Brothers of the Wind

by Tad Williams

“She speaks to Ineluki, it seems. They are always together these days.” He now dropped his voice, which made me uneasy. Why should the heir of Goldenleaf Clan have to speak softly in his own house? “Those I know in Asu’a say that Ommu has become your brother’s shadow—that she goes everywhere with him and whispers constantly into his ear. How can we not wonder what it is that she tells him? The words may come from Ommu’s lips, but do not doubt they are Utuk’ku’s words and Utuk’ku’s thoughts. The queen of the Hikeda’ya hates the mortals even more than she despises those of us who do not agree with her, and she seems to have found an attentive listener in your brother.”

  Minasao had caught my master’s attention. “You may go now, Kes,” Hakatri said abruptly. “You have no doubt been sitting with me a long time.”

  I had not—I had only just arrived—but I understood he wanted to speak to Minasao privily, and in fact I had already heard more than I wanted to hear.

  Part Five

  The Green Sea

  We left Enki-e-Shao’saye to return to Asu’a as the first crescent of the Lynx Moon crept into the night sky. My master was determined to ride, and he honored the horses we had brought out of the mortal lands by refusing the other steeds that Goldenleaf Clan offered him. His Enki-e-Shao’saye kinfolk would even have carried him home in a litter had he wished, but my master did not want to return that way after such a long time apart from his people—he was determined to return in his own saddle or not at all. Such was his way, the way of all truly high and noble folk. We who are less important need think only of ourselves, and sometimes of our families, but I have seen that the great ones—the high ones—are different. They know that the things they do and the way they appear while doing them are matters larger than themselves—the stuff of omens, the foundation of their people’s fears and hopes. After so long away, Hakatri was determined to show a brave face to the folk of Asu’a.

  But as I feared it might, his bravery cost him. Once we reached Asu’a he had to be carried to his chamber in the palace, and for many days afterward he was prisoned in his bed. Ineluki came to see him that first day and so did his parents. Ineluki was troubled to find his brother no better than when they had last been together and even wearier than before, and I am certain that Amerasu and Iyu’unigato must have felt the same, but they all spoke only of their gladness at seeing him again, and their sorrow that he still struggled with the pain of his wounds.

  To my surprise (and secret delight) a letter from Ravensperch was waiting for me when I arrived. I waited until my master was once more in the care of the Asu’a healers before I took myself aside and read it.

  To the Armiger Pamon Kes,

  it began,

  We who live atop the Beacon send our good wishes to you and your master. We hope that your travels were not too wearying or painful for either of you. We do not know when you will read this but pray it will not be too long after we have sent it, since our news is nothing exciting even now while it is fresh and will be even less so later.

  The “we” is, of course, the two of us, Lady Ona (who is writing this) and Lady Sholi (who has included her own message).

  As I sit here looking out my window, I of course cannot see Asu’a, but I often look to the east and think of you and your master. It almost seems as if that first visit you made to Ravensperch took place in another life—another world. That is one thing about living an exile life, so far from the crowded places of the world. It sometimes seems as though time itself, a constant force against which all others strive like rowers fighting the tide, has passed this place by. Nothing changes but the seasons, and even those—it is now winter here—seem like pale, uninspired recreations of a more wholehearted past.

  Forgive me, Kes, if my words are less than inspiring. I have been unwell of late, but I am improving, and with better health I think my mood will also rise.

  Little has happened of late here in Ravensperch, and I have not the skill or the wit to make a great poem out of the ordinary days that have passed. In truth, I confess that I write this largely in hope that you will tell us, in return, something of the wonders you must have seen among the mortals of the Southlands, where you said you were bound. Are the mortals there small, almost dwarfish in stature, as they say of the troll folk in the frozen north? I have also been told that huge, hungry lizards called cockindrills live in the southern marshlands. Did you see any? And more importantly, did you learn anything in your travels that has brought your master some relief from his afflictions?

