by Tad Williams
“Well, I cannot provide several more Scrollbearers for you out of thin air,” said Aengas pettishly. “I can feed you and listen to your complaints. I can sympathize with your fears—I share many of them. But reforming the League is beyond my powers, especially since I am not even a member.”
Tiamak hesitated. “Well, to be honest, that is why I wished to speak to you.”
Aengas stared at him for a long moment, then blinked as slowly and deliberately as a frog on a half-sunken tree. “It is?”
“You said it yourself—you see things differently than I do. Our experiences, our lives, have been completely different. Yet you have one of the most cunning minds I know, and a skill at seeing things I do not. Your scholarship is, as you said yourself, not the most rigorous—in truth, you let yourself be led astray by every new idea that catches your fancy—”
“Not just ideas,” said Aengas as his cook appeared with a tray of leeks, bread, and cheese. “An attractive face or figure can do the same for me, though there is damnably little I can do beside look, curse the Heavens.” He pointed at the table. “Put it down and then go away for a little, while we talk—will you, Brannan?” Aengas sighed. “He is quite handsome, isn’t he? But though he has left the priesthood, he has taken their cursed ideas of asceticism with him. Another reason for me to despise the Aedonites.” He reached awkwardly for a piece of cheese. “I apologize for the interruption. You were talking some nonsense about the League of the Scroll, I believe—about to ask me to become a member, if I guess your drift correctly. Have I?”
Tiamak nodded. “You have. Because there is little sense now in mourning for what should have been done. But we can remedy that failure, even if it turns out to be too late. I will rebuild the League, and I would like you to join me.” He looked his friend and colleague in the eye. “Will you?”
Aengas shook his head. “May the gods love you and watch over you, my darling—no, no, a hundred times no. I have far too much to do and far too little time as it is. I have spent nearly a quarter of a year here in Erchester, trying to help you with this witchwood business and Bishop Fortis’s nasty book, while leaving my duties as a factor almost completely ignored. I will likely be sitting here in a dark chamber as Yissola is bending King Simon to her will, securing special treaties and arrangements for her cursed Sindigato while I squint at ancient texts—but you want me to become even more deeply involved with your League? No, my Wrannaman friend with the still-wet feet, it is quite impossible. My allies are furious with me as it is.”
Tiamak’s heart grew heavy. “Please, Aengas. I do not ask this lightly, you must know that.”
“What good to have three instead of two, and one of those three crippled as I am, unable to go anywhere or do anything without being carried around like Lector Vidian in his sacred litter—although never, I hasten to say, wearing such ridiculous hats—?”
“We will not stop at three. I have long groomed Brother Etan. I wish you could have met him, but you have heard his letters.”
“The one who is currently being bilked by your Hyrka friend?”
“Etan is not wise in the ways of the world, but his mind is sharp and his heart is good. Yes, Brother Etan. And there is also my wife. Thelía knows far more than I do about many things, and like you does not suffer fools gladly. She is a bit more courteous than you, though.”
Aengas laughed harshly. “Ah, and so I can join you, your wife, and an Aedonite monk against the coming of the final catastrophe. How could anyone say no?”
“You can say whatever you like, of course. But I ask you because I need you, Aengas. Even if we survive whatever is coming, we will need to do better in days to come so we can prevent something worse next time. I will not die with the League of Scrolls still in disarray. I cannot.”
Aengas looked at him for some time and not with his most kindly expression. He managed to get his cup to his mouth with some difficulty, hands shaking, and took a long sip. “A bargain,” he said at last. “I offer you a bargain, Lord Tiamak, my friend. I have neglected my duties to the Alliance terribly while helping you in your search for the meaning of ‘Witchwood Crown,’ and that means something to me, even if not to you. Months have passed while we have pored through countless old tomes like Usirean priests trying to find a loophole for self-abuse, and my colleagues are justly furious with me.” Aengas set the cup down on the broad arm of his chair. It threatened to tip, and Tiamak leaped up to set it farther from the edge, ignoring the pang in his sore leg at the sudden movement.
