To Green Angel Tower
“But if the rumors are true,” Josua said, “the Norns are already at the Hayholt.”
Aditu cocked her head on one side. “A few are there, no doubt to reinforce your brother’s bargain with Ineluki. But, Prince Josua, you should understand that there is a difference between the Norns and their undead master, just as there is a difference between your castle and your brother’s. Ineluki and his Red Hand cannot come to Asu’a—what you call the Hayholt. So it falls to the Zida’ya to make sure that they cannot make a home for themselves in Naglimund either, or anywhere else south of the Frostmarch.”
“Why can’t the … why can’t he come to the Hayholt?” Simon asked.
“It is an irony, but you can thank the usurper Fingil and the other mortal kings who have held Asu’a for that,” Aditu said. “When they saw what Ineluki had done in his final moments of life, they were terrified. They had not dreamed that anyone, even the Sithi, could wield such power. So prayers and spells—if there is a difference between the two—were said over each handspan of what remained of our home before the mortals made it their own. As it was rebuilt, the same was done over and over again, until Asu’a is so wrapped in protections that Ineluki can never come there until Time itself ends, when it will not matter.” Her face tightened. “But he is still unimaginably strong. He can send his living minions, and they will help him rule over your brother and, through him, mankind.”
“So you think that is what Ineluki plans?” Geloë asked. “Is that what Amerasu thought?”
“We will never know for certain. As Simon has no doubt told you, she died before she could share with us the fruits of her pondering. One of the Red Hand was sent into Jao é-Tinukai’i to help silence her—a feat that must have exhausted even Utuk’ku and the Unliving One below Nakkiga, so it says much of how greatly they feared First Grandmother’s wisdom.” She briefly crossed her hands over her breast, then touched a finger to each eye. “So the Houses of Exile came together in Jao é-Tinukai’i to consider what had happened and to make plans for war. That Ineluki plans to use your brother to rule mankind seemed to all the gathered Zida’ya the most likely possibility.” Aditu leaned down to the brazier and picked up a piece of wood that smoldered at one end. She held it before her, so that its glow crimsoned her face. “Ineluki is, in a way, alive, but he can never truly exist in this world again—and in the place he covets most, he has no direct power.” She looked around the gathering, sharing her golden stare with each in turn. “But he will do what he can to bring the upstart mortals under his fist. And if he can also humble his family and tribe while he does so, then I do not doubt he will.” Aditu made a noise that sounded a little like a sigh and dropped the wood back into the embers. “Perhaps it is fortunate that most heroes who die for their people cannot come back to see what the people do with that hard-bought life and freedom.”
There was a pause. Josua at last broke the silence.
“Has Simon told you that we buried our fallen here on Sesuad’ra?”
Aditu nodded. “We are not strangers to death, Prince Josua. We are immortal, but only in the sense that we do not die except by our own choice—or the choice of others. Perhaps we are all the more enmeshed with dying because of it. Just because our lives are long when held against yours does not mean we are any more eager to give them up.” She allowed a slow, coolly measured smile to narrow her lips. “So we know death well. Your people fought bravely to defend themselves. There is no shame to us in sharing this place with those who died.”
“Then I would like to show you something else.” Josua stood and extended his hand toward the Sitha. Vorzheva, watching closely, did not look pleased. Aditu rose and followed the prince toward the door.
“We have buried my friend—my dearest friend—in the garden behind Leavetaking House,” he said. “Simon, perhaps you will accompany us? And Geloë and Strangyeard, too, if you would like,” he added hurriedly.
“I will stay and talk with Vorzheva for a while,” the wise woman said. “Aditu, I look forward to a chance to speak with you later.”
“Certainly.”
“I think I will come, too,” Strangyeard said, almost apologetically. “It’s very pretty there.”
“Sesu-d’asú is a sad place now,” said Aditu. “It was beautiful once.”
They stood before the broad expanse of Leavetaking House; its weatherworn stones glinted dully in the sunlight.
“I think it is still beautiful,” Strangyeard said shyly.
