“Ah.” Likimeya nodded. “Now we come to it. Jiriki, have these men eaten?”
Her son looked at the count inquiringly. “No, my lady,” Eolair replied.
“Then you will eat with us, and we will talk.”
Jiriki got up and vanished through a gap in the rippling walls. There followed a long and, for Eolair, uncomfortable silence which Likimeya seemed uninclined to break. They sat and listened to the wind in the oak tree’s upper branches until Jiriki returned bearing a wooden tray piled with fruit, bread, and cheese.
The count was astonished. Didn’t these creatures have servants to perform such humble tasks? He watched while Jiriki, as commanding a presence as he had ever encountered, poured something from a blue crystal flask into drinking cups carved from the same wood as the tray, then handed the cups to Eolar and his companions with a simple but elegant bow. The queen and prince of the eldest folk, yet they waited on themselves? The gap between Eolair and these immortals seemed broader than ever.
Whatever was in the crystal flask burned like fire but tasted like clover-honey and smelled like violets. Ule sipped his cautiously, then drained it at a swallow and gladly let Jiriki refill his cup. As he drank his own cup dry, Eolair felt the pain of two days’ hard riding dissolve in the warm glow. The food was excellent as well, each piece of fruit at the peak of ripeness. The count wondered briefly where the Sithi could have found such delicacies in the middle of a year-long winter, but dismissed it as only another small miracle in what was rapidly becoming a vast catalog of wonders.
“We have come to war,” Likimeya said suddenly. Of all, only she had not eaten, and she had taken no more than a sip of the honey cordial. “Skali eludes us for a moment, but the heart of your kingdom is free. We have made a start. With your help, Eolair, and those of your people whose wills are still strong, we will soon lift the yoke from the neck of our old allies.”
“There are no words for our gratitude, Lady,” Eolair replied. “The Zida’ya have shown us today that they honor their promises. Few mortal tribes can say the same.”
“And what then, Queen Likimeya?” Isorn asked. He had drunk three glasses of the pale elixir, and his face had gone a bit red. “Will you ride with Josua? Will you help him take the Hayholt?”
The look she turned on him was cool and austere. “We do not fight for mortal princes, Isorn Isgrimnurson. We fight to honor our debts, and to protect ourselves.”
Eolair felt his heart sink. “So you will stop here?”
Likimeya shook her head, then lifted her hands and wove her fingers together. “It is nothing like that simple. I spoke too quickly. No, there are things that threaten both your Josua Lackhand and the Dawn Children as well. Lackhand’s enemy has made a bargain with our enemy, it seems. Still, we will do what we alone are fit for: once Hernystir is free, we will leave the wars of mortals to mortals—at least for now. No, Count Eolair, we owe other debts, but these are strange times.” She smiled, and this time the smile was a little less predatory, a little more like something that might stretch across a mortal face. Eolair was struck by her angular beauty. At the same moment, in lightning juxtaposition, he realized that he sat before a being who had seen the fall of Asu’a. She was as old as the greatest cities of men—older, perhaps. He shivered.
“Yet,” Likimeya continued, “although we will not ride to the aid of your embattled prince, we will ride to the aid of his fortress.”
There was a moment of confused silence before Isorn spoke. “Your pardon, Lady. We do not understand what you mean.”
It was Jiriki who answered. “When Hernystir is free, we will ride to Naglimund. It is the Storm King’s now, and it stands too close to the house of our exile. We will take this place back from him.” The Sitha’s face was grim. “Also, when the final battle comes—and it is coming, mortal men, do not doubt it—we wish to be sure that the Norns have no bolt hole left in which to hide themselves.”
Eolair watched Jiriki’s eyes as the Sitha spoke, and fancied that he saw a hatred there that had smoldered for centuries.
“A war unlike any the world has seen,” Likimeya said. “A war in which many matters will be settled for once and all.” If Jiriki’s eyes smoldered, hers blazed.
