Stone of Farewell

  As the lector listened attentively, she spoke of her father’s growing madness and how it had at last driven her from the Hayholt, of the evil counsels of Pryrates, and of the imprisoning of Josua. Brighter sunlight began to creep in through the windows high overhead. Dinivan got up to have someone bring them some food, as the noon hour was fast approaching.

  “This is fascinating,” the lector said as they waited for his secretary to return. “It confirms many rumors that I have heard.” He rubbed his finger along the side of his thin nose. “Lord Usires grant us wisdom. Why can men not be content with what they have?”

  Dinivan soon returned, followed by a priest with a heaping salver of cheese and fruit, as well as a posset of mulled wine. Miriamele began again. As she talked and ate, and as Ranessin plied her with gentle yet shrewd questions, she began to feel almost as though she spoke with some kindly old grandfather. She told him of the Norn hounds that had pursued her and the maidservant Leleth, then of their rescue by Simon and Binabik. As she told of the revelations in the house of the witch woman Geloë, and related Jarnauga’s dire warnings at Naglimund, Dinivan and the lector exchanged glances.

  When she had finished, the lector pushed his tall hat back into place—it had slipped down several times during the course of the audience—and sat back in his chair with a sigh. His bright eyes were sad.

  “So much to think about, so many dreadful questions unanswered. Oh, God, You have seen fit to test Your children sternly. I have a premonition of dire evil coming.” He turned to Miriamele. “Thank you for your news, Princess. It is none of it happy, but only a fool desires cheerful ignorance and I try not to be a fool. That is my heaviest burden.” He pursed his lips in thought. “Well, Dinivan,” he said at last, “this lends an even more ominous air to the news I received yesterday.”

  “What news is that, Sacredness?” Dinivan asked. “We have had little chance to talk since I returned.”

  The lector took a sip of wine. “Elias is sending Pryrates to see me. His ship arrives tomorrow from the Hayholt. His mission, the message said, is an important one from the High King.”

  “Pryrates is coming?” Miriamele asked, alarmed. “Does my father know I’m here?”

  “No, no, do not fear,” the lector said soothingly. He patted her hand again. “It is Mother Church with whom he would trade words. No one knows you are here but Dinivan and myself.”

  “He’s a devil,” she said harshly. “Do not trust him.”

  Ranessin nodded gravely. “Your warning is well taken, Princess Miriamele, but sometimes it is my duty to speak with devils.” He lowered his eyes to stare at his hands, as if hoping to find clutched therein a solution to all problems When Dinivan took Miriamele out, the lector bid her good-bye courteously, but he seemed wrapped in melancholy.

  10

  The Mirror

  Simon found himself in the grip of a stubborn anger that would not go away. As he and Sludig followed the mounted trolls away down the mountain, away from the solemn piles of stone lying nakedly beneath the sky, he felt a rage seeping through him that muddled all his thoughts, so that he could scarcely think of anything for more than a moment at a time.

  He walked stiffly, his body still bruised and sore, his stomach churning with anger. As he walked, he brooded. Haestan was dead. Another friend was dead. There was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t change it. He couldn’t even cry over it. That was the most infuriating thing: he could do nothing. Nothing.

  Sludig, pale-faced and shadow-eyed, did not seem anxious to break the silence. The two lowlanders trudged along side by side down broad, flat sheets of weathered granite and waded through drifts of snow churned into a white froth by rams’ hooves.

  The foothills seemed to be growing up to meet them. At each bend in the trail the snowy-shouldered hills emerged once more into the travelers’ view, each time larger than before. Sikkihoq, in turn, seemed to be stretching away into the sky behind them as they steadily descended, ever taller, as though the mountain had finished its business with these mortals and now returned to the loftier and more congenial company of the sky and clouds.

  I won’t forget you, Simon warned Sikkihoq as he looked back up the great dagger of stone. He fought the urge to shout it aloud. If he squinted, he thought he could still see the spot where the cairns stood. I won’t forget that my friend is buried on your slopes. I’ll never forget.

