We’ll see about that, Miriamele thought. Aloud, she said, “And that agreement would be printed in a public document, posted and read out in the churches for all in Nabban to read and understand.”
This annoyed the escritor, but he was growing better at hiding his irritation. “Of course, of course, Your Majesty. I can see no impediment. Now, I hope we can begin to plan for Your Majesties’ visit.”
“Excellent,” she said. “We will be happy to plan the High Throne’s presence at the wedding—and the other matters in Nabban, of course—as soon as we have evidence that the Blessed Father has agreed to implement our royal counsel.”
This struck Auxis like a thunderbolt. For the first and only time, he stumbled over his words. Again, the room had gone silent. “But, Majesties! I . . .” He forced himself toward composure. “Your Majesties, surely I misunderstand you. It is a fortnight’s voyage to Nabban, even by fast ship. The wedding is only a bit more than a month away. How can I possibly provide you with lector’s agreement in time for you to make the journey?”
“Surely the Blessed Father did not send his legate without authority to make some decisions,” she said sweetly. “But if these matters are beyond your remit, we will certainly understand, and wait patiently to hear the lector’s reply. If we cannot journey to Nabban in time for the wedding, we will still be able to come and aid in negotiations between the unhappy factions.”
For the first time, Auxis looked out of his depth, even lost. Miriamele could not help feeling what was doubtless a childish satisfaction at seeing this graceful, powerful man so flummoxed. “I do not know what to say, Majesties. I fully admit that His Sacredness is very, very anxious to have the two of you in Nabban—as I’m sure you are yourself, because of the importance of peace in your largest subject country—but all this, at this very late moment.”
“The two of us?” Miriamele pretended surprise. “What do you mean?” She made a show of considering it. “Ah, I see. A misunderstanding, clearly. The use of the royal ‘we’ is often confusing to listeners. We are not both coming to Nabban, even when these matters of advice are settled. As rulers, we have been too often absent of late from our home here in Erkynland and especially the Hayholt. Only I will come to Nabban. King Seoman will remain here at the Hayholt.”
“That’s true,” said Simon, and if he had argued long and hard against it, he did not show it now. “And I can tell you that if you mean to dispute that decision with Queen Miriamele, you would be better off saving your breath, Escritor.”
Auxis could only stare. His clerks whispered among themselves, sounding like a brisk wind through long grass.
“So, if you would like to convey all this to the His Sacredness the Lector, Your Eminence, please feel free,” Miriamele said. “The sooner the better, I assume. As you pointed out, time is short.”
And then she rose, and Simon rose too, a bit belatedly. The courtiers all bowed their heads. Even Auxis, in his confusion, lowered his chin to his chest, although in his case it seemed more likely he was praying for patience.
For once, Miriamele was glad to be dressed in the full panoply of state. Her dress swished and rustled and her jewelry rattled most satisfyingly as she swept from the great hall.
48
The Little Boats
Morgan followed the torches of the Sithi as best he could, but as night came on the forest itself seemed to spring to life, doing its best to confuse and mock him. The wind rose. Trees thrashed and reached for him with twiggy fingers. Sometimes he almost thought he could see faces outlined in their bark by the flickering torchlight, angry faces that wanted him gone from the forest or dead. The near silence of twilight had been replaced by a chorus of night sounds, hoots and trills and the scratching of a thousand small things. And though Morgan did his best at first to keep some idea of direction in his head, the course the Sithi led them twisted so many times, with no sign of path, track, or landmark, that he quickly gave up.
“Where do you think they’re taking us?” he asked after what seemed most of an hour’s walk. Eolair only shook his head.
“We will learn,” the count said. “The Sithi do not share their secrets freely, especially secrets about where they live. You should ask your grandfather some time about how he had to walk out of winter into summer to reach their settlement.”
Which made no sense to Morgan at all but neither had most of his grandfather’s tales about the Sithi.
