Different than his great hunger, and in some ways worse, was the continuing cold: when he could find and devour a fistful of lutegrass, his hunger was for a moment made less, and when he had hiked the first morning hour, his muscles stopped aching for a short time…but after that initial moment when he first crawled into his forest-bed, he was never warm again. When he ceased moving even for a few short moments he began to shiver uncontrollably. The chill was so relentless that it began to seem that it pursued him like an enemy. He cursed at it weakly, swinging his arms through the air as though the malevolent cold was something he could strike, as he had struck at the dragon Igjarjuk, but cold was every-where and nowhere; it had no black blood to spill.
There was nothing that Simon could do but walk. So, during all the painful hours of daylight, from the time his cramped limbs forced him from his makeshift bed each morning to the hour when the sun finally withdrew from the sodden gray sky, he walked almost ceaselessly south-ward. The rhythm of his shuffling feet became as much a pan of the cycle of life as the rise and fall of the wind, the passage of the sun, the settling of snowflakes. He walked because it kept him warm; he walked south because he dimly remembered Binabik saying that the Stone of Farewell stood in the grasslands south of Aldheorte. He knew he could never survive a journey through the entire forest, a passage across a vast nation of trees and snow, but he had to have some destination: the endless tramping was easier if all he had to do was let the occluded sun pass from his left to his right.
He also walked because when he stood still the cold began to bring strange, frightening visions. Sometimes he saw faces in the contorted trunks of trees and heard voices speaking his name and the names of strangers. Other times the snowy forest seemed a thicket of towers; the sparse greenery was transformed into leaping flames and his heart tolled in his ears like a doomful bell-But most importantly, Simon walked because there was nothing else he could do. If he did not keep moving, he would die—and Simon was not ready to die.
“Bug now, don’t run, don’t flitter
Taste bitter, don’t care, don’t care
Bug stay, happy day, tasty bite
Don’t fight…”
It was late morning, the seventh day since his awakening. Simon was stalking. A spotted brown and gray beetle—larger and possibly more succulent than the small black variety which he had made a staple of his diet—was picking its way across the trunk of a white cedar. Simon had snatched at it once, some twenty ells back, but this beetle had wings—and surely that proved its tastiness, since it had to work so hard to remain uneaten!—and had gone humming away most ungracefully. It had not flown far. A second attempt had also failed, which had led to this most recent landing place.
He was singing to himself; whether he sang out loud or not, he didn’t know. The beetle didn’t seem to mind, so Simon kept it up.
“Beetle sleep, don’t creep, trust me
Stand still, stand still, tasty crumb
Here I come, through the snow, don’t go…”
Simon, his eyes screwed down in a hunter’s squint, was moving as slowly as his trembling, ill-nourished body would permit. He wanted this beetle. He needed this beetle. Feeling a shiver beginning to well up inside of him, a shiver that would spoil his careful approach, he lunged. His palms slapped eagerly against the bark, but when he brought his cupped hands up to his face to peer within he saw that he held nothing.
“What do you want it for?” someone asked. Simon, who had carried on more than a few conversations with strange voices during these last days, had already opened his mouth to reply when his heart suddenly began hammering in his chest. He whirled, but no one was there.
Now it’s begun, the going-mad has begun…was all he had time to think before someone tapped him on his shoulder. He spun again and almost fell down.
“Here. I caught it.” The beetle, curiously lifeless, hovered in the air before him. A moment later he saw that it hung from the fingers of a white-gloved hand. The hand’s owner stepped out from behind the cedar tree. “I don’t know what you will do with it. Do your people eat these things? I had never heard that.”
For a brief instant he thought Jiriki had come—the golden-eyed face was framed by a cloud of pale lavender hair, Jiriki’s own odd shade, and feathered braids hung beside each up-slanting cheekbone—but after a long, staring instant he realized it was not his friend.
