To Green Angel Tower, Volume 1

  The new-made house into which Jiriki had vanished was little more than a ring of blue and lavender cloth which hemmed one of the hilltop’s magisterial oak trees like a paddock around a prize bull. As Eolair and the others stood, uncertain, Jiriki reemerged and beckoned them forward.

  “Please understand that my mother may stray a little beyond the bounds of courtesy,” Jiriki murmured as they stood at the opening. “We are mourning for my father and First Grandmother.” He ushered them forward into the enclosure. The grass was dry, swept clean of snow. “I bring Count Eolair of Nad Mullach,” he said, “Isorn Isgrimnurson of Elvritshalla, and Ule Frekkeson of Skoggey.”

  The Sitha-woman looked up. She was seated on a cloth of pale, shining blue, surrounded by the birds which she had been feeding. Despite the soft feathered bodies perched on her knees and arms, Eolair had the immediate impression that she was hard as sword-steel. Her hair was flaming red, bound by a gray scarf across her forehead; several long, soot-colored feathers hung in her braids. Like Jiriki, she was armored in what looked to be wood, but hers was shiny and black as a beetle’s shell. Beneath the armor she wore a kirtle of dove-gray. Soft boots of the same color rose above her knees. Her eyes, like her son’s, were molten gold.

  “Likimeya y‘Briseyu no’e-Sa’onserei,” Jiriki intoned. “Queen of the Dawn Children and Lady of the House of Year-Dancing.”

  Eolair and the rest dropped to a knee.

  “Get up, please.” She spoke in a throaty murmur, and seemed less comfortable with the mortal tongue than Jiriki. “This is your land, Count Eolair, and it is the Zida’ya who are guests here. We have come to pay our debt to your Sinnach.”

  “We are honored, Queen Likimeya.”

  She waved a long-nailed hand. “Do not say ‘queen.’ It is a title, only—it is the nearest mortal word. But we do not call ourselves such things except at certain times.” She cocked an eyebrow at Eolair as he and his companions rose. “You know, Count Eolair, there is an old story that Zida’ya blood is in the House of Nad Mullach.”

  For a moment the count was confused, thinking she meant some kind of injustice had been done against the Sithi in his ancestral home. When he realized what she had truly said, he felt his own blood turn cold and the hairs lift on the back of his arms. “An old story?” Eolair felt as though his head was about to float away. “I’m sorry, my lady, I am not sure I understand. Do you mean to say that there was Sithi blood among my ancestors?”

  Likimeya smiled, a sudden, fierce gleam of teeth. “It is an old story, as I said.”

  “And do the Sithi know whether it is true?” Was she playing some sort of game with him?

  She fluttered her fingers. A cloud of birds leaped up and into the tree branches overhead, momentarily hiding her from view with the blur of their wings. “Long ago, when mortals and Zida’ya were closer ...” She made a strange gesture. “It could be. We know it can happen.”

  Eolair definitely felt himself on shaky ground, and was surprised at how swiftly his training in diplomacy and politicking had deserted him. “It has happened, then? The Fair Folk have ... mingled with mortals?”

  Likimeya seemed to lose interest in the subject. “Yes. Long ago, for the most part.” She motioned to Jiriki, who came forward with more of the shimmery, silken cloths, which he spread for the count and his companions before gesturing for them to sit. “It is good to be on M’yin Azoshai again.”

  “That is what we call this hill,” Jiriki explained. “It was given to Hern by Shi’iki and Senditu. It was, I suppose you would say, a sacred place for our folk. That it was granted to a mortal for his steading is a mark of the friendship between Hern’s people and the Dawn Children.”

  “We have a legend that says something much like that,” Eolair said slowly. “I had wondered if there was truth to it.”

  “Most legends have a kernel of truth at their center.” Jiriki smiled.

  Likimeya had turned her cat-bright eyes from Eolair to his two comrades, who almost seemed to flinch beneath the weight of her gaze. “And you are Rimmersmen,” she said, looking at them intently. “We have little cause to love your folk.”

  Isorn hung his head. “Yes, Lady, you do.” He took a deep breath, steadying his voice. “But please, do not forget that we live short lives. That was many years ago—a score of generations. We are not much like Fingil.”

