To Green Angel Tower

  Miriamele was taken aback. She turned to Gullaighn, suddenly full of misgivings. “Who else lives here?”

  The woman gave no answer.

  Miriamele saw movement in the doorway of the house. A moment later, a man emerged onto the dark hard-packed earth before the door. He was short and thick-necked, clothed in a white robe.

  “We meet again,” said Maefwaru. “Our visit in the tavern was too short.”

  Miriamele heard Simon curse, then the scrape of his sword leaving the scabbard. He pulled at her bridle to turn her horse around.

  “Don’t,” Maefwaru said. He whistled. A half-dozen more white-robed figures stepped from the shadows around the edge of the clearing. In the twilight, they seemed ghosts born from the secretive trees. Several of them had drawn their bows.

  “Roelstan, you and your woman move away.” The bald man sounded almost pleasant. “You have done what you were sent to do.”

  “Curse you, Maefwaru!” Gullaighn cried. “On the Day of Weighing-Out, you will eat your own guts for sausages!”

  Maefwaru laughed, a deep rumble. “Is that so? Move, woman, before I have someone put an arrow in you.”

  As her husband dragged her away, Gallaighn turned to Miriamele with eyes full of tears. “Forgive us, my lady. They caught us again. They made us!”

  Miriamele’s heart was cold as a stone.

  “What do you want with us, you coward?” Simon demanded.

  Maefwaru laughed again, wheezing a little. “It is not what we want of you, young master. It is what the Storm King wants of you. And we will find out tonight, when we give you to Him.” He waved to the other white-robed figures. “Bind them. There is much to do before midnight.”

  As the first of the Fire Dancers seized his arms, Simon turned to Miriamele, his face full of anger and desperation. She knew that he wished to fight, to make them kill him instead of simply surrendering, but was afraid to for her sake.

  Miriamele could give him nothing. She had nothing left inside of her but stifling dread.

  34

  A Confession

  “Unto her side he came, he came,”

  sang Maegwin,

  “A youth dressed all in sable black

  With golden curls about his head

  And silken cape upon his back.

  ‘And what would you my lady fair?’

  That golden youth did smile and say.

  ‘What rare gift may I give to you,

  So you will be my bride this day?

  The maiden turned her face aside.

  ‘There is no gift so rich, so fine,

  That I would give you in return

  That rare thing that is only mine.’

  The youth he shook his golden head

  And laughed and said, ‘Oh, maiden sweet

  You may turn me away today,

  But soon find that you can’t say no.

  My name is Death, and all you have

  Will come to me anyway …’”

  It was no use. Over the sound of her own melody, she could still hear the odd wailing that seemed to portend so much unhappiness.

  Maegwin’s song trailed off and she stared into the flames of the campfire. Her cold-cracked lips made it painful to sing. Her ears stung and her head hurt. Nothing was as it should be—nothing was as she had expected.

  It had seemed at first that things were going the way they should. She had been a dutiful daughter to the gods: it was no surprise that after her death she should be raised up to live among them—not as an equal, of course, but as a trusted subordinate, a beloved servant. And in their strange way the gods had proved every bit as wondrous as she had imagined they would, with their inhuman, flashing eyes and their rainbow-hued armor and clothing. Even the land of the gods had been much as she had expected, like her own beloved Hernystir, but better, cleaner, brighter. The sky in the godlands seemed higher and more blue than a sky could be, the snow whiter, the grass so green that its verdancy was almost painful. Even Count Eolair, who had also died and come to this beautiful eternity, seemed more open, more approachable; she had been able to tell him without fear or shyness that she had always loved him. Eolair, relieved like her of the burden of mortality, had listened with kind concern—almost like a god himself!

  But then things had begun to go wrong.

  Maegwin had thought that when she and the other living Hernystiri faced their enemies, and by doing so brought the gods out into the world, they had somehow tipped a balance. The gods themselves were at war, just as the Hernystiri—but the gods’ war had not been won. The worst, it seemed, was yet to come.

