“As a matter of fact, Benigaris, I had wished to speak to you of just that …” the old man began, but the duke cut him short.
“First things first, I regret to say. Forgive me my impatience, but we are at war as you know. I am a blunt man.”
Streáwe nodded. “Your straightforwardness is well-known, my friend.”
“Yes. So, to the point, then. Where are my riverboats? Where are my Perdruinese troops?”
The count raised a white eyebrow ever so slightly, but his voice and manner remained unperturbed. “Oh, all are coming, Highness. Never fear. When has Perdruin not honored a debt to her elder sister Nabban?”
“But it has been two months,” Benigaris said with mock sternness. “Streáwe, Streáwe, my old friend … I might almost think that you were putting me off—that for some reason you were trying to stall me.”
This time the count’s eyebrows betrayed no surprise, but nevertheless a subtle, indefinable change ran across his face. His eyes glittered in their net of wrinkled flesh. “I am disappointed that Nabban could think such a thing of Perdruin after our long and honorable partnership.” Streáwe dipped his head. “But it is true that the boats you wish for river transport have been slow in coming—and for that I apologize most abjectly. You see, even with the many messages I have sent back home to Ansis Pellipé, detailing your needs with great care, there is no one who can get things accomplished in the way that I can when I take them in hand personally. I do not wish to malign my servitors, but, as we Perdruinese say, ‘when the captain is below decks, there are many places to stretch a hammock.’” The count brought his long, gnarled fingers up to brush something from his upper lip. “I should go back to Ansis Pellipé, Benigaris. As sad as I should be to lose the company of you and your beloved mother—” he smiled at Nessalanta, “—I feel confident that I could send your riverboats and the troop of soldiers we agree on within a week after returning.” He coughed again, a wracking spasm that went on for some moments before he regained his wind. “And for all the beauty of your palace, it is, as you said, a trifle airier than my own house. My health has worsened here, I fear.”
“Just so,” said Benigaris. “Just so. We all fear for your health, Count. It has been much on my mind of late. And the men and boats, too.” He paused, regarding Streáwe with a smile that seemed increasingly smug. “That is why I could not allow you to leave just now. A sea voyage at this moment—why, your catarrh would certainly worsen. And let me be brutally honest, dear Count … but only because Nabban loves you so. If you were to grow more ill, not only would I hold myself responsible, but certainly it would also slow the arrival of boats and men even more. For if they are haphazard now, with your careful instructions, imagine how laggard they would become with you ill and unable to oversee them at all. There would be many hammocks stretched then, I’m sure!”
Streáwe’s eyes narrowed. “Ah. So you are saying that you think it best I do not leave just now?”
“Oh, dear Count, I am insisting you remain.” Benigaris, tiring at last of the ministrations of his armorer, waved the man away. “I could not forgive myself if I did anything less. Surely after the boats and your troop of soldiers arrive to help us defend against this madman Josua, the weather will have turned warm enough that you can safely travel again.”
The count considered this for a moment, giving every impression of weighing Benigaris’ arguments. “By Pellipa and her bowl,” he said at last, “I can see the sense of what you are saying, Benigaris.” His tight grin displayed surprisingly good teeth. “And I am touched at the concern you show for an old friend of your father’s.”
“I honor you just as I honored him.”
“Indeed.” Streáwe’s smile now became almost gentle. “How lovely that is. Honor is in such short supply in these grim days.” He waved a knobby hand, summoning his bearers. “I suspect that I should send another letter to Ansis Pellipé, urging my castellain and boatwrights to hasten their efforts even more.”
“That sounds like a very good idea, Count. A very good idea.” Benigaris sat back against the throne and finger-brushed his mustache. “Will we see you at table tonight?”
“Oh, I think you will. Where else would I find such kind and considerate friends?” He leaned forward on his chair, sketching a bow. “Duchess Nessalanta—a pleasure as always, gracious lady.”
Nessalanta smiled and nodded. “Count Streáwe.”
The old man was lifted back into his litter. After the curtain was drawn, his four servitors carried him from the throne room.
