“I ... should have known ... that my ... torment was not yet finished, my guilt not forgiven. ” His voice was painfully dry and rough, his speech strangely formal. “Oh, my God, my loving and terrible God, I am humble before You. I shall serve out my punishment.”
The old man fell to his knees before the astonished company. For a long time, he said nothing, but seemed to be praying. Tears ran down his cheeks, merging with the raindrops to make his face shine in the slanting sunlight. Finally, Camaris clambered to his feet and allowed Isgrimnur and Josua to lead him away.
Simon felt something tugging at his arm. He looked down. Binabik’s small fingers had caught his sleeve. The troll’s eyes were bright. “Do you know, Simon, it is what we had all forgotten. Sir Deornoth’s men, the soldiers of Naglimund, do you know what they were calling him? ‘The prince’s right hand.’ And even Josua did not remember, I am thinking. Luck ... or something else, friend Simon.” The little man squeezed Simon’s arm again, then hurried after the prince.
Overwhelmed, Simon turned, trying to catch a last glimpse of Camaris. Miriamele was standing near the doorway. She caught Simon’s eyes and gave him an angry look that seemed to say: you are to blame for this, too.
She turned and followed Camaris and the others back into Leavetaking House, leaving Simon alone in the rainy garden.
24
A Sky Full of Beasts
Four strong men, sweating despite the cold night breeze and panting from the exertion of heaving the covered litter up the narrow stairway, carefully lifted out the chair containing the litter’s passenger and carried it to the middle of the rooftop garden. The man in the chair was so swaddled in furs and robes as to be practically unrecognizable, but the tall, elegantly dressed woman immediately rose from her own seat and came forward with a glad cry.
“Count Streáwe!” said the dowager duchess. “I’m so glad you could come. And on such a chill evening.”
“Nessalanta, my dear. Only an invitation from you would bring me out in such ghastly weather.” The count took her gloved hand in his own and drew it to his lips. “Forgive me for being so discourteous as to remain seated.”
“Nonsense.” Nessalanta snapped her fingers at the count’s bearers and indicated they should bring his chair closer to hers. She seated herself again. “Although I think it is growing a little warmer. Nevertheless, you are a jewel, a splendid jewel for coming tonight.”
“The pleasure of your company, dear lady.” Streáwe coughed into his kerchief.
“It will be worth your while, I promise.” She gestured floridly at the star-sprinkled sky as though she herself had commanded it spread before them. “Look at this! You will be so glad you came. Xannasavin is a brilliant man.”
“My lady is too kind,” said a voice from the stairwell. Count Streáwe, somewhat limited in his mobility, craned his neck awkwardly to see the speaker.
The man who emerged from the entranceway onto the rooftop garden was tall and thin, with long fingers clasped as though in prayer. He wore a great curling beard of gray-shot black. His robes, too, were dark, and bespotted with Nabbanai star symbols. He moved between the rows of potted trees and shrubs with a certain storklike grace, then bent his long legs to kneel before the dowager duchess. “My lady, I received your summons with great pleasure. It is always a joy to serve you.” He turned to Streáwe. “The Duchess Nessalanta would have been a splendid astrologer, had she not her greater duties to Nabban. She is a woman of great insight.”
Beneath his hood, Perdruin’s count smiled. “This is known to all.”
Something in Streáwe’s voice made the duchess hesitate for a moment before she spoke. “Xannasavin is too kind. I have studied a few rudiments only.” She crossed her hands demurely before her breast.
“Ah, but could I have had you for an apprentice,” Xannasavin said, “the mysteries that we might have plumbed, Duchess Nessalanta....” His voice was deep and impressive. “Does my lady wish me to start?”
Nessalanta, who had been watching his lips move, shook herself as though suddenly coming awake. “Ah. No, Xannasavin, not yet. We must wait for my eldest son.”
Streáwe looked at her with real interest. “I did not know that Benigaris was a follower of the mysteries of the stars.”
“He is interested,” Nessalanta said carefully. “He is ...” She looked up. “Ah, he is here!”
