To Green Angel Tower, Volume 2

  The king’s laugh was almost a sob. “And you mean me only well, is that right? That is why every night since you took me to that hill I have suffered dreams that God would not visit upon sinners in Hell? That is why my body aches and burns until I can barely keep from screaming out loud?”

  Pryrates frowned. “You have suffered, my king, but you know the reason. The hour is coming fast. Do not let your torments be for nothing.”

  Elias waved his hand. “Go away. I do not wish to talk any more. I will do what I think best. I am the master of this castle—of this land.” He gestured violently. “Go away, damn you. I am in pain.”

  The alchemist bowed. “I pray you can rest, Majesty. I will go.”

  Pryrates left the king staring up into the shadows of the ceiling.

  After standing silently in the corridor for long moments, the priest returned to the closed door and passed his hand over hinges and frame and door latch several times, mouth working soundlessly. When he had finished he nodded, then went briskly up the corridor, bootheels clicking.

  Tiamak and Strangyeard walked close together as they made their way down the hillside. Snow was no longer falling, but it was piled high on the ground; they made slow progress despite the comparatively short distance between the Sithi camp and the fires of the prince’s army.

  “I am going to turn to ice in a moment,” Tiamak said through clicking teeth. “How do your people live like this?”

  Strangyeard was shivering, too. “This is a terrible cold by any measurement. And we have thick walls to hide behind, and fires—the lucky ones do, that is.” He stumbled and went down on his knees in a thick drift. Tiamak helped him back up. The bottom half of the priest’s robe was covered in clinging snow. “I am tempted to curse,” Strangyeard said, and laughed unmerrily; his breath hovered as a cloud.

  “Come, lean on me,” urged Tiamak. The priest’s disarranged hair and sad face tugged at his heart. “One day you must come see the Wran. It is not all pleasant, but it is never cold.”

  “Just n-now that sounds very n-n-nice.”

  The storm clouds had been borne away by the wind, and a salting of dim stars glimmered. Tiamak stared upward. “It looks so close.”

  Strangyeard followed his gaze, stumbled for a moment, then righted himself. The Conqueror Star seemed to hang almost directly over the Hayholt, a burning hole in the darkness with a tail like a smear of blood. “It is close,” the priest said. “I can feel it. Plesinnen wrote that such stars spout bad air over the world. Until n-now, I was never sure whether I believed him—but if there was ever a star that dripped p-pestilence, that is it.” He hugged himself. “I sometimes wonder if these are the final days, Tiamak.”

  The marsh man did not want to think about that. “All the stars here are a little strange. I keep thinking that I recognize the Otter or the Sand Beetle, but they seem stretched and changed.”

  Strangyeard squinted his single eye. “The stars look odd to me, too.” He shivered and lowered his gaze to the knee-high snow. “I am frightened, Tiamak.”

  They staggered on toward the camp, side by side.

  “The worst of it,” said Tiamak, holding his hands close to the fire, “is that we have no better answer to our questions than we did when Morgenes sent the first sparrow to Jarnauga. The Storm King’s plan is a complete puzzle, and so is the one scheme we have to stop him.” The small tent was filling with smoke despite the opening near the top, but at this moment Tiamak did not care; as a matter of fact, it felt somewhat homelike.

  “That is not completely true.” Strangyeard coughed and waved away some of the smoke. “We know a few things—that Minneyar is Bright-Nail, for one.”

  “But that Hernystirman had to come tell us that,” Tiamak said crossly. “You need not feel bad, Strangyeard. From what I heard, you did much to help them locate Thorn. But I have done little to warrant being a member of the League of the Scroll.”

  “You are too hard on yourself,” the archivist said. “You brought the page of Nisses’ book that helped bring back Camaris.”

  “Have you looked into his eyes, Strangyeard? Was that anything other than a curse to him? And now it seems he is losing those wits all over again. We should have left him alone.”

  The priest stood. “Forgive me, but this smoke ...” He pulled the tent flap open and fanned vigorously. A blast of cold air pushed much of the smoke back inside and set them both to shivering anew. “I’m sorry,” he said miserably.

