Shadowheart

by Tad Williams

  “That is at least a half dozen of those things we’ve killed,” said Dolomite as he and the other fighters, Vansen included, bent to the work of finishing the wall while the autarch’s troops were in retreat. “How many more do you think there are?”

  “Not more than a hundred,” said Jackdaw with a fierce grin. His own soldiers, despite some of them being badly shaped for digging and building walls, were helping out with a will. It was almost possible for Vansen to forget that some of them looked like frogs and foxes, and others were even stranger than that. They were all becoming brothers, in the manner he had seen before: facing death together was the greatest of levelers. Perhaps, with the help of these Qar, they could actually hold out against the autarch until Midsummer had passed.

  “We will kill them one by one, then,” Vansen said. “Until we have the gunflour to blow them all right to the gates of Kernios himself.”

  Jackdaw laughed. “You are funny, mortal. Do you not know where you are?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We are already at the gates of Kernios, Captain. That is what is under siege here in the earth—what we defend! Our enemies seek to conquer the Palace of Kernios! We are Death’s own honor guard.”

  For a moment Vansen wasn’t entirely certain what he meant, but then began to understand. At last he summoned a grim laugh of his own. “As you say, then, friend Jackdaw—that is what we will do. Defend the gates of Death’s city until we ourselves are invited inside.”

  It was almost a relief to realize how futile their task was. Vansen shook his head and bent once more to his work.

  When he and the boy got back to their room, Flint sat down to think his strange, quiet Flint-thoughts and Chert hurried to turn his notes into marks on his maps before he forgot what they meant. The whole of the Pit had to be traced and much of the labyrinth behind Five Arches would have to be redone as well. As Chert worked, some of the things Flint had said rolled around and around in his mind, troubling him although he could not say exactly why.

  He had just finished marking the changes and was moving onto other things when an idea came to him—a strange, magnificent, utterly mad idea.

  For long moments he just sat, breathless, not even certain of whether it made any sense. Opal came bustling in from her labors with many things to say about what was happening and what she had been doing, but Chert scarcely heard her. He did his best to smile and say the right things, but his thoughts were completely taken by the new idea.

  It was definitely not the kind of thing he could discuss with Opal, much as he valued her counsel. The danger of it was appalling, and she had all but told him that if he again went off and got himself involved in something risky when they had a boy who needed him to be a father, that would be the last night she would ever sleep under his stone. And since Chert didn’t know whether Vansen and the Guild would even listen to such a lunatic idea, let alone approve it, he wasn’t going to waste an argument with his wife on it yet (an argument that he knew he would lose anyway, and lose badly.)

  He didn’t want to waste any more time that should be spent on the maps, but neither did he want to wait too long before taking his audacious plan to Vansen, Cinnabar, and the rest. After the evening prayers had been called, Chert waited impatiently until Opal and Flint fell asleep, then got up, lit the lamp, and went back to his table. He made a pile of all the maps he would need for his calculations—there were many—then bent over the table in the guttering light of the lantern and began working out his scheme in the solid, old-fashioned way the Guild had taught him, filling his slates with numbers and symbols that would explain the workings of his strange, unthinkable idea.

  14

  The Queen of the Fay

  “Such was his misery that many times the Orphan would have thrown himself into the green sea even against Heaven’s wishes, but for the kindness of an old blind slave named Aristas . . .”

  —from “A Child’s Book of the Orphan, and His Life and Death and Reward in Heaven”

  SAQRI WAITED AS HE CLIMBED UP out of the waves onto the rocky shore, as poised in her formless white robes as a temple statue. She was also quite, quite dry. Barrick, drenched and drizzling seawater, had barely an instant to marvel at either that or the sea meadow he had not seen in so many years, then Saqri turned and started up from the shore toward the royal lodge, which was just visible through the trees at the top of the stony hillcrest.

  “There are some things you learn after a few hundred years,” the Queen of the Fairies called as he trudged after her, streaming water and making squelching noises with every step. “One of them is how not to get wet unless you want to.”

  He didn’t have the strength to discuss it. Exhaustion and his sopping clothing were pulling at him like a legion of invisible goblins, making each step a terrible chore. Also, he could see the lodge more clearly now, and although the Fireflower voices seemed uncharacteristically silent, his own memories were not.

  “First to touch the door is the lord of the cliff!” his sister shouted, and, without waiting to see if he had even heard her, she was gone, sprinting up the ancient steps. Barrick hesitated for a moment, waiting to see if Kendrick would run, too, but their older brother was waiting patiently for their father. Kendrick was twelve years old and determined to show he was nearly a man—he wasn’t going to be playing any games. Barrick sprang up the steps after his twin.

  “Cheat!” he yelled. “You had a head start.”

  “That’s not cheating,” she called over her shoulder, laughing so that she almost lost her balance on narrow steps worn to a shiny polish by rain and wind. “That’s strategy!”

  “If either of you step into that house without the guards,” their father shouted from the dock, “I will skin you and feed you to the hounds!”

