by Tad Williams
“Must I have a reason to visit good Lord Dunyadi and his clan?” she asked. “Although I confess I also brought a message to him from the Protector and Lady Amerasu.” Her expression grew more guarded as she said this, giving a hint of the complicated feelings hidden beneath. Nidreyu was not an arresting beauty like her sister Briseyu, but she was handsome and graceful and extremely clever. She might have been young by the reckoning of the Zida’ya, but her witty tongue made her seem older, and I was not the only one in Asu’a who thought highly of her.
She looked up as Ineluki approached. He had not hurried. “And see!” she said. “Here is the very fellow who has been the subject of so much conversation in Asu’a of late.” She smiled at him, but he did not look mollified. “Greetings, my lord. It is good to see you hale and hearty.”
“It is good to see you, too, Lady,” said Ineluki. “But I do not think I will like the message you bring.”
“I am sure you will not. But let us not stand in the road like peddlers. Dunyadi sent me out to tell you that you are most welcome at Snowdrift, and that he would consider it an honor to shelter you for one night or many.”
“Of course we will stop,” said Hakatri, though his brother was shaking his head.
“One night, if we must.” Ineluki could scarcely look at Nidreyu, which seemed strange to me. The last time I had seen them together, only a short time past, they had been constantly in each other’s company, flirtatiously jesting and teasing like true lovers. Now a curtain seemed to have fallen between them. Nidreyu felt it too, I am certain, but she was not the sort to show her disappointment.
As we made our way toward Dunyadi’s house in the hills, Nidreyu rode closer to me. “Well met, young Pamon,” she said. “I hope you are well. I warrant you are half a hand taller since the last time I saw you.”
I smiled. “I think you exaggerate, Lady Nidreyu—that or your memory is failing with your advanced age.” She truly was older than me, but I was only teasing. Where her sister Briseyu was kind to me but never less than formal, Nidreyu had chosen early on to treat me more like a younger brother than a servant, which I had always enjoyed, even if it sometimes confused me as to how I should behave in return. But over the years of knowing her I had come to realize that she did not merely permit me to tease her in return, but actually seemed to enjoy it. I felt freer around her than I did with any other member of the Sa’onserei household, and I was relieved to see that even if Ineluki was treating her oddly, things had not changed between Nidreyu and myself.
Lord Dunyadi was the leader of the Birchwood Clan. He was related to the Sa’onserei, as were almost all the Zida’ya, though his connections were more distant than some, at least in blood. He and Lord Iyu’unigato had fought together against the giants in the days of the wars against those creatures, and he was considered both Asu’a’s firm friend and an important ally, though his clan was small; in fact, Dunyadi’s kindness and cautious wisdom were well regarded by all the Dawn Children. His house, Snowdrift, was a low compound with a single tall tower, set atop an eminence called Birch Hill. The house and hill took their names from the dense stand of tall white trees that surrounded it, which in leafless winter made it look as though the house’s tower sat atop an immense pile of snow. The view from any of Snowdrift’s windows is of white-barked trunks standing sentinel around the house. In autumn all the leaves turn bright yellow, so that it seems as if the last bits of the fading sun had stuck there to quiver in every breeze.
Once we had left our horses in the stable, we went to greet our host, and we found him seated in his spacious hall. It seemed to have more windows than wall, vast openings covered by the most finely woven netting I had ever seen, the crossing strands so slender that nothing but air seemed to stand between those inside and the swaying birches that surrounded the house.
Dunyadi the Ram waited on a raised platform covered with beautiful rugs. His daughter Himuna, the Birchwood Clan’s high celebrant, sat by him, and they were surrounded by the Zida’ya nobles of Dunyadi’s small court. Snowdrift’s master was not as tall as most of his people, but countless stories told about how clever and deceptively gifted in the fighting arts he had been in his prime. In fact, there had been a time when many had thought him the chief swordsman of all the Zida’ya, although Dunyadi was the first to laugh and protest that even if it might once have been true, those days were long past. He also had that curious feature seldom seen among the Dawn Children since they left the Garden—a beard upon his chin. It made him look like something out of an ancient rendering, like Ekimeniso Blackstaff of the Hikeda’ya, Utuk’ku’s long-dead husband. The Ram’s beard was not full and shaggy like the whiskers of mortal men, only a wispy tail of hair at the end of his chin, but it made him different from almost all his kind.
