Brothers of the Wind

by Tad Williams

  Nidreyu bowed her head. “Very well.” She turned toward Ineluki and waited until he at last raised his eyes to meet hers, then she said, “I will sing the Moon-Woman’s Lament.”

  Dunyadi gestured and the lights in the chamber grew dim. His eldest son picked up a harp and began to pluck out the familiar, ancient melody.

  Nidreyu closed her eyes again and began to sing in her deep, tuneful voice. I thought I detected a ripple of unease pass through the folk in Dunyadi’s hall.

  Where is my husband?

  I have a bitter taste in my mouth. I do not know what to do to make him come back

  I do not miss him

  But this house is lonely.

  I take off my house slippers, then I put them on again.

  The moon is a cold place,

  A place of silver ice and white stone.

  My heart is cold too.

  Even I knew the old, old Zida’ya tale of the moon-woman Mezumiiru, who fell out with her husband Isiki, the lord of all birds. Mezumiiru gave her name to the Net, the great froth of stars that stretches across the nighttime sky from south to north. For my master’s folk, she is the mother of all their kind.

  My own Tinukeda’ya people have different stories of the First Days, or so I understand, though I do not know them. My parents never taught them to me. I think they might have been ashamed.

  Nidreyu’s voice rose and fell in haunting phrases that faded at the end of each verse like a woodlark’s wistful song. All in Snowdrift’s hall knew the story intimately, but the gathered company still listened with solemn attention. Only Ineluki seemed unmoved, his head back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, and hands clenched in his lap, as though he listened to some other song, one only he could hear.

  I am not beautiful enough to keep him.

  But I do not want him.

  But I do not want to be alone.

  Her voice changed then, the sad but sweet tone now more discordant, as though she was becoming abandoned Mezumiiru in truth.

  Where are my children?

  Why can I not hold them?

  Seven he took to the Land of Birds beyond the Garden.

  They will not know me.

  They will never know me.

  The pain in Nidreyu’s voice was hard to hear. It seemed to me, at least, that she was not merely singing of the moon-woman’s pain and fury, but her own—not about Mezumiiru’s stolen children but children of her own, children she had imagined but now could no longer believe in. Perhaps I was being too fanciful, but I would have sworn by the Garden on that night that I heard Nidreyu mourning for children she would never have.

  Two I have hidden. If he comes not to my side, they will not know him.

  I will take them from him.

  I will curse his name to their ears and make that name foul in their hearts.

  Why does he not come?

  Does he think himself so far above me?

  I am the daughter of the sky-lord

  My mother is the mistress of all growing things,

  My husband, he is but a winged thief.

  He has stolen my honor

  He has stolen my happiness . . .

  Though middle-night had not yet arrived, when Nidreyu finished singing all the Zida’ya in Dunyadi’s hall began to drift away, talking quietly among themselves. When I looked around Ineluki was gone and my master wore a grave expression. I could tell he did not want to speak to anyone, not even me, so I made my way to my bed and dreamed of a clutch of eggs covered by shifting silver sands.

  We left Snowdrift in the hour before dawn, the slender birch trunks swaying in the night breeze like hungry spirits. Nidreyu did not come out to say farewell, and Dunyadi only embraced the brothers silently before returning to his hall.

  Part Two

  The Silver Tree

  Hakatri and his brother did not speak as we rode down from Birch Hill and back to the wide Silver Way. When we reached it in morning’s light it felt as though we had reached a crossing of more than one kind. I had not dared to ask which way we would turn when we reached the road, though of course a desperate, foolish part of me prayed that Ineluki would see sense, and we would turn toward Asu’a, our home. But the silence remained unbroken, and when we finally reached the great road, Ineluki headed Bronze west toward the mountains without even looking back. Hakatri followed him, and I, of course, followed my master.