  Please write to us if you are able, Kes. Surely some of the mortal men who visit Asu’a must travel back toward these lands and could carry a message for you. Or—I hardly dare ask it—might you again come to visit us here atop our tall, lonely Beacon? For the days hang heavily here. I do not say this to complain about my husband—I knew his ways, his pains, and what our life would be when we married. I confess, though, that I did not realize how small our company would be here, or how few diversions there would be to make the days pass. Sholi and I find each day much the same as the one before. I walk often on the rooftops. Sholi reads. Of late she has spent many hours studying the words of our people’s ancient bard Ta-Hindae, whose poems she has lately discovered.

  Looking at what I have written here, I see clearly that I have done nothing in this missive but complain; and what is worse, I have made you a tool of our salvation. No one should have to bear up beneath such a burden, especially a spirit as unassuming as yours, dear Kes. And now, having spoken again of Sholi, I should leave you to discover what she chooses to send along.

  I assure you I will be happier on another day and will write a more agreeable letter then. It could be you will even read that one first and never dream I could be as tiresome as I have been here.

  She ended the letter on that abrupt note, closing it with, “Your friend.” Underneath it she had signed her full name in fine, careful curlicues—Lady Sa-Ruyan Ona, Mistress of Ravensperch—as though she wished to put off sealing the letter.

  I opened the missive from Sholi that had been folded inside Ona’s. To my surprise, the parchment was blank, its only contents a single white blossom, pressed and dried—the flower of a hawthorn tree. I stared at it for no little time, trying to understand. Lady Ona had written of Sholi’s sending, so the dried bloom had not been included by accident, or merely because it was close by when Ona finished her letter.

  I was puzzled and even a little disappointed. I had hoped to at least hear some words of friendship or regard from Sholi after so long, but instead she had sent only the desiccated remains of a flower that must have been picked during the previous year’s Nightingale Moon.

  I asked some of my master’s healers about hawthorn blossoms, and was given a long, thorough lesson in its use against many illnesses, from catarrh of the chest to heart pains and even disorders of the liver, but I could not think of any reason for Lady Sholi to be concerned for the health of my inner organs. I read the letter again and saw that Lady Ona had mentioned a poet Sholi had been studying, Ta-Hindae, a name I did not know. I was about to ask some of Asu’a’s fabled scholars and chroniclers about it until one of the older Tinukeda’ya grooms pointed out that it was a Vao name, so I should ask among our own people, not the Zida’ya. I felt more than a little foolish that I had not realized this, but I had been very busy tending my ailing master.

  Young Nali-Yun overheard this conversation and said, “You should speak to my great-gran. She’s a healer too, or she was before she came here, and she knows books and many other things. In the old days our folk called her ‘Val Adai’—wise woman.”

  I had not heard this before, though I knew old Nali-Pina tolerably well. Most of the Tinukeda’ya in Asu’a knew each other, at least those bound to the lords and ladies of House Sa’onserei. “Is that true?” I asked. “I have never heard her called that.”

  He shook his head in disgust. “Sometimes you don’t even seem to know yo
ur own kind, Kes.”

  I was beginning to think he was right.

  “Ta-Hindae!” said the old woman when I went to her, and gently clapped her hands. “I have not heard that name in many years. Back in Senditu’s day, he was called by many the ‘Voice of the Dreaming Sea.’ He was a great maker of songs, especially songs about our people’s story in the Garden and afterward, in exile.”

  Nali-Pina lived with the rest of Nali-Yun’s large family in what was called the Servants Hall, a warren of chambers that crouched beside the Visitors Court of Asu’a. She was likely the oldest living Tinukeda’ya in the city, wizened as a dried apple, the white hair on her head so thin that I could see much of her scalp, but her wits were nimble enough. This only pointed up the distance between Lord Hakatri’s people and my own: my master’s mother Lady Amerasu must have been twenty times Nali-Pina’s age, but showed none of the same outward signs of decline.

  “Tell me what this flower means,” I begged her.