“Bargain?” he asked. “What sort of bargain?”
“Countess Yissola will arrive from Perdruin in two days, I am told. There will be public receptions, of course, but the king has agreed to meet with her to discuss her complaints and demands in private.”
“Of course.”
“Well, then. If you will ensure that I can have a report of exactly what is said between them in that discussion, I will join your league.”
Tiamak stared, half-certain he had misheard. “Do you mean her private conversations with the king? But that is impossible!”
“Do not fear that you have to hide me and my chair somewhere in the throne hall!” Aengas showed a crooked smile. “Young Brannan is as slim as a cowslip and writes a fair hand—he is my secretary as well as my cook, you know. He can be secreted in some place where he can listen without being seen and take it all down for me. That way I can serve the needs of my Alliance colleagues and will not feel so bad about giving them short measure of my time while embroiling myself in your League of Scrolls.”
Tiamak shook his head. He felt cold and sick. “No. No, Aengas, that is impossible. I could not betray my king’s trust. I am shocked that you would even ask me. It would be a crime against everything I hold most dear.” He rose. “Forgive me. I must go now. I am sorry to have taken so much of your time.”
As he walked back down the hall, heading for his own chambers, Tiamak was disturbed to find his eyes filling with tears. He blinked them away as best he could, then dabbed with his sleeve so that by the time he reached his own door the evidence was gone.
Thelía still knew something was wrong, but after a few curt answers made it clear he did not want to talk, she found an errand that needed attention and left him alone to work through his unhappiness. He sat and tried to read, but could not make his eyes fix on the words. He felt as though he had been suddenly attacked by something he had not seen or even suspected, as though some bandit had run up behind and hit him in the head with a club.
How could I have been so wrong? was all he could think. The words sounded in his head over and over, unceasingly, like a bell rung by a madman.
* * *
• • •
An hour later someone knocked on Tiamak’s chamber door. Young Brannan looked stern, like the parent of a child attacked by one of his playmates. “This is for you, my lord,” he said, and handed Tiamak a letter stamped with the factor’s seal. “I am surprised at both of you.”
Tiamak carried the letter back inside with shaking hands.
My dearest Wrannaman,
Let me not waste time in unnecessary formalities. You were right. It was a dishonorable bargain that I offered you, and I regretted it immediately after you left, although it took me a while to sift the chaff of my own bad temper from the grain of our disagreement. In all honesty, I would have been disappointed in you if you had agreed. There is a part of me that sometimes longs to prove others as venal as I suspect them to be, but that is not a part of myself that I love well.
I am glad you are as pure of heart as I often suspected, although I fear for you in this dangerous world. I let my cynic heart get the better of me and thereby harmed our friendship, which is worth more to me than any Alliance or League. I hope you will forgive me, or if not, that you will provide me with some method by which I can one day earn that forgiveness.
Of course I will join yo
ur league of scholars if you will still have me. I am not completely selfish, and I see the same evil signs you do. Like you, I fear the days ahead. Of course men of good will and brave heart must do what they can to make things better, but so must those of us whose characters are weaker, for we are far more numerous than your sort.
Let me know if we can speak again. I have wronged you, and for that I will never entirely forgive myself. You must think of what I did as a weak man having a moment of greater than ordinary weakness.
Your ally always, even if I am no longer your friend,
Aengas ec-Carpilbin
When Thelía returned in the early evening, she could see that Tiamak’s mood had improved, but she sensed that something more than ordinary frustrations had perturbed him, so she kept her talk light, speaking of what was flowering in the gardens and what birds she had seen. He accepted her gift gratefully, and after a meal of cold meats and bread, they retired early and spent a peaceful night.