“My lords Hakatri and Ineluki!” he cried merrily when he saw us, as if our visit were a complete surprise, which it could not have been if Nidreyu had been out waiting for us by the main road. “Come and be seated. Welcome to Snowdrift!”
“Yes, friends, welcome to our house,” his daughter Himuna echoed with a graceful flutter of her hands—doves alighting, an ancient gesture of greeting. “It has been too long since you have guested with us, good lords.”
My master and Ineluki made all the proper signs of respect, and then, along with Nidreyu, seated themselves cross-legged around the low table. I stood with Dunyadi’s servers, though I do not doubt that the liberal master of Snowdrift would have allowed me a place nearer my master if I had wished. For a little while all seemed cheerful and ordinary, as Dunyadi told of recent happenings—an incursion by a giant, the struggles of a particularly harsh winter. The brothers shared tales of their own travels, although even a stranger might have noticed that they spoke about the things they had seen without ever mentioning why they were so far from home. Dunyadi was particularly interested in their stories of Enazashi, and of Xaniko the Exile and his castle atop the Beacon.
“I have wondered many times whether to send him an invitation,” Dunyadi said after Hakatri finished describing Ravensperch.
“I would not worry much on that account,” said Ineluki. “He would not come. He has turned his back on his own kind, but he shows even less interest in ours.”
My master’s face was placid, but I sensed a little annoyance in the way he clasped his hands together in his lap. “My brother might have seen more kindness in Lord Xaniko if he had spent more time in his presence. But I fear I must agree with him on one thing—I doubt very much that The Exile would accept an invitation or extend one in return.”
“Too bad, too bad,” said Dunyadi. “There is much to be learned from him, and I for one am eager to know more about what goes on among Utuk’ku’s folk in Nakkiga these days.” He took a sip of the sweet wine his servers had poured for all the guests—even I had a cup—and shook his head. “But I am sorry to hear you had a trying time with Enazashi. I do not know why he still bears such ill will toward Year-Dancing House. With all the Sunstep Mountains as his fiefdom, I think he attaches too much importance to M’yin Azoshai. After all, Lady Azosha was never part of his household, and her claim to those lands was never contested during her life.”
“Perhaps that is why,” Hakatri suggested. “I think it might be that he is still angry that Azosha made her own way and did it right beneath his nose.”
“You may be right,” said Dunyadi. “Did you meet his son, the one they call Little Grayspear? Unlike his temperamental father, I have heard only good things of him.”
“Yizashi? He was there, but we did not get the chance to speak privily.” I thought I could hear some impatience in my master’s tone. “Lord Dunyadi, we thank you for your hospitality, but you must know we are here for a reason.”
“Everyone knows,” said Nidreyu, who had been largely silent.
The master of the house nodded solemnly. “I do, Lord Hakatri. But I saw no reason to ruin our happy reunion by stepping dir
ectly onto ground that is not, as you know, the firmest or most reassuring.”
“The great worm Hidohebhi is only a few dozen leagues from your own doorstep,” said Ineluki suddenly and with heat. “You must have known. You must have already pondered what to do if it came onto your lands.”
Dunyadi made a vague gesture. “Of course. But we are a small settlement here on Birch Hill. We do not have the means to go looking for trouble.”
Hakatri frowned. “But trouble is here, my lord. We have seen the beast and it is no hedgeworm or young drake that could be dispatched by a dozen well-armed warriors, or even a score. It is Hidohebhi of the old tales, huge and covered in armor black as night. This hall could not contain it.”
Dunyadi considered, letting his eyes rove across the screened windows and the long beams of the roof. “A most terrifying creature, I have no doubt,” he finally said. “All the tales about it are dreadful. And as you say yourself, it is not something that might be dispatched by even a score of well-armed fighters. So what do the two of you intend to do by yourselves?”
