The Witchwood Crown
I will fight as one already dead, Nezeru recited, unafraid because my sacrifice was made long ago. It was the pledge she had been taught when she had first entered her order. I will fight as one already dead—!
Then the great stone began to slide. It was only a small movement at first, a shudder and a slip, but the dragon felt the tug on its leg and bellowed again, this time with an edge of frustrated rage. Nezeru’s entire body was trembling, muscles jumping in agony along her back and neck, but she dug in and kept pushing as hard as she could. Beside her the giant bent and set his shoulder lower against the boulder, and for a moment his massive, hideous face was only a few inches from Nezeru’s own, his hot, stinking breath on her, huge eyes rolled up in his head so that all she could see were the whites, now red as blood. The stone slid again, then the edge of it scraped out over the drop and dipped sharply downward; Nezeru felt her feet go out from under her. She was stumbling, falling, following the boulder out into emptiness when Goh Gam Gar’s huge hand closed around her leg and yanked her back. The boulder teetered for a brief moment, then tipped almost soundlessly over the edge, leaving behind only a puff of snow and rock dust.
The dragon’s leg was yanked out from under it, and as it was dragged backward down the short slope bellowed so loud Nezeru was nearly deafened. As the boulder tumbled down the mountainside the dragon slithered backward on three legs, claws useless against the pull of the great stone, then lost its balance entirely and began to slide ponderously toward the precipice.
Nezeru only realized that the great fanged mouth had swung toward her when the bulk of the dragon was already sliding over the edge. She did not have time to dodge, or even to move. The huge jaws thumped closed just a hand’s breath in front of her face with a noise like a wagon axle snapping, near enough for her to feel the waft of foul air from its missed strike, then the monster was gone.
For a moment everything around her became silence and more than silence, a humming nothingness that seemed to have descended over the world.
Sound came back slowly. Nezeru rolled away from the edge and crawled far enough back from it to feel safe before collapsing again. The mortal Jarnulf was kneeling in the snow a short distance away, gasping and quivering as if in some kind of fit. Makho and Kemme had survived too, and now came limping down the slope toward them, Saomeji trailing a short distance behind.
Goh Gam Gar stood over the smaller dragon where it lay, still bound but thrashing as though it did not realize the fight had ended. The giant stared down at it for a moment, then kicked it hard. The creature gave a grunting squeal like a stuck pig, squirming in its bonds and huffing steam.
“Call for your mother now, shit-worm,” the giant snarled. He bent and picked his great axe out of the snow. “She’ll still be just as dead, and I’ll give you something you’ll like even less than that kicking.”
“Don’t hurt it.” Nezeru crawled toward the captive beast and began to wind another length of rope around its snout, careful to avoid its thrashing attempts to bite her. The small dragon’s movements were still slowed by the poison that had felled it, and when Jarnulf stumbled over to help, the two of them managed to secure the rope around its toothy muzzle without too much trouble.
“Why don’t we simply drain some of this thing’s blood here? How are we going to wrestle this monster down the mountain? It may not be as big as its mother, but it’s plenty big enough.”
“I am weary of your questions, mortal,” Makho snarled. “The queen and Akhenabi want a live dragon. The rituals must be performed on a living creature when taking the blood—or so Saomeji tells me.” The chieftain came and crouched beside the beast, followed shortly by Kemme and the Singer. They examined its length.
Saomeji leaned close and stared into the dragon’s pale-blue eye. “We have uses for you,” he told the bound monster.
“We will build a sledge to carry it,” said Makho. “The giant can pull it back to Nakkiga.”
“But it’s a long way back down to any trees big enough to make a sledge,” Nezeru said.
“Then the giant will just have to go and get them,” said Makho.
“Go and get them, you say?” roared Goh Gam Gar. He stood up, brandishing his axe, the curved blade big as a cart wheel, and loomed over Makho. “Is that how it is, after the mortal and the Blackbird and I saved you? I’ll throw you down the mountain and then we’ll see you drag a few trees back!” Suddenly the giant groaned and grabbed at his neck. He swayed, then dropped to his knees, gasping for breath.
