On the far side of the semicircle were Hotvig and his fellow randwarders, their tall spears like a thicket of slim trees. White morning light bled through the clotted clouds, shining dully on their bracelets and spearheads. Simon tried not to think about the others, like Haestan and Morgenes, who should be present but were not.
Framed in the opening between these two groups was a tent striped in gray, red, and white. Prince Josua stood before it, his sword Naidel sheathed at his side, a thin circlet of silver upon his brow. Vorzheva was beside him, her own dark cloud of hair unbound, lush upon her shoulders and moving at the wind’s touch.
“Who comes before me?” Josua asked, his voice slow and measured. As if to belie his heavy tone, he showed Simon a hint of smile.
Binabik pronounced the words carefully. “One who would be made a knight, Prince—your servant and God’s. He is Seoman, son of Eahlferend and Susanna.”
“Who speaks for him and swears that this is true?” “Binbiniqegabenik of Yiqanuc am I, and I am swearing that this is true.” Binabik bowed. His courtly gesture sent a ripple of amusement through the crowd.
“And has he kept his vigil, and been shriven?” “Yes!” Strangyeard piped up hurriedly. “He did—I mean, he has!”
Josua fought another smile. “Then let Seoman step forward.”
At the touch of Binabik’s small hand on his arm, Simon took a few steps toward the prince, then sank to one knee in the thick, rippling grass. A chill moved up his back.
Josua waited a moment before he spoke. “You have rendered brave service, Seoman. In a time of great danger, you have risked your life for my cause and returned with a mighty prize. Now, before the eyes of God and of your fellows, I stand prepared to lift you up and grant you title and honor above other men, but also to lay upon your shoulders burdens beyond those that other men must carry. Will you swear to accept them all?”
Simon took a breath so his voice would be steady, and also to make sure of the words Deornoth had so carefully taught him. “I will serve Usires Aedon and my master. I will lift up the fallen and defend God’s innocents. I will not turn my eyes from duty. I will defend my prince’s realm from enemies spiritual and corporeal. This I swear by my name and honor, with Elysia, Aedon’s holy mother, as my witness.”
Josua stepped closer, then reached down and laid his one good hand upon Simon’s head. “Then I name you my man, Seoman, and lay on you the charges of knighthood.” He looked up. “Squire!”
Jeremias stepped forward. “Here, Prince Josua.” His voice shook a little.
“Bring his sword.”
After a moment’s confusion—the hilt had gotten tangled in Father Strangyeard’s sleeve—Jeremias approached bearing the sword in its tooled leather scabbard. It was a well-polished but otherwise undistinguished Erkynlandish blade. Simon felt a moment of regret that the blade was not Thorn, then chastised himself as an overweening idiot. Could he never be satisfied? Besides, think of the embarrassment if Thorn did not submit to the ritual and proved heavy as a millstone. He would look a perfect fool then, wouldn’t he? Josua’s hand upon his head suddenly felt as weighty as the black sword itself. Simon looked down so that no one could see his spreading flush.
When Jeremias had carefully buckled the scabbard onto Simon’s belt, Simon drew the sword, kissed its hilt, then made the sign of the Tree as he set it on the ground before Josua’s feet.
“In your service, Lord.”
The prince withdrew his hand, then pulled slender Naidel from its scabbard and touched Simon’s shoulders, right, left, then right again.
“Before the eyes of God and of your fellows—rise, Sir Seoman.”
Simon rose tottering to his feet. It was done. He was a knight. His mind seemed nearly as cloudy as the lowering sky. There was a long, hushed moment, then the cheering began.
Hours after the ceremony, Simon awoke gasping from a dream of smothering darkness to find himself half-strangled in a knot of blankets. Weak, wintery sunlight was beaming down on Josua’s striped tent; bars of red light lay across Simon’s arm like paint. It was daytime, he reassured himself. He had been sleeping, and it had only been a terrible dream....
He sat up, grunting as he unwrapped himself from the tangle of bedclothes. The tent walls throbbed beneath the wind. Had he cried out? He hoped not. It would be humiliating indeed to wake up screaming on the afternoon that he had been knighted for bravery.
