Brothers of the Wind

by Tad Williams

  “Come, my good lords, and meet my grandfather and my father.” Cormach led us across the long, high hall amid the wondering stares of his fellow Hernsmen.

  I had never before been in the house of a mortal, let alone a mortal king, and I wish now that I had paid more attention to my surroundings. I do remember that many wooden carvings hung on the walls, animals and birds and vaguely manlike shapes. But if I did not look around as carefully as I should have, it was because I was staring at the oldest creature I had ever seen. Rather, I should say the oldest-looking since, as is the way of the Zida’ya, both Hakatri’s parents appeared little older than their children or grandchildren.

  “My grandfather, King Gorlach ubh-Grainh,” said Cormach. “And my father, Rian, Prince of the Coastlands.”

  I hope my astonishment was not too obvious or too impolite, but I had never seen a truly old mortal before. Those who came on embassies to Asu’a were usually in the prime of their lives, however short those mortal lives might be. But King Gorlach was ancient by the standards of his folk, his hair so thin his scalp showed through even on the sides, his beard so straggly that it looked like white tree-moss. His wrinkled face, to my eyes, was just as much a ruin as any tumbled stone wall of an abandoned dwelling. King Gorlach’s limbs were so thin, age-spotted, and knotted with veins that he might have been made out of animal hide that had been left in the sun for years; and his head bent so low it almost seemed to spring directly from his breastbone. I was so taken by this wreckage of what had doubtless once been a tall, strong mortal man that I did not for some moments look to Gorlach’s son, Cormach’s father. When I did, I received another surprise.

  Prince Rian was a cripple. That was obvious immediately, and not merely because of the withered arm that he held cradled against his chest like a sleeping child. Rian was handsome for a mortal, like his son, but his head trembled and nodded, and even his good hand quivered when he lifted it to greet us. I could not tell for certain because of the thick clothing he wore, but I thought from the way he sat that one of his legs might also be shrunken and lame as well.

  “It is rare to s-s-see the immortals among us.” Rian’s use of the Zida’ya tongue was creditable, though he had no little trouble speaking because of his palsy. “Have you come to rid us of this noxious worm? If so, you will have all our g-g-gr—” he paused to compose himself, “our gratitude,” he finished.

  The old king said something in the Hernsland tongue, which to me sounded more of throat-clearing than proper speech.

  “My grandfather thinks you have come from Nabban,” said Cormach. “He is a trifle confused today. He has days that are good and days that are bad.” Cormach replied to his grandfather in the Hernsland tongue and the king leaned far forward to listen. When Cormach had finished, Gorlach sat back, though he appeared to view us with a good deal more suspicion than before.

  “Fear not, Fair Folk,” said Cormach’s father Rian. “You are w-welcome here in our house and our lands.”

  I understood in an instant why such a confused old man as Gorlach should still sit on the throne. If Rian was the king’s only son, as seemed likely, the Hernsmen would be reluctant to put a cripple on the throne unless it was absolutely necessary.

  Beside Rian on the bench sat a woman I took to be his wife, Cormach’s mother. The lady was covered head to foot, including a cowl over her head, so that only her face showed. Her otherwise pleasant features were set in lines of what I guessed was weariness.

  The strange audience did not last long, and then Prince Cormach led us out again, back to the part of the large compound that seemed to be his, where we were offered food and drink.

  “I apologize for my grandfather’s misunderstanding,” he said when we had been served, but my master waved it away.

  “Many responsibilities must fall to you, Prince Cormach,” Hakatri said.

  “Can you not simply take the crown for yourself?” Ineluki asked. “Is that not what your people want instead of a sickly king and a sickly heir?”

  I thought I saw Cormach wince, and my own master clearly had to suppress a bark of annoyance at his brother’s indiscretion, but the prince replied courteously.

  “We do not do things so, Lord Ineluki. Nor do your own folk, from what I know.”