Benigaris strode onto the rooftop. Two guards, their surcoats kingfisher-blazed, followed a few paces behind him. The reigning duke of Nabban was going a little to fat around the middle, but was still a tall, broad-shouldered man. His mustache was so luxuriant as to hide his mouth almost entirely.
“Mother,” he said curtly as he reached the small gathering. He took her gloved hand and nodded, then turned to the count. “Streáwe. I missed you at dinner last night.”
The count lifted his kerchief to his lips and coughed. “My apologies, good Benigaris. My health, you know. Sometimes it is just too difficult for me to leave my room, even for hospitality as famed as that of the Sancellan Mahistrevis.”
Benigaris grunted. “Well, then you probably shouldn’t be out here on this freezing roof.” He turned to Nessalanta. “What are we doing here, Mother?”
The dowager duchess put on a look of girlish hurt. “Why, you know perfectly well what we are doing here. This is a very favorable night to read the stars, and Xannasavin is going to tell us what the next year will bring.”
“If you so desire, Highness.” Xannasavin bowed to the duke.
“I can tell you what the next year will bring,” Benigaris growled. “Trouble and more trouble. Everywhere I turn there are problems.” He looked to Streáwe. “You know how it is. They want bread, the peasants do, but if I give it to them they just want more. I tried to bring in some of those swamp men to help work the grain fields—I have had to expend a lot of soldiers in those border skirmishes with the Thrithings savages and now all the barons are screaming about having their peasants levied and their fields fallow—but the damnable little brown men won’t come! What am I to do, send troops into that cursed swamp? I’m better off without them.”
“How well do I know the burdens of leadership,” Streáwe said sympathetically. “You have been doing a heroic job in difficult times, I am told.”
Benigaris jerked his head in acknowledgment. “And then those damned, damned, thrice-damned Fire Dancers, setting themselves on fire and frightening the common folk.” His expression turned dark. “I should never have trusted Pryrates....”
“I’m sorry, Benigaris,” said Streáwe. “I didn’t hear you—my old ears, you know. Pryrates... ?”
The Duke of Nabban looked at the count. His eyes narrowed. “Never mind. Anyway, it’s been a filthy year, and I doubt the next will be any better.” A sour smile moved his mustache. “Unless I convince some of the trouble-makers here in Nabban to become Fire Dancers. There are more than a few that I think would look very good in flames.”
Streáwe laughed, then broke into a fit of dry coughing. “Very good, Benigaris, very good.”
“Enough of this,” Nessalanta said pettishly. “I think you are wrong, Benigaris—it should be a splendid year. Besides, there is no need to speculate. Xannasavin will tell you everything you need to know.”
“I am but a humble observer of the celestial patterns, Duchess,” the astrologer said. “But I will do my best....”
“And if you can’t come up with something better than the year I’ve just gone through,” Benigaris muttered, “I may just toss you off the roof.”
“Benigaris!” Nessalanta’s voice, which had so far been wheedling and childlike, turned suddenly sharp as the crack of a drover’s whip. “You will not speak that way before me! You will not threaten Xannasavin! Do you understand!?”
Benigaris almost imperceptibly flinched. “It was only a jest. Aedon’s Holy Blood, Mother, don’t take on so.” He walked to the half-canopied chair with the ducal crest and sat down heavily. “Go on, man,” he grunted, waving at Xan
nasavin. “Tell us what wonders the stars hold.”
The astrologer pulled a sheaf of scrolls from his voluminous robe, brandishing them with a certain drama. “As the duchess mentioned,” he began, his voice smooth and practiced, “tonight is an excellent night for divination. Not only are the stars in a particularly favorable configuration, but the sky itself is clear of storms and other hindrances.” He smiled at Duke Benigaris. “An auspicious sign in and of itself.”
“Continue,” said the duke.