“I do not think you needed to be so ham-fisted,” said Nessalanta when the count had gone. “He is no danger to us. Since when have sticky-fingered Perdruinese ever wanted more than to earn a little gold?”
“They have been known to accept coins from more than one pocket.” Benigaris lifted his cup. “This way, Streáwe will have a much stronger wish to see us victorious. He is not a stupid man.”
“No, he certainly is not. That is why I don’t understand the need to use such a heavy hand.”
“Everything I know, Mother,” said Benigaris heartily, “I learned from you.”
Isgrimnur was growing annoyed.
Josua could not seem to keep his attention on the matters at hand; instead, every few moments he went to the door of the tent and stared back up the valley at the monastery standing on the hillside, a humble collection of stone buildings that glowed golden-brown in the slanting sunlight.
“She is not dying, Josua,” the duke finally growled. “She is only expecting a child.”
The prince looked up guiltily. “What?”
“You have been staring at that place all afternoon.” He levered his bulk off the stool and walked to Josua’s side, then placed a hand on the prince’s shoulder. “If you are so consumed, Josua, then go to her. But I assure you she is in good hands. What my wife doesn’t know about babies isn’t worth knowing.”
“I know, I know.” The prince returned to the map spread out on the tabletop. “I cannot stop my mind churning, old friend. Tell me what we were talking about.”
Isgrimnur sighed. “Very well.” He bent to the map. “Camaris says there is a shepherd’s trail that runs above the valley. …”
Someone made a discreet noise in the doorway of the tent. Josua looked up. “Ah, Baron. Welcome back. Please come in.”
Seriddan was accompanied by Sludig and Freosel. All exchanged greetings as Josua brought out a jug of Teligure wine. The baron and Josua’s lieutenants bore the marks of a day’s muddy riding.
“Young Varellan has dug in his heels just before Chasu Yarinna,” the baron said, grinning. “He has more grit than I thought. I had expected him to fall back all the way to the Onestrine Pass.”
“And why hasn’t he?” Isgrimnur asked.
Seriddan shook his head. “Perhaps because he feels that once the battle for the pass begins, there is no turning back.”
“That might mean that he is not so sure of our weakness as his brother Benigaris is,” Josua mused. “Perhaps he may prove willing to talk.”
“What is just as likely,” said Sludig, “is that he is trying to keep us out of the pass until Duke Benigaris comes up with reinforcements. Whatever they might have thought of our strength to start with, Sir Camaris has changed their minds, I promise you.”
“Where is Camaris?” Josua asked.
“With Hotvig and the rest up at the front.” Sludig shook his head in wonderment. “Merciful Aedon, I heard all the stories, but I thought they were just cradle songs. Prince Josua, I have never seen anything like him! When he and Hotvig’s horsemen were caught between two wings of Varellan’s knights two days ago, we were all sure that he was as good as dead or captured. But he broke the Nabbanai knights like they were kindling wood! One he cut nearly in half with a single stroke. Sheared right through him, armor and all! Surely that sword is magical!”
“Thorn is a powerful weapon,” said Josua. “But with it or without it, there has never been a knight like Camar
is.”
“His horn Cellian has become a terror to the Nabbanmen,” Sludig continued. “When it echoes down the valley, some of them turn and ride away. And out of every troop Camaris defeats, he takes one of the prisoners and sends him back to say: ‘Prince Josua and the others wish to talk with your lord.’ He has beaten down so many that he must have sent two dozen Nabbanai prisoners back by now, each one carrying the same message.”
Seriddan raised his wine cup. “Here’s to him. If he is a terror now, what must he have been like in the height of his powers? I was a boy when Camaris …” he laughed shortly, “—I almost said ‘died.’ When he disappeared. I never saw him.”
“He was little different,” Isgrimnur said thoughtfully. “That is what surprises me. His body has aged, but his skills and fighting heart have not. As though his powers have been preserved.”
“As though for one final test,” Josua said, measuring out the words. “God grant that it is so—and that he succeeds, for all our sakes.”
