“I came late to these matters, in a way.” Tiamak made himself comfortable. The rocking of the ship, however pronounced, was not that different from the way the wind rattled his house in the banyan tree. “If you had asked me a year ago what chance there was that I would be aboard a boat sailing for Erkynland to conquer the High King—that I would be a Scrollbearer, that I would have seen Camaris reborn, been captured by the ghants, saved by the Duke of Elvritshalla and the High King’s daughter …” He waved his hand. “You see what I am saying. Everything that has happened to us is madness, but when we look back, it all seems to have followed logically from one moment to the next. Perhaps someday capturing and using the swords will seem just as clear in its sense.”
“That is a nice thought.” Strangyeard sighed and pushed his eyepatch, which had shifted slightly, back into place. “I like things better when they have already happened. Books may differ, one from the other, but at least most every book claims to know the truth and set it out clearly.”
“Someday we will perhaps be in someone else’s book,” Tiamak offered, smiling, “and whoever writes it will be very certain about how everything came to pass. But we do not have that luxury now.” He leaned forward. “Now where is the part of the doctor’s manuscript that tells of the forging of Sorrow?”
“Here, I think.” Strangyeard shuffled through one of the many piles of parchment scattered about the room. “Yes, here.” He lifted it to the light, squinting. “Shall I read something to you?”
Tiamak held out his hand. He had an immense fondness for the Archive Master, a closeness he had not felt to anyone since old Doctor Morgenes. “No,” he said gently, “let me read. Let us not put your poor eyes to any more work tonight.”
Strangyeard mumbled something and gave him the sheaf of parchment.
“It is this bit about the Words of Making that sticks in my head,” Tiamak said. “Is it possible that all these swords were made with these same powerful Words?”
“But why would you think so?” Strangyeard asked. His face became intent. “Nisses’ book, at least as Morgenes quotes it, does not seem to say that. All the swords came from different places, and one was forged by mortals.”
“There must be something that links them all together,” Tiamak replied, “and I can think of nothing else. Why else should possessing them all give us such power?” He shuffled through the parchments. “Great magic went into their forging. It must be this magic that will bring us power over the Storm King!”
As he spoke, the song of a Niskie rose outside, piercing the mournful sound of the winds. The melody throbbed with wild power, an alien sound even more disturbing than the distant rumble of thunder.
“If only there were someone who knew of the swords’ forging,” Tiamak murmured in frustration; his eyes stared at Morgenes’ precise, ornate characters, but did not really see them. The Niskie song rose higher, then vibrated and fell away on a note of keening loss. “If only we could speak to the dwarrows who made Minneyar—but Eolair says they were far to the north, many leagues beyond the Hayholt. And the Nabbanai smiths who forged Thorn are centuries dead.” He frowned. “So many questions we have, and still so few answers. This is tiring, Strangyeard. It seems that every step forward takes us two paces back into confusion.”
The archivist was silent while Tiamak looked for the well-thumbed pages that described Ineluki creating Sorrow in the forges below Asu’a. “Here it is,” he said at last. “I will read.”
“Just a moment,” said Strangyeard. “Perhaps the answer to one is the answer to both.”
Tiamak looked up. “What do you mean?” He dragged his thoughts away from the page before him.
“Your other idea was that somehow we have been purposely kept in confusion—that the Storm King has played Elias and Josua off against each other while he pursued some goal of his own.”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps it is not just some secret goal he has that he wishes to conceal. Perhaps he also tries to hide the secret of the Three Swords.”
Tiamak felt a glimmer of understanding. “But if all the contention between Josua and the High King has been arranged just to keep us from understanding how to use the swords, it might mean that the answer is quite simple—something we would quickly see if we were not distracted.”
“Exactly!” Strangyeard, in pursuit of an idea, had lost his usual reticence. “Exactly. Either there is something so simple that we could not fail to see it if we were not caught up in the day-to-day struggle, or there is someone or someplace vital to us that we cannot reach as long as this war between brothers continues.”
