“If you so desire, Highness.” Xannasavin bowed to the duke.
“I can tell you what the next year will bring,” Benigaris growled. “Trouble and more trouble. Everywhere I turn there are problems.” He looked to Streáwe. “You know how it is. They want bread, the peasants do, but if I give it to them they just want more. I tried to bring in some of those swamp men to help work the grain fields—I have had to expend a lot of soldiers in those border skirmishes with the Thrithings savages and now all the barons are screaming about having their peasants levied and their fields fallow—but the damnable little brown men won’t come! What am I to do, send troops into that cursed swamp? I’m better off without them.”
“How well do I know the burdens of leadership,” Streáwe said sympathetically. “You have been doing a heroic job in difficult times, I am told.”
Benigaris jerked his head in acknowledgment. “And then those damned, damned, thrice-damned Fire Dancers, setting themselves on fire and frightening the common folk.” His expression turned dark. “I should never have trusted Pryrates. …”
“I’m sorry, Benigaris,” said Streáwe. “I didn’t hear you—my old ears, you know. Pryrates …?”
The Duke of Nabban looked at the count. His eyes narrowed. “Never mind. Anyway, it’s been a filthy year, and I doubt the next will be any better.” A sour smile moved his mustache. “Unless I convince some of the troublemakers here in Nabban to become Fire Dancers. There are more than a few that I think would look very good in flames.”
Streäwe laughed, then broke into a fit of dry coughing. “Very good, Benigaris, very good.”
“Enough of this,” Nessalanta said pettishly. “I think you are wrong, Benigaris—it should be a splendid year. Besides, there is no need to speculate. Xannasavin will tell you everything you need to know.”
“I am but a humble observer of the celestial patterns, Duchess,” the astrologer said. “But I will do my best. …”
“And if you can’t come up with something better than the year I’ve just gone through,” Benigaris muttered, “I may just toss you off the roof.”
“Benigaris!” Nessalanta’s voice, which had so far been wheedling and childlike, turned suddenly sharp as the crack of a drover’s whip. “You will not speak that way before me! You will not threaten Xannasavin! Do you understand!?”
Benigaris almost imperceptibly flinched. “It was only a jest. Aedon’s Holy Blood, Mother, don’t take on so.” He walked to the half-canopied chair with the ducal crest and sat down heavily. “Go on, man,” he grunted, waving at Xannasavin. “Tell us what wonders the stars hold.”
The astrologer pulled a sheaf of scrolls from his voluminous robe, brandishing them with a certain drama. “As the duchess mentioned,” he began, his voice smooth and practiced, “tonight is an excellent night for divination. Not only are the stars in a particularly favorable configuration, but the sky itself is clear of storms and other hindrances.” He smiled at Duke Benigaris. “An auspicious sign in and of itself.”
“Continue,” said the duke.
Xannasavin lifted a furled scroll and pointed up at the wheel of stars. “As you can see, Yuvenis’ Throne is directly overhead. The Throne is, of course, much tied to the ruling of Nabban, and has been since the old heathen days. When the lesser lights are moving through its aspect, the heirs of the Imperium do well to take notice.” He paused for a moment to let the import of this sink in. “Tonight you can see that the Throne is upright, and that on its topmost edge, the Serpent and Mixis the Wolf are particularly bright.” He swung around and pointed to another part of the sky. “The Falcon, there, and the Winged Beetle are now visible in the southern sky. The Beetle always brings change.”
“It is like one of the old Imperators’ private menageries,” Benigaris said impatiently. “Beasts, beasts, beasts. What does it all mean?”
“It means, my lord, that there are great times ahead for the Benidrivine House.”
“I knew it,” Nessalanta purred. “I knew it.”
“What tells you that?” Benigaris asked, squinting at the sky.
“I could not do justice to your majesties by trying to make an explanation that was too brief,” the astrologer said smoothly. “Suffice it to say that the stars, which have long spoken of hesitation, of unsureness and doubt, now proclaim that a time of change is coming. Great change.”