  Likimeya’s smile was brief. “You may not be, but what about this kinsman of yours we have put to flight? I have seen his handiwork here on M‘yin Azoshai, and it looks little different than what your Fingil Bloodfist did to the Zida’ya lands five centuries ago.”

  Isorn shook his head slowly, but did not reply. Beside him, Ule had turned quite pale and looked as though he might bolt at any moment.

  “Isorn and Ule fought against Skali,” Eolair said hurriedly, “and we were bringing more men here to take up the battle when you and your folk passed us by. You have done these two as great a favor by putting the murderer to flight as you have done for my own people. Now there is hope that someday Isorn’s father can retain his rightful dukedom.”

  “Ah.” Likimeya nodded. “Now we come to it. Jiriki, have these men eaten?”

  Her son looked at the count inquiringly. “No, my lady,” Eolair replied.

  “Then you will eat with us, and we will talk.”

  Jiriki got up and vanished through a gap in the rippling walls. There followed a long and, for Eolair, uncomfortable silence which Likimeya seemed uninclined to break. They sat and listened to the wind in the oak tree’s upper branches until Jiriki returned bearing a wooden tray piled with fruit, bread, and cheese.

  The count was astonished. Didn’t these creatures have servants to perform such humble tasks? He watched while Jiriki, as commanding a presence as he had ever encountered, poured something from a blue crystal flask into drinking cups carved from the same wood as the tray, then handed the cups to Eolar and his companions with a simple but elegant bow. The queen and prince of the eldest folk, yet they waited on themselves? The gap between Eolair and these immortals seemed broader than ever.

  Whatever was in the crystal flask burned like fire but tasted like clover-honey and smelled like violets. Ule sipped his cautiously, then drained it at a swallow and gladly let Jiriki refill his cup. As he drank his own cup dry, Eolair felt the pain of two days’ hard riding dissolve in the warm glow. The food was excellent as well, each piece of fruit at the peak of ripeness. The count wondered briefly where the Sithi could have found such delicacies in the middle of a year-long winter, but dismissed it as only another small miracle in what was rapidly becoming a vast catalog of wonders.

  “We have come to war,” Likimeya said suddenly. Of all, only she had not eaten, and she had taken no more than a sip of the honey cordial. “Skali eludes us for a moment, but the heart of your kingdom is free. We have made a start. With your help, Eolair, and those of your people whose wills are still strong, we will soon lift the yoke from the neck of our old allies.”

  “There are no words for our gratitude, Lady,” Eolair replied. “The Zida’ya have shown us today that they honor their promises. Few mortal tribes can say the same.”

  “And what then, Queen Likimeya?” Isorn asked. He had drunk three glasses of the pale elixir, and his face had gone a bit red. “Will you ride with Josua? Will you help him take the Hayholt?”

  The look she turned on him was cool and austere. “We do not fight for mortal princes, Isorn Isgrimnurson. We fight to honor our debts, and to protect ourselves.”

  Eolair felt his heart sink. “So you will stop here?”

  Likimeya shook her head, then lifted her hands and wove her fingers together. “It is nothing like that simple. I spoke too quickly. No, there are things that threaten both your Josua Lackhand and the Dawn Children as well. Lackhand’s enemy has made a bargain with our enemy, it seems. Still, we will do what we alone are fit for: once Hernystir is free, we will leave the wars of mortals to mortals—at least for now. No, Count Eolair, we owe other debts,
but these are strange times.” She smiled, and this time the smile was a little less predatory, a little more like something that might stretch across a mortal face. Eolair was struck by her angular beauty. At the same moment, in lightning juxtaposition, he realized that he sat before a being who had seen the fall of Asu’a. She was as old as the greatest cities of men—older, perhaps. He shivered.

  “Yet,” Likimeya continued, “although we will not ride to the aid of your embattled prince, we will ride to the aid of his fortress.”

  There was a moment of confused silence before Isorn spoke. “Your pardon, Lady. We do not understand what you mean.”