“So do I,” Simon echoed. “Like an old woman who used to be a lovely young girl, but you can still see it in her face.”
Aditu grinned. “My Seoman,” she said, “the time you spent with us has made you part Zida’ya. Soon you will be composing poems and whispering them to the passing wind.”
They walked through the hall and into the ruined garden, where a cairn of stones had been built over Deornoth’s grave. Aditu stood silently for a moment, then laid her hand atop the uppermost stone. “It is a good, quiet place.” For a moment, her gaze grew distant, as though she beheld some other place or time. “Of all the songs we Zida’ya sing,” she murmured, “the closest to our hearts are those which tell of things lost.”
“Perhaps that is because none of us can know something’s true value until it is gone,” said Josua. He bowed his head. The grass between the broken paving stones rippled in the breeze.
Strangely, of all the mortals living on Sesuad’ra, it was Vorzheva who most quickly befriended Aditu—if a mortal could truly become a friend to one of the immortals. Even Simon, who had lived among them and had rescued one of them, was not at all certain that he could count any of them as friends.
But despite her initial coolness toward the Sitha-woman, Vorzheva seemed to be drawn by something in Aditu’s alien nature, perhaps the mere fact that Aditu was alien, the only one of her kind in that place, as Vorzheva herself had been for all the years in Naglimund. Whatever Aditu’s attraction, Josua’s wife made her welcome and even sought her out. The Sitha also seemed to enjoy Vorzheva’s company: when she was not with Simon or Geloë, she could often be found walking with the Thrithings-woman among the tents, or sitting by her bedside on days when Vorzheva felt ill or tired. Duchess Gutrun, Vorzheva’s usual companion, did her best to show good manners to the strange visitor, but something in her Aedonite heart would not let her be fully comfortable. While Vorzheva and Aditu talked and laughed, Gutrun watched Aditu as though the Sitha were a sort of dangerous animal that she had been assured was now tame.
For her part, Aditu seemed oddly fascinated by the child Vorzheva carried. Few children were born to the Zida’ya, especially in these days, she explained. The last had come over a century before, and he was now as much of an adult as the eldest of the Dawn Children. Aditu also seemed interested in Leleth, although the little girl was no more expressive with her than with anyone else. Still, she would allow Aditu to take her for walks, and even to carry her occasionally, something that almost no one else was permitted to do.
If Aditu was interested in some of the mortals, the ordinary citizens of New Gadrinsett were in turn both fascinated and terrified by her. Ulca’s tale—the truth of which was strange enough—had grown in the telling and retelling until Aditu’s arrival had come in a flash of light and puff of smoke; the Sitha, the story continued, enraged by the mortal girl’s flirtation with her intended, had threatened to turn Ulca into stone. Ulca quickly became the heroine of every young woman on Sesuad’ra, and Aditu, despite the fact that she was seldom seen by most of the hill-dwellers, became the subject of endless gossip and superstitious mumbling.
To his chagrin, Simon also continued to be a subject of rumor and speculation in the small community. Jeremias, who frequently loitered in the marketplace beside Leavetaking House, would gleefully report the latest strange tale—the dragon from whom Simon had stolen the sword would come back someday and Simon would have to fight it; Simon was part Sitha and Aditu had been sent to bring him back to the halls of the Fair Folk; and so
on. Simon, hearing the fantasies that seemed to be woven from empty air, could only cringe. There was nothing he could do—every attempt he made to quell the stories merely convinced the folk of New Gadrinsett that he was either manfully modest or slyly deceptive. Sometimes he found the fabrications amusing, but he still could not help feeling more closely observed than was comfortable, leading him to spend his time only with people he knew and trusted. His evasiveness, of course, only fueled more speculation.
If this was fame, Simon decided, he would have preferred to stay a lowly and unknown scullion. Sometimes when he walked through New Gadrinsett these days, when people waved to him or whispered to each other as he passed, he felt quite naked, but there was nothing to do but walk by with a smile on his face and his shoulders back. Scullions could hide or run away; knights could not.