The stranger’s face was very slender, but still slightly rounder than Jiriki’s. As with the prince, the alien architecture made some of this Sitha’s expressions seem cold or cruel or even faintly animalistic, yet still strangely beautiful. The newcomer seemed younger and more unguarded than Jiriki: her face—he had just realized that the stranger was female—changed swiftly from expression to expression even as he watched, like an exchange of subtle masks. Despite what seemed the fluidity and energy of youth, Simon saw that deep in the cat-calm, golden eyes, this stranger shared with Jiriki the ancient Sithi light.
“Seoman,” she said, then laughed whisperingly. Her white-clad finger touched his brow, light and strong as a bird’s wing. “Seoman Snowlock.”
Simon was quivering. “Wh…wh…who…?”
“Aditu.” Her eyes were faintly mocking. “My mother named me Aditu no-Sa’onserei. I have been sent for you.”
“S-sent? B-b-by…?”
Aditu tilted her head to one side, stretching her neck sinuously, and regarded Simon as someone might an untidy but interesting animal that crouched on the doorstep. “By my brother, manchild. By Jiriki, of course.” She stared as Simon began to sway gently from side to side. “Why do you look so strange?”
“Were you…in my dreams?” he asked plaintively.
She continued to watch curiously as he abruptly sat down in the snow beside her bare feet.
“Certainly I have boots,” Aditu said later. Somehow she had built a fire, scraping away the snow and stacking the wood right beside the spot where Simon had crumpled, then igniting it with some swift movement of her slender fingers. Simon stared intently into the flames, trying to make his mind work properly once more. “I just wanted to take them off so I could approach more quietly.” She eyed him blandly. “I did not know what it was that could make such a blundering noise, but it was you, of course. Still, there is something fine about the feel of snow on the skin.”
Simon shuddered, thinking of ice against bare toes. “How did you find me?”
“The mirror. Its song is very powerful.”
“So…so if I had lost the mirror, you w-wouldn’t have found me?”
Aditu looked at him solemnly. “Oh, I would have found you eventually, but mortals are frail creatures. There might not have been much of interest left to find.” She flashed her teeth in what he guessed was a smile. She seemed both more and less human than Jiriki—almost childishly flippant at times, but in other ways far more exotic and alien than her brother. Many of the traits Simon had observed in Jiriki, the feline grace and dispassion, seemed even more pronounced in his sister.
As Simon rocked back and forth, still not absolutely sure he was awake and sane, Aditu reached inside her white coat—which, with her white breeches, had made her all but indistinguishable against the snow—and removed a package wrapped in shiny cloth. She handed it to him. He poked clumsily at the wrappings for some time before he was able to expose what was inside: a loaf of golden-brown bread that seemed oven-fresh, and a handful of fat pink berries.
Simon had to eat his meal in very small bites to avoid making himself ill; even so, each less-than-a-mouthful seemed like time spent in paradise.
“Where did you find these?” he asked through a faceful of berries.
Aditu looked at him for a long time, as if debating some important decision. When she spoke, it was with what seemed an air of carelessness. “You will soon see. I will take you there—but such a thing has never happened before.”
Simon did not pursue this cryptic last remark. Instead, he asked: “But where are you taking me?”
&
nbsp; “To my brother, as he asked me to,” Aditu said. She looked solemn, but a wild light gleamed in her eyes. “To the home of our people—Jao é-Tinukai’i.”
Simon finished chewing and swallowed. “I will go anywhere there is a fire.”
21
Prince of Grass
“Say nothing,” Hotvig murmured, “but look to the redcoat there by the fence.”
Deornoth followed the Thrithings-man’s subtle gesture until his gaze lit on a roan stallion. The horse regarded Deornoth wanly, stepping from side to side as though he might bolt at any moment.
“Ah, yes.” Deornoth nodded his head. “He is a proud one.” He turned. “Did you see this one, my prince?”
Josua, who was leaning against the gate at the far side of the paddock, waved his hand. The prince’s head was wrapped in linen bandages, and he moved as slowly as if all of his bones were broken, but he had insisted oncoming out to assist in claiming the fruits of his wager. Fikolmij, apoplectic with rage at the idea of watching Josua picking thirteen Thrithingshorses from the March-thane’s own pens, had sent his randwarder Hotvig in his place. Instead of mirroring his thane’s attitude, Hotvig seemed rather taken with the visitors and with Prince Josua in particular. On the grasslands a one-handed man did not often kill an opponent half again his size.
