Sisqi was indeed inspecting the flatboats. Binabik released Qantaqa, who shook herself vigorously and trotted off to the nearby skirts of the forest. Binabik watched his betrothed with a smile. She was examining the boats as distrustfully as a lowlander might count the lashings on a Qanuc chasm-bridge.
“So careful,” Binabik chided her, laughing. “Most of our people are crossed already.” He waved his arm at the stippling of white rams dotted across the valley floor, the knots of troll herdsmen and huntresses enjoying the short hour of peace before the journeying began once more.
“And I will see every single one across safely.” Sisqi turned and opened her arms to him. They stood face-to-face for a while, unspeaking. “This traveling-on-water is one thing when a few are fishing on Blue Mud Lake,” she said eventually, “another when I must trust the lives of all my people and rams.”
“They are fortunate in your care,” Binabik said, serious now. “But for a moment, forget the boats.”
She squeezed him hard. “I have.”
Binabik lifted his head and looked out across the valley. The snow was melted in many places, with tufts of yellow-green grass showing through. “The herds will eat until they are sick,” he said. “They are not used to such abundance.”
“Is the snow going away?” she asked. “You said before that these lands were normally not snowbound at this time of year.”
“Not always, but the winter has spread far south. Still, it does seem to be falling back again.” He looked up into the sky. The few clouds did not in the least diminish the strength of the sun. “I do not know what to think. I cannot believe that he who made the winter reach down so far has given up. I do not know.” He freed a hand from Sisqi’s side and bumped it once against his breastbone. “I came to say that I am sorry I have seen you so little of late. There has been much to decide. Geloë and the others have been working long hours with Morgenes’ book, trying to find the answers we yet seek. We have been studying Ookequk’s scrolls as well, and that cannot be done without me.”
Sisqi raised the hand of his she retained up to her cheek, pressing it there before letting it go. “You have no need for sorrow. I know what you do …” she inclined her head toward the boats bobbing at the water’s edge, “… just as you know what I must do.” She lowered her eyes. “I saw you stand at the lowlander’s council and speak. I could not understand most of the words, but I saw them watching you with respect, Binbiniqegabenik.” She gave his full name a ritual sound. “I was proud of you, my man. I only wish my mother and father could see you as I did. As I do.”
Binabik snorted, but he was obviously pleased. “I do not think that the respect of lowlanders would count for much on your parents’ tally stick. But I thank you. The lowlanders think highly of you, too—of all our people, after having seen us in battle.” His round face grew serious. “And that is the other thing I wished to speak of. You told me once that you thought to go back to Yiqanuc. Will you do that soon?”
“I am still considering,” she said. “I know we are needed by my mother and father, but I also think there are things we can do here. Lowlanders and trolls fighting together—perhaps that is something that will make our people safer in days ahead.”
“Clever Sisqi,” Binabik smiled. “But the fighting may grow too fierce for our folk. You have never seen a war for a castle—what the lowlanders call a ‘siege.’ There might be scant place for our people in such a battle, yet much danger. And at least one or two battles of that kind lie before Josua and his people.”
She nodded her head solemnly. “I know. But there is a more important reason, Binabik. I would find it very hard to leave you again.”
He looked away. “As I found it hard to leave you when Ookequk took me south—but both of us know that there are duties that make us do what we wish we did not have to.” Binabik slid his arm through hers. “Come, let us walk for a while, since we will not have much time to be together in days ahead.”
They turned and made their way back toward the base of the hill, avoiding the press of people waiting for boats. “I regret most that these troubles prevent us from our marriage,” he said.
“The words, only. The night I came for you, to set you free, we were married. Even had we never seen each other again.”
Binabik hunched his shoulders. “I know. But you should have the words. You are the daughter of the Huntress.”
“We have separate tents,” Sisqi smiled. “All that is honorable is observed.”
“And I do not mind sharing mine with young Simon,” he shot back. “But I would prefer sharing with you.”
