“We cannot speak of it yet,” Jiriki told him, and would not explain further.
After the strange events in the butterfly cavern, Aditu, Jiriki, and several more Sithi had prepared quickly, almost feverishly, for a journey, gathering up water and food for Morgan and Eolair, as well as a few blankets and other things. As soon as the preparations were completed the small group—perhaps a dozen in all—had set out. Morgan thought they had been walking for at least an hour now, but was not quite sure. In fact, he was not quite sure of anything at the moment, except that the world was far stranger than he had ever guessed, stranger even than he had suspected when he looked down into the shadows of Hjeldin’s Tower and saw what he felt certain (but still did not want to believe) had been the red priest Pryrates’ restless, murderous spirit.
Is this what Grandfather means when he says you never know you’re in a story? Am I in a story?
The Aldheorte itself seemed different to Morgan now, older and deeper than the parts he had traversed before. The shadows seemed darker too, the moments of sun less frequent. Even the trees and other vegetation seemed to huddle closer together, as if for protection.
The Sithi, though, seemed not to notice, and it certainly didn’t slow them any. Jiriki walked so quickly it almost seemed like running, and his sister, despite her bulging belly, had no problem keeping up with him. But the one called Yeja’aro was the most agile of all, and also seemed in the greatest hurry. Morgan had the feeling that if Yeja’aro could have whipped them into greater speed, he would have. Not that anyone but another of his own folk could have kept up with him: at one point, while the rest trotted down into and then up out of a small canyon, Yeja’aro simply leapt from one side of the little valley to the other, dozens of paces away—an astonishing feat that none of Yeja’aro’s kin seemed to notice. Meanwhile, the mortal prince and the aged lord steward had to scramble over obstacles their companions seemed barely to notice.
Yeja’aro kept looking back to Aditu and her brother. Morgan could guess nothing of Sithi feelings by their faces, but there was something noteworthy just in the frequency with which the red-haired Sitha watched the siblings. Something complicated seemed to be going on there—love, anger, hatred, perhaps all three. Whatever it was, though, was strong; Morgan felt certain about that.
At last, he caught up to Aditu (or more likely, he knew, she slowed down for him) but he was too daunted to ask about the things he had been wondering. Instead, when he had mustered enough breath, he asked, “Where are we going?”
“To T’seya Go-jao,” she said. “Another of the little boats, as we call these more humble dwellings. Your grandfather saw Jao é-Tinukai’i, the Boat on the Ocean of trees, the greater refuge from which all the little boats came.”
“What direction is that? Because Eolair said he thought we were traveling west—back in the direction he and I first came.”
“That is true, more or less.”
“But then the sun should be in our eyes, at least when we can see it through all these bloody trees. It has to be far past noon and the sun’s been on the back of my neck for an hour!”
She adjusted her pace a little to match his. “Hm. Did your grandfather ever teach you to play shent?”
“He tried.” In truth, it had been one of the most frustrating things Morgan could remember. The game had far too many pieces, or at least the pieces had too many names, and the contest seemed to have no rules that made sense. Instead it was full of useless directions such as, “Consider the point from which you started,” or “Follow the wind.” In the few times he had played with King Simon he had won only once and did not understand why, except that a bored, blatant attempt at cheating on his part had made his grandfather laugh. The memory brought a pang of discomfort and anger. “I could never do it right.”
“It is about different ways of thinking. That is why I asked. Yes, the sun is on your neck. Yes, we are traveling west. Some things are more slippery than you think they are.” She reached out and patted his arm, her touch light as a bird’s wing, then sped her pace again. Morgan could only struggle to keep up.
• • •
What seemed a good part of the afternoon had passed when they finally reached a quiet lake hidden among the trees, a blue gem darker than the sky. Sithi dressed in pale green and gray waited there, tending a tiny harbor complete with what looked to Morgan like a very flimsy dock and several flatboats made of woven willow branches.