“But that could be anything,” Benigaris grumbled. “That could mean the whole city burned down.”
“Ah, but that is only because you have not heard all that I have to say. There are two other factors, factors most important. One is the Kingfisher itself—there, do you see it?” Xannasavin gestured toward a point in the eastern sky. “It is far brighter than I have ever seen it—and at this time of year it is generally quite hard to see. Your family’s fortunes have long risen and fallen with the waxing and waning of the Kingfisher’s light, and it has not been so gloriously illuminated before in my lifetime. Something of great moment is about to happen to the Benidrivine House, my lord. Your house.”
“And the other?” Benigaris appeared to be growing interested. “The other thing you mentioned?”
“Ah.” The astrologer unrolled one of his scrolls and examined it. “That is something that you cannot see at this moment. There will be a reappearance soon of the Conqueror Star.”
“The bearded star that we saw last year and the year before?” It was Streáwe who spoke, his voice eager. “The great red thing?”
“That is the one.”
“But when it came, it frightened the common folk out of their shallow wits!” Benigaris said. “I think that is what started all this doom-saying nonsense in the first place!”
Xannasavin nodded. “The celestial signs are often misread, Duke Benigaris. The Conqueror Star will return, but it is not a precursor of disaster, merely of change. Throughout history it has come to herald a new order appearing out of conflict and chaos. It trumpeted the end of the Imperium, and shone over the final days of Khand.”
“And this is good!?” Benigaris shouted. “You are saying that something which speaks of the downfall of an empire should make me happy!?” He seemed ready to leap from his chair and manhandle the astrologer.
“But my lord, remember the Kingfisher!” Xannasavin said hurriedly. “How could these changes be to your dismay when the Kingfisher is burning so brightly? No, my lord, pardon your humble servant for seeming to instruct you in any way, but can you think of no situation in which a great empire might fall, yet the fortunes of the Benidrivine House might improve?”
Benigaris sat back swiftly, as though repelled by a blow. He stared at his hands. “I will talk to you of this later,” he said at last. “Leave us now for a while.”
Xannasavin bowed. “As you wish, my lord.” He bowed again, this time in the direction of Streáwe. “A pleasure to meet you at last, Count. I have been honored.”
The count absently bobbed his head, as lost in thought as Benigaris.
Xannasavin kissed Nessalanta’s hand, swept the rooftop with a low bow, then stowed his scrolls once more and walked to the stairwell. His footsteps gradually dwindled down into echoing darkness.
“Do you see?” Nessalanta asked. “Do you see why I value him so? He is a brilliant man.”
Streáwe nodded. “He is most imposing. And you have found him reliable?”
“Absolutely. He predicted my poor husband’s death.” Her face assumed a look of profound sorrow. “But Leobardis would not listen, despite all my warnings. I told him if he set foot on Erkynlandish soil, I would never see him again. He told me it was nonsense.”
Benigaris looked at his mother sharply. “Xannasavin told you Father would die?”
“He did. If only your father had listened.”
Count Streáwe cleared his throat. “Well, I had hoped to save these matters for a different time, Benigaris, but hearing what your astrologer had to say—hearing of the splendid future he sees for you—I think perhaps I should share my thoughts with y
ou now.”
Benigaris turned from his dissatisfied contemplation of his mother to the count. “What are you talking about?”
“Certain things I have learned.” The old man looked around. “Ah, forgive me, Benigaris, but would it be an imposition to ask your guards to step back out of hearing?” He made a crabbed gesture toward the two armored men, who had stood motionless and silent as stone throughout the proceedings. Benigaris grunted and gestured them back.
“So?”
“I have, as you know, many sources of information,” the count began. “I hear many things that even others more powerful than myself are not able to discover. Recently I have heard some things that you might wish to know. About Elias and his war with Josua. About … other things.” He paused and looked to the duke expectantly.
Nessalanta, too, was sitting forward. “Go on, Streáwe. You know how much we value your counsel.”
“Yes,” Benigaris said, “go on. I will be very interested to discover what you have heard.”
