Brothers of the Wind

by Tad Williams

  But I could not enter too much into the spirit of celebration. As the time of change advanced on us, Hakatri’s dreams began to overspill his tortured sleep once more and wash into my own. And what had been a trickle as we crossed the Whisperwaste now increased manyfold, until scarcely a night passed for me when I was not captured by some powerful, often painful dream that did not seem to be my own. I ran beneath alien skies, chased by things I could hear but not see. I writhed in the grip of agony I could not escape. Sometimes I was myself but with my master’s afflictions, my skin afire, my bones smoldering inside me like hot coals. Other times I felt that I was Hakatri, that I could see the ancient history of my bloodline stretching behind me but could discern only phantoms ahead, as though the entire heritage of the Zida’ya would fail because of my weakness. At such moments a deep, overwhelming fear seized me, but it also seemed that nothing I could do would make things better: the mistakes had already been made, or so the dreams seemed to suggest; the wrong turns taken, and I was lost beyond salvation.

  Strangest and most frightening of all, though, were the dreams I had about Asu’a itself. Whether they sprang from my master’s imaginings or my own growing fears I could not tell, but they were truly terrible. I dreamed of our ancient home in flames, of dark, distorted shapes running through the halls and of blood dripping down marble stairs. I heard frightful screams and cries for help, all in the Zida’ya tongue. Over it all I saw again and again a shadow wearing the ancient birchbark crown of Asu’a’s Protectors, with branches that spread from it like the antlers of a stag. I dreamed that a ghastly horned shadow sat in the Protector’s chair, but the Sa’onsera’s chair beside it was empty, and the sky beyond the high windows was tinged with the red light of fire.

  Jingizu, a voice said, echoing through those Asu’a dreams, a voice that hissed like the Blackworm but that I could almost recognize. Sorrow.

  Were the dreams only Hakatri’s, or were they mine as well? Sometimes I saw my master in these visions, bent in pain at the railing of a ship or staring out at endless ocean swells, and at those moments I thought the visions must be my own, for my master and I had traveled by water many times during my life. But at other moments, as I watched dim, armored shapes struggling against beasts stranger than any dragon, I felt sure I gazed on something I had never seen, something from the long-lost days of the Garden itself.

  It became a fearful exercise merely to lay myself down on my bed in those days, though I was always weary. Sometimes I drank wine until I fell into sleep sitting upright, but even that did not protect me from most of the invading visions, and it never saved me from the dreams of burning.

  * * *

  • • •

  Many nights I slept in my master’s chamber because I did not want to leave his side, though there was little I could do for him except to let him know that he was not alone. It was on such a night in the Wolf Moon, only days before the first celebration of the new Great Year, called the Feast of Exodus, that I awakened to hear my master thrashing and groaning in his bed. In his agony he had thrown off his bedclothes, so that they had fallen over me where I lay on my pallet on the floor, and as I first awakened I struggled against them, blind and fearful, until I realized what had happened and stopped fighting. Hakatri’s breath was short and harsh—ha, ha, ha, ha—and that frightened me. Then, just as I was about to go to him, he calmed again and fell into a gentler rhythm. As I paused, half-upright, I became aware of a shadow in the doorway of the chamber. I peered out of the coils of blanket and saw that it was not a single silhouette but two, one tall, one less so, and that they both were looking at Hakatri in his bed.

  Assassins! I thought, but as quick as the terror came, I thought again, No, never in Asu’a. I stayed silent, a heartbeat from shouting for the rest of my master’s household, but the twin shapes did not move past the threshold.

  “It tears at my heart,” said the taller one, and though he spoke quietly I recognized Ineluki’s voice. My fear ebbed but was replaced by a troubled curiosity. What did he want in his brother’s chamber? And who was with him? “He lives, but he suffers every day,” Ineluki said. “There are moments when I think it would have been better if he had perished in Serpent’s Vale.”