“But I am puzzled.” Seriddan took another sip. “You have told me that Camaris hates war, that he would rather do anything than fight. Yet I have never seen such a killing engine.”
Josua’s smile was sad, his look troubled. “Camaris at war is like a lady’s maid swatting spiders.”
“What?” Seriddan lowered his eyebrows and squinted, wondering if he was being mocked.
“If you tell a maid to go and kill the spiders in her lady’s chamber,” the prince explained, “she will think of a hundred excuses not to do anything. But when she is finally convinced that it must be done, no matter the horror she feels, she will dispatch every single spider with great thoroughness, just to make sure she does not have to take up the task again.” His faint smile disappeared. “And that is Camaris. The only thing he hates worse than warfare is unnecessary warfare—especially killings which could have been avoided by making a clean ending the first time. So once he is committed, Camaris makes sure that he does not have to do the same thing twice.” He raised his glass in salute to the absent knight. “Imagine how it must feel to do best in all the world what you least wish to do.”
After that, they drank their wine in silence for a time.
Tiamak limped out across the terrace. He found a place on the low wall and hoisted himself up, then sat with his legs dangling and basked in the late afternoon light. The Frasilis Valley stretched before him, two rippling banks of dark soil and gray-green treetops with the Anitullean Road snaking between them. If he narrowed his eyes, Tiamak could make out the shapes of Josua’s tents nestled in the purple shadows of the hillside to the southwest.
My companions may think we Wrannamen live like savages, he thought to himself, but I am as happy as anyone to be in one place for a few days and to have a solid roof over my head.
One of the monks walked by, hands folded in his sleeve. He gave Tiamak a look that lasted the length of several steps, but only nodded his head in formal greeting.
The monks do not seem happy to have us here. He felt himself smiling. Unwilling as they are to be caught up in a war, how much more dubious must they be about having women and marsh men within the cloisters, too?
Still, Tiamak was glad that Josua had chosen this spot as a temporary refuge, and that he had allowed his wife and many others to remain here as the army moved farther down the gorge. The Wrannaman sighed as he felt the cool, dry breeze, the sunshine on his face. It was good to have shelter, even for just a little while. It was good that the rains had let up, that the sun had returned.
But as Josua said, he reminded himself, it means nothing. A respite is all—the Storm King has not been slowed by anything we have done so far. If we cannot solve the riddles before us, if we cannot gain the swords and learn how to use them, this moment of peace will mean nothing. The deadly winter will return—and there will be no sunshine then. He Who Always Steps on Sand, let me not fail! Let Strangyeard and me find the answers we seek!
But answers were becoming fewer and farther between. The search was a responsibility that had begun to feel more and more burdensome. Binabik was gone, Geloë was dead, and now only Tiamak and the diffident priest remained of all the Scrollbearers and other wise ones. Together they had pored over Morgenes’ manuscript, searching it minutely from one end to the other in hope of finding some clues they had missed, some help with the riddle of the Great Swords. They had also scrutinized the translated scrolls of Binabik’s master Ookequk, but so far these had provided nothing but a great deal of trollish wisdom, most of which seemed to concern predicting avalanches and singing down the spirits of frostbite.
But if Strangyeard and I do not find more success soon, Tiamak thought grimly, we may have more need of Ookequk’s wisdom than we will like.
In the past few days, Tiamak had set Strangyeard to relate every bit of information that the archivist possessed about the Great Swords and their undead enemy—his own book-learning, the things old Jarnauga had taught him, the experiences of the youth Simon and his companions, everything that had happened in the last year that might contain some clue to their dilemma. Tiamak prayed that a pattern might show somewhere, as the ripples in a river demonstrated the presence of a rock beneath the surface. In all the lore of these wise men and women, these adventurers and accidental witnesses, someone must know something of how to use the Great Swords.
Tiamak sighed again and wiggled his toes. He longed to be just a little man with little problems again. How important those problems had seemed! And how he longed to have only those problems now. He held up his hand and looked at the play of light across his knuckles, a gnat that crept across the thin dark hairs on his wrist. The day was deceptively pleasant, just like the surface of a stream. But there was no question that rocks or worse lay hidden beneath.