  “Such a situation does not arise among our folk,” said Ineluki, but now my master interrupted.

  “We can discuss such things another time,” he said. “But now, Prince Cormach, we must tell you what we have learned about dragons—especially the terrible Blackworm that preys upon your people.”

  The tale of our trip to Ravensperch and our days with Xaniko was a long one, made longer because the mortal prince had many questions. Like us, he had heard of the Exile but never seen him and was struck with wonder by nearly every detail of the castle atop the Beacon.

  “But for all his helpful advice,” Hakatri finished, “Xaniko could not help us with the most important part. To make a great witchwood spear to use against Hidohebhi requires a tall witchwood tree, and there are few left in the world in these diminished days. Of all the witchwood groves that once grew in the cities of our people, only those in our home and in distant Nakkiga still thrive.”

  “Could you not find a suitable witchwood in Asu’a?” Cormach asked.

  “Our father sent word that the groves of our home are forbidden to us unless Ineluki renounces his oath and returns to Asu’a. That does not seem likely to happen.”

  Ineluki shook his head, his face grim. “It will not.”

  After an uncomfortable pause, the talk moved on to other things—the worm was still snatching livestock from the hills and dales around Serpent’s Vale, and more than a few Hernslanders had vanished as well, thought to have been taken by the beast. As we spoke, drinking the sour honey-wine that Cormach’s servants brought us, one old retainer came to his master and whispered in his ear. I thought perhaps the prince was being called away, but Cormach only nodded when the old man had finished, saying, “I had quite forgotten, good Dermod, but I too have heard that story. Tell our guests.”

  The old man, who though bald and bent and wrinkled looked as though he could have beaten King Gorlach in a race even while carrying Prince Rian on his back, looked at us in blushing confusion. “Go on,” Cormach urged him.

  “It is just, do you see,” said the old man in a far more uncertain way than he had whispered into his lord’s ear, “that I am remembering, I am.” His Zida’ya speech was a bit strange but understandable, and I was reminded that once, most mortals in this part of the western world had grown up knowing it.

  “Do not be afraid,” said the prince. “These lords of the Zida’ya want to hear what you have to say.”

  “Just that I was remembering a tale I heard from my old gran when I was small,” Dermod said, his face still red across the cheekbones. “About the Lady’s Grove—the woods that was once Lady ’Zosha’s.”

  “I know nothing of this,” said Hakatri. “Was it a witchwood grove?”

  “That I couldn’t say, good master,” the old servant replied. “But the tale I heard was that it was a magical place forbidden to all, full of what we call graywood trees, like what Hern’s famous spear was made from.”

  “Does it still exist?” my master asked. “Is it somewhere near?”

  The man shook his head. “Not near here, no. Up in the highest crags of Old Whitecap is where it lies. But when Lady ’Zosha died, the fairy-king Enazashi claimed it for his own.” He shrugged. “I know naught of what happened to the graywood trees afterward, though, begging your lords’ pardon. When I was young we used to look for the grove but never found it. They say it is close-guarded by the Old Ones.” The color, which had finally begun to drain from his cheeks, came rushing back. “Beg pardon, Lord Hakatri, I mean by your folk.”

  My master and his brother looked at each other. “A witchwood grove on the mountain?” Hakatri turned to Cormach
. “If it is anything more than an old story, perhaps there is yet something we can do about this murderous drake.”

  I will not detail all that came afterward. It is enough to say that when only a few more suns had set and risen we left the house of King Gorlach, but not alone: Prince Cormach now traveled with us, leading several of his closest companions and almost two score other retainers and men of his household. Our horses were rested and, like us, had been well fed and well kept—the Hernsmen learned much of their horsecraft from my master’s people back in the old days—and so it should have been a light-hearted party setting out. But though my master and the mortal prince seemed in fair temper, Lord Ineluki was still sunk in a mire of brooding silence, and the prince’s men, though Cormach assured us they were among the bravest Hernsland had to offer, were also quiet and barely spoke, even among themselves.