  Tiamak gestured for him to sit down. “It is a little better. My eyes are not stinging so.” He sighed. “And this talk of a Fifth House—did you see how worried the Sithi looked? They may have said they did not know what it meant, but I believe they knew something. They did not like it.” The Wrannaman shrugged his thin shoulders; he had already learned from Aditu that what the Sithi did not want to discuss remained a secret. They were polite, but could be stubbornly vague when they wished. “It matters little, I suppose. The siege begins tomorrow morning, and Camaris and the others will try to make their way inside, and whatever They Who Watch and Shape decide will happen ... it will happen.”

  Strangyeard stared at him, his unpatched eye red-rimmed and watery. “You do not seem to get much solace from your Wran gods, Tiamak.”

  “They are mine,” the marsh man said. “I doubt yours would bring me any greater peace.” He looked up, and was startled by the archivist’s pained expression. “Oh! I am sorry, Strangyeard. I did not mean to be insulting. I am just angry ... and frightened, like you.”

  Please, let me not lose my friends. Then I would have nothing at all!

  “Of course,” the archivist said, then sighed. “And I am no different than you. I cannot escape the feeling that something important is just before me—some simple thing, as you mentioned. I can feel its presence, but I cannot grasp it.” He stared at his knit hands. “It is infuriating. There is some obvious mistake we have made, or will make, I am certain. It is as though I looked back and forth through a well-known book, looking for a page I have often read, but now I cannot find it.” He sighed again. “It is no wonder we are neither of us very happy, my friend.”

  Tiamak warmed briefly at the word ‘friend,’ but then felt his sorrow return. “Something else is worrying me, too,” he told the archivist.

  “What is that?” Strangyeard leaned over and tugged the door flap open for a moment, then let it fall shut.

  “I have realized that I must go down into the deeps with Camaris and the others.”

  “What? Blessed Elysia, Tiamak, what do you mean? You are no warrior.”

  “Exactly. And neither Camaris nor any of the Sithi have read Morgenes’ book, or studied the archives at Naglimund, as you did, nor shared the wisdom of Jarnauga and Dinivan and Valada Geloë. But someone who has must go—otherwise, what if the people of this raiding party secure the swords and cannot guess how to use them? We will not get a second chance.”

  “Oh! Well, then ... mercy! I suppose I should go, since I have had the most time to study these things of anyone remaining.”

  “Yes, Strangyeard, my good drylander friend, of all of us, you know the most about the swords. But you have only one eye, and the sight in that one is not good. And you are many years older than I am, and not so used to climbing and getting in and out of tight places. If Binabik of Yiqanuc were here, I would let him go and wish him well, since he is more learned in these things than I, and at least as capable in other ways—not to mention the least likely to get stuck in a narrow tunnel of any of us.” Tiamak wagged his head sadly. “But Binabik is gone, and the wisewoman Geloë is gone, and all the old Scrollbearers are dead. So it falls to me, I think. You have taught me much in a short time, Strangyeard.” He let out another heartfelt sigh. “I have evil dreams still about being in the ghant nest, of the pictures I saw in my head, of hearing my own voice clacking away in the dark. But I fear this may be worse.”

  After a long silence, the priest went and pawed through his belongings, coming back at last with a skin
bag. “Here. This is a strong drink made from berries. Jarnauga brought it with him to Naglimund: he said it was a shield against the cold.” He laughed nervously. “Cold we certainly have, don’t we? Try a little.” He passed Tiamak the sack.

  The liquor was sweet and fiery. Tiamak swallowed, then took another swig. He passed the bag back to Strangyeard. “It is good, but strange-tasting. I am used to sour fern beer. Try some.”

  “Oh, I think it too potent for me,” the priest stammered. “I wanted you ...”

  “A little will help to keep out the chill—perhaps it will even help set free that elusive thought you spoke of.”

  Strangyeard hesitated, then lifted the sack to his lips. He took a tiny sip and worked it around his mouth, then took a little more. Tiamak was pleased to see he did not choke. “It’s ... hot,” the priest said, wonderingly.

  “It feels that way, does it not?” The Wrannaman sank back against one of the priest’s saddlebags. “Have another, then pass it to me again. I will need more than a few swallows before I work up the nerve to tell Josua what I have decided.”