  “It depends on who sent it to you and when,” she said, showing her few remaining teeth in a teasing grin. “It is known to be dangerous to bring hawthorn into the house during the Nightingale Moon. If an enemy sent this, they might mean to wish you bad luck.”

  I shook my head, though even the merest idea that the ladies of Ravensperch might have purposefully sent me a symbol of ill fate made me queasy. “It is not an enemy who sent it,” I said firmly. “It comes from a woman of the Tinukeda’ya, and I have believed her to be a friend.”

  She gave me a look that I swear was mostly amusement. “Ah! But that shows that you, like so many others in these sad days, do not know Ta-Hindae’s poetry.”

  “You know I do not. That is why I came to you, Grandmother.” Among the Tinukeda’ya, all are considered part of the same family. Every old person is a grandmother or a grandfather to the young, whether they share blood or not.

  She nodded. “And you were right to do so. I am likely one of the few of our kind here in Asu’a who can guess at the meaning. Another part of our history, all but lost.” She shook her head, frowning, but did not say anything else for so long that it was all I could do to stay silent. “If this . . . friend of yours has been reading Ta-Hindae,” she said at last, “then I think it most likely the flower is meant to speak of his song, The Haw-Twig.”

  “Recite the song to me, then, if you please.”

  “Do you think I carry all the poems and stories that ever were in my head?” She swatted gently at me, as though I were a troublesome child. “I am not the Voice of the Dreaming Sea, Armiger, I am just an old Vao woman who wants her dinner. But once all our folk knew his songs, and I can remember at least the lines I think you would want to know. But do you speak your people’s tongue?”

  Again, my ignorance turned to bite me. “I do not.”

  “I will try to put it in Zida’ya words, then, but it will be a poor copy of the original.” She leaned back and closed her eyes, taking so long that I was half-certain she had fallen asleep. At last, after an agonizing pause, she lifted her cracked voice and sang.

  Forever floating

  In the dream we share

  I dreamed a path

  I dreamed a woman

  And as she went

  I could not catch her

  Because she would not be caught

  Unless by her own will

  And as she ran

  Lightly, lithely

  She let drop a haw-twig

  On the path before me

  It had buds like stars

  And barbs like spears

  And these words she called

  Back to me

  “If you pass it by,

  You will not be pierced

  You will not suffer pain

  No blood will flow

  From thorn’s sharp point

  But neither will you know

  The sweetness of its scent . . .”

  I waited to see if she had finished, thinking there must be more. “But what does it mean?” I finally asked.

  Nali-Pina shook her head. “You are a good person, Pamon Kes, and a hard worker, but I suspect you are also a bit of a fool.”

  By now I was almost beyond shame at having my failings discussed. “So I have been told, over and over. But what does this bit of poetry mean? Why a hawthorn flower?”

  “Come now—it is there to be heard in the song if you have ears,” she said. “The hawthorn flower signifies affection and fidelity—even the mortals know that. What it means is that someone has made you an offer. If you accept it, you risk what all lovers risk—pain and heartache, because love does not always go smoothly. And if you let the haw-twig lie, for fear of thorns, you will not be hurt but neither will you smell its fragrance.”

  But I am not escaping pain, I thought, because this itself is painful. The old woman’s words resurrected the earlier hurt I had tried to bury. Whatever we might think of each other, Sholi and I were both caught in webs of duty, separated by our loyalties to others—my master, her mistress—and I had believed we agreed on this sad truth when we first met. Now she seemed to be telling me that I had misunderstood, that she was still waiting to hear what my feelings were, and so I despaired. How could I answer her hawthorn blossom? What could I say? I was sworn to serve my master Hakatri, who needed me now more than ever. Why would she set me a cruel task that I could only fail?

  I stumbled out of the Servants Hall without thanking Nali-Pina, full of pain and muddled thoughts. I wondered whether I had given Lady Sholi some encouragement that I could not remember or had not recognized. Could I have unwittingly made some promise to her?

