“Oh, no! He’ll be furious! No, Simon, why don’t I just give it to you—then you can say that you found it. You’ll be the hero.”
Simon considered for a moment. “No,” he said at last. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. For one thing, I’d have to lie to Prince Josua about where I found it. What if I told him I found it somewhere, then it turned out they’d already looked there. It would seem like I stole it.” He shook his head emphatically. For once, it hadn’t been Simon who had made the mooncalf mistake. He was in no hurry to take this particular blame. “In any case, Sangfugol, it won’t be as bad as you think. I’ll come with you. Josua’s not like that—you know him.”
“He told me once that if I sang “Woman from Nabban” again he’d have my head off.” Sangfugol, the worst of his fear past, was dangerously close to sulking.
“And well he should have,” Simon replied. “We’re all tired of that song.” He stood and extended a hand to the harper. “Now get up and let’s go see the prince. If only you hadn’t waited so long to tell, this would be easier.”
Sangfugol shook his head miserably. “It just seemed easier not to say anything. I kept thinking I could take it out and leave it somewhere that it would be found, but then I got frightened that someone would catch me at it, even if I did it in the middle of the night.” He took a deep breath. “I haven’t slept the last two nights for worrying.”
“Well, you’ll feel better once you’ve talked to Josua. Come on, up now.”
When they emerged from the tent, the harper stood for a moment in the sun, then wrinkled his thin nose. He offered a weak smile, as though he scented possible redemption in the damp morning air. “Thank you, Simon,” he said. “You are a good friend.”
Simon made a noise of mocking derision, then clapped the harper on the shoulder. “Let’s talk to him now, when he’s just eaten breakfast. I’m always in a better mood when I’ve just eaten—maybe it works for princes, too.”
They all gathered at Leavetaking House after the midday meal. Josua stood solemnly before the altar of stone on which Thorn still lay. Simon could feel the prince’s tension.
The others gathered in the hall talked quietly among themselves. The conversations seemed strained, but silence in the great room might have been even more daunting. The sunlight streamed through the doorway, but did not reach the room’s farthest reaches. The place seemed a kind of chapel, and Simon could not help wondering if they would see a miracle. If they could bring back Camaris’ wits, the senses and memories of a man forty years gone from the world, would it not be a sort of raising of the dead?
He remembered what Miriamele said and had to repress a shiver. Perhaps it was wrong, somehow. Perhaps Camaris was indeed meant to be left alone.
Josua was turning the dragon’s-tooth horn over and over in his hands, looking distractedly at the inscriptions. When it had been brought to him, he had not been as angry as Sangfugol had feared, but instead openly puzzled as to why Towser might have taken the horn and hidden it away. Josua had even been so generous, once his initial flash of annoyance had passed, as to invite Sangfugol to stay and witness whatever might happen. But the harper, reprieved, wanted nothing more to do with the horn or the doings of princes; he had returned to his bed to get some much-needed rest.
Now there was a stir among the dozen or so gathered in the hall as Isgrimnur entered leading Camaris. The old man, dressed in formal shirt and hose like a child who had been readied for church, stepped inside and looked around squinting, as if trying to see the nature of the trap into which he was being led. It did seem almost as though he had been brought to answer for some criminal act: those who waited in the hall stared at his face as though memorizing it. Camaris looked more than a little frightened.
Miriamele had said that the old man had been door warden and man-of-all-work at a hostel in Kwanitupul, and not particularly well treated there, Simon remembered; perhaps he thought he was to be punished for something. Certainly, from his nervous, sidelong glances, Camaris looked as though he would rather be anywhere than this place.
“Here, Sir Camaris.” Josua lifted Thorn from the altar—by the ease with which he hefted it, it must have seemed light as a twig; remembering the sword’s changing character, Simon wondered what this meant. He had thought once that the sword had wishes of its own, that it cooperated only when going where and doing what it desired. Was this its goal, now almost in reach? To return to its former master?
