“I had to climb halfway down this damnable hill to find her,” Isgrimnur muttered. “I hope this is worth it.”
“You could have just called to me and I would have come up,” Miriamele replied sweetly. “You didn’t have to nearly kill yourself.”
“I didn’t like where you were climbing. I was afraid I’d startle you.”
“And having a huge, sweating Rimmersman come crashing down the hillside wouldn’t startle me?”
“Please.” Josua’s voice was a little strained. “This is not the time for teasing. It is worth it, Isgrimnur—or I hope it will be.” He turned to the Wrannaman and handed him the parchment. “Explain to the newcomers, Tiamak, if you will.”
The slender man, his eyes bright, quickly described how he had acquired the parchment, then showed them the ancient runes before reading it aloud.
“… Bring from Nuanni’s Rocke Garden,
The Man who tho’ Blinded canne See
Discover the Blayde that delivers The Rose
At the foote of the Rimmer’s great Tree
Find the Call whose lowde Claime
Speaks the Call-bearer’s name
In a Shippe on the Shallowest Sea—
—When Blayde, Call, and Man
Come to Prince’s right Hande
Then the Prisoned shall once more go Free …”
Finished, he looked around the room. “We …” He hesitated. “We … Scrollbearers … have discussed this and what it might mean. If Nisses’ other words are important for our purposes, it seemed likely that these might be, too.”
“So what does it mean?” Isgrimnur demanded. “I looked at it before and couldn’t make horns nor hindquarter out of it.”
“You were not having the advantage that some others were having,” said Binabik. “Simon and myself and some others were already facing one part of this riddle for ourselves.” The troll turned to Simon. “Have you seen it yet?”
Simon thought hard. “The Rimmer’s Tree—the Uduntree!” He looked over to Miriamele with more than a little pride. “That’s where we found Thorn!”
Binabik nodded. The tent had grown quiet. “Yes—the ‘blade that delivers the Rose’ was being found there,” the troll said. “The sword of Camaris called Thorn.”
“Ebekah, John’s wife.” Isgrimnur breathed. “The Rose of Hernysadharc.” He pulled vigorously at his beard. “Of course!” he said to Josua. “Camaris was your mother’s special protector.”
“So we were seeing that the rhyme spoke in part of Thorn,” Binabik agreed.
“But the rest,” said Tiamak, “we think we know, but we are not sure.”
Geloë leaned forward. “It seems possible that if the rhyme speaks of Thorn, it may also speak of Camaris himself. A ‘man who though blinded can see’ could certainly describe a man who is blind to his past, even his own name, although he sees as well as anyone here.”
“Better,” said Miriamele quietly.
“That seems right.” Isgrimnur scowled, considering. “I don’t know how such a thing could be in some old book from hundreds of years ago, but it seems right.”
“So what does that leave us?” Josua asked. “This part about ‘the Call’ and the last lines about the prisoned going free.”
A moment of silence followed his remark.
Simon cleared his throat. “Well, perhaps this is stupid,” he began.
“Speak, Simon,” Binabik urged him.
“If one part is about Camaris, and another is about his sword—maybe the other parts are about other things of his and other places he’s been.”
Josua smiled. “That is not at all stupid, Simon. That is what we think, too. And we even think we know what the Call might be.”
From her seat by the far wall, Aditu suddenly laughed, a clear, musical trill like falling water. “So you did remember to give it to them, Seoman. I was afraid you might forget. You were very tired and sad when we parted.”
“Give it to them?” said Simon, confused. “What …?” He stopped short. “The horn!”
“The horn,” Josua said. “Amerasu’s gift to us, a gift we could see no use for.”
“But how does that fit with the call-bearer’s name …?” Simon asked.
“It was under our noses, so to speak,” Tiamak said. “When Isgrimnur found Camaris at the inn in Kwanitupul, he was called ‘Ceallio’—that means ‘shout’ or ‘call’ in the Perdruinese tongue. The famous horn of Camaris was named ‘Cellian,’ which is the same thing in the Nabbanai tongue.”