  I did not hear what, if anything, his companion said, then Ineluki spoke again. “Of course I do. No punishment could be enough to pay for his suffering. For what they did to him, I would happily see every one of those cowardly vermin driven from our lands.”

  As I peered from the shadows, I saw the shorter figure lean close to Ineluki, but all I heard was an almost silent murmur, like dry leaves blowing across the ground. The figure was hooded, but I thought I could guess the name of Ineluki’s companion, and my heart sank a little.

  “No!” Ineluki still did not raise his voice, but his reply was full of shock and disgust. “Never! He is dearer to me than anything. But I see no way to go forward with him this way. How can he be Protector when the time comes?”

  Again I heard the dry rattle of a whisper.

  “You run ahead of all sense, Ommu,” Ineluki said. “That day will never come. I have told you so before and told your mistress as well. He is my brother. He is my blood.”

  The hooded figure muttered a few more words, but this time Ineluki did not answer. A moment later they turned and their shadows slid from the doorway, leaving me shivering on the floor. When I rose to make certain they had gone, I saw that though my master’s face was hidden in the shadow cast by the open door, his eyes were open, as though he had been awake the whole time. Then he shut them again.

  * * *

  • • •

  The next day, Hakatri sent for me to meet him in Asu’a’s garden gallery, which girdled the bottom of the Yásira’s great dome above Thousand Leaves Hall. The gallery was a score of paces in width, and planted with trees and other greenery, a circular, mid-air forest fitted out with benches and paths.

  As soon as I arrived, I saw my master, but did not immediately approach him because he was with his wife, Lady Briseyu. I waited a discreet distance away, but after no little time had passed it became clear to me that the conversation would be a long one, so I found a bench among the greenery of the dense garden. A light rain was falling through the open spaces of the domed roof. Fern leaves bounced as the drops fell on them. I looked down at the people of the court in the levels below me, tiny figures as oblivious to my existence as they might be to a pigeon gazing at them from a high branch. The air was chill now that the Season of Withering was upon us, and I pulled my tunic closer around me: I feel the cold more deeply than do my master’s folk.

  Hakatri and his wife were deep in conversation. I had of course picked a spot where I could not accidentally overhear them, but I soon realized my error: they were not speaking aloud, but in the gestures that are so much a part of Zida’ya discourse. I wondered at this until I saw their daughter Likimeya tumble out of the bushes beside them, pause only long enough to sneak a glance at my master, then speed away again before Briseyu could capture her. Now I understood why they were talking without speech, and I wondered what they might be discussing that they wanted to keep from their child.

  In the moments before I turned away, I could see that there was contention between them. Hakatri’s hand-gestures were weary, as though they had been at it for some time. Briseyu’s seemed pained, abrupt as startled birds taking flight.

  Little Likimeya soon returned to the bench. She kept her mother between her father and herself, and when she did look at Hakatri it was only quickly, like a grazing deer keeping an eye on a distant wolf. I could not understand this. My master had been badly scarred by the dragon’s blood, but there were other Zida’ya almost as cruelly marked by hunting mishaps and other sorts of bad luck. But Hakatri’s daughter seemed to treat her father like an unknown quantity—like an envoy sent by a potential enemy.

  My master and his wife paused even their silent gestures while Likimeya was be
side them, but the child soon leaped to her feet and vanished back into the garden tangle.

  I should have looked away. Spying on Hakatri and Briseyu with my eyes was just as ignoble as eavesdropping, but it seemed clear that some large matter was between them and I was fearful of what that might be and what it might mean for me.

  To look on Lady Briseyu of the Silver Braids is to be half in love with her, even for one of a different kind, like myself. She is tall for her folk, tall as any male, and even her most gentle, graceful movements carry a suggestion of strength. She is of the Star’s Path House, age-old allies of my master’s Year-Dancing House, known for their loyalty to the Sa’onserei and Asu’a. My master married her for love, I was told, but I feel sure that his mother and father approved of his choice.