Xannasavin lifted a furled scroll and pointed up at the wheel of stars. “As you can see, Yuvenis’ Throne is directly overhead. The Throne is, of course, much tied to the ruling of Nabban, and has been since the old heathen days. When the lesser lights are moving through its aspect, the heirs of the Imperium do well to take notice.” He paused for a moment to let the import of this sink in. “Tonight you can see that the Throne is upright, and that on its topmost edge, the Serpent and Mixis the Wolf are particularly bright.” He swung around and pointed to another part of the sky. “The Falcon, there, and the Winged Beetle are now visible in the southern sky. The Beetle always brings change.”
“It is like one of the old Imperators’ private menageries,” Benigaris said impatiently. “Beasts, beasts, beasts. What does it all mean?”
“It means, my lord, that there are great times ahead for the Benidrivine House.”
“I knew it,” Nessalanta purred. “I knew it.”
“What tells you that?” Benigaris asked, squinting at the sky.
“I could not do justice to your majesties by trying to make an explanation that was too brief,” the astrologer said smoothly. “Suffice it to say that the stars, which have long spoken of hesitation, of unsureness and doubt, now proclaim that a time of change is coming. Great change.”
“But that could be anything,” Benigaris grumbled. “That could mean the whole city burned down.”
“Ah, but that is only because you have not heard all that I have to say. There are two other factors, factors most important. One is the Kingfisher itself—there, do you see it?” Xannasavin gestured toward a point in the eastern sky. “It is far brighter than I have ever seen it—and at this time of year it is generally quite hard to see. Your family’s fortunes have long risen and fallen with the waxing and waning of the Kingfisher’s light, and it has not been so gloriously illuminated before in my lifetime. Something of great moment is about to happen to the Benidrivine House, my lord. Your house.”
“And the other?” Benigaris appeared to be growing interested. “The other thing you mentioned?”
“Ah.” The astrologer unrolled one of his scrolls and examined it. “That is something that you cannot see at this moment. There will be a reappearance soon of the Conqueror Star.”
“The bearded star that we saw last year and the year before?” It was Streáwe who spoke, his voice eager. “The great red thing?”
“That is the one.”
“But when it came, it frightened the common folk out of their shallow wits!” Benigaris said. “I think that is what started all this doom-saying nonsense in the first place!”
Xannasavin nodded. “The celestial signs are often misread, Duke Benigaris. The Conqueror Star will return, but it is not a precursor of disaster, merely of change. Throughout history it has come to herald a new order appearing out of conflict and chaos. It trumpeted the end of the Imperium, and shone over the final days of Khand.”
“And this is good!?” Benigaris shouted. “You are saying that something which speaks of the downfall of an empire should make me happy!?” He seemed ready to leap from his chair and manhandle the astrologer.
“But my lord, remember the Kingfisher!” Xannasavin said hurriedly. “How could these changes be to your dismay when the Kingfisher is burning so brightly? No, my lord, pardon your humble servant for seeming to instruct you in any way, but can you think of no situation in which a great empire might fall, yet the fortunes of the Benidrivine House might improve?”
Benigaris sat back swiftly, as though repelled by a blow. He stared at his hands. “I will talk to you of this later,” he said at last. “Leave us now for a while.”
Xannasavin bowed. “As you wish, my lord.” He bowed again, this time in the direction of Streáwe. “A pleasure to meet you at last, Count. I have been honored.”
The count absently bobbed his head, as lost in thought as Benigaris.
Xannasavin kissed Nessalanta’s hand, swept the rooftop with a low bow, then stowed his scrolls once more and walked to the stairwell. His footsteps gradually dwindled down into echoing darkness.
“Do you see?” Nessalanta asked. “Do you see why I value him so? He is a brilliant man.”
Streáwe nodded. “He is most imposing. And you have found him reliable?”
“Absolutely. He predicted my poor husband’s death.” Her face assumed a look of profound sorrow. “But Leobardis would not listen, despite all my warnings. I told him if he set foot on Erkynlandish soil, I would never see him again. He told me it was nonsense.”
Benigaris looked at his mother sharply. “Xannasavin told you Father would die?”
“He did. If only your father had listened.”
Count Streáwe cleared his throat. “Well, I had hoped to save these matters for a different time, Benigaris, but hearing what your astrologer had to say—hearing of the splendid future he sees for you—I think perhaps I should share my thoughts with you now.”