  Afternoon passed swiftly. They made faster time as the mountain broadened and the paths began to level out, with longer stretches between switchbacks. Simon noticed signs of the mountain’s life that he had not seen higher up; a family of white and brown rabbits grazing between patches of snow, jays and squirrels bickering in the stunted, wind-curled trees. This evidence of life on what had seemed a barren and heartless rock should have made him feel better; instead, it served only to fuel his directionless anger. What right to exist did all these small and insignificant things have, when others were dying? He wondered why they should bother, when any moment a hawk or snake or hunter’s arrow might snuff out their lives. The thought of life scrabbling pointlessly beneath the shadow of death filled him with an oddly exhilarating disgust.

  When evening came, the company chose a gently sloping expanse of stone and brush in which to make camp, sheltered by Sikkihoq’s body from the worst of the snow-laden wind. Simon shed his pack and began picking up dead wood for the fire, but stopped to watch the sun slip down behind the mountains to the west—one of which, he knew, was Urmsheim, the dragon-mountain. The horizon was streaked with light, as richly colored as any rose grown in the Hayholt’s gardens.

  An’nai, Jiriki’s Sithi kinsman, who had been killed while fighting for the lives of his companions, was buried there on Urmsheim; the soldier Grimmric, a wiry, quiet man, had been interred beside him. Simon remembered Grimmric whistling as they rode north from Naglimund, a thin trill of sound alternately annoying and reassuring. Now he would be eternally silent. He and An’nai would never see a sunset like the one that painted the sky before Simon, beautiful and meaningless.

  Where were they? Heaven? How could Sithi go to heaven when they didn’t believe in it—and where did they think they went when they died? They were pagans, Simon supposed, which meant they were different—but An’nai had been loyal and brave. More than that, he had been kind to Simon, very kind in his strange Sithi way. How could An’nai not go to heaven? How could heaven be such a stupid place?

  The anger, which had abated for a moment, returned. Simon flung one of the sticks he had gathered as hard as he could. It whirled through the air, then struck and cartwheeled down the long stony hill, disappearing at last into the underbrush below.

  “Come, Simon,” Sludig called from behind him. “We need your wood for the fire. Aren’t you hungry now?”

  Simon ignored him, staring out at the reddening sky as he ground his teeth in frustration. He felt a hand on his arm and angrily shrugged it off.

  “Please, come,” the Rimmersman said kindly. “Supper will be ready soon.”

  “Where is Haestan?” Simon asked through tight lips.

  “What do you mean?” Sludig cocked his head. “You know where we left him, Simon.”

  “No, I mean where is Haestan? The real Haestan.”

  “Ah.” Sludig smiled. His beard had grown very thick. “His soul is in heaven, with Usires and the Lord God.”

  “No.” Simon turned to look at the sky again, darkening now with the first mortal blues of night.

  “What? Why do you say that?”

  “He’s not in heaven. There is no heaven. How can there be a heaven, when everyone thinks it’s different?”

  “You are being foolish.” Sludig stared at him for a moment, trying to sense Simon’s thought. “Perhaps everyone goes to their own heaven,” the soldier said, then placed his hand again on Simon’s shoulder. “God knows what He knows. Come and sit down.”

  “How could God let people die for no reason?” Simon demanded, hugging himself as though trying to k
eep something inside. “If God can do that, then He is cruel. If He isn’t cruel, well…well, then. He just can’t do anything. Like an old man who sits at the window, but can’t go out. He’s old and stupid.”

  “Do not talk against God the Father,” Sludig said, his voice chilly. “God will not be mocked by an ungrateful boy. He has given you all the gifts of life…”

  “It’s a lie!” Simon shouted. The soldier’s eyes widened in surprise. Heads turned from the campfire, looking to the sudden noise. “It’s a lie, a lie! What gifts? To crawl around like a bug, here and there, trying to find something to eat, somewhere to sleep—and then without warning some-thing smashes you? What kind of gift is that!? To do the right thing, and…and fight against evil, like the Book of the Aedon says—if you do that you get killed! Just like Haestan! just like Morgenes! The bad ones live on—live on and grow rich and laugh at the good ones! It’s a stupid lie!”