  It was not hard to understand. The Zida’ya lord Enazashi whose witchwood grove we aimed to find and plunder had been master of the mountains and the hidden city of Silverhome since long, long before even Hernsland’s old King Gorlach had been born; in fact, Enazashi was almost as dire a figure of myth to the mortal Hernsmen as Queen Utuk’ku was to my own folk. Further, in the servant Dermod’s old stories about the Lady’s Grove, Enazashi had promised that any mortals found there would be put to death without mercy, so Cormach’s men, though loyal to their prince, were clearly fearful what the days ahead might hold.

  “I have heard much talk of late about Lady Azosha,” I said to Lord Hakatri. “But I know little about her beyond what I have heard on this journey. Why did one of your people give her land to the mortals?”

  “Nobody knows all the story,” my master told me. “But Azosha was always thought strange, even by her own kin. She came to these lands, as did Enazashi and his clan, on one of the Eight Ships. But Azosha did not want to be ruled by her shipmates simply because they outnumbered her, so she left the landing place in the earliest days, before the city of Silverhome had been built around the ship. With her servants and retainers—for she had been an important noble in the Garden—she built her own house on the high hill that was afterward called by her name, M’yin Azoshai. There she lived as she pleased, and many of the most learned—or most unusual—of our people came to visit her. Many never left, preferring her settlement even above Tumet’ai, the first great city of our folk. Her house became famous for the artists and philosophers who were her guests.”

  My master paused as his horse made its way over a fallen tree, and as he did, Cormach spoke up. “Our stories say that she was a great sorceress, though not a wicked one.”

  “I am sure she seemed so,” said Hakatri, smiling. “And it could be that Azosha and her friends dabbled in practices that others considered strange and perilous, but for the large part, the stories I have heard describe her mostly as one who went her own way and did not pretend to care what others thought.”

  “But still, why would she give her land to the Hernsmen?” I asked. “It seems strange that a Zida’ya noble should do such a thing.”

  “That is the question no one can answer,” Hakatri said. “Though many have tried, and there have been as many ideas as there are birds in the sky.”

  “Among our people,” said Prince Cormach, “it is told that she fell in love with Hern the Hunter, who was a mighty man.”

  Again my master smiled. “Perhaps. All that is known beyond doubt is that in her last years—because Azosha, like Utuk’ku of the Hamakha, was already old when our people fled the dying Garden—she wrote a testament in her own hand that gifted her lands to the descendants of Hern. Being mortal, Hern had not lived to know of the gift, but her legacy was affirmed to his heirs by the Sa’onsera Senditu, my grandmother. This was much to Lord Enazashi’s disgust, as you heard from his own mouth, Pamon. Hern’s descendants, like the prince here, have lived on those lands ever since.”

  “Lady Azosha must have been very strong-minded,” I said, but for some reason I was thinking of Ona of Ravensperch, The Exile’s wife. The odd things Lady Ona had said to me had been in my mind ever since we left the Beacon. An idea could be like a seed, I was discovering, small to begin with but quick to grow. A person might die or be left behind, but an idea might live on and on.

  “Our race has never been short of strong-minded females,” Hakatri said, and though he laughed as he said it, he also sounded proud. “But all would agree that Azosha was one of a kind. She wrote poetry, but also studied the philosophy of nature and loved to talk about it. A bard of her court once called her ‘the Mistress of Uncomfortable Questions,’ and some of her ideas still spark arguments among our wisest elders to this day.”

  This too struck home for me. What had Lady Ona asked me about my Zida’ya master? “Why do you serve him? Why is he the master and you the minion?” It was easy to imagine Azosha asking such questions, easy to imagine the discomfort they would have caused.

  As we continued up into the heights, Hakatri asked the prince, “Was your grandfather surprised to find that the Zida’ya had come to help?”