Morgan, Eolair, and all the Sithi climbed into one of the boats and were soon poling themselves silently across the lake. On the far side they slipped into a hidden river where Morgan had seen nothing but reeds, then made their way up it for some time. At last they began to pass strange structures made of willow branches and thorns that had been raised on both banks, like defensive walls but impossibly fragile. As they moved farther upstream the walls occasionally rose to join over the top of the water, so that he and his fellow passengers seemed to float through tunnels of gray wood and black thorn. Not long after that, Morgan began to notice more Sithi crouching behind these structures, watching their boat pass from expressionless golden eyes. Most of these wore colorful wooden or bone armor. Their spears and swords did not seem made from metal either, but Morgan felt sure from the cold faces watching them pass that the weapons would prove as deadly as any steel.
At last they came to a wide place in the river with a willow-wood dock and an enclosure beside it on one side that was roofed with an even more complicated arrangement of willow limbs thatched with broad leaves. A figure stood on the dock as if it had waited there years just for this moment. As they drew closer, Morgan could see this was another Sitha, with the same blaze of red hair as Yeja’aro. He wore no helm, but was armored in pale green painted wood, with a sword hanging in a scabbard on his belt. Something about his face seemed unusual, but Morgan was still too far away to make out what it was. At least a dozen Sithi warriors stood behind him in attitudes of calm expectancy.
“S’hue Khendraja’aro!” called Jiriki as he leaped lightly from the boat to the dock. “I see you have heard of our coming. We left H’ran Go-jao quiet and secure.”
“You have brought mortals,” said the red-haired Sitha, his arms crossed on his chest. Hearing the harshness in his words, Morgan thought that this man and Yeja’aro had more in common than just the color of their hair, their thin, prominent noses, and their high brows. Could this one be Yeja’aro’s brother? Father? Morgan had already learned from quiet conversation with Count Eolair that it was nearly impossible to guess a Sitha’s age.
Aditu helped Eolair from the boat to the dock, then stepped across herself, nimble as a squirrel leaping from one thin branch to another. The other Sithi followed, but did not move forward to greet or mingle with those on the dock. Morgan wondered what that meant. Something invisible seemed to hang between them, as if these two groups, all but identical to Morgan’s eyes, were somehow from quite different tribes.
Jiriki turned to Morgan and Eolair. “S’hue Khendraja’aro is our mother’s brother.”
“More importantly,” said Khendraja’aro, “I am the Protector of the Zida’ya.”
Now that he was closer, Morgan could see that the protector’s face was scarred. Something had cut him from the left edge of his mouth up almost to his cheekbone, and it had not healed well. Not only did the scar give him a persistent and disturbing half-smile, but at the top end it pulled his eyelid down into a squint.
“We have news, Khendraja’aro,” said Aditu.
The red-haired Sitha raised his hand. “And this news meant you thought it appropriate to bring mortals here? To me?”
“We did what—” was all Jiriki had a chance to say before Khendraja’aro interrupted him, taking a step toward Count Eolair.
“Know that it is only the old alliance between my people and yours, Hernystirman, that prevents me from killing you both on the spot.” His voice was not loud, but so
mething hard in it carried right to Morgan’s ear, like a shout. “As it is, honor demands that you two be allowed to leave this place. But that is all. Whatever knowledge you seek, whatever bargain you hope for, it is denied before you even ask. Now go, leave this forest now, or even the old, hallowed memory of your noble Sinnach and the battle of Ereb Irigú, when our people fought together, will not save your miserable lives.”
49
Blood as Black as Night
Jarnulf and the Hikeda’ya had climbed well beyond Urmsheim’s broad skirts, but although they had been pulling themselves upward for days now, until even the tallest of the nearby peaks lay below them, the bulk of the great mountain still towered high above.
“We shall have to go roped together soon,” he said as they rested at the end of a hard day’s labor, deep in a vertical crevice in the rocky mountain face.
“I decide what we do or do not do,” Makho told him. The wounds the Norn chieftain had received at the hands of the Skalijar had made him even colder and more unpleasant. Jarnulf did not have the strength for an argument, though or even for a shrug. For the hundredth time, he wished he could have encountered the chieftain alone in the wilderness, so that he could have treated with the cold-eyed murderer as he deserved. He had been traveling with the Hikeda’ya so long now that sometimes he actually forgot what they had done to him, how much he loathed them all.
