by Tad Williams
“No.” He tried to smile, but could not. “No, I suspect that as far as Simon is concerned, you could go at the thing with a battle ax and he would not turn a hair. But if what you have discovered is true—that there is dragon’s blood in the poison used on the Sithi woman—then I have new terrors to add to those I already had.”
“Tiamak, what is it? You look quite ill.”
He shook his head, cursing himself for having drunk so much of the under-watered wine at a time when he wished badly for a clear head. “I told you that we found a book the priest Pryrates had owned, and showed you also the box of John Josua’s prizes, the things I thought had been made by the Sithi.”
“The beads, the mirror frame—yes, I remember.”
“And that I suspected they might have come from the tunnels beneath the castle—or even from Hjeldin’s Tower itself.”
“That last seems unlikely, since the red priest’s tower was sealed and filled with stones. But I still do not understand what has upset you so about my dragon’s blood crystals.”
Tiamak let himself drop onto the bench that sat beside the table. His legs felt quite weak. “Then listen. Long ago, during the Storm King’s War, Simon was trapped for a while in Hjeldin’s Tower.”
Thelía’s eyes widened. “By Pryrates?”
“No, not then. But while Simon roamed the tower, looking for a way out, he told me he saw something that I have never forgotten. Pryrates had a great cauldron in one room with a fire burning beneath it. In it he was boiling the bones of some huge beast. Simon said he thought they could only be dragon’s bones, and I think he was right.”
She shook her head. “I still do not understand.”
“Prince John Josua, Simon’s son, likely also roamed those passages beneath the castle. He died from an illness I did not recognize, but now that I think back on it, the signs were not so different from what the wounded Sitha woman showed, though its course with her was much slower. It comes to me now that John Josua might have come across some of that poison down there in those terrible deeps.”
She let out a breath. “That is horrible, husband! But that was seven years ago now—.”
“Everything we heard about the Sitha’s wounds suggested the arrows were Thrithings-make, and not something the Norns would use. And that makes me wonder—and worry as I have not worried before. Because if the poison is made from dragon’s bones, it means someone else has been beneath the castle since John Josua’s death.”
She looked at him with dawning understanding. “You think the poison might have come . . . ?”
He did feel ill now, as though he had swallowed some of Thelía’s delicate crystals himself, but he knew it was fear, not poison, that gripped him. “Yes. I think it is a possibility we ignore at our peril. The poison that almost killed the Sithi envoy may have come from inside this very castle, the remnants of some ghastly spell of the red priest’s. But Pryrates is long dead, so if the poison was made in the Hayholt, it is possible we have a traitor in our midst.”
* * *
“But Grandmother Nelda, I’m tired of praying! I just want to know when Morgan’s coming back.”
“Saying that you’re tired of praying is like saying that you’re tired of being good, Lillia.”
The other court ladies in the duchess’ chambers all looked at each other. Some shook their heads. No sooner had Nelda arrived then all the grumpiest, oldest ladies of the court had gathered around the duchess like honeybees around their queen, and had not left her since. They did nothing but sew and complain about the servants and the way some of the other court ladies dressed.
“I didn’t say I was tired of God, Grandmother. That’s not fair. That’s not what I said!”
The duchess set down her embroidery hoop and gave Lillia a stern look. Some of the other ladies whispered to each other over their sewing. Most of them were stitching words from the book of Aedon, but all Grandmother Nelda ever seemed to do was to embroider flowers—lush, velvety things that looked more like face cloths than anything Lillia had ever seen in the gardens. “You want to be a good girl, don’t you?” Nelda asked. “You want God to take care of Morgan and your Grandfather Osric, don’t you?”
She turned away so the duchess wouldn’t see her scowl, since that was another thing that Grandmother Nelda didn’t like, as Lillia had been told many times. “But I just want to know when my brother will be back! I pray all the time, but I don’t know!”
“We all want them to come back. Don’t you think I want your grandfather back safe? Don’t be a selfish girl.”