Aditu rose, smoothly as a hawk taking wing. “It was called Cellian by mortals only. It has a far older name than that—its true name, its name of Making. The horn that Amerasu sent you belonged to the Sithi long before your Camaris sounded it in battle. It is called Ti-tuno.”
“But how did it come to be in Camaris’ hands?” Miriamele asked. “And if he had it, how did the Sithi get it back again?”
“I can answer the first part of your question easily,” Aditu told her. “Ti-tuno was made of the dragon Hidohebhi’s tooth, the black worm that Hakatri and Ineluki slew. When Prince Sinnach of the mortal Hernystiri came to our aid before the battle of Ach Samrath, Iyu’unigato of Year-Dancing House gave it to him as a token of gratitude, a gift from friend to friend.”
When Aditu paused, Binabik looked for her permission to continue. When she nodded, he spoke. “Many centuries after Asu’a was falling, when John came to his power in Erkynland, he was having the chance to make the Hernystiri his vassals. He did not choose to do that thing, and in gratitude King Llythinn sent the horn Ti-tuno as part of Ebekah’s bridal dower when she was sent for being Prester John’s wife.” He raised his small hand in a gesture of gift giving. “Camaris was guarding her on that journey, and brought her with safety to Erkynland. John was finding his Hernystiri bride so beautiful that he gave the horn to Camaris to commemorate the day of her coming to the Hayholt.” He waved his hand again, a broader flourish, as though he had painted a picture he now wished the others to admire. “As for how it was returned to Amerasu and the Sithi—well, perhaps that is a story Camaris himself can be telling to us. But that is where it was brought from: the ‘ship on the shallowest sea.’”
“I do not understand that part,” Isgrimnur said.
Aditu smiled. “Jao é-Tinukai’i means ‘Boat on the Ocean of Trees.’ It is hard to imagine an ocean shallower than one with no water.”
Simon was growing confused by the flood of words and the changing litany of speakers. “What do you mean when you say Camaris can tell the story, Binabik? I thought Camaris couldn’t talk—that he was mute, or mad, or under a spell.”
“Perhaps he is being all those things,” the troll replied. “But it is also perhaps true that the last line of the poem is speaking to us about Camaris himself—that when these things are brought together, he will be then released from the prison of sorts that he is in. We hope it will be bringing back his wits.”
Again the room fell silent for several heartbeats.
“Of course,” Josua added at last, “there is still the problem of how that will come to be, if the second-to-last line is to be believed.” He held up his arms—his left hand with Elias’ manacle still clasped about the wrist, his right arm that ended in a leather-clad stump. “As you can see,” he said, “the one thing this prince does not have is a right hand.” He allowed himself a mocking grin. “But we hope that it is not meant to be taken word for word. Perhaps just bringing them into my presence will do the trick.”
“I tried to show Camaris the blade Thorn once already,” Isgrimnur remembered. “Thought it might jog his mind, if you see my meaning. But he wouldn’t go near it. Acted like it was a poisonous snake. Pulled free and walked right out of the room.” He paused. “But maybe when everything is together, the horn and all, maybe then …”
“Well?” said Miriamele. “Why don’t we try it, then?”
“Because we can’t,” Josua said grimly. “We have lost the horn.”
??
?What?” Simon looked up to see if, improbably, the prince might be joking. “How can that be?”
“It vanished sometime during the battle with Fengbald,” Josua said. “It is one of the reasons I wanted you here, Simon. I thought you might have taken it back for safekeeping.”
Simon shook his head. “I was glad to be rid of it, Prince Josua. I was so afraid that I had doomed us all by forgetting to give it to you. No, I haven’t seen it.”
No one else in the tent had either. “So,” Josua said at last. “We must search for it, then—but quietly. If there is a traitor in our midst, or even just a thief, we must not let him know that it is an important thing or we may never recover it.”
Aditu laughed again. This time it seemed shockingly out of place. “I am sorry,” she said. “but this is something that the rest of the Zida’ya would never believe. To have lost Ti-tuno!”