  “The king does not know,” Cormach said. “He was confused. He thought you had come from the Imperator of Nabban.”

  “But your grandfather was the one who sent you to Asu’a for help in the first place, was he not?”

  “I will tell you something, Lord Hakatri, and trust your wisdom and kindness not to share it with others. These days, the king of Hernsland understands very little. You have seen how his age has overtaken him.” Cormach shook his head. “Make no mistake, my grandfather once was a great king indeed, which is why Hernsland has grown under his rule. But he is past four score summers now and his wits are all but gone. It was my father and I who decided that I should go to Asu’a.”

  “Then why is your father not the king?” asked Ineluki.

  “You saw his frailties, my lord.” Cormach looked as if he did not like the question much. “The chieftains would not accept my father as king. Many say the gods have cursed him with his illness. If he took the throne, many of the chieftains, especially the most powerful, would likely turn their backs on the throne and our family. There are others in our western lands who fancy themselves kings, even if they do not use the title. Some of them are highborn chieftains, but some are mere prehan as we call them—crows—warlords little better than bandits. If they knew how utterly my grandfather’s wits have wandered, or if my father accepted the crown in his place, they would think the throne weakened and descend like the carrion birds whose name we give them, plucking the kingdom to pieces, each taking a bit for himself. Things would soon be as they were before Hern the Great—worse, even, because many of these chieftains have prospered under our leadership and have built fortified cities and powerful war bands for themselves.”

  “Then, if I may ask,” said my master, “why do you not take the throne yourself, Cormach? Surely your father would see the sense in that.”

  “He likely would, but I would not do it while my grandfather lives. Bad enough my father must suffer the scorn of the ignorant, who treat him like a witling though his mind is strong and he is as full of wisdom as any in his line before him.” The bitterness Cormach felt had become apparent on his face and in his voice. “I will not see him passed over that way. When my grandfather dies, my father will take the crown but announce he is too unwell to rule and pass it along to me. I cannot take that dignity away from him.”

  I thought Cormach very noble for a mortal but could not help wondering if his determination might be wrong-headed. Surely everyone in Hernsland must already know that the old king was unfit. Such a thing was not completely unheard of even among my master’s people, though it was rare. My master once told me that Soniso, the first lord of Kementari, was known to have become very morose in his age and eventually descended into a kind of madness, but it was so uncommon that the few others to suffer that way were said to have “become Soniso.”

  * * *

  • •
•

  We climbed the steep, winding track up Old Whitecap in the cold rain. The farther we climbed, the harder it was even to make out the path, and eventually it vanished entirely, overrun by forest. But we knew the Lady’s Grove was near the top, and if there was any direction that was easy to discern on those steep slopes it was upward, so we made our way slowly higher as gnarled oaks and ash-trees were gradually supplanted by dark evergreens. We wound around the upper reaches of the mountain until we could see most of the western side of the Sunstep range before us, and even caught an occasional glimpse of the Silver Sea beyond, burning like molten bronze as the sun sank into the horizon.

  At last, as twilight spread across the sky, we found another track through the dripping trees, an ancient one, much overgrown. Soon we could see a place just above us where a circle of tall pines stood against the darkening sky; I thought I could make out a deeper darkness within that circle, a dim, almost invisible core that swayed silently in the evening wind. Before this shadowy grove lay a stretch of open land, and in the midst of that clearing stood a large, upright stone. Unguessable years of wind and rain had worn much of its surface away, but as we approached my master said, “Those are our people’s old runes. There is not enough left to read, but I think we can guess what they say.” He turned to Cormach. “Your men must not pass this boundary marker. I do not doubt we have found the entrance to the Lady’s Grove. Take them a little way back down the mountain and make camp to wait for us.”

  Cormach turned and called to his men in their own tongue. At his words I saw relief on all their faces, which had been very somber.

  “I will come with you, my lords,” the prince said as he watched his Hernsmen turn and begin moving back down the track.