To Green Angel Tower, Volume 1

by Tad Williams

  The prince sighed. “I always listen to you, Isgrimnur. You taught me tactics as you held me on your knee, remember.”

  “I’m not that much older than you, pup,” the duke grumbled. “If you don’t mind your manners, I’ll take you out in the snow and give you an embarrassing lesson.”

  Josua grinned. “I think we will have to put that off for some other day. Ah, but it is good to have you back with me, Isgrimnur.” His expression grew more sober. “So, then, you say Nabban. How?”

  Isgrimnur slid his stool closer and dropped his voice. “Streáwe’s message said the time is right—that Benigaris is very unpopular. Rumors of the part he played in his father’s death are everywhere.”

  “The armies of the Kingfisher Crest will not desert because of rumors,” said Josua. “There have been more than a few other patricides who ruled in Nabban, remember. It is hard to shock those people. In any case, the elite officers of the army are loyal to the Benidrivine House above all. They will fight any foreign usurper—even Elias, were he to assert his power directly. They certainly would not throw Benigaris over on my behalf. Surely you remember the old Nabbanai saying, ‘Better our whoreson than your saint.’ ”

  Isgrimnur grinned wickedly in his whiskers. “Ah, but who is talking about convincing them to throw Benigaris over for your sake, my prince? Merciful Aedon, they’d let Nessalanta lead the armies before they’d let you do it.”

  Josua shook his head in irritation. “Well, who, then?”

  “Camaris, damn you!” Isgrimnur thumped his wide hand down on his thigh for emphasis. “He’s the legitimate heir to the ducal throne—Leobardis only became duke because Camaris disappeared and was thought dead!”

  The prince stared at his old friend. “But he’s mad, Isgrimnur—or at least simple-minded.”

  The duke sat up. “They’ve accepted a cowardly patricide. Why wouldn’t they prefer a heroic simpleton?”

  Josua shook his head again, this time in wonder. “You are astounding, Isgrimnur. Where did you get such an idea?”

  Isgrimnur grinned fiercely. “I’ve had a lot of time to think since I found Camaris in that inn at Kwanitupul.” He ran his fingers through his beard. “It’s a pity that Eolair isn’t here to see what a skulker and intriguer I’ve become in my old age.”

  The prince laughed. “Well, I’m not certain that it would work, but it bears thinking about at least.” He rose and walked to the table. “Would you like some more wine?”

  Isgrimnur raised his goblet. “Thinking is thirsty work. Fill it, would you?”

  “It is prise’a—Ever-fresh.” Aditu lifted the slender vine to show Simon the pale blue flower. “Even after it has been picked, it does not wilt, not until the season has passed. It is said that it came from the Garden on our people’s boats.”

  “Some of the women here wear it in their hair.”

  “As do our folk—men and women both,” the Sitha replied with an amused glance.

  “Please, hello!” someone called. Simon turned to see Tiamak, Miriamele’s Wrannaman friend. The small man seemed tremendously excited. “Prince Josua wishes you to come, Sir Simon, Lady Aditu.” He started to sketch a bow, but was too full of nervous exhilaration to complete it. “Oh, please hurry!”

  “What is it?” asked Simon. “Is something wrong!”

  “We have found something important, we think.” He bounced on his tiptoes, anxious to be going. “In my parchment—mine!”

  Simon shook his head. “What parchment?”

  “You will learn all. Come to Josua’s tent! Please!” Tiamak turned and began trotting back toward the settlement.

  Simon laughed. “What a strange man! You’d think he had a bee in his breeches.”

  Aditu set the vine carefully back into place. She lifted her fingers to her nose. “This reminds me of my house in Jao é-Tinukai’i,” she said. “Every room is filled with flowers.”

  “I remember.”

  They made their way back across the hilltop. The sun seemed quite strong today, and though the northern horizon was aswim with gray clouds, the sky overhead was blue. Almost no snow remained except in the hollows of the hillside below them, the deep places where shadows lingered late into the day. Simon wondered where Miriamele was: he had gone looking for her in the morning, hoping to convince her to take a walk with him, but she had been absent, her tent empty. Duchess Gutrun had told him that the princess had gone out early.