  Now, though, I watched Briseyu, usually as poised and perfect as a statue, struggling with her composure. She made a series of signs—lost fledgling, stars misread, tumbled walls—and her face was imploring. My master only clasped his hands in the gesture that meant necessity, then separated his hands and spread them in another movement that signified a stronger version of the same—cannot be changed.

  Briseyu stared at those hands as if she had never seen them before, then drew two fingers across her eyes—the sign for jingizu. Sorrow. I could see such misery on her face that my heart plunged inside me like a stone dropped into a well. From her expression, I would not have been surprised—although I would also have been astounded at the same time—if Briseyu had begun to weep like a mortal woman. A moment later my master made the same sign she had, passing his hand before his own gaze. Sorrow. I turned away, unhappy and ashamed to have seen their naked pain. A mist of rain drifted down from the open roof of the Yásira, dampening my face and hands.

  Something appeared at my feet then, startling me. It was young Likimeya, who had crawled out of the greenery beside my bench. She rose and came to me in a meandering way that suggested she planned to speak to me but would choose her own time. Like most Zida’ya children, her white hair had not yet been colored with the flower dyes and mineral essences her elders favored. She was still very young, but it was clear she took her looks from her much-admired mother, though little Likimeya had a restlessness I had never seen in either parent. Her eyes continued roaming the forested gallery even as she spoke to me.

  “Greetings, Arm’ger Pamon,” she said with a very good imitation of queenly condescension. “It’s Year-Dancing soon.”

  “That is true,” I said. Little Likimeya and I did not talk very often, but when we did our conversations often began like this, with her explaining things to me as though I were witless. To be fair, she spoke this way to most of her elders.

  “Grandmother said I can carry the lamp in the Procession of Light. That’s very important.”

  “You must be proud.”

  She frowned. “Why aren’t you in the stables?” she asked. “You’re supposed to be taking care of the horses.”

  “Because Lord Hakatri asked me to meet him here.”

  “Ah.” She nodded, chewing on her lower lip as she considered. “Swan tried to throw me off yesterday. I was riding in the woods by myself. She is very wicked.”

  Swan was Likimeya’s own horse, a surpassingly gentle creature who would not have thrown even a rider wearing a suit made from burrs. “You must have been frightened,” I said.

  “Never!” She was so outraged by this that she made the sign the courtiers used for untrustworthy gossip, which made me laugh, and for an instant I could almost forget the unhappiness on the faces of my master and his wife sitting just a short distance away. A moment later the child’s indignation was forgotten. She gave me a long, curious look. “Why aren’t you with my father, Arm’ger?”

  She only called me by my title instead of my clan-name when she was annoyed by something. “Because your parents are talking and I don’t want to interrupt.”

  Her face showed childish disgust, as well as something else I could not quite fathom, something opaque, hidden. “No, I mean my real father.” And then she abruptly turned and scurried back into the tangle of greenery once more, leaving me to wonder what strange ideas must be in her mind, and feeling inexpressibly sad about the events that had brought us all to this point.

  I turned back in time to see Lady Briseyu rise from my master’s side. She called for Likimeya, who appeared from behind a curtain of aspens, and together they made their way around the gallery toward the long, spiraling staircase that led down to Thousand Leaves Hall. I waited a respectful time, then at last got up and went to my master.

  I could tell by Hakatri’s pallor and the tightness around his eyes that his talk with Briseyu had been very difficult. “The Year-Dance is coming soon,” he said.

  I nodded. “So your daughter informed me.” I did my best to amuse. “I couldn’t possibly have known if she hadn’t.”

  My very small jest might as well not have been shared; my master’s expression remained drained and distant. “After the ceremony,” he said slowly, “we will be leaving Asu’a.”

  I was more than surprised—I was stunned, as by an unexpected blow to the head. Words caught in my throat, and more than a few moments passed before I could get any of them out. “Leaving, my lord?”