So they marched on and on through the woods, guided by half-seen figures who never paused, and who seemed to know their route as clearly as if they walked across a familiar city in bright day. Morgan began to feel he was dreaming, that somewhere between the afternoon and this moment he had fallen into a deep sleep—that this was only the story his sleeping mind had chosen to tell him.
As a child, when Morgan had imagined the Sithi who figured in so many of his grandparents’ solemn old stories, he had always thought of them as nearly insubstantial, like ghosts, beings that might appear and disappear in a shaft of moonlight, or materialize at the foot of one’s bed to grant a wish. He had come later to understand that they were actual living creatures, but his childish notions had continued to lurk at the back of his thoughts. It had never occurred to him that they would be so real, with bodies and clothing and hard faces that seemed to examine and judge him. But every now and then he heard a quiet snatch of song, or saw one of them vault over an obstacle with the graceful power of a stag, and they suddenly became unknowably magical once more. But when he stumbled, and hands reached out of the darkness to keep him from falling, their touch was hard and impersonal, less like a parent guiding a child and more like a warder conducting a prisoner to his place of confinement.
As the journey wore on, Morgan grew more and more anxious, and with the anxiety came anger. Were he and Eolair ambassadors or prisoners?
At one point, when a beam of moonlight found its way through the tree canopy, he looked back and saw Tanahaya being carried on her litter. In the momentary wash of blue light her face seemed still and pale as a marble effigy, and it occurred to him that perhaps for the Sithi this march was something closer to a funeral procession. What would happen to Morgan and the count if the wounded Sitha-woman died? Would the fairy-folk blame them for what had happened to her?
Be brave, he told himself. You are a prince. If you’re not brave, what are you?
• • •
Though their way still turned and twisted along paths that were invisible to him, Morgan could sense that they were now heading consistently uphill: his tired legs were working harder, and he could see the sky more often through the trees, with here and there a bright, welcome spatter of stars visible against the blackness.
The climb seemed to lead them on a spiral path up a large hill. Morgan could hear a stream flowing past, sometimes near to where they walked, sometimes more distant, so that he could barely make out its gurgling music. Once he had to jump across it, and again hands came out of the darkness to help him land safely.
As the trees became thinner he could finally see the peak of the hill that loomed above them, its jagged shape blocking the stars. They crossed the stream again, then crossed over it once more, and then suddenly the burning brands the leaders carried were all extinguished at once, leaving them in utter dark. Surprised, Eolair stopped, but Morgan did not realize it until he stumbled into him from behind.
“Walk forward, but with care,” said the red-haired leader, Yeja’aro, as they untangled themselves. “We are passing into the hill through a crevice in the rock.”
Morgan put his hand on the lord steward’s back and blindly followed him. Someone reached out to guide them; he felt hands on each shoulder, and then a moment later a third hand pushing gently down on his head. This startled him so that he tried to shake it loose, but only managed to bang his skull against invisible stone.
“You will hurt yourself—the roof of the passage dips very
low here. Let us help you.” This voice spoke more kindly than Yeja’aro had. Morgan let himself be directed, although the complete darkness was daunting: every sightless step felt as though it might lead him over a precipice. It was all he could do simply to keep moving forward and trust to the spidery touch of the Sithi guiding him.
A few moments later Eolair gave a low cry. Morgan was alarmed, but also puzzled because the count’s exclamation sounded strangely like joy. Two more hesitant steps and the prince walked out of the dark into the full glow of the stars, thousands upon thousands burning brightly all across the sky, candles in a church far greater than any human cathedral. Morgan was dazzled. Not only did the sky sparkle fiercely above their heads, but humbler lights burned all across the narrow pocket valley—dozens upon dozens of campfires.
Morgan stared at this spectacle, trying to make sense of it. Somehow they had climbed through a tunnel or crevice into a small valley nestling in the top of the blocky hill he had seen from below. As his eyes grew used to the light and the blaze of stars faded he saw that the valley was full of Sithi-folk. Many wore garments as crude and basic as those of Yeja’aro’s band, while others were wrapped in shimmering cloth that fluttered even in this still place like the sails of ships running before the wind.