  Josua’s tent was crowded. Beside Tiamak stood Geloë, Father Strangyeard, and Binabik. The prince sat on his stool, looking closely at a parchment which was spread across his lap. Vorzheva sat near the far wall, stitching at a piece of cloth. Aditu, after nodding her greetings to the others, left Simon and went to join her.

  Josua glanced up briefly from the parchment. “I am glad you are here, Simon. I hope you can help us.”

  “How, Prince Josua?”

  The prince raised his hand without looking up again. “First you must hear what we have found.”

  Tiamak inched forward shyly. “Please, Prince Josua, may I tell what has happened?”

  Josua smiled at the Wrannaman. “When Miriamele and Isgrimnur arrive, you may.”

  Simon eased over next to Binabik, who was talking with Geloë. Simon waited as patiently as he could and listened to them discuss runes and errors of translation until he was nearly bursting. At last the Duke of Elvritshalla arrived with the princess. Her short hair was wind-tousled and her cheeks had a delicate flush. Simon could not help staring at her, full of mute longing.

  “I had to climb halfway down this damnable hill to find her,” Isgrimnur muttered. “I hope this is worth it.”

  “You could have just called to me and I would have come up,” Miriamele replied sweetly. “You didn’t have to nearly kill yourself.”

  “I didn’t like where you were climbing. I was afraid I’d startle you.”

  “And having a huge, sweating Rimmersman come crashing down the hillside wouldn’t startle me?”

  “Please.” Josua’s voice was a little strained. “This is not the time for teasing. It is worth it, Isgrimnur—or I hope it will be.” He turned to the Wrannaman and handed him the parchment. “Explain to the newcomers, Tiamak, if you will.”

  The slender man, his eyes bright, quickly described how he had acquired the parchment, then showed them the ancient runes before reading it aloud.

  “... Bring from Nuanni’s Rocke Garden,

  The Man who tho’ Blinded canne See

  Discover the Blayde that delivers The Rose

  At the foote of the Rimmer’s great Tree

  Find the Call whose lowde Claime

  Speaks the Call-bearer’s name

  In a Shippe on the Shallowest Sea—

  —When Blayde, Call, and Man

  Come to Prince’s right Hande

  Then the Prisoned shall once more go Free ...”

  Finished, he looked around the room. “We ...” He hesitated. “We ... Scrollbearers ... have discussed this and what it might mean. If Nisses’ other words are important for our purposes, it seemed likely that these might be, too.”

  “So what does it mean?” Isgrimnur demanded. “I looked at it before and couldn’t make horns nor hind-quarter out of it.”

  “You were not having the advantage that some others were having,” said Binabik. “Simon and myself and some others were already facing one part of this riddle for ourselves.” The troll turned to Simon. “Have you seen it yet?”

  Simon thought hard. “The Rimmer’s Tree—the Uduntree!” He looked over to Miriamele with more than a little pride. “That’s where we found Thorn!”

  Binabik nodded. The tent had grown quiet. “Yes—the ‘blade that delivers the Rose’ was being found there,” the troll said. “The sword of Camaris called Thorn.”

  “Ebekah, John’s wife.” Isgrimnur breathed. “The Rose of Hernysadharc.” He pulled vigorously at his beard. “Of course!” he said to Josua. “Camaris was your mother’s special protector.”
<
br />   “So we were seeing that the rhyme spoke in part of Thorn,” Binabik agreed.

  “But the rest,” said Tiamak, “we think we know, but we are not sure.”

  Geloë leaned forward. “It seems possible that if the rhyme speaks of Thorn, it may also speak of Camaris himself. A ‘man who though blinded can see’ could certainly describe a man who is blind to his past, even his own name, although he sees as well as anyone here.”

  “Better,” said Miriamele quietly. “That seems right.” Isgrimnur scowled, considering. “I don’t know how such a thing could be in some old book from hundreds of years ago, but it seems right.”

  “So what does that leave us?” Josua asked. “This part about ‘the Call’ and the last lines about the prisoned going free.”

  A moment of silence followed his remark.