“Simon?” A small shadow appeared on the wall near the door. “Are you awake?”
“Yes, Binabik.” He reached over to retrieve his shirt as the little man ducked in through the tent flap.
“Were you sleeping well? It is no thing of easiness to stay awake all the night, and sometimes it is then making it hard for sleeping after.”
“I slept.” Simon shrugged. “I had a strange dream.”
The troll cocked an eyebrow. “Do you remember it?” Simon thought for a moment. “Not really. It sort of slipped away. Something about a king and old flowers, about the smell of earth ...” He shook his head. It was gone.
“That, I am thinking, is just as well.” Binabik bustled around the prince’s tent, looking for Simon’s cloak. He found it at last, then turned and tossed it to the new-made knight, who was pulling on his breeches. “Your dreams are often disturbing to you, but seldom of much help in gaining more knowledge. Probably, then, it is best you are not troubled with the memory of each one of them.”
Simon felt vaguely slighted. “Knowledge? What do you mean? Amerasu said that my dreams meant something. And so did you and Geloë!”
Binabik sighed. “I was meaning only that we are not having much luck discovering their meaning. So, it seems to me better that you are not troubled by them, at least for this moment, when you should be enjoying your great day!”
The troll’s earnest face was enough to make Simon thoroughly ashamed of his momentary ill humor. “You’re right, Binabik.” He buckled on his sword belt. Its unfamiliar weight was one more unusual thing in a day of wonders. “Today I won’t think about ... about anything bad.”
Binabik gave him a hearty hand-smack. “That is my companion of many journeys that speaks! Let us go now. Besides the kindness of his tent for your sleeping comfort, Josua has made sure that a fine meal awaits us all, and other pleasures, too.”
Outside, the encampment of tents that stood in the shelter of Sesuad‘ra’s long northeastern wall had been hung with ribbons of many colors which snapped and streamed in the powerful wind. Seeing them, Simon could not help but think of his days in Jao é-Tinukai’i, memories he usually tried to hold at bay because of the complicated and unsettling feelings that came with them. All today’s fine words couldn’t change the truth, couldn’t make the Storm King go away. Simon was tired of being fearful. The Stone of Farewell was a refuge only for a little while—how he longed for a home, for a safe place and freedom from terror! Amerasu the Ship-Born had seen his dreams. She had said he need carry no further burdens, hadn’t she? But Amerasu, who had seen so many things, had also been blind to others. Perhaps she had been wrong about Simon’s destiny as well.
With the last stragglers, Simon and his companions passed through the cracked doorway and into the torchlit warmth of the Leavetaking House. The vast room was full of people seated on spread cloaks and blankets. The tiled floors had been cleared of centuries of moss and grasses; small cookfires burned everywhere. There were few enough excuses for merriment in these hard days: the exiles of many places and nations gathered here seemed determinedly joyful. Simon was called upon to stop at several fires and share a congratulatory drink, so that it took some part of an hour before he at last made his way to the high table—a massive decorated stone slab that was part of the original Sithi hall—where the prince and the rest of his company waited.
“Welcome, Sir Seoman.” Josua motioned Simon to the seat at his left. “Our settlers of New Gadrinsett have spared no effort to make this feast a grand one. There is rabbit and partridge; chicken, I think; and good silver
trout from the Stefflod.” He leaned over to speak more quietly. Despite the weeks of peace, Simon thought the prince’s face seemed gaunt. “Eat up, lad. Fiercer weather is coming soon. We may need to live on our fat, like bears.”
“New Gadrinsett?” Simon asked. “We are but visitors on Sesuad’ra,” said Geloë. “The prince rightly feels that it would be presumptuous to call our settlement by the name of their sacred place.”
“And since Gadrinsett is the source of many of our residents, and the name is appropriate—‘Gathering Place’ in the old Erkynlandish tongue—I have named our tent city after it.” He lifted his cup of beaten metal. “New Gadrinsett!” The company echoed his toast.