  Which only made Briony laugh harder, of course—she loved those dogs so much, she’d probably enjoy being devoured by them, Barrick thought—and then she stepped a little short and almost fell back.

  “Briony!” their father shouted. “Have a care, girl!”

  She spun her arms around like the vanes of a windmill, trying to keep her balance, which gave Barrick the chance to help her. As he hurried past, he gave her the smallest nudge with his good arm so that she tilted forward and recovered her footing.

  “Cheater!” she shouted after him. “You pushed me!”

  Now it was Barrick who laughed. She knew it was a lie—she knew he’d looked after her, for once, instead of being the one looked after, and it felt glorious. He reached the pathway at the top and dashed along it toward the lodge, past the cypress trees. He had just caught sight of the broad coachway that lay before the front door—a most useless feature in a place with no roads and no coaches, but he supposed King Aduan and his builders might have had greater ambitions for the place—when he heard his sister’s footsteps behind him.

  “I’ve got you now!”

  What, did she think that because his arm was crippled he was also lame? He put his head down and flung the last of his strength into a finishing burst, sprinting across the gravel coachway and thumping against the front door of the lodge just before his sister. Gasping too hard to say anything, they both slid down the door to sit side by side on the porch. His lungs finally full of air again, Barrick turned to her and . . .

  THOOM!

  The crash of sound yanked him back to the present again, scattering his memories like dandelion fluff. He whirled around in the middle of the path to look back across the bay. It was hard to see what was making the noise, but thin streams of smoke were rising from the mainland town. For a moment, Barrick could almost tell himself it was the chimneys, that all was ordinary and he’d heard only thunder. After all, who would be firing a cannon . . . ?

  THOOM! THOOM!

  . . . No, several of them—the Qar? Did they even use them? And where had Saqri gone? Could she be hurt? Could the cannons throw one of their balls this far? He hurried up the hillside path.

  No, she said, as close a
s his own thoughts. Move slowly, Barrick Eddon. There are many eyes watching.

  He turned and, to his astonishment, saw that Saqri was now behind him—he had passed her along the way, somehow. She did not speak again when she caught up, but walked on through the grove of twisted, shaggy trees. When she reached the house, the door opened at her touch as though it had been waiting for her.

  Barrick followed her inside, overwhelmed by the familiar, musty smells, but also by the exhaustion that dragged at him like a Skimmer net weighted with stones.

  “Go and sleep,” Saqri told him, speaking words into the air like any ordinary mortal. “You are safe for the moment. There will be time later for everything else that must be. Sleep.”

  Barrick did not argue. One of the beds was disarranged as though it had been slept in, although to judge by the sheets and blankets (which always stiffened in the salty air) that must have been weeks ago at least, but he couldn’t worry about it because sleep was tugging him down as powerfully as the waters of Brenn’s Bay had pulled him, and this time he did not have the strength to stay afloat.

  So the bed was unmade. Just now he didn’t care if Kernios himself had slept in it. Barrick dragged off his wet clothes and climbed naked under the stiff sheets. In moments he had fallen into deep slumber.

  “We have visitors,” Saqri said from somewhere close by.

  Barrick struggled up from the tail end of a dream in which he had searched for Qinnitan up and down the streets of a desert city without ever catching up to her. He opened his eyes, uncertain at first of where he was, but then it all came back to him—the mirror, the green ocean, the god-haunted, dreaming depths. He sat up to find Saqri at the foot of his bed.

  “What?” he said, trying to pull his thoughts together. “Visitors?”

  He had been joking, but the fairy queen looked over her shoulder toward the main room of the lodge. “In truth, I suppose it is we who are the visitors and they have come to see whether we mean them any harm.”

  Barrick could only shake his head, trying to clear out the confusion. “Visitors? Here on M’Helan’s Rock? But the place is empty . . . !”

  Her pale, angular face seemed expressionless. “Do you think so?”

  “Very well, then, I’ll come.” He waited for a moment, but she did not move. “Can you go out, please, so I can get dressed? I’m naked.”

  Saqri gave him an amused look as she pulled the door closed behind her—but she was sort of his many-times-great-grandmother, wasn’t she? Surely it wouldn’t be proper to dress in front of her as if she were a servant? Barrick scowled as he wrestled on his Qar clothing. It was very odd for her to look so young and beautiful. It confused him.

  When he stepped out into the main hall of the lodge, he was uncertain at first of what he was seeing. The very floor seemed alive with movement, as though a carpet had come to life. A hundred or more tiny people were waiting there, he realized with growing astonishment—people as small as the Tine Fay he had met behind the Shadowline, but dressed in hats and hose and jackets like ordinary folk. Their little faces, each smaller than a copper crab, turned toward him expectantly, but Barrick found himself speechless.

  One of the tiny figures, a little bearded man, stepped out from the crowd. He was noticeably stout and looked very well dressed, with a fancy hat and minuscule gold chain draped across his chest that might have been part of a child’s bracelet, but which hung as heavily on him as a royal jewel. It was all Barrick could do not to bend down and pick him up to have a closer look.

