Simon looked up. “Sorry. Just thinking. It is cold, isn’t it?”
“It is seeming our short taste of summer has come to its ending,” Binabik called from his seat on a fallen pillar. They were in the middle of the Fire Garden, with no shelter from the brisk, icy wind.
“Summer!?” Sludig snorted. “Because it stopped snowing for a fortnight? There is still ice in my beard every morning.”
“It has been, in any case, an improvement of weather over what we were suffering before,” said Binabik serenely. He tossed another pebble at Qantaqa, who was curled in a furry loop on the ground a few steps away. She peered at him sideways, but then, apparently deciding that an occasional pebble was not worth the trouble of getting up and biting her master, closed her yellow eyes once more. Jeremias, who sat beside the troll, watched the wolf apprehensively.
Simon picked up his wooden practice sword once more and moved forward across the tiles. Although Sludig was still unwilling to use real blades, he had helped Simon lash bits of stone to the wooden ones so that they were more truly weighted. Simon hefted his carefully, trying to find the balance. “Come on, then,” he said.
The Rimmersman waded forward against the surging wind, heavy tunic flapping, and brought his sword around in a surprisingly quick two-handed swipe. Simon stepped to one side, deflecting Sludig’s blow upward, then returned his own counterstroke. Sludig blocked him; the echo of wood smacking wood floated across the tiles.
They practiced on for most of an hour as the shrouded sun passed overhead. Simon was finally beginning to feel comfortable with a sword in his hand: his weapon often felt as though it were part of his arm, as Sludig was always saying it should. It was mostly a question of balance, he now realized—not just swinging a heavy object, but moving with it, letting his legs and back supply the force and letting his own momentum carry him through into the next defensive position, rather than flailing at his opponent and then leaping away again.
As they sparred, he thought of shent, the intricate game of the Sithi, with its feints and puzzling strikes, and wondered if the same things might work in swordplay. He allowed his next few strokes to carry him farther and farther off-balance, until Sludig could not help but notice; then, when the Rimmersman swept in on the heels of one of Simon’s flailing misses with the aim of catching him leaning too far and smacking him along the ribs, Simon let his swing carry him all the way forward into a tumbling roll. The Rimmersman’s wooden sword hissed over him. Simon then righted himself and whacked Sludig neatly on the side of his knee. The northerner dropped his blade and hopped up and down, cursing.
“Ummu Bok! Very good, Simon!” Binabik shouted. “A surprising movement.” Beside him, Jeremias was grinning.
“That hurt.” Sludig rubbed his leg. “But it was a clever thought. Let us stop before our fingers are too numb to hold the hilts.”
Simon was very pleased with himself. “Would that work in a real battle, Sludig?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not if you are wearing armor. Then you might go down like a turtle and not be able to get up in time. Be very sure before you ever leave your feet, or you will be more dead than you are clever. Still, it was well done.” He straightened up. “The blood is freezing in my veins. Let us go down to the forges and warm up.”
Freosel, New Gadrinsett’s young constable, had put several of the settlers to work building a smithy in one of the airier caves. They had taken to the task briskly and efficiently, and were now melting down what little scrap metal could be found on Sesuad’ra, hoping to forge new weapons and repair the old ones.
“The forges, for warming,” Binabik agreed. He clicked his tongue at Qantaqa, who rose and stretched.
As they walked, shy Jeremias dropped behind until he trailed them by several paces. The wind blew cuttingly across the Fire Gardens, and the sweat on the back of Simon’s neck was icy. He found his buoyant mood settling somewhat. “Binabik,” he asked suddenly, “why couldn’t we go to Hernystir with Count Eolair and Isorn?” That pair had departed the previous day in the gray of early morning, accompanied by a small honor guard made up mostly of Thrithings horsemen.
“I am thinking that the reasons Josua gave you were true ones,” Binabik replied. “It is not good for the same people always to be having the risks—or gaining the glories.” He made a wry face. “There will be enough for all to do in coming days.”
“But we brought him Thorn. Why shouldn’t we try to at least get Minneyar as well—or Bright-Nail, rather?”
“Just because you are a knight, boy, does not mean you will have your way all the time,” Sludig snarled. “Count your good fortunes and be content. Content and quiet.”