  “I see no other way. Now we must find a ship, Pamon, and I give that important task to you. A small, sturdy ship, with a crew to sail her. Make certain to choose mariners without families—we may be gone for a long time.”

  My innards clenched, and I felt bile rise in my throat. But the habit of duty was strong. “A long time? How long, my lord?”

  “As long as it takes to find an answer.”

  “And where are we bound, my lord?”

  “I do not know, Pamon. Westward, across the great ocean, that is all I can tell you.”

  Stark terror clutched at me. “West across the ocean? But there is nothing out there, Lord Hakatri. Only empty water. Only storms and unending waves.”

  He shook his head, almost violently. “The mortals came from there long ago. And there are islands far out from shore that our people have seen as they prowled the coasts. Somewhere beyond the horizon there must be another land, perhaps one even greater than this, the place of our exile. I have seen its shadow in my fevered sleep.”

  “But why, my lord? Why go in search of . . . of a dream? Remember how the last dream disappointed you when you found it.” I was too astonished to take much care with my words.

  “Sit down, Pamon.” He gestured to the bench with a trembling hand. “Listen, now. There is nothing here for me in Asu’a. Year-Dancing is an empty masquerade. In my dreams I have seen what was and what will be—or at least what might be. But down every road, on every path that stretches out before me, nothing waits for me but torment.”

  Not really understanding, I could only shake my head in despair.

  “It is true. I feel it,” he said. “In only one direction does anything else wait, and that is to the west. I do not foresee my salvation there, but I sense that if anything can bring an end to the horror I live with, it lies beyond the sunset. So find a ship for us, Pamon. Make sure she is strong and swift. I must grab at this chance, small as it may be, because if I stay here in the place of my birth, I know to a certainty that darkness and destruction will be the only result.”

  I wept then but did my best to hide it from him. If Hakatri saw, he did me the courtesy of pretending not to. “Oh, master, if you command me, of course I will do it, but my heart is breaking for your family.”

  “It is my family that will break if I do not go,” he said. “It will collapse beneath the weight of my affliction and my failure.”

  “Failure?” A surge of anger pushed me back onto my feet again. “Punish me for insolence if you want, my lord, but I cannot stay silent. Do not use that word, ‘failure,’ in front of me. You have not failed. You did everything you could. You stood alone and killed th
e Blackworm! The fault belongs to your—”

  “Do not say it!” Hakatri’s eyes turned up to mine, and his face was filled with a sudden misery that matched my own. “Do not speak his name. My brother made a mistake, but he need not be cursed for it eternally. He has a chance to redeem his error—but only if I go.”

  I suddenly understood, and the brief moment of anger turned icy cold in my breast. “You mean to remove yourself. You mean to let Ineluki become the next Protector of Asu’a.”

  “That is where his salvation lies, if he can seize it. The dreams have shown me.” My master’s stare had become distant, as though he looked across not just the space between us but across centuries still unborn. I shuddered, remembering when he had promised his brother that all would be well, and how wrong he had been. “But my salvation,” he continued, “if such a thing exists, lies elsewhere—in the unknown West.”

  * * *

  • • •

  All that night my thoughts clashed like warring armies. I did not want to leave Asu’a, but I could not desert Hakatri. I had come to desire some kind of life of my own, but that was impossible without betraying my debt to my master. No matter what I did, I would fail someone I cared about. Back and forth the struggle raged, both sides desperate, both sides bone-weary, but neither able to get the upper hand.

  At last, after struggling for hours alone in the sleepless darkness, I decided that my first obligation was to my master Hakatri, and always had been. I had to give up even the unlikely hope that one day I might follow a road chosen by myself alone. Honor and duty had been the foundation of my life. I could not give them up now, though it likely condemned me to dying in some unknown land, a mere afterthought in the greater story that was Hakatri’s. I tried to console myself that even in exile with my master, I would be part of something more important than I could ever achieve by myself. It was not much comfort, but comfort is not usually part of a servant’s life.