by Tad Williams
Prince Morgan and Count Eolair finally contact the Sithi at the edge of Aldheorte Forest. The immortals have abandoned their settlement of Jao é-Tinukai’i and their matriarch Likimeya was attacked by humans and has fallen into a deep, magical sleep. Khendraja’aro, of the ruling Sithi Year-Dancing House, has declared himself Protector of their people and refuses to help the mortals in any way, causing friction with Likimeya’s children, Jiriki and Aditu. Aditu is pregnant, a rarity among the Sithi. The father is Yeja’aro, nephew and militant supporter of Khendraja’aro.
In the Thrithings, Unver challenges and kills his rival for Fremur’s sister Kulva. But Kulva’s brother, Thane Odrig, does not want to give his sister to an outsider and slits her throat instead. Unver kills Odrig and flees the Crane Clane to return to the Stallion Clan of his mother Vorzheva. Unver, we learn, is actually Deornoth, the other of Josua and Vorzheva’s twins. When Unver demands his mother tell him why he was sent away and where his sister has gone, Vorzheva says he was sent away by order of her father, Thane Fikolmij, and that Derra ran away shortly after.
Thane Gurdig, husband to Vorzheva’s sister Hyara and Fikolmij’s successor, comes to attack Unver, and in the confusion Vorzheva kills her now old and infirm father, Fikolmij. A giant flock of crows appears out of nowhere to attack Gurdig and his allies, causing many Thrithings-folk to declare that Unver may be the new Shan, the universal monarch of the Thrithings. Unver kills Gurdig, and is then declared the new thane of the Stallion Clan.
Far to the northeast, the Talon and Jarnulf manage to capture a small, young dragon, but then the mother dragon appears. During the struggle Chieftain Makho is badly burned by dragon blood and one of the other Talon members is killed, but the rest manage to escape and begin dragging the captive young dragon down the mountain.
Eolair and Morgan are returning from their embassy to the Sithi to their camp beside Aldheorte Forest, but discover that their party has been attacked and all the soldiers wiped out by Thrithings-men, some of whom are still there, looking for victims and pillage. Eolair and Morgan become separated and the prince ends up lost back in ancient Aldheorte.
Back in the Hayholt, Queen Miriamele and King Simon are invited to attend an important wedding in populous and troubled Nabban. Hoping the presence of the High Throne will help solve the problems between Duke Saluceris and his brother Earl Drusis, Simon and Miriamele accept the invitation. With the increased threat of the Norns and disturbing news from Hernystir they cannot both go to Nabban, so they decide Miriamele will attend the wedding while Simon stays in the Hayholt.
Royal counselor Lord Pasevalles meets his secret lover Princess Idela, John Josua’s widow. When she gives him a letter from Nabban he had dropped, Pasevalles sees the seal is broken and fears she has read the letter. He pushes Idela down a flight of stairs and when the fall does not kill her, he breaks her neck with his boot.
In Aldheorte Forest the onetime Sithi envoy Tanahaya at last awakes from her terrible illness and is reunited with Jiriki and Aditu. Despite her recovery, the future seems dark. It is clear that the Norn Queen Utuk’ku intends war on both the Sithi and the human world.
Foreword
As Tanahaya entered the cavern called the Yásira, she was disturbed. Nothing felt right. For a moment, she even doubted herself and her decision.
The bright fliers are here, she thought, looking at the clustered butterflies, but they are so sad and slow! The stone above and around us hides them from the sun and the wind. They are entombed like the Sa’onsera herself. She looked at the shrouded body of Likimeya, not dead but not merely sleeping either, and felt a great hollowness. All the world is out of joint. How can anyone know what is right or wrong at such a time?
The sacred butterflies clung to the cavern walls and ceiling like a tapestry of living gems, in more colors than even sharp-eyed Tanahaya could count; the gentle rustling of their wings filled the silence like a soft wind caressing the treetops.
Likimeya’s daughter Aditu came forward and took Tanahaya’s hand for a brief moment. “Jiriki is here, too,” Aditu said, and with a feather-light drumming of her fingertips on Tanahaya’s palm, told her Courage, we are with you, then led her into the depths of the cavern where the rest of the Year-Dancing clan waited.