Taken by surprise, Simon turned to the Rimmersman. “You sound angry.”
Sludig looked away. “Not me. I am only a soldier.”
“And not a knight.” Simon thought he understood. “But you know why that is, Sludig. Josua is not king. He can only knight his own Erkynlanders. You are Duke Isgrimnur’s man. I’m sure he will honor you when he returns.”
“If he returns.” There was bitterness in Sludig’s voice. “I am tired of talking about this.”
Simon thought carefully before speaking. “We all know what part you played, Sludig. Josua told everyone—but Binabik and I were there and we will never forget.” He touched the Rimmersman’s arm. “Please don’t be angry with me. Even if I am a knight, I am still the same mooncalf you’ve been teaching how to swing a sword. I am still your friend.”
Sludig peered at him for a moment from beneath bushy yellow brows. “Enough,” he said. “You are a mooncalf indeed, and I need something to drink.”
“And a warm fire.” Simon tried not to smile. Binabik, who had listened to the exchange in silence, nodded solemnly.
Geloë was waiting for them at the edge of the Fire Garden. She was bundled up against the cold, a scarf wrapped about her face so that only her round yellow eyes showed. She raised a chill-reddened hand as they approached.
“Binabik. I wish you and Simon to join me just before sundown, at the Observatory.” She gestured to the ruined shell several hundred paces to the west. “I need your assistance.”
“Help from a magical troll and a dragon-slaying knight.” Sludig’s smile was not entirely convincing.
Geloë turned her raptor’s stare on him. “It is no honor. Besides, Rimmersman, even if you could, I don’t think you would wish to walk the Road of Dreams. Not now.”
“The Dream Road?” Simon was startled. “Why?”
The witch woman waved toward the ugly boil of clouds in the northern sky. “Another storm is coming. Besides wind and snow, it will also bring closer the mind and hand of our enemy. The dream-path grows ever riskier and soon may be impossible.” She tucked her hands back beneath her cloak. “We must use the time we have.” Geloë turned and walked away toward the ocean of rippling tents. “Sundown!” she called.
“Ah,” said Binabik after a moment’s silence. “Still, there is time for the wine and the hand-warming we were discussing. Let us go to the forges with haste.” He started away. Qantaqa bounded after him.
Jeremias said something that could not be heard over the rising voice of the wind. Simon stopped to let him catch up.
“What?”
The squire bobbed his head. “I said that Leleth wasn’t with her. When Geloë goes out to walk, Leleth always walks with her. I hope she’s well.”
Simon shrugged. “Let’s go and get warm.”
They hurried after the retreating forms of Binabik and Sludig. Far ahead, Qantaqa was a gray shadow in the waving grass.
Simon and Binabik stepped through the doorway into the lamplit Observatory. Beyond the sundered roof, twilight made the sky seem a bowl of blue glass. Geloë was absent, but the Observatory was not empty: Leleth sat on a length of crumbled pillar, her thin legs drawn up beneath her. She did not even turn her head at their entrance. The child was usually withdrawn, but there was something about the quality of her stillness that alarmed Simon.
He approached and spoke her name softly, but although her eyes were open, fixed on the sky overhead, she had the slack muscles and slow breath of one who slept.
“Do you think she’s sick?” Simon asked. “Maybe that’s why Geloë asked us to come.” Despite worry over Leleth, he felt a glimmering of relief: thoughts of traveling the Dream Road made him anxious. Even though he had reached the safety of Sesuad’ra, his dreams had continued to be vivid and unsettling.
The troll felt the child’s warm hand, then let it drop back into her lap. “Little there is that we could do for her that Geloë could not be doing better. We will wait with patientness.” He turned and looked around the wide, circular hall. “I am thinking this was a very beautiful place once. My people have long been carving into the living mountain, but we are having not a tenth of the skill the Sithi had.”
The reference to Jiriki’s people as though they were a vanished race bothered Simon, but he was not yet ready to give up the subject of Leleth’s well-being. “Are you sure we shouldn’t get something for her? Perhaps a cloak? It’s so cold.”