  It was Jiriki who answered. “When Hernystir is free, we will ride to Naglimund. It is the Storm King’s now, and it stands too close to the house of our exile. We will take this place back from him.” The Sitha’s face was grim. “Also, when the final battle comes—and it is coming, mortal men, do not doubt it—we wish to be sure that the Norns have no bolt hole left in which to hide themselves.”

  Eolair watched Jiriki’s eyes as the Sitha spoke, and fancied that he saw a hatred there that had smoldered for centuries.

  “A war unlike any the world has seen,” Likimeya said. “A war in which many matters will be settled for once and all.” If Jiriki’s eyes smoldered, hers blazed.

  19

  A Broken Smile

  “I have done all I can do for either of them—unless ...” Cadrach rubbed fretfully at his damp forehead, as though to bring out some idea hiding there. He was obviously exhausted, but just as obviously—with the duke’s slurs still fresh in his mind—he was not going to. let that stop him.

  “There is nothing else to be done,” Miriamele said firmly. “Lie down. You need some sleep.”

  Cadrach looked up at Isgrimnur, who stood at the bow of the flatboat with the pole clasped firmly in his broad hands. The duke only tightened his lips and returned to his inspection of the watercourse. “Yes, then, I suppose I should.” The monk curled up beside the still forms of Tiamak and the other Wrannaman.

  Miriamele, recently awakened from her own evening-long nap, leaned forward and draped her cloak across the three of them. There was little use for the garment anyway, except to keep off bugs. Even near midnight, the marsh was warm as a midsummer day.

  “If we snuff the lamp,” Isgrimnur rumbled, “maybe these creepy-crafties will go make a meal on something else for a change.” He slapped at his upper arm and held the resultant smear up for inspection. “The damnable light draws them. You’d think a lamp that comes from that marsh-man town would keep ’em away.” He snorted. “How people can live here year-round is a puzzle to me.”

  “If we’re going to do that, we should drop the anchor.” Miriamele did not much like the idea of floating along in the dark. So far, they seemed to have left the ghants behind, but she still looked carefully at every low-hanging branch or dangling vine. But Isgrimnur had gone long without sleep; it only seemed fair to try to bring him some relief from the flying insects.

  “That’s good. I think this bit is wide enough to make us as safe as we’d be anywhere else,” Isgrimnur said. “Don’t see any branches. The little bugs are bad enough, but if I never see one of those Aedon-cursed big ones again ...” He did not need to finish. Miriamele’s shallow sleep had been full of dreams of clacking, scuttling ghants and sticky tendrils that held her in place when she wanted only to run.

  “Help me with the anchor.” Together they heaved the stone up and dumped it over the side. When it had struck bottom, Miriamele tested the rope to make sure there was not too much slack. “Why don’t you sleep first,” she told the duke. “I’ll watch for a little while.”

  “Very well.”

  She glanced quickly at Camaris, sleeping soundlessly in the stern with his white head propped on his cloak, then she reached out and shuttered the lamp.

  At first, the darkness was frighteningly complete. Miriamele could almost feel jointed legs reaching silently toward her, and fought the impulse to turn around and wave her hands in the blackness to keep the phantoms at bay. “Isgrimnur?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

  Her sight began to come back. There was little enough light—the moon was gone, either blocked by clouds or by the close-tangled trees that roofed the watercourse, and the stars were only faint specks—but she could make out forms around her, the dark bulk of the duke, the patchy shadows of the river banks on either side.

  She heard Isgrimnur rattling the pole around until he got it well-situated, then his shadowy form sank down. “Are you sure you don’t need to sleep more yourself?” he asked. Weariness was making his voice muddy.

  “I’m rested. I’ll sleep a little later. Go on now, put your head down.”

  Isgrimnur did not protest further—a sure sign of his exhaustion. Within moments he was snoring noisily. Miriamele smiled.

  The boat moved so smoothly that it was not hard to imagine they were floating like a cloud through the night sky. There was no tide and no discernible current, only the minute push of the swamp breezes that sent them slowly circling around the anchor, moving smoothly as quicksilver on a tilted pane of glass. Miriamele sat back and stared up at the murky sky, trying to make out a familiar star. For the first time in some days, she could afford the luxury of homesickness.

  I wonder what my father is doing now? Does he think about me? Does he hate me?

