He could not help staring at her, so he was grateful that for the moment her attention was fixed on the flowers in her lap. It was so strange to face the real Miriamele after all the months of remembering and imagining that he found it hard to think clearly in her presence. Now that the first week since her return had passed, a little of the awkwardness seemed to be gone, but there was still a gap between them. Even back in Naglimund, when he had first seen her as the king’s daughter she was, there had not been this quality of separation.
Simon had told her—not without some pride—of his many adventures in the last half-year; to his surprise, he had then discovered that Miriamele’s experiences had been almost as wildly improbable as his own.
At first he had decided that the horrors of her journey—the kilpa and ghants, the deaths of Dinivan and Lector Ranessin, her not-quite-explained confinement on the ship of some Nabbanai nobleman—were quite enough to explain the wall that he felt between them. Now he was not so sure. They had been friends, and even if they could never be more than that, the friendship had been real, hadn’t it? Something had happened to make her treat him differently.
Could it be me, Simon wondered. Could I have changed so much that she doesn’t like me anymore?
He unthinkingly stroked his beard. Miriamele looked up, caught his eye, and smiled mockingly. He felt a pleasant warmth: it was almost like seeing her in her old guise as Marya, the servant girl.
“You’re certainly proud of that, aren’t you?”
“What? My beard?” Simon was suddenly glad he had kept it, for he was blushing. “It just … sort of grew.”
“Mmmm. By surprise? Overnight?”
“What’s wrong with it?” he asked, stung. “I’m a knight, by the Bloody Tree! Why shouldn’t I have a beard!”
“Don’t swear. Not in front of ladies, and especially not in front of princesses.” She gave him a look that was meant to be stern, but was spoiled in its effect somehow by her suppressed smile. “Besides, even if you are a knight, Simon—and I suppose I’ll have to take your word for that until I remember to ask Uncle Josua—that doesn’t mean you’re old enough to grow a beard without looking silly.”
“Ask Josua? You can ask anyone!” Simon was torn between pleasure at seeing her act a little more like her old self and irritation at what she had said. “Not old enough! I’m almost sixteen years! Will be in another fortnight, on Saint Yistrin’s day!” He had only just realized himself that it was near when Father Strangyeard had made a remark about the saint’s upcoming holy day.
“Truly?” Miriamele’s look became serious. “I had my sixteenth birthday while we were traveling to Kwanitupul. Cadrach was very nice—he stole a jam-tart and some Lakeland pinks for me—but it wasn’t much of a celebration.”
“That thieving villain,” Simon growled. He still had not forgotten his wallet and the shame he had endured over its loss, no matter how much had happened since then.
“Don’t say that.” Miriamele was suddenly sharp. “You don’t know anything about him, Simon. He has suffered much. His life has been hard.”
Simon made a noise of disgust. “He’s suffered!? What about the people he steals from?”
Miriamele’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t want you to say another word about Cadrach. Not a word.”
Simon opened his mouth, then shut it again. Damn me, he thought, you can get in trouble with girls so quickly! It’s like they’re all practicing to grow up to be Rachel the Dragon!
He took a breath. “I’m sorry your birthday wasn’t very nice.”
She eyed him for a moment, then relented. “Perhaps when yours comes, Simon, we can both celebrate. We can give each other gifts, like they do in Nabban.”
“You already gave me one.” He reached into the pocket of his cloak and removed a wisp of blue cloth. “Do you remember? When I was leaving to go north with Binabik and the others.”
Miriamele stared at it for a moment. “You kept it?” she asked quietly.
“Of course. I wore it the whole time, practically. Of course I kept it.”
Her eyes widened, then she turned away and rose abruptly from the stone bench. “I have to go, Simon,” she said in an odd tone of voice. She would not meet his eye. “Your pardon, please.” She swept up her skirts and moved swiftly off across the black and white tiles of the Fire Garden.
“Damn me,” said Simon. Things had seemed to be going well at last. What had he done? When would he ever learn to understand women?
