To Green Angel Tower, Volume 1

by Tad Williams

“They were just ravens.” The duke’s smile was grim. “We have other things to worry about.”

  “That’s true,” she said.

  A few more days’ riding brought them at last to the Ymstrecca. The swiftly flowing river was almost black beneath the faint sun. Patchy snow cloaked its banks.

  “The weather is getting warmer,” Isgrimnur said, pleased. “This is scarcely colder than it should be at this time of the year. It is Novander, after all.”

  “Is it?” Miriamele was unsettled. “And we left Josua’s keep in Yuven. Half a year. Elysia’s mercy, we have been traveling a long time.”

  They turned and followed the river eastward, stopping at dark to make camp with the sound of the water loud in their ears. They started early the next morning beneath a gray sky.

  In late afternoon they reached the edge of a shallow valley of wet grass. Before them, like the leavings from some ruinous flood, lay the weather-battered remains of a vast settlement. Hundreds of makeshift houses had stood here, and most of them seemed to have been recently inhabited, but something had drawn or driven out the residents; but for a few lonely birds poking among the abandoned dwellings, the ramshackle city seemed deserted.

  Miriamele’s heart sank. “Was this Josua’s camp? Where have they gone?”

  “It is on a great hill, Lady,” Tiamak said. “At least, that was what I saw in my dream.”

  Isgrimnur spurred his horse down toward the empty settlement.

  On inspection, much of the impression of disaster was revealed to be the nature of the settlement itself, since most of the building materials were scraps and deadwood. There did not seem to be a nail in the whole of the city; the crudely woven ropes that had held together most of the better-constructed buildings appeared to have frayed and given way in the clutch of storms that had lately battered the Thrithings—but even at the best of times, Miriamele decided, none of the dwellings could have been much more than hovels.

  There was also some sign of orderly retreat. Most of the people who had lived here seemed to have had time to take their possessions with them—although, judging by the quality of the shelters, they could not have had much to start. Still, there was little left of the everyday necessities: Miriamele found a few broken pots and some rags of clothing so miserably tattered and mud-soaked that even in a cold winter they had probably not been missed.

  “They left,” she told Isgrimnur, “but it looks as though they chose to.”

  “Or were forced to,” the duke pointed out. “They could have been marched out in a careful manner, if you see what I mean.”

  Camaris had climbed down from his horse and was rooting in a pile of sod and broken branches that had once been someone’s home. He stood up with something shiny in his hand.

  “What is that?” Miriamele rode over. She held out her hand, but Camaris was staring at the piece of metal. At last she reached out and gently pried it from the old knight’s long, callused fingers.

  Tiamak slid forward onto the horse’s shoulders and turned to examine the object. “It looks like a clasp to hold a cloak,” he offered.

  “It is, I think.” The silvery object, bent and muddy, had a rim of molded holly leaves. At the center was a pair of crossed spears and an angry reptilian face. Miriamele felt a wisp of fear rise inside her once more. “Isgrimnur, look at this.”

  The duke brought his mount alongside hers and took the brooch. “It’s the badge of the king’s Erkynguard.”

  “My father’s soldiers,” Miriamele murmured. She could not restrain the urge to look around, as though a company of knights could have been lying in wait unobserved somewhere nearby on the empty grass slope. “They have been here.”

  “They could have been here after the people left,” Isgrimnur said. “Or there could be some other reason we can’t guess.” He did not sound very convinced himself. “After all, Princess, we don’t even know who was living here.”

  “I know.” She was angry just imagining it. “They were people who had fled my father’s reign. Josua and the others were probably with them. Now they have been driven away or captured.”

  “Pardon, Lady Miriamele,” Tiamak said cautiously, “but I think it would not be good to make our minds up so quickly. Duke Isgrimnur is right: there is much we do not know. This is not the place I saw in the dream Geloë sent me.”

  “So, then, what should we do?”

  “Continue,” said the Wrannaman. “Follow the tracks. Perhaps those who lived here have gone to join Josua.”