  The lands of the west, which of late we seemed to be crossing back and forth like a weaver’s shuttle, were almost empty. The dwellings of my master’s people, like Lord Dunyadi’s Snowdrift, were few and far between, and so were the rougher settlements of mortal men. Most of the settlements we passed were little more than farmsteads or small villages. Only in the distant south did the mortals build cities and live together in large numbers, though at that time I had not yet seen such a thing and could not picture how an entire city of mortals might look. In my imagination they were only larger versions of the settlements we passed, with town walls of trimmed logs and houses of mud and thatch. It was not until I journeyed to Nabban that I discovered mortal men also built with stone, and that some of their creations rivaled Asu’a or lost Tumet’ai in size and grandeur.

  In fact, as we followed the winding Silver Way in a beating rain, splashing through the ruts made by previous travelers, I saw more than a few crumbling piles of ancient stone almost completely covered over by grass and trees. These looked more like ruins than natural outcroppings, and I wondered whether this place could have been occupied even before my master’s people and mine had come from the Garden. At one point, with the rain pouring down and my heart full of sadness, I asked Hakatri who had first built here.

  “Only animals and birds lived in these lands before our Eight Ships came,” he told me. “That is why we made landing here—or so the stories tell.”

  “But your mother, Lady Amerasu, was alive then!” I said. “She must know.”

  “I tell you the stories she told me, Pamon. But mortal men came soon after, at least the first of them, traveling from the unknown west.”

  “Did they come in ships like ours?” I asked.

  “No. Or if they did, they had left them behind before they reached this land. My mother and those of her generation saw the mortals arrive first as wandering groups and marveled to encounter thinking creatures so different from themselves. Soon they realized how short the lives of these mortals were, how close to animals they seemed in some ways, and then the disagreements began among our folk.”

  I nodded—that part of the story I knew well. Those disagreements over what should be done about the interloping men led at last to the fabled Parting, when the Hikeda’ya separated themselves from my master’s Zida’ya folk, the greatest number of them led by their mistress Utuk’ku, departing to make their home in the great sleeping fire-mountain Ur-Nakkiga. Only a few Hikeda’ya now live outside that far country, and only in a few of the cities.

  Since my master seemed willing to talk for the first time since we had left Dunyadi’s house, I asked him, “Where are we going now, my lord? Back to that valley, where Hidohebhi waits?” I tried to keep the fear from my voice, but I do not think I succeeded.

  “Not yet,” he said. “I think even my brother knows we can accomplish nothing against the dragon by ourselves except to die. No, we are going to M’yin Azoshai—Hernsland, as the mortals now call it—to find warriors to help us.”

  This made me only a little less fearful than the idea of returning to Serpent’s Vale. Prince Cormach and his men had seemed fairly civilized, but I wondered if their fellow mortals would be as respectful to my master and his brother, let alone to me, a mere changeling (as they often called the Tinukeda’ya). Every child of Asu’a knew the story of Nenais’u, Jenjiyana’s beautiful daughter, and how she had died at the hands of mortal hunters.

  W
hen I cautiously shared this worry, Hakatri dismissed it. “That was long ago, Pamon, and what happened to Nenais’u was mischance, terrible as its result was.”

  “The tale says that the mortals took her for a swan,” I said.

  “Errant nonsense!” said Ineluki. He had been silent all morning, so his sudden words surprised me. “Nenais’u was famously beautiful, like her mother. I have no doubt the mortals tried to capture her. She fled them and they killed her.”

  “You sound like one of Utuk’ku’s minions,” Hakatri told him. “Do you also disbelieve that Drukhi killed himself? Did the mortals murder him too, as the Hikeda’ya claim?”

  “It seems likely to me, yes,” said his brother. “Why do you defend them?”

  “I defend no one. How could I claim to know one way or another about something that happened before we were born—something that our people have argued about ever since? Nobody knows the truth. Nobody will ever know. Those who were present are all dead.”