They Who Watch and Shape, marveled Tiamak, it is good to have someone to share my thoughts with—someone who understands, who questions, who searches for meaning! For a moment he did not even miss his home in the swamp. Aloud, he said: “Wonderful, Strangyeard. It is something well worth considering.”
The archivist colored, but spoke confidently. “I remember when we were first fleeing Naglimund, Deornoth said that the Norns seemed to wish to keep us from going certain directions—at that time it was deeper into Aldheorte. Instead of trying to kill us, or capture us, they seemed to try to … drive us.” The priest wiped absently at his chill-reddened nostrils, not yet recovered from the sojourn on deck. “I think perhaps they were keeping us from the Sithi.”
Tiamak put the pages he was holding down: there would be time enough for them later. “So perhaps there is something the Sithi know—perhaps even they do not realize it! He Who Always Steps on Sand, how I wish we had questioned young Simon more closely about his time with the immortals.” Tiamak stood up and moved toward the cabin door. “I will go tell Sludig that we wish to talk to Aditu.” He stopped. “But I do not know how she could cross from one ship to another. The seas are so dangerous now.”
Strangyeard shrugged. “It will do no harm to ask.”
Tiamak paused, tilting back and forth with the ship’s movement, then abruptly sat down again. “It can wait until the morning, when it would be a safe crossing. There is much we can do first.” He picked up the parchments again. “It could be anything, Strangyeard—anything! We must think back on all the places we have been, the people we have met. We have been reacting to only what was in front of us. Now it is up to you and me to think on what we did not see while we were busy watching the spectacle of pursuit and war.”
“We should talk to others, too. Sludig himself has seen much, and certainly Isgrimnur and Josua should be questioned. But we do not even know what questions to ask.” The priest sighed and shook his head mournfully. “Merciful Aedon, but it is a pity that Geloë is not here with us. She would know where to begin.”
“But she is not, as you said, and neither is Binabik. So we must do it on our own. This is our fearful duty, just as it is Camaris’ task to swing a sword, and Josua’s to bear the burdens of leadership.” Tiamak looked at the untidy mess of writings in his lap. “But you are right: it is hard to know where to begin. If only someone could tell us more about the forging of these swords. If only that knowledge had not been lost.”
As the two sat, lost for a moment in glum silence, the Niskie’s voice rose again, cutting through the clamor of the storm like a sharp blade.
At first the very size of the thing prevented Miriamele from understanding what it was. Its dawn-colored brilliance and massive velvety petals, the dew drops sparkling like glass globes, even the thorns, each one a great spike of dark curving wood, all seemed things that must be absorbed and considered individually. It was only after a long while—or what seemed a long while—that she could comprehend that the vast thing spinning slowly before her eyes was … a rose. It revolved as though its stem were being twirled by gigantic yet invisible fingers; its scent was so powerful that she felt the whole universe choked in perfume, and yet even as it smothered her, it filled her with life.
The wide, unbroken plain of grass above which the rose turned began to shudder. The sod buckled upward beneath the mighty bloom; gray
stones appeared, tall and angular, pushing up through the earth like moles nosing toward sunlight. As they burst free, and as she saw for the first time that the long stones were joined at the bottom, she realized that what she saw was a huge hand pushing up from below the world’s surface. It lifted, grass and clotted dirt tumbling away; the stony fingers spread wide, encircling the rose. A moment later the hand closed and squeezed. The huge rose ceased turning, then slowly vanished in the crushing grip. A single wide petal scudded slowly from side to side as it floated to the ground. The rose was dead. …
Miriamele struggled up, blinking, her heart rattling inside her chest. The cavern was dark but for the faint pink glow of a few of the dwarrow’s crystals, as it had been when she had drifted off to sleep. Nevertheless, she could tell something was different.
“Yis-fidri?” she called. A shape detached itself from the wall nearby and moved toward her, head bobbing.
“He still has not returned,” said Yis-hadra.
“What happened?” Miriamele’s head was throbbing as though she had been struck a blow. “Something just happened.”