“Speak so to your masters again and I will burn the heart from your body, animal.” Makho lifted the crystalline rod so the giant could see it. The huge beast could only groan and roll in the snow. “This never leaves my person. Do not forget who rules here.”
“Enough,” wheezed Goh Gam Gar. “Enough.” He leaned forward and steadied himself with one massive hand. Makho stared at the suffering giant in satisfaction, but was careful to stay out of his long reach.
Nezeru was experiencing an unexpected sympathy for Goh Gam Gar when a rattling, scraping sound suddenly caught her attention. An instant later the larger dragon’s narrow, horselike head suddenly rose from below the cliff’s edge, wounded and bloody but clearly alive: some obstacle on the mountainside had kept the terrible thing from sliding all the way down into the abyss. Now, before any of the Hikeda’ya could move, the head whipped forward on its long neck and snatched Kemme off the ground, the great jaws closing around his midsection. The Sacrifice had time only for a brief cry that ended as the jaws crunched down, then the great worm tossed his broken, bloody body out into the empty air and Kemme was gone.
Next the dragon—dripping red in a dozen places and with one useless foreleg—began to struggle up over the edge of the cliff. Makho thrust at its occluded eye with his sword, but the dragon caught the blade in its teeth and yanked Makho off his balance and down into the snow at its feet. Then, as the worm reared to strike at him, the giant Goh Gam Gar clambered onto his feet, roaring in wordless rage, and brought his massive axe down on the creature’s long neck just behind the head, all but slicing through the spine. The worm writhed like a dying snake, the long neck fountaining black blood that fell hissing into the snow, then the great dragon lost its grip on the cliff edge, slid backward, and vanished once more.
Still stunned by the suddenness of it all, Nezeru did not even realize, for the first moments after the monster fell, that someone was screaming—long, ragged, agonized cries. It took her another moment to recognize the voice as Makho’s. He was drenched in black blood from his head to his chest, and his skin was smoking.
Saomeji dove forward to snatch the crystal goad from Makho’s hand, then used it to drive Goh Gam Gar backward, forcing the huge creature to howl and cower. When the giant was a safe distance away, the Singer bent and began piling snow on the wounded chieftain’s burns.
“Help me, Sacrifice,” he said to Nezeru. “He can still be saved, I think.”
She crouched bedside him and began grabbing handfuls of snow, but she could already see Makho’s skin peeling loose in blackened strips, showing reddish meat beneath. Makho had now stopped screaming and only bubbled and gasped, eyes unseeing, spirit trapped somewhere in a land of suffering. Nezeru piled the snow thickly on his face, as much to hide the terrible sight as to give the wounded chieftain comfort.
“Well,” said the mortal Jarnulf with a quaver in his voice he did not try to hide, “I’m sure Queen Utuk’ku will be pleased by how well this went.”
54
Voices Unheard, Faces Unseen
10th Day of Tiyagar, Founding Year 1201
My dearest husband,
Now that I have related all the business of the High Ward in the other letter, here is one just for your eyes. I pray that it finds you safe and that Our Lady and the saints keep you and our grandchildren and all the rest of our dear ones in good health as well. I feel foolish writing to you with
my fears because the dread that I feel now may well pass, but I miss you so at this moment.
Last night, our first here, I had a terrible dream. I know that some say that there is no truth in dreams, that they are but tricks of the Adversary or small fevers of the mind, but you my husband know better than anyone that they can be true—that they can be a warning.
In the dream, our son came back to me. Not John Josua as he was in his last years, not the sober young father with his beard and the black scholar’s robes that he always wore, but as he was in his childhood, thin and wide-eyed, the restless little boy we so loved and worried over. In the dream I walked through the Hayholt in search of something, though at first I did not know what it might be. I saw nobody else, no servants, no courtiers, only empty halls, but at times it seemed I heard voices, as though people had gathered behind closed doors. I could never find them, though, and could barely hear the sound of them speaking and singing. Once I thought I heard a great number of women weeping.
