by Tad Williams
“Me.” Cinnabar, tongue between his teeth, was busy with his high-collared chest plate.
Calomel reached up and helped his father tie the knots. “He’s almost ready, Captain.”
“And he looks very handsome, our Cinnabar,” Malachite Copper said almost cheerfully, as if they had not just been told they were fighting alone. “Not in the least like a fat townsman who has forgotten everything he learned in the warders.”
“Yes, I’m sure one sight of me and the autarch’s men will all run,” said Cinnabar, but no one had the heart to laugh.
He had become an animal, a thing of rough, matted hair and sharp teeth. He could smell her. He knew that the soldiers had taken her across the water—he had her scent and it told him everything. He could even smell the warm blood that would gush forth when he caught her and began to bite and tear . . .
Daikonas Vo shuddered and blinked. No. He was not an animal. He was a man, even if it was getting harder to remember that sometimes. He looked at the crowd of people around him. Some of them were staring. He could only guess what he looked like. But what was he trying to remember . . . ?
It came back. The girl. The girl from the Seclusion. He didn’t smell her, that was only his madness speaking, but he had seen the soldiers take her and march her onto a boat headed back across the bay toward Southmarch. He knew where she was going—to the autarch, the wonderful, powerful, treacherous, murderous autarch . . .
It was important to remember the truth and defend against madness. If Vo lost control, he knew he would become an animal in truth—a dead one, as forgotten as any cur left to rot by the roadside. But there were moments he did feel he could smell the girl, no matter how far away she was—he could almost picture her scent wafting behind her as she ran, trailing in the air like a broken spiderweb, dissolving slowly but lingering just long enough to coil about him like mist, leading him on . . .
He stopped himself just before he began howling. The sun was bright, and his head felt as though it had been split by a stoneworker’s chisel. The people around him had drawn back, and many were staring at him in apprehension—he must be talking to himself again.
Vo put his head down and began to walk.
She had tried to kill him. That memory helped to keep him going when the pain almost became too much. It was not the worst thing she had done, of course—in fact it was scarcely important at all except as a reminder of how slack he had been. But in trying to murder him she had poured all his sweet black medicine away, the one thing that had quieted the gnawing monstrosity the autarch had left in Vo’s guts. Now the agony grew in him by the hour. Vo had tried other remedies since he had lost his boat, wild simples he had picked in the forest and eaten, and later, when he had reached villages and small towns again, things he could get from apothecaries and healers, simply stealing when he could, killing without hesitation when he had to. But even the most learned of these country healers knew little more than the name of Malamenas Kimir’s healing liquid—they certainly did not have any. If he had not been certain beyond doubt he would be dead before he reached Agamid and Kimir’s shop he would have started back there already; instead he had only one chance to end the burning pain in his guts: he might still be able to convince Sulepis of his usefulness and be released from this endless torture.
So Daikonas Vo walked across the waterfront of Onir Beccan toward the place the ships docked, ignoring the local apothecaries because he could not afford the time or distraction. Every hour it seemed to become harder to think. Sometimes his mind was nothing but a black cave of screeching bats. Sometimes his legs cramped so badly that he dropped helplessly to the ground, but he always got up again.
Somebody was making strange noises. Growling and wheezing, mumbled words.
It was Vo himself, of course. He laughed a little through the pain. It was strange being mad, but he had been through worse.
Vo had been trying to ignore the pain that burned in his gut like a blazing coal while he watched the small ship he planned to board. A crane swung barrels of supplies up onto the deck as half-naked men pulled the ropes and shouted at each other. Could he manage? It seemed unlikely: to judge by the number of Xixian soldiers on the deck the autarch’s army had commandeered the Blueshore cog outright, which would make it hard for Vo to slip aboard unnoticed, especially in his present condition.
It was only after he had reluctantly decided to