Prince Josua presented the blade to Camaris hilt first, but the old man would not take it. “Please, Sir Camaris—it is Thorn. It was yours, and still is.”
The old man’s expression became even more desperate. He stepped back, half-raising his hands as though to fend off an attack. Isgrimnur took his elbow and steadied him.
“All is well,” the duke rumbled. “It’s yours, Camaris.”
“Sludig,” Josua called. “Do you have the sword belt?”
The Rimmersman stepped forward, carrying a belt from which depended a heavy sheath of black leather studded with silver. With his master Isgrimnur’s help, he strapped it around Camaris’ waist. The old man did not resist. In fact, Simon thought, he might as well have been turned to stone. When they were finished, Josua carefully slid Thorn into the scabbard, so that its hilt came to rest in the space between Camaris’ elbow and his loose white shirt.
“Now the horn, please,” said Josua. Freosel, who had been holding it while the prince carried the blade, handed him the ancient horn. Josua slipped the baldric over Camaris’ head so that the horn hung beside his right hand, then stepped back. The long-bladed sword seemed made to fit its tall owner. A shaft of sunlight from the doorway glinted in the knight’s white hair. There was an unquestionable rightness to it; everyone in the room could see it. Everyone except the old man himself.
“He’s not doing anything,” Sludig said quietly to Isgrimnur. Simon again had the impression of attending a religious service—but now it felt as though the sexton had neglected to put out the reliquary, or the priest had forgotten part of the mansa. Everyone was caught up in the embarrassing pause.
“Perhaps if we are reading the poem?” Binabik suggested.
“Yes.” Josua nodded. “Please read it.”
Binabik instead pushed Tiamak forward. The Wrannaman held up the parchment in a trembling hand and, in an equally unsteady voice, read Nisses’ poem.
“… When Blayde, Call, and Man,”
he finished in firmer tones—he had gained courage with each line,
“Come to Prince’s right Hande
Then the Prisoned shall once more go Free …”
Tiamak stopped and looked up. Camaris stared back at him, offering a faintly wounded look to the companion of many weeks who was now doing this inexplicable thing to him. The old knight might have been a dog expected to perform some degrading trick for a previously kind master.
Nothing had changed. A shock of disappointment went through the room.
“We have perhaps been making some mistake,” Binabik said slowly. “We shall have to be at studying it further.”
“No.” Josua’s voice was harsh. “I don’t believe that.” He stepped up to Camaris and lifted the horn to the level of the old man’s eyes. “Don’t you recognize this? This is Cellian! Its call used to strike fear into the hearts of my father’s enemies! Sound it, Camaris!” He moved it toward the old man’s lips. “We need you to come back!”
With a hunted look, a look almost of terror, Camaris pushed Josua away. So unexpected was the old man’s strength that the prince stumbled and nearly fell before Isgrimnur caught him. Sludig snarled and took a step toward Camaris as though he might strike the old knight.
“Leave him be, Sludig!” Josua snapped. “If anyone is at fault here, it is me. What right do I have to trouble a simple-minded old man?” Josua bunched his fist and stared at the stone tiles for a moment. “Perhaps we should leave him be. He fought his battles—we should fight ours and leave him to rest.”
&
nbsp; “He never turned his back on any fight, Josua,” said Isgrimnur. “I knew him, remember. He always did what was right, what was … needful. Don’t give up so easily.”
Josua lifted his gaze to the old man’s face. “Very well. Camaris, come with me.” He gently took his elbow. “Come with me,” he said again, then turned and led the unresisting knight toward the door that led to the garden behind the hall.
Outside the afternoon was growing chill. A light mist of rain had darkened the ancient walls and stone benches. The rest of the company gathered in the doorway, uncertain of what the prince meant to do.
Josua led Camaris to the pile of stones that marked Deornoth’s grave. He lifted the old man’s hand and placed it on the cairn, then pressed his own down atop the knight’s.
“Sir Camaris,” he said slowly. “Please listen to me. The land that my father tamed, the order that you and King John built, is being torn to pieces by war and sorcery. Everything you worked for in your life is threatened, and if we fail this time, I fear there will be no rebuilding.