  Thoughts of Elias set other things to stirring inside her head. Something Cadrach had mentioned their first night after escaping the Eadne Cloud had been nagging at her. During his long and difficult confession, the monk had said that Pryrates had seemed particularly interested in communicating with the dead—“speaking through the veil,” Cadrach had said it was called—and that those were the parts of Nisses’ book on which he had been most fixated. For some reason, that phrase had made her think of her father. But why? Was it something Elias had said?

  Try as she might to summon the idea that had snagged at the back of her mind, it remained elusive. The boat spun slowly, silent beneath dim stars.

  She had drowsed a little. The first light of morning was creeping into the skies above the marsh, turning them pearly gray. Miriamele straightened, groaning quietly. Her bruises and aches from the ghant nest had begun to stiffen: she felt as though she had been rolled down a hill in a bag of rocks.

  “L-L-Lady?” It was a breathy sound, little more than a sigh.

  “Tiamak?!” She turned abruptly, causing the boat to pitch. The Wrannaman’s eyes were open. His face, though pale and slack-featured, held the spark of intelligence once more.

  “Y-yes. Yes, Lady.” He took a deep breath, as though even those few words had tired him out. “Where ... are we?”

  “We are on the waterway, but I have no idea where. We poled for most of a day after leaving the ghant nest.” She looked at him carefully. “Are you in pain?”

  He tried to shake his head, but could only move it slightly. “No. But water. Would be kind.”

  She leaned across the boat to take the water skin lying near Isgrimnur’s leg. She unstoppered it and gave the Wrannaman a few careful swallows.

  Tiamak turned a little to eye the still form next to him. “Younger Mogahib,” he whispered. “Is he alive?”

  “Barely. At least he seems very close to ... he seems very sick, although Cadrach and I couldn’t find any wounds on him.”

  “No. You would not. Nor on me.” Tiamak let his head fall back and closed his eyes. “And the others?”

  “Which others?” she asked cautiously. “Cadrach, Isgrimnur, Camaris, and I are all here, and all more or less well.”

  “Ah. Good.” Tiamak’s eyes remained closed. In the prow, Isgrimnur sat up groggily. “What’s this, then?” he mumbled. “Miriamele ... what?”

  “Nothing, Isgrimnur. Tiamak’s woken up.”

  “Has, has he?” The duke settled back, already sliding down into slumber once more. “Brains not scrambled? Talks like h
imself? Damnedest thing I ever saw ...”

  “You were speaking another language in the nest,” Miriamele told Tiamak. “It was frightening.”

  “I know.” His face rippled, as though he fought down revulsion. “I will talk about it later. Not now.” His eyes opened partway. “Did you bring anything out with me?”

  Miriamele shook her head, thinking. “Just you. And the muck you were covered with.”

  “Ah.” Tiamak looked disappointed for a moment, but then relaxed. “Just as well.” A moment later, his eyes opened wide. “And my belongings?” he demanded.

  “Everything you had in the boat is still here.” She patted the bundle.

  “Good ... good.” He sighed his relief and slid down into the cloak.

  The sky was growing paler, and the foliage on either side of the river was beginning to emerge from shadow into color and life.

  “Lady?”

  “What?”

  “Thank you. Thank you all for coming after me.”

  Miriamele listened as his breathing grew slower. Soon the little man was asleep again.

  “As I told Miriamele last night,” Tiamak said, “I wish to thank you all. You have been better friends to me than I could have hoped—certainly better than I have earned.”

  Isgrimnur coughed. “Nonsense. Couldn’t have done anything else.” Miriamele thought the duke looked a little shamefaced. Perhaps he was remembering the debate on whether to try to save the Wrannaman or to leave him behind.

  The company had set up a makeshift camp near the watercourse. The small fire, its flames almost invisible in the bright late-morning light, was burning merrily, heating water for soup and yellowroot tea.

  “No, you do not understand. It was not merely my life you saved. If I have a ka—a soul, you would call it—it would not have survived another day in that place. Perhaps not another hour.”

  “But what were they doing to you?” Miriamele asked. “You were babbling away—you sounded almost like a ghant yourself!”