by Tad Williams
“It’s coming!” he shrieked, but there was no one to hear him, nothing around him but the hideous, endless roaring of the wind from nowhere. “They want me! They want me! The Mother wants me! The Three!” He did not know what he was saying, but he could not stop, even as he flew up and out in a thousand pieces, blind and unknowing. He could hear himself crying, “The Three!” over and over, as if he had left his own body behind.
Then something came to him that was different from the howling black. It had the shape of a person, but it shone like the flames of many candles, like the chapel during mansa when their familiar glow lit the altar, flickering before the great picture of Usires on the Day of Weighing Out.
As it floated toward him, he saw that this figure was garbed, not in clothes or even the heavenly robes Cuff had seen in church paintings, but in a suit made of stars, countless diamond-bright points of light.
“We are not finished—not yet,” the figure told him, and he heard it with his heart, not his ears. “Our race has not ended.”
And then Cuff was himself again, lying on the wet ground. He could hear people talking above him.
“He’s had one of his fits,” one said.
“Poor thing won’t last much longer,” said another. “None of us will.”
Cuff opened his eyes. For a moment he thought they might be angels—angels covered in mud. Then he saw that it was only a man and a woman, two of his fellow slaves. “D-d-don’t be afraid,” he told them, rubbing at his cold wet face, tasting gritty dirt between his teeth. “The angel made of stars is coming.”
“Poor thing,” said the woman. Together they lifted him back into a sitting position, then left him there in the mud and the rain and went back to join the other slaves.
“It’s coming,” Cuff said once more, though there was no longer anyone to hear him.
* * *
Viyeki was struggling with something more vexing than even the most difficult engineering calculation of unequal weights at unequal distances, and this problem carried a penalty for failure perhaps even more frightening than a miscalculation about heavy stone.
To Lady Khimabu of the Enduya,
My good wife, mistress of my household, I greet you and hope this finds you in sound health. I write in a place far from Nakkiga, but my thoughts are ever there, with you and all those who serve us.
* * *
• • •
He stared with dissatisfaction at what he had written. It was not the runes that displeased the high magister: they had been drawn with his usual care, each line crisp and economical, as he had been taught during his childhood in the Builder’s Order-house. Rather, it was the obvious flatness of the sentiments. If even he found fault with them, how much more would Khimabu, daughter of a grand old family, raised on courtly conversation? But Viyeki had no poetry in him at this moment. He had no news to share—none that he was allowed to relate, at least—and he really wanted was to ask Khimabu of news about his mistress Tzoja and his daughter Nezeru, but he dared not ask his wife such things. Tzoja’s desperate fear of Khimabu had troubled his thoughts, though he had dismissed it at the time. He did not want to give his wife more reasons to resent the mortal woman.
He had even considered writing a letter just to Tzoja herself, but did not trust it would reach her without Khimabu discovering it, and a secret message to his mistress would be even more certain to infuriate his wife.
Khimabu’s last letter, written back in the hot days of the Stone-Listener’s Moon, had conspicuously failed to mention Nezeru at all, let alone her mortal mother. It had been full of petty complaints about the servants and how Khimabu felt she was being treated badly by other noblewomen of the court. The veiled implication, only slightly hidden by dutiful language, had been that Viyeki himself was somehow to blame for all of these things. But his irritation was leavened now by the knowledge that he was now swimming in very deep waters indeed, responsible for a project that was important to the queen, although he had been given little authority to make it happen. If there was ever a time he might need the good will of his wife’s rich and ancient family, fierce supporters of the Hamakha since the Garden, that time was the present.
Beguile her, he told himself. It should not be difficult—she is already your wife. The poetry of our people is full of easeful words. Find some that will soothe her.
But the distance between Viyeki and his wife seemed greater than merely the leagues that separated them. He was surprised, even disturbed, by how little he thought about Khimabu these days, and how much he thought instead about his mortal mistress.