“He is outside, Josua. He swears you are expecting him.”
“Ah.” The prince turned to Simon. “This must be the mysterious messenger I spoke of—the one with news of Nabban. And it has been a fortnight—almost to the day. Stay and see.” To Sludig he said: “Bring him in, please.”
The Rimmersman stepped out, then returned a moment later leading a tall, lantern-jawed fellow, pale-complected and—Simon thought—a little sullen-looking. The Rimmersman stepped back beside the wall of the tent and remained there with one hand on the handle of his ax, the other toying with the hairs of his yellow beard.
The messenger dropped slowly to one knee. “Prince Josua, my master sends his greetings and bids me give you this.” As he put his hand in his cloak Sludig took a step forward, even though the messenger was several paces away from the prince, but the man withdrew only a roll of parchment, beribboned and sealed in blue wax. Josua stared at it for a moment, then nodded to Simon to fetch it to him.
“The winged dolphin,” Josua said as he gazed at the emblem stamped into the melted wax. “So your master is Count Streáwe of Perdruin?”
It was hard not to call the look on the messenger’s face a smirk. “He is, Prince Josua.”
The prince broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. He scanned it for a few long moments, then curled it up and set it on the arm of his chair. “I will not hurry through this. What is your name, man?”
The messenger nodded his head with immense satisfaction, as though he had been long expecting this crucial question. “It is … Lenti.”
“Very well, Lenti, Sludig will take you and see that you get food and drink. He will also find you a bed because I will want some time before I send my answer—maybe several days.”
The messenger looked around the prince’s tent, assessing the possible quality of New Gadrinsett’s accommodations. “Yes, Prince Josua.”
Sludig came forward and, with a jerk of his head, summoned Lenti to follow him out.
“I didn’t think much of the messenger,” Simon said when they had gone.
Josua was inspecting the parchment once more. “A fool,” he agreed “jumped up beyond his capabilities, even for something as simple as this. But don’t confuse Streáwe with his minions—Perdruin’s master is clever as a marketplace cutpurse. Still, it doesn’t speak well of his ability to deliver on this promise if he can find no more impressive servitor to bear it to me.”
“What promise?” Simon asked.
Josua rolled the message and slid it into his sleeve. “Count Streáwe claims he can deliver me Nabban.” He stood. “The old man is lying, of course, but it leads to some interesting speculation.”
“I don’t understand, Josua.”
The prince smiled. “Be glad. Your days of innocence about people like Streáwe are fast disappearing.” He patted Simon’s shoulder. “For now, young knight, I would as soon not talk about it. There will be a time and place for this at the Raed.”
“You’re ready to have your council?”
Josua nodded. “The time has come. For once, we will call the tune—then we will see if we can make my brother and his allies dance to it.”
“That is a most interesting deception, clever Seoman.” Aditu stared down at the game of shent she had constructed from wood and root-dyes and polished stones. “A false thrust played falsely: a seeming that is revealed as a sham, but underneath is a true thing after all. Very pretty—but what will you do if I place my Bright Stones here … here … and here?” She suited action to words.
Simon frowned. In the dim light of his tent, her hand moved almost too swiftly to be seen. For an unpleasant moment he wondered if she might be cheating him, but another instant’s reflection convinced him that Aditu had no need to cheat someone to whom the subtleties of shent were still largely a mystery, any more than Simon would trip a small child with whom he was running a race. Still, it raised an interesting question.
“Can you cheat at this game?”
Aditu looked up from arranging her pieces. She was wearing one of Vorzheva’s loose dresses; the combination of her unusually modest attire and her unbound hair made her look a little less dangerously wild—in fact, it made her seem disconcertingly human. Her eyes gleamed in the light of the brazier. “Cheat? Do you mean lie? A game can be as deceptive as the players wish it to be.”
“That’s not what I mean. Can you do something on purpose that is against the rules?” She was eerily beautiful. He stared at her, remembering the night she had kissed him. What had that meant? Anything? Or was it just another way for Aditu to toy with her one-time lapdog?
