The Dragonbone Chair

  “With words and without them,” the prince responded. “You must try to see things with our eyes: to the Zida’ya, your folk often seem as children. You see that the long-lived Sithi do not sleep, that we stay awake throughout the long night of history. You men, like children, wish to remain at the fire with your elders, to hear the songs and stories and watch the dancing.” He gestured around, as though the darkness was peopled with invisible revelers.

  “But you cannot, Simon,” he continued kindly. “You may not. It is given to your folk to sleep the final sleep, just as it is given to our kind to walk and sing beneath the stars the night long. Perhaps there is even a richness in your sleeping dreams that we Zida’ya do not understand.”

  The stars hanging in the black-crystal sky seemed to slide away, to sink deeper into the vast night. Simon thought of the Sithi, and of a life that did not end, and could not make himself understand what it might be like. Chilled to the bone—even, it seemed, to his soul—he leaned close to the fire, pulling off his damp mittens to warm his hands.

  “But the Sithi can d-die, c-c-can’t they?” he asked cautiously, cursing his frozen stuttering speech.

  Jiriki leaned close, his eyes narrowing, and for a frightening moment Simon thought the Sitha was going to strike him for his temerity. Instead, Jiriki took Simon’s trembling hand and tilted it.

  “Your ring,” he said, staring at the fish-shaped curlicue, “I had not seen it before. Who gave you this?”

  “My…my master, I su…suppose he was,” Simon stammered. “Doctor Morgenes of the Hayholt. He sent it after me, to B-B-Binabik.” The cool, strong clutch of the Sithi prince’s hand was unsettling, but he dared not pull away.

  “So you are one of your kind who knows the Secret?” Jiriki asked, watching him intently. The depth of his golden eyes, rust-tinged by the fire’s reflection, was frightening.

  “S-Secret? N-N-No! No, I don’t know any secret!”

  Jiriki stared at him for a moment, holding him still with his eyes as surely as if he had grasped Simon’s head in both hands.

  “Then why should he give you the ring?” Jiriki asked, mostly to himself, shaking his head as he released Simon’s hand. “And I myself gave you a White Arrow! The Ancestors have made for us a strange road indeed.” He turned back to stare at the wavering fire, and would not answer Simon’s questions.

  Secrets, Simon thought angrily, more secrets! Binabik has them. Morgenes had them, the Sithi are full of them! I don’t want to know about any other secrets! Why have I been picked out for this punishment? Why is everyone forever forcing their horrible secrets on me?!

  He cried silently for a while, hugging his knees and shivering, wishing for impossible things.

  They reached the eastern outskirts of the Dimmerskog on the afternoon of the next day. Although the forest was covered in a thick blanket of white snow, it nevertheless seemed, as Binabik had named it, a place of shadows. The company did not pass beneath its eaves, and might have chosen not to even had their path lain that way, so thick with foreboding was the wood’s atmosphere. The trees, despite their size—and some of them were huge indeed—seemed dwarfish and twisted, as though they squirmed bitterly beneath their burden of needled branches and snow. The open spaces between the contorted trunks seemed to bend away crazily like tunnels dug by some huge and drunken mole, leading at last to dangerous, secretive depths.

  Passing in near silence, his horse’s hooves crunching softly in the snow, Simon imagined following the gaping pathways into the barkpillared, white-roofed halls of Dimmerskog, coming at last to—who could guess? Perhaps to the dark, malicious heart of the forest, a place where the trees breathed together and passed endless rumors with the scaly rub of branch on branch, or the malicious exhalation of wind through twigs and frozen leaves.

  They camped that night in the open again, even though the Dimmerskog crouched only a short distance away like a sleeping animal. None of them wanted to spend a night beneath the forest’s branches—especially Sludig, who had been raised on stories of the ghastly things that stalked the wood’s pale corridors. The Sithi did not seem to care, but Jiriki spent part of the evening oiling his dark witchwood sword. Again the company huddled around a naked fire, and the east wind razored past them all the long evening, sending great powdery spouts of snow whirling all around, and sporting among the Dimmerskog’s upper reaches. When they lay down that night to sleep it was to the sound of the forest creaking, and the wind-ridden branches sawing one against the other.