It is Tzoja I truly miss, he realized with a mixture of surprise and shame. I am lonely here in these strange mortal lands. I was often lonely in the Enduya Clan House as well, but being with Tzoja always eased my heart.
Fool, he cursed himself. Find words that will sing to Khimabu for you, then your half-hearted voice will not be a problem.
For a moment he even considered asking Pratiki for advice—the prince-templar was a well-known patron and student of the poetic arts, after all. But showing weakness before a Hamakha noble, whether in war or in a dynastic marriage, could have many unforeseen consequences and almost none of them were good.
A memory of something Pratiki had said earlier came back to him—“a problem that is not.” That line was from a poem, Viyeki felt sure, though he could not recall its author. For some reason it had struck him oddly at the time, and it had stuck in his mind like a burr, but he still could not say why.
As he pondered, he became aware of a presence waiting just outside the door of his makeshift chambers. “Is that you, Nonao? Come in. I am not resting, but trying to write something.”
“I am glad, High Magister, because a force of Sacrifices and a train of wagons have just arrived from the north.”
All thoughts of letter-writing vanished in an instant as Viyeki leaped to his feet. “What? The queen here already? She was not expected until much later today!” His heart was beating swiftly. “It is a blessing from the Garden that we managed to lift the slab on our first try.”
Nonao frowned politely. “This worthless observer thinks that perhaps the newly arrived company is too small to be the queen’s. Someone also suggested that the runes on the largest of the wagons indicate it belongs to Lord Akhenabi.”
Viyeki’s heart slowed a little but his stomach felt sour. “Ah. How fortunate for all of us. The Lord of Song has come, no doubt, to make sure all is ready for the Mother of All.”
“No doubt.”
Viyeki rolled up his parchment and put it away in his writing box. “Come,” he said. “Help me put on my ceremonial robes. I must greet the queen’s favorite.”
* * *
• • •
Only a small company made their way across the ruined fortress to the broken gates where the Lord of Song waited—Pratiki and his guards, Viyeki, and General Kikiti with a few soldiers of his own. Akhenabi, who knew Viyeki well, gave him only the briefest acceptable bow when Pratiki introduced them, but Viyeki thought that the halfblood Singer who accompanied Akhenabi looked almost startled when he heard Viyeki’s name, though the high magister could not imagine why.
Not all the greetings were so cursory. The Lord of Song and Prince-Templar Pratiki enacted a brief war of propriety, trading empty compliments with deft precision, fulsomely acknowledging each other’s value to the queen and importance to the Hikeda’ya people with laudatory phrases and an impressive array of gracious gestures. But for any observer with eyes and ears—and Viyeki had two of each—the obviousness of their mutual dislike was laughable. Or would have been, had not both possessed the power to destroy even a High Magister like Viyeki at a whim.
Queen’s close relative and queen’s conjuror, Viyeki thought. I know which one I trust more, but good sense tells me to trust neither.
Akhenabi’s patience ran out before Pratiki’s and th
e great Singer abruptly ended the ritual greetings. “Take me to the crypt now, Prince-Templar.” His voice was like a shovel digging gravel. “We must make preparations for the arrival of the Mother of All.”
Sogeyu and her robed Singers met them at the crypt. Akhenabi left the lesser arrangements to his halfblood lieutenant while he spoke to Sogeyu in whispers and hand-signs only Singers could recognize. A swarm of the Akhenabi’s dark-cloaked servitors, with scarves over their faces and thick leather gloves on their hands, swarmed into the crypt and began to remove Ruyan’s crystalline armor from its sarcophagus.
Pratiki stood a little way apart from it all, at the very edge of the cloth tent that had been erected over the hole. The moon had long set. Rainclouds streamed overhead in the strong wind, shrouding the stars, so that Viyeki could barely make out the Prince-Templar’s face, but what he saw of Pratiki’s expression did not look like joy to him, but something altogether more troubled. And with that sight, the words he had not been able to remember finally came back to him.