“What’s the red’s name?” Josua asked Fikolmij’s horsekeeper, a wiry, ancient man with a tiny wisp of hair on the top of his head.
“Vinyafod,” this one said shortly, then turned his back.
“It means ‘Wind-foot’…Prince Josua.” Hotvig pronounced the title awkwardly. The randwarder went and slipped a rope about the stallion’s neck, then led the balking animal to the prince.
Josua smiled as he looked the horse up and down, then boldly reached up and pulled at its lower lip, exposing the teeth. The stallion shook his head and pulled away, but Josua grabbed the lip again. After a few nervous head-shakes, the horse at last allowed himself to be examined, the only sign of anxiety his blinking eyes. “Well, he is certainly one we shall take east with us,” Josua said,”—although I doubt that will please Fikolmij.”
“It will not,” Hotvig said solemnly. “If his honor was not held up before all the clans, he would kill you just for coming near these horses. This Vinyafod was one that Fikolmij demanded specially as part of Blehmunt’s loot when Fikolmij became leader of the clans.”
Josua nodded solemnly. “I don’t want the March-thane so angry that he follows and murders us, pledge or no pledge. Deornoth, I give you leave to pick the rest. I trust your eye better than mine. We will take Vinyafod, that is certain—as a matter of fact, I think I will claim him for my own. I am tired of limping from here to there. But as I said, let us not cull the herd so thoroughly that we force Fikolmij to dishonor himself.”
“I will choose carefully, sire.” Deornoth strode across the paddock The horsekeeper saw him coming and tried to sidle away, but Deornoth hooked the old man’s elbow and began asking questions. The keeper was hard-pressed to pretend he could not understand.
Josua watched with a faint smile on his face, shifting his balance from one foot to another to spare his aching body. Hotvig watched the prince from the corner of his eye for a long time before he spoke.
“You said you go east, Josua. Why?”
The prince looked at him curiously. “There are many reasons, some of which I cannot discuss. But mostly it is because I must find a place to make a stand against my brother and the evil that he has done.”
Hotvig nodded his head with exaggerated seriousness. “It seems that you have kinsmen who feel as you do.”
Josua’s expression turned to puzzlement. “What do you mean?”
“There are others of your kind—other stone-dwellers—who have begun to settle east of here. That is why Fikolmij brought us so far north of our usual grazing areas for this season, to make sure that the newcomers were not crossing onto our lands.” A grin crossed Hotvig’s scarred face. “There were other reasons for our clan coming here, too. The March-thane of the Meadow Thrithings tried to steal away some of our randwarders at the last Gathering of Clans, so Fikolmij wanted his people far away from the Meadow Thrithings. Fikolmij is feared, but not well-loved. Many wagons have already left the Stallion Clan.
Josua waved impatiently. The bickering between the Thrithings clans was legendary. “What about the stone-dwellers you spoke of? Who are they?”
Hotvig shrugged and fingered his braided beard “Who can say? They came from the west—whole families, some traveling in carts as our people do, some on foot—but they were not our people, not Thrithings-men. We heard of them from our outriders when we were at the second-to-last Gathering, but they passed through the north of the High Thrithings and were gone.”
“How many?”
Again the Thrithings-man shrugged. “Stories say as many as in two or three of our small clans.”
“So, perhaps a hundred or two.” The prince seemed to momentarily escape his pain, for his face brightened as he pondered this news.
“But that is not all, Prince Josua,” Hotvig said earnestly. “That was one group. Other companies have trickled past since then. I have myself seen two hand’s worth or so all counted. They are poor, though, and they have no horses, so we let them pass out of our lands.”
“You did not let my folk pass and we had not a pony between us. “Josua’s smile was sardonic.
“That is because Fikolmij knew it was you. The randwarders had watched your people for several days.”
