“Should I leave?” Jiriki asked again.
“I know it pains you to hear me speak so. Willow-switch,” Amerasu said. “But you are dearest of all my young ones and you are strong. You can hear truth.” She shifted slowly in her chair, long-fingered hand settling on the breast of her white robe. “You, too, manchild, have known loss. That is in your face. But though every loss is grave, the lives as well as losses of mortals appear and fade as swiftly as the seasons turn the leaves. I do not mean to be cruel. Neither do I seek pity—but not you or any other mortal has seen the dry centuries roll past, the hungry millennia, seen the very light and color sucked out of your world until nothing remains but juiceless memories.” Strangely, as she spoke her face seemed to grow more youthful, as though her grief were the most vital thing left in her. Now Simon could see much more than a hint of her former splendor. He lowered his head, unable to speak.
“Of course you have not,” she said, a slight tremor in her voice. “I have. That is why I am here, in the dark. It is not that I fear the light, or that I am not strong enough to stand day’s brightness.” She laughed, a sound like a whippoorwill’s mournful call. “No, it is only that in darkness I can see the lost days and faces of the past more clearly.”
Simon looked up. “You had two sons,” he said quietly. He had realized why her voice seemed so familiar. “One of them went away.”
Amerasu’s face hardened. “Both of them are gone. What have you told him, Jiriki? These are not tales for the small hearts of mortals.”
“I told him nothing. First Grandmother.”
She leaned forward intently. “Tell me of my sons. What old legends do you know?”
Simon swallowed. “One son was hurt by a dragon. He had to go away. He was burned—like me.” He touched his own scarred cheek. “The other…the other is the Storm King.” As he whispered this last, Simon looked around, as though something might step toward him out of the deep shadows. The walls creaked and water dripped, but that was all.
“How do you know this?”
“I heard your voice in a dream.” Simon searched for words. “You spoke in my head for a long time when I was sleeping.”
The Sitha-woman’s beautiful face was grave. She stared at him as though something hidden within him threatened her. “Do not be afraid, manchild,” she said at last, reaching out with her slender hands. “Do not fear. And forgive me.”
Amerasu’s cool, dry fingers couched Simon’s face. The lights streamed like shreds of lightning, then flickered and faded, dropping the chamber into utter darkness. Her grip seemed to tighten. The blackness sang.
There was no pain, but somehow Amerasu was inside his head, a forceful presence so intimately connected to him at that moment that he felt shockingly, terrifyingly raw, an exposure far more profound than any merely physical nakedness. Sensing his terror, she calmed him, cradling his secret self like a panicking bird until he was no longer afraid. First Grandmother then began to pick delicately through his memories, probing him with gentle but purposeful thoroughness.
Dizzy snatches of thought and dream fluttered past, swirling like flowerpetals in a windstorm—Morgenes and his countless books, Miriamele singing, seemingly meaningless fragments of conversation from Simon’s days in the Hayholt- The night of Thisterborg and the dreadful gray sword spread though his mind like a dark stain, followed by the silver face of Utuk’ku and the three swords from his vision in the house of Geloë. Plump Skodi and the thing that had laughed in the courtyard flames whirled and melted into the lunacy of the Uduntree and the emotionless eyes of the great white worm Igjarjuk. Thorn was there, too, a black slash across the light of recollection. As the memories flew by, he again felt the burning pain of the dragon’s blood and the fearful sense of connection to the spinning world, the sickening vastness of the hope and pain of all living things. At last, like the tatters of a dream, the pictures faded.
The lights came back slowly. Simon’s head was cradled in Jiriki’s lap. The wound on his cheek was throbbing.
“Forgive me, First Grandmother,” Jiriki said as though from a great distance, “but was that necessary? He would have told you all he knew.”
Amerasu was silent for a long time. When she spoke, it was with great effort. Her voice seemed older than before. “He could not have told me all, Willow-switch. Those things that to me seem most important, he is not even aware that he knows.” She turned her eyes down to Simon, her face full of weary kindness. “I am truly sorry, manchild. I had no right to plunder you that way, but I am old and frightened and I have little patience left. Now, I am more frightened than ever.”
