The king looked at him for a moment, then peered at the two sentries; they had returned to their positions and were stiff as statues once more. “I thought you were using mercenaries to stand guard. I thought these things didn’t like the daylight.”
“It does not harm them,” said Pryrates. “It is just that after several score centuries living in the great mountain Stormspike, they prefer shade to sun.” He winked, as though over the foibles of some eccentric relative. “But I am at an important point in my studies, now—our studies, Majesty—and thought they would be better warders.”
“Enough of this,” Elias said impatiently. “Are you going to let me in? I came here to talk to you. It can’t wait.”
“Of course, of course,” Pryrates assured him, but the priest seemed suddenly distracted. “I always look forward to speaking with you, my king. Perhaps you would prefer it if I came to your apartments …?”
“Damn it, priest, let me in. You don’t make a king stand on the doorstep, curse you!”
Pryrates shrugged and bowed. “Of course not, sire.” He stepped aside, extending his arm toward the staircase. “Come up to my chambers, please.”
Inside the great doors, in the high-ceilinged anteroom, a single torch burned fitfully. The corners were full of shadows that leaned and stretched as though struggling to free themselves. Pryrates did not pause, but went immediately up the narrow staircase. “Let me go ahead and make sure things are ready for you, Majesty,” he called back, his voice echoing in the stairwell.
Elias stopped on the second landing to catch his breath. “Stairs,” he said direly. “Too many stairs.”
The door to the chamber was open, and the light of several torches spilled out into the passageway. As he entered, the king looked up briefly at the windows, which were masked by long draperies. The priest, who was closing the lid of a large chest on what seemed to be a pile of books, turned and smiled. “Welcome, my king. You have not favored me with a visit here in some time.”
“You have not invited me. Where can I sit down—I am dying.”
“No, my lord, not dying,” Pryrates said cheerfully. “The opposite, if anything—you are being reborn. But you have been very sick of late, it’s true. Forgive me. Here, take my chair.” He ushered Elias to the high-backed chair; it was innocent of any decorations or carvings, yet somehow carried an air of great antiquity. “Would you like some of your soothing drink? I see Hengfisk has not accompanied you, but I could arrange to have some made.” He turned and clapped his hands. “Munshazou!” he called.
“The monk is not here because I have knocked in his head, or near to,” Elias growled, shifting uncomfortably on the hard seat. “If I never see his pop-eyed face again, I will be a happy man.” He coughed, his fever-bright eyes blinking closed. At this moment, he did not look in the least like a happy man.
“He caused you some trouble? I am so unhappy to hear that, my king. Perhaps you should tell me what happened, and I will see that he is … dealt with. I am your servant, after all.”
“Yes,” Elias said dryly. “You are.” He made a noise in his throat and shifted again, trying to find a better position.
There was a discreet cough from the doorway. A small dark-haired woman stood there. She did not look particularly aged, but her sallow face was lined with deep wrinkles. A mark of some kind—it might have been a letter from some foreign script—was scribed on her forehead above her nose. She moved ever so slightly as she stood, weaving in a slow, circular motion so that the hem of her shapeless dress brushed against the floor and the tiny bone-colored charms she wore at waist and neck tinkled gently.
“Munshazou,” Pryrates said to Elias, “my servant from Naraxi, from my house there.” He told the dark woman: “Bring something the king can drink. And for me—no, I need nothing. Go now.”
She turned with a rattle of ivory and was gone. “I apologize for the interruption,” said the alchemist. “You were telling me of your problem with Hengfisk.”
“Don’t worry about the monk. He is nothing. I just woke suddenly and found him standing over me, staring. Standing over my bed!” Remembering, the king shook himself like a wet dog. “God, but he has a face only a mother could bear. And that cursed smile always …” Elias shook his head. “I struck him—gave him my fist. Knocked him right across the bedchamber.” He laughed and then coughed. “Teach him to come spying on me while I sleep. I need my sleep. I’ve been getting precious little. …”
“Is that why you came to me, Lord?” Pryrates asked. “For your sleep? I could perhaps make something for you—there is a sort of wax I have that you could burn in a dish by your bedside. …”
“No!” Elias said angrily. “And it’s not the monk, either. I came to you because I had a dream!”