  “That looks promising over there.” The duke was shading his eyes against the gray sun. He pointed toward the edge of the settlement, where a series of wide ruts wound out from the trampled acres of mud toward the north.

  “Then let us follow.” Miriamele handed the brooch back to Camaris. The old knight looked at it for a moment, then let it drop to the ground.

  The ruts ran close enough together to make a large muddy scar through the grasslands. On either side of this makeshift road lay the marks of the people who had used it—broken wagon spokes, sodden fire ashes, numerous holes dug and filled in. Despite the look of it, the ugly scatter across an otherwise pristine land, Miriamele was heartened by how new the signs seemed: it could not have been more than a month or two at most since the road had been traveled.

  Over a supper culled from their dwindling Village Grove stores, Miriamele asked Isgrimnur what he would do when they reached Josua at last. It was nice to talk about that day as something that would happen, not just as something that might: it made it seem certain, real and tangible, even though she still felt a wisp of superstitious fear at talking of good things not yet come to pass.

  “I’ll show him that I kept my word,” the duke laughed. “Show you to him. Then I think I will catch up my wife and hug her until she squeaks.”

  Miriamele smiled, thinking of plump, always-capable Gutrun. “I want to see that.” She looked over at Tiamak, who slept, and Camaris, who was polishing Isgrimnur’s sword with the fascinated absorption he usually gave only to the movements of birds in the sky. Before the duel with Aspitis, the old knight had not wanted even to touch the blade. She felt a little sad now as she watched him. He handled the duke’s sword as though it were an old but not quite trusted friend.

  “You really miss her, don’t you?” she said, turning back to Isgrimnur. “Your wife.”

  “Ah, sweet Usires, I do.” He stared at the fire as though unwilling to meet her eyes. “I do.”

  “You love her.” Miriamele was pleased and a little surprised: Isgrimnur had spoken with a heat she had not expected. It was strange to think that love could burn so strongly in the breast of someone who seemed as old and familiar as the duke—and that grandmotherly Duchess Gutrun could be the object of such powerful feelings!

  “Of course I love her, I suppose,” he said, frowning. “But it’s more than that, my lady. She’s a part of me, my Outrun—we’ve grown together through the years, twined ’round each other like two old trees.” He laughed and shook his head. “I always knew. From the moment I saw her first, carrying mistletoe from the ship-grave of Sotfengsel ... Ah, she was so beautiful. She had the brightest eyes I’ve ever seen! Like something in a story.”

  Miriamele sighed. “I hope someone feels that way about me someday.”

  “They will, my girl, they will.” Isgrimnur smiled. “And when you are married, if you are lucky enough to marry the right one, you will know just what I mean. He will be a part of you, just like my Gutrun is for me. Forever until we die.” He made the Tree on his breast. “None of this southlander nonsense for me—widows and widowers taking another spouse! How could anyone ever match her?” He fell silent as he considered the monumental impertinence of second marriages.

  Miriamele, too, reflected in silence. Would it be her lot someday to find such a husband? She thought of Fengbald, to whom her father had once offered her, and shuddered. Horrid, swaggering oaf! That Elias, of all people, should attempt to marry her to someone she did not love, when he him
self had been so crippled by the death of Miriamele’s mother Hylissa that he had been like a man lost in the dark since the hour of her death....

  Unless he was trying to spare me from such awful loneliness, she thought. Maybe he thought it would be a blessing not to love so, and never to feel such a loss. That was the heartbreaking thing, to see him so lonely for her....

  With the suddenness and enormity of a lightning flash, Miriamele saw the thing that had been teasing her mind since Cadrach had first told her his story. It was all there before her, and it was so clear—so clear! It was as though she had groped in a blackened chamber, but now a door had abruptly opened, spilling light, and she could finally see all the strange shapes she had touched in darkness.

  “Oh!” she said, gasping. “Oh! Oh, Father!”

  She astonished Isgrimnur by bursting into tears. The duke tried his best to soothe her, but she could not stop crying. Neither would she tell him what had caused it, except to say that Isgrimnur’s words had reminded her of her mother’s death. It was a cruel half-truth, although she did not intend cruelty: when Miriamele crawled away from the fire, the duke was left perturbed but helpless, blaming himself for her misery.