The sparse resources of valley and forest had indeed been put to good use; Simon ate with an enthusiasm that bordered on frenzy. He had gone unfed since the midday meal of the day before, and much of his nightlong vigil had been taken up with distracted thoughts of food. Eventually, sheer exhaustion had taken his appetite away, but now it had returned at full strength.
Jeremias stood behind him, refilling Simon’s cup with watered wine each time he emptied it. Simon was not yet comfortable with the idea that his Hayholt companion should wait upon him, but Jeremias would have it no other way.
When the one-time chandler’s boy had reached Sesuad’ra, drawn east by the rumor of Josua’s growing army of the disaffected, Simon had been surprised—not only by the change in Jeremias’ appearance, but by the very unlikeliness of meeting him again, especially in such a strange place. But if Simon had been surprised, Jeremias had been astounded to discover that Simon was alive, and even more amazed by the story of what had befallen his friend. He seemed to view Simon’s survival as nothing less than a miracle, and had thrown himself into Simon’s service as one entering religious orders. Faced with Jeremias’ unswerving determination, Simon gave way with no little embarrassment. He was made uneasy by his new squire’s selfless devotion; when, as sometimes happened, a hint of their old mocking friendship surfaced, Simon was much happier.
Although Jeremias made Simon tell and retell all the things that had happened to him, the chandler’s boy was unwilling to talk much about his own experiences. He would say only that he had been forced to work in the forges beneath the Hayholt, and that Inch, Morgenes’ former assistant, had been a cruel master. Simon could sense much of the untold tale, and silently added to the slow-talking giant’s tally of deserved retribution. After all, Simon was a knight now, and wasn’t that something that knights did? Dispense justice... ?
“You stare at nothing, Simon,” said Lady Vorzheva, waking him from his thoughts. She was beginning to show the signs of the growing child within her, but still had a slightly wild look, like a horse or bird that would suffer human touch but would never be quite tame. He remembered the first time he had seen her across the courtyard at Naglimund, how he had wondered what could make such a lovely woman look so fiercely unhappy. She seemed more contented now, but a hard edge still remained.
“I’m sorry, Lady, I was thinking about . . . about the past, I suppose.” He flushed. What did one talk about at table with the prince’s lady? “It is a strange world.”
Vorzheva smiled, amused. “Yes, it is. Strange and terrible.”
Josua rose and banged his cup on the stone tabletop until the crowded room at last fell silent. As the host of unwashed faces stared up at the prince’s company, Simon had a sudden, startling revelation.
All those Gadrinsett folk, with their mouths hanging open as they watched Josua—they were him! They were like he had been! He had always been outside, looking in at the important folk. And now, wonderfully, unbelievably, he was one of the high company, a knight at the prince’s long table, so that others stared at him enviously—but he was still the same Simon. What did it mean?
“We are gathered for many reasons,” the prince said. “First, and most importantly, to give thanks to our God that we are alive and safe here upon this place of refuge, surrounded by water and protected from our enemies. Also, we are here to celebrate the eve of Saint Granis’ Day, which is a holy day to be observed by fasting and quiet prayer—but to be observed the night before with good food and wine!” He lifted his cup to cheers from the throng. When the noise had died down, he grinned and continued. “We also celebrate the knighthood of young Simon, now called Sir Seoman.” Another chorus of cheers. Simon blushed and nodded. “You have all seen him knighted, seen him take his sword and swear his oath. But you have not seen—his banner!”
There was much whispering as Gutrun and Vorzheva bent over and hauled up a roll of cloth from beneath the table; it had been lying right at Simon’s feet. Isorn stepped forward to help them, and together they lifted and unfurled it.
“The device of Sir Seoman of New Gadrinsett,” the prince declared.
On a field of diagonal gray and red stripes—Josua’s colors—lay the silhouette of a black sword. Twined about it like a vine was a sinuous white dragon, whose eyes, teeth, and scales had all been meticulously stitched with scarlet thread. The crowd hooted and cheered.