* * *
Simon looked around the small gathering. His head felt heavy, and he wanted nothing so much as to go back to bed, though it did not much feel like a place of refuge without Miri. “Count Nial and Countess Rhona, I thank you,” he said. “You know Sir Zakiel and the lords Pasevalles and Tiamak, of course.” He paused, momentarily lost. “Ah. And we have Lord Duglan, our envoy to the Taig, who has returned to bring us King Hugh’s response.” Duglan, a lean, balding Erkynlander with Hernystiri blood, looked grim. Simon had already heard his news and thought it an appropriate expression. “Go, then—tell us what the king of Hernystir has to say, my lord.”
“He says, with apologies, that he has not enough men under arms now to send to you.” Lord Duglan took a breath. “He will not beat the Cauldron. He will not summon his people to war. He does not think the threat as great as we have made it to be—claims that if Norns were truly seen, they are just a raiding party who will break against the defenses of Hernystir and Erkynland like a wave upon a rocky cliff.”
“Liar!” said Captain Zakiel, then looked around. Of all present, he was the least exalted, and he seemed to feel it then. “I apologize for my strong words, Majesty. I know Hugh is your brother monarch—”
“I never much liked that expression,” said Simon. “And at this moment I do not like the king of Hernystir much at all, so do not worry too much about curbing your tongue. Does Hugh call Eolair’s nephew a liar, then? Does he think Aelin made up his story of a great Norn army?”
Duglan frowned. “He does not say so outright, but he talked much of Aelin being under Count Eolair’s spell, as he put it. He claims that young Sir Aelin has been somehow convinced by his uncle of threats that do not truly exist.”
Simon sat back against the throne, trying hard to keep his temper. “He might as well call me a liar to my face as to speak against Eolair, perhaps the most cautious, sensible man I have ever met.”
“All who support Hugh—and it is most of the court—spout such nonsense these days,” said Count Nial. “It makes my heart sick to say it, but I think it is clear that he intends to let you spend your strength against the Norns, leaving him free to pick up whatever pieces remain. At the very least, I think he hopes for a Hernystir no longer tributary to the High Throne.”
“Then he is a cursed traitor to his own people!” Simon banged his fist on the arm of his chair. “Does he not understand that the Norns are no mortals’ friends? Does he truly think they would destroy Erkynland but leave him free to do what he wants?”
“The real question is not whether he believes such a thing or not,” said Tiamak, “but why? History shows that the Sithi and Hernystir were allies. The only mortal with whom the Norns made compact was King Elias, and they betrayed him in the end,”
“It is this mad Morriga-worship,” said Rhona. “It has addled Hugh’s mind, and the minds of many at his court.”
Lord Duglan nodded. “What the countess says is true—and it has grown worse. Just in the month passed, with the claim of renewing faith in the gods of Hernystir, the king and Lady Tylleth had a shrine erected to the Dark Mother in the Taig itself.”
“Brynioch’s chariot!” Count Nial turned toward him as if he might grab Duglan by the shoulders. “Is this true? Tell me I misheard you.”
“I cannot. They said it was a shrine to Talamh, claiming she has been neglected, but Talamh of the Land was always just another name for the three-faced goddess of war and death. That is why she is no longer worshipped—or has not been, until now.” Duglan turned to Simon. “To be honest, Majesty, I will of course go wherever you bid me, but my heart does not want to return there. Hernysadharc has become a strange place—a dark place, or so it seems to me.”
“Oh! My heart is breaking,” cried Rhona. “I never thought my countrymen would wander into shadow this way, so quickly, so heedlessly. The Morriga!”
Pasevalles cleared his throat. “I understand the concerns here, and I lament how far from decency King Hugh seems to have fallen, but none of this solves our problem, Your Majesty. If the king of Hernystir will not help us, where will we find men and arms enough to protect us if the Norns come against Erchester? Duke Osric has taken many of our knights and a thousand foot-soldiers to the borderlands of the Thrithings in search of your grandson.”
“Have we heard anything from Duke Grimbrand in Rimmersgard?”