The count smiled, a vulpine grin that showed his still-bright teeth. “Ah, yes,” he said. “You will be interested. …”
Eolair did not recognize the Sitha who stood in the doorway of the Hall of Carvings. He was dressed conservatively, at least in Sithi terms, in shirt and breeches of a pale creamy cloth that shimmered like silk. His hair was nut-brown—the closest to a human shade the count had yet seen—and had been pulled into a knot on top of his head.
“Likimeya and Jiriki say that you must come to them.” The stranger’s Hernystiri was as awkward and as archaic as that of the dwarrows. “Must you wait for a moment, or is it that you can come now? It is good that you come now.”
Eolair heard Craobhan take a breath as if to protest the summons, but the count laid a hand on his arm. It was only this immortal’s imperfect speech that made it sound peremptory—Eolair guessed that the Sithi would wait for him for days without impatience.
“One of your people, a healer, is with the king’s daughter—with Maegwin,” he told the messenger. “I must talk to her. Then I will come.”
The Sitha, face impassive, bobbed his head swiftly in the manner of a cormorant seizing a fish from a river. “I will tell to them.” He turned and left the room, his booted feet soundless on the wooden floors.
“Are they the masters here now?” Craobhan asked irritatedly. “Should we step to their measures?”
Eolair shook his head. “That is not their way, old friend. Jiriki and his mother simply wish to speak to me, I am sure. Not all of them speak our tongue as well as those two.”
“I still do not like it. We had to live with Skali’s boot on our necks long enough—when are the Hernystiri going to take their rightful place in their own land again?”
“Things are changing,” Eolair said mildly. “But we have always survived. Five centuries ago, Fingil’s Rimmersmen drove us into the hills and the sea-cliffs. We came back. Skali’s men are on the run now, so we have outlasted them, too. The weight of the Sithi is a far easier burden, don’t you think?”
The old man stared at him, eyes wrinkling in a suspicious squint. At last, he smiled. “Ah, my good count, you should have been a priest or a general. You take the long view.”
“As you do, Craobhan. Else you would not be here today to complain.”
Before the old man could respond, another Sitha appeared in the doorway, this one a gray-haired woman dressed in green with a cloak of cloudy silver. Despite the color of her hair, she looked no older than the just-departed messenger.
“Kira’athu,” the count said, rising. His voice lost its lightness. “Can you help her?”
The Sitha stared at him for a moment, then shook her head; the gesture seemed curiously unnatural, as though she had learned it from a book. “There is nothing wrong with her body. But her spirit is somehow hidden from me, gone deep inside, like a mouse when the owl’s shadow is upon the night-fields.”
“What does that mean?” Eolair struggled to keep impatience out of his words.
“Frightened. She is frightened. She is like a child who has seen its parents killed.”
“She has seen much death. She has buried her father and her brother.”
The Sitha-woman waved her fingers slowly, a gesture that Eolair could not translate. “It is not that. Anyone, Zida’ya or Sudhoda’ya—Dawn Child or mortal—who has lived enough years understands death. It is horrible, but it is understandable. But a child does not understand it. And something has come to the woman Maegwin in this way—something that is beyond her understanding. It has frightened her spirit.”
“Will she get better? Is there anything you can do for her?”
“I can do nothing more. Her body is sound. Where the spirit goes, though, is another matter. I must think on this. Perhaps there is an answer I cannot see at this time.”
It was difficult to read Kira’athu’s high-boned, feline face, but Eolair did not think she sounded very hopeful. The count balled his fists and held them hard against his thighs. “And is there anything I can do?”
Something very much like pity showed in the Sitha’s eyes. “If she has hidden her spirit deep enough, only the woman Maegwin can lead herself back. You cannot do it for her.” She paused as though searching for words of solace. “Be kind. That is something.” She turned and glided from the hall.
After a long silence, Old Craobhan spoke. “Maegwin’s mad, Eolair.”
The count held up his hand. “Don’t.”
