“I do not like this,” Ule Frekkeson growled, drawing back on his reins. “Where have they gone? And, by the Holy Aedon, what has happened here?”
The streets of Hernysadharc were strangely deserted. Eolair knew that few of his people had remained after Skali’s conquest, but even if all the Rimmersmen had been driven out by the Sithi—which seemed impossible, since scarcely more than a day had passed since the Fair Ones rode past, half a hundred leagues west—there should still be at least a few of the native Hernystir-folk.
“I do not like it any more than you do,” the count replied, “but I cannot imagine Skali’s entire army would be hiding in ambush for our seven or eight score.”
“Eolair is right.” Isorn shaded his eyes. The weather was still cold, but the sun was surprisingly bright. “Let’s ride in and take our chances.”
Ule bit back a rejoinder, then shrugged. The trio rode in through the crude gates the Rimmersmen had built; the men followed, talking among themselves.
It was disturbing enough to see a wall around Hernysadharc. Never in Eolair’s memory had there been one, and even the ancient wall that circled the Taig remained only out of the Hernystiri reverence for past days. Most of the older wall had collapsed long ago, so that the remaining sections stood vastly separated, like the few remaining teeth in an old man’s jaw. But this rough yet sturdy barrier around the innermost section of the city had been built very recently.
What was Skali afraid of? Eolair wondered. The remaining Hernystiri, a beaten people? Or perhaps it was his own ally, the High King Elias, that he did not trust.
Disturbing as it was to see the new wall, it was even more so to see what had happened to it. The timbers were scorched and blackened as though they had been lightning-struck, and a section wide enough for a score of riders to pass through abreast had been blasted away entirely. A few wisps of smoke still curled above the wreckage.
The mystery of what had happened to Hernysadharc’s inhabitants was partially solved as Eolair’s company swung out onto the wide road that had once been named Tethtain’s Way. That name had passed not long after the great Hernystiri King, and people usually called it the Taig Road, for it led directly up the hill to the great hall. Now, as the company entered the muddy thoroughfare, they saw a great crowd of people standing at the summit of the hill, clustered around the Taig like sheep at a salt lick. Curious but still careful, Eolair and the others rode forward.
When Eolair saw that most of the crowd swarming on the lower slopes of Hern’s Hill seemed to be Hernystiri, his heart rose. When a few of the outermost people turned, alarmed at the sight of a troop of mounted and armored men, he hastened to reassure them.
“People of Hernysadharc!” he cried, standing in his stirrups. Several more members of the crowd turned at the sound of his voice. “I am Eolair, Count of Nad Mullach. These men are my friends and will do you no harm.”
The reaction was surprising. While several of those nearest cheered and waved to him, they seemed little moved. After staring for a moment, they turned their attention back to the hilltop again, despite the fact that none of them had a better vantage point than mounted Eolair, and he himself could see nothing before him but the stretching crowd.
Isorn was puzzled, too. “What are you doing here?” he shouted to the people standing nearby. “Where is Skali?”
Several shook their heads as though they did not understand, and several others made joking remarks about Skali being headed back to Rimmersgard, but no one seemed inclined to waste too much time or energy enlightening the duke’s son and his companions.
Eolair cursed quietly and spurred his horse forward, letting the beast make room for him. Although no one actively contested his passage, it was slow going to push through the crush of people, and no short while before they passed between two of the standing remnants of ruined fortress wall and onto the ancient grounds of the Taig. Eolair squinted, then whistled with astonishment.
“Bagba bite me,” he said, and laughed, although he could not have said why.
The Taig and its outbuildings still stood on the hilltop, solid and impressive, but now all the fields across the summit of Hern’s Hill were covered with wildly colorful tents. They were every shade imaginable and a hundred different sizes and shapes; someone might have emptied a giant basket of quilt-squares across the snowy grass. What had been the capital of the Hernystiri nation, the royal seat, had suddenly become a village constructed by wild, magical children.