“It was very strong, this one.” Yis-hadra was clearly upset: her immense eyes were wider than usual and her long fingers twitched spasmodically. “Some … change is happening here—a change in the bones of the earth and in the heart of Asu’a.” She sought for words. “It has been happening for some time. Now it grows stronger.”
“What kind of change? What are we going to do?”
“We do not know. But we will do nothing until Yis-fidri and the others are come back.”
“The whole place is falling down around our ears … and you’re not going to do anything?! Not even run away?”
“It is not … falling down. The changing is different.” Yis-hadra laid a trembling hand on Miriamele’s arm. “Please. My people are frightened. You make it worse.”
Before Miriamele could say anything else, a strange silent rumble moved through her, a sound too low to hear. The entire chamber seemed to shift—for a moment, even Yis-hadra’s odd, homely face became something unliving, and the roseate light from the dwarrow’s batons deepened and chilled to glaring white, then azure. Everything seemed to be skewed. Miriamele felt herself slipping away sideways, as though she had lost her grip on the spinning world.
A moment later, the crystal lights warmed again and the cavern was once more as it had been.
Miriamele took several shaky breaths before she could speak. “Something … very bad … is happening.”
Yis-hadra rose from her crouch, swaying unsteadily. “I must see to the others. Yis-fidri and I try to keep them from becoming too fearful. Without the Shard, without the Pattern Hall, there is little left to hold us together.”
Shivering, Miriamele watched the dwarrow go. The mass of stone all around her felt like the confining walls of a tomb. Whatever Josua and old Jarnauga and the others had feared was now happening. Some wild power was coursing through the stones beneath the Hayholt just as blood ran through her own body. Surely there was only a little time left.
Is this where it will end for me? she wondered. Down here in the dark, and never knowing why?
Miriamele did not remember falling asleep again, but she awakened—more gently this time—sitting upright along the cavern wall, pillowed against the hood of her cloak. Her neck was sore, and she rubbed it for a moment until she saw someone squatting by her pack, a dim outline in the faint rose light of the dwarrow-crystals.
“You there! What are you doing?”
The figure turned, eyes wide. “You are awake,” the troll said.
“Binabik?” Miriamele stared for a moment, dumbfounded, then sprang to her feet and ran to him. She caught him up in a hug that squeezed out a breathless laugh. “Mother of Mercy! Binabik! What are you doing? How did you get here?”
“The dwarrows found me wandering on the stairs,” he said as she set him down. “I have been here a little time. I did not want to wake you, but I am full of hunger, so I have been searching in the packs. …”
“There’s a little trail-bread left, I think, and maybe some dried fruit.” She rummaged through her belongings. “I am so happy to see you—I didn’t know what had become of you! That thing, that monk! What happened?”
“I killed him—or perhaps I was releasing him.” Binabik shook his head. “I cannot say. He was himself for a moment, and warned that the Norns were … what did he say? … ‘false beyond believing’.” He took the piece of hard bread Miriamele offered. “I knew him as a man once. Simon and I met him in St. Hoderund’s ruins. We were not being friends, Hengfisk and I—but to look into his eyes …! Such a terrible thing should not be done to anyone. Our enemies have much to be answering for.”
“What do you think of the dwarrows? Did they tell you why they took me?” A thought occurred to her. “Are you a prisoner now, too?”
“I do not know if prisoner is being the correct word,” Binabik said thoughtfully. “Yes, Yis-fidri was telling me much when they found me, as we were making our way back to this place. At least for a while he was.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are soldiers in the tunnels,” the troll replied. “And others, too—Norns, I think, although we did not see them as we did the soldiers. But the dwarrows were certainly feeling them, and I do not think they were pretending for the benefit of me. They were full of terror.”
“Norns? Here? But I thought they couldn’t come to the castle!”
Binabik shrugged. “Who can say? It is their deathless master who is barred from this place, but I did not think it likely the living Norns would wish to enter here. Still, if everything I have been thinking was truth was now proved false, it would no longer be a surprising thing to me.”