19
A Broken Smile
“I have done all I can do for either of them—unless …” Cadrach rubbed fretfully at his damp forehead, as though to bring out some idea hiding there. He was obviously exhausted, but just as obviously—with the duke’s slurs still fresh in his mind—he was not going to let that stop him.
“There is nothing else to be done,” Miriamele said firmly. “Lie down. You need some sleep.”
Cadrach looked up at Isgrimnur, who stood at the bow of the flatboat with the pole clasped firmly in his broad hands. The duke only tightened his lips and returned to his inspection of the watercourse. “Yes, then, I suppose I should.” The monk curled up beside the still forms of Tiamak and the other Wrannaman.
Miriamele, recently awakened from her own evening-long nap, leaned forward and draped her cloak across the three of them. There was little use for the garment anyway, except to keep off bugs. Even near midnight, the marsh was warm as a midsummer day.
“If we snuff the lamp,” Isgrimnur rumbled, “maybe these creepy-crafties will go make a meal on something else for a change.” He slapped at his upper arm and held the resultant smear up for inspection. “The damnable light draws them. You’d think a lamp that comes from that marsh man town would keep ’em away.” He snorted. “How people can live here year-round is a puzzle to me.”
“If we’re going to do that, we should drop the anchor.” Miriamele did not much like the idea of floating along in the dark. So far, they seemed to have left the ghants behind, but she still looked carefully at every low-hanging branch or dangling vine. But Isgrimnur had gone long without sleep; it only seemed fair to try to bring him some relief from the flying insects.
“That’s good. I think this bit is wide enough to make us as safe as we’d be anywhere else,” Isgrimnur said. “Don’t see any branches. The little bugs are bad enough, but if I never see one of those Aedon-cursed big ones again …” He did not need to finish. Miriamele’s shallow sleep had been full of dreams of clacking, scuttling ghants and sticky tendrils that held her in place when she wanted only to run.
“Help me with the anchor.” Together they heaved the stone up and dumped it over the side. When it had struck bottom, Miriamele tested the rope to make sure there was not too much slack. “Why don’t you sleep first,” she told the duke. “I’ll watch for a little while.”
“Very well.”
She glanced quickly at Camaris, sleeping soundlessly in the stern with his white head propped on his cloak, then she reached out and shuttered the lamp.
At first, the darkness was frighteningly complete. Miriamele could almost feel jointed legs reaching silently toward her, and fought the impulse to turn around and wave her hands in the blackness to keep the phantoms at bay.
“Isgrimnur?”
“What?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Her sight began to come back. There was little enough light—the moon was gone, either blocked by clouds or by the close-tangled trees that roofed the watercourse, and the stars were only faint specks—but she could make out forms around her, the dark bulk of the duke, the patchy shadows of the river banks on either side.
She heard Isgrimnur rattling the pole around until he got it well-situated, then his shadowy form sank down. “Are you sure you don’t need to sleep more yourself?” he asked. Weariness was making his voice muddy.
“I’m rested. I’ll sleep a little later. Go on now, put your head down.”
Isgrimnur did not protest further—a sure sign of his exhaustion. Within moments he was snoring noisily. Miriamele smiled.
The boat moved so smoothly that it was not hard to imagine they were floating like a cloud through the night sky. There was no tide, and no discernible current, only
the minute push of the swamp breezes that sent them slowly circling around the anchor, moving smoothly as quicksilver on a tilted pane of glass. Miriamele sat back and stared up at the murky sky, trying to make out a familiar star. For the first time in some days, she could afford the luxury of homesickness.
I wonder what my father is doing now? Does he think about me? Does he hate me?
Thoughts of Elias set other things to stirring inside her head. Something Cadrach had mentioned their first night after escaping the Eadne Cloud had been nagging at her. During his long and difficult confession, the monk had said that Pryrates had seemed particularly interested in communicating with the dead— “speaking through the veil,” Cadrach had said it was called—and that those were the parts of Nisses’ book on which he had been most fixated. For some reason, that phrase had made her think of her father. But why? Was it something Elias had said?
