Brothers of the Wind

by Tad Williams

  Again, I was shocked. “Against Jenjiyana’s wishes?”

  “The Nightingale’s spirit had gone back to the Garden by then, and though my foreparents made clear they did not support Enazashi’s seizure of power, their only true resort would have been to take up arms against him—against their own kind.”

  I fell silent. The unfairness of it seemed beyond understanding. “You are saying Asu’a did nothing to stop this?”

  I heard a little heat in my master’s voice. “They did not ignore it, Pamon. Their protests forced Enazashi to set up the former Tinukeda’ya ruler as a second monarch, but that was no more than a sop—Enazashi does not share his rule. Mezutu’a’s Tinukeda’ya wield no power and are scarcely consulted.”

  I recalled the sad, defeated look of Kai-Unyu, and I understood: Worse even than being powerless was having it proved again and again in front of all Silverhome. I was silent as I helped my master dress himself in the finery Lord Gondo had sent.

  * * *

  • • •

  Any other night, I think, I would have been quite willing to sit and watch the gathering of Mezutu’a’s nobility, but that evening I was restless and angry, though I did not entirely know why, and even gossip of outstanding quality did not much tempt me.

  My restlessness grew, and at last, when the banquet had all but ended, I went to my master’s side and quietly asked his permission to go out walking in the city.

  “Of course, Pamon,” he said. “Remember that we will leave again early in the morning.” He paused for a long moment then said, “But I caution you not to go into the part of the city nearest the mines, where the Tinukeda’ya live.”

  “Why, my lord? Have you forgotten that I am Tinukeda’ya too?” It was an extraordinary thing for me to speak that way to my master, but I was troubled in a way I had never been before.

  “Of course not,” he said. “But it can be dangerous sometimes.”

  I had certainly never heard of a part of our home in Asu’a or any other great city called dangerous before. On any other night I would have stayed far away, but in that strange, unsettled mood I felt almost defiant. I found out where the mines were from one of the other servants—a youth of my own folk, who also warned me to stay away—and then deliberately set out in that direction.

  I was so wrapped up in my frustration with what I had heard about Enazashi and the onetime Tinukeda’ya rulers of Silverhome that I hardly noticed my surroundings as I walked through the high-ceilinged thoroughfares of the underground city. I later learned that, to add to the shamefulness of Kai-Unyu’s treatment, Mezutu’a had been almost entirely built by the first generation of my own people who reached this new land.

  Many Zida’ya of lesser rank were out on the wide boulevards, but they seemed little different to me than the nobles at the banquet I had left behind, full of merriment as they crowded the drinking-places and public squares beneath the stone-lights. Few of them seemed to notice me, which deepened my bleak mood. I did not know much about my master’s ancestors beyond their names, but I knew Amerasu and Iyu’unigato as well as I knew my own parents: it hurt my heart to think they would allow such a crime against my folk to go unpunished. I had always known them to be kind and honorable, especially Lady Amerasu, and I knew my master to be the same, but that did not excuse the injustice I had seen. No matter how I turned it over and over in my mind, I could not find a satisfying explanation.

  So caught up was I in these thoughts that I did not notice at first that the stone-lights were becoming farther and farther apart, though here and there a torch burned in a sconce at the place where two streets came together. Even the taverns had different signs, marked not with the Zida’ya runes I could read but in symbols I did not recognize. As I stood in the street before one of these shadowy inns, looking absently at a handful of young Tinukeda’ya males who huddled outside the door, I felt someone tug at my sleeve.

  Suddenly aware of my own obliviousness, I looked down to see a young girl of my own race with a dirt-smudged face looking back at me. She said something, but I could not understand her and said so.

  “Don’t go there,” she said in clumsy Zida’ya speech.

  I looked at the tavern. “I wasn’t going to. Why?”

  “They hurt you.”

  She was staring at the clutch of young Tinukeda’ya outside the tavern, so I asked, “Do you mean those fellows? Why would they hurt me? I am Tinukeda’ya too.”

  She shook her head. “Not those clothes.”