  “Perhaps. But somebody should speak for those dead.” I was surprised by the heat in Ineluki’s voice. “The mortals breed like rats. They spread farther over our lands every day.” He swept his arm across the expanse of rain-soaked hills. “In the end, all this will be theirs, and we will not even be a memory.”

  Hakatri rode awhile without speaking. “Strange, then, since with your agreement we are riding to the mortals’ village to ask their help.”

  “I do not say they are all murderers, brother. I do not doubt that many of them are honorable—in their way—and I have no complaint with Cormach and his men. No, I speak of what will happen whether they hate us or love us. Already there is scarcely a place in our old lands between Kementari and Hikehikayo that the mortals have not reached, and the southern lands are now completely theirs. Everywhere they go, they stay and grow in numbers. Can you not see that our doom is already written?”

  “You are too grim for me, brother,” said Hakatri. “And too sour. Nobody knows the future. Not even the so-called Queen Utuk’ku, who was old before the Great Ships left the Garden, can see what the years ahead will bring.”

  There had been enough contending between the two of them in the past few days that I did not want any more of it, so I asked my master a question in the hope it might distract them from their disagreement. “Is Utuk’ku truly so old, then? I thought it might only be a story.”

  “The story is true,” he said. “She was a great-granddaughter of Hamakho Wormslayer himself. She is the oldest of all who still live, and not by a small span.”

  “Is that why she wears a mask?” I asked. “Is she so aged that, as they say of mortals when they grow old, she is withered and hideous underneath it?”

  “Watch your words, changeling,” said Ineluki. “It is not your place to speak so of our eldest relative.”

  “I am very sorry, my lord,” I said hurriedly. “I meant no offense. I only wondered.”

  Hakatri looked troubled by his brother’s words, but to me he said only, “No one knows why Utuk’ku wears the mask. They say many of her closest counselors and most trusted nobles have taken to wearing them also. Our mother says it is vanity, but she also says Utuk’ku is not vain of her looks, though back in her youth in the Lost Garden she was known for her beauty.”

  “I do not understand, Master. Vanity, but not for her looks?”

  Hakatri actually smiled. “When next we see Amerasu you have my permission to ask her to explain. The Sa’onsera likes you, Pamon. I do not think she would be insulted by your question—although Utuk’ku herself might be.”

  I felt a clutch at my heart at the mere thought of meeting that ancient and infamous figure. “I would never dare ask Utuk’ku anything.”

  “Nor would I.” He laughed, and a little of the strain went out of his voice and posture. I was happy with myself for distracting him, but Ineluki still looked dark and distant.

  * * *

  • • •

  We rode all that day and late into the evening before stopping in the foothills to rest and feed our mounts. The horses seemed in good health when I looked them over. The worst of the rains had passed, and the trees gleamed in the last of the twilight. As we made our way upward, the sound of dripping water from their branches was all we heard. When we finally halted for the night the country around us was so quiet we seemed to have entered some other world. Hakatri and Ineluki did not speak but sat beside the fire I built from what dry wood I could find. My master and his brother did not feel the cold as I did, but there is something reassuring about a fire that even the Zida’ya appreciate. We sat together until the star called Night-Heart reached its highest point, then I finally rolled myself in my cloak to snatch some sleep.

  The next morning found us riding through the uplands that had once been called Azosha’s Garden but which I supposed had been given a new name by its mortal inheritors, Cormach’s Hernsmen. We began to pass mortal farms and other smallholdings, and to see sheep, pigs, and even an occasional cow grazing on the hillsides. As we drew closer to what had been M’yin Azoshai we passed by a number of small settlements. Almost all the mortal men and women stopped what they were doing to watch us pass. They did not look hostile, but neither did they seem particularly welcoming, and though a few made signs of respect as we passed—the brothers’ witchwood armor must have made it clear we were no ordinary travelers—most of the mortals watched us with decidedly cautious expressions.

