She ran her thick fingers through her hair. “Still, we have learned precious little else that is of use lately.” She looked up. “Aditu? What is it?”
The Sitha had gone rigid, and stood with her head cocked in a most unhuman way.
“Aditu?” Geloë said again. “Are we attacked?”
“Kei-vishaa,” Aditu hissed. “I smell it!”
“What?”
“Kei-vishaa. It is ... there is no time to explain. It is a smell that should not be in the air here. Something bad is happening. Follow me, Geloë—I am suddenly fearful!”
Aditu sprang away up the river bank, swift as a flushed deer. Within a moment she had vanished into the darkness, heading back toward the encampment. Following her, the witch woman ran a few more paces, muttering words of worry and anger. As she passed into the shadow of a congregation of willows that grew on a hill overlooking the streambank, there was a convulsive movement; the faint starlight seemed to bend, the darkness to coalesce and then burst outward. Geloë, or at least Geloë’s shape, did not reemerge from the tree-shadows, but a winged form did.
Yellow eyes wide in the moonlight, the owl flew in pursuit of swift Aditu, following the whisper-faint mark of her passage across the wet grass.
Simon had been restless all evening. Talking with Aditu had helped, but only a little. In a way, it had made him even more unsettled.
He desperately wanted to speak with Miriamele. He thought about her all the time—at night when he wanted just to fall asleep, during the day whenever he saw a girl’s face or heard a woman’s voice, at odd moments when he should be thinking of other things. It was strange how she had come to mean so much to him in the short time since she had returned: the smallest change in the way she treated him stayed in his mind for days.
She had seemed so strange when he had met her by the horses the night before. And yet, when she had accompanied him to Isgrimnur’s fire to hear the singing, she had been kind and friendly, if a little distracted. But now she had avoided him all day today—or at least so it seemed, for everywhere he looked for her he was told that she was somewhere else, until it began to feel as though she was staying a step ahead of him on purpose.
The twilight had gone and darkness had settled in like a great black bird folding its wings. His visit with Camaris had been brief—the old man had seemed fully as preoccupied as he was, barely able to fix his attention on explaining the rank of battle and the rules of engagement. To Simon, consumed with worries more heated and more current, the knight’s litany of rules had seemed dry and pointless. He had made excuses and departed early, leaving the old man sitting by the fire in his sparsely-furnished campsite. Camaris seemed just as happy to be left alone.
After a fruitless exploration of the camp, Simon had looked in on Vorzheva and Gutrun. Miriamele had been there, the duchess said—whispering so as not to wake the prince’s sleeping wife—but had left some time before. Unrewarded, Simon had returned to his search.
Now, as he stood at the outer edge of the field of tents, at the beginnings of the wide halo of fires that marked the camps of those members of Josua’s company to whom a tent was, at this moment, an unimaginable luxury, Simon puzzled over where Miriamele might be. He had walked along the riverbank earlier, thinking that she might be there keeping company with her thoughts by the water, but there had been no sign of her, only a few New Gadrinsett folk with torches, night-fishing with what appeared to be little success.
Maybe she’s seeing to her horse, he thought suddenly.
That was, after all, where he had found her the night before, not too much earlier in the evening than it was now. Perhaps she found it a quiet place after everyone else had gone down to supper. He turned and headed for the dark hillside.
He stopped first to say hello to Homefinder, who received his greeting with a certain aloofness before condescending to snuffle at his ear, then he headed uphill toward the spot where the princess had said her horse was picketed. There was indeed a shadowy figure moving there. Pleased with his own cleverness, he stepped forward.
“Miriamele?”
The hooded figure started, then whirled. For a moment he could see nothing but a smear of pallid face in the depths of the hood.
“S-Simon?” It was a shocked, fearful voice—but it was her voice. “What are you doing here?”
“I was looking for you.” The way she spoke alarmed him. “Are you well?” This time the question seemed tremendously appropriate.
“I am ...” She moaned. “Oh, why did you come?”
“What’s wrong?” He took a few paces toward her. “Have you... ?” He stopped.