  Two more days of slow riding brought them around the forest and across the last stretch of open, icy land to the foothills of the mountains. The landscape was bleak, and the daylight glared off the snowcrust until Simon’s head throbbed from squinting, but the weather seemed a little warmer. The snow still fell, but the harrying wind did not drive past cloak and coat as it did out of the mountains’ broad lee.

  “Look!” Sludig cried, pointing away up the sloping apron of the foothills.

  At first Simon saw nothing but the ubiquitous snowcapped rocks and trees. Then, as his eye slid along the line of low hills to the east, he saw movement. Two strangely-shaped figures—or was it four, oddly commingled?—were silhouetted on the ridgetop a furlong away.

  “Wolves?” he asked nervously.

  Binabik rode Qantaqa out from the party until they stood clear, then cupped his gloved hands in his mouth. “Yah aqonik mij-ayah nu tutusiq, henimaatuq?” he called. His words echoed briefly and then died amid the shrouded hills. “In truth there should be no shouting,” he whispered to a puzzled Simon. “Higher up it might be the causing of snowslides.”

  “But who are you…?”

  “Sshhh.” Binabik waved his hand. A moment later the two shapes moved down the ridge a short way toward the companions. Now Simon could see that the pair were small men, each astride a shaggy, twist-horned ram. Trolls! One of them called out. Binabik, after listening intently, turned with a smile to his comrades.

  “They wish for knowing where we go, and if that is not being a flesh-eating Rimmersman is our midst, and is he a prisoner?”

  “The devil take them!” Sludig growled. Binabik’s smile widened, and he turned back to the ridge.

  “Binbiniqegabenik ea sikka!” he shouted. “Uc sikkam mo-hinaq da Yijarjuk!”

  The two round fur-hooded heads regarded them blankly for a moment, like sunbeamed owls. A moment later one rapped his chest with his hand, and the other waved his mittened arm in a wide circle as they turned their mounts and rode off up the ridge in a cloud of powdery snow.

  “What was all that?” Sludig asked, nettled.

  Binabik’s grin seemed strained. “I told them we were to go to Urmsheim,” he explained. “One gave the sign to ward off evil, the other was using a charm against madmen.”

  After making their way up into the hills, the company made camp in a rocky dale gouged into the hem of Urmsheim’s mantle.

  “Here it is we should leave the horses, and those things we need not be carrying,” Binabik said as he surveyed the sheltered site.

  Jiriki strode to the mouth of the dale and leaned backward, staring up toward Urmsheim’s craggy, snowcapped head, pink-tinged on its westerly face by the setting sun. The wind billowed his cloak and blew his hair up around his face like wisps of lavender clouds.

  “It has been long since I have seen this place,” he said.

  “Have you climbed this mountain before?” Simon asked, struggling with his horse’s cinch buckle.

  “I have never seen the peak’s far side,” the Sitha answered. “This will be something new for me—to see the easternmost realm of the Hikeda’ya.”

  “The Norns?”

  “Everything north of the mountains was ceded to them long ago, at the time of the Parting.” Jiriki strode back up the gulley. “Ki’ushapo, you and Sijandi must prepare a shelter for the horses. See, there is some scrub growing here, under the leaning rocks, that may be a boon if you run short of hay.” He lapsed over into the Sithi tongue, and
An’nai and the other two began to set up a campsite more permanent than any the company had enjoyed since leaving the hunting lodge.

  “Here, Simon, see what I have brought!” Binabik called.

  The youth made his way past the three soldiers, who were splitting the small trees they had felled into firewood. The troll was squatting on the ground pulling oilskin-wrapped bundles from his saddlebag.

  “The blacksmith at Naglimund thought me as mad as I am small,” Binabik smiled as Simon approached, “but he made for me the things I was wanting.”

  Unlaced, the pouches disgorged all kinds of strange objects—spike-covered metal plates with straps and buckles, odd hammers with pointy heads, and harnesses that looked as though they might be made to fit very small horses.

  “What are all these things?”

  “For the wooing and winning of mountains,” Binabik smirked. “Even the Qanuc, with all our nimblefootedness, do not go climbing to the highest reaches unprepared. See, these are for wearing on boots,” he indicated the spiked plates, “and these are ice-axes—very useful they are. Sludig will have seen them, no doubt.”

