by Tad Williams
Geloe lifted her hand. “Your pardon, Josua, but I think there is one more question: How much time do we have to do any of these things?”
“You are right, Valada Geloë. If we are able to protect this place for another year, we might gather a great enough force to begin disputing Elias on his own ground, or at least his outermost holdings—but like you, I doubt we will be left unmolested so long.”
Others raised their voices, asking about what further strength could be expected from the east and north of Erkynland, territories that chafed beneath King Elias’ heavy hand, and where other allies might be found. After a while, Josua again called the room to silence.
“Before we can solve any of these riddles,” he declared, “it is my thought that we must solve the first and most important one—namely, what does my brother want?”
“Power!” said Isorn. “The power to cast men’s lives around as if they were dice.”
“He had that already,” Josua replied. “But I have thought long, and can think of no other answer. Certainly the world has seen other kings who were not content with what they had. Perhaps the answer to this most crucial question may remain hidden from us until the very end. If we knew the shape of Elias’ bargain with the Storm King, perhaps then we would understand my brother’s secret intent.”
“Prince Josua,” Binabik spoke up, “I myself have been puzzling about a different thing. Whatever your brother is wishing to do, the Storm King’s power and dark magics will be helping him. But what is the Storm King wanting in return?”
The great stone hall went silent for a moment, then the voices of those assembled rose once more, arguing, until Josua had to stamp his boot on the floor to silence them.
“You ask a dreadful question, Binabik,” said the prince. “What indeed could that dark one want?”
Simon thought about the shadows beneath the Hayholt where he had stumbled in a terrible, ghost-ridden dream. “Maybe he wants his castle back,” he said.
Simon had spoken softly, and others in the room who had not heard him continued to talk quietly among themselves, but Josua and Binabik both turned to stare at him.
“Merciful Aedon,” said Josua. “Could it be?”
Binabik thought for a long moment, then shook his head slowly. “There is being something wrong in that thought—although it is clever thinking, Simon. Tell me, Geloe, what is it that I am half-remembering?”
The witch woman nodded. “Ineluki cannot ever come back to that castle. When Asu’a fell, its ruins were so priest-blessed and so tightly wound in spells that he could not return before the end of time. No, I do not think he can have it back, much as he no doubt bums to reclaim it ... but he may wish to rule through Elias what he cannot rule himself. For all their power, the Norns are few—but as the shadow behind the Dragonbone Chair, the Storm King could reign over all the lands of Osten Ard.”
Josua’s face was grave. “And to think that my brother has so little care for either his people or his throne that he would sell them for some trifling prize to the enemy of mankind.” He turned to the others assembled there, anger poorly hidden on his thin features. “We will take this as truth for now, that the Storm King wishes to rule mankind through my brother. Ineluki, I am told, is a creature sustained mostly by hatred, so I do not need to tell you what sort of reign his would be. Simon has told us that the Sitha-woman Amerasu foresaw what the Storm King desired for men, and she called it ‘terrible.’ We must do all that we can—even up to tithing our lives, if necessary—to halt them both. Now the other questions must be addressed. How do we fight them?”
In the hours that followed many plans were proposed. Freosel cautiously suggested that they merely wait in this place of refuge as disaffection with Elias grew throughout Osten Ard. Hotvig, who for a plainsman seemed to be taking well to stone-dweller intrigue, put forward a bold scheme to send men who, with Eolair’s maps, would sneak into the Hayholt and kill both Elias and Pryrates. Father Strangyeard seemed distressed at the idea of sending the precious maps off with a band of brutish murderers. As the merits of these and other proposals were introduced and debated, tempers grew hot. When at one point Isorn and Hotvig, who normally were cheerful comrades, had nearly come to blows, Josua at last ended the discussion.
“Remember that we are friends and allies here,” he said. “We all share a common desire to return our lands to freedom.” The prince looked around the room, calming his excited advisers with a stern gaze, as a Hyrka trainer was said to quiet horses without touching them. “I have heard all, and I am grateful for your help, but now I must decide.” He placed his hand on the stone table, near Thorn’s silver-wrapped hilt. “I agree that we must wait yet a while before we will be ready to strike at Elias,” he nodded in Freosel’s direction, “—but we may not stand still, either. Also, our allies in Hernystir are trapped. They could be a valuable irritant on Elias’ western flank if they were free to move once more. If the westerners were to gather together some of their scattered countrymen, they could be even more than that. Thus, I have decided to combine two purposes and see if they cannot serve each other.”
Josua beckoned forward the lord of Nad Mullach. “Count Eolair, I will send you back to your people with more than thanks, as I promised. With you will go Isorn, son of Duke Isgrimnur.” Gutrun could not restrain a muffled cry of sadness at this, but when her son turned to comfort her, she smiled bravely and patted his shoulder. Josua bowed his head toward her, acknowledging her sorrow. “You will understand when you hear my plan, Duchess, that I do not do this without reason. Isorn, take with you a half-dozen or so men. Perhaps some of Hotvig’s randwarders will consent to accompany you: they are brave fighters and tireless horsemen. On your journey to Hernystir, you will gather as many of your wandering countrymen as you can. I know that most of them do not love Skali Sharpnose, and many I hear are now unhomed on the Frostmarch. Then, on your own judgment, you can put those you find to service—either helping to break Skali’s siege of Eolair’s folk, or if that is not possible, returning with you here to help us in our fight against my brother.” Josua looked fondly at Isorn, who was listening with eyes downcast in concentration, as though he wished to learn each word by heart. “You are the duke’s son. They respect you, and they will believe you when you tell them that this is the first step in regaining their own lands.”