Benigaris turned from his dissatisfied contemplation of his mother to the count. “What are you talking about?”
“Certain things I have learned.” The old man looked around. “Ah, forgive me, Benigaris, but would it be an imposition to ask your guards to step back out of hearing?” He made a crabbed gesture toward the two armored men, who had stood motionless and silent as stone throughout the proceedings. Benigaris grunted and gestured them back.
“So?”
“I have, as you know, many sources of information,” the count began. “I hear many things that even others more powerful than myself are not able to discover. Recently I have heard some things that you might wish to know. About Elias and his war with Josua. About ... other things.” He paused and looked to the duke expectantly.
Nessalanta, too, was sitting forward. “Go on, Streáwe. You know how much we value your counsel.”
“Yes,” Benigaris said, “go on. I will be very interested to discover what you have heard.”
The count smiled, a vulpine grin that showed his still-bright teeth. “Ah, yes,” he said. “You will be interested....”
Eolair did not recognize the Sitha who stood in the doorway of the Hall of Carvings. He was dressed conservatively, at least in Sithi terms, in shirt and breeches of a pale creamy cloth that shimmered like silk. His hair was nut-brown—the closest to a human shade the count had yet seen—and had been pulled into a knot on top of his head.
“Likimeya and Jiriki say that you must come to them.” The stranger’s Hernystiri was as awkward and as archaic as that of the dwarrows. “Must you wait for a moment, or is it that you can come now? It is good that you come now.”
Eolair heard Craobhan take a breath as if to protest the summons, but the count laid a hand on his arm. It was only this immortal’s imperfect speech that made it sound peremptory—Eolair guessed that the Sithi would wait for him for days without impatience.
“One of your people, a healer, is with the king’s daughter—with Maegwin,” he told the messenger. “I must talk to her. Then I will come.”
The Sitha, face impassive, bobbed his head swiftly in the manner of a cormorant seizing a fish from a river. “I will tell to them.” He turned and left the room, his booted feet soundless on the wooden floors.
“Are they the masters here now?” Craobhan asked irritatedly. “Should we step to their measures?”
Eolair shook his head. “That is not their way, old friend. Jiriki and his mother simply wish to speak to me, I am sure. Not all of them speak our tongue as well as those
two.”
“I still do not like it. We had to live with Skali’s boot on our necks long enough—when are the Hernystiri going to take their rightful place in their own land again?”
“Things are changing,” Eolair said mildly. “But we have always survived. Five centuries ago, Fingil’s Rimmersmen drove us into the hills and the sea-cliffs. We came back. Skali’s men are on the run now, so we have outlasted them, too. The weight of the Sithi is a far easier burden, don’t you think?”
The old man stared at him, eyes wrinkling in a suspicious squint. At last, he smiled. “Ah, my good count, you should have been a priest or a general. You take the long view.”
“As you do, Craobhan. Else you would not be here today to complain.”
Before the old man could respond, another Sitha appeared in the doorway, this one a gray-haired woman dressed in green with a cloak of cloudy silver. Despite the color of her hair, she looked no older than the just-departed messenger.
“Kira’athu,” the count said, rising. His voice lost its lightness. “Can you help her?”
The Sitha stared at him for a moment, then shook her head; the gesture seemed curiously unnatural, as though she had learned it from a book. “There is nothing wrong with her body. But her spirit is somehow hidden from me, gone deep inside, like a mouse when the owl’s shadow is upon the night-fields.”
“What does that mean?” Eolair struggled to keep impatience out of his words.
“Frightened. She is frightened. She is like a child who has seen its parents killed.”
“She has seen much death. She has buried her father and her brother.”
The Sitha-woman waved her fingers slowly, a gesture that Eolair could not translate. “It is not that. Anyone, Zida‘ya or Sudhoda’ya—Dawn Child or mortal—who has lived enough years understands death. It is horrible, but it is understandable. But a child does not understand it. And something has come to the woman Maegwin in this way—something that is beyond her understanding. It has frightened her spirit.”