“Beneath these stones my friend is buried. He was a knight, as you. Sir Deornoth never met you, but the songs of your life he heard as a child led him to me. ‘Make me a knight, Josua,’ he told me on the day I first saw him. ‘I wish to serve as Camaris served. I wish to be your tool and God’s, for the betterment of our people and our land.’
“That is what he said, Camaris.” Josua laughed abruptly. “He was a fool—a holy fool. And he found out, of course, that sometimes the land and people do not seem worth saving. But he took a vow before God that he would do what was right and he lived all his days in an effort to measure up to that pledge.”
Josua’s voice rose. He had found some wellspring of feeling within himself, the words came tumbling out, strong and effortless. “He died defending this place—a single battle, a single skirmish took his life, yet without him, the chance of a greater victory would have been lost long ago. He died as he lived, trying to do what was not humanly possible, blaming himself when he failed, then getting up and trying again. He died for this land, Camaris, the same land that you fought for, the order that you struggled to create, where the weak could live their lives in peace, protected from those who would use strength to force their wishes on others.” The prince leaned close to Camaris’ face, catching and holding the old man’s reluctant gaze. “Will his death mean nothing? For if we do not win this fight, there will be too many graves for one more to make a difference, and there will be no one left to mourn for people like Deornoth.”
Josua’s fingers tightened on the knight’s hand. “Come back to us, Camaris. Please. Don’t let his death be meaningless. Think of the battles of your time, battles I know you would prefer not to have fought, but did because the cause was just and fair. Must all that suffering become meaningless, too? This is our last chance. After us comes darkness.”
The prince abruptly let go of the old man’s hand and turned away, eyes glistening. Simon, watching from the doorway, felt his own heart catch.
Camaris still stood as if frozen, his fingers splayed atop Deornoth’s cairn. At last he turned and looked down at himself, then slowly raised the horn and stared at it for a long time, as though it were something never before seen on the green earth. He closed his eyes, lifted it carefully to his lips with shaking hand, and blew.
The horn sounded. Its first thin note grew and strengthened, becoming louder and louder until it seemed to shake the very air, a shout that seemed to have the clash of steel and the thunder of hooves in it. Camaris, his eyes squeezed shut, sucked in a deep breath and blew again, louder this time. The piercing call winded out across the hillside and reverberated in the valley; the echoes chased themselves through the air. Then the noise died away.
Simon discovered he had his hands over his ears. Many others in the company had done the same.
Camaris was staring at the horn again. He lifted up his face to those who watched him. Something had changed. His eyes had become deeper somehow, sadder: there was a glint of awareness that had not been there before. His mouth worked, striving for speech, but no sound came out except a rasping hiss. Camaris looked down at the hilt of Thorn. With slow and deliberate movements, he drew it from the scabbard and held it up before him, a line of glinting black that seemed to slice right through the light of the failing afternoon. Tiny drops of misty rain gathered on the blade.
“I … should have known … that my … torment was not yet finished, my guilt not forgiven.” His voice was painfully dry and rough, his speech strangely formal. “Oh, my God, my loving and terrible God, I am humble before You. I shall serve out my punishment.”
The old man fell to his knees before the astonished company. For a long time, he said nothing, but seemed to be praying. Tears ran down his cheeks, merging with the raindrops to make his face shine in the slanting sunlight. Finally, Camaris clambered to his feet and allowed Isgrimnur and Josua to lead him away.
Simon felt something tugging at his arm. He looked down. Binabik’s small fingers had caught his sleeve. The troll’s eyes were bright. “Do you know, Simon, it is what we had all forgotten. Sir Deornoth’s men, the soldiers of Naglimund, do you know what they were calling him? ‘The prince’s right hand.’ And even Josua did not remember, I am thinking. Luck … or something else, friend Simon.” The little man squeezed Simon’s arm again, then hurried after the prince.