Try as she might to summon the idea that had snagged at the back of her mind, it remained elusive. The boat spun slowly, silent beneath dim stars.
She had drowsed a little. The first light of morning was creeping into the skies above the marsh, turning them pearly gray. Miriamele straightened, groaning quietly. Her bruises and aches from the ghant nest had begun to stiffen: she felt as though she had been rolled down a hill in a bag of rocks.
“L–L–Lady?” It was a breathy sound, little more than a sigh.
“Tiamak?!” She turned abruptly, causing the boat to pitch. The Wrannaman’s eyes were open. His face, though pale and slack-featured, held the spark of intelligence once more.
“Y–yes. Yes, Lady.” He took a deep breath, as though even those few words had tired him out. “Where … are we?”
“We are on the waterway, but I have no idea where. We poled for most of a day after leaving the ghant nest.” She looked at him carefully. “Are you in pain?”
He tried to shake his head, but could only move it slightly. “No. But water. Would be kind.”
She leaned across the boat to take the water skin lying near Isgrimnur’s leg. She unstoppered it and gave the Wrannaman a few careful swallows.
Tiamak turned a little to eye the still form next to him. “Younger Mogahib,” he whispered. “Is he alive?”
“Barely. At least he seems very close to … he seems very sick, although Cadrach and I couldn’t find any wounds on him.”
“No. You wouldn’t. Nor on me.” Tiamak let his head fall back and closed his eyes. “And the others?”
“Which others?” she asked cautiously. “Cadrach, Isgrimnur, Camaris, and I are all here, and all more or less well.”
“Ah. Good.” Tiamak’s eyes remained closed.
In the prow, Isgrimnur sat up groggily. “What’s this, then?” he mumbled. “Miriamele … what?”
“Nothing, Isgrimnur. Tiamak’s woken up.”
“Has, has he?” The duke settled back, already sliding down into slumber once more. “Brains not scrambled? Talks like himself? Damnedest thing I ever saw …”
“You were speaking another language in the nest,” Miriamele told Tiamak. “It was frightening.”
“I know.” His face rippled, as though he fought down revulsion. “I will talk about it later. Not now.” His eyes opened partway. “Did you bring anything out with me?”
Miriamele shook her head, thinking. “Just you. And the muck you were covered with.”
“Ah.” Tiamak looked disappointed for a moment, but then relaxed. “Just as well.” A moment later, his eyes opened wide. “And my belongings?” he demanded.
“Everything you had in the boat is still here.” She patted the bundle.
“Good … good.” He sighed his relief and slid down into the cloak.
The sky was growing paler, and the foliage on either side of the river was beginning to emerge from shadow into color and life.
“Lady?”
“What?”
“Thank you. Thank you for all coming after me.”
Miriamele listened as his breathing grew slower. Soon the little man was asleep again.
“As I told Miriamele last night,” Tiamak said, “I wish to thank you all. You have been better friends to me than I could have hoped—certainly better than I have earned.”
Isgrimnur coughed. “Nonsense. Couldn’t have done anything else.” Miriamele thought the duke looked a little shamefaced. Perhaps he was remembering the debate on whether to try to save the Wrannaman or to leave him behind.
The company had set up a makeshift camp near the watercourse. The small fire, its flames almost invisible in the bright late-morning light, was burning merrily, heating water for soup and yellowroot tea.
“No, you do not understand. It was not merely my life you saved. If I have a ka—a soul, you would call it—it would not have survived another day in that place. Perhaps not another hour.”
“But what were they doing to you?” Miriamele asked. “You were babbling away—you sounded almost like a ghant yourself!”
Tiamak shuddered. He was sitting up, wrapped in her cloak, but he had so far moved very little. “I will tell you as best I can, although I do not understand much myself. But you are certain that you brought nothing out of that place with me?”
The rest of the company shook their heads.