“Leleth will be well,” said Geloë from the doorway. Simon jumped guiltily, as if he had been plotting treason. “She is only traveling a little way on the Dream Road without us. She is happiest there, I think.”
She strode forward into the room. Father Strangyeard appeared behind her. “Hello, Simon, Binabik,” the priest said. His face was as happy and excited as a child’s at Aedontide. “I’m going to go with you. Dreaming, I mean. On the Dream Road. I have read of it, of course—it has long fascinated me—but I never imagined ...” He waggled his fingers as if to demonstrate the delightful unlikeliness of it all.
“It is not a day of berry-picking, Strangyeard,” Geloë said crossly. “But since you are a Scrollbearer now, it is good that you learn some of the few Arts left to us.”
“Of course it is not—I mean, of course it is good to learn. But berry-picking, no—I mean ... oh.” Defeated, Strangyeard fell silent.
“Now I am knowing why Strangyeard joins us,” Binabik said. “And I may be good for helping, too. But why Simon, Valada Geloë? And why here?”
The witch woman passed her hand briefly through Leleth’s hair, eliciting no response from the child, then sat down on the pillar beside her. “As to the first, it is because I have a special need, and Simon perhaps can help. But let me explain all, so no mistakes will be made.” She waited until the others had seated themselves around her. “I told you that another great storm is coming. The Road of Dreams will be difficult to walk, if not impossible. There are other things coming, too.” She held up her hand to forestall Simon’s question. “I cannot say more. Not until I speak to Josua. My birds have brought news to me—but even they will go to their hiding places when the storm comes. Then we atop this rock will be blind.”
As she spoke, she deftly built a small pile of sticks on the stone floor, then lit it with a twig she had set aflame from one of the lamps. She reached into her cloak pocket and produced a small sack. “So,” she continued, “while we can, we will make a last try to gather those who may be useful to us, or who need the shelter we can give. I have brought you here because it is the best spot. The Sithi themselves chose it when they spoke with each other over great distance, using, as the old lore says, ‘Stones and Scales, Pools and Pryes’—what they called their Witnesses.” She poured a handful of herbs from the sack, weighing them on her palm. “That is why I named this place the ‘Observatory.’ As clerics in the observatories of the old Imperium once watched the stars from theirs, so the Sithi once came to this place to look over their empire of Osten Ard. This is a powerful spot for seeing.”
Simon knew more than a little about the Witnesses—he had summoned Aditu with Jiriki’s mirror, and had seen Amerasu’s disastrous use of the Mist Lamp. He suddenly remembered his dream from the night of his vigil—the torchlit procession, the Sithi and their strange ceremony. Could the nature of this place have something to do with his clear, strong vision of the past?
“Binabik,” Geloë said, “you may have heard of Tiamak, a Wrannaman befriended by Morgenes. He sent messages sometimes to your master Ookekuq, I think.” The troll nodded. “Dinivan of Nabban also knew Tiamak. He told me that he had instigated some well-meaning plan, and had drawn the Wrannaman into it.” Geloë frowned. “I never found out what it was. Now that Dinivan is dead, I fear the marsh man is lost and without friends. Leleth and I have tried to reach him, but have not quite managed. The Dream Road is very treacherous these days.”
She reached across the pillar and lifted a small jar of water from the rubble-strewn floor. “So I hope your added strength will help us find Tiamak. We will tell him to come to us if he needs protection. Also, I have promised Josua that I will try to reach Miriamele once more. That has been even stranger—there is some veil over her, some shadow that prevents me from finding her. You were close to her, Simon. Perhaps that bond will help us finally to break through.”
Miriamele. Her name sent a rush of powerful feelings through Simon—hope, affection, bitterness. He had been angry and disappointed to discover that she was not at Sesuad’ra. In the back of his mind he had been somehow certain that if he won through to the Stone of Farewell she would be there to welcome him; her absence seemed like desertion. He had been frightened, too, when he discovered that she had vanished with only the thief Cadrach for company.
“I will help any way I can,” he said.
“Good.” Geloë stood, rubbing her hands on her breeches. “Here, Strangyeard, I will show you how to mix the mockfoil and nightshade. Does your religion forbid this?”
The priest shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. It might ... that is, these are strange days.”