“It’s not funny,” Simon growled. “Besides, can’t you use some magic or something to locate it?”
Aditu shook her head. “Things do not work that way, Seoman. I tried to explain that to you once before. And I am sorry to laugh. I will help look for it.”
She didn’t look very sorry, Simon thought. But if he couldn’t understand mortal women, how could he ever in a thousand years hope to understand Sithi women?
The company slowly filed out of Josua’s tent, talking quietly among themselves. Simon waited for Miriamele outside. When she emerged, he fell in beside her.
“So they are going to give Camaris back his memories.” Miriamele looked distracted and tired, as though she had not slept much the night before.
“If we can find the horn, I suppose we’ll try.” Simon was secretly quite pleased that Miriamele had been present to see how involved he was in Prince Josua’s counsels.
Miriamele turned to look at him, her expression accusatory. “And what if he doesn’t want those memories back?” she demanded. “What if he is happy now, for the first time in his life?”
Simon was startled, but could think of no reply. They walked back across the settlement in silence until Miriamele said good-bye and went off to walk by herself. Simon was left wondering at what she had said. Did Miriamele, too, have memories that she would be just as happy to lose?
Josua was standing in the garden behind Leavetaking House when Miriamele found him. He was staring into the sky, across which the clouds were drawn in long ribbons like torn linen.
“Uncle Josua?”
He turned. “Miriamele. It is a pleasure to see you.”
“You like to come here, don’t you?”
“I suppose I do.” He nodded slowly. “It is a place to think. I worry too much about Vorzheva—about our child and what kind of a world it will live in—to feel very comfortable most places.”
“And you miss Deornoth.”
Josua turned his gaze back to the cloud-strewn sky again. “I miss him, yes. But more importantly, I want to make his sacrifice worthwhile. If our defeat of Fengbald means something, then it will be easier for me to live with his death.” The prince sighed. “He was still young, compared to me—he had not seen thirty summers.”
Miriamele watched her uncle in silence for a long while before speaking. “I need to ask you a favor, Josua.”
He extended his hand, indicating one of the time-worn benches. “Please. Ask me whatever you wish.”
She took a deep breath. “When you … when we come to the Hayholt, I want to speak to my father.”
Josua tilted his head, raising his eyebrows so that his high, smooth forehead creased. “What do you mean, Miriamele?”
“There will be a time before any final siege when you and he will talk,” she said hurriedly, as though speaking words that had been practiced. “There has to be, no matter how bloody the fighting. He is your brother, and you will speak to him. I wish to be there.”
Josua hesitated. “I am not certain that would be wise. …”
“And,” Miriamele continued, determined to have her say, “I wish to speak to him alone.”
“Alone?” The prince shook his head, taken aback. “Miriamele, such a thing cannot be! If we are able to lay siege to the Hayholt, your father will be a desperate man. How could I leave you alone with him—I would be giving you over as a hostage!”
“That’s not important,” she said stubbornly. “I must speak with him, Uncle Josua. I must!”
He bit back a sharp reply; when he spoke, it was gently. “And why must you, Miriamele?”
“I cannot tell you. But I must. It could make a difference—a very great difference!”
“Then you must tell me, my niece. For if you do not, I can only say no; I cannot allow you alone with your father.”
Tears glistened in Miriamele’s eyes. She angrily wiped them away. “You don’t understand. It’s something I can only talk to him about. And I must! Please, Josua, please!”
A weary anguish seemed to settle on his features like the work of long years. “I know you are not frivolous, Miriamele. But neither do you have the lives of hundreds, maybe thousands, weighing down your decisions. If you cannot tell me what you feel is so important—and I believe that you think it is true—then I certainly cannot let you risk your life for it, and perhaps the lives of many others as well.”
She stared at him intently. The tears were gone, replaced by a cold, dispassionate mask. “Please reconsider, Josua.” She gestured toward Deornoth’s cairn. A few blades of grass were already growing up between the stones. “Remember your friend, Uncle Josua, and all the things you wish you had said to him.”