Even in the moonlight, he could see that the silhouette of her horse seemed somehow wrong. Simon put out his hand and touched the bulging saddlebags.
“You’re going somewhere ...” he said wonderingly. “You’re running away.”
“I am not running away.” The earlier tone of fear gave way to pain and fury. “I am not. Now leave me alone, Simon.”
“Where are you going?” He was caught up in the strange dreaminess of it—the dark hillside with its few lonely trees, Miriamele’s hooded face. “Is it me? Did I make you angry?”
Her laugh was bitter. “No, Simon, it’s not you.” Her voice softened. “You have done nothing wrong. You have been a friend when I didn’t deserve one. I can’t tell you where I’m going—and please wait until tomorrow to tell Josua you’ve seen me. Please. I beg this of you.”
“But ... but I can’t!” How could he tell Josua that he had stood by and watched as the prince’s niece had ridden away by herself? He tried to slow his excited heart and think. “I will go with you,” he said finally.
“What!?” Miriamele was astonished. “You can’t!”
“I can’t let you go off by yourself, either. I am your sworn protector, Miriamele.”
She seemed on the verge of crying. “But I don’t want you to go, Simon. You are my friend—I don’t want you hurt!”
“And I don’t want you hurt, either.” He felt calmer now. He had a strange but powerful feeling that this was the right decision ... although another part of him was simultaneousy crying mooncalf, mooncalf! “That’s why I’m going with you.”
“But Josua needs you!”
“Josua has lots of knights, and I’m the least of them. You only have one.”
“I can’t let you, Simon.” She shook her head violently. “You don’t understand what I’m doing, where I’m going....”
“Then tell me.”
She shook her head again. “Then I’ll just have to find out by going with you. Either you take me, or you stay. I’m sorry, Miriamele, but that is all.”
She looked at him for a moment, staring hard, as though she would see into his very heart. She seemed to be in a kind of ecstasy of indecision, pulling distractedly at her horse’s bridle until Simon feared the animal might startle and bolt. “Very well,” she said at last. “Oh, Elysia save us all, very well! But we must go now, and you must ask me no more questions about where or why tonight.”
“Fine,” he said. The doubting part of him was still screaming for attention, but he had decided not to listen. He could not bear the idea of her riding away into the dark alone. “But I must go and get my sword and a few other things. Do you have food?”
“Enough for me ... but you dare not try to steal more, Simon. There’s too much chance someone would see you.”
“Well, we’ll worry about it later, then. But I must have a sword, and I must leave something to explain. Did you?”
She stared at him. “Are you mad?”
“Not to say where you’re going, but just to tell them that you’re gone of your own will. We have to, Miriamele,” he explained firmly. “It’s cruel, otherwise. They’ll think we were kidnapped by the Norns, or that we’ve, we’ve ...” he smiled as the thought came, “... we’ve run away to be married, like in the Mundwode song.”
Her look turned calculating. “Very well, get your sword and leave a note.”
r />
Simon frowned. “I’m off. But remember, Miriamele, if you aren’t here when I get back, I’ll have Josua and every man of New Gadrinsett after you tonight.”
She jutted her chin defiantly. “Go on, then. I want to ride until dawn and be well away, so hurry.”
He threw her a mock-bow, then turned and ran down the hillside.
It was strange, but when Simon thought of that night later, during moments of terrible pain, he could no longer remember how he had felt as he hastened toward the camp—as he had prepared to steal off with the king’s daughter, Miriamele. The memory of all that came afterward crowded out what had throbbed in him as he pelted down the hill.
On that night he felt all the world singing about him, all the stars hanging close and attentive above. As Simon ran, the world seemed poised on some vast fulcrum, teetering, and every possibility was both beautiful and terrible. It seemed for all the world as though the dragon Igjarjuk’s molten blood had come alive in him again, opening him up to the vast sky, filling him with the pulse of the earth.
He dashed through the encampment with hardly a glance for any of the night life that surrounded him, hearing none of the voices that were raised in-song or laughter or argument, seeing nothing but the twisting track through the tents and small camps toward his own sleeping place.