“There was …” he began, then stopped, thinking. “It was a piece of what looked like a mirror—a looking glass. It was broken, but there was still a bit of the frame in place, carved with great art. They … the ghants … they put it in my hands.” He lifted his palms to show them the healing cuts. “As soon as I held it, I felt cold running through me, from my fingers right into my head. Then some of the creatures vomited forth that sticky substance, covering me with it.” He took a deep breath but could not immediately continue. For a moment he just sat, tears shining in his eyes.
“You don’t have to talk about it, Tiamak,” Miriamele said. “Not now.”
“Or at least just tell us how they got hold of you,” Isgrimnur said. “If that’s not so bad, I mean.”
The Wrannaman looked down at the ground. “They caught me as easily as if I were a just-hatched crablet. Three of them dropped on me out of the trees,” he looked up quickly, as though it might happen again, “and while I struggled with them, a dozen more came swarming down and overwhelmed me. Oh, they are clever! They wrapped me in vines, just as you or I would bind a prisoner, although they did not seem able to tie knots. Still, they held the vines tight enough that I could not escape. Then they tried to lift me into the trees, but I suppose I was too heavy. Instead, they were forced to grab at vines and sunken branches and pull the flatboat against the sandbank. Then they took me to the nest. I cannot tell you how many times I wished that they would kill me, or at least knock me senseless. To be carried alive and awake through that horrible pitch-black place by those chattering things …!” He had to pause for a moment to regain his composure.
“What they did with me, they had already done with Younger Mogahib.” He nodded toward the other Wrannaman, who lay on the ground nearby, still locked in feverish slumber. “I think he lived because he had not been there long: perhaps he had not proved as useful a tool as they thought I would. In any case, they must have had to free him to get the mirror-shard for me. When they dragged him past, I cried out. He was half-mad, but he heard my voice and called back. I recognized him then, and shouted that my boat was still on the bank outside, that he should escape if he could and take it.”
“Did you tell him to find us?” Cadrach asked. “It was an unbelievable stroke of luck if he was trying to.”
“No, no,” Tiamak said. “There were only moments. Later, though, I hoped that if he did get free and made his way back to Village Grove, he might find you there. But even then, I only hoped that you would find out I had not deserted you by choice.” He frowned. “It was too much to hope that someone would come into that place after me. …”
“Enough of that, man,” Isgrimnur said quickly. “What were they doing to you?”
Miriame
le was certain now that the duke wished to avoid the subject of their decision. She almost smiled. As if anyone would ever doubt his good will and bravery! Still, after what he had said about Cadrach, perhaps Isgrimnur was a little sensitive.
“I am still not sure.” Tiamak squinted, as if trying to summon an image to his mind’s eye. “As I said, they … put the mirror in my hand and covered me with that ooze. The feeling of cold grew stronger and stronger. I thought I was dying—smothering and freezing at the same moment! Then, just when I was certain I had breathed my last, something even stranger happened.” He looked up, meeting Miriamele’s eyes as though to make sure that she would believe him. “Words began to come into my head—no, not words. There were no words to it at all, merely … visions.” He paused. “It was as though a door had been opened—as though someone pushed an entrance through into my head and other thoughts came flooding in. But, worst of all, they … they were not human thoughts.”
“Not human? But how could you know such a thing?” Cadrach was interested now, leaning forward, his gray eyes intent on the Wrannaman.
“I cannot explain, but just as you could hear a red knifebill squawk in the trees and know it was not a human voice, so I could tell that these were thoughts that had never known a mortal mind. They were … cold thoughts. Slow and patient and so hateful to me that I would have torn my head from my shoulders if I had not been imprisoned in that muck. If I did not quite believe in They Who Breathe Darkness before, I do now. It was h-horrible to have them inside of my sk-skull.”
Tiamak was shaking. Miriamele reached forward to pull the cloak up around his shoulders. Isgrimnur, nervous and fidgeting, threw more sticks onto the flames. “Perhaps you have told enough,” she said.
“I am almost f-f-finished. F-forgive me, my t-t-teeth are banging together.”