He shook his head in frustration. The sunlight showed that his brown hair was thinning near the top. “By Aedon’s blood, I cannot allow it, Miriamele. Be angry at me if you must, but surely you can see that I have no other choice.” His own voice grew a little more chill. “When your father surrenders at last, I will do everything I can to see that he is not harmed. If it is within my power, you will have a chance to speak with him. That is the most I can promise.”
“It will be too late then.” She rose from the bench and walked rapidly back across the garden.
Josua watched her go; then, as motionless as if he were rooted to the ground, he watched a sparrow flutter down to alight briefly atop the cairn of stones. After a few bouncing steps and a chain of piping notes, it rose again and flew away. He let its departure lift his gaze back to the streaming clouds.
“Simon!”
He turned. Sangfugol was hurrying across the damp grass.
“Simon, may I talk to you?” The harper pulled up, breathing heavily. His hair was mussed and his clothing seemed to have been thrown on without a thought for color or style, which was very unusual; even in the days of exile, Simon had never seen the musician looking quite this unkempt.
“Certainly.”
“Not here.” Sangfugol looked around furtively, although there was no one in sight. “Somewhere where we won’t be overheard. Your tent?”
Simon nodded, puzzled. “If you wish.”
They walked through the tent city. Several of the residents waved or called greetings to them as they passed. The harper seemed almost to flinch each time, as though every person was a potential source of danger. At last they reached Simon’s tent and found Binabik just preparing to go out. As the troll pulled on his fur-lined boots, he chatted amiably about the missing horn—the hunt had been afoot for three days, and was still unsuccessful—and other topics. Sangfugol was quite visibly anxious for him to leave, a fact which Binabik could not help noticing; he cut short the conversation, made his farewells, then went off to join Geloë and the rest.
When the troll was gone, Sangfugol let out a sigh of released tension and sank to the floor of the tent, unmindful of the dirt. Simon was beginning to be alarmed. Something was very wrong indeed.
“What is it?” he asked. “You seem frightened.”
The harper leaned close, his voice a conspiratorial near-whisper. “Binabik says they are still searching for that horn. Josua seems to want i
t very much.”
Simon shrugged. “No one knows if it will do any good. It’s for Camaris. They hope it will bring him back to his senses somehow.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” The harper shook his head. “How could a horn do something like that?”
“I don’t know,” Simon said impatiently. “What is so important that you needed to talk about?”
“I imagine that when they find the thief, the prince will be very angry.”
“I’m sure they’ll hang him on the wall of Leavetaking House,” Simon said in irritation, then stopped as he saw the expression of horror on Sangfugol’s face. “What’s wrong? Merciful Aedon, Sangfugol, did you steal it?”
“No, no!” the harper said shrilly. “I didn’t, I swear!”
Simon stared at him.
“But,” Sangfugol said at last, his voice trembling with shame, “but I know where it is.”
“What?! Where?”
“I have it in my tent.” The harper said this in the doomful voice of a condemned martyr forgiving his executioners.
“How could that be? Why is it in your tent? And you didn’t take it?”
“Aedon’s mercy, Simon, I swear I didn’t. I found it in with Towser’s things after he died. I … I loved that old man, Simon. In my way. I knew he was a drunkard, and that sometimes I talked as though I wanted to knock his head in. But he was good to me when I was young … and, curse it, I miss him.”
Despite the sadness of the harper’s words, Simon was losing patience again. “But why did you keep it? Why didn’t you tell anybody?”
“I just wanted something of his, Simon.” He was as ashamed and sorrowful as a wet cat. “I buried my second lute with him. I thought he wouldn’t have minded … I thought the horn was his!” He reached out to grab Simon’s wrist, thought better, and pulled his hand back. “Then, by the time I realized what all the fuss and searching was for, I was afraid to admit that I had it. It will seem like I stole from Towser when he was dead. I would never do that, Simon!”
Simon’s moment of anger faded. The harper seemed close to tears. “You should have told,” he said gently. “No one would have thought ill of you. Now we had better go speak to Josua.”