“Find others to help us,” said Hakatri promptly. “Nor will we try to defeat the monster with main strength. Xaniko taught me a few things that may give us a chance against the worm. But we will still need help.” My master paused, as if he had now come to the difficult part. “We will also need a witchwood tree.”
Dunyadi’s eyebrows rose. I think this was the first thing he had heard that had truly been new to him. “And will you return to Asu’a, then, to the sacred witchwood groves there?”
“Do not pretend,” said Ineluki. “You have no doubt heard that I cannot go back there.”
“Rather that you will not.” The strong, cold undercurrent in Lady Nidreyu’s voice could have swept an unwary person to his death. “Your pride will not let you.”
Ineluki would not meet her eye. “There are worse things than pride.”
“Said every proud creature about to meet a foolish death.” She stared at him as if daring him to look back at her. He still would not.
“Please, my friends, no more of this strife.” Dunyadi rubbed his hands together in the sign for we seek accord. “Things are difficult enough. If we talk only of our disagreements this will fall out badly. The lessons of the Lost Garden are always before us.”
“Then tell us, Lord Dunyadi,” said Hakatri, “what we can do to agree. Because we,” he flicked a glance at his brother, “have sworn to destroy this beast before it kills more of our folk or the mortal men of M’yin Azoshai. Can you help us?”
Dunyadi shook his hand. “You know better, I think, young Lord Hakatri. There is no witchwood grove at Birch Hill nor has there ever been one. And your father Iyu’unigato has made it known that if I let you take any of my retainers it will damage or even destroy the old friendship he and I share. What would you have me do?”
“Stand up to him!” said Ineluki, and I thought he sounded more despairing than angry. “Our father is not a king like the mortals have, or even a self-professed monarch like that ancient witch Utuk’ku. I have always been told you were one of the bravest of our folk.”
“This is not a question of bravery.” Dunyadi did his best to keep his voice even. “This is a question of intruding between parents and children. It is not up to me to decide whether Protector Iyu’unigato is right or wrong.” Now he spoke directly to my master. “I beg you to hear the wisdom in what I say. A war between a son and his sire can have no winner. Go back to your father and mother. Your argument is with them, not me.”
“The only argument here is between Lord Ineluki and his own stubbornness,” said Nidreyu.
At that, Ineluki abruptly stood. He made only the shadow of a bow then left the hall. Within moments we could see him passing between the white trunks of the trees outside, walking alone. He did not look back at the great house.
“Forgive my brother, Lord Dunyadi,” said Hakatri. “He knows as well as the rest of us that he has trapped himself with this terrible oath, but he does not know a way to step back from it.”
“Simple,” said Nidreyu. “He can say, ‘I renounce my oath’ and have done with it. Then the lords of the Zida’ya can meet and decide what is to be done about the Blackworm.”
“As always, Lady Nidreyu goes to the heart of the matter.” Dunyadi trailed his fingers through the hairs on his chin. “Neither as carefully nor as kindly as some of us might prefer, but that does not lessen the truth of what she says.”
My master looked down as though an answer might be found in the pattern of the rugs on which he sat. “Nidreyu is right, but it changes nothing. My brother cannot take back his oath.”
“Will not, you mean,” she said.
“Can you not understand, Lady Nidreyu?” Hakatri’s words sounded almost like a plea. “You of all people should know—for Ineluki, there is no difference. That has always been his curse.”
Silence fell over the gathering. At last, the talk turned to new things, haltingly at first but then with better cheer as my master, Dunyadi, and Nidreyu spoke of other people and other places. But although I saw him walking all around the hilltop on which Snowdrift sat, Ineluki did not return to the hall for a long time.
* * *
• • •
“We cannot go back to Asu’a, so the witchwood groves there are beyond our reach,” my master said to his brother as they shared a cup of wine in the chambers they had been given. “And Xaniko’s advice is useless without witchwood. We might consider trying to destroy the beast with spears and arrows had we a hundred stout fighters, but I fear that even then we would fail.”