A few of the Sithi turned to look at the newcomers, but none of them seemed alarmed or even perturbed: their large eyes settled on Morgan and the count, then turned to other things. The prince stared back, heart beating hard and fast, his fear turned almost entirely to wonder. He could hear odd, faint music coming to him from more than one spot in the valley, pipes and singing voices, and some of the figures farther up the slopes were dancing together, graceful as birds in flight. As the music and movement swirled around him like blossoms blown from the trees, the fairy stories of his childhood came back to him with all their force; in that moment, he could easily imagine a man being lured away by the Sithi-folk to live a hundred years in one night.
“Ah, yes,” said Eolair, but from his tone it wasn’t clear whether he was speaking to the prince or to the empty air. “I do remember. Oh, I remember . . .”
They might have stood there for an hour, content merely to experience this unexpected, wild beauty, but suddenly a shape appeared before them.
“You will come with me,” said Yeja’aro. “Prince Jiriki is not here, but the . . . princess . . . will want to see you.” He gave the word a curious, angry emphasis.
The Sitha led them up the rocky path himself, winding between the fires; this time, when Morgan or the count stumbled, nobody reached out to help them. Dozens of Sithi watched the pair of them, curiously incurious as cats, as they climbed the slope toward a single large fire burning in a pit that had been dug at the top of a mounded grass meadow, not far from one of the valley’s steep walls. A single white-haired figure sat beside the fire. Her garment was full and loose, covering her body entirely from the neck down, and Morgan thought she must be some respected elder of the Sithi-folk.
Grandfather talked of the Sithi’s First Grandmother, didn’t he? But he seemed to remember that one had died in some terrible attack.
As they drew closer and he could see the Sitha-woman’s face more clearly, he decided that not only was she much younger than the color of her hair had led him to believe, she was also one of the most beautiful creatures he had ever seen.
They had almost reached the fire when she finally looked up at them. A small, almost secretive smile curled at the edge of her mouth, and her wide eyes caught the light, glowing. Her skin seemed the same shade as the flames, as though she and the fire were part of the same thing.
“So,” she said. “I had a feeling.”
“Aditu, I found them at the forest’s edge,” Yeja’aro said, his voice less harsh than it had been. Morgan thought he almost sounded apologetic. “They carry Ti-tuno. It was the horn we heard, in truth.”
When she smiled again, Morgan did not know whether he wanted to marry her on the spot or crawl into her arms and let her gently rock him to sleep. “Yes. I knew it was Ti-tuno,” she said. “I can never forget when I last heard it sounding, before Asu’a.” She smiled. “Count Eolair, my heart is glad to see you. It has been so long!”
“Lady Aditu.” Eolair sounded as though he might weep. “Much longer for me than for you, it seems. You have not changed.”
She smiled again. “Ah, but I have, as you will discover. Still, handsome boys become distinguished men—I would know you anywhere. Come, sit. And, speaking of handsome boys, who is this young one? I think I know him, but I would be told.”
Morgan realized his mouth was open but was doing nothing useful. “I am Prince Morgan,” he said, but it sounded strange and impolite, by itself. “My lady Aditu—Princess—I give you greetings from my grandparents.”
“Yes,” she said, as if he had asked a question. “Oh, yes. In the midst of such sadness, it is good to see the face of old friends again, even at several removes.”
Morgan was still staring. He knew he shouldn’t, but in that moment he couldn’t imagine looking at anything or anyone else.
“We have much to discuss,” Count Eolair began, but Aditu lifted her hand to forestall him.
“Not now, old friend. You have walked far, and walked the Sithi’s ways at that, which are even more tiring.” She turned to Yeja’aro, who had been standing silently by. “What of Tanahaya?”
Yeja’aro’s narrow face was grim. “She is very ill. These Sudhoda’ya say she has been poisoned. She is with the healers now.”