  The sack was mostly empty. Tiamak had heard the sentries change outside, and knew it must be near midnight. “I should go,” he said. He listened to the words as he formed them, and was proud of how well-articulated they were. “I should go because I need to tell Prince Josua what I will do.”

  “What you will do, yes.” Strangyeard was holding the wineskin by its cord strap and watching it swing back and forth. “That is good.”

  “So in a moment I will get up,” Tiamak pointed out.

  “I wish Geloë were here.”

  “Geloë? Here?” Tiamak frowned. “Drinking this Rimmersgard liquor?”

  “No. Well, I suppose.” Strangyeard reached up his free hand and set the skin swinging again. “Here to talk to us. She was a wise one. Frightening, a little—didn’t she frighten you? Those eyes ...” His forehead creased as he remembered Geloë’s alarming stare. “But solid. Reassuring.”

  “Of course. We miss her.” He got unsteadily to his feet. “Terrible thing.”

  “Why did those ... things do it?” the priest wondered.

  “Kill Geloë?”

  “No, Camaris.” Strangyeard carefully placed the skin on top of a blanket. “Why did they kill Camaris? No.” He smiled, abashed. “I mean ... why did they try to kill Camaris? Just him. Doesn’t make sense.”

  “They wanted to take the sword. Thorn.”

  “Ah,” Strangyeard replied. “Ah. P‘raps so.”

  Tiamak struggled out through the tent flap. The chilly air was like a blow. He looked over at the priest, who had followed him out. “Where are you going?”

  “With you,” Strangyeard said matter-of-factly. “Tell Josua I’m going, too. Down in the tunnels.”

  “No, you’re not.” Tiamak was firm. “That would be a bad idea. I told you before.”

  “I’ll come with you anyway. To talk with him.” The priest’s teeth were already chattering. “Can’t let you walk in the cold by yourself.” He staggered a few steps, then stopped, peering upward, and frowned broadly. “Look at that red star. Mad thing. Causing all this trouble. The stars should leave us alone.” He raised his fist. “We’re not afraid!” he called to the distant spot of light. “Not afraid!”

  “You drank too much,” Tiamak said as he took the archivist’s elbow.

  Strangyeard bobbed his head. “I might have done.”

  Josua watched the archivist and the Wrannaman lurch out of his tent and into the night, then turned to Isgrimnur. “I would never have believed it.”

  “A drunken priest?” The duke yawned despite the tension that roiled his stomach. “That’s nothing strange.” There was a dull pressure behind his eyes. It was past the middle of the night, and the next day promised to be something dreadful. He needed sleep.

  “Perhaps, but a drunken Strangyeard?” Josua shook his head slowly. “I think that Tiamak is right about going, though—and he is, from what you’ve told me, a useful fellow.”

  “Wiry as a hound,” Isgrimnur said. “Brave, too, and so well-spoken I’m still not used to it. I’ll confess, I didn’t think marsh men were that learned. Camaris could do far worse than to take Tiamak, even with his limp. That was a cockindrill bit him there, did you know?”

  Josua’s mind was on other things. “So that is two of our mortal contingent.” He rubbed his temple. “I cannot think any more—it feels like three days have passed since this morning’s sun rose. We will begin the siege tomorrow, and tomorrow evening will be time enough to make the final decision on who shall go.” He rose and looked almost with tenderness at Camaris, who was stretched full-length on a pallet at the far side of the tent, moving fitfully in his sleep. The squire Jeremias, who seemed to attach himself to troubled folk, was curled up on a pile of blankets near the old knight’s feet.

  “Can you find your way back?” Josua asked the duke. “Take the lantern.”

  “I’ll find my way right enough. Isorn will be up telling tales with Sludig and the rest, I have no doubt.” He yawned again. “Wasn’t there a time when we could stay up all night drinking, then fight in the morning, then start drinking all over again?”

  “Maybe for you, Uncle Isgrimnur,” Josua said with a tiny smile. “Never for me. God grant you good rest tonight.”

  Isgrimnur grunted, then picked up the lamp and made his way out of the tent, leaving Josua standing in its center, staring at the sleeping Camaris.

  Outside the storm clouds had dispersed. The stars spread a faint light over the Hayholt’s silent walls. The Conqueror Star seemed to hang just above Green Angel Tower like a flame above a candle.