Binabik, as the nearest thing to a full-fledged Scrollbearer, took the oaths of Tiamak and Father Strangyeard. When they had sworn, he in turn spoke his oath to them. Geloë looked on sardonically as the litanies were spoken. She had never held much with the formalities of the League, which was one reason she had never been a Scrollbearer, despite the immense respect in which she was held by its members. There were other reasons as well, but Geloë never spoke of those, and all of her old comrades who might have been able to explain were now gone.
Tiamak was torn between pleasure and disappointment. He had long dreamed that this might happen someday, but in his imagination he had received his scroll-and-pen from Morgenes, with Jarnauga and Ookequk beaming their approval. Instead he had brought Dinivan’s pendant up from Kwanitupul himself after Isgrimnur delivered it, and now he sat with the largely unproved successors of those other great souls.
Still, there was something unutterably exciting even in such a humble realization of his dream. Perhaps this would be a day long remembered—the coming of a new generation to the League, a new membership which would make the Scrollbearers as important and respected as they had been in the days of Eahlstan Fiskerne himself …!
Tiamak’s stomach growled. Geloë turned her yellow eyes on him and he smiled shamefacedly. In the excitement of the morning’s preparations he had forgotten to eat. Embarrassment spread through him. There! That was They Who Watch and Shape reminding him of how important he was. A new age, indeed—those gathered here would have to labor mightily to be half the Scrollbearers that their predecessors had been. That would teach Tiamak, the savage from Village Grove, to allow himself to become so heady!
His stomach growled again. Tiamak avoided Geloë’s eye this time and pulled his knees closer in to his body, huddling on the mat floor of Strangyeard’s tent like a pottery merchant on a cold day.
“Binabik has asked me to speak,” Geloë said when the oaths were done. She was brisk, like an Elder’s wife explaining chores and babies to a new bride. “Since I am the only one who knew all the other Scrollbearers, I have agreed.” The fierceness in her stare did not make Tiamak particularly comfortable. He had only corresponded with the forest woman before his arrival in Sesuad’ra, and had possessed no idea of the force of her presence. Now, he was frantically trying to remember the letters he had sent her and hoping that they had all been suitably courteous. She was clearly not the sort of person one wanted to upset.
“You have become Scrollbearers in what may be the most difficult age the world has yet seen, worse even than Fingil’s era of conquest and pillage and destruction of knowledge. You have all heard enough now to understand that what is happening seems clearly far more than a war between princes. Elias of Erkynland has somehow enlisted the aid of Ineluki Storm King, whose undead hand has reached down out of the Nornfells at last, as Ealhstan Fiskerne feared centuries ago. That is the task set before us—to somehow prevent that evil from turning a fight between brothers into a losing struggle against utter darkness. And the first part of that task, it seems, is to solve the riddle of the blades.”
The discussion of Nisses’ sword-rhyme went far into the afternoon. By the time Binabik thought to find something for them all to eat, Morgenes’ precious manuscript was scattered about Strangyeard’s tent, virtually every page having been held up for scrutiny and argued over until the incense-scented air seemed to ring.
Tiamak saw now that Morgenes’ message to him must have referred to the rhyme of the Three Swords. The Wrannaman had t
hought it impossible that anyone could have knowledge of his own secret treasure: it was clear that no one had. Still, if he hadn’t already developed a scholar’s healthy respect for coincidence, this day’s revelations would have convinced him. When bread and wine had been passed around, and the sharper disagreements had been softened by full mouths and the necessity of sharing a jug, Tiamak at last spoke up.
“I have found something myself that I hope you will look at.” He placed his cup down carefully and then withdrew the leaf-wrapped parchment from his sack. “I found this in the marketplace at Kwanitupul. I had hoped to take it to Dinivan in Nabban to see what he would say.” He unrolled it with great caution as the other three moved forward to look. Tiamak felt the sort of worried pride a father might feel on first bringing his child before the Elders to have the Naming confirmed.
Strangyeard sighed. “Blessed Elysia, is it real?”