  “And the harnesses?”

  “So we may be roping ourselves together. Thus, if the sleet is blowing, or we are on dragon-snow or too-thin ice, when one falls the others can then be bearing up his weight. If there had been the time, I would have made preparation of a harness for Qantaqa, too. She will be upset at staying behind, and we will have a sad parting.” The troll hummed a quiet tune as he oiled and polished.

  Simon stared silently at Binabik’s tools. Somehow he had thought climbing the mountain would be something like climbing the stairs of Green Angel Tower—steeply uphill, but essentially no more than a difficult hike. This talk of people falling, and thin ice…

  “Ho, Simon-lad!” It was Grimmric. “Come make y’rself useful. Pick up some of th’ chippings. We’ll have one last good blaze ‘fore we go (’killing ourselves up-mountain.”

  The white tower again loomed in his dreams that night. He clung desperately to its blood-slickened sides as wolves howled below him, and a dark, red-eyed shape rang the baleful bells above.

  The innkeeper looked up, mouth open to speak, then stopped. He blinked and swallowed, like a frog.

  The stranger was a monk, robed and hooded in black, his garb spattered in places with the mud of the road. What was arresting was his size; he was fairly tall but broad as an ale barrel, wide enough that the tavern room—not the brightest to begin with—had perceptibly darkened when he pushed through the doorway.

  “I…I’m sorry. Father.” The innkeeper smiled ingratiatingly. Here was a man of the Aedonite God who looked as though he could squeeze the sin right out of you if he chose. “What were you asking?”

  “I said I’ve been to every inn on every street in the wharf district, and I’ve had no luck. My back aches. Give me a mug of your best.” He stumped over to a table and lowered his bulk onto a creaking bench. “This damnable Abaingeat has more inns than it has roads.” His accent, the innkeeper noted, was a Rimmersman’s. That explained the raw, pink look of his face: the innkeeper had heard it said that the men of Rimmersgard had such thick beards they had to shave thrice daily—those few who didn’t just let them grow.

  “We are a harbor town, Father,” he said, setting a healthy flagon down before the scowling, rumpled monk. “And with the things that are going on these days—” he shrugged and made a face, “well, there are plenty of strangers wanting rooms.”

  The monk wiped foam from his upper lip and frowned. “I know. A damnable shame. Poor Lluth…”

  The innkeeper looked around nervously, but the Erkynlandish guardsmen in the comer were paying no attention. “You said you have had no luck, Father,” he said, changing the subject. “Might I be asking what you’re seeking?”

  “A monk,” the big man growled, “a brother monk, that is—and a young boy. I have scoured the wharf from top to bottom.”

  The tavernmaster smiled, polishing a metal flagon with his apron. “And you came here last? Begging your pardon. Father, but I think your God’s seen fit to test you.”

  The big man grunted, then looked up from his ale. “What do you mean?”

  “They were here, they were—if it’s the same two.”

  His satisfied smile froze on his face as the monk lurched up from the bench. His reddened face was inches from the innkeeper’s own.

  “When?”

  “T-two, three d-days ago—I’m not sure…”

  “Are you really not sure,” the monk asked menacingly, “or do you just want money?” He patted his robe. The innkeeper did not know if it was a purse or a knife this strange man of God was patting for; he had never much trusted Usires’ followers anyway, and living in Hernystir’s most cosmopolitan town had not improved his opinion of them.

  “Oh, no. Father, truly! They…they were in a few days past. Asked after a boat going down-coast to Perdruin. The monk was a short fellow, bald? The lad thin-faced, black hair? They were here.”

  “What did you tell ’em?”

  “To go see Old Gealsgiath down by the Eirgid Ramh—that’s the tavern with the oar painted on the front door, down near land’s end!”

  He broke off in alarm as the monk’s huge hands folded over his shoulders. The innkeeper, a reasonably strong man, felt himself clasped as securely as a child. A moment later he was reeling from a rib-crushing hug, and could only stand wheezing as the monk pressed a gold Imperator into his hand.