  Simon cleared his throat. “Well, perhaps this is stupid,” he began.

  “Speak, Simon,” Binabik urged him.

  “If one part is about Camaris, and another is about his sword—maybe the other parts are about other things of his and other places he’s been.”

  Josua smiled. “That is not at all stupid, Simon. That is what we think, too. And we even think we know what the Call might be.”

  From her seat by the far wall, Aditu suddenly laughed, a clear, musical trill like falling water. “So you did remember to give it to them, Seoman. I was afraid you might forget. You were very tired and sad when we parted.”

  “Give it to them?” said Simon, confused. “What... ?” He stopped short. “The horn!”

  “The horn,” Josua said. “Amerasu’s gift to us, a gift we could see no use for.”

  “But how does that fit with the call-bearer’s name... ?” Simon asked.

  “It was under our noses, so to speak,” Tiamak said. “When Isgrimnur found Camaris at the inn in Kwanitupul, he was called ‘Ceallio’—that means ‘shout’ or ‘call’ in the Perdruinese tongue. The famous horn of Camaris was named ‘Cellian,’ which is the same thing in the Nabbanai tongue.”

  Aditu rose, smoothly as a hawk taking wing. “It was called Cellian by mortals only. It has a far older name than that—its true name, its name of Making. The horn that Amerasu sent you belonged to the Sithi long before your Camaris sounded it in battle. It is called Ti-tuno.”

  “But how did it come to be in Camaris’ hands?” Miriamele asked. “And if he had it, how did the Sithi get it back again?”

  “I can answer the first part of your question easily,” Aditu told her. “Ti-tuno was made of the dragon Hidohebhi’s tooth, the black worm that Hakatri and Ineluki slew. When Prince Sinnach of the mortal Hernystiri came to our aid before the battle of Ach Samrath, Iyu’unigato of Year-Dancing House gave it to him as a token of gratitude, a gift from friend to friend.”

  When Aditu paused, Binabik looked for her permission to continue. When she nodded, he spoke. “Many centuries after Asu‘a was falling, when John came to his power in Erkynland, he was having the chance to make the Hernystiri his vassals. He did not choose to do that thing, and in gratitude King Llythinn sent the horn Ti-tuno as part of Ebekah’s bridal dower when she was sent for being Prester John’s wife.” He raised his small hand in a gesture of gift giving. “Camaris was guarding her on that journey, and brought her with safety to Erkynland. John was finding his Hernystiri bride so beautiful that he gave the horn to Camaris to commemorate the day of her coming to the Hayholt.” He waved his hand again, a broader flourish, as though he had painted a picture he now wished the others to admire. “As for how it was returned to Amerasu and the Sithi—well, perhaps that is a story Camaris himself can be telling to us. But that is where it was brought from: the ‘ship on the shallowest sea.’”

  “I do not understand that part,” Isgrimnur said. Aditu smiled. “Jao é-Tinukai‘i means ‘Boat on the Ocean of Trees.’ It is hard to imagine an ocean shallower than one with no water.”

  Simon was growing confused by the flood of words and the changing litany of speakers. “What do you mean when you say Camaris can tell the story, Binabik? I thought Camaris couldn’t talk—that he was mute, or mad, or under a spell.”

  “Perhaps he is being all those things,” the troll replied. “But it is also perhaps true that the last line of the poem is speaking to us about Camaris himself—that when these things are brought together, he will be then released from the prison of sorts that he is in. We hope it will be bringing back his wits.”

  Again the room fell silent for several heartbeats.

  “Of course,” Josua added at last, “there is still the problem of how that will come to be, if the second-to-last line is to be believed.” He held up his arms—his left hand with Elias’ manacle still clasped about the wrist, his right arm that ended in a leather-clad stump. “As you can see,” he said, “the one thing this prince does not have is a right hand.” He allowed himself a mocking grin. “But we hope that it is not meant to be taken word for word. Perhaps just bringing them into my presence will do the trick.”

  “I tried to show Camaris the blade Thorn once already,” Isgrimnur remembered. “Thought it might jog his mind, if you see my meaning. But he wouldn’t go near it. Acted like it was a poisonous snake. Pulled free and walked right out of the room.” He paused. “But maybe when everything is together, the horn and all, maybe then ...”