Tiamak shook his head. “If it is not, it is a very careful forgery. In my years in Perdruin, I saw many writings from Nisses’ time. These are Rimmersgard runes as someone in that age would have written them. See the backward spirals.” He pointed with a trembling finger.
Binabik squinted. “… From Nuanni’s Rocke Garden …” he read.
“I think that it means the Southern Islands,” Tiamak said. “Nuanni …”
“—Was the old Nabbanai god of the sea.” Strangyeard was so excited that he interrupted—an amazing thing from the diffident priest. “Of course—Nuanni’s rock garden—the islands! But what does the rest mean?”
As the others bent close, already arguing, Tiamak felt a glow of pride. His child had met with the Elders’ approval.
“It’s not enough to stand our ground.” Duke Isgrimnur sat on a stool facing Josua in the prince’s darkened tent. “You have won an important victory, but it means little to Elias. Another few months and no one will remember it ever happened.”
Josua frowned. “I understand. That is why I will call the Raed.”
Isgrimnur shook his head, beard wagging. “That’s not enough, if you’ll pardon my saying so. I’m being blunt.”
The prince smiled faintly. “That is your task, Isgrimnur.”
“So then let me say what I need to say. We need more victories, and soon. If we do not push Elias back, it won’t matter whether this ‘three swords’ nonsense will work or not.”
“Do you really think it is nonsense?”
“After all I’ve seen in the last year? No, I wouldn’t quickly call anything nonsense in these times—but that misses the point. As long as we sit here like a treed cat, we have no way to get to Bright-Nail.” The duke snorted. “Dror’s Mallet! I am still not used to thinking that John’s blade is really Minneyar. You could have knocked my head off with a goose feather when you told me that.”
“We all must become used to surprises, it seems,” Josua said dryly. “But what do you suggest?”
“Nabban.” Isgrimnur spoke without hesitation. “I know, I should urge you to hasten to Elvritshalla to free my people there. But you’re right in your fears. If what I have heard is true, half the able-bodied men in Rimmersgard were forced into Skali’s army: it would mean a drawn-out struggle to beat him. Kaldskryke’s a hard man, a canny fighter. I hate his treacherous innards, but I’d be the last to call him an easy match.”
“But the Sithi have ridden to Hernystir,” Josua pointed out. “You heard that.”
“And what does that mean? I can make neither hide nor hair of the lad Simon’s stories, and that white-haired Sitha witch girl doesn’t strike me as the kind of scout whose information should be used to plan an entire campaign.” The duke grimaced. “In any case, if the Sithi and the Hernystiri drive Skali out, wonderful. I will cheer louder and longer than any. But those of Skali’s men we would even want to recruit will still be scattered far and wide across the Frostmarch: even with the weather getting a little better, I would not want to have to try to round them up and convince them to attack Erkynland. And they’re my people. It’s my country, Josua … so you’d better listen to what I say.” He worked his bushy eyebrows furiously, as if the mere thought of the prince’s possible disagreement called his own good sense into question.
The prince sighed. “I always listen to you, Isgrimnur. You taught me tactics as you held me on your knee, remember.”
“I’m not that much older than you, pup,” the duke grumbled. “If you don’t mind your manners, I’ll take you out in the snow and give you an embarrassing lesson.”
Josua grinned. “I think we will have to put that off for some other day. Ah, but it is good to have you back with me, Isgrimnur.” His expression grew more sober. “So, then, you say Nabban. How?”
Isgrimnur slid his stool closer and dropped his voice. “Streáwe’s message said the time is right—that Benigaris is very unpopular. Rumors of the part he played in his father’s death are everywhere.”
“The armies of the Kingfisher Crest will not desert because of rumors,” said Josua. “There have been more than a few other patricides who ruled in Nabban, remember. It is hard to shock those people. In any case, the elite officers of the army are loyal to the Benidrivine House above all. They will fight any foreign usurper—even Elias, were he to assert his power directly. They certainly would not throw Benigaris over on my behalf. Surely you remember the old Nabbanai saying, ‘Better our whoreson than your saint.’”