  And so the gods had ridden across the broad white fields of Heaven, searching for Scadach, the hole into outer darkness. And they had found it. Cold and black it was, bounded in stone quarried from eternity’s darkest recesses, just as the lore-masters had taught her—and full of the gods’ direst enemies.

  She had never believed that such things could exist, creatures of pure evil, shining vessels of emptiness and despair. But she had seen one stand on the ageless wall of Scadach, heard its lifeless voice prophesy the destruction of gods and mortals alike. All that was wrong lay behind that wall … and now the gods were trying to bring the wall tumbling down.

  Maegwin would have guessed that the ways of gods were mysterious. What she would not have guessed was just how mysterious they could be.

  She raised her voice in song again, still hoping that she could blot out the disturbing noise, but gave it up after a few moments. The gods themselves were singing, and their voices were much stronger than hers.

  Why don’t they stop? she thought desperately. Why don’t they leave it alone?!

  But it was useless to wonder. The gods had their reasons. They always did.

  Eolair had long since given up trying to understand the Sithi. He knew they were not gods, whatever Maegwin’s poor, fevered mind might see, but neither were they a great deal more comprehensible than the Lords of Heaven.

  The count turned away from the fire, turned his back on Maegwin. She had been singing to herself, but had fallen silent. She had a sweet voice, but set against the chanting of the Peaceful Ones it sounded thin and discordant. It was not her fault. No mortal voice would sound like much when set against … this.

  The Count of Nad Mullach shivered. The chorus of Sithi voices rose again. Their music was as impossible to ignore as were their catlike eyes when they stared you in the face. The rhythmic song gained in volume, pulsing like the oarmaster’s call to his rowers.

  The Sithi had been singing for three days, clustered before the bleak walls of Naglimund in the flurrying snow. Whatever they were doing, the Norns within the castle did not ignore them: several times the white-faced defenders had mounted to the tops of the walls and let fly a volley of arrows. A few of the Sithi had been killed in these attacks, but they had their own archers. Each time, the Norns were driven from the walls and the Sithi voices would rise once more.

  “I don’t know that I can stand this much longer, Eolair.” Isorn appeared out of the whirl of mist, his beard jeweled with frost. “I had to go hunting just to get away, but the noise followed me as far as I went.” He dropped a hare onto the ground near the fire. Red dribbled from the arrow-wound in its side, staining the snow. “Good day, Lady,” the duke’s son said to Maegwin. She had stopped singing, but did not look up at him. She seemed incapable of seeing anything but the wavering fire.

  Eolair received Isorn’s curious look and shrugged. “It is not really such a terrible sound.”

  The Rimmersman raised his eyebrows. “No, Eolair, it is beautiful in its way. But it is too beautiful for me, too strong, too strange. It is making me ill.”

  The count frowned. “I know. The rest of the men are unsettled, too. More than unsettled—frightened.”

  “But why are the Sithi doing this? They are risking their lives—two more were killed yesterday! If this is some fairy ceremony they must perform, can they not sing out of bowshot?”

  Eolair
shook his head helplessly. “I do not know. Bagba bite me, I do not know anything, Isorn.”

  As continual as the noise of the ocean, the voices of the Sithi washed across the camp.

  Jiriki came in the dark before dawn. The slumbering coals picked out his sharp features in scarlet light.

  “This morning,” he said, then squatted, staring at the embers. “Before noon.”

  Eolair rubbed his eyes, trying to bring himself fully awake. He had been sleeping fitfully, but sleeping nonetheless. “This … this morning? What do you mean?”

  “The battle will begin.” Jiriki turned and gave Eolair a look that on a more familiar face might have betokened pity. “It will be dreadful.”

  “How do you know that the battle will start then?”

  “Because that is what we have been working toward. We cannot fight a siege—we are too few. Those you call Norns are fewer than we are, but they sit inside a great shell of stone, and we do not have the engines mortals make for such battles nor the time to build them. So we will do it our way.”

  “Does it have something to do with the singing?”

  Jiriki nodded in his oddly avian way. “Yes. Make your men ready. And tell them this: whatever they may think or see, they are fighting against living creatures. The Hikeda’ya are like you and like us—they bleed. They die.” He fixed Eolair with an even, golden stare. “You will tell them that?”