Then I saw him, although at first I did not know him. I saw only a small shape that ran just ahead of me, losing itself around corners. When I could see it more clearly, the figure was so far ahead that although I thought it a child, I could not know for certain.
Since I had seen no one else, and in my dream I was still searching for that something I cannot now remember, I hurried after the small shape. I was led up one passage and down another, through the deserted throne room and out into the Inner Bailey. I followed this apparition into the maze that was destroyed when Green Angel Tower fell, but in my dream both the maze and the fallen tower were still there, the tower in broken pieces across the maze, blocking its paths in many places.
I found my way at last to the center of the maze and there was John Josua sitting on the bench that used to be at its center—do you remember that bench? I cried out in joy, I think, but when he saw me he only looked frightened, jumped up and sped away.
I was heartbroken that our son would not stay with me, but now that I knew whom it was I followed, neither could I give up. I was such a long time dreaming, Simon! Or that is how it felt, for our John led me a chase all over the castle, as he used to when we tried to drag him back to dress for state occasions. I wish now I had never made him attend any of them. How cruel to waste any of his short life on such nonsense.
At last, after what would have been a wearying chase had it not been a dream, he led me back to the ruins of Green Angel Tower, but they had vanished. All was as it is now, in this current age, with only the broken Angel remaining to mark its memory. But the Angel had been cast down from its plinth and lay beside a ragged hole in the ground, something that looked to have been dug by some savage, hurrying beast. John Josua crouched beside it and beckoned me. I came with slow care because I was afraid he would startle again and run away, but he waited for me. Still, he would not let me embrace or kiss him, which in the dream made my heart ache so that I can still feel it. Instead he pointed at the hole, his thin little face so full of discontent and worry that I could do nothing else except what he wished. I got down onto my knees and put my head close to the hole. From it, although as from a great distance, I could hear the strangest clamor, people wailing and shouting and the noises of beasts. I was certain it must be the mouth of Hell itself, and I sat up immediately, afraid. John Josua was gone again, and I was alone in the garden.
The next moment I awoke in my bed aboard the Hylissa. My maid was beside me, almost in tears because she had tried to wake me from my dream but could not do so. I was breathless and could not speak at first, and my nightgown was damp with sweat. The Thrithings-folk say that a bad dream is the Dark pressing down upon us, kneeling on our chests, trying to squeeze out our breath. I felt that. I think John Josua, if it was his spirit that came to me, and not a trick of the Adversary, was trying to tell me, to tell us, that the Dark is close.
My good husband, perhaps you will think that as soon as we are parted I have become a fool, but I pray you will remember your own dreams during the Storm King’s War, the tall Tree and the great Wheel, and what came of them. I am afraid, not just for you or myself or even our grandchildren, although I fear mightily for them, but for all our kingdom.
I will write again soon. It may even be that by the time of my next letter I will have decided that the fears I write about now were only phantoms, but please do not forget them. Please do not ignore them.
There will be no real peace for me until we are together again, dear Simon, safe with our family. Take good care, my husband. It is when we are apart that I most realize how fortunate we were to find each other, though all the world was against us.
I will write to you again on a brighter day—perhaps tomorrow, when there are not so many clouds in the sky.
• • •
“And how is the queen, may God give her good health?”
“Well enough in body, Pasevalles, but prey to fearful dreams.” Simon folded the letter and slipped it into his purse. He had an ache in his stomach that felt like hunger, but he knew it was not.
“As are we all sometimes, Majesty. The land of Sleep can be a terrifying place.”
The king nodded. Whatever had smothered and silenced his dreams of late, Simon knew very well the terrors that could be found on the Dream Road. “In any case, I am sorry I’ve kept you waiting, Lord Chancellor. You look as though something is troubling you, too.”