The other ladies made sniffing noises. One even quietly said, “So selfish.”
“Come now, my dear,” the duchess said. “You know you want to be a good girl.”
Lillia knew there was no winning one of these disagreements. If there was anyone in the castle as stubborn as Lillia herself, it was Grandmother Nelda.
Outside, thunder rumbled again. Lillia put down her book of saints and walked to the window to look out. The rain was coming down hard and straight out of a sky the color of stone. She could see it running off the tower roofs in little waterfalls, and gurgling from the mouths of gargoyles. She had wanted to go out in the garden that morning, and Auntie Rhoner had told her, before she left to do some boring grown-up thing, that Lillia could go outside when the sun came out. She had eaten her supper an hour ago, but she had not seen sunlight all afternoon, and the darkening sky made it clear that she would not see it again before tomorrow. Maybe not even then.
Watching the raindrops bouncing on the rooftops and drizzling out of the mouths of the statues on Holy Tree Tower made her wonder again about ghosts. Did they get wet when it rained?
“Grandmother, is my mother really watching over me?”
“Oh, child, what a thing to say! Of course she is. Don’t go on, you’ll make me weep.”
“If she’s watching me, maybe she’ll come to me and tell me when Morgan will come back.”
“Don’t be silly. She’s watching you from Heaven, and that’s a long way away.” The duchess shook her head. “My poor Idela. She was too young—too young! I can scarcely bear to think about it, and you are wicked to remind me.”
“But if she’s up in Heaven and it’s so far, how does she watch me? What if I’m inside somewhere? And I don’t go near a window? How can she see me from up there?”
“Now you’re being foolish, child. She’s with God. She can see anything God wants her to see, and God lets her watch over you.”
But Lillia had discovered the flaw in that argument long ago, though she knew better than to say anything about it. God might be able to see the very fledgling when it first stretched its infant wings, new-warmed by the sun, like the Book of Aedon said, but the sacred book never said anything about dead people seeing anything. Not unless they were saints, some of whom could even run after the Imperator’s soldiers had cut their legs off. She had learned that grisly fact from the life of Saint Endrais, one of the few stories in her book that she had actually enjoyed. But ghosts were different. They were always around, just out of sight. Lillia knew a lot about ghosts because the serving girls and nurses told her. Tabata, the maid who ran away, had seen a ghost leading a ghost-horse on the road one evening when she was a little girl. Tabata had said she knew they were ghosts because she could see the trees through them, and she had run away as quickly as she could. And even Auntie Rhoner had told her the story of Prince Sinnach, whose phantom sometimes appeared on a hill above the battlefield where he had died, blowing a ghostly horn. So Lillia was fairly certain that while the saints in her books might stand next to God in heaven, many of the dead people stayed on the earth for reasons of their own. One of the youngest grooms, a strange boy with a cast in one eye, had told her once that the Hayholt was full of ghosts. “And not just ones of people, neither,” he had whispered.
So if her mother was watching over her, as everyo
ne promised, it stood to reason she must be in the castle somewhere. Did ghosts have places they stayed? Did her mother watch over her all night as she slept? That didn’t seem right. Her mother had always been in a hurry to say goodnight, to see Lillia in bed because she had things to do, people she wanted to visit with. No, if her mother’s spirit was in the castle to watch over her, she must have a place she stayed in so that not everyone would see her. That was another thing Tabata had assured her—ghosts didn’t like to be seen.
She thought about this for a long time, until thunder boomed again, startling her a little.
“Come away from that window, child,” her grandmother said. “You’ll be struck by lightning.”
Lillia sighed and came back to sit on the floor beside her grandmother. Outside the thunder grumbled and the rain kept falling. Lillia stared at her book, but she was not looking at the pictures of saints anymore. She was thinking very carefully about hiding-places. She was thinking about where the castle ghosts, especially her mother’s, might be lurking.