  We sighted the Hernsmen’s settlement well before we reached it. In late morning we approached its outer walls, a palisade of tall, sharpened posts. The gate was large, more than twice my height and built of sturdy oak with massive metal hinges. Racks of antlers had been mounted along the top of it, all taken from what looked to have been uncommonly large deer, and the banner that fluttered above the gate displayed a white stag on a field of bright green. The guards at the gate, shaggy men wearing matching cloaks of the same grassy hue as their flag, seemed uncertain at first what to do with us. My master conferred with them for a short while—the leader of the guards spoke a little of our tongue—and after a runner was sent up to what the guard leader called “the House” and quickly returned, we were allowed in. A small company of gate guards escorted us up the winding track toward the inner walls, but already we were passing clustered dwellings and a few larger wood and stone buildings I took for temples. I do not know much of the gods the mortals worship, but I know there are many of them.

  The city’s inner wall was made of great chunks of stone held together by mortar, which was nothing unusual, but as we were led through the second gate my master stopped me. “See, Pamon,” he said, pointing. “It looks like the mortals pulled down Azosha’s house to make their fortification.” When I looked closer, I saw that the chunks of stone in the walls were no ordinary rocks, that their surfaces were smooth, almost polished, and many were covered in fine carvings. Hakatri shook his head. “It is a shame what they have done to your people’s work.”

  At the time, I thought he meant only the hard labor of erecting the stones, and I merely nodded. “A pity.”

  “Someday we will be gone and all the world will be like this,” Ineluki said, but with less heat than I would have expected. “Mortal men living in the ruins of what we built, as a snake slithers into an abandoned burrow.”

  “If you begin talking about abandoned burrows when we are in the mortal court,” Hakatri said sourly, “I will walk out and leave you there.”

  “Turn a blind eye if you wish,” said Ineluki. “At least the snake waits until the badger is dead before stealing its home.”

  “Both badgers and snakes still share the world, if not a single burrow,” his brother said. “And in any case, the Hernsmen did not make their dwelling here until after Lady Azosha gave it to them.”

  The city, small as it was, was named Hern’s Horn, perhaps because of its antler-festooned gates. I would guess that something like two thousand mor
tals lived there, although I do not pretend to know. As we mounted the highest hill we reached the final stone wall and saw within its circuit a sprawling structure of wood—the House. It was larger than Dunyadi’s Snowdrift, though not by much. Just as I was thinking we would have to wait all over again at the tall front doors, a familiar figure appeared.

  “Lord Hakatri, Lord Ineluki, you are most welcome!” cried Prince Cormach. “You do our household a great honor. Will you come and meet my grandfather, the king?”

  “May we wash ourselves first?” my master asked. “We have been on the road many days.”

  “Of course, of course,” Cormach said. “Come and we will give you hot water and dry clothes. You have likely heard that mortals hate bathing. I cannot speak for those Nabban-men in the south or the troll-folk of the far north, but we Hernsmen are a clean people, like you.”

  Hakatri smiled, though Ineluki looked a little offended. “I am glad to hear it. Thank you.”

  I used my master’s tub after he had finished. It was good to get the mud of the road off me and soak the chill out of my bones. When I was out, I helped Hakatri dress in the colorful but coarse-woven clothing that the Hernsmen provided, undergarments of linen and outerwear made from the dyed wool of sheep.

  When we were ready, Cormach returned and led us into the main hall of the House. There we found at least a score of mortals waiting to see us, mostly thick-bearded males dressed in furs and heavy wool cloaks, so that we seemed surrounded by animal-men. Some of them, I do not doubt, had never seen a Zida’ya. (They may not have seen my kind either, but it was the brothers they had come to stare at in wonder.) The roof was high, and a great fire burned in a stone fireplace at one end of the room, but the house itself was built entirely of oakwood, and I wondered what these mortals would do if it ever caught fire. I discovered later that the wooden houses of the mortals often caught fire. I still do not understand why they would build that way when stony mountains ripe for quarrying surround them.