“We have our times.” She squeezed his hand. “And what will you do when this is all over, my dear one?” She kept her voice steady, as if there were little question whether there would be an afterward. Qantaqa appeared from the curve of the forest and loped toward them.
“What do you mean? You and I will go back to Mintahoq—or, if you have already gone, I will come to you.”
“But what about Simon?”
Binabik had slowed his pace. Now he stopped and pushed snow from a hanging branch with his stick. Here in the hill’s long shadow, the raucous noise of the departing throngs was less. “I do not know. I am bound to him by promises, but the day will come when those can be discharged. After that …” He shrugged, a trollish gesture made with his palms held out. “I do not know what I am to him, Sisqi. Not a brother, not a father, certainly. …”
“A friend?” she suggested gently. Qantaqa was beside her, nosing at her hand. She scratched the wolf’s muzzle, running her fingers along jaws that could swallow her arm to the elbow. The wolf growled contentedly.
“Certainly that. He is a good boy. No, he is a good man, I suppose. I have watched him growing.”
“May Qinkipa of the Snows bring us all through this safely,” she said gravely. “Simon to grow happily old, you and I to love each other and raise children, our kind to keep our mountains as our home. I am not frightened of lowlanders any more, Binabik, but I am happier among people I understand.”
He turned and pulled her close. “May Qinkipa grant what you ask. And don’t forget,” he said, reaching out to lay his fingers next to hers where they touched the wolf’s neck, “we must wish for the Snow Maiden to protect Qantaqa, too.” He grinned. “Come, go with me a little farther. I know a quiet spot on the hillside, sheltered from the wind—the last private place we may see for day upon day upon day.”
“But the boats, Singing Man,” she teased. “I must look at them again.”
“You have looked at each one a dozen times,” he said. “Trolls could swim laughing through that water if they had to. Come.”
She put her arm around him and they went, heads leaning close together. The wolf padded after them, silent as a gray shadow.
“Blast you, Simon, that hurt!” Jeremias fell back, sucking on his wounded fingers. “Just because you’re a knight doesn’t mean you have to break my hand.”
Simon straightened up. “I’m just trying to show you something Sludig taught me. And I need the practice. Don’t be a baby.”
Jeremias gave him a disgusted look. “I’m not a baby, Simon. And you’re not Sludig. I don’t even think you’re doing it right.”
Simon took a few deep breaths, fighting down a cross remark. It wasn’t Jeremias’ fault that he was restless. He hadn’t been able to speak to Miriamele for days, and despite the huge and complicated process of breaking camp on Sesuad’ra, there still seemed little of importance for Simon to do. “I’m sorry. I was stupid to say that.” He lifted the practice sword, made of timbers rescued from the war barricade. “Just let me show this to you, this thing where you turn the blade …” He reached out and engaged Jeremias’ wooden weapon. “Like … so …”
Jeremias sighed. “I wish you would just go and talk to the princess instead of beating on me, Simon.” He raised the sword. “Oh, come on, then.”
They feinted and engaged, the blades clacking loudly. Some of the sheep pasturin
g nearby looked up long enough to see if the rams were fighting again; when it proved instead to be a contest of two-legged younglings, they turned back to their grass.
“Why did you say that about the princess?” Simon asked, panting.
“What?” Jeremias was trying to stay out of reach of his opponent’s longer arms. “Why do you think? You’ve been moping around after her since she got here.”
“I have not.”
Jeremias stepped back and let the point of his stave-sword sag to the ground. “Oh, you haven’t? It must have been some other hulking, red-haired idiot.”
Simon smiled, embarrassed. “That easy to tell, is it?”
“Usires Ransomer, yes! And who wouldn’t? She’s certainly pretty, and she seems kind.”
“She’s … more than that. But why aren’t you moping after her, then?”
Jeremias darted him a quick, hurt look. “As if she would notice me if I fell dead at her feet.” His face grew mocking. “Not that she seems to be flinging herself at you, either.”
“That’s not funny,” said Simon darkly.
Jeremias took pity. “I’m sorry, Simon. I’m sure being in love is horrible. Look, go ahead and break the rest of my fingers if it will make you feel better.”