Pryrates looked at him carefully. The patch of skin above his eye—a spot where others had eyebrows—rose in a questioning look. “A dream, lord? Of course, if that is what you wish to speak with me about …”
“Not that sort of dream, damn you! You know what kind I mean. I had a dream!”
“Ah.” The priest nodded. “And it disturbed you.”
“Yes it bloody well did, by the Sacred Tree!” The king winced and laid his hand on his chest, then burst into another round of wracking coughs. “I saw the Sithi riding! The Dawn Children! They were riding to Hernystir!”
There was a faint clicking noise from the door. Munshazou had reappeared, bearing a tray on which stood a tall goblet glazed in a deep rust-red. It steamed.
“Very good.” Pryrates strode forward to take it from the woman’s hand. Her small, pale eyes watched him, but her face remained expressionless. “You may go now,” he told her. “Here, Majesty, drink this. It will help your clouded chest.”
Elias took the goblet suspiciously and sipped. “It tastes like the same swill you always give me.”
“There are … similarities.” Pryrates moved back to his position near the trunk full of books. “Remember, my king, you have special needs.”
Elias took another swallow. “I saw the immortals—the Sithi. They were riding against Skali.” He looked up from his cup to fix his green gaze on Pryrates. “Is it true?”
“Things seen in dreams are not always wholly true or wholly false …” Pryrates began.
“God damn you to the blackest circles of hell!” Elias shouted, half-rising from the chair. “Is it true?!”
Pryrates bowed his hairless head. “The Sithi have left their home in the fastness of the forest.”
Elias’ green eyes glittered dangerously. “And Skali?”
Pryrates moved slowly toward the door, as though preparing to flee. “The thane of Kaldskryke and his Ravens have … decamped.”
The king hissed out a long breath and his hand tugged at Sorrow’s hilt, sinews jumping in his pale arm. A length of the gray sword appeared, mottled and shiny as a pikefish’s back. The torches in the room seemed to bend inward, as though drawn toward it. “Priest,” Elias growled, “you are listening to your last few heartbeats if you don’t speak quickly and plainly.”
Instead of cringing, Pryrates drew himself upright. The torches fluttered again, and the alchemist’s black eyes lost their luster; for a moment, the whites seemed to vanish, almost as though they had drawn back into his head, leaving only holes in a darkened skull. An oppressive tension filled the tower room. Pryrates raised his hand and the king’s knuckles tightened on the sword’s long hilt. After a moment’s stillness, the priest lifted his fingers to his neck, carefully smoothed the collar of his red robe as though adjusting the fit, then let the hand drop again.
“I am sorry, Highness,” he said, and allowed himself a small, self-mocking smile. “It is often a counselor’s wish to shield his liege from news that might be upsetting. You have seen rightly. The Sithi have come to Hernystir and Skali has been driven out.”
Elias stared at him for a long moment. “What does this mean to all your plans, priest? You said nothing about the Dawn Children.”
P
ryrates shrugged. “Because it means nothing. It was inevitable once things reached a certain point. The increasing activity of … of our benefactor was bound to draw them in. It should not disrupt any of our plans.”
“Should not? Are you saying that what the Sithi do doesn’t matter to the Storm King?”
“That one has planned long. There is nothing that will surprise him in any of this. In truth, the Norn Queen told me to expect it.”
“She did, did she? You seem very well informed, Pryrates,” Elias’ voice had not lost its edge of fury. “Then tell me: if you knew this, why can you not tell me what is happening with Fengbald? Why have we no knowledge of whether he has driven my brother from his lair?”
“Because our allies deem it of little account.” Pryrates lifted his hand again, this time to forestall the king’s angry reply. “Please, majesty, you asked for candor and so I give it to you. They feel that Josua is beaten and that you waste your time with him. The Sithi, on the other hand, have been the enemies of the Norns since time out of mind.”
“But still of no account, apparently, if what you said before is correct.” The king glowered. “I do not understand how they can be more important than my treacherous brother and yet not important enough for us to worry about—even when they have destroyed one of my chief allies. I think you are playing a double game, Pryrates. God help you if I find that to be true!”