  “Duke Kettlehouse am I,” he said in a voice scarcely louder or deeper than a mouse’s squeak, “master by election of the esteemed Floorboard Assembly of Rooftop-over-Sea, as well as uncle of Queen Upsteeplebat (whom you may have encountered, may her grandiosity remain unambiguous) and I and my folk, whom you see gathered here most bravely before you, wish to welcome you, our lordly lords and ladies . . .”

  A little man with a pointy beard standing next to him, only slightly less well-dressed, poked Kettlehouse with his elbow.

  “. . . and, ah, of course.” Kettlehouse took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Yes. We welcome you to our country again, Queen Saqri. It has been long.”

  “Since the war, or almost.” Saqri nodded her head seriously, as if she were not talking to a man smaller than a mouse. “Many times have the winds blown since then. I wish better days had brought us together.”

  Kettlehouse looked pleased, if still tentative. “You are most kind, Majesty, most kind. We wish to speak with you about important matters—nay, incredulous matters! You know we have always, despite the difference in our onetime alliance, held the greatest and most tenacious respect for the old ones, our cousins, your people . . .” The pointy-bearded man gave him another nudge. “Ah. Your pardon. We wish to speak with you, if we may, about our peoples’ future disposition toward each other—if you understand our meaning . . . ?”

  Saqri nodded in that smooth but abrupt and birdlike way she had. “I understand well. I say with only truth on my lips that if by some impossible chance our two peoples survive what is to come, there will no longer be a shadow between us. I say that from the very heart of the People’s House.”

  Some of the little people let out a cheer at this pledge; others as far as Barrick could tell, were weeping and blowing their noses, or whispering in excitement. The Fireflower voices, mitigated by the apparent presence of Ynnir, gave him glimpses of the long centuries of estrangement that might end here today.

  Was this why we came here? he wondered. Was there more to it than simply swimming to the nearest shore? It was almost impossible to tell with Saqri, as it had been with Ynnir: with both of them, that which was real and fleshly quickly became that which was uncanny. Even simply watching the Qar in their everyday moments was like trying to understand a conversation in someone else’s tongue.

  “I am certain I speak for the Floorboard Assembly, then,” announced Duke Kettlehouse after a moment’s consultation with the pointy-bearded man, “when I say that we would be most happy to see that shadow of estrangement gone. Most extremefully happy. But now I must let my secretary, Lord Pindrop, explain to you things of which you may perhaps, begging the pardon of your infallibility, Mistress, not be aware.” He took a step back and allowed the slender, pointy-bearded man to step forward.

  “See what is written here,” said Pindrop, proffering a sheet of parchment that seemed as large in his hands as a window shutter. “All the words spoken by Sulepis Autarch and Tolly, the Protector of Southmarch, when they met here only hours ago.”

  “What?” Barrick thought he had misheard the tiny man. “Here? The autarch? With a Tolly?”

  Saqri took the note and read it, her face more like a statue’s than ever.

  “We heard everything he had to say,” Duke Kettlehouse began. “We copied it most assiduously, in fair hand, so that we could make certain Your Majesty . . .”

  Little Lord Pindrop interrupted his duke. “The danger is grave indeed!”

  “When?” demanded Barrick. “When was the autarch here?”

  “Yesterday evening.” Saqri looked up. “And if these written words report truly what was spoken here, then the southerner knows far more about this castle and its history than even the Fireflower and the Deep Library could guess. Even as we speak, this Autarch Sulepis is preparing to push his way into the deep places where the doorways are.”

  “Doorways? Like the one that brought us here?”

  “Yes, places where the world is thin. But the doorway beneath this place that has most recently been your family’s home is different than any other. It was opened by Crooked and then closed by him as well, and only his dying strength has kept it sealed so long. Through it, he banished the gods who had tormented him, and because of him they are still on the far side of that doorway, fettered by sleep. But even in that sleep they dream of returning and taking their revenge on the world. . . .”

  Ideas drifted up to him from the Fireflower, ideas of such abstract but ov
erwhelming horror that Barrick could scarcely remain standing.

  Saqri, however, went on as though she had considered such things every day of her life. Perhaps she had. “Speaking of the places where the world is thin,” she told the Rooftoppers, “we must go now to talk to the other tribe that shares this place with you.”

  “Of course! We are not the only exiles who would honor our ancient kinship,” piped Duke Kettlehouse.

  “We must leave soon,” Saqri told him. “When darkness comes. Can you have those you would send with me ready by then?”

  “We will have our embassy ready for you one hour before sunset,” he assured her. “We will wait for you at the dock.”

  There were times when the Fireflower seemed to give everything shadows and reflections. As Barrick followed Saqri down the path from the lodge, it made all around him shimmer like a fever-dream. It was certainly easier to be here on M’Helan’s Rock, where most things did not have the significance that was layered everywhere in Qul-na-Qar, but Saqri herself, both as the queen and as the last in a long succession of women who had carried and then surrendered the Fireflower, was so full of... meaning that just being around her exhausted Barrick.