  Still sniffling quietly, Miriamele rolled herself in her blanket to stare at the stars and think. There was suddenly so much to think about. Nothing important had changed, but at the same time, everything was vastly different.

  Tears came to her again before she finally fell asleep.

  A brief flurry of snow came up in the morning, not enough to slow the horses much, but sufficient to make Miriamele shiver most of the day. The Stefflod was sluggish and gray, like a twining stream of fluid lead, and the snow seemed thickest just above it, so that the fields on the river’s far side were much murkier than the nearer bank. Miriamele had the illusion that the Stefflod drew snow like the lodestone in Ruben the Bear’s smithy drew scraps of iron.

  The land sloped upward, so that by late afternoon, when the light had already fled and they rode in cold twilight, they found themselves climbing into a rank of low hills. Trees were nearly as scarce as they had been in the Lake Thrithing, and the wind was sharp and raw on Miriamele’s cheeks, but there was a sort of relief in the changing scenery.

  They climbed high into the hills that night before making camp. When they arose in the morning, feet and fingers and noses bright pink and smarting, the company lingered over the fire longer than usual. Even Camaris got on his horse with a look of obvious reluctance.

  The snow grew less, then vanished by late morning. Toward noon the sun emerged brilliantly from the clouds, sending down great arrow-flights of beams. By the time they had reached what seemed to be the summit of the hills in mid-afternoon, the clouds had returned, this time bearing a chill but delicate rain.

  “Princess!” Isgrimnur shouted. “Look here!” He had ridden a short way ahead, looking for any possible hazards in their journey downslope: an easy ascent did not guarantee an equally simple descent, and the duke was taking no chances in unknown country. Half in fear, half in exhilaration, Miriamele rode forward. Tiamak leaned forward in the saddle before her, straining to see. The duke stood in a break in the sparse treeline, waving his hand toward the gap between the trunks. “Look!”

  Spread below them was a wide valley, a bowl of green patched with white. Despite the soft rain, a sense of stillness hung over it, the air somehow taut as an indrawn breath. At the center, rising up from what looked like a partially frozen lake, was a great stony hill mantled in snow-flecked greenery. The slanting light played across it so that its western face seemed almost to glow, warmly inviting. From the top, pale smoke rose from a hundred different sources.

  “God be praised, what is it?” Isgrimnur said in astonishment.

  “I think it is the place from my dream,” Tiamak murmured.

  Miriamele hugged herself, awash in feeling. The great hill seemed almost too real. “I hope it is a good place. I hope Josua and the others are there.”

  “Somebody is living there,” Isgrimnur said. “Look at all the fires!”

  “Come!” Miriamele spurred her horse down the trail. “We can be there before nightfall.”

  “Don’t be in such a hurry.” Isgrimnur urged his own mount forward. “We don’t know for certain that it’s anything to do with Josua.”

  “I would willingly be captured by almost anyone if they’d take me to a fire and a warm bed,” Miriamele called back over her shoulder.

  Camaris, who had brought up the rear, paused at the gap in the trees to stare down into the valley. His long face did not change expression, but he remained where he was for a long time before following the others.

  Although it was still light when they reached the lake shore, the men who came to meet them carried torches—flowers of fire that reflected yellow and scarlet in the black lake water as the boats made their way slowly through floating ice. Isgrimnur held back at first, cautious and protective, but before the first boat touched shore he recognized the yellow-bearded figure in the bow and swung down from his saddle with a shout of delight.

  “Sludig! In God’s name, in Aedon’s name, bless you!” His liege-man sloshed the last few steps to shore. Before he could bend his knee before the duke, Isgrimnur snatched him up and crushed him to his broad chest. “How fares the prince?” Isgrimnur cried, “and my lady wife? And my son?”