Eolair could see movement among the tents—slender shapes in garb as colorful as the newly-erected dwellings. He spurred forward, passing the last of the Hernystiri onlookers as he climbed the hill. These stared hungrily at the bright cloth and the strange visitors, but seemed reluctant to cross the last open space and draw too close. Many watched the count and his company with something like envy.
As they rode into the wind-billowed city of tents, a lone figure came toward them. Eolair reined up, prepared for anything, but was astonished to find that the one who came forward to greet them was Craobhan, the royal family’s most elderly but also most loyal advisor. The old man seemed almost thunderstruck to see them; he stared at Eolair for a long time without speaking, but at last tears came to his eyes and he opened his arms wide.
“Count Eolair! Mircha’s wet blessing upon us, it’s good to see you.”
The count scrambled down from his horse and embraced the counselor. “And you, Craobhan, and you. What has happened here?”
“Ha! More than I can tell you standing in the wind.” The old man chuckled strangely. He seemed genuinely befuddled, a state in which Eolair had never thought to find him. “By all the gods, more than I can tell you. Come to the Taig. Come in and have something—food, drink.”
“Where is Maegwin? Is she well?”
Craobhan looked up, his watery gaze suddenly intent. “She is alive and happy,” he said. “But come. Come see ... well, as I said, more than I can tell you now.” The old man took his elbow and tugged.
Eolair turned and waved to the others. “Isorn, Ule, come!” He patted Craobhan’s shoulder. “Can our men have something to eat?”
Beyond worrying, Craobhan waved his bony hand. “Somewhere. Some of the people from the town have probably hoarded a few things. There’s much to do, though, Eolair, much to do. Hardly know where to start.”
“But what’s happened? Did the Sithi drive off Skali?”
Craobhan pulled at his arm, leading him toward the great hall.
The Count of Nad Mullach got scarcely more than a glance at the score or so of Sithi who were on the hilltop. Those he saw seemed absorbed in the task of building their camp, and did not even look up as Eolair and the others walked by, but even from a distance he could see the strangeness of them, their odd but graceful motions, their quiet serenity. Although in some places more than a few Sithi were working together, men and women both, they uttered no words that he could hear, going about their tasks with a smooth uniformity of purpose that was somehow as unsettling as their alien faces and movements.
As they drew closer to the Taig, it was easy to see the marks of Skali’s occupation. The carefully cultivated gardens had been dug up, the stone pathways torn apart. Eolair cursed Sharp-nose and his barbarians, then wondered again what had happened to the occupiers.
Inside the Taig’s great doors things were no different. The walls had been denuded of tapestries, relics had been stolen from their niches, and the floors were scarred with the ruts of countless booted feet. The Hall of Carvings, where King Lluth had held court, was in better condition—Eolair guessed it had been Thane Skali’s seat—but still there were signs that the northern reavers had not been overly reverent. Many scores of arrows bristled in the high-arched ceilings, where the hanging wooden carvings had proven tempting targets for Kaldskryke’s winter-bound soldiers.
Craobhan, who seemed to wish to avoid talking, seated them in the hall and went to find something to drink.
“What do you suppose has happened, Eola
ir?” Isorn shook his head. “It makes me feel ashamed to be a Rimmersman when I see what Skali and his cutthroats have done to the Taig.” Beside him, Ule was peering suspiciously into the corners of the hall, as though Kaldskrykemen might be hiding there.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” said Eolair. “They did not do this because they were Rimmersmen, but because they were in someone else’s country in a bad time. Hernystiri or Nabbanai or Erkynlanders might do the same.”
Isorn was not mollified. “It is wrong. When my father has his dukedom back, we will see that the damage is repaired.”
The count smiled. “If we all survive and this is the worst we have to deal with, then I will gladly sell my own home at Nad Mullach stone by stone to make it right again. No, this will be mild, I’m afraid.”
“I fear you are right, Eolair.” Isorn frowned. “God knows what has happened in Elvritshalla since we were driven out. And after the terrible winter, too.”
They were interrupted by Craobhan, who tottered back in with a young. Hernystiri woman who carried four large hammered silver tankards decorated with the leaping stag of the royal house.
“Might as well use the best,” Craobhan said with a crooked smile. “Who’s to say no in these strange days?”