“Please lie back, Vorzheva,” said Aditu.
The Thrithings-woman made a face. “Now you talk like Josua. It is only a little pain.”
“You see what she’s like.” Gutrun wore an air of grim satisfaction. “If I could tie her to that bed, I would.”
“I do not think that she needs to be tied to anything,” the Sitha woman replied. “But Vorzheva, neither is there any dishonor in lying down when you are in pain.”
The prince’s wife reluctantly slumped back against the cushions and allowed Gutrun to pull the blanket up. “I was not raised to be weak.” In the light filtering down from the high small window she was very pale.
“You are not weak. But both your life and the child’s life are precious,” Aditu said gently. “When you feel well and strong, move around as you like. When you are hurting or weak, lie down and let Duchess Gutrun or me help you.” She stood and took a few steps toward the door.
“You are not going to leave?” Vorzheva asked in dismay. “Stay and talk to me. Tell me what is happening outside. Gutrun and I have been in this room all day. Even the monks do not speak to us. I think they hate women.”
Aditu smiled. “Very well. My other tasks can wait in such a good cause.” The Sitha seated herself upon the bed once more, folding her legs beneath her. “Duchess Gutrun, if you wish to stretch your legs, I will be here to sit with Vorzheva for a little while longer.”
Gutrun sniffed dismissively. “I’m just where I should be.” She turned back to her sewing.
Vorzheva reached out her hand and clasped Aditu’s fingers. “Tell me what you have seen today. Did you go to Leleth?”
The Sitha nodded, her silver-white hair swinging. “Yes. She is just a few rooms away—but there is no change. And she is growing very thin. I mix nurturing herbs with the small draughts of water she will swallow, but even that is not enough, I fear. Something still tethers her to her body—to look at her she seems only to be sleeping—but I wonder how much longer that tie will hold.” A troubled look seemed to pass over Aditu’s alien face. “This is another way that Geloë’s passing has lessened us. Surely the forest woman would know some root, some leafy thing that might draw Leleth’s spirit back.”
“I??
?m not sure,” Gutrun said without looking up. “That child was never more than half here—I know, and I cared for her and held her as much as anyone. Whatever happened to her in the forest when she traveled with Miriamele, those dogs and merciful Usires only knows what else, it took a part of her away.” She paused. “It’s not your fault, Aditu. You’ve done all that anyone could, I’m sure.”
Aditu turned to look at Gutrun, but betrayed no change of expression at the duchess’ conciliatory tone. “But it is sad,” was all she said.
“Sad, yes,” Gutrun replied. “God’s wishes often make His children sad. We just don’t understand, I suppose, what He plans. Surely after all she suffered, He has something better in mind for little Leleth.”
Aditu spoke carefully. “I hope that is so.”
“And what else do you have to tell me?” Vorzheva asked. “I guessed about Leleth. You would have told me first if there was any new thing.”
“There is not much else to relate. The Duke of Nabban’s forces have fallen back a little farther, but soon they will stop and fight again. Josua and the others are trying to arrange a truce so that they can stop the fighting and talk.”
“Will these Nabbanai talk to us?”
Aditu shrugged sinuously. “I sometimes wonder if I understand even the mortals I know best. As to those who are completely strange to me … I certainly cannot offer any firm idea as to what these men may do. But the Nabbanai general is a brother of the ruling duke, I am told, so I doubt that he will be very sympathetic to anything your husband has to say.”
Vorzheva’s face contorted. She gasped, but then waved the solicitous Aditu back. “No, I am well. It was just a squeezing.” After a moment she took a deep breath. “And Josua? How is he?”
The Sitha looked to Gutrun, who raised her eyebrows in a gesture of amused helplessness. “He was just here this morning, Vorzheva,” the duchess said. “He is not in the fighting.”
“He is well,” Aditu added. “He asked me to send his regards.”