When those who love their people must go in silent fear
When honesty sees a grave problem, but power says it does not exist,
Those who would keep honor in their hearts must ignore the lies
And move to solve the problem that is not.
It was no poem, but the words of the Exile’s Letter, written by Xaniko sey-Hamakha when he left Nakkiga, and—though the queen and her clan had done their best to eradicate all memory of it—it was still repeated in whispers in the present day, albeit very, very quiet whispers. The Exile’s Letter was an infamous, treasonous document, Viyeki realized, one he only knew about himself because his own master Yaarike had once taught it to him—by memory only, since nobody after Xaniko’s departure had dared to keep it written down.
Why would Pratiki say such a thing? First he quotes Shun’y’asu to me, and now this? Is he really so confident that his high birth protects him? Does he suspect me of being a traitor and hopes to trick me into revealing myself? Or is something deeper in play?
Viyeki was so stunned by this realization that he had scarcely noticed Sogeyu’s Singers at their task. They had removed the individual pieces of armor from the tomb, and as he watched they shook the dust out of them— the dust that had once been the body of Ruyan the Navigator, greatest of the Tinukeda’ya, dust which now sifted to the ground and disappeared into the rivulets of rainwater.
Emboldened a little, but still cautious, Viyeki said to the prince-templar, “The Singers are careless with Ruyan’s remains. Do they not fear his spirit might want vengeance?”
“The queen fears nothing, least of all the spirit of Ruyan,” said Pratiki flatly.
“As for me, I fear I still understand very little,” Viyeki admitted. “How can Ruyan’s empty armor be useful to our queen?”
“You will see, High Magister.” Pratiki’s words remained devoid of feeling. “With it, our great queen will bring Hakatri, brother of Ineluki the Storm-King, back into the world, and thus make herself victorious over all. No greater feat of resurrection has ever been performed, not even when the Mother of All brought back Ineluki himself, for the Storm King’s spirit was still prisoned in the Well beneath Nakkiga, and thus the mortals could still thwart his full return and banish him back to the darkness. Now our queen will raise an ally who can go wherever our monarch commands, dealing horror and death to the mortals who seek to destroy us.”
“But why Hakatri?” Viyeki knew he was asking too many questions, but he wanted to take advantage of the prince-templar’s strange, detached mood. “Hakatri was Zida’ya, not Hikeda’ya like us, and he left these lands long before his brother Ineluki was killed by mortals. What purpose will he serve for the queen?”
“He will help us capture the Witchwood Crown,” said Pratiki. “That is all I know—and all I need to know, High Magister.”
His last words had such a sound of finality that Viyeki dared not ask anything further, but he already had much to consider. He stood in silence beside the prince-templar while the gloved and masked Singers gathered the pieces of armor and placed them carefully on a litter, then, at the Lord of Song’s direction, carried them away through the rain toward Akhenabi’s wagon.
53
Smoke
Her feet did not reach the stirrups of Jurgen’s horse, so at first all Miriamele could do was cling as it careened down the Mahistrevine Hill. Orn’s hooves pounded against the cobbles, jolting her like a beating from a bailiff’s staff. The roads were all but empty, though everywhere she passed people were standing on roofs or leaning out of windows, staring up toward the crest of the Mahistrevine Hill. At intervals, as the road circled downward, she could see what they saw—the fire at the Sancellan Mahistrevis belching black smoke into the sky. Too many people had already seen her for Miriamele’s comfort, so she guided the horse off the wide Way of the Fountains and rode on back streets through the capital until she had escaped the heart of the city, then made her way across to the Anitullean Road and followed it north.
As the first rush of terror began to recede, Miri began to think about her circumstances. She could see no obvious signs of pursuit, but the winding curves blocked many parts of the road behind her. Still, she slowed Orn to a trot, if only to give herself a few moments of rest without the immediate threat of being thrown from the saddle.