Pasevalles nodded. “Isgrimnur’s son at least remains a firm ally, but the duke has problems of his own. More Norns than ever have been traveling the Refarslod, the Foxes’ Road, and they have pillaged farms and estates along its length, killing many and terrifying the people. Duke Grimbrand also worries that Hugh has designs on the lands in the south and west of Rimmersgard. Already there are more Hernystiri troops in the border forts Hugh controls than they have seen in years.”
“God’s Bloody Tree,” Simon swore loudly. “Does this pup thinks he’s another Tethtain? Does Hugh plan to move into the Hayholt and sit on the High Throne? If we didn’t have problems on every side of us, I’d ride to Hernysadharc myself and teach him a lesson!” He mastered his anger, though it was not easy. “Forgive me, Pasevalles. What can Grimbrand send us?”
“He thinks he might find a thousand foot soldiers and a hundred knights, but he said he dares not strip his cupboard bare.” Pasevalles smiled sadly. “He says he begs you not to think him a shirker. He will send what he can, but warns that they may not arrive for some long time, especially if there are Norns barring their way in the north of Erkynland.”
Simon let his breath out in a great, flat hiss. “Well, this is a pretty puzzle. And what of Duke Saluceris? What does Froye write from Nabban?”
Pasevalles shrugged. “Much the same as Grimbrand, though Duke Saluceris’s problems come from within the Nabbanai borders—his brother and Dallo Ingadaris, and all of the Fifty Families who would rather go to war against the Thrithings for their own gain than send troops here to defend against a threat they do not entirely believe exists.”
“Do they truly think we have invented the Norns? Do they not remember a mere thirty years ago when the White Foxes nearly destroyed us all?” Simon could feel his face getting hot. Tiamak was looking at him with concern, which only made him angrier. “So when we need them most, our allies are all too busy with their own troubles!”
But the Wrannaman’s expression had changed to something more thoughtful. “It does seem that the times have conspired to make us weaker than we would ordinarily be, doesn’t it? That when Queen Utuk’ku sends troops against mortal lands, one of our allies suddenly takes up an old religion that worships a dark goddess? That the Sithi send us an envoy who is shot down with arrows that might belong to Thrithings-men?”
“I have not heard this about the arrows,” said Simon. “You mean the Sitha-woman who was shot in the Kynswood? Why was I not told about Thrithings arrows?”
“Because I had no proof and still do not. Just because they were fletched w
ith feathers that Thrithings-men use does not mean they were shot by Thrithings-men. But it is interesting that the grasslanders are also the cause of several of our other problems, an excuse for the Nabbanai to hold back on sending men—and, of course, the possible kidnapping of your grandson, Prince Morgan.”
Simon’s head was swimming. “I don’t think I understand you—are you saying that someone in the Thrithings might be behind all this? I thought our enemy was the Norn Queen.”
Tiamak frowned. “She is our most fearful enemy, there is no question. I must think about this, Majesty—write it all down so I can see it more plainly. I do not know how the immortals would make trouble for us in Nabban without anyone knowing, but the rest is certainly within their power—especially if they had help from . . . from our own kind.”
“From our own kind?” Simon could not make sense of this. “From the Thrithings-men, you mean? Or do you suggest something closer? We know Hernystir is not trustworthy, but . . .” He looked to Nial and Rhona. “I mean that swine Hugh, of course, not the good people like yourselves.”
Count Nial waved away his apology. “Please, Majesty. I myself am so angry with what Hugh has done that only the common need—and the greater danger— keeps me here. Otherwise, I would ride to Herynsadharc today and denounce him for the criminal he has become.”
“You would not,” said Countess Rhona. “They would kill you, and then I would die myself.”
“Please, everyone, please.” Simon waved his hands. “Nobody is riding anywhere. We have much to think about, but we have even more to do. With or without our allies, we must face the likelihood that the Norns are within the borders of Erkynland. We need to know where they are and what they’re doing. Captain Zakiel, now it is your turn. Tell me what scouts we can send. Tell me what the news is from Naglimund and Leymund and the other northern border forts.”