51
A Web Across the Sky
The tale told by the Nakkiga parchment of witchwood seeds hidden beneath old Asu’a seemed something far away but closing fast—a storm that no one but Tanahaya could see coming, though its arrival would affect everything.
The witchwood? She could scarcely believe it. Is that what has caused this new conflict—the sacred wood, the last seeds of the Garden? Would Utuk’ku truly make war against the entire mortal world simply to live longer?
Of course she would, she realized a moment later. The Hamakha witch is trapped in times and grievances long gone, full of hate for mortals and even for her own kin. She cannot die until she has her revenge, but without the witchwood even her long life must end. Of course she will go to any lengths to find the last seeds.
Jiriki and Aditu must know of this quickly. They must tell the other Zida’ya clans about Utuk’ku’s cruel plan—my word alone does not have enough weight to convince Khendraja’aro or the defenders of Anvijanya and Vhinansu. She turned to Vinyedu. “Do you have a Witness? I must let the Sa’onserei know of our discovery.”
“Look here!” said Vinyedu as if she had not heard Tanahaya’s words. “The page is marked with the old Hamakha Seal—the queen’s own rune. This parchment was not merely copied, it was stolen from the archives of Nakkiga. Who could accomplish such a thing?”
An ornate rune had been stamped in white ink on a shield of black at the bottom of the unfolded parchment. Tanahaya had noticed it, but had not realized it meant that Utuk’ku herself had touched the document. A shiver of foreboding went through her. “Are you certain, S’huesa?”
“That is the queen’s own sigil, not that of one of her ministers.”
Now that Vinyedu had pointed it out, the import was clear. Still, something about the chronicler’s name and the mark above it tugged at Tanahaya’s attention, though she could not say why. “And who is that—the one who made this chronicle? I do not recognize the name—‘Nijin’.”
“Nijin was one of Utuk’ku’s court historians before the Parting,” Vinyedu said. “It is the first time I have seen an actual document with his name upon it. He died in the days of the Tenth Celebrant.”
Something about the parchment still puzzled Tanahaya, but the frightened voices in her head would not be ignored any longer. A wildfire was now burning across the land, that seemed clear, and every moment that it blazed unchecked would make it harder to extinguish—if it was not already too late. “I asked before, I ask again,” she said, “do you have a Witness here, Mistress? It is why I came to this place. Whatever you may think of them, the House of Year-Dancing must be informed of this.”
“The enemy of my enemy must be my friend, is that it?” Vinyedu’s face was sour. “The Pure must bend so as not to inconvenience those who have already cast their lot with the mortals?”
“No, you Pure must realize that you are Zida’ya by blood and heritage— the armies of Nakkiga will not see a difference between your folk and mine. Utuk’ku is mad and cares for nothing but herself. She will destroy us all without discrimination.” She saw Morgan watching their angry words. “Do not fear,” she told him in his own tongue. “We have learned something important today—something that may help everyone, especially your own people. Be of strong heart.”
“Even in the midst of argument, you take time to coddle a mortal,” Vinyedu said with bitter satisfaction.
“As I would any innocent trapped among people he did not know who were speaking a language he did not understand. Let go of your hatreds, at least for this moment, Vinyedu. I bear you no ill-will—nor, I think, do Jiriki and Aditu of the Sa’onserei.”
“Fair words that hide a foul history.”
“I think instead that your hatred of mortals blinds you to the crimes of Utuk’ku. She is the enemy, not Year-Dancing House.”
“Perhaps. But you are just as blinded by your own connection to the Sudhoda’ya. Why should there be some secret conspiracy to regain the witchwood seeds buried beneath Asu’a? Only a few seasons ago the Hikeda’ya all but owned it. The mortal priest Pryrates gave the Hikeda’ya freedom to roam the whole of old Asu’a. Why did Utuk’ku’s people not secure the witchwood seeds then?”
“Perhaps because the crisis was not so great then,” said Tanahaya. “When they fought what they call the War of Return, Utuk’ku and her Hikeda’ya still had their witchwood groves beneath the mountain, mirror-fed and secure. The line of the Garden-Root had not yet begun to fail.”