She considered his question. “I am not sure how to answer. Could you cheat against the way you are made and fly by flapping your arms?”
Simon shook his head. “A game that has so many rules must have some way to break them. …”
Before Aditu could try again to answer, Jeremias burst into the tent, out of breath and agitated. “Simon!” he shouted, then drew up short, seeing that Aditu was there. “I’m sorry.” Despite his embarrassment, he was having trouble containing his excitement.
“What is it?”
“People have come!”
“Who? What people?” Simon looked briefly to Aditu, but she had returned to her study of the arrangement before her.
“Duke Isgrimnur and the princess!” Jeremias waved his arms up and down. “And there are others with them, too! A strange little man, sort of like Binabik and his trolls, but almost our size. And an old man—he’s taller than you, even. Simon, the whole town has gone down to see them!”
He sat for a moment in silence, his mind whirling. “The princess?” he said at last. “Princess … Miriamele?”
“Yes, yes,” Jeremias panted. “Dressed as a monk, but she took off her hood and waved to people. Come on, Simon, everyone is going down to meet them.” He turned and took a few steps toward the doorway, then pivoted to look at his friend in astonishment. “Simon? What’s wrong? Don’t you want to go see the princess and Duke Isgrimnur and the brown man?”
“The princess.” He turned helplessly to Aditu, who gazed back at him with feline disinterest.
“It sounds like something you will enjoy, Seoman. We will play our game later.”
Simon stood and followed Jeremias out of the tent and into the hilltop wind, moving as slowly and unsteadily as a sleepwalker. As if he passed through a dream, he heard people shouting all around, a rising murmur of sound that filled his ears like the roar of the ocean.
Miriamele had come back.
21
Answered Prayers
It had grown steadily colder as Miriamele and her companions made their way across the wide grasslands. By the time they reached the seemingly endless plain of the Meadow Thrithing, there was snow on the ground, and even in full afternoon the sky remained a dull pewter stained with streaks of black cloud. Huddled in her traveling cloak against the predatory wind, Miriamele found herself almost grateful that Aspitis Preves had found them; it would have been a long and miserable journey indeed if they had been forced to make it on foot. Cold and uncomfortable as she was, however, Miriamele was also experiencing a curious sense of freedom. Th
e earl had haunted her, but now, although he lived, and might still conceivably seek some kind of vengeance, she no longer feared him or anything he might do. But Cadrach’s flight was another thing altogether.
Since their escape together from the Eadne Cloud, she had begun to see the Hernystirman in a different way. He had betrayed her several times, certainly, but in his odd way he had semed to care for her as well. The monk’s own self-hatred had continued to loom between them—and had apparently driven him away at last—but her own feelings had changed.
She deeply regretted the argument over Tiamak’s parchment. Miriamele had thought she might slowly continue to draw him out, might somehow reach through to the man beneath—a man she liked. But, as though she had tried to tame a wild dog and had moved too quickly to pet it, Cadrach had startled and bolted. Miriamele could not rid herself of the obscure feeling that she had missed an opportunity that was more important than she could understand.
Even on horseback, it was a long journey. Her thoughts were not always good company.
They rode a full week to reach the Meadow Thrithing, traveling from first light until after the sun had vanished … on those days that they saw the sun at all. The weather grew steadily colder, but remained something just short of unlivable: by mid-afternoon of most days the sun struggled through like a tired but determined messenger and chased away the chill.
The meadowlands were wide and, for the most part, flat and featureless as a carpet. What slope there was to the land was almost more depressing: after a long day’s ride up a gradual incline, Miriamele found it hard to rid herself of the idea that they would eventually reach a summit and that it would be somewhere. Instead, at some point they would cross a flat table of meadow no more interesting than the upward slope, then gradually find themselves moving down an equally uninspiring decline. Even the idea of having to make such a monotonous journey on foot was disheartening. Acre after empty acre, mile after trying mile, Miriamele whispered quiet prayers of gratitude for Aspitis’ unwitting gift of horses.