“You can’t change it by not listening. She grew worse while you were gone. I told you where we found her—up on Bradach Tor, raving and singing. She’d been sitting unprotected in the wind and snow for Mircha only knows how long. Said she’d seen the gods.”
“Perhaps she did see them,” Eolair said bitterly. “After all I have seen in this cursed twelve-month, who am I to doubt her? Perhaps it was too much for her. …” He stood, rubbing his wet palms on his breeches. “I will go now and meet Jiriki.”
Craobhan nodded. His eyes were moist, but his mouth was set in a hard line. “Don’t ruin yourself, Eolair. Don’t give in. We need you even more than she does.”
“When Isorn and the others come back,” the count said, “tell them where I’ve gone. Ask them to wait up for me, if they would be so good—I don’t think I will be too long with the Sithi.” He looked out at the sky deepening toward twilight. “I want to talk to Isorn and Ule tonight.” He patted the old man’s shoulder before walking out of the Hall of Carvings.
“Eolair.”
He turned in the outer doorway to find Maegwin standing in the entrance hallway behind him. “My lady. How are you feeling?”
“Well,” she said lightly, but her eyes belied her. “Where are you going?”
“I am going to see …” He caught himself. He had almost said “the gods.” Was madness contagious? “I am going to speak with Jiriki and his mother.”
“I do not know them,” she said. “But I would like to go with you in any case.”
“Go with me?” Somehow it seemed strange.
“Yes, Count Eolair. I would like to go with you. Is that so dreadful? We are not such dire enemies, surely?” There was a hollowness to her words, like a jest made on a gibbet’s top step.
“Of course you may, my lady,” he said hurriedly. “Maegwin. Of course.”
Although Eolair could not discern any new additions to the Sithi camp that stretched across the broad expanse of Hern’s Hill, still it seemed more intricate than it had just a few days before, more connected to the land. It looked as though, instead of the product of a few days’ work, it had stood here since the hill was young. There was a quality of peace and soft, natural movement: the multicolored tent houses shifted and swayed like plants in an eddying stream. The count felt a moment of irritation, an echo of Craobhan’s dissatisfaction. What right did the Sithi have to make themselves so comfortable here? Whose land was this, after all?
A moment later, he caught himself. It was just the nature of the Fair On
es. Despite their great cities, mere bat-haunted ruins now if Mezutu’a was any indication, they were people who were not rooted to a place. From the way Jiriki had talked about the Garden, their primordial home, it seemed clear that despite their eon-long tenancy in Osten Ard they still felt themselves to be little more than travelers in this land. They lived in their own heads, in their songs and memories. Hern’s Hill was only another place.
Maegwin walked silently beside him, her features set as though she hid troubled thoughts. He remembered a time many years before when she had brought him to watch one of her beloved pigs give birth. Something had gone wrong, and near the end of the birthing the sow had begun to squeal in pain. By the time the two dead piglets had been removed, one still wrapped in the bloody umbilicus that had strangled it, the sow in her panic had rolled on one of her other newborns.
All through that blood-spattered nightmare, Maegwin had worn a look much like the one she bore now. Only when the sow had been saved and the rest of the litter were nursing had she allowed herself to break down and cry. Remembering, Eolair realized suddenly that it had been the last time she had let him hold her. Even as he had sorrowed for her, trying to understand her grief over the deaths of what to him were only animals, he had felt her in his arms, her breasts against him, and had realized that she was a woman now, for all her youth. It had been a strange feeling.
“Eolair?” There was just a hint of a tremor in Maegwin’s voice. “May I ask you a question?”
“Certainly, Lady.” He could not lose the memory of himself as he had held her, blood on their hands and clothes as they kneeled in the straw. He had not felt half so helpless then as he did now.
“How … how did you die?”
At first he thought he had misheard her. “I am sorry, Maegwin. How did I what?”
“How did you die? I am ashamed I have not asked you before. Was it the sort of death you deserved, a noble one? Oh, I hope it was not painful. I don’t think I could bear that.” She looked at him quickly, then broke into a shaky smile. “But of course that doesn’t matter, for here you are! It is all behind us.”