“Why do you tell me this?” Ineluki’s anger was gone, or at least better hidden, but it seemed to have been replaced once more by despair. “What you mean is, I cannot go to Asu’a, because of my oath—the one that you keep moaning about—and you do not trust me alone, as though I were a child. But Asu’a does not have the only witchwood grove. If I must, I will ride to Nakkiga and plead with Queen Silvermask herself for a tree.”
Hakatri shook his head. “And even if Utuk’ku granted you permission, then what? Ride back a hundred leagues across the dangerous Snowfields, dragging a huge witchwood trunk behind you? We need a full-grown tree. Do you think the queen of the Hamakha has so much love for our house that she will give you not just an entire precious witchwood, but also a train of wagons to carry it away and a company of her Sacrifice soldiers to guard it?”
“I see all the difficulties as well as you.” Ineluki’s hidden anger now burst into flame again. “And I know you fear that my stiff neck will get us both killed. Go back, then, brother!” he cried. “Go back to your wife and daughter and our parents’ house. There is nothing in this doomed quest for you in any case. It is my fate that is at chance here, and mine alone.”
“Now you truly are speaking foolishly,” Hakatri said. “I could no more leave you to fight this terrible beast alone than I could leave our mother, my wife, or my child to the same fate. You are my brother, closest of my blood. I love you.”
All of Ineluki’s fury seemed to melt away then, leaving him hollowed out, as a stream undermines a riverbank until, without warning, it falls into the rushing water. For an instant or two I thought he might even weep, something I had never seen him do and which I doubt had happened since he was a child. As for me, I wanted nothing more than to be somewhere else; Ineluki’s pain was so clear and strong that it threatened to make my own heart break. “Why do I do these things, brother?” he asked at last. “What deadly spirit haunts me?”
“No more of that talk.” Hakatri clasped his brother’s hand so tightly his knuckles paled. “No spirit haunts you but your own swift temper.”
“But that isn’t true, Haká-sho.” That was the first time in years I had heard him use his brother’s childhood name. “I try—always!—to be like you, to make our parents proud, to make all our people proud. But sometimes I feel as though I
shall fly apart like a dropped jug. Other days, when I am happy, the sun seems to shine on everything—all is brightness and color, like the winged attendants of the Yásira. But when I am angry or mournful again, it seems as if I walk in a dark gorge like the dragon’s swamp, but it is a place I can never leave.”
“You have a poet’s spirit, that is all.” Hakatri lowered his voice. “Ease yourself. Somehow, we will solve this puzzle. And we will do it together—that I promise.”
I will not claim I knew that disaster was waiting for us, but something about my master’s soothing words to his brother gave me a superstitious chill.
* * *
• • •
We guested that night at Snowdrift, though the visit had become less comfortable after Lord Dunyadi’s regretful but firm refusal to assist the brothers. As twilight crept over the hills, I saw Ineluki and Lady Nidreyu walking together through the birchwood. I do not know what they spoke of, but I could guess at least a little, and the look of emptiness on both their faces seemed to confirm what I suspected: she could not forgive, and he could not—or would not—give in.
Dunyadi’s rustic court was quiet and somber that evening. The shent boards had been put away, and even simpler games like Gatherer’s Questions could not enliven things. At last the master of Snowdrift called for Nidreyu to sing.
“I do not think I have the voice for it tonight, my lord,” she said. “Ask your daughter Himuna—her voice is far sweeter.”
But Dunyadi would not let her excuse herself. “Nonsense, child. You always give the old songs—the best songs—a fine touch. It reminds me of my childhood. Please do not disappoint me, Nidi-sa.”
She remained reluctant. “I have only sad songs in my thoughts, Lord Dunyadi,” she said. “Surely someone else could better give you a tune that would lift everyone’s spirits.”
“I do not care whether my spirits are lifted or not,” declared the master of the hall. “If tonight’s spirit is mournful, so be it. But even sad old songs can remind us that bad times pass and are remembered in later, better days.”