  “I will.” Eolair shivered and leaned closer to the fire, warming his hands before the dreaming coals. “Tomorrow?”

  Jiriki nodded again, then stood. “We will have our best chance while the sun is high. If we are lucky, it will be over before the darkness comes.”

  Eolair couldn’t imagine rugged Naglimund being brought down in so short a time. “And if it’s not over? What, then?”

  “Things will be … difficult.” Jiriki took a step backward and vanished into the mist.

  Eolair sat before the coals for a little while, clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering. When he was sure he would not embarrass himself, he went to waken Isorn.

  Buffeted by brisk winds, the gray and red tent rode the peak of the hill like a sailing ship breasting a high wave. A few other tents shared the hilltop; many more were scattered down the slope and clustered in the valley. Beyond them lay Lake Clodu, a vast blue-green mirror, still as a contented beast.

  Tiamak stood outside the tent, lingering despite the chill breeze. So many people, so much movement, so much life! It was disturbing to look down on that great sea of people, frightening to know that he was so close to the grinding stones of History, but still it was somehow hard to turn away. His own little story had been quite swallowed up by the great tales that stalked through Osten Ard in these days. It sometimes seemed that a sack full of the mightiest dreams and nightmares had been emptied out. That Tiamak’s own small accomplishments, fears, and desires seemed likely to be ignored was the best he could hope for. An equally strong possibility was that they might be trampled entirely.

  Shivering a little, he finally lifted the tent flap and stepped through.

  It was not, as he had feared when Jeremias brought him the prince’s summons, a council of war. Such things made him feel completely useless. Only a few waited—Josua, Sir Camaris, Duke Isgrimnur, all seated on stools, Vorzheva propped up in her bed, and the Sitha-woman Aditu, cross-legged on the floor at Vorzheva’s side. The only other person in the tent was young Jeremias, who had apparently been very busy this afternoon. Just now, he was standing before the prince, trying to look attentive while gasping slightly for air.

  “Thank you for your haste, Jeremias,” said Josua. “I understand completely. Please just go back and tell Strangyeard to come when he can. After that, you are released.”

  “Yes, your Highness.” Jeremias bowed, then headed for the door.

  Tiamak, who was still standing in the doorway, smiled at the approaching youth. “I did not have a chance to ask you before, Jeremias: how is Leleth? Is there any change?”

  The youth shook his head. He tried to keep his voice even, but the pain was obvious. “Just the same. She never wakes up. She drinks a little water, but takes no food.” He rubbed fiercely at his eye. “No one can do anything.”

  “I am sorry,” said Tiamak gently.

  “It’s not your fault.” Jeremias moved uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I have to go take Josua’s message back to Father Strangyeard.”

  “Of course.” Tiamak stepped out of the way. Jeremias slipped past him and was gone.

  “Tiamak,” the prince called, “please come and join us.” He pointed to an empty stool.

  When the Wrannaman was seated, Josua looked around. “This is very difficult,” he said at last. “I am going to do a terrible thing and I apologize for it now. Nothing can excuse it but the strength of our need.” He turned to Camaris. “My friend, please forgive me. If I could do this some other way, I would. Aditu feels that we should know whether you went to the Sithi home of Jao é-Tinukai’i, and if you did, why.”

  Camaris raised his tired eyes to Josua’s. “Is a man permitted no secrets?” he asked heavily. “I promise you, Prince Josua, that it is nothing to do with this struggle against the Storm King. On the honor of my knighthood.”

  “But someone who does not know all the history of our people—and Ineluki was one of us, once—may not know all the ties of blood and fable.” Aditu spoke without Josua’s reluctance, clearly and forcefully. “Everyone here knows you are an honorable man, Camaris, but you may not realize whether what you have seen or learned is useful.”

  “Will you not tell just me, Camaris?” Josua asked. “You know I hold your honor as high as my own. You certainly need not spill all your secrets to a room full of people, if that is what you fear, even though they are your friends and allies.”