  “What do my clothes have to do with anything?”

  “Stand-up clothes,” she said, tugging at my sleeve again. “Tall Folk clothes. You go now.”

  And as she said it, the group of male Tinukeda’ya began to make their way across the street toward us. It was much darker here than near Lord Gondo’s great house, but even by the light of the single torch I could see that they all looked strange, hunched and crooked, many of them bent so badly their backs might have been broken.

  “Go,” she said even more urgently. “Get hurt if you stay.”

  The look on the young males’ faces quickly told me that she was correct, though I still couldn’t understand why. I turned and walked hastily back into the center of Silverhome and the safety of Gondo’s palatial house.

  As I waited for my master there, I began to understand what had happened. My clothes, the girl had said—“tall folk” clothes. She meant that I was dressed like the Zida’ya nobles, which seemed ridiculous to me, since I was still wearing the tattered garb I had worn trudging through mud and tangling undergrowth after Vinaju. But to the little girl—and the mob of young males—I was dressed like one of the masters, not like the bent and broken underlings who had doubtless become that way working in the mines of Mezutu’a.

  My own people had seen me as an enemy, I now understood. Only the kindness of a child had saved me from a beating or worse.

  When my master at last left the banquet hall he found me waiting outside, but though I rose to go with him, I stayed silent as we made our way to our night’s lodgings in the uppermost floors of our host’s high stone house. I could not sleep for some time after I was abed.

  * * *

  • • •

  Hakatri must have found a Witness to use in Lord Gondo’s house, for he told me the next day that he had spoken with his mother, Lady Amerasu. I did not learn what she had said—it was not my place to ask—but the look on my master’s face suggested it had not been a happy conversation. He would have told her about those who fell in Serpent’s Vale, of course, which must have been hard for both of them. He did not know, of course, that worse news was to come soon.

  When the next day dawned in the world outside, marked in Mezutu’a by the tolling of the famous Gathering Bell, we made our way back down to the Old Gate and across the underground lake. It was not pretty Vinaju who ferried us back through the Fernlight Passage this time, but a male youth of the Skyglass Clan. On our return, we shared a meal in Lady Vinadarta’s dwelling with Tariki Clearsight and the other survivors of Serpent’s Vale, then my master and his brother rose to say farewells, because Tariki and the rest were setting out for Asu’a. Lady Vinadarta came out with many of her clansfolk to bid them a good journey.

  Tariki took my master aside as the rest of the party mounted for home, his usually sunny face clouded with worry. “I beg you once more, my friend,” he said, “leave Ineluki here while this stubborn idea overwhelms his thoughts. The lake-folk will look after him, and later we can bring back enough warriors from Asu’a to be sure we can kill the cold-drake.”

  Hakatri shook his head. “You do not know my brother as I do. When he is in a mind like this, he is liable to do anything. Do you recall the time in his youth that he swore he would fight Lord Kuroyi over some innocent japery Ineluki took as an insult? I will always be grateful that the tall rider would not raise his blade against one so inexperienced, because I do not
doubt my brother would have been badly hurt at Kuroyi’s hand. No, Vinadarta and all her folk would not be able to restrain him in one of his fell moods. I must stay while this dark oath hangs over him—over all of us—to keep him from some fatal foolishness. Because of this, I beg you, old friend, to assure my wife that I now take her forebodings very seriously, and that I will be careful.”

  “I do not think Lady Briseyu wishes to hear such important words from me instead of yourself.”

  “That cannot be helped.”

  Tariki sighed, a rare open show of unhappiness. “So nothing can change either Ineluki’s mind to remain, or yours to stay with him.”

  Hakatri shook his head. “I have not yet seen any way to solve this puzzle my brother has set for me, old friend. But I have not given up hope.”

  Tariki made the gesture regretful parting before vaulting into his saddle. “Then I pray that the Garden that waits for us all is not greedy for the company of Year-Dancing House’s two young masters, dear comrade. Farewell!”