Deornoth approached, the grumbling horsekeeper in tow. “I have chosen, Highness. Let me show you.” He pointed to a long-legged bay. “Since you have picked red Vinyafod for your own, Prince Josua, I have selected this one for myself. Vildalix is his name—Wild-shine.”
“He is splendid,” Josua said, laughing. “You see, Deornoth, I remembered what you said about Thrithings horses. Now you have some, just as you asked.”
Deornoth looked at Josua’s bandages. “The price was too high, sire.” His eyes were sorrowful.
“Show me the rest of our new herd,” said Josua.
Vorzheva came out to meet the prince as he and the others returned from the paddock. Hotvig took one look at her face and slipped away.
“You are foolish to be up walking!” The thane’s daughter turned to Deornoth. “How could you keep him out so long? He is very unwell!”
Deornoth said nothing, but only bowed. Josua smiled. “Peace, Lady,” the prince said. “The fault is not Sir Deornoth’s. I wanted to see the horses, since I am most assuredly going to ride and not walk from here. “He chuckled ruefully. “Not that I could walk more than a furlong these days in any case, even if my life were in the balance. But I will get stronger.”
“Not if you stand in the cold.” Vorzheva leveled her sharp-eyed glance at Deornoth as if daring him to argue. She took Josua’s arm, adjusting her pace to his halting strides, and together all three went back toward the camp.
The prince’s company was still housed in the bull run. Fikolmij had snarled that just because he had lost a wager was no reason that he must treat miserable stone-dwellers like clansmen, but several of the more high-minded Thrithings-folk had brought blankets and ropes and tentstakes. Fikolmij was not a king: while the people lending assistance to the former prisoners gave the March-thane’s camp a wide berth, neither were they ashamed or afraid to go against his wishes.
Led by practical Duchess Gutrun, Josua’s people had quickly made of these contributions a secure shelter, closed on three sides and doubleroofed with blankets of heavy wool. This served to keep out the worst of the cold rains, which seemed to increase in strength daily.
Above the Thrithings the gray-black sky hung threateningly close, as though the very grasslands had been lifted up by giant hands. This spell of bad weather, which had lasted nearly a week straight and off and on for over a month, would have been unusual even in early spring. It was now high summer, however, and the people of the Stallion Clan were openly w
orried.
“Come, my lady,” Josua said as they reached the enclosure. “Let you and I walk a little while longer.”
“You should not walk more!” Vorzheva said indignantly. “Not with your wounds! You must sit and have some hot wine.”
“Nevertheless,” Josua said firmly, “let us walk. I will look forward to the wine. Deornoth, if you would pardon us…?”
Deornoth nodded and bowed, turning at the gate in the bull run fence. He watched the prince’s laborious progress for a moment before he went inside.
Josua’s victory over Utvart had brought certain amenities. Like his lady, the prince had exchanged his rags for newer garb, and now wore the soft leather breeches, boots, and baggy-sleeved wool shirt of a randwarder, a bright scarf knotted across his brow in place of his princely diadem. Vorzheva wore a voluminous gray dress, rolled and belted at the hips in the Thrithings manner to lift the hem above the wet grass, leaving visible her thick woolen leggings and low boots. She had discarded her white bride-band.
“Why do you take me away from the others to talk?” Vorzheva demanded. Her defiant tone was belied by apprehensive eyes. “What do you say that must be hidden?”
“Not hidden,” Josua said, twining his arm around hers. “I only wished to speak where we would not be interrupted.”
“My people do not hide things,” she said. “We cannot, since we live so close.”
Josua nodded his head. “I only wished to say that I am sorry, Lady, very sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“Yes. I have treated you badly, as I admitted in your father’s wagon. I have not given you the respect you deserve.”
Vorzheva’s face twisted, somewhere between joy and anguish. “Ah, still you do not understand me, Prince Josua of Erkynland. I do not care for respect, not if that is all you give me. I want your attention. I want your heart! If you give me that, then you can give to me all the…the not-respect…”