“Come, Tanahaya of Shisa’eron.” Khendraja’aro, the badly scarred, self-elected Protector of the clan, waited at the far end of the chamber just beyond the circle of sunlight admitted by the cave’s cloven roof. He sat cross-legged on the naked stone like a war leader, and his closest followers, mostly young male Zida’ya who had never known a life before their exile in the great forest, huddled close on either side of him like bodyguards. “I do not like to leave the battle lines at a time of such threats,” Khendraja’aro continued. “Tell me why I am needed here.”
The unblinking eyes of his supporters watched Tanahaya with plain distrust, but the faces of most of the rest in the cavern displayed nothing but attention. Only Aditu’s brother Jiriki and a few others nodded to welcome Tanahaya.
“It is precisely because of those threats that I wished to speak to you, Elder Khendraja’aro.” Tanahaya deliberately did not use his claimed title of “Protector,” and she could feel a stirring of interest around her. “At such a time, we cannot afford to drive away allies.”
Khendraja’aro’s ruined face assumed a more distant expression. “Drive away allies? What allies? We Zida’ya have no allies in this world.”
“Nor do we need any!” announced Yeja’aro, Khendraja’aro’s young kinsman. Of all gathered in the Yásira, he had the most trouble keeping his feelings appropriately masked. Tanahaya thought Yeja’aro little more than an earnest, angry youth, though she knew there must be more to him, else wise Aditu would not have chosen him to be the father of her child.
“I speak of the mortals.” Tanahaya’s words caused another stir but so brief and small that only a slight agitation of the butterflies overhead betrayed it. “The mortals who brought me back here so that our healers could save me.”
“Yes, of course,” Khendraja’aro said. “But surely you and the others did not summon me just to watch some ceremony of gratitude for our healers—or for the feckless mortals.”
“No, Elder Khendraja’aro. We summoned you out of courtesy so that I could tell you my decision. I am returning to the mortal lands, to the place they call the Hayholt—our old citadel of Asu’a.”
For a long moment Khendraja’aro only stared at her with narrowed eyes, as though he doubted his senses. “No, you are not,” he said at last. “By my trust, you are not.”
“I fear you have misunderstood, Elder,” said Tanahaya. “The trust was mine, and it was given to me by Sa’onsera Likimeya’s children, Aditu and her brother Jiriki. That task remains uncompleted.”
An angry ripple of breath and movement went through the protector’s supporters; to Tanahaya it seemed loud as a shout. She willed herself toward greater calm.
“I am the Protector of the House of Year-Dancing,” Khendraja’aro said stiffly. “I did not approve your going to the mortals in the first place, and I do not approve it now. My words are law for you.”
Now others were stirring, but this new wave of discontent seemed to be centered among the older members of the Sithi, many of whom Tanahaya knew were loyal to Jiriki and especially Aditu as the true scions of Year-Dancing House. “Your words are not law, Khendraja’aro,” said Jiriki, but his voice was mild and carefully neutral. “Our father Shima’onari was the last Protector—but he is dead, may the Garden receive him. Our mother Likimeya is the embodied Sa’onsera, and though she is sorely hurt and insensible, she still lives.”
“I do not need to hear our history from you, who never saw the Nine Cities of our people’s glorious days,” Khendraja’aro said, and for a moment seemed to lose the grip on his anger before drawing back into stolidity once more. “In any case, it does not matter. I do not claim every privilege of a Year-Dan
cing clan leader. But someone must be Protector, and while I serve the clan in that role, it is I who must make the difficult choices—and I choose to let the treacherous mortals go their own way. You will not go to the mortal castle, Tanahaya, and you will have nothing more to do with mortals. None of our house will.” He crossed his arms over his breast. “If there are no other matters of import, I declare this foolish and unnecessary council ended.”