“Where is Maegwin?” Eolair’s apprehension had grown when she had not appeared to greet them.
“Sleeping.” Again Craobhan made a dismissive gesture. “I’ll take you when you’ve finished. Drink up.”
Eolair stood. “Forgive me, old friend, but I’d like to see her now. I’ll be better able to enjoy my beer.”
The old man shrugged. “In her old room. There’s a woman seeing to her.” He seemed more interested in his tankard than in the fate of the king’s only living child.
The count looked at him for a moment. What had happened to the Craobhan he knew? The old man seemed muddle-headed, as though he’d been struck with a club.
There were far too many other things that needed worrying over. Eolair walked out of the hall, leaving the others to drink and stare up at the shattered carvings.
Maegwin was indeed sleeping. The wild-haired woman who sat beside the bed looked slightly familiar, but Eolair gave her scarcely more than a glance before he kneeled down and took Maegwin’s hand. A wet cloth lay across her forehead.
“Has she been wounded?” There seemed to be something Craobhan was keeping from him—perhaps she was badly hurt.
“Yes,” the woman said. “But it was a glancing blow only, and she has already recovered.” The woman lifted the cloth to show Eolair the bruise on Maegwin’s pale brow. “She is merely resting now. It has been a great day.”
Eolair turned sharply at the sound of her voice. She looked as distracted as Craobhan, her eyes wide and fey, her mouth twitching.
Has everyone here gone mad? he wondered.
Maegwin stirred at the sound of his voice. As he turned back, her eyes fluttered open, closed again, then opened once more and stayed that way.
“‘Eolair. . . ?” Her voice was groggy with sleep. She smiled like a young child, with no trace of the fretfulness he had seen the last time they had spoken. “Is that you, truly? Or just another dream....”
“It is me, Lady.” He squeezed her hand again. She looked little different at that moment than when she had been a girl and he had first felt his heart stirring with interest. How could he have ever been angry with her, no matter what she had said or done?
Maegwin tried to sit up. Her sorrel hair was disarranged, her eyes still heavy-lidded. She seemed to have been put to bed fully dressed; only her feet, which protruded from beneath the blanket, were bare. “Did ... did you see them?”
“Did I see who... ?” he asked gently, although he felt sure he knew. Her answer, though, surprised him.
“The gods, silly man. Did you see the gods? They were so beautiful....”
“The . . . gods?”
“I made them come,” she said, and smiled sleepily. “They came for me....” She let her head fall back into the pillow and closed her eyes. “For me,” she murmured.
“She needs sleep, Count Eolair,” the woman said from behind him. There was something peremptory in her voice that lifted Eolair’s hackles.
“What is she talking about, the gods?” he demanded. “Does she mean the Sithi?”
The woman smiled, a smugly knowing smile. “She means what she says.”
Eolair stood, holding back his anger. There was much to discover here. He would bide his time. “Take good care of Princess Maegwin,” he said as he moved toward the door. It was more of an order than a request. The woman nodded.
Musing, Eolair had just re-entered the Hall of Carvings when there was a clatter of boots at the front doors behind him. He stopped and turned, his hand reflexively dropping to his sword-hilt. A few paces away, Isorn and husky Ule also rose, alarm plain on their faces.
The figure that appeared in the door of the hall was tall but not overly so, dressed in blue armor that, strangely, had the look of painted wood—but the armor, an intricate collection of plates held together by shiny red cords, was not the strangest thing about him. His hair was white as a snow-drift; bound in a blue scarf, it fell past his shoulders. He was slender as a young birch tree, and despite the color of his hair, looked to be scarcely into his manhood, insofar as Eolair could read a face so angular, so different from a human face. The stranger’s upturned eyes were golden, bright as noon sun reflected in a forest pond.
Surprised into immobility, Eolair stared. It was as though some creature out of elder days stood before him, one of his grandmother’s stories appearing in flesh and bone. He had expected to meet the Sithi, but he was no more prepared than someone told about a deep canyon could be when they suddenly discovered they were standing on its rim.