  “Well?” said Miriamele. “Why don’t we try it, then?”

  “Because we can’t,” Josua said grimly. “We have lost the horn.”

  “What?” Simon looked up to see if, improbably, the prince might be joking. “How can that be?”

  “It vanished sometime during the battle with Fengbald,” Josua said. “It is one of the reasons I wanted you here, Simon. I thought you might have taken it back for safekeeping.”

  Simon shook his head. “I was glad to be rid of it, Prince Josua. I was so afraid that I had doomed us all by forgetting to give it to you. No, I haven’t seen it.”

  No one else in the tent had either. “So,” Josua said at last. “We must search for it, then—but quietly. If there is a traitor in our midst, or even just a thief, we must not let him know that it is an important thing or we may never recover it.”

  Aditu laughed again. This time it seemed shockingly out of place. “I am sorry,” she said. “but this is something that the rest of the Zida’ya would never believe. To have lost Ti-tuno!”

  “It’s not funny,” Simon growled. “Besides, can’t you use some magic or something to locate it?”

  Aditu shook her head. “Things do not work that way, Seoman. I tried to explain that to you once before. And I am sorry to laugh. I will help look for it.”

  She didn’t look very sorry, Simon thought. But if he couldn’t understand mortal women, how could he ever in a thousand years hope to understand Sithi women?

  The company slowly filed out of Josua’s tent, talking quietly among themselves. Simon waited for Miriamele outside. When she emerged, he fell in beside her.

  “So they are going to give Camaris back his memories.” Miriamele looked distracted and tired, as though she had not slept much the night before.

  “If we can find the horn, I suppose we’ll try.” Simon was secretly quite pleased that Miriamele had been present to see how involved he was in Prince Josua’s counsels.

  Miriamele turned to look at him, her expression accu-satory. “And what if he doesn’t want those memories back?” she demanded. “What if he is happy now, for the first time in his life?”

  Simon was startled, but could think of no reply. They walked back across the settlement in silence until Miriamele said good-bye and went off to walk by herself. Simon was left wondering at what she had said. Did Miriamele, too, have memories that she would be just as happy to lose?

  Josua was standing in the garden behind Leavetaking House when Miriamele found him. He was staring into the sky, across which the clouds were drawn in long ribbons like torn linen.

  “Uncle Josua?”

  He turned. “Miriamele. It is a pl
easure to see you.”

  “You like to come here, don’t you?”

  “I suppose I do.” He nodded slowly. “It is a place to think. I worry too much about Vorzheva—about our child and what kind of a world it will live in—to feel very comfortable most places.”

  “And you miss Deornoth.”

  Josua turned his gaze back to the cloud-strewn sky again. “I miss him, yes. But more importantly, I want to make his sacrifice worthwhile. If our defeat of Fengbald means something, then it will be easier for me to live with his death.” The prince sighed. “He was still young, compared to me—he had not seen thirty summers.”

  Miriamele watched her uncle in silence for a long while before speaking. “I need to ask you a favor, Josua.”

  He extended his hand, indicating one of the time-worn benches. “Please. Ask me whatever you wish.”

  She took a deep breath. “When you ... when we come to the Hayholt, I want to speak to my father.”

  Josua tilted his head, raising his eyebrows so that his high, smooth forehead creased. “What do you mean, Miriamele?”

  “There will be a time before any final siege when you and he will talk,” she said hurriedly, as though speaking words that had been practiced. “There has to be, no matter how bloody the fighting. He is your brother, and you will speak to him. I wish to be there.”

  Josua hesitated. “I am not certain that would be wise....”

  “And,” Miriamele continued, determined to have her say, “I wish to speak to him alone.”

  “Alone?” The prince shook his head, taken aback. “Miriamele, such a thing cannot be! If we are able to lay siege to the Hayholt, your father will be a desperate man. How could I leave you alone with him—I would be giving you over as a hostage!”

  “That’s not important,” she said stubbornly. “I must speak with him, Uncle Josua. I must!”