Happily for Simon, as it seemed, Binabik was away from the tent. He had not given a moment’s thought to what he would have done if the little man had been waiting for him—he might have been able to come up with some practical reason for needing his sword, but could certainly not have left a note. Fumble-fingered with hurry, he ransacked the tent for something to write on, and at last found one of the scrolls Binabik had brought from Ookequk’s cave in the Trollfells. With a bit of charcoal plucked from the cold firepit, he laboriously scrawled his message on the back of the sheep-leather.
“Mirimel has gon away and I hav gon after Her. ”
He wrote, tongue gripped between his teeth.
“We will be well. Tell Prince Josua I am sory but I hav to go. I will bring Her bak soon as I can. Tell Josua I am a bad knigt but I am tring to do wat is the best thing. Your frend Simon.”
He thought for a moment, then added:
“You can hav my things if I dont cum bak. I am sory.”
He left the note on Binabik’s bedroll, grabbed his sword and scabbard and a few other necessities, then left the tent. At the doorway he hesitated for a moment, recalling his sack of beloved treasures, the White Arrow, Jiriki’s mirror. He turned and went to retrieve it, although every moment he kept her waiting—she would wait; she must wait—felt like an hour. He had told Binabik he could have them, but Miriamele’s earlier words returned to him. They were entrusted; they were promises. He could not give them away any more than he could give away his name, and there was not time now to sort out the things that could safely be left behind. He dared not even take the time to think or he knew that he would lose courage.
We will be alone together, just us two, he kept thinking in wonderment. I will be her protector!
It took him what seemed an agonizingly long time to find the sack where he had hidden it in a hole under a flap of sod. With sack and scabbard clutched under his arm, his worn saddle over his shoulder—he winced at the noise the harness buckles made—he ran as quickly as he could back through the camp to where the horses were tied, to where Miriamele—he prayed—was waiting.
She was there. Seeing her impatiently pacing, he felt a moment of giddiness. She had waited for him!
“Hurry up, Simon! The night is slipping away!” She seemed to feel none of his pleasure, but only a sense of frustration, a terrible need to be moving.
With Homefinder saddled and Simon’s few belongings hastily pushed into the saddlebags, they were soon leading the horses up toward the hilltop, moving silently as spirits through the damp grass. They turned for a last look down at the glowing quilt of campfires spread in the river valley.
“Look!” Simon said, startled. “That’s no cookfire!” He pointed to a large, moving billow of orange-red flame near the middle of the encampment. “Someone’s tent is on fire!”
“I hope no harm comes to them, but at least it will keep people busy until we are away,” said Miriamele grimly. “We must ride, Simon.”
Suiting action to words, she clambered deftly into the saddle—she was once more wearing the breeches and shirt of a man beneath her heavy cloak—and led him down the hill’s far side.
He took one last look back at the lights, then urged Homefinder after her, into shadows that even the emergent moon could not pierce.