  If I had, she seemed to have believed it. And what was more—and far stranger too—she seemed to have welcomed this misperceived affection, this unintended vow. How could that be? How could a clever and comely lady of good family, used to fine things and the company of high folk like Ona and Xaniko, favor a mere servant like Pamon Kes, with the dirt of the stables beneath his fingernails? I could not even feel flattered. The weight of someone’s affections, especially someone as admirable as Sholi, felt like an unsupportable burden. I was already carrying so much.

  I immediately wrote a reply, though I confess my hands trembled more than they should have. I thanked Lady Ona and told her that Hakatri and I had only lately arrived back at Asu’a after a long journey. I related a little of what we had seen and experienced, as well as the sad truth that we had found no cure for my master’s suffering. I wrote of Sholi’s gift only to acknowledge it with gratitude, but I dared not presume on Nali-Pina’s learning enough to say more about it, let alone how it made me feel.

  But as I finished, I saw that I had spoken of Sholi too little, so I added at the end of my missive that I held both ladies in the very highest regard. I asked Lady Ona to please give her friend my very best wishes and to thank her for the kindness of her gift. Then I took the letter to the post riders’ hall near the stable and left it for the next rider who could carry it on its journey west.

  That night, with my master sleeping, I agonized again over the letter I had written. It was graceless, I feared, and it said nothing useful. Several times I almost got up and claimed it back. What right did I have even to think of my own happiness, in any case? Asu’a’s healers had exhausted their knowledge and medicaments, and my master was already beginning to talk about another journey in search of new help. Could I expect a lady like Sholi to trudge around the world with me, to put up with the filth of the mortal cities or the hardships of swamps and forests? And even if Lord Hakatri decided to stay in Asu’a, for us to be together Sholi would have to leave her beloved friend Lady Ona behind in that lonely castle of exile, with only her bitter, burned husband for company.

  It all seemed impossible, though I agonized over it through many long nights, so at last I put it from my mind as best I could and fixed my at
tention on trying to help my master.

  The circle of seasons continued, of course. The Moon Spirits chased one another, each swallowing the one that had gone before. The Season of Growth passed, then Gathering, with Lord Hakatri still showing no signs of true improvement, and his spirit sinking even lower. The letter I had written to Ravensperch had gone on its way long before, but it drew no reply. My master had not mounted a horse since coming back from Enki-e-Shao’saye, so I had little work to do in the stable, and I spent days upon days at his side instead, waiting for his infrequent moments of wakefulness. But when he was awake he hardly seemed to notice me, his mind so full of dreams and ghosts that the true world around him must have seemed only another realm of fogs and shadows. He had rallied for a while, but now he seemed to be sinking again.

  As for me, I was waiting, but I could not guess what I waited for.

  * * *

  • • •

  Almost two full circles of seasons had passed since Lord Hakatri had been burned by the worm’s blood, and because they saw him so little, his family and the people of Asu’a mourned for him almost as if he had died. Still, life in the great city continued, and not just the season-circle, but the Great Year of the Gardenborn was almost ended as well. The arrival of the Rooster Moon meant that only a short time remained until the Year-Torch would appear and set the sky alight, proclaiming the arrival of a new Great Year. That sacred moment came only once in every sixty or so of the season-circles that mortals called a year, and preparations for the Year-Dancing celebration had been underway in Asu’a for a long time, so the city was full of anticipation.

  Even though the Zida’ya live longer than my folk and much, much longer than mortal men, the changing of a Great Year is an important occasion, especially in Asu’a. Deep in mirror-lit caverns beneath Asu’a, the witchwood grove where the ceremonies would take place was made as tidy as the throne hall, and special flowers were planted between the ancient, silver-gray trunks. The trees themselves were ritually trimmed of whiteweave vines and festooned with silken ribbons of many colors, like ancient relatives dressed in their finest garments for a feast. Soon the Sa’onsera herself would begin the sacred rituals to welcome the new Great Year.