She tried to pull herself up. Jiriki reached out to help, and she rose unsteadily from her chair and vanished into the shadows. She returned a moment later with a cup of water, which she held to Simon’s lips with her own hands. He drank thirstily. The water was cold and sweet, with just a savor of wood and earth, as though it had been scooped from the trunk of a hollow tree. In her white robe, Simon thought, Amerasu looked like some pale and radiant saint from a church picture.
“What…did you do?” he asked as he sat up. There was a buzzing sound in his ears and small shining flecks dancing before his eyes.
“Learned what I needed to learn,” Amerasu said. “I knew that I had seen you in Jiriki’s mirror, but I thought that a fluke, a mischance. The Road of Dreams has changed much of late, and has become as obscure and unpredictable to even the experienced as it once was for those who only traveled it in sleep. I see now that our earlier meeting was no accident of fate.”
“Do you mean that your meeting with Simon was intended by someone, First Grandmother?” Jiriki said.
“No. I mean only that the boundaries between those worlds and ours are beginning to weaken. Someone like this manchild, who has been pulled one way and another, who through true chance or some unimaginable design has been dragged into many powerful and dangerous connections between the dream world and the waking…” She trailed off, seating herself carefully once more before continuing. “It is as though he lived on the edge of a great wood. When the trees begin to spread outward, it is his house that first has roots across the threshold. When the wolves of the forest begin to grow hungry, it is beneath his window that they first come howling.”
Simon struggled to speak. “What did you learn…from my memories? About…about Ineluki?”
Her face became impassive. “Too much. I believe I now understand my son’s terrible, subtle design, but I must think a while longer. Even in this hour, I must not be frightened into foolish haste.” She lifted a hand to her brow. “If I am correct, our danger is graver than we ever guessed. I must speak to Shima’onari and Likimeya. I only hope they listen—and that time has not passed us by. We may be starting to dig the well as our houses burn down.”
Jiriki helped Simon sit up. “My father and mother must listen. Everyone knows your wisdom, First Grandmother.”
Amerasu smiled sadly. “Once, the women of the House Sa’onserei were the keepers of lore. The final word belonged to the eldest of the house. When Jenjiyana of the Nightingales saw the right of things, she spoke and it was so. Since the Flight, things have changed.” Her hand fluttered in the air like a bird alighting. “I am certain your mother will listen to reason. Your father is good. Jiriki, but in some ways he dwells even more deeply in the past than I do.” She shook her head. “Forgive me. I am weary and I have much to think about. Otherwise, I would not talk so uncarefully, and especially in front of this boy.” She extended her hand toward Simon, brushing his cheek with her fingertip. The pain of his old burn became less. As he looked at her solemn face and the weight she seemed to carry, he reached up and touched her retreating hand.
“Jiriki spoke to you truthfully, manchild,” she said. “For better or for worse, you have been marked. I only wish I could give you some word to help you on your journey.”
The light faded again. Simon let Jiriki lead him out in darkness.
26
Painted Eyes
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Miriamele leaned against the railing, watching the bustle and activity of the docks. Vinitta was not a large island, but its ruling Benidrivine house had provided Nabban’s final two Imperators, as well as its three dukes under Prester John’s kingship. It had also been the birthplace of the legendary Camaris, but even so great a knight was accorded only a middling-high place in Vinitta’s luminous, hero-studded history. The port was a busy one with Benigaris on the ducal throne, the fortunes of Vinitta still ran high.
Aspitis Preves and his captain had gone down into the town to accomplish their business. What that might be, Miriamele could not say. The earl had intimated that he had some important mission direct from Duke Benigaris, but that was as far as he would discuss the subject. Aspitis had bade both Miriamele and Cadrach stay on board until he returned, suggesting that the port was not the place for a noble lady to wander, and that he had not enough men-at-arms available to handle his own affairs safely and still detach a pair of soldiers for their protection.