The prince turned back to the assembly. “While Isorn and the others undertake this mission, we here will work to further our other causes. And there is indeed much to do. The north has been so thoroughly savaged by winter, by Skali, by Elias and his ally the Storm King, that I fear that however successful Isorn is, the lands north of Erkynland will not prove sufficient to provide all the forces we need. Nabban and the south are firmly in the grip of Elias’ friends, especially Benigaris, but I must have the south myself. Only then will we truly have the number of fighting men to confront Elias. So, we will work, and talk, and think. There must be some way of cutting Benigaris off from Elias’ help, but at the moment I cannot see it.”
Simon had been listening impatiently, but had held his tongue. Now, when it seemed as though Josua had finished with what he had to say, Simon could not stay quiet any longer. While the others had been shouting, he had been thinking with growing excitement about the things he had discussed with Binabik that morning.
“But Prince Josua,” he cried, “what about the swords?”
The prince nodded. “Those, too, we will have to think about. Do not worry, Simon: I have not forgotten them.”
Simon took a breath, determined to plunge on. “The best thing to do would be to surprise Elias. Send Binabik and Sludig and me to get Bright-Nail. It’s outside the walls of the Hayholt. With just the three of us, we could go to your father’s grave and find it, then be away before the king even knew we’d been there. He’d never suspect that we’d do such a thing.” Simon had a momentary vision of how it would be: he and his companions bearing Bright-Nail back to Sesuad’ra in glory, Simon’s new dragon banner flappi
ng above them.
Josua smiled but shook his head. “No one doubts your bravery, Sir Seoman, but we cannot risk it.”
“We found Thorn when no one thought we could.”
“But the Erkynguard did not march past Thorn’s resting place every day.”
“The dragon did!”
“Enough.” Josua raised his hand. “No, Simon, it is not yet time. When we can attack Elias from west or south and thus distract his eye away from Swertclif and the grave mounds, then it will be time. You have earned great honor, and you will no doubt earn more, but you are now a knight of the realm, with all the responsibilities that go with your title. I regretted sending you away in search of Thorn and despaired of ever seeing you again. Now that you have succeeded beyond all hope, I would have you here for a while—Binabik and Sludig, too ... whom you neglected to consult before volunteering them for this deadly mission.” He smiled to soften the blow. “Peace, lad, peace.”
Simon was filled with the same stifling, trapped feeling that had beset him in Jao é- Tinukai’i Didn’t they understand that to wait too long to strike could mean they would lose their chance? That evil would go unpunished? “Can I go with Isorn?” he pleaded. “I want to help, Prince Josua.”
“Learn to be a knight, Simon, and enjoy these days of relative freedom. There will be enough danger later on.” The prince stood. Simon could not help seeing the weariness in his expression. “That is enough. Eolair, Isorn, and whoever Isorn chooses should make ready to leave in two days’ time. Let us now go. A meal has been prepared—not as lavish as the meal celebrating Simon’s knighthood, but something that will do us all good, nevertheless.” With a wave of his hand, he ended the gathering.
Binabik approached Simon, wanting to talk, but Simon was angry and at first would not answer. It was back to this, was it? Wait, Simon, wait. Let others make the decisions. You’ll be told what to do soon enough.
“It was a good idea,” he muttered.
“It will still be a good idea later,” said Binabik, “when we are then distracting Elias, as Josua was telling.”
Simon glared at him, but something in the troll’s round face made his anger seem foolish. “I just want to be useful.”
“You are far more than that, friend Simon. But everything is having its season. ‘Iq ta randayhet suk biqahuc, ’ as we say in my homeland: ‘Winter is not being the time for naked swimming.’ ”
Simon thought about this for a moment. “That’s supid,” he said at last.
“So,” Binabik responded testily. “You may be saying what you please—but do not then come weeping to my fire when you have chosen the wrong season for swimming.”
They walked silently across the grassy hill, haunted by the cold sun.
4
The Silent Child
Although the air was warm and still, the dark clouds seemed unnaturally thick. The ship had been almost motionless all day, sails slack against the masts.
“I wonder when the storm is coming,” Miriamele said aloud.
A young sailor standing nearby looked up in surprise. “Lady? You say to me?”
“I said that I wondered when the storm was coming.” She gestured at the clot of overhanging clouds.
“Yes, Lady.” He seemed uneasy talking with her. His command of Westerling speech was not great: she guessed that he was from one of the smaller southern islands, on some of which the residents didn’t even speak Nabbanai. “Storm coming.”
“I know it’s coming. I was wondering when.”
