“I am not sure. The way my head feels, I cannot ride at anything like speed.”
“Then go with me,” the count said as he rose. “We are in no hurry, now.”
“Be well, Eolair.”
“And you. If you like, I’ll come back later with some of that Sithi wine. It would do you miles of good, and take the sting of that wound away.”
“It will take more than that away,” Isorn laughed. “My wits will go, too. But I do not care. I am going nowhere, and am expected to do nothing. Bring the wine when you can.”
Eolair patted the younger man’s shoulder, then pushed out through the door flap into the biting wind.
As he reached the place where Maegwin lay, he was struck again by the power of Sithi craft. Isorn’s small tent was well-made and sturdy, but cold air crept in on all sides and melting snow seeped through at the base. Maegwin’s tent was of Sithi make, since Jiriki had wished her to rest in as much comfort as she could, and though its glistening cloth was so thin as to be translucent, stepping across the threshold was like walking into a well-built house. The storm that gripped Naglimund could have been leagues away.
But why should that be so, Eolair wondered, when the Sithi themselves seemed almost unaware of cold or damp?
Kira’athu looked up as Eolair entered. Maegwin, stretched out on the pallet beneath a thin blanket, was moving restlessly, but her eyes were still closed and the deathlike pallor had not left her face.
“Any change?” Eolair asked, knowing the answer already.
The Sitha gave a small, sinuous shrug. “She is fighting, but I do not think she has the strength to break the grip of whatever has her.” The Sitha seemed emotionless, her golden eyes unrevealing as a cat’s, but the count knew how much time she spent at Maegwin’s side. They were just different, these immortals; it was senseless trying to judge them by their faces and even voices. “Has she spoken any words to you?” Kira’athu asked suddenly.
Eolair watched as Maegwin’s fingers clawed at the blanket, scrabbling for something that was not there. “She has spoken, yes, but I could not hear her well. And what I did hear was only babble. There were no words in it I recognized.”
The Sitha raised a silvery eyebrow. “I thought I heard …” She turned to look at her ward, whose mouth now moved soundlessly.
“Thought you heard what?”
“The speech of the Garden.” Kira’athu spread her hands, curving the fingers to meet the thumbs. “What you would call Sithi speech.”
“It is possible that she learned some in the time we have all traveled and fought together.” Eolair moved closer. It tugged at his heart to see Maegwin’s hands searching restlessly.
“It is possible,” the healer agreed. “But it seemed spoken as the Zida’ya would speak it … almost.”
“What do you mean?” Eolair was confused and more than a little irritated.
Kira’athu rose. “Forgive me. I should speak to Jiriki and Likimeya about it rather than trouble you. And it matters little, in any case, I think. I am sorry, Count Eolair. I wish I could give you happier news.”
He sat down on the ground at Maegwin’s side. “It is not your fault. You have been very kind.” He reached out his hand so Maegwin could grip it, but her cold fingers moved skittishly away. “Bagba bite me, what does she want?”
“Is there something she usually carries with her or wears about her neck?” Kira’athu asked. “Some amulet or other thing that gives her comfort?”
“I can think of nothing like that. Perhaps she needs water.”
The Sitha shook her head. “I have given her to drink.”
Eolair leaned down and began fumbling absently in the saddlebags that contained the strew of Maegwin’s belongings. He took out a scarf of warm wool and pressed it into her hands, but Maegwin only held it a moment before pushing it away. Her hands began to search again as she murmured wordlessly in her throat.
Desperate to give Maegwin some kind of comfort, he began to pull other things out of the bags, placing them one at a time beneath her fingers—a bowl, a wooden bird that had apparently come from the Taig’s Hall of Carvings, even the hilt of a sheathed knife. Eolair was not very happy to find this last. Afraid that with her mind clouded she might do herself an injury, he had forbidden her to bring it from Hernysadharc. Maegwin had apparently flouted his orders. But none of these things, nor the other small objects he gave to her, seemed to soothe her. She pushed them away, the movements of her hands angry and abrupt as a small child’s, although her face was still empty.