Miriamele knew what this meant. Whatever Aspitis thought of her, however he valued her beauty and company, he did not intend to give her the chance to slip away. Perhaps he harbored some doubts about her story, or simply worried that she might be persuaded to leave by Cadrach, who had made little attempt to disguise his growing hatred of the Earl of Eadne and Drina.
She sighed, gazing sadly at the rows of tented booths that ran along the dockfront, each one festooned with flags and crammed with goods for sale. Hawkers cried their wares as they shuffled along the road, carrying their stock on their backs in huge, overstuffed bags. Dancers and musicians performed for coins, and the sailors of various boats mingled with Vinitta’s residents in a shouting, laughing, swearing throng. Despite the dark skies and intermittent flumes of rain, the crowds that swarmed the waterfront seemed bent on making a cheerful ruckus. Miriamele’s heart ached to join them.
Cadrach stood beside her, pink face paler than usual. The monk had not spoken much since Aspitis’ pronouncement, he had watched the earl’s party leave the Eadne Cloud with much the same sour expression as he now leveled on the activity below.
“God,” he said, “but it makes a man sick to see such heedlessness.” It was not exactly clear what his remark addressed, but Miriamele felt it rankle nonetheless.
“And you,” she snapped. “You are better? A drunkard and coward?”
Cadrach’s large head came around, moving as ponderously as a millwheel. “It is my very heedfulness that makes me so. Lady, I have watched too carefully.”
“Watched what? Oh, never mind I am not in the mood for one of your roundabout lectures.” She shivered with anger, but could nor summon the sense of righteousness she sought. Cadrach had grown more remote over the last few days, observing her from what seemed a disapproving distance. This irritated her, but the continuing flirtation between herself and the earl made even Miriamele somewhat uncomfortable. It was hard to feel truly justified in her irritation, but it was harder still to have Cadrach’s gray eyes staring at her as though she were a child or a misbehaving animal. “Why don’t you go and complain to some of the sailors?” she said at last. “See how well they’ll listen to you.”
The monk folded his arms. He spoke patiently, but did not meet her eyes. “Will you not listen to me, Lady? This last time? My advice is not half so bad as you make out and you know it. How long will you listen to the honeyed words of this…this court beauty? You are like his little bird that he takes from the cage to play with, then puts back. He does not care for you.”
“You are a strange person to talk of that, Brother Cadrach. The earl has given us the captain’s cabin, fed us at his own table, and treated me with complete respect.” Her heart sped a little as she remembered Aspitis’ mouth at her ear, his firm, gentle touch. “You, on the other hand, have lied to me, taken money for my freedom, and struck me senseless. Only a madman could put himself forward as the better friend after all that.”
Now Cadrach did lift his eyes, holding her gaze for a long moment. He seemed to be looking for something, and his probing inspection brought warmth to her cheeks. She made a mocking face and turned away.
“Very well, Lady,” he said. From the corner of his eye she saw him shrug and walk off down the deck. “It seems they teach little of kindness or forgiving in Usires’ church these days,” he said over his shoulder.
Miriamele blinked back angry tears. “You are the religious man, Cadrach, not me. If that is true, you are the best example!” She did not receive much pleasure from her own harsh rejoinder.
When she had tired of watching the dockyard crowds, Miriamele went down to her cabin. The monk was sitting there, staring resolutely at nothing. Miriamele did not want to speak to him, so she turned and made her way above deck once more, then paced restlessly back and forth along the length of the Eadne Cloud. Those of the ship’s crew who had remained on board were refitting her for the outgoing voyage, some clambering in the rigging checking the state of the sails, others effecting various small repairs here and there about the deck. This was to be their only night on Vinitta, so the crewmen fairly flew through their tasks in a hurry to get ashore.
Soon Miriamele found herself at the rail by the top of the gangplank, staring down once more at the eddying citizenry of the island. As the cool, moist wind ruffled her hair, she found herself thinking about what Cadrach had said. Could he be right? She knew that Aspitis had a flattering tongue, but could it be possible he did not care for her at all?