“Indeed.” The witch woman grinned. “Come, then, I will show you. Consider it a history lesson, if you wish.”
Simon and Binabik sat quietly while Geloë demonstrated the proportions for the fascinated archivist.
“This is the last of these plants until we leave this rock,” she said when they had finished. “Another encouragement to succeed this time. Here.” She dabbed a little on Simon’s palms, forehead, and lips, then did the same for Strangyeard and Binabik before setting down the pot. Simon felt the paste grow chill against his skin.
“But what about you and Leleth?” Simon asked.
“I can get by without it. Leleth has never needed it. Now, sit and clasp hands. Remember, the Road of Dreams is strange these days. Do not be frightened, but keep your wits about you.”
They put one of the lamps on the floor and sat in a circle beside the crumbling pillar. Simon clutched Binabik’s small hand on one side and Leleth’s equally small hand on the other. A smile spread slowly across the little girl’s face, the blind smile of someone who dreams of happy surprises.
The icy sensation spread up Simon’s arms and all through him, filling his head with a kind of fog. Although twilight should still have been clinging overhead, the room swiftly grew dark. Soon Simon could see nothing but the wavering orange tongues of the fire, then even that light passed into blackness ... and Simon fell through.
Beyond the black all was a universal, misty gray—a sea of nothingness with no top or bottom. Out of that formless void a shape slowly began to coalesce, a small, swift-moving figure that darted like a sparrow. It took only a moment before he recognized Leleth—but this was a dream-Leleth, a Leleth who whirled and spun, her dark hair flying in an unfelt wind. Although he could hear nothing, he saw her mouth curl in delighted laughter as she beckoned him forward; even her eyes seemed alive in a way he had never seen. This was the little girl he had never met—the child who, in some inexplicable way, had not survived the mauling jaws of the Stormspike Pack. Here she was alive again, freed from the terrors of the waking world and from her own scarred body. His heart soared to watch her unfettered dance.
Leleth swept along before him, beckoning, silently pleading with him to hurry, to follow her, to follow! Simon tried, but in this gray dream place it
was he who was lamed and lagging. Leleth’s small form quickly quickly became indistinct, then vanished into the undending grayness. His dream-self felt a kind of warmth disappear with her. Suddenly, he was alone again and drifting.
What might have been a long time passed. Simon floated without purchase until something tugged at him with gentle, invisible fingers. He felt himself pulled forward, gradually at first, then with growing speed; he was still unbodied, but nevertheless caught up by some incomprehensible current. A new shape began to form out of the emptiness before him—a dark tower of unstable shadow, a black vortex shot through with red sparks, like a whirlpool of smoke and fire. Simon felt himself drawn toward it even more swiftly and was suddenly fearful. Death lay in that whirling dark—death or something worse. Panic welled up in him, stronger than he had imagined it could be. He forced himself to remember that this was a dream, not a place. He did not have to dream this dream if he did not want it. A part of him remembered that at this very moment, in some other place, he was holding the hands of friends....
As he thought of them, they were there with him, invisible but present. He gained a little strength and was able to halt his slide inward toward the boiling, sparking blackness. Then, bit by bit, he pulled himself away, his dream-self somehow swimming against the current. As he put distance between himself and the black roil, the whirlpool abruptly fell in upon itself and he was free and sailing into some new place. The grayness was placid here, and there was a different quality to the light, as though the sun burned behind thick clouds.
Leleth was there before him. She smiled at his arrival, at the pleasure of having him with her in this place—although Simon knew now beyond a doubt that he could never share all she experienced.
The formlessness of the dream began to change; Simon felt as though he hovered above something much like the waking world. A shadowed city lay below him, a vast tract of structures formed from a haphazard collection of unlikely things—wagon wheels, children’s toys, statues of unfamiliar animals, even toppled siege-towers from some long-ago war. The haphazard streets between the madly unlikely buildings were full of scurrying lights. As he stared down, Simon felt himself drawn toward one particular building, a towering structure made entirely of books and yellowing scrolls, which seemed ready at any moment to collapse into a rubbish heap of old parchment. Leleth, who had been moving around him in circles, swift as a bumblebee, now whirled down toward a gleaming window in the book-tower.