  Camaris looked at him for a moment. His gaze seemed to soften; he struggled visibly with some impulse, but after a moment he shook his head violently. “No. A thousand pardons, Prince Josua, but to my shame I cannot. There are some things that even the Canon of Knighthood cannot drive me to.”

  Isgrimnur was wringing his large hands together, clearly pained by Camaris’ discomfort. Tiamak had not seen the Rimmersman so unhappy since they had left Kwanitupul. “And me, Camaris?” the duke asked. “I have known you longer by far than anyone here. We both served the old king. If it is something to do with Prester John, you can share it with me.”

  Camaris sat straighter, but it seemed to be weak opposition to something that was bending him down inside. “I cannot, Isgrimnur. It would put too great a burden on our friendship. Please, ask me not.”

  Tiamak felt the tension in the room. The old knight seemed to be backed into a corner no one else could see.

  “Can you not leave him alone?” Vorzheva’s voice was raw. She draped her hands over her round belly as though to protect the child from so much unpleasantness and sorrow.

  Why am I here? Tiamak wondered. Because I traveled with him when he was witless? Because I am a Scrollbearer? With Geloë dead and Binabik gone, the League is a sorry collection just now. And where is Strangyeard?

  A thought suddenly came to him. “Prince Josua?”

  The prince looked up. “Yes, Tiamak?”

  “Forgive me. This is not my place, and I do not know all the customs …” he hesitated, “but you Aedonites have a tradition of confession, do you not?”

  Josua nodded. “Yes.”

  He Who Always Steps on Sand, Tiamak prayed silently, let me walk the right path now!

  The Wrannaman turned to Camaris. The old knight, for all his dignified bearing, looked back at him with the eyes of a hunted animal. “Could you not tell your story to a priest,” Tiamak asked him, “—perhaps Father Strangyeard, if he is the proper kind of holy man? That way, if I understand things rightly, your story would be between you and God. But also, Strangyeard knows as much about the Great Swords and our struggle as any man living. He could at least tell the rest of us whether we should tr
uly look elsewhere for answers.”

  Josua slapped his hand on his knee. “You are indeed a Scrollbearer, Tiamak. You have a subtle mind.”

  Tiamak stored Josua’s compliment away to be appreciated later and kept his gaze on the old knight.

  Camaris stared. “I do not know,” he said slowly. His chest rose and fell as he took a long breath. “I have not told this story, even in the confessional. That is part of my shame—but not the greatest part.”

  “Everyone has shame, everyone has done wrong.” Isgrimnur was obviously growing a little impatient. “We do not want to drag this out of you, Camaris. We only wish to know whether any dealings you might have had with the Sithi can answer some of our questions. Damn it!” he added as an afterthought.

  A wintry smile moved across Camaris’ face. “You were always admirably forward, Isgrimnur.” The smile fell away, revealing a terrible, trapped emptiness. “Very well. Send for the priest.”

  “Thank you, Camaris.” Josua stood up. “Thank you. He is praying at young Leleth’s bedside. I will fetch him myself.”

  Camaris and Strangyeard had walked far down the hill together. Tiamak stood in the doorway of Josua’s tent and watched them, wondering despite the praise of his cleverness if he had done the right thing. Perhaps something he had heard Miriamele say was correct: they might have done Camaris no favor by waking him from his witless state. And forcing him to dredge up such obviously painful memories seemed no kinder.

  The pair, the tall knight and the priest, stood for a long time on the windy hillside—long enough for a long bank of clouds to roll past and finally reveal the pale afternoon sun. At last Strangyeard turned and started back up the hill; Camaris remained, staring out across the valley to the gray mirror of Lake Clodu. The knight seemed carved in stone, something that might wear away to a featureless post but would still be standing in that spot a century from now.

  Tiamak leaned into the tent. “Father Strangyeard is coming.”

  The priest struggled up the hill hunched over, whether against the cold or because he now bore the burden of Camaris’ secrets, Tiamak could not guess. Certainly the look on his face as he made his way up the last few ells bespoke a man who had heard things he would have been happier not knowing.