“I serve only my master, Highness, not the Storm King, not the Norn Queen. It is all a matter of timing. Josua was a threat to you once, but you defeated him. Skali was needed to protect your flank, but he is no longer necessary. Even the Sithi are no threat, because they will not come against us until they have saved Hernystir. They are cursed by ancient loyalties, you see. That will be far too late for them to be any hindrance to your ultimate victory.”
Elias stared into his steaming cup. “Then why did I see them riding in my dreams?”
“You have grown close to the Storm King, sire, since you accepted his gift.” Pryrates gestured to the gray sword, now sheathed once more. “He is of the Sithi blood—or was when he still lived, to speak rightly. It is only natural that the mustering of the Zida’ya should draw his attention and thus make its way to you.” He moved a few steps closer to the king. “You have had other … dreams … before this, have you not?”
“You know I have, alchemist.” Elias drained the cup, then made a face as he swallowed. “My nights, those few when sleep actually comes, are full of him. Full of him! Of that frozen thing with the burning heart.” His eyes wandered across the shadowed walls, suddenly full of fear. “Of the dark spaces between …”
“Peace, your Majesty,” Pryrates said. “You have suffered much, but the reward will be splendid. You know that.”
Elias shook his head heavily. His voice, when he spoke, was a straining rasp. “I wish I had known the way this would feel, the things … the things it would do to me. I wish I had known before I made that devil’s bargain. God help me, I wish I had known.”
“Let me get my sleeping-wax for you, Highness. You need rest.”
“No.” The king lifted himself awkwardly from the chair. “I do not want any more dreams. It would be better never to sleep again.”
Elias moved slowly toward the door, waving away Pryrates’ offer of assistance. He was a long time going down the stairs.
The red-robed priest stood and listened to his entire descent. When the great outer doors creaked open and then crashed closed, Pryrates shook his head once, as if dismissing an irritating thought, then went to retrieve the books he had hidden.
Jiriki had gone ahead, his smooth strides carrying him deceptively quickly. Eolair, Isorn, and Ule followed at a slower pace, trying to take in the strange sights.
It was particularly unsettling for Eolair, to whom Hernysadharc and the Taig had been a second residence. Now, following the Sitha across Hern’s Hill, he felt like a father come home to find that all his children were changelings.
The Sithi had built their tent city so swiftly, the billowing cloths stretched artfully between the trees that ringed the Taig, that it almost seemed it had always been there—that it belonged. Even the colors, which had been so jarringly bright when seen from a distance, now seemed to him more muted—tones of summer sunset and dawn more in keeping with a king’s house and gardens.
If their lodgings already seemed like a natural part of the hilltop, the Ziday’a themselves seemed scarcely less at home. Eolair saw no sign of diffidence or meekness in those Sithi who surrounded him; they paid scant attention to the count and his companions. The immortals walked proudly, and as they worked they sang lilting songs in a language that, although strange to him, seemed oddly familiar in its swooping vowels and birdlike trills. Although they had been in the place scarcely a day, they seemed as comfortable on the snowy grass and beneath the trees as swans scudding across a mirror-still pond. Everything they did seemed to speak of immense calm and self-knowledge; even the act of looping and knotting the many ropes that gave their tent city its shape became a kind of conjuror’s trick. Watching them, Eolair—who had always been judged a nimble, graceful man—felt bestial and clumsy.
The new-made house into which Jiriki had vanished was little more than a ring of blue and lavender cloth which hemmed one of the hilltop’s magisterial oak trees like a paddock around a prize bull. As Eolair and the others stood, uncertain, Jiriki reemerged and beckoned them forward.
“Please understand that my mother may stray a little beyond the bounds of courtesy,” Jiriki murmured as they stood at the opening. “We are mourning for my father and First Grandmother.” He ushered them forward into the enclosure. The grass was dry, swept clean of snow. “I bring Count Eolair of Nad Mullach,” he said, “Isorn Isgrimnurson of Elvritshalla, and Ule Frekkeson of Skoggey.”