  “That is terrible, Simon!” Sludig said, his voice also rising. “You speak from madness and grief…”

  “It’s a lie—and you are an idiot to believe it!” Simon yelled, throwing his wood down at Sludig’s feet. He turned and ran down the mountain path with a great, grieving pain in his middle that almost took his breath away, following the twisting course until the camp had disappeared from view. Qantaqa’s bark wafted after him, faint and percussive as someone clapping in another room.

  At last he sank down on a stone beside the path, rubbing his hands back and forth over the worn cloth of his breeches. There was moss growing on the stone, burnt brown by frost and wind, but still somehow vital and alive. He stared at it, wondering why he could not cry and whether he even wanted to.

  After some time he heard a clicking noise and looked up to see Qantaqa pacing toward him over the sloping rocks above the path. The wolfs nose hovered low, sniffing close to the stone. She hopped down onto the path, and regarded him quizzically for a moment with her head cocked to one side, then walked past, brushing against his leg. Simon trailed his fingers along the thick pelt of her flank as she went by. Qantaqa continued on down the path, a dim gray shape in the growing darkness.

  “Simon-friend.” Binabik appeared around the bend in the track. “Qantaqa is off to hunt,” he said, watching her disappearing form. “It is hard for a wolf to be walking all day where I ask her. She is a good companion to make such sacrifice for my sake.”

  When Simon did not respond, the troll came forward and squatted at his side, his walking stick balanced on his knees.

  “You are much upset,” he said.

  Simon took a deep breath, then let it out. “Everything is a lie,” he sighed.

  Binabik raised an eyebrow. “What is ‘everything’? And what is making it a lie?”

  “I don’t think we can do anything at all. Anything to make things better. We’re going to die.”

  “At some time,” the troll nodded.

  “We’re going to die fighting the Storm King. It’s a lie if we say we’re not. God’s not going to save us, or even help us.” Simon picked up a loose stone and flung it across the path, where it went rattling into darkness. “Binabik, I couldn’t even pick up Thorn. What good is the sword going to be if we can’t even use it? How is a sword—even three Great Swords or whatever they’re called—going to kill an enemy like him? Kill someone who’s already dead?”

  “These are questions that need answering,” the little man replied. “I do not know. How do you know that the sword is for killing? And if it is for that, what makes you think any of us is to be the killer?”

  Simon chose another rock and threw it. “I don’t know anything, either. I’m just a kitchen boy, Binabik.” He felt immensely sorry for himself. “I just want to go home.” The word caught in his throat.

  The troll stood, brushing off his seat. “You are not a boy, Simon. You are a man in all the ways for measuring. A young man, true, but a man—or with great nearness.”

  Simon shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I thought…I don’t know. I thought that it would be like a story. That we would find the sword and it would be a powerful weapon, that we would destroy our enemies and things would be right again. I didn’t think any more people would die! How could there be a God who would let good people die, no matter what they do?”

  “Another question I cannot be answering.” Binabik smiled, but gently, mindful of Simon’s pain. “And I cannot be telling you what is right for belief. The truths that became our stories of gods are far away in the past. Even the Sithi, who live for eons, do not know how the world began or what began it—at least not for certain, I am thinking. But I can tell you something important…”

  The troll leaned forward, touching Simon’s arm, waiting until his young friend had raised his eyes from the moss once more. “Gods in the heaven or in the stone are distant, and we can guess only at what they intend.” He squeezed Simon’s forearm. “But you and I, we are living in a time when a god walks the earth once more. He is not a god who intends kindness. Men may fight and die, they may build walls and break stone, but Ineluki has died and come back; that is something no one else has ever been doing, not even your Usires Aedon. Forgive me, because I am not meaning blasphemy, but is not what Ineluki has done a thing like a god can do?” Binabik gave Simon a little shake, staring into his eyes. “He is jealous and terrible, and the world he can make will be a terrible place. We are having a task of great fear and very great difficulty, Simon—it may even be that there is no possibility of succeeding—but it is not a task we can be fleeing.”

  Simon tore his gaze from Binabik’s. “That’s what I said. How do you fight a god? We’ll be crushed like ants.” Another stone went flying out into darkness.