“What you say is not without sense,” Vinyedu conceded. “But Witnesses are nearly as hard to find in these terrible days as witchwood, yet you demand to use ours. You say you must warn the Sa’onserei, but is this not exactly how disaster came to Jao é-Tinukai’i? Jiriki brought a mortal there—this child’s grandfather, to make the folly even more pointed!—which led Utuk’ku’s destroyers down on them all.”
“That is not true!” Tanahaya said. “The Hikeda’ya attacked Jao é-Tinukai’i to silence wise Amerasu. This child’s grandfather was not to blame, and Morgan is not to blame now. And it is precisely because Utuk’ku wants her plans to remain a secret that Jiriki and the others must be told now.”
Vinyedu seemed about to respond with even more anger, but instead held up her hand, her lips pressed tightly together. After a long silence, she said, “I cannot consider what I must do and argue with you at the same time. You and your mortal ward remain here. I will return after I have had time and peace to think.” And with that, she turned and left the archive chamber. The other Pure watched her go, then turned their golden stares to Morgan and Tanahaya for a few moments, silent as flowers following the sun, before resuming their reading.
“Is she going to have us killed?” Morgan asked.
Tanahaya looked up from Himano’s parchment. “I do not know, to tell you the whole truth. The Pure have so removed themselves from the world I know that it is hard to say what they will think or do.” She saw his look. “I am sorry I have put you in danger, Morgan—but you are a prince, grandson of monarchs. You should know that sometimes the danger to all outweighs the danger to a few.”
He nodded, but looked distinctly unhappy about it.
* * *
• • •
The door to the archive silently swung open. It was Vinyedu, and she was not alone—half a dozen white-clad Pure, armed with bows and spears, stood behind her. Full of anger and regret, Tanahaya lifted her hands, determined not to sell her life cheaply.
“Do not fear,” said Vinyedu. “They are with me only for our protection as we cross to the Place of Silence. The sentries on the outskirts have sent word that Hikeda’ya are in the woods just outside the city. That is nothing unusual, but I will not take chances this day.”
“Tanahaya, what’s happening?” Morgan stood poised to run or fight.
“Forgive me,” said Vinyedu in Westerling. “
I forgot I that I am to speak the mortal tongue for the benefit of the mortal youth.” She came forward, but the armed Pure remained in the outer chamber. “I have thought and thought. I do not agree with much of what you say, Tanahaya, but I am not so selfish that I wish to keep what we have learned from the scholars among your kind.”
“They are your kind too, Mistress.”
“Perhaps, but I am weary of that conversation. I have come to tell you that you may use the Witness—but only to speak to the Sa’onserei.”
Relief washed through Tanahaya. “Thank you, Mistress Vinyedu. I praise your wisdom and your generosity.”
“I still doubt it is wisdom, and it is most particularly not generosity.” Vinyedu had slipped into Zida’ya speech again. She made the sign called the Garden Endures. “I pray it is not foolishness either. Know this, though. You will only use the Witness with me watching, and you will cease the moment I say so, no matter what else is happening. Only with these promises will I let you touch it.”
Tanahaya looked to Morgan, who was still clearly disturbed by what must have seemed the threat of a deadly fight. “Do not fear, Prince Morgan,” she told him. “Much smoke but little fire. Good will come of all this, I promise.”
“Do not be so quick to promise what you cannot be certain to give,” Vinyedu told her, this time remembering to speak so Morgan could understand. “Come with me to the Place of Silence. But the young mortal cannot roam unwatched. He must accompany us.”
Morgan looked more than ready to escape the confines of the archive; he followed them without a word.
“It will be fastest to pass through Sky-Watching,” Vinyedu explained as she led them toward the surface, the half-dozen armed Pure surrounding them. “In a better time we could have used the Hall of Memory to reach it, but that collapsed long before our return. We will have to go up before we can go down.”