“Hooray for the dragon slayer!” a man cried; several echoed him. Simon ducked his head, face reddening again, then quickly drained his wine cup. Jeremias, smiling proudly, refilled it. Simon drank down that one, too. It was glorious, all of it, but still... deep in his heart, he could not help feeling that some important point was being missed. Not just the dragon, although he hadn’t slain it. Not Thorn, although it certainly wasn’t Simon’s sword, and might not even be of any use to Josua. Something was not quite right....
S’Tree, he thought disgustedly, don’t you ever get tired of complaining, mooncalf?
Josua was banging his cup again. “That is not all! Not all!” The prince seemed to be enjoying himself.
It must be nice for him to preside over cheerful events for once.
“There is more!” Josua cried. “One more present, Simon.” He waved, and Deornoth stepped away from the table, heading for the back of the hall. The hum of conversation rose again. Simon drank a little more watered wine, then thanked Vorzheva and Gutrun for their work on his banner, praising the quality of the stitchery until both women were laughing. When a few people near the back of the crowd began to shout and clap their hands, Simon looked up to see Deornoth returning. The knight led a brown horse.
Simon stared. “Is it... ?” He leaped up, banging his knee on the table, and hurried limping across the crowded floor. “Homefinder!” he cried. He threw his arms around the mare’s neck; she, less overwhelmed than he, nosed gently at his shoulder. “But I thought Binabik said she was lost!”
“She was,” said Deornoth, smiling. “When Binabik and Sludig were trapped by the giants, they had to set the horses free. One of our scouting parties found her near the ruins of the Sithi city across the valley. Maybe she sensed something of the Sithi still there and felt safe, since you say she spent time among them.”
Simon was chagrined to find himself weeping. He had been certain that the mare was simply one more addition to the list of friends and acquaintances lost in this terrible year. Deornoth waited until he wiped his eyes, then said: “I’ll put her back with the other horses, Simon. I took her away from her feed. You can see her in the morning.”
“Thank you, Deornoth. Thank you.” Simon stumbled back to the high table.
As he settled in, accepting Binabik’s congratulations, Sangfugol rose at the prince’s request. “We celebrate Simon’s knighthood, as Prince Josua has said.” The harper bowed toward the high table. “But he was not alone on his journey, nor in his bravery and sacrifice. You also know that the prince has named Binabik of Yiqanuc and Sludig of Elvritshalla to be Protectors of the Realm of Erkynland. But even there, the tale is not all told. Of the six braves ones who set out, only three returned. I have made this song, hoping that in later days they will none of them be forgotten.”
At a nod from Josua, he picked out a delicate succession of notes on the harp which one of the new settlers had crafted for him, then be
gan to sing.
“In farthest north, where storm winds blow
And winter’s teeth are fierce with rime,
Out of the deep eternal snows
Looms the mountain, cold Urmsheim.
At prince’s call six men did ride
From out of threatened Erkynland,
Sludig, Grimmric, Binabik the troll,
Ethelbearn, Simon, and brave Haestan.
They sought Camaris’ mighty sword
The black blade Thorn from old Nabban,
Splinter of fallen heaven-star
To save the prince’s tortured land . . .”
As Sangfugol played and sang, the whispering stopped, and a hush fell over the gathering. Even Josua watched, as though the song could make the triumph a real one. The torches wavered. Simon drank more wine.
It was quite late. Only a few musicians were still playing—Sangfugol had exchanged his harp for his lute, and Binabik had brought out his flute late in the proceedings—and the dancing had more or less degenerated into staggering and laughing. Simon himself had drunk a great deal of wine and danced with two girls from Gadrinsett, a pretty plump one and her thin friend. The girls had whispered back and forth between themselves almost the whole time, impressed by Simon, his youthful beard and grand honors. They had also giggled uncontrollably every time he tried to talk to them. At last, bewildered and more than a little irritated, he had bid them good night and kissed their hands, as knights were supposed to do, which had occasioned more flurries of nervous laughter. They were really little more than children, Simon decided.