“Ah.” He nodded his head, then looked around furtively, as though the valuable knowledge he was about to impart might draw thieves. “Storm come very soon.” He showed her a wide, gummy smile. His gaze traveled up from her shoes to her face and his grin widened. “Very pretty.”
Her momentary pleasure in having a conversation, however limited, was dashed. She recognized the look in this sailor’s eyes, the insulting stare. However free he was in his inspection, he would never dare to touch her, but that was only because he considered her a toy that rightfully belonged to the ship’s master, Aspitis. Her flash of indignation was mixed with a sudden uncertainty. Was he right? Despite all the doubts she now harbored about the earl—who, if Gan Itai spoke rightly, had met with Pryrates, and if Cadrach spoke rightly, was even in the red priest’s employ—she at least had believed that his announced plan to marry her was genuine. But now she wondered if it might only be a ruse, something to keep her pliant and grateful until he could discard her in Nabban and go looking for new flesh. He no doubt thought she would be too ashamed to tell anyone what had happened.
Miriamele was not sure which upset her more at this point, the possibility of being forced to marry Aspitis or the conflicting possibility that he could lie to her with the same airy condescension he might show to a pretty tavern whore.
She stared coldly at the sailor until at last, puzzled, he turned and made his way back toward the bow of the ship. Miriamele watched him go, silently willing him to trip and bash his smug face on the deck, but her wish was not granted. She turned her eyes back to the sooty gray clouds and the dull, metallic ocean.
A trio of small objects were bobbing in the water off the stern, a good stone’s throw from the ship. As Miriamele watched, one of the objects moved closer, then opened its red hole of a mouth and hooted. The kilpa’s gurgling voice carried well across the calm waters; Miriamele jumped in surprise. At her motion, all three heads swung to face her, wet black eyes staring, mouths gaping loutishly. Miriamele took a step back from the rail and made the sign of the Tree, then turned to escape the empty eyes and almost knocked over Thures, the young page who served Earl Aspitis.
“Lady Marya,” he said, and tried to bow, but he was too close to her. He banged his head against her elbow and gave out a little squeak of pain. When she reached out to soothe him, he pulled away, embarrassed. “’S Lordship wants you.”
“Where, Thures?”
“Cabin.” He composed himself. “In his cabin, Lady.”
“Thank you.”
The boy stepped back as if to lead her, but Miriamele’s eyes had again been caught by a movement in the water below. One of the kilpa had drifted away from the other two and now swam slowly up next to the ship. With its empty eyes fixed on hers, the sea-thing lifted a slick gray hand from the water and ran its long fingers along the hull as if casually searching for climbing holds. Miriamele watched with fascinated horror, unable to move. After a moment, the unpleasantly manlike creature dropped away again, vanishing smoothly into the sea to reappear a few moments later a stone’s throw back from the ship. It floated there, mouth glistening, the gills on its neck bulging and shrinking. Miriamele stared, frozen as if in a nightmare. Finally she tore her eyes away and forced herself back from the rail. Young Thures was looking at her curiously.
“Lady?”
“I’m coming.” She followed him, turning to look back only once. The three heads bobbed in the ship’s wake like fishermen’s floats.
Thures left her in the narrow passageway outside Aspitis’ cabin, then vanished back up the ladder, presumably to perform other errands. Miriamele took advantage of the moment of solitude to compose herself. She could not shake off the memory of the kilpa’s viscous eyes, its calm and deliberate approach toward the ship. The way it had stared—almost insolently, as though daring her to try to stop it. She shuddered.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a series of quiet clinking noises from the earl’s cabin. The door was not completely closed, so she stepped forward and peered through the crack.
Aspitis sat at his tiny writing table. A book of some kind was open before him, its parchment pages reflecting creamy lamplight. The earl swept two more piles of silver coins off the table and into a sack, then dropped the clinking bag into an open chest at his feet, which seemed nearly full with other such sacks. Aspitis then made a notation of some kind in the book.
A board creaked—whether from her weight upon it or from the movement of the ship Miriame
le did not know—but she moved back hurriedly before Aspitis could look up and see her in the narrow slit of open doorway. A moment later, she stepped forward and knocked firmly.
“Aspitis?” She heard him close the book with a muffled thump, then another sound she guessed was the chest being dragged across the floor.
“Yes, my lady. Come in.”
She pushed on the door and walked through, then closed it gently behind her but did not let the latch fall. “You asked for me?”
“Sit down, pretty Marya.” Aspitis gestured to the bed, but Miriamele pretended she had not noticed and instead perched on a stool beside the far wall. One of Aspitis’ hounds rolled aside to make room for her feet, thumped its heavy tail, then fell asleep again. The earl was wearing his osprey crest robe, the one she had admired so much at their first shared supper. Now she looked at the gold-stitched talons, perfect machines for catching and clutching, and was filled with remorse for her own foolishness.
Why did I ever let myself become entrapped in these stupid lies! She would never have told him so, but Cadrach had been right. If she had said she was only a commoner, Aspitis might have left her alone; even if he had forcibly bedded her, at least he would not be planning to wed her as well.
“I saw three kilpa swimming beside the ship.” She stared at him defiantly, as if he might deny that it was true. “One swam up alongside and looked like it was going to climb aboard.”