Witnesses there? But you just said it’s deserted.”