Pasevalles shook his head. “I am not troubled, sire, but only being cautious. I am told that you have asked Tiamak and Aengas, the Northern Alliance factor, to speak to the prisoner.”
“That Hernystirman kitchen servant who stabbed Eolair? Yes. Aengas speaks his tongue. Between you and me, I am concerned that he may not be the simple madman everyone has assumed.”
“Majesty?”
“I told you of the strange reception we had from King Hugh. And Eolair has heard disturbing things, too.”
“Of course, Majesty. I also found it troubling.”
“A part of me wonders whether Hugh might fear Eolair’s influence—the Lord Steward is a popular man in Hernystir.”
Pasevalles looked troubled. “You think Hugh might have tried to have Eolair killed? I will be honest, sire—that little madman seems a very clumsy tool for such a dangerous task.”
“I know, I know. But these are perilous times and I trust Tiamak’s judgement.”
“As do I,” the chancellor said. “But what of Aengas? Do you trust him as well?”
The king gave him a look that was half surprise, half frustration. “What? Do you suspect him of something as well?”
Pasevalles frowned. “I suspect no one, Majesty. I am just cautious—as you would wish me to be, I think. The factor arrived from Hernystir on the same day as the attack on Eolair.”
“But they say the criminal has worked here in the Hayholt kitchens for years.”
“Of course, sire. I only mention it because in times like these no assumption is safe. That is why I ask what we know of Aengas.”
Simon found it difficult to keep an even temper. “By the Tree, Pasevalles, you are too suspicious. I know and love Tiamak as well as I do any man, and he tells me that Aengas is worthy of our trust. Is that not enough?”
In less exalted settings than a meeting between king and chief minister, Pasevalles’ small movement would have been called a shrug. “Of course, Majesty—it should be more than enough. But as you and the queen yourselves told me on your return, everything is different now. I only ask the questions my position demands that I ask. Please forgive me.”
“Don’t, Pasevalles. You make me ashamed. Of course you are right to be careful.” He sighed. “But in the end I must trust someone or I would go mad. I trust you. I trust Eolair. I trust Tiamak. I trust the queen.”
“Yes, my king. I too trust Lord Tiamak, both his goodness and his judgement. If he vouches for Aengas, that is enough.”
Simon’s ble
ak mood had returned. “Now I am worried too, but not about Aengas. I hope Tiamak will be careful of that kitchen worker, if the creature is truly mad.” He was thinking of some of the moonstruck folk he had met in his youth, the peasant girl Skodi and even Miri’s father, King Elias, in his last months. “Madness can lie hidden, you know. Like a snake under a rock. But when you lift the rock and the sun falls upon it . . .” He thrust his hand forward like a serpent’s bite, and accidentally knocked his empty cup clattering onto the stone flags. Pasevalles silently picked it up, and when the king waved his hand for it, wiped the lip of the cup on his doublet before returning it.
When the king’s cup had been refilled, he and lord chancellor finished the rest of their business. When Pasevalles had gone, Simon sat back in his chair and ignored the courtiers waiting for his attention, his thoughts on a very different path.
Miriamele’s letter had made him think about their lost son—a grief no less painful for being familiar—but it had also reminded him of his own childhood, when the castle had seemed as big as the world and when nobody had paid much attention to the comings and goings of a mere kitchen boy. The memory gripped him and would not let go.
“Where is my little girl?” he muttered to himself. “Where is my lion cub?” Simon got to his feet and looked around. Courtiers leaned forward, each hoping that he or she was the one the king sought. To the king, though, the throne hall seemed strange and unfamiliar; for an instant or two Simon could almost believe he was a child-spy once more, poking his nose into places he should not be.
Yes, I will find my granddaughter, he decided, ignoring the polite, expectant faces that surrounded him. It will do my heart good to see her and to hear her voice. My son is lost to God and my grandson has gone far away—for good or ill—but I can at least find my Lillia and keep her close.