“So what are we doing now? What if they come marching down out of the north when the new moon comes?”
“The Norns won’t come in the middle of summer. They like fighting in the cold and dark because they know we don’t. But even so, I’m sending out people I trust to talk to all the northern nobles—they’ll understand the danger right away. And we’d have to warn them, anyway, so all we’re really doing is keeping it among those who must know now.”
“I’m not sure . . .”
“Miri, we met a single band of White Foxes on the Frostmarch Road, and had a letter of warning from a man we’ve never heard of, and the only thing we know for certain about him is that he was traveling with the Norns. I don’t trust that horrid, silver-faced witch up north any more than you do, but there will still be a harvest to bring in this year.”
“And if we need soldiers instead, it will take a long time to get them.”
“And if we tell them we need them this moment and then we’re wrong, how long will it take to muster them next time? Or the time after that? It will be like the Tale of the Idle Shepherd.”
“I suppose.”
“You know, wife, this isn’t really what I thought we’d be doing on the night before you sail for Nabban.”
“I’m sure that’s true. Which reminds me, the Controller of the Salt Staple in Meremund has to be replaced—he’s a drunk and he has his hand in the money box. Same for the Controller of Wool.”
“We’re not going to have any luck with Tostig. He has most of the Wool Staples in his pocket because he’s smart enough to share his thefts. The Council of Erchester love him. Besides, you know he’s another of Osric’s cousins. Aedon bless us and protect us, that man has more cousins than a dog has fleas.”
“Yes, but he’s the heir’s other grandfather, Simon. He feels he has the right to dip his snout into the High Throne’s jar and eat as much as he pleases. And it keeps him sweet.”
“Don’t I know it. And without his three thousand Falshiremen and his Wentmouth levies, if it comes to a fight with the White Foxes we might as well rename ourselves Southern Nornland.”
“No jests, Simon. Please, not when I have to go away. Not when everything feels so fragile.”
• • •
“I’m sorry. I don’t even know why I’m in tears. I just woke up feeling dreadful.”
“Don’t, Miri. Don’t apologize.”
“But I don’t like crying. It’s an excuse for people to say, ‘She’s just a woman.’”
“I like holding you, though. Stop wriggling.”
“Oh, very well, but just for a moment. It will be time for me to get dressed soon—I have so much to do! And in any case, Jeremias will be in soon, and I don’t particularly like the way he chirps around here in the morning like a fat robin.”
“He is doing his duty, beloved, nothing more.”
“I know. Ooh, your hands are cold.”
“You don’t get away so easily. Besides, you know what they say. ‘Cold hands . . . warm horn.’”
“You! Stop that. We have things to talk about still—many things.”
“And you’re leaving tomorrow. Damn and blast, Miri, don’t push me away!”
“And what will happen if I let you? Afterward, you will smile like a dog in the sun, roll over, and fall back asleep while there are still important matters to discuss.”
“No. I will kiss you first, many times. Because I love you, and I’m going to miss you terribly. Don’t you still love me?”
“Yes, you fool man. Most of the time I love you to distraction. The rest of the time, the distraction comes on its own. But as you know, we have other responsibilities now.”
“Oh, God on His Throne, responsibilities! I hate that word sometimes. And I miss the days when it wasn’t like this. Don’t you wish we could just do what we wished? Go where we wished?”
“I don’t think I could do that, Simon. I don’t think I could forget all the people who count on us. And neither could you, if I remember correctly, not even when you were young. That’s why you risked your life for Josua and had to flee the castle. No, don’t get up. Please. Come, hold me again, but be careful with those cold hands! I have just remembered about the Perdruinese factors.”
“Not them again.”
“Yes, them. If I’d known I was going to Nabban I could have arranged to meet them there, but they are already coming here. They’ll arrive before the end of Tiyagar-month. They say that it is unfair to set the tariff so high for their grain, because the farmers in the south have had a terrible year.”
“So we will lower it.”
“You cannot. Then the Northern Alliance factors will be angry. And our own grain merchants here in Erkynland will not be best pleased, either.”
“Why should we argue with Perdruinese traders in the first place?”
“Because they are part of my grandfather’s kingdom, part of the High Ward, and we have made promises to treat them fairly.”
“No, I mean why should we tell them anything at all? Why not let them decide for themselves what prices to set?”
“Because farmers, shepherds, merchants, traders, they are all strung together like beads on a necklace. Do not pretend to be foolish, Simon. You know this. It is all one great thing, and we must pull the strands at one end to keep them tight at the other, and so on. Back and forth, back and forth.”
“They could do it better for themselves, surely.”
“Then they would not be under the High Ward and would soon go back to fighting and killing each other. Have you forgotten about the old days before my grandfather, when Nabban fought Erkynland and Perdruin, and Erkynland fought Hernsytir, and everyone fought with Rimmersgard and the Thrithings-Men? That was why my grandfather King John brought them together under one throne, and why we must rule over them all. To keep them from killing each other.”
“If the High King and the High Queen must decide what every single grain factor and wool merchant is to do, it seems to me that something is wrong. It also means that all the power is vested in the High Throne.”
“Yes, that’s what it means.”