The crevice where they sheltered was deep enough that Jarnulf actually had room to lie down. He had long believed himself all but impervious to heights and cold, but was now wishing that he could just stay here in this place and never move again. His legs and arms throbbed from the day’s effort so that he did not think he could fall asleep, and he knew that at first light their climb would begin again. The only small solace was that Makho and the other Hikeda’ya had agreed it would be safer to climb in daylight, since there was little fear of their mission being discovered now that they had traveled so far above the world.
Aching and exhausted, Jarnulf himself no longer had any true idea of what he was doing here. His great goal, his sworn purpose, had not changed, but this seemed more and more like an almost ridiculously bad way to go about achieving it.
I should have stuck to killing them off in ones and twos. Not only did it give me a certain pleasure, but I also had a lifelong vocation. Now I have risked everything on a single throw of the dice, all or nothing. Father would not have approved.
But was that true? Father had been cautious by nature, but he had also often said, “God does not lean down to give us His hand, whatever the Church may say. He waits for us to climb as close as we can to Him first.” Certainly Jarnulf was doing as much climbing as even God could wish, but the rest of his motivations had become obscure to him, lost in the day-to-day ordinariness of traveling, even traveling with the hated Hikeda’ya. And there was Nezeru . . .
What was it about the halfblood woman that puzzled and fascinated him so? It was nothing so simple as attraction, he had told himself many times—his devotion to God and his loathing of her kind assured him of that. But he had come to care about her in some way he did not completely understand, perhaps because he saw in her unthinking slogans and stunted emotions another victim of Hikeda’ya slavery. Or perhaps because she was young he could still sense something of what she could be, before the cold, cruel ways of Nakkiga froze her forever. Whatever the case, Jarnulf could not deny the truth of his feelings. In moments of daydream he even imagined sparing her alone, out of all of them, and bringing her into the hands of a loving God—something she had never known and, without the intercession of Jarnulf White Hand, would never glimpse.
• • •
Despite his immense size, Goh Gam Gar was by far the best climber of them all, especially now that his hands were free. The Norns were graceful, agile, and sure, but the great, leathery pads on the giant’s hands and feet gripped the icy stone, and his strength was so great that he could even lift his own massive weight with a single one of his arms. In fact, the monster seemed almost happy to be exercising his skills this way, although it was hard to tell with such an evil-tempered creature; the only other time he showed good cheer was when one of his companions hurt themselves.
Captors, Jarnulf reminded himself, not companions. Foul creature that he was, the monster still had less choice about being on this expedition than Jarnulf did. As Makho never ceased pointing out, there had been more than a few opportunities when he could have deserted the White Foxes, but the giant did not have that freedom.
Why was the giant with them? Did the Norns really think even such a huge creature was enough to defeat a dragon? And what would they do with a dragon if they found one? Makho had said they wanted its blood, but that made no sense to Jarnulf. Not to mention that no dragon was going to give its blood up without a fight—a deadly fight.
• • •
Prevented from escaping by the witchwood collar and the queen’s gem, Goh Gam Gar ranged far ahead of the rest of the company now, seeking out the best routes and clearing dangerous obstacles by sheer might. Makho never let him out of sight for long, though, perhaps fearing a sudden giant-caused avalanche. The only consistent noise on the mountainside other than the crunch of snow and the hiss of breath the climbers made were the arguments between the giant and Makho on those occasions when the chieftain used a lashing of pain to summon the giant back.
Late in the afternoon, Makho shouted for Goh Gam Gar to return for perhaps the dozenth time that day, but this time the giant did not appear. After a few moments Makho took the crystal from its pouch and held it up, murmuring the words that Akhenabi had taught him. A roar of pain and fury drifted to them, but the giant did not return. Makho raised the crystal rod again, and once more Goh Gam Gar bellowed in rage but still did not reappear.