  Prince Cormach had satisfied himself that his wounded Hernsmen were recovering with the help of the Skyglass Lake healers, and now he, too, was making ready to leave the rippling walls of Vinadarta’s settlement. For a moment, as he looked at Hakatri, Cormach’s face changed in the swift way that mortals have, expressions coming and going like the wind setting ripples onto water. “You came to help us when you did not need to do so, Lord Hakatri,” he said, “—and Lord Ineluki too, of course. We Hernsmen will not forget that. I wish you luck, though I fear you will need more than that.”

  Lady Vinadarta stepped forward. “You know I am troubled by this dangerous oath of Ineluki’s that somehow commands you both, Hakatri of the Year-Dancing.” She saw the younger brother scowl. “I can only speak honestly, young lord, whether it troubles you or no—but I beg you not to scorn my counsel. I wish no harm to come to either of you, for the sake of your parents and our people. If you are truly determined to face the Great Worm again without waiting for assistance from Asu’a, then I beg you go and speak to Lord Xaniko of Ravensperch. He is one of the few living folk who know about the killing of dragons.”

  “Xaniko of the Hikeda’ya?” Ineluki was not happy with this suggestion. “The one called ‘the Exile’? What use could he be, that we should go to him like beggars? He crudely insulted our father once. In truth, he insulted the entire court of Asu’a during a single audience and was driven out, never to return.”

  “He has insulted many more than that, I am told,” said Lady Vinadarta with a wintry near-smile. “And not just those of our clans, but also his own Hikeda’ya folk, many times over—even Queen Utuk’ku herself. That is why he is called Exile and can never return to Nakkiga.”

  “Your pardon, Lady, but I think this advice is foolish.” Ineluki waved a dismissive hand and walked away.

  The mistress of Skyglass Lake shook her head. “It is up to you, then, Lord Hakatri, to decide whether my idea is worthwhile. Xaniko makes his home in the northern end of these very mountains, in his high fortress on a peak named the Beacon. My own people know the place and avoid it—we do not trouble him and he does not trouble us.”

  “We Hernsmen have taken much the same path with him, my lady,” said Prince Cormach.

  “And that is wise,” she said. “But you, Lord Hakatri, may wish to risk the Exile’s anger. If anyone can offer you wisdom about dragons, it will be Xaniko. There is no one alive who knows more about the ways of worms and the killing of them.”

  “Thank you for this counsel, Lady.” My master bowed. “I promise I will give it much thought.”

  “Then good fortune to you both.” Vinadarta left us then, her people falling in behind her.

  “I mourn your losses as much as my own,” Cormach told Hakatri. “My gratitude again for your aid.”

  His words clearly discomforted my master. “Do not credit me with anything more than looking out for my headstrong brother, young prince. So far, we have done nothing to solve the problem that brought you to us.”

  “That is more than a problem,” said Cormach. “That is a dragon. One of the old and fatal ones, too. But perhaps a day will come when we will be able to hunt it together again, with better success.”

  “Perhaps that day will come sooner than you think,” said Hakatri. “If so, I will come to you at M’yin Azoshai.”

  “We call our country Hernsland now.” Cormach reached out and clasped my master’s arm, surprising Hakatri a little: no other mortal man had been so easy and open with my master or his folk, at least during my time. “And as long as I live, you and your brother will always be welcome there.”

  * * *

  • • •

  My master thought Lady Vinadarta’s advice good, but Ineluki did not, though he could suggest no plan of his own. Because of this uncertainty we rode only a short distance that day, as far as the crossing where the road to Skyglass Lake met the Westwood Track that followed the line of mountains, then stopped to settle on the direction for our journey from there—north toward Xaniko’s high castle, or south toward the Silver Way and Serpent’s Vale.

  Ordinarily nothing would have been more important to me than this debate between the brothers, but I was troubled that day by many things. The scene at the Site of Witness had bothered me deeply, like a sliver that had worked its way under my skin and could not be forced out again. Then, only that afternoon, Lady Vinadarta had wished the two brothers good fortune without mentioning or even looking at me, as though I were no more than a beast, a horse or hound. Enazashi was one thing, a sour old tyrant, but Vinadarta was known as a wise, kind ruler. Was I invisible? Had I unwittingly done something to offend her? Or was I simply not worth acknowledging?