The Sitha-woman looked up. She was seated on a cloth of pale, shining blue, surrounded by the birds which she had been feeding. Despite the soft feathered bodies perched on her knees and arms, Eolair had the immediate impression that she was hard as sword-steel. Her hair was flaming red, bound by a gray scarf across her forehead; several long, soot-colored feathers hung in her braids. Like Jiriki, she was armored in what looked to be wood, but hers was shiny and black as a beetle’s shell. Beneath the armor she wore a kirtle of dove-gray. Soft boots of the same color rose above her knees. Her eyes, like her son’s, were molten gold.
“Likimeya y’Briseyu no’e-Sa’onserei,” Jiriki intoned. “Queen of the Dawn Children and Lady of the House of Year-Dancing.”
Eolair and the rest dropped to a knee.
“Get up, please.” She spoke in a throaty murmur, and seemed less comfortable with the mortal tongue than Jiriki. “This is your land, Count Eolair, and it is the Zida’ya who are guests here. We have come to pay our debt to your Sinnach.”
“We are honored, Queen Likimeya.”
She waved a long-nailed hand. “Do not say ‘queen.’ It is a title, only—it is the nearest mortal word. But we do not call ourselves such things except at certain times.” She cocked an eyebrow at Eolair as he and his companions rose. “You know, Count Eolair, there is an old story that Zida’ya blood is in the House of Nad Mullach.”
For a moment the count was confused, thinking she meant some kind of injustice had been done against the Sithi in his ancestral home. When he realized what she had truly said, he felt his own blood turn cold and the hairs lift on the back of his arms. “An old story?” Eolair felt as though his head was about to float away. “I’m sorry, my lady, I am not sure I understand. Do you mean to say that there was Sithi blood among my ancestors?”
Likimeya smiled, a sudden, fierce gleam of teeth. “It is an old story, as I said.”
“And do the Sithi know whether it is true?” Was she playing some sort of game with him?
She fluttered her fingers. A cloud of birds leaped up and into the tree branches overhead, momentarily hiding her from view with the blur of their wings. “Long ago, when mortals and Zida’ya were closer ?
??” She made a strange gesture. “It could be. We know it can happen.”
Eolair definitely felt himself on shaky ground, and was surprised at how swiftly his training in diplomacy and politicking had deserted him. “It has happened, then? The Fair Folk have … mingled with mortals?”
Likimeya seemed to lose interest in the subject. “Yes. Long ago, for the most part.” She motioned to Jiriki, who came forward with more of the shimmery, silken cloths, which he spread for the count and his companions before gesturing for them to sit. “It is good to be on M’yin Azoshai again.”
“That is what we call this hill,” Jiriki explained. “It was given to Hern by Shi’iki and Senditu. It was, I suppose you would say, a sacred place for our folk. That it was granted to a mortal for his steading is a mark of the friendship between Hern’s people and the Dawn Children.”
“We have a legend that says something much like that,” Eolair said slowly. “I had wondered if there was truth to it.”
“Most legends have a kernel of truth at their center.” Jiriki smiled.
Likimeya had turned her cat-bright eyes from Eolair to his two comrades, who almost seemed to flinch beneath the weight of her gaze. “And you are Rimmersmen,” she said, looking at them intently. “We have little cause to love your folk.”
Isorn hung his head. “Yes, Lady, you do.” He took a deep breath, steadying his voice. “But please, do not forget that we live short lives. That was many years ago—a score of generations. We are not much like Fingil.”
Likimeya’s smile was brief. “You may not be, but what about this kinsman of yours we have put to flight? I have seen his handiwork here on M’yin Azoshai, and it looks little different than what your Fingil Bloodfist did to the Zida’ya lands five centuries ago.”
Isorn shook his head slowly, but did not reply. Beside him, Ule had turned quite pale and looked as though he might bolt at any moment.
“Isorn and Ule fought against Skali,” Eolair said hurriedly, “and we were bringing more men here to take up the battle when you and your folk passed us by. You have done these two as great a favor by putting the murderer to flight as you have done for my own people. Now there is hope that someday Isorn’s father can retain his rightful dukedom.”