  Go away, you cursed, ill-omened thing, he demanded, but he knew that it would not comply.

  Shivering in the chill, he stumped slowly through the snow toward his tent.

  “Jeremias! Boy! Wake up!”

  The young squire sat up, fighting his way out of sleep. “What?”

  Josua stood over him, half-dressed. “He’s gone. He’s been gone far too long.” The prince snatched up his sword belt and leaned to pluck his cloak from the floor. “Put on your boots and come help me.”

  “What? Who’s gone, Prince Josua?”

  “Camaris, curse it, Camaris! Come and help me. No, rouse Isgrimnur and find some men to help. Have them bring torches.”

  The prince took a brand from the fire, then turned and pushed out through the door flap. He looked down at the snow, trying to make some sense out of the muddle of footprints. At last he chose a set of tracks that led downhill toward the Kynslagh. Within moments he was beyond the light of the few campfires still burning. The moon had vanished from the sky, but the Conqueror Star still burned like a signal beacon.

  The trail twisted erratically, but within half a furlong it was clear that the footprints had turned toward the cliffs east of the Hayholt’s seawall. Josua looked up to see a pale figure moving along the edge of the shoreline, silhouetted against the wall of empty blackness that was the Kynslagh.

  “Camaris!” Josua called. The figure did not stop, but moved along unsteadily toward the edge, lurching like a puppet with knotted strings. The prince began to run, floundering in the deep snow, then slowed as he reached the cliffs. “Camaris,” he said, his voice deceptively calm. “Where are you going?”

  The old man turned to look at him. He wore no cloak, and his loose shirt flapped in the wind. Even seen by starlight there was something odd in his posture.

  “It is Josua.” The prince lifted his arms as though to embrace the old man. “Come back with me. We will sit by the fire and talk.”

  Camaris stared as though the words were animal noises, then began to make his way down the rocks. Josua hastened forward.

  “Stop! Camaris, where are you going?” He scrambled over the edge, struggling to keep his balance on the muddy slope. “Come back with me.”

  The old knight whirled and pulled Thorn from its scabbard. Although he seemed fearfully confused, he handled the sw
ord with unthinking mastery. His horn Cellian dangled on its baldric, drawing Josua’s eye as it swung back and forth. “It is time,” Camaris whispered. He was barely audible above the waves that slapped on the shore below.

  “You cannot do this.” Josua reached out his hand. “We are not ready. You must wait until the others can go with you.” He advanced a few slithering steps down the slope. “Come back.”

  Camaris abruptly swung the sword in a wide, flat arc; it was nearly invisible in the darkness, but it hissed as it passed the prince’s chest.

  “Aedon’s Blood, Camaris, do you not recognize me?” Josua took a step back. The old man raised the sword for another stroke.

  “It is time!” he said, and swung, this time with deadly aim.

  Josua threw himself backward. His feet skidded from beneath him and he whirled his arms for a moment, struggling for balance, then fell and tumbled down the slope, through long grasses and over mud and stones, landing at last in a drift of dirty snow where he lay for long moments, wheezing in pain.

  “Prince Josua?!” A head appeared at the top of the rise. “Are you down there?”

  Josua dragged himself onto his feet. Camaris had made his way down to the bottom of the hill and onto the beach. Now he was a ghostly shape moving along the cliff face. “I’m here,” he called to Jeremias. “Damn it, where is the duke!?”

  “He’s coming, but I don’t see him yet,” the youth said excitedly. “I ran back after I told him. Shall I come down and help you? Are you hurt?”

  Josua turned and saw Camaris hesitating before one of the black openings in the cliff wall. A moment later he vanished into the hole. “No!” Josua shouted, then called up to Jeremias: “Get Isgrimnur, make him hurry! Tell him Camaris has gone into one of the caves down here—I will mark which one! We will lose him if we wait any longer. I am going to bring him out.”

  “You ... you ...” The squire was confused. “You’re going to follow him?”

  “Damn me, I can’t let him go down there himself—he is mad. Aedon knows what—he might fall, be lost ... I will bring him back somehow, even if I have to outfight him myself and carry him back on my shoulder. But for God’s sake, tell Isgrimnur to hurry with the torches and men. Go on, boy, run!”