His face rigid with anger, Makho had raised the crystal a third time when Nezeru said, “Don’t.”
“Do you dare to give me orders, Blackbird? Your condition has made you foolish.”
Jarnulf wasn’t certain what that meant, but for a moment he was certain Makho would hit her, perhaps even knock her from the narrow path. In that complicated instant, as he tried to decide what he would do, Nezeru told their leader, “Perhaps the giant has fallen, or something has fallen upon him. Would it not be better to see what has happened before we torture the brute any further?”
Saomeji the Singer nodded his head. “I think she is right, Chieftain Makho. If nothing else, in his agony he might destroy what little path there is on this treacherous mountain. If you like, I will go first.”
“No. The Blackbird will go.” Makho’s tone made it clear that there would be no further discussion.
Nezeru took the lead as nimbly as any of the pureblood Hikeda’ya. Just watching her scramble up the sloping, narrow path around the looming mountainside, nothing visible below her but fog and remorseless, empty space, made Jarnulf, despite his own well-honed skills, feel as clumsy as a fat householder.
She had only just vanished from sight when the rest of the Hand heard her call in fear and excitement for them to hurry. Kemme and Makho both drew their swords, but Jarnulf decided to wait and see what manner of challenge awaited them before surrendering the use of one of his hands.
The path was broken where Nezeru was stopped, but only a small part of it was gone, and it would be easy enough for any of them to jump to the rest of the path on other side. Since he could see no sign of the giant, Jarnulf assumed that was what Goh Gam Gar had done. As he drew closer, though, he understood why Nezeru had stopped. It was not just the path that had collapsed: a wide piece of the mountain below had slid down as well, leaving a jumble of boulders and broken tree trunks marking the place where the track had been. It also meant that something below had stopped the slide from continuing down the mountain. What that something might be was made clear a moment later, when Goh Gam Gar’s harsh voice boomed up from the cluttered, wedge-shaped fall of trees, rocks, an
d snow.
“By the queen herself, if one of you cowardly little bugs doesn’t get down here and help me, I’ll pull the whole mountain out from under you!”
“Look!” said Nezeru, kneeling on the path near the place where the slide had collapsed it. “The giant is just down there. Not too far. Wedged in by broken trunks.”
Makho was staring at the tumble of rocks and wood, his face set in an unhappy smirk. “And what are we to do, monster?” he shouted down, his mockery tinged with disgust. “Lean over and pull you out?”
“No, you fool!” the giant bellowed. “Climb down and get my rope. If you tie it around something strong enough up there, I can free myself.”
“We should let the ugly creature die,” said Kemme.
Makho had probably been considering just that, but he scowled at Kemme’s words. “I told you, we will need him. You, mortal—climb down and do what he says.”
Jarnulf was too surprised at first to be angry. “But I’m the worst climber of any of us!”
“You are also the least useful. Go.”
Jarnulf briefly considered the odds, but Makho and Kemme had their blades drawn. For all his skills, he knew the chance he could take both Norns on a slippery mountain path were unimaginably small, even if neither Nezeru or Saomeji waded in to help their leader. He scowled, but Makho’s fierce, bony face was hard as an ivory mask.
“I will need a good rope,” Jarnulf said at last, by way of surrender. “I do not carry enough.”
“Take mine,” Nezeru said. “It was made by the weavers of the Blue Cave.”
He accepted the coil of silver-white cord from her, then found a stone outcropping that he could not budge no matter how he pulled. He tied one end around it, then pulled his gloves on tightly and lowered himself over the edge.
The rockfall had taken more than rocks in its passage, and within moments Jarnulf was walking himself backward over broken trees as well as fallen boulders, a pile of large, heavy obstacles that he knew had to be supported by something below or they would have continued to slide down the slope and into the misty crevasse. He had no idea how firmly they were held, though, so he did his best to touch lightly and take most of his weight on his arms. As a result, his muscles were trembling by the time he reached the giant, who was caught in a tangle of splintered trunks and icy stones.