“It might.” Simon grinned and raised his blade once more. “Now, damn you, Jeremias, do this right.”
“Make someone a knight,” Jeremias huffed, dodging a downward blow, “and you ruin his friends’ lives forever.”
The noise of their conflict rose again, the irregular smack of blade on blade fierce as the hammering of a huge and drunken woodpecker.
They sat gasping on the wet grass, sharing a water skin. Simon had untied the neck of his shirt to let the wind at his heated skin. Soon he would be uncomfortably chilly, but at the moment the air felt wonderful. A shadow fell between the two of them and they looked up, startled.
“Sir Camaris!” Simon struggled to rise. Jeremias just stared, wide-eyed.
“Hea, sit, young man.” The old man spread his fingers, gesturing Simon back down. “I was only watching the two of you at your bladework.”
“We don’t know much,” Simon said modestly.
“That you do not.”
Simon had been half-hoping that Camaris would contradict him. “Sludig tried to teach me what he could,” he said, trying to keep his voice respectful. “We haven’t had much time.”
“Sludig. That is Isgrimnur’s liege-man.” He looked at Simon intently. “And you are the castle-lad, are you not? The one that Josua knighted?” For the first time, it was apparent that he had a faint accent. The slightly over-rounded roll of Nabbanai speech still clung to his stately phrases.
“Yes, Sir Camaris. Simon is my name. And this is my friend—and my squire—Jeremias.”
The old man flicked his gaze to Jeremias and dipped his chin briefly before returning his pale blue eyes to Simon. “Things have changed,” he said slowly. “And not for the better, I think.”
Simon waited a moment for Camaris to explain. “What do you mean, sire?” he asked.
The old man sighed. “It is not your fault, young fellow. I know that a monarch must sometimes make knights upon the field, and I do not doubt that you have done noble deeds—I heard you helped find my blade Thorn—but there is more to knighthood than a touch of a sword. It is a high calling, Simon … a high calling.”
“Sir Deornoth tried to teach me what I needed to know,” Simon said. “Before I had my vigil, he taught me about the Canon of Knighthood.”
Camaris sat down, astonishingly nimble for a man of his age. “But even so, lad, even so. Do you know how long I was in service to Gavenaxes of Honsa Claves, as page and squire?”
“No, sire.”
“Twelve years. And every day, young Simon, every single day was a lesson. It took me two long years simply to learn how to care for Gavenaxes’ horses. You have a horse, do you not?”
“Yes, sire.” Simon was uncomfortable yet fascinated. The greatest knight in the history of the world was talking to him about the rules of knighthood. Any young nobleman from Rimmersgard to Nabban would have given his left arm to be in Simon’s place. “She’s called Homefinder.”
Camaris gave him a sharp look, as though he disapproved of the name, but went on as though he did not. “Then you must learn to care for her properly. She is more than a friend, Simon, she is as much a part of you as your two legs and two arms. A knight who cannot trust his horse, who does not know his horse as well as he knows himself, who has not cleaned and repaired every piece of harness a thousand times—well, he will be of little use to himself or to God.”
“I am trying, Sir Camaris. But there is so much to learn.”
“Admittedly it is a time of war,” Camaris continued. “So it is quite permissible to slight some of the less crucial arts—hunting and hawking and suchlike.” But he did not look as though he was entirely comfortable with this thought. “It is even conceivable that the rules of precedence are not so important as at other times, except insofar as they impinge on military discipline; still, it is easier to fight when you know your place in God’s wise plan. Little wonder the battle here with the king’s men was a brawl.” His look of severe concentration abruptly softened; his eyes turned mild. “But I am boring you, am I not?” His lips quirked. “I have been as one asleep for two score years, but still I am an old man, for all that. It is not my world.”
“Oh, no,” Simon said earnestly. “You are not boring me, Sir Camaris. Not at all.” He looked at Jeremias for support, but his friend was goggle-eyed and silent. “Please, tell me anything that will help me be a better knight.”