  Although Sludig was himself a large man, he had to free himself from the duke’s clutches and catch his breath before he could assure Isgrimnur that all were fine, although Isorn had left on a mission for the prince. Duke Isgrimnur did a clumsy, enthusiastic, bearlike dance of glee. “And I’ve brought the princess back!” the duke said. “And more, and more! But lead on! Ah, this is as fine as Aedonmansa!”

  Sludig laughed. “We have been watching you since midday. Josua said: ‘Go down and find out who they are.’ He will be quite surprised, I think!” He quickly arranged for the horses to be loaded on one of the barges, then helped Miriamele onto the boat.

  “Princess.” His touch was firm as he helped her to one of the benches. “You are welcome to New Gadrinsett. Your uncle will be happy to see you.”

  The guardsmen who had accompanied Sludig examined Tiamak and Camaris with great interest as well, but the Rimmersman did not allow them to waste time. Within moments they were heading back across the ice-studded lake.

  Waiting on the far side was a cart drawn by two thin and disgruntled oxen. When the passengers were loaded on board, Sludig smacked one of the beasts on the flank and the cart began to roll creakily up the stone-shod road.

  “What is this?” Isgrimnur peered over the side of the cart to look at the pale stones.

  “It is a Sithi road,” Sludig said with more than a touch of pride. “This is a Sithi place, very ancient. They call it ‘Sesuad’ra. ’”

  “I have heard of it,” Tiamak whispered to Miriamele. “It is famous in lore—but I had no idea it still existed, or that it was the Stone Geloë showed me!”

  Miriamele shook her head. She cared little where they were being taken. With Sludig’s appearance, she felt as though a vast load had been taken from her back; only now did she realize how tired she truly was.

  She felt herself nodding a little with the movement of the ox cart, and tried to fight back a wave of exhaustion. Children were running down the mountainside to join them. They fell in behind the travelers, shouting and singing.

  By the time they reached the top of the hill, a great crowd had gathered. Miriamele found the immense sea of people almost sickening; it had been a long time since the swarming wooden streets of Kwanitupul, and she found herself unable to look at so many hungry, expectant faces. She leaned against Isgrimnur and closed her eyes.

  At the top, the faces suddenly became familiar. Sludig helped her down from the cart and into the arms of her uncle Josua, who pulled her to him and hugged her almost as firmly as Isgrimnur had embraced Sludig. After a moment he held her out at arm’s length to stare at her. He was thinner than she reme
mbered, and his garments, although colored his habitual gray, were odd and rustic. Her heart opened a little wider, letting in both pain and joy.

  “The Ransomer has answered my prayers,” he said. There could be no doubt, despite his lined and troubled face, that he was very happy to see her. “Welcome back, Miriamele.”

  Then there were more faces—Vorzheva, wearing an odd, tentlike robe, and the harper Sangfugol, and even little Binabik who bowed with mocking courtliness before taking her hand in his small, warm fingers. Another who stood silently by seemed oddly familiar. He was bearded, and a streak of white marred his red hair and capped the pale scar on his cheek. He looked at her as though he would memorize her, as though someday he might carve her in stone.

  It took a long moment.

  “Simon?” she said.

  Astonishment turned rapidly to a kind of strange bitterness—she had been cheated of so much! While she had been busy elsewhere, the world had changed. Simon was no longer a mere boy. Her friend had disappeared, and this tall young man had taken his place. Had she been away that long?

  The stranger’s mouth worked, but it was a moment before she heard him speak. Simon’s voice seemed deeper, too, but his words were halting. “I am glad you’re safe, Princess. Very glad.”

  She stared at him, her eyes burning as tears began to come. The world seemed topside-round.

  “Please,” she said abruptly, turning to Josua. “I think ... I need to lie down. I need to sleep.” She did not see the one-time kitchen boy lower his head as though he had been spurned.

  “Of course,” said her uncle, full of concern. “Of course. As long as you like. Then, when you arise, we will have a feast of thanksgiving!”

  Miriamele nodded, dazed, then let Vorzheva lead her away toward the rippling sea of tents. Behind her, Isgrimnur’s arms were still locked about his giggling, weeping wife.

  22

  Wipers in Stone