Miriamele remembered their first night on deck, and the other sweet and secret kisses he had stolen from her since, and knew that the monk was wrong. She did not pretend that Aspitis loved her with all his soul—she doubted that her face tormented him at sleeping time, as his did to her—but she also knew beyond question that he was fond of her, and that was more than could be said of the other men she knew. Her father had wanted her to marry that horrible, drunken braggart Fengbald, and her uncle Josua had just wanted her to sit quietly and not cause him any trouble.
But there was Simon…she thought, and felt a flicker of warmth cut through the gray morning. He had been sweet in his foolish way, yet brave as any of the noblemen she had seen. But he was a scullion and she a king’s daughter…and what did it matter anyway? They were on opposite sides of the world. They would never meet again.
Something touched her arm, startling her. She whirled to find the wrinkled face of Gan Itai gazing up into hers. The Niskie’s usual look of wily good humor was absent.
“Girl, I need to speak to you,” the old one said.
“Wh-what?” Something in the Niskie’s expression was alarming.
“I had a dream. A dream about you—and about bad times.” Gan Itai ducked her head, then turned and looked out to sea before turning back. “The dream said you were in danger, Miri…”
The Niskie broke off, looking past Miriamele’s shoulder. The princess leaned forward. Had she misheard, or had Gan Itai been about to call her by her true name? But that could not be: no one beside Cadrach knew who she was, and she doubted that the monk would have told anyone on the ship—what such news might bring was too unpredictable, and Cadrach was trapped out on the ocean just as she was. No, it must have been only the Niskie’s odd way of speaking.
“Ho! Lovely lady!” A cheerful voice rang up from dockside. “It is a wet morning, but perhaps you would like to see Vinitta?”
Miriamele whirled Aspitis stood at the base of the gangplank with his men-at-arms. The earl wore a beautiful blue cloak and shiny boots. His hair danced in the wind.
“Oh, yes!” she said, pleased and excited. How wonderful it would be to get off this ship! “I’ll be right down!”
When she turned, Gan Itai had vanished. Miriamele frowned slightly, puzzled. She suddenly thought of the monk sitting stone-faced in the cabin they shared and felt a twinge of pity for him.
“Shall I bring Brother Cadrach?” she called down.
Aspitis laughed. “Certainly! We may find use in havi
ng a holy man with us who can talk us out of temptations! That way we may come back with a few cintis-pieces left in our purses!”
Miriamele ran downstairs to tell Cadrach. He looked at her oddly, but drew on his boots, then carefully chose just the right heavy cloak before following her back up the ladder.
The wind rose and the rainshowers became heavier. Although at first it was enough merely to walk along the busy waterfront with the handsome, sociable earl beside her, soon Miriamele’s excitement at being off the ship began to wear away. Despite the pushing crowd, Vinitta’s narrow streets seemed sad and gray. When Aspitis bought her a chain of bluebells from a flower seller and tenderly hung them around her neck, she found it all she could do to smile for him.
It is the weather, she guessed. This unnatural weather has turned high summer into a dismal gray murk and put the cold right into my bones.
She thought of her father sitting alone in his room, of the chilly, distant face he sometimes wore like a mask—a mask that he had come to wear more and more frequently in her last months in the Hayholt. Cold bones and cold hearts, she sang quietly to herself as the Earl of Eadne led his party down Vinitta’s rain-slicked byways.
Cold bones and cold hearts
Lie in the rain in battle’s wake,
On chilly beach by Clodu-lake,
’Til Aedon’s trumpet calls…
Just before noon Aspitis took them into an eating hall, where Miriamele immediately felt her flagging spirits begin to revive. The hall had a high ceiling, but the three large fire pits kept it warm and cheery while at the same time filling the air with smoke and the smell of roasting meat. Many others had decided the hall might be a nice place to be on this bitter morning the rafters echoed with the tumult of diners and drinkers. The master of the hall and his several assistants were being worked to the utmost, thumping jugs of beer and bowls of wine onto the wooden tables, then snatching the proffered coins in a single continuous movement.