  “Merciful Usires bless your inn, Hernystirman!” the big man bellowed, turning heads clear out in the street. “This is the first piece of luck I have had since I began this God-cursed search!” He crashed out through the doorway like a man leaving a burning house.

  The innkeeper took a painful breath, and clutched the coin, still warm from the monk’s great paw.

  “Mad as a mooncalf, these Aedonites,” he told himself. “Touched.”

  She stood at the railing and watched Abaingeat sliding away, drawing back into the fog. The wind ruffled her close-cropped black hair.

  “Brother Cadrach!” she called. “Come here. Is there anything so glorious?” She gestured at the growing strip of green ocean that separated them from the misty shoreline. Gulls wheeled and screeched above the boat’s foaming wake.

  The monk waved a limp hand from where he crouched beside a clutch of lashed-down barrels. “You enjoy yourself…Malachias. I have never been much of a seafarer. God knows, I do not think this voyage will change that.” He wiped spray—or sweat—from his forehead. Cadrach had not touched a drop of wine since they had set foot on shipboard.

  Miriamele looked up to see a pair of Hernystiri sailors watching her curiously from the foredeck. She dipped her head and walked over to seat herself next to the monk.

  “Why did you come with me?” she asked after a while. “That is something I still do not understand.”

  The monk did not look up. “I came because the lady paid me.”

  Miriamele pulled her hood forward. “There is nothing like the ocean to remind you of what is important,” she said quietly, and smiled. Cadrach’s returned smile was weak.

  “Ah, by the Good Lord, that’s true,” he groaned. “I am reminded that life is sweet, that the sea is treacherous, and that I am a fool.”

  Miriamele nodded solemnly, staring up at the bellying sails. “Those are good things to remember,” she said.

  42

  Beneath the Uduntree

  “There’s no hurrying it, Elias,” Guthwulf growled. “No hurrying. Naglimund’s a tough nut…tough—you knew it’d be…” He could hear himself slurring his words; he had needed to get drunk just to face his old companion. The Earl of Utanyeat no longer felt comfortable around the king, and felt even less so bringing him bad news.

  “You have had a fortnight. I have given you everything—troops, siege engines—everything!” The king pulled at the skin of his face, frowning. He was drawn and sickly, and had not yet met Guthwulf’s eyes. “I can
wait no longer. Tomorrow is Midsummer’s Eve!”

  “And why should that matter?” Guthwulf, feeling chilled and sick, turned away and spit out the now-tasteless lump of citril root he had been chewing. The king’s tent was as cold and dank as the bottom of a well. “No one has ever taken one of the great houses in a fortnight except by treachery, even if they were poorly defended—these Naglimunders have fought like cornered animals. Be patient, Highness; patience is all we need. We can starve them out in a matter of months.”

  “Months!” Elias’ laugh was hollow. “Months, he says, Pryrates!”

  The red priest offered a skeletal smile.

  The king’s laughter abruptly ceased, and he lowered his chin until it almost touched the pommel of the long gray sword propped between his knees. There was something about that sword that Guthwulf did not like, although he knew it was foolish to have such thoughts about a mere thing. Still, everywhere that Elias went these days the sword was with him, like some pampered lapdog. ‘Today is your last chance, Utanyeat.” The High King’s voice was thick and heavy. “Either the gate is opened, or I must make…other arrangements.”

  Guthwulf stood, swaying. “Are you mad, Elias? Are you mad? How can we possibly…the miners have scarcely dug halfway…” He trailed off dizzily, wondering if he’d gone too far. “Why should we care whether tomorrow is Midsummer’s Eve?” He dropped to a knee again, imploring. “Talk to me, Elias.”

  The Earl had feared an explosive response from his angry king, but he had also, distantly, hoped for some faint return of their old camaraderie. He got neither.

  “You cannot understand, Utanyeat,” Elias replied, and his staring red-rimmed eyes were fixed on the tent wall, or empty air. “I have…other obligations. Tomorrow everything will change.”

  Simon had thought he had gained an understanding of winter. After the trek across the desolate blankness of the Waste, the endless white days of wind and snow and stinging eyes, he had been sure there were no further lessons winter could teach him. After the first few days on Urmsheim he was amazed by his former innocence.