“Bring me word as soon as they know anything.” Aditu turned back to the count. “And now you two must sleep. My brother will return tomorrow and all that must be said will be said then. Eolair, it is good to see you again, against all the world’s chances. Morgan, this meeting means more to me than you can know.”
“Come,” said Yeja’aro, while Morgan was still puzzling out her liquid, lightly accented Westerling. He and Eolair let themselves be led away from the fire. Morgan looked back and saw that the woman named Aditu had again lowered her chin to her chest, contemplating the flames as though reading a beloved old book, a familiar but still instructive companion.
Morgan was exhausted. Suddenly the night seemed to be sagging in on top of him, and it was all he could do to put one foot after the other as Yeja’aro led them along the side of the valley to a place that had been prepared for them, two beds of moss in a frame of sticks, each with a blanket thin as a whisper, made of a slippery, cool substance that to Morgan’s weary mind felt like a moth’s wing looked.
Neither he nor Eolair spoke after they climbed into their beds. For all its near-insubstantiality, Morgan’s blanket was very warm. He watched a patch of stars slowly spinning across the sky above his head, a wheel of lights that he thought he should recognize but didn’t—just one more strangeness of this very strange day. Then, after only a very short time of listening to the sweet, strange sound of Sithi voices singing to each other across the pocket valley, he fell into a deep sleep.
Eolair had to work hard to wake the prince. Morgan complained bitterly, keeping his eyes tightly closed as though some horrifying demon stood over him instead of the Count of Nad Mullach. Eolair had only the dimmest recollection of himself at the prince’s age; a few sharp memories like mountain peaks piercing a haze, but he did not believe he had ever been allowed to sleep until he woke on his own. His father, the old count, had regarded rising with the dawn to say prayers to the gods as part of a noble’s duties. And Eolair’s fretful, quiet mother had hardly ever seemed to sleep at all.
“Come, Highness.” He gave the prince a harder shake. “Aditu’s brother Jiriki has returned, and we must speak to our hosts. The sun is in the sky. Rouse yourself, please.”
Morgan gave Eolair a slit-eyed stare and a frowning look meant to shame him. Instead, the lord steward laughed.
“Come. Sit up, Highness. I have brought you something to eat.”
The prince reached out blindly, then hesitated when he felt what Eolair had put in his hand. He peered at it suspiciously. “What is it?”
“Bread, of a sort. Flavored with honey. It’s quite nice. And there’s a stream of fresh water just below the rise, over there.”
“We’re really here,” Morgan said a moment later with his mouth full, looking around him. “With the Sithi. I didn’t think it would feel like this. It’s so strange . . . !” But this home of theirs was not anything as grand as Morgan had imagined—that was certain.
“It has been more than thirty years since I first saw the Peaceful Ones up close,” Eolair said, “and I am still astonished each time.”
While the young prince tended to his morning needs, the count sat on a toppled tree in the warm sun and watched the morning life of the Sithi camp. It was both a smaller and less organized gathering than the Zida’ya war camp he had visited all those years ago outside Hernysadharc. At first glance everything seemed chaotic, with exotic figures coming and going from the small valley and many others engaged in quiet work, although Eolair could not always guess what they were truly doing. By daylight he could see that the hill and its hidden valley stood high above the surrounding Aldheorte. Anyone down among the forest trees would find it almost impossible to see even the valley’s campfires at night, because the trees and the bulk of the hill would hide their glow.
“It seems only days since I saw you last, Eolair of Nad Mullach,” someone said behind him.
Eolair turned to see Jiriki standing a short distance away at the top of the rise. His hair was long and white, like his sister’s, but like her he did not look an hour older than at their last meeting. “Days to you, perhaps,” the count told him. “To me, it has been a weary length of years. But whatever the length of time, it is good to see you again, Jiriki i-Sa’onserei. I heard you and your company return just before first light. I heard them singing.”