Isgrimnur grinned wickedly in his whiskers. “Ah, but who is talking about convincing them to throw Benigaris over for your sake, my prince? Merciful Aedon, they’d let Nessalanta lead the armies before they’d let you do it.”
Josua shook his head in irritation. “Well, who, then?”
“Camaris, damn you!” Isgrimnur thumped his wide hand down on his thigh for emphasis. “He’s the legitimate heir to the ducal throne—Leobardis only became duke because Camaris disappeared and was thought dead!”
The prince stared at his old friend. “But he’s mad, Isgrimnur—or at least simple-minded.”
The duke sat up. “They’ve accepted a cowardly patricide. Why wouldn’t they prefer a heroic simpleton?”
Josua shook his head again, this time in wonder. “You are astounding, Isgrimnur. Where did you get such an idea?”
Isgrimnur grinned fiercely. “I’ve had a lot of time to think since I found Camaris in that inn at Kwanitupul.” He ran his fingers through his beard. “It’s a pity that Eolair isn’t here to see what a skulker and intriguer I’ve become in my old age.”
The prince laughed. “Well, I’m not certain that it would work, but it bears thinking about at least.” He rose and walked to the table. “Would you like some more wine?”
Isgrimnur raised his goblet. “Thinking is thirsty work. Fill it, would you?”
“It is prise’a—Ever-fresh.” Aditu lifted the slender vine to show Simon the pale blue flower. “Even after it has been picked, it does not wilt, not until the season has passed. It is said that it came from the Garden on our people’s boats.”
“Some of the women here wear it in their hair.”
“As do our folk—men and women both,” the Sitha replied with an amused glance.
“Please, hello!” someone called. Simon turned to see Tiamak, Miriamele’s Wrannaman friend. The small man seemed tremendously excited. “Prince Josua wishes you to come, Sir Simon, Lady Aditu.” He started to sketch a bow, but was too full of nervous exhilaration to complete it. “Oh, please hurry!”
“What is it?” asked Simon. “Is something wrong!”
“We have found something important, we think.” He bounced on his tiptoes, anxious to be going. “In my parchment—mine!”
Simon shook his head. “What parchment?”
“You will learn all. Come to Josua’s tent! Please!” Tiamak turned and began trotting back toward the settlement.
Simon laughed. “What a strange man! You’d think he had a bee in his breeches.”
Aditu set the vine carefully back into place. She lifted her fingers to her nose. “T
his reminds me of my house in Jao é-Tinukai’i,” she said. “Every room is filled with flowers.”
“I remember.”
They made their way back across the hilltop. The sun seemed quite strong today, and though the northern horizon was aswim with gray clouds, the sky overhead was blue. Almost no snow remained except in the hollows of the hillside below them, the deep places where shadows lingered late into the day. Simon wondered where Miriamele was: he had gone looking for her in the morning, hoping to convince her to take a walk with him, but she had been absent, her tent empty. Duchess Gutrun had told him that the princess had gone out early.
Josua’s tent was crowded. Beside Tiamak stood Geloë, Father Strangyeard, and Binabik. The prince sat on his stool, looking closely at a parchment which was spread across his lap. Vorzheva sat near the far wall, stitching at a piece of cloth. Aditu, after nodding her greetings to the others, left Simon and went to join her.
Josua glanced up briefly from the parchment. “I am glad you are here, Simon. I hope you can help us.”
“How, Prince Josua?”
The prince raised his hand without looking up again. “First you must hear what we have found.”
Tiamak inched forward shyly. “Please, Prince Josua, may I tell what has happened?”
Josua smiled at the Wrannaman. “When Miriamele and Isgrimnur arrive, you may.”
Simon eased over next to Binabik, who was talking with Geloë. Simon waited as patiently as he could and listened to them discuss runes and errors of translation until he was nearly bursting. At last the Duke of Elvritshalla arrived with the princess. Her short hair was wind-tousled and her cheeks had a delicate flush. Simon could not help staring at her, full of mute longing.