  “Perhaps. But if we are not trying, then there is no chance of anything but this antlike crushing, so we must try. There is always something beyond even the worst of bad times. We may die, but the dying of some may mean living for others. That is not much to cling to, but it is a true thing in any case.”

  The troll moved a little way down the path and took a seat on another stone. The sky was darkening swiftly. “Also,” Binabik said gravely, “it may or may not be foolishness to pray to the gods, but there is certainly being no wisdom in cursing them.”

  Simon said nothing. They passed some time in silence. At last Binabik twisted loose the knife end of his walking stick, allowing the bone flute inside the hollow stick to slide free. He blew a few experimental notes, then began to play a slow, melancholy air. The dissonant music, echoing down the mountainside in darkness, seemed to sing with the voice of Simon’s own loneliness. He shivered, feeling the wind through his tattered cloak. His dragon-scar stung fiercely.

  “Are you still my friend, Binabik?” he said at last.

  The troll took the flute from his lips. “To death and beyond, Simon-friend.” He began to play once more.

  When the flutesong was finished, Binabik whistled for Qantaqa and walked back up the path toward camp. Simon followed him.

  The fire had burned low and the wineskin was making the last of many trips around the circle when Simon finally worked up the courage to approach Sludig. The Rimmersman was sharpening the head of his Qanuc spear with a whetstone; he continued for some while as Simon stood before him. At last he looked up.

  “Yes?” His voice was gruff.

  “I’m sorry, Sludig. I should not have said what I did. You were only being kind.”

  The Rimmersman stared at him for a moment, a certain cold look in his eyes. At last his expression softened. “You may think as you like, Simon, but do not speak such blasphemy of the One God before me.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m only a kitchen boy.”

  “Kitchen boy!” Sludig’s laugh was harsh. He looked searchingly into Simon’s eyes, then laughed again with better humor. “You really think so, don’t you! You’re a fool, Simon.” He stood up, chuckling and shaking his head. “A kitchen boy! A kitchen boy who swords dragons and slays giants. Look at you! You are taller than I am, and Sludig
is not small!”

  Simon stared at the Rimmersman, surprised. It was true, of course: he stood half a hand taller than Sludig. “But you’re strong!” Simon protested. “You’re a grown man.”

  “As you are fast becoming. And you are stronger than you know. You must see the truth, Simon. You are a boy no more. You cannot act as though you are one still.” The Rimmersman contemplated him for a long moment. “As a matter of fact, it is dangerous not to train you better. You have been lucky to survive several bad fights, but luck is fickle. You need sword and spear teaching; I will give them to you. Haestan would have wanted it, and it will give us something to work at on our long trip to your Stone of Farewell.”

  “Then you forgive me?” Simon was embarrassed by this talk of manhood. “If I must.” The Rimmersman sat down again. “Now go and sleep. We have a long walk again tomorrow, then you and I will drill for some time after we make camp.”

  Simon felt more than a little resentful about being sent to bed, but did not want to risk another argument. As it was, it had been difficult for him to come back to the campfire and eat with the others. He knew they had all been watching him, wondering if he would have another outburst.

  He retreated to the bed he had made of springy branches and leaves and wrapped himself tightly in his cloak. He would be happy to be in a cave, or down off the mountain entirely, where they would not be exposed so nakedly to the wind.

  The bright, cold stars seemed to quiver in the sky overhead. Simon stared up at them through unfathomable distances, letting thoughts chase themselves through his head until sleep came at last.

  The sound of the trolls singing to their rams woke Simon from a dream. He dimly remembered a little gray cat and a feeling of being trapped by someone or something, but the dream was fading fast. He opened his eyes to the thin morning light, then closed them quickly. He did not want to get up and face the day.

  The singing went on, accompanied by the clinking of harnesses. He had seen this ritual so many times since leaving Mintahoq that he could picture it in his head as vividly as if he was watching. The trolls were cinching up the straps and filling the saddlebags, guttural yet high-pitched voices busy with their seemingly endless chant. From time to time they would pause, stroking their mounts, currying the rams’ thick fleeces, leaning in close to sing softly and intimately while the sheep blinked their yellow, slotted eyes. Soon it would be time for salty tea and dried meat and quiet, laughing conversation.