Appendix
PEOPLE
ERKYNLANDERS
Barnabas—Hayholt chapel sexton
Deornoth, Sir—of Hewenshire, Josua’s knight Eahlferend—Simon’s fisherman father
Eahlstan Fiskerne—“Fisher King,” founder of League of Scroll
Ebekah, also known as Efiathe of Hemysadharc—Queen of Erkynland, John’s wife, mother of Elias and Josua
Elias—High King, John’s oldest son, Josua’s brother
Fengbald—Earl of Falshire, High King’s Hand
Freobeorn—Freosel’s father, a blacksmith of Falshire
Freosel—Falshireman, constable of New Gadrinsett
Guthwulf—Earl of Utanyeat
Heanwig—old drunkard in Stanshire
Helfgrim—Lord Mayor of Gadrinsett (former)
Inch—foundry master
Isaak—Fengbald’s page
Jack Mundwode—mythical forest bandit
Jeremias—former chandler’s apprentice, Simon’s friend
John—King John Presbyter, High King, also known as “Prester John”
Judith—Hayholt Mistress of Kitchens
Leleth—Geloë’s companion, once Miriamele’s handmaid
Maefwaru—a Fire Dancer
Miriamele—Princess, Elias’ daughter
Morgenes, Doctor—Scrollbearer, Simon’s friend and mentor
Old Bent Legs—forge worker in Hayholt
Osgal—one of Mundwode’s mythical band
Rachel—Hayholt Mistress of Chambermaids, also known as “The Dragon”
Roelstan—escaped Fire Dancer
Sangfugol—Josua’s harper
Sceldwine—captain of the prisoned Erkynguardsmen Shem Horsegroom—Hayholt groom
Simon—castle scullion (named “Seoman” at birth) Stanhelm—forge worker
Strangyeard, Father—Scrollbearer, priest, Josua’s archivist
Towser—King John’s jester (original name “Cruinh”)
Ulca—girl on Sesuad’ra, called “Curly Hair”
Welma—girl on Sesuad’ra, called “Thin One”
Wiclaf—former First Hammerman killed by Fire Dancers
Zebediah—a Hayholt scullion, called “Fat Zebediah”
HERNYSTIRI
Airgad Oakheart—famous Hernystiri hero
Amoran—minstrel
Bagba—cattle god
Brynioch of the Skies—sky god
Bulychlinn—fisherman in old story who caught a demon in his nets
Cadrach-ec-Crannhyr—monk of indeterminate Order, also known as “Padreic”
Caihwye—young mother
Craobhan—called “Old,” adviser to Hernystiri royal house
Croich, House—a Hernystiri clan
Cuamh Earthdog—earth god
Deanagha of the Brown Eyes—Hernystiri goddess, daughter of Rhynn
Diawen—scryer
Earb, House—a Hernystiri clan
Eoin-ec-Cluias—legendary Hernystiri harper
Eolair—Count of Nad Mullach
Feurgha—Hernystiri woman, captive of Fengbald
Frethis of Cuihmne—Hernystiri scholar
Gullaighn—escaped Fire Dancer
Gwynna—Eolair’s cousin and castellaine
Gwythinn—Maegwin’s brother, Lluth’s son
Hem—founder of Hernystir
Inahwen—Lluth’s third wife br />
Lach, House—a Hernystiri clan
Lluth—King, father of Maegwin and Gwythinn
Llythinn—King, Lluth’s father, uncle of John’s wife Ebekah
Maegwin—Princess, daughter of Lluth
Mathan—goddess of household, wife of Murhagh One-Arm
Mircha—rain goddess, wife of Brynioch
Murhagh One-Arm—war god, husband of Mathan
Penemhwye—Maegwin’s mother, Lluth’s first wife
Rhynn of the Cauldron—a god
Siadreth—Caihwye’s infant son
Sinnach—prince of Hernystir, also known as “The Red Fox”
Tethtain—former master of the Hayholt, “Holly King”
RIMMERSMEN
Dror—storm god
Dypnir—one of Ule’s band
Einskaldir—Isghmnur’s man, killed in forest
Elvrit—first Osten Ard king of Rimmersmen
Fingil Bloodfist—first human master of Hayholt, “Bloody King”
Frekke Grayhair—Isgrimnur’s man, killed at Naglimund
Outrun—Duchess, Isgrimnur’s wife
Hengfisk—Hoderundian priest, Elias’ cupbearer
Hjeldin—Fingil’s son, “Mad King”
Ikferdig—third Hayholt ruler, “Burned King”
Isgrimnur—Duke of Elvritshalla, Gutrun’s husband
Isorn—son of Isgrimnur and Gutrun
Jarnauga—Scrollbearer, killed at Naglimund
Nisse—(Nisses) author of Du Svardenvyrd
Skali—Thane of Kaldskryke, called “Sharp-nose”
Sludig—Isgrimnur’s man
Trestolt—Jamauga’s father
Ule Frekkeson—leader of renegade band of Rimmersmen, son of Frekke
NABBANAI
Aspitis Preves—Earl of Drina and Eadne
Benigaris—Duke of Nabban, son of Leobardis and Nessalanta
Benidrivis—first duke under John, father of Camaris and Leobardis