“What if the person sitting on the throne is, pardon my saying so, more like your father than your grandfather? Or like King Hugh instead of Eolair, or like Drusis instead of his brother Saluceris?”
“Morgan will not be like any of those!”
“No? I hope not too. But what of Morgan’s sons and daughters? What of the others to come? How long until a madman or a fool sits on the High Throne?”
“I’m beginning to think there is at least one fool sitting on it now. Not to mention an ape with no manners. Did I tell you to start pawing me again?”
“I’m sorry. You’re right, Miri, I have no manners. But it feels so sweet when I squeeze you right . . . there.”
“Stop, you monster.”
“Yes. Yes, I am. A monster who is going to miss you so fiercely that I will pray every day and every night for you to hurry back to me. Hurry back to me, wife, so I can do this.”
“Simon, please.”
“Are there any other important details you need to give me? Let’s call in Pasevalles and the clerks to be certain. Surely there is a thread that some weaver in Crannhyr has broken that I should replace. Or is there a fisherman on Firannos Bay who cannot earn his living until I mend his nets for him?”
“That is not a net you are paddling, ape.”
“Nor are you a fisherman. So it works out well for everyone.”
“Pig.”
“Tyrant.”
“Fool. Great clumping fool of a husband. By the sweet Mother of God, I shall miss you.”
“And I shall miss you. No more talk. Kiss me. It will be dawn soon.”
“Oh. Oh, what are you doing there?”
“Nothing but my duty. All this talk of duty has insp
ired me to send the King’s Hand on a state visit.”
“Simon! You really are like a child, did you know that? An irresponsible boy.”
“Then who is truly the fool, High Queen Miriamele? After all, you are the one who married me. But if you are ordering me to desist . . .”
“Save your temper, husband. I called you a name, but I did not tell you to stop.”
51
Stolen Scales
Count Eolair remembered the name Khendraja’aro from King Simon’s stories, but he had never heard or seen anything to suggest that this bad-tempered relative would be the one giving the orders. The hierarchy of the Zida’ya had seemed quite clear to Eolair during the Storm King’s War: Likimeya and her husband were the royal couple, and their children, Jiriki and Aditu were prince and princess, or at least next in the line of succession. But either he had been wrong or something had happened to change it.
“You say only our old alliance preserves our lives today, Khendraja’aro,” Eolair said. “If so, we are grateful for your restraint, but I confess I am puzzled. Before you send us away, please tell me what I—or my people—have done to earn such words of scorn.”
“You want to know what you mortals have done?” Khendraja’aro asked. “Lied. Betrayed. Murdered. Is that not enough to deserve those words?”
“Why is he saying that?” Morgan demanded. “That’s not true! Count, what does he mean?”
“I don’t know—” Eolair began.
“You saw Likimeya!” cried Yeja’aro. “You saw the mistress of Year-Dancing drowning in the Long Sleep! Your people did that!”
Aditu shot Yeja’aro a look that seemed to Eolair half-anger, half-pity. “Not all mortals know what all mortals do, S’hue-tsa.”
“They were men of this Seoman Snowlock’s own kingdom!” Yeja’aro turned to Khendraja’aro. “Uncle, you said yourself that mortal words are meaningless, useless—that those creatures do not know anything of truth.”
Morgan stirred and seemed about to reply. Eolair reached out and squeezed his arm—a little harder than he had intended, but the last thing they needed was an angry young prince making things worse.
“Saying so does not make it so, Yeja’aro,” Jiriki said. “And Aditu and I can both promise that although many mortals are unworthy of trust, there are others whose words are as rooted in truth as those of the Zida’ya. Seoman Snowlock and his wife Miriamele are two such mortals.”
“Then tell me,” demanded Khendraja’aro, “what Snowlock and his queen say about their subjects who attacked me, and who nearly killed Likimeya and may yet prove to have caused her death. And what of our messengers? First Sijandi slaughtered, now Tanahaya attacked and poisoned!” The red-haired Sitha suddenly went rigid, like a hawk spotting something vulnerable moving on the ground. “Tanahaya. Where is the scale she carried?”
Jiriki almost looked uncomfortable. “She does not have it with her.” He turned to Eolair. “Did your people find her possessions?”
Eolair shook his head. “I have asked Lord Pasevalles, the one who found Tanahaya and brought her to the castle. He said her horse had vanished, and in her pack they found only some food wrapped in leaves. What is missing?”
“What Protector Khendraja’aro seeks—what we are all curious about—is a mirror small enough to fit in the hand,” said Aditu. “Simon may have told you of these mirrors, which we Zida’ya use to speak to each other over a great distance. Scales of the Greater Worm, they are called, or sometimes just Witnesses.”
“I know tales about such things—in legends my people called it a ‘wormglass’—but I heard nothing of any mirror found with the wounded Sitha,” Eolair said. “But another question is pressing me fiercely. Did you say you sent a previous messenger?”
“Some years ago, by your reckoning,” said Jiriki. “When the attacks upon our folk began, we thought they must be the work of just a few ignorant mortals. But when they continued and grew more violent and yet seemed to be carefully planned, we determined to send an envoy to Simon and Miriamele to ask them if they knew why these things were happening.”