Yis-fidri approached, then stooped and crouched beside them, the padded leather of his garments creaking. Despite his kind, sad face, Miriamele thought that his long limbs gave him something of the appearance of a spider picking its way across a web.
“Here is your companion safe, Miriamele.”
“I’m glad you found him.”
“And not a moment too soon did we come upon him.” Yis-fidri was clearly worried. “There are mortal men and Hikeda’ya swarming through the tunnels. Only our skill in hiding the doorway to this chamber keeps us safe.”
“Do you plan to stay here forever? That won’t help anything.” The joy of Binabik’s return had worn off a little, and now she felt desperation returning. They were all trapped in an isolated cavern while the world around them seemed to be moving toward some terrible cataclysm. “Don’t you feel what is happening? All the rest of your folk felt it.”
“Of course we feel it.” For a moment Yis-fidri almost sounded angry. “We feel more than you. We know these changes of old—we know what the Words of Making can do. And the stones speak to us as well. But we have no strength to stop what is happening, and if we call attention to ourselves, that will be the end. Our freedom is of no use to anyone.”
“Words of Making …?” Binabik asked, but before he could finish his question, Yis-hadra appeared and spoke softly to her husband in the dwarrow tongue. Miriamele looked past her to where the rest of the tribe huddled against the cavern’s far wall. They were clearly disturbed, eyes wide in the dim light, chattering quietly among themselves with much nodding and shaking of their large heads.
Yis-fidri’s thin face wore a look of alarm. “Someone is outside,” he said.
“Outside?” Miriamele pulled the pack closed. “What do you mean? Who?”
“We know not. But someone is outside the hidden door to this chamber, trying to get in.” He flapped his hands anxiously. “It is not mortal soldiers, for whoever it is, they have some power over things—we shielded that door to the limits of the Tinukeda’ya’s art.”
“The Norns?” Miriamele breathed.
“We know not!” Yis-fidri stood and put his thin arm around Yis-hadra. “But we must hope that even though they have found the door, they cannot force it. Th
ere is nothing more we can do.”
“There must be another way out, isn’t there?”
Yis-fidri hung his head. “We took a risk. Hiding two doors makes both of them more vulnerable, and we feared to expend too much Art when things are so unbalanced. …”
“Mother of Mercy!” Miriamele cried. Anger fought with hopeless terror inside her. “So we’re trapped.” She turned to Binabik. “God help us, what choice do we have?”
The troll looked tired. “Are you asking if we will fight? Of course. The Qanuc are not giving their lives away. Mindunob inik yat, we say—’my home will be your tomb’.” His laugh was grim. “But with certainty, even the fiercest troll would rather find a way to keep his cave without himself dying.”
“I found my knife,” said Miriamele, drumming her fingers nervously on her leg. She struggled to keep her voice steady. Trapped! They were trapped with no way out, and the Norns were at the door! “Merciful Elysia, I wish I’d brought a bow. I only have Simon’s White Arrow, but I’m sure he would approve if I feathered a Norn with it. I suppose I can use it to stab someone.”
Yis-fidri looked at them in disbelief. “You could not save yourself from the Hikeda’ya with a bow and a whole quiver full of Vindaomeyo’s most perfect arrows, let alone with only a knife.”
“I don’t think we will save ourselves,” Miriamele snapped. “But we have come too far to let them take us as though we were frightened children.” She took a breath to calm herself. “You are strong, Yis-fidri—I felt it when you carried me off. Surely you won’t just let them kill you?”
“It is not our way, fighting,” Yis-hadra spoke up. “We have never been the strong ones—not strong that way.”
“Then stay back.” Inwardly, Miriamele thought she sounded like the worst kind of boastful tavern brawler, but it was already hard enough to think about what might be coming. Just looking at the trembling, terrified dwarrows sapped her resolve, and the fear that lay beneath felt like a hole into which she might tumble and fall forever. “Take us to the door. Binabik, let’s at least pick up some stones. The good Lord knows this place is full of them.”