Courage, she told herself. What is Khendraja’aro’s unhappiness when set against the madness of Queen Utuk’ku and her minions—against the possible destruction of all? “You misunderstand me, Elder Khendraja’aro,” she said. “I am not asking you if I may do this, I am informing you that I will do it. A courtesy, as I said.”
Yeja’aro would have leaped to his feet, but Khendraja’aro, though his face showed clear traces of fury and frustration, put out a hand to still his young relative. “No loud words here,” he told Yeja’aro. “And no threats. Take your hand away from that sword hilt, young one, or I will banish you. We are the Zida’ya, not brawling mortals—and this is the Yásira.” Yeja’aro subsided, folding himself back into a crouch among the others, Khendraja’aro turned back to Tanahaya. “Explain yourself.”
She took a deep breath, and suddenly had a strange, dizzying feeling that more was happening beneath this disagreement than anyone present could guess. She looked up to the butterflies above her head and took strength from their presence. The bright fliers have watched over fiercer conflicts than this, she told herself. Yet they still come to us. And we, the Dawn Children, the Zida’ya, still survive. “It is simple, Elder. You may rule the House of Year-Dancing in most things—but I am not of that house.”
He made a gesture of dismissal. “This is art, not fact. You were sent to us by your master, Himano. That puts you under my rule.”
“First,” she said, “Lord Himano is not my master by law but by my choice— my teacher, not my lord. He is an elder like you, although my respect for him is deep and I owe much to his help.” She looked to Jiriki and found some comfort in his grave, thoughtful face. “I was sent by Himano to help Jiriki and Aditu long before Likimeya was wounded and fell into her long sleep. I did their mother Likimeya’s bidding in traveling to the mortal’s capital, but was prevented from reaching it by an ambush with poisoned arrows. Nothing has changed since then. I serve their interests, not yours.”
Khendraja’aro was clearly taken aback. “I cannot understand such talk.”
“What I cannot understand,” Tanahaya said, frightening herself a little with her own bravery, “is why you and your followers, Elder, seem so determined to ignore all that does not coincide with your views. I was sent as envoy to the mortals, whether you approved or not. I was attacked and left for dead, and would have certainly died if several mortals had not worked long and hard to keep me living until I could be brought here. The arrows that struck me, from what I can learn, were black like Hikeda’ya arrows—but they apparently were painted to look that way, not made of true Kuriosora blackwood.”
“Your meaning is unclear,” Khendraja’aro said, frowning.
Aditu spoke up for the first time. “She means that someone wanted us—or the mortals—to think that the Hikeda’ya were to blame for the attack on our envoy.”
“So it was mortals who attacked Tanahaya, not Utuk’ku’s folk.” Yeja’aro sat up and made a sweeping gesture—this is just the noise of the wind. “Which only makes it clearer we should keep them far from us, and ourselves far from them.”
“But the poison that was used,” said Tanahaya. “That is something to be discussed as well.” She turned to a small, silver-haired Sitha woman sitting near Aditu. “Please tell the rest of the Sa’onserei what you told me, Elder Kira’athu.”
The healer, who never allowed herself to be hurried, waited several moments before speaking. “The poison that was in Tanahaya’s veins was . . . unusual. I have never seen the like. There was no poison left in the wounds, but the signs of it were most strange. Some aspects of kei-vishaa were in it, and some of the herb we call Traveler’s Hood—the mortals call it wolfsbane. And there was something else as well—”
“This means nothing!” said Yeja’aro, causing a few of the Root and Bough to stir uneasily at his continuous interruptions. “The Hikeda’ya used witchwood dust against mortals in the last war. The mortals know it and what it does.”
Kira’athu did not give him the courtesy of a glance. “Yes, the Hikeda’ya have used kei-vishaa against men in the past. It is not impossible that the mortals could have discovered its properties, although it is obvious they would have a very difficult time making more of it, with the witchwood trees now all but gone.”
A stir of uneasiness seemed to pass among the butterflies on the chamber walls and ceilings, a whisper made by thousands of gently rippling wings.
“But the strangest thing about the ambush is this,” the healer said. “Among the signs of the poisoning upon Tanahaya’s body I found some that did not come from either kei-vishaa or Traveler’s Hood. Show them, Tanahaya of Shisae’ron.”