  No matter how I turned these questions over in my mind I could make nothing useful of them, so I did my best to push them away. But turning my attention to the brothers’ conversation did not bring me much cheer, either.

  Hakatri was still begging Ineluki to take back his ill-conceived oath, though he and I both knew that such a thing would never happen. When he could not convince his brother to forswear himself, my master insisted they should seek out the Hikeda’ya exile Xaniko, as Vinadarta had suggested.

  “What good could such a one do us?” Ineluki demanded. “No one has seen the Exile since he left Nakkiga in a fury. Everyone says that he is half mad, that he wants nothing to do with any of the folk of the Garden, Hamakha or Sa’onserei.”

  “I care little what everyone says,” Hakatri replied. “I care only about what Xaniko knows. He was the last of our kind to kill a worm with his own hands. If you are so determined to honor this hasty pledge of yours—a rope that will drag at least me along with you, if not many others—then we must learn what we can about a worm this large and deadly. As long as your stubbornness and your ill-advised oath keeps you from returning home—and my own duty prevents me from leaving you—we have no choice but to seek for a way to destroy the Blackworm.”

  “Do not shame me with talk about your duty,” said Ineluki bitterly. “If you insist on making my oath your own, how can you fault me? And in any case, what secret knowledge can there be to killing a worm that no one knows except a minor Hikeda’ya noble who was driven out of Nakkiga?”

  “The trick of staying alive, for one thing,” Hakatri said, his fury only a little less than his brother’s, though he spoke in a more restrained tone. “You saw it, I saw it—that creature in the vale is so long it could not dip all of itself at once in the Pool of Three Depths. But you refuse to return to Asu’a, where the memories of our people, both living and dead, could be searched for answers, where we could find others to help us hunt the beast. What choice do we have but to ask the Exile?”

  “I do not need—”

  My master did not let him finish. “You do not need. You do not want. Do you know any other words, brother?” I have seldom seen Hakatri so angry. “Why do you think we are here
at all? Why does your beloved Yohe—and a half-dozen more of our folk—lie unburied in a foul swamp? Because you thought only of yourself—of your anger, your pride.”

  “Do not chide me with their deaths, brother.” In that rage-filled voice I also heard a despair more agonizing than I had guessed. “Make no mistake—I know whose fault this is. I know why those good folk are dead. What do you think drove me to that oath if not the knowledge of my own terrible fault? But no one else needs to suffer because of my shameful, careless decision to seek the worm—not you, not Tariki Clearsight and your other friends, none of you. This burden is mine alone. And I do not need one of the Hikeda’ya to advise me, either.”

  “Then you are a fool,” Hakatri said bitterly.

  “That is fair enough,” his brother said with a crooked smile that made me turn away, so painful was it to see. “I have often lived as one, as you yourself have many times pointed out. It seems only proper that I should die one as well.”

  Their quarreling went so long that I fell asleep, then woke again in the darkest hours of the night in time to hear the resolution: Ineluki still would not take back his oath, but Hakatri won the argument about asking help from the renegade Xaniko. This reassured me a little: I had often seen their disagreements resolve this way. In fact, I think Ineluki often preferred his brother to be the one to decide what actions they should take so that he was free to argue for whatever brave, vengeful, or foolish thing he wanted, knowing that it would be Hakatri’s more cautious approach that would win in the end. But as they both knew that night—and I knew, too—it was still Ineluki’s angry, poorly considered pledge that would drive us on to whatever fate awaited us.

  In the morning’s light the three of us set off, riding north. We followed the Westwood Track as it wound along the foothills of the Sunstep Mountains, which loomed over us like a great thunderstorm frozen against the sky. We were headed for the northernmost peak of the range, called the Beacon. Though the season of renewal had begun, it had not quite reached this part of the world yet. The skies were gray, full of brief but cold rain showers, and the wind could not seem to make up its mind which direction to blow. No matter how I adjusted my cloak, I always felt a chill.