I must get out of this city. She had a nightmare vision of being caught and dragged in front of Turia Ingadaris. The idea of being delivered to that cream-faced little witch, a child younger than Miriamele’s grandson, was infuriating and terrifying.
Riding steadily, she reached the outskirts of the capital near dark. She was already wondering whether she dared try to find a ship to carry her to Wentmouth where she would be on Erkynlandish soil, but she did not like the idea of stopping anywhere that agents of the Ingadarines might be watching for her. Miriamele had a new and fearful respect for Turia: she thought it entirely possible that the Ingadarines might have sent word ahead to their agents to watch out for those escaping the destruction at the Sancellan Mahistrevis. She could only pray that Duchess Canthia and the children had enough of a head start to make it all the way to the northern border without being overtaken.
Her other alternative was to ride all the way north by herself. She knew it would take well over a fortnight to cover the distance—perhaps as much as a month if the weather was bad or she had to evade searchers—but she would not have to risk being trapped in one of the Nabbanai ports.
She decided to wait and see what happened. She still had several days’ riding ahead of her just to cross the peninsula, and she was determined to do it as swiftly as possible, to stay ahead of any news that had not been sent before the Sancellan fell. She hoped Jurgen’s courser was as able as the knight had claimed.
Thinking of her guard captain brought a clutch of despair, swiftly followed by a blaze of anger. You owe me for Jurgen, little Turia. And you owe me for all the innocent lives lost while you pursued your games of power. A queen does not forget that.
By sundown, Miri was well outside the city walls. She had been noticed a few times by guards, but since nobody expected the queen of the High Ward to be riding alone, no one had recognized her, although a few asked whether she was certain she wished to be out in the countryside after dark. A league or so outside the city proper she found a vintner’s barn and spent the night there. The tang of fermenting grapes was very strong, and Miri felt sure she would never smell anything like it again without thinking of this desperate ride, but she was too weary to let it keep her awake. The vintner’s horses had been put up for the night, so she stole an armload of hay out of the stalls and gave it to Orn as a reward for his hard work, then curled herself up in a pile of straw and fell asleep.
Noises woke her just before dawn, but it was only Orn stirring and pacing at the end of his tether. She led him out, alert for any sign of being watched, but did not see an
ything except the vintner’s house at the top of the hill, a single lamp in the kitchen suggesting that the household’s earliest risers were beginning their day. She walked the courser until they reached the road, then climbed on. The saddle was too big and too hard—she felt like she was sitting on the keel of an upturned boat—but it was safer than riding bareback.
By morning the Anitullean Road seemed almost as it would on an ordinary day, with farm wagons blocking the way at inopportune times and hundreds of people on foot, priests, peasants, and peddlers, all going about their business, though only a few leagues away the sky was still clotted with the smoke of the Sancellan Mahistrevis.
Did they not know? Or were the necessitudes of daily life simply more important? Miri supposed that if she had children to feed or a crop that had to reach market before it went bad, she too might be trudging along that road, ignoring even the horrors of civil war.
She had found a little food in Jurgen’s saddle bag, stale bread and a rind of cheese hard as Orn’s saddle. She chewed and swallowed them as she rode through the countryside. She could see the full panoply of Nabbanai dwellings alongside the ancient Anitullean Road, from the hovels of the poor to the estates of the wealthy looking down on them from the hills. Miri could not help wondering how many members of the Dominiate had elected to leave the city and might be watching the Queen of the High Ward ride past without realizing it. Surely some of them would be sympathetic—the duke’s party had made up more than half the Fifty Families, after all. If she chose correctly, she would be welcomed in, given food and shelter, and no doubt helped in her flight back to Erkynland. But it was an impossible risk. Even those most loyal to Saluceris must have seen the blaze atop the high Mahistrevine Hill and would think twice about sheltering an enemy of the Ingadarines, even if that enemy were the queen herself.