Tanahaya turned and pulled up her loose tunic, ignoring the pain from the corruption that had turned her wounds into hollows that were only now beginning to scab.
“Do you see those marks on her skin, like flowers?” Kira’athu asked the assembly. “Several moons after the attack, they are still hot to the touch. No ordinary poison caused them. But they are much like the wounds caused by something else—something that usually only enters the body from the outside. They are like the wounds made by dragon’s blood.”
Khendraja’aro still looked angry, but his face had also grown a shade more pale. “And what do you claim this means, Healer?”
“I do not claim anything, Protector,” Kira’athu said. “I say only what I know.”
“Does anyone truly need to ask?” Jiriki said, “It seems plain that someone who can put their hands on both kei-vishaa and dragon’s blood wants to stop us from sending an envoy to the mortals. That alone would make it worth sending the envoy again.”
Khendraja’aro shook his head, slowly but emphatically.
“I do not care for any of this. I do not permit it.”
“And as I said, Elder, I do not ask for your permission.” Tanahaya spoke as calmly as she could, though her heart was beating fast. “Out of courtesy, I inform you that I will once more take up my embassy to the mortals. Now I must go and prepare.”
“Let me help you, heart-sister.” Aditu rose to her feet, her belly like a full harvest moon sailing over the horizon. “You are only just regaining your health.”
“I fear I will never be truly well again,” said Tanahaya. “But I am well enough to do my duty.”
They walked out of the cavern side by side, pausing only to pay respects to sleeping Likimeya in her shroud of butterfly silk. The butterflies themselves had grown still again on the ceiling and walls, and for that moment the cave was quiet as the rest of the gathered Zida’ya pondered all that had been said. Still, Tanahaya felt certain the Yásira would not stay silent long after she had gone.
PART ONE
Summer’s End
Cruel orb, my foe, the sun,
Glaring upon things
I never want to see again
The proud, lightning-limbed oaks
Of Hekhasor
The shimmering blue waters of Silverhome’s lake
And the endless, endless sky
Go away, foul sun! You make me sad.
—SHUN’Y’ASU OF BLUE SPIRIT PEAK
1
Old Heart
The touch of slender fingers frightened Morgan so badly that he leaped off the branch where he had been perched, banged his knee and elbow hard on a lower branch, then half-swung, half-fell to the ground. Even before he rose he was scrabbling forward across the forest floor on hands and knees, his pulse drumming in his ears. Only when he was some d
ozen paces away from the tree did he dare turn and look.
The moonlight seeping through the ancient trees did not reveal much of the thing that had touched him but cast enough silvery light for Morgan to know he had never seen another creature like it. It was smaller than his young sister, which eased his fears some, but it was no animal he could recognize, neither bear cub nor ape. Its startled black eyes were huge and, before the creature turned and vanished into the upper part of the tree, he even caught a glimpse of hands that seemed to have fingers instead of claws.
Morgan sat on the damp ground as the moon slid out of sight again behind the trees. He shivered, waiting for his heart to slow, wanting to weep but not daring to make a sound. He had no idea which direction he had come from or how long he had run.
I’m lost, he realized. Alone in Aldheorte Forest. Lost. It hit him like a blow.
He badly wanted a drink of something strong.
* * *
• • •
Morgan woke from a harrowing, dark dream of tripping roots and tangling branches, of vines that clutched and dragged him down like vengeful ghosts, to discover that, instead of angry phantoms, a bright blue summer sky peeked at him from between the branches overhead, and the warm morning air was full of the scent of green things.
He had but a single moment to appreciate the relief, the perfect innocence of the day; then as he tried to untangle himself from his cloak he rolled over and fell out of the tree where he had fallen asleep. He was slowed in his tumble by branches beneath; he was lucky to have climbed only a couple of times his own height. Still, branches scratched and gouged him in several places before he struck the ground.
At first he could only lie panting, testing his limbs to see if he had injured himself badly. So much, he thought, for the safety of perching in trees.