Overwhelmed, Simon turned, trying to catch a last glimpse of Camaris. Miriamele was standing near the doorway. She caught Simon’s eyes and gave him an angry look that seemed to say: you are to blame for this, too.
She turned and followed Camaris and the others back into Leavetaking House, leaving Simon alone in the rainy garden.
24
A Sky Full of Beasts
Four strong men, sweating despite the cold night breeze and panting from the exertion of heaving the covered litter up the narrow stairway, carefully lifted out the chair containing the litter’s passenger and carried it to the middle of the rooftop garden. The man in the chair was so swaddled in furs and robes as to be practically unrecognizable, but the tall, elegantly dressed woman immediately rose from her own seat and came forward with a glad cry.
“Count Streáwe!” said the dowager duchess. “I’m so glad you could come. And on such a chill evening.”
“Nessalanta, my dear. Only an invitation from you would bring me out in such ghastly weather.” The count took her gloved hand in his own and drew it to his lips. “Forgive me for being so discourteous as to remain seated.”
“Nonsense.” Nessalanta snapped her fingers at the count’s bearers and indicated they should bring his chair closer to hers. She seated herself again. “Although I think it is growing a little warmer. Nevertheless, you are a jewel, a splendid jewel for coming tonight.”
“The pleasure of your company, dear lady.” Streáwe coughed into his kerchief.
“It will be worth your while, I promise.” She gestured floridly at the star-sprinkled sky as though she herself had commanded it spread before them. “Look at this! You will be so glad you came. Xannasavin is a brilliant man.”
“My lady is too kind,” said a voice from the stairwell. Count Streáwe, somewhat limited in his mobility, craned his neck awkwardly to see the speaker.
The man who emerged from the entranceway onto the rooftop garden was tall and thin, with long fingers clasped as though in prayer. He wore a great curling beard of gray-shot black. His robes, too, were dark, and bespotted with Nabbanai star symbols. He moved between the rows of potted trees and shrubs with a certain storklike grace, then bent his long legs to kneel before the dowager duchess. “My lady, I received your summons with great pleasure. It is always a joy to serve you.” He turned to Streáwe. “The Duchess Nessalanta would have been a splendid astrologer, had she not her greater duties to Nabban. She is a woman of great insight.”
Beneath his hood, Perdruin’s count smiled. “This is known to all.”
Something in Streáwe’s voice made
the duchess hesitate for a moment before she spoke. “Xannasavin is too kind. I have studied a few rudiments only.” She crossed her hands demurely before her breast.
“Ah, but could I have had you for an apprentice,” Xannasavin said, “the mysteries that we might have plumbed, Duchess Nessalanta. …” His voice was deep and impressive. “Does my lady wish me to start?”
Nessalanta, who had been watching his lips move, shook herself as though suddenly coming awake. “Ah. No, Xannasavin, not yet. We must wait for my eldest son.”
Streáwe looked at her with real interest. “I did not know that Benigaris was a follower of the mysteries of the stars.”
“He is interested,” Nessalanta said carefully. “He is …” She looked up. “Ah, he is here!”
Benigaris strode onto the rooftop. Two guards, their surcoats kingfisher-blazed, followed a few paces behind him. The reigning duke of Nabban was going a little to fat around the middle, but was still a tall, broad-shouldered man. His mustache was so luxuriant as to hide his mouth almost entirely.
“Mother,” he said curtly as he reached the small gathering. He took her gloved hand and nodded, then turned to the count. “Streáwe. I missed you at dinner last night.”
The count lifted his kerchief to his lips and coughed. “My apologies, good Benigaris. My health, you know. Sometimes it is just too difficult for me to leave my room, even for hospitality as famed as that of the Sancellan Mahistrevis.”
Benigaris grunted. “Well, then you probably shouldn’t be out there on this freezing roof.” He turned to Nessalanta. “What are we doing here, Mother?”
The dowager duchess put on a look of girlish hurt. “Why, you know perfectly well what we are doing here. This is a very favorable night to read the stars, and Xannasavin is going to tell us what the next year will bring.”