“Were there truly so many attacks on your people?” Eolair was beginning to have a very, very nasty feeling.
“What are they talking about?” Morgan asked in a hoarse whisper. “Are they saying my grandparents started some kind of war?”
“Just let me talk to them, Highness,” said Eolair, quickly and quietly. “I will get answers for us, but the Sithi will not be rushed, especially now.”
“Do I have your permission, Protector Khendraja’aro, to answer Count Eolair’s question?” Jiriki asked. “It might be useful for us to find out what these mortals know, since they are here. But that will mean sharing what we know with them, and it will take some time.”
Khendraja’aro inspected Eolair and Morgan again. His scar-hooded eye made it look as though he doubted everything he heard, but at last he nodded and made a broad gesture with his hand. “Bring them in,” he said. “Give them water and food if they need it. But not overmuch—they will not remain here long.”
• • •
Eolair and Morgan were led from the dockside shelter farther into the forest camp, to a structure made entirely from a ring of living trees, which had somehow been coaxed into growing together at the top so that their branches mingled in a single leafy roof. Spiderwebs hung between all of the trunks except the two that served as gateposts, and although it seemed to Eolair that at least a few of the webs should be old or broken, they all appeared new and perfect, with each strand in place. The Sithi in this place seemed more serious than those in the first Little Boat, Eolair thought, as if this were a military camp near the front lines of a battle. He saw no one singing or dancing, and Eolair thought they watched him and Morgan much more closely than the first group of Sithi had.
Or perhaps they are simply less interested in being courteous, he thought.
He and the prince were given fruit and small loaves of bread on broad leaves that served as plates, and bowls of water so cold and lively on the tongue that it almost seemed like strong drink; when Eolair looked he could see that Morgan was enjoying the refreshment far more than he had expected to.
When they were done eating, Jiriki said, “Much has happened since you and I saw each other last, Count Eolair, at the crowning of Miriamele and Seoman. Soon after that, we had to decide whether to abandon Jao é-Tinukai’i, our last home, because it had been discovered by the Hikeda’ya, and we had been attacked there in the year of Ineluki’s war.”
“Ineluki was the Storm King’s true name,” Eolair explained to Morgan. “He was a Sitha once. Before he died.”
“I know all that,” said Morgan.
Eolair was grateful that at least he seemed to be paying attention. Young princes were seldom very accomplished listeners, as he knew from long experience.
“Some years ago,” Jiriki continued, “as we struggled with our own disputes and concerns, we began to hear of attacks on our people in the southwestern part of the Great Forest, not far from our abandoned city of Da’ai Chikiza. This has always been important territory for our people, so when we heard that mortals were responsible—Erkynlanders, by their clothes and weapons, Seoman’s and Miriamele’s own people—we were disturbed, but we had known centuries of ignorance and distrust and even hatred would not evaporate simply because a mortal throne had changed hands, so though we hunted the attackers, we did not blame your king and queen.”
“Which was foolish, as it turned out,” said Khendraja’aro, sipping from a cup made of carved horn trimmed with silver. “As I had warned.”
A swift look, the merest glance, flickered between Jiriki and Aditu before Jiriki continued. “But as years passed and more attacks happened—many of the victims were innocents out gathering necessary plants, or acting the sentry along our forest borders—we knew something was truly wrong.”
“May I ask
how mere mortals could have wounded Sithi,” Eolair asked, “— especially sentries that I presume were armed and prepared to fight?”
“They were lured, Count Eolair,” explained Aditu. “Their mortal attackers were not striking out in surprise and a moment’s fear—they were not just angry peasants. In one case our people went to investigate a crowd of mortals felling trees in a part of the forest that, by our agreement with your High Throne, was not for mortal use. But these tree-cutters were merely the bait. Other mortals were waiting in ambush, and when our people came to see what was happening they were attacked by bowmen firing from cover.”
“Elysia, Mother of God!” said Eolair in astonishment. “Someone actually set traps? To try to kill Sithi? How could you think this was anything to do with Simon and Miriamele?”
“Most of our people didn’t,” Jiriki said. “Not at first.”
“And some of us still do not,” Aditu added. “Because we know better.”
Jiriki nodded, though Eolair thought he looked less certain than his sister. “But then we sent Sijandi of Kinao Vale,” Jiriki continued, “who had once been a companion of Seoman Snowlock, your King Simon, long ago on the mountain that mortals call Urmsheim. Sijandi was directed to travel to Asu’a—the Hayholt, as you call it—and learn the truth. I confess I still hoped it was all some mistake.”
“Just tell the story, Cousin.” Yeja’aro’s voice was tight with anger. “Tell what happened.” The tale clearly meant something different to him than it did to Jiriki.
“Sijandi was sent to your king and queen,” continued Jiriki, “the mortals who had promised us that things would be different—but we never heard from him again. Some two years later, as you would count it, we found the rotting remains of his saddle and equipment in a meadow south of the forest. The Scale that Sijandi carried, the sacred mirror with which he was to send us the words of the mortals, was gone. There were arrow holes in his saddlebag. No other trace of him has ever been found.”