When the count had stood frozen for some seconds, the newcomer took a step backward. “Forgive me.” The stranger made an oddly-articulated bow, sweeping his long-fingered hand past his knees, but although there was something light in his movements, there was no mockery. “I forget my manners in the heat of this memorable day. May I enter here?”
“Who ... who are you?” Eolair asked, startled out of his normal courtesy. “Yes, come in.”
The stranger did not seem offended. “I am Jiriki i-Sa‘onserei. At this moment I speak for the Zida’ya. We have come to repay our debt to Prince Sinnach of Hernystir.” After this formal speech, he suddenly flashed a cheerfully feral grin. “And who are you?”
Eolair hastily introduced himself and his companions. Isorn was staring, fascinated, and Ule was pale and unsettled. Old Craobhan wore an odd, mocking smile.
“Good,” Jiriki said when he had finished. “This is very good. I have heard your name mentioned today, Count Eolair. We have much to talk about. But first, who is the master here? I understand that the king is dead.”
Eolair looked dazedly to Craobhan. “Inahwen?”
“The king’s wife is still up in the caves in the Grianspog.” Craobhan wheezed with what might have been laughter. “Wouldn’t come down with the rest of us. I thought she was being sensible at the time. Then again, perhaps she was.”
“And Maegwin, the king’s daughter, is asleep.” Eolair shrugged. “I suppose then I am the one with whom you must speak, at least for the present.”
“Would you be kind enough to come with me to our camp? Or would you rather we came here to talk?”
Eolair was not sure exactly who “we” might be, but he knew he would never forgive himself if he did not experience this moment to its fullest. Maegwin, in any case, obviously needed her rest, which would not be best accomplished with the Taig full of men and Sithi.
“We will be pleased to accompany you, Jiriki i-Sa’onserei,” the count said.
“Jiriki, if it is acceptable.” The Sitha stood waiting.
Eolair and his companions walked with him out the Taig’s front doors. The tents billowed before them like a field of oversized wildflowers. “Do you mind my asking,” Eolair v
entured, “what happened to the wall Skali built around the city?”
Jiriki seemed to ponder for a moment. “Ah. That,” he said at last, and smiled. “I think you probably are speaking of the handiwork of my mother, Likimeya. We were in a hurry. The wall was in our way.”
“Then I hope I am never in her way,” Isorn said earnestly.
“As long as you do not come between my mother and the honor of Year-Dancing House,” said Jiriki, “you need not worry.”
They continued across the wet grass. “You mentioned the bargain with Sinnach,” the count said. “If you can defeat Skali in a day ... well, forgive me, Jiriki, but how was the battle at Ach Samrath ever lost?”
“First, we have not quite defeated this Skali. He and many of his men have fled into the hills and out onto the Frostmarch, so there is work still to be done. But your question is a good one.” The Sitha’s eyes narrowed as he considered. “I think we are, in some ways, a different people from what we were five centuries gone. Many of us were not born then, and we children of the Exile are not as cautious as our elders. Also, we feared iron in those days, before we learned how to protect ourselves from it.” He smiled, that same fierce cat-grin, but then his face grew somber. He brushed a strand of his pale hair from his eyes. “And these men, Count Eolair, these Rimmersmen here, they were not prepared for us. Surprise was on our side. But in the battles ahead—and there will be many, I think—no one will be so unprepared. Then it will be like Ereb Irigú all over again—what you men call ‘the Knock.’ There will be much killing, I fear ... and my people can afford it even less than yours.”
As he spoke, the wind that rippled the tents changed direction, swinging around until it blew from the North. It was suddenly much colder on Hern’s Hill.
Elias, High King of all Osten Ard, staggered like a drunkard. As he made his way across the Inner Bailey courtyard he lurched from one shadowy spot to another as though the direct light of the sun made him ill, even though it was a gray, cold day and the sun itself, even at noon, was invisible behind a choke of clouds. The Hayholt’s chapel dome loomed behind him, strangely asymmetrical; a mass of dirty snow, long uncleared, had dimpled several of the leaded panes inward so that the great dome looked like an old, rumpled felt hat.