“Are you being kind?” asked the greatest knight in Aedondom. His tone was cool.
“No, sire.” Simon laughed in spite of himself, and had a momentary fear that he would dissolve into terrified giggling. “No, sire. Forgive me, but to have you ask if you’re boring me …” He could not summon words to describe the magnificent folly of such an idea. “You are a hero, Sir Camaris,” he said at last, simply. “A hero.”
The old man rose with the same surprising alacrity with which he had seated himself. Simon was afraid he had somehow offended him.
“Stand, lad.”
Simon did as he was told.
“You, too … Jeremias.” Simon’s friend rose to the knight’s beckoning finger. Camaris looked at them both critically. “Lend me your sword, please.” He pointed to the wooden blade still clutched in Simon’s hand. “I have left Thorn scabbarded in my tent. I am still not quite comfortable having her near me, I confess. There is a restless quality to her that I do not like. Perhaps it is only me.”
“Her?” Simon asked, surprised.
The old man made a dismissive gesture. “It is the way we talk on Vinitta. Boats and swords are ‘she,’ storms and mountains are ‘he.’ Now, attend me well.” He took the practice-sword and drew a circle in the wet grass. “The Canon of Knighthood tells that, as we are made in the image of our Lord, so is the world …” He made a smaller circle inside the first. “… made in the semblance of Heaven. But, woefully, without its grace.” He examined the circle critically, as if he could already see it populated with sinners.
“As the angels are the minions and messengers of God the Highest,” he went on, “so does the fraternity of knighthood serve its various earthly rulers. The angels bring forth God’s good works, which are absolute, but the earth is flawed, and so are our rulers, even the best. Thus, there will be disagreement as to what is God’s will. There will be war.” He divided the inner circle with a single line. “By this test will the righteousness of our rulers be made known. It is war that most closely reflects the knife edge of God’s will, since war is the hinge on which earthly empires rise or fall. If strength alone were to determine victory, strength unmitigated by honor or mercy, then there would be no victory, because God’s will can never be revealed by the mere exercise of greater strength. Is the cat more beloved of God than the mouse?” Camaris shook his head
gravely, then turned his sharp eyes on his audience. “Are you listening?”
“Yes,” Simon said quickly. Jeremias only nodded, still silent as if struck dumb.
“So. All angels—excepting The One Who Fled—are obedient to God above all, because He is perfect, all-knowing and all-capable.” Camaris drew a series of ticks on the outer circle—representing the angels, Simon supposed. In truth, he was a little bit confused, but he also felt that he could grasp much of what the knight was saying, so he clung to what he could and waited. “But,” the old man continued, “the rulers of men are, as aforesaid, flawed. They are sinners, as are we all. Thus, although each knight is loyal to his liege, he must also be loyal to the Canon of Knighthood—all the rules of battle and comportment, the rules of honor and mercy and responsibility—which is the same for all knights.” Camaris bisected the line through the inner circle, drawing a perpendicular. “So no matter which earthly ruler wins a struggle, if his knights are true to their canon, the battle will have been won according to God’s law. It will be a just reflection of His will.” He fixed Simon with his keen gaze. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes, sire.” In truth, it did make a kind of sense, although Simon wanted to think about it on his own for a while.
“Good.” Camaris bent and wiped the mud-daubed wooden blade as carefully as if it had been Thorn, then handed it back to Simon. “Now, just as God’s priest must render His will understandable to the people, in a form that is pleasing and reverent, so, too, must His knights prosecute His wishes in a similar fashion. That is why war, however horrible, should not be a fight between animals. That is why a knight is more than simply a strong man on a horse. He is God’s vicar on the battlefield. Swordplay is prayer, lads—serious and sad, yet joyful.”
He doesn’t look very joyful, Simon thought. But there is something priestlike about him.
“And that is why one does not become a knight just by the passing of a vigil and the tapping of a sword, any more than one might become a priest by carrying the Book of the Aedon from one side of a village to another. There is study, study in every part.” He turned to Simon. “Stand and hold up your sword, young man.”