His fingers closed on something heavy. He lifted it out and stared at the chunk of cloudy stone.
“What is that?” Kira’athu was surprisingly sharp.
“It was a gift from the dwarrows.” He lifted it so she could see its face. “See, Yis-fidri carved Maegwin’s name upon it—or so he told me.”
Kira’athu took the stone from him and turned it in her slender fingers. “That is indeed her name. Those are the craft-runes of the Tinukeda’ya. Dwarrows, do you say?”
Eolair nodded. “I led Jiriki to their place in the earth, Mezutu’a.” He took the stone back and held it, weighing it, watching the firelight become confused in its depths. “I did not know she had this with her.”
Maegwin suddenly moaned, a deep sound that made the count flinch. He turned hurriedly to the bed. She made another sound which seemed to have words in it.
“Lost,” Kira’athu murmured, moving closer.
Eolair’s heart clenched. “What do you mean?”
“That is what she said. She is speaking in the Garden-tongue.”
The count stared at Maegwin’s furrowed brow. Her mouth moved again, but no sound came but a wordless hiss; her head whipped from side to side upon the pillow. Suddenly, her hands reached out and scrabbled at Eolair’s. When he released the stone to take them, she snatched it from him and pulled it against her breasts. Her feverish writhing subsided and she fell silent. Her eyes were still closed, but she seemed to have fallen back into a more peaceful sleep.
Eolair watched, dumbfounded. Kira’athu bent over her and touched her brow, then smelled her breath.
“Is she well?” the count asked finally.
“She is no closer to us. But she has found a little rest for a while. I think that stone was what she sought.”
“But why?”
“I do not know. I will speak to Likimeya and her son, and anyone else who might have some knowledge. But it changes nothing, Eolair. She is the same. Still, perhaps where she walks, on the Dream Road or elsewhere, she is less afraid. That is something.”
She pulled the blanket up over Maegwin’s hands, which now clasped the dwarrow-stone as though it were a part of her.
“You should rest yourself, Count Eolair.” The Sitha moved to the doorway. “You will be no good to her if you fall ill as well.”
A breath of cold air moved through the tent as the flap opened and closed.
Isgrimnur watched Lector Velligis leave the throne room. The huge man’s litter was carried by eight grimacing guards, and was led out, as it had been led in, by a procession of priests bearing sacred objects and smoking censers. Isgrimnur thought they resembled a traveling fair on its way to a new village. Spared kneeling by his injuries, he had watched the new lector’s performance from a chair against the wall.
Camaris, for all his noble look, appeared uncomfortable on the high ducal throne. Josua, who had kneeled beside the chair while Lector Velligis offered his blessing, now rose.
“So.” The prince dusted his knees with his hand. “Mother Church recognizes our victory.”
“What choice did Mother Church have?” Isgrimnur growled. “We won. Velligis is one of those who always puts his money on the favorite—any favorite.”
“He is the lector, Duke Isgrimnur,” said Camaris sternly. “He is God’s minister on earth.”
“Camaris is right. Whatever he was before, he has been elevated to the Seat of the Highest. He deserves our respect.”
&
nbsp; Isgrimnur made a noise of disgust. “I’m old and I hurt and I know what I know. I can respect the Seat without loving the man. Did taking the Dragonbone Chair make your brother a good king?”
“No one ever claimed a kingship made its possessor infallible.”
“Try telling that to most kings,” snorted Isgrimnur.
“Please.” Camaris raised his hand. “No more. This is a wearisome day, and there is more yet to be done.”
Isgrimnur looked at the old knight. He did look tired, in a way that the duke had never seen. It would have seemed that freeing Nabban from his brother’s killer should have brought Camaris joy, but instead it seemed to have sapped the life from him.
It’s as if he knows he’s done one of the things he’s meant to do—but only one. He wants to rest, but he can’t yet. The duke thought he finally understood. I’ve wondered why he was so strange, so distant. He does not wish to live. He is only here because he believes God wishes him to finish the tasks before him. Clearly any questioning of God’s will, even the infallibility of the lector, was difficult for Camaris. He thinks of himself as a dead man. Isgrimnur suppressed a shudder. It was one thing to yearn for rest, for release, but another to feel that one was already dead. The duke wondered momentarily whether Camaris might, more than any of them, understand the Storm King.
“Very well,” Josua was saying. “There is one person left we must see. I will speak to him, Camaris, if you do not mind. I have been thinking about this for some time.”
The old knight waved his hand, uncaring. His eyes were like ice chips beneath his thick brows.
Josua signaled a page and the doors were thrown open. As Count Streáwe’s litter was carried in, Isgrimnur sat back and picked up the mug of beer he had hidden behind his chair. He took a long sip. Outside it was afternoon, but the chamber’s ceiling-high windows were barred against the storm that lashed the seas beneath the palace, and torches burned in the wall sconces. Isgrimnur knew that the room was painted in delicate colors of sea and sand and sky, but in the torchlight all was muddy and indistinct.
Streáwe was lifted from his litter and his chair was set down at the base of the throne. The count smiled and bowed his head. “Duke Camaris. Welcome back to your rightful home. You have been missed, my lord.” He swiveled his white head. “And Prince Josua and Duke Isgrimnur. I am honored that you have summoned me. This is noble company.”
“I am not a duke, Count Streáwe,” said Camaris. “I have taken no title, but only revenged my brother’s death.”
Josua stepped forward. “Do not mistake his modesty, Count. Camaris does rule here.”
Streáwe’s smile broadened, deepening the wrinkles around his eyes. Isgrimnur thought he looked like the most grandfatherly grandfather that God ever made. He wondered if the count practiced before a looking glass. “I am glad you took my advice, Prince Josua. As you see, there were indeed many folk unhappy with Benigaris’ rule. Now there is joy in Nabban. As I came up from the docks, people were dancing in the public square.”
Josua shrugged. “That is more to do with the fact that Baron Seriddan and the others have sent their troops into the town with money to spend. This city did not suffer much because of Benigaris, difficult as times are. Patricide or no, he seems to have ruled fairly well.”
The count eyed him for a moment, then appeared to decide a different approach was warranted. Isgrimnur found himself enjoying the show. “No,” Streáwe said slowly, “you are correct there. But people know, don’t you think? There was a sense that things were not right, and many rumors that Benigaris had slain his father—your dear brother, Sir Camaris—to achieve the throne. There were problems that were certainly not all Benigaris’ fault, but there was also much unrest.”
“Unrest which you and Pryrates both helped to kindle, then fanned the flames.”
Perdruin’s ruler looked genuinely shocked. “You link me with Pryrates!?” For a moment his courtly mask fell away, showing the angry, iron-willed man beneath. “With that red-cloaked scum? If I could walk, Josua, we would cross swords for that.”
The prince stared at him coldly for a moment, then his face softened. “I do not say you and Pryrates worked in concert, Streáwe, but that you each exploited the situation for your own ends. Very different ends, I’m sure.”
“If that is what you meant, then I name myself guilty and throw myself on the mercy of the throne.” The count seemed mollified. “Yes, I work in the ways I can to protect my island’s interests. I have no armies to speak of, Josua, and I am always prey to the whims of my neighbors. ‘When Nabban rolls over in its sleep,’ it is said in Ansis Pellipé, ‘Perdruin falls out of bed.’”
“Well argued, Count,” Josua laughed. “And quite true, as far as it goes. But it is also said that you are perhaps the wealthiest man in Osten Ard. All the result of your vigilance on Perdruin’s behalf?”
Streáwe drew himself up straighter. “What I have is none of your business. I understood you sought me as an ally, not to insult me.”
“Spare me your false dignity, my good Count. I find it hard to believe that calling you wealthy is an insult. But you are right about one thing: we wish to speak with you about certain matters of mutual interest.”
The count bobbed his head solemnly. “That is better to hear, Prince Josua. You know that I support you—remember the note I sent with my man Lenti!—and I am anxious to speak about ways that I can help you.”
“That we can help each other, you mean.” Josua raised his hand to still Streáwe’s protest. “Please, Count, let us avoid the usual dancing. I am in a fierce hurry. There, I have given up a bargaining token already by telling you so. Now please do not waste our time with false protestations of this or that.”
The old man’s lips pursed and his eyes narrowed. “Very well, Josua. I find myself oddly interested. What do you want?”
“Ships. And sailors to man them. Enough to ferry our armies to Erkynland.”
Surprised, Streáwe waited a moment before replying. “You intend to set sail for Erkynland now? After fighting fiercely for weeks to take Nabban, and with the worst storm in years sweeping down on us out of the north even as we speak?” He gestured toward the shuttered windows; outside, the wind wailed across the Sancellin Hill. “It was so cold last night that the water froze in the Hall of Fountains. The Clavean Bell barely rang over God’s house, it was so icy. And you wish to go to sea?”
Isgrimnur felt a clutch of shock at the count’s mention of the bell. Josua turned for a moment and caught the Rimmersman’s eye, warning him not to speak. Obviously he, too, remembered Nisses’ prophetic poem.
“Yes, Streáwe,” said the prince. “There are storms and storms. We must brave some to survive others. I will take ship as soon as I can.”
The count lifted his hands, showing open, empty palms. “Very well, you know your own business. But what would you have me do? Perdruin’s ships are not warships, and they are all at sea. Surely Nabban’s great fleet is what you need, not my trading vessels.” He gestured to the throne. “Camaris is master of the Kingfisher House now.”
“But you are master of the docks,” Josua replied. “As Benigaris said, he thought you were his prisoner, but all the time you were gnawing him away from within. Did you use some of that gold they say fills the catacombs below your house on Sta Mirore? Or something more subtle—rumors, stories …?” He shook his head. “It matters not. The thing is, Streáwe, you can help us or hinder us. I wish to discuss with you your price, whether in power or gold. There is provisioning to do as well. I want those ships loaded and on their way in seven days or less.”
“Seven days?” The count showed surprise for the second time. “That will not be easy. And you have heard about the kilpa, have you not? They are running like quinis-fish—but quinis-fish do not pull sailors over the rails and eat them. Men are reluctant to go to sea in these dark days.”
“So we have started the bargaining?” Josua asked. “Granted and granted. Times are difficult. What do y
ou want, power or gold?”
Abruptly, Streáwe laughed. “Yes, we have started bargaining. But you underestimate me, Josua, or you undervalue your own coffers. You have something that might be more use to me than either gold or power—something that in fact brings both in its train.”
“And what is that?”
The count leaned forward. “Knowledge.” He sat up, a slow smile spreading across his face. “So now I have given you a bargaining token in return for your earlier gift.” The count rubbed his hands in barely restrained enjoyment. “Let us speak in earnest, then.”
Isgrimnur groaned softly as Josua sat down beside Perdruin’s master. Despite the prince’s stated hurry, it was indeed going to be a complicated dance. This was clearly something Streáwe enjoyed too much to do quickly, and something Josua took too seriously to be rushed through. Isgrimnur turned to look at Camaris, who had been silent during the whole discussion. The old knight was staring at the shuttered windows as if they were an intricately absorbing picture, his chin resting on his hand. Isgrimnur made another noise of pain and reached for his beer. He sensed a long evening ahead.
Miriamele’s fear of the dwarrows was dwindling. She was beginning to remember what Simon and others had told her of Count Eolair’s journey to Sesuad’ra. The count had met dwarrows—he called them domhaini—in the mines below Hernystir’s mountains. He had called them friendly and peaceful, and that seemed to be true: except for snatching her from the stairs, they had not harmed her. But they still would not let her go.
“Here.” She gestured to the saddlebags. “If you are so certain that something I am carrying is harmful, or dangerous, or … or whatever, search for yourselves.”
As the dwarrows conferred in anxious, chiming voices, Miriamele considered escape. She wondered if dwarrows ever slept. But where had they brought her? How could she find her way out, and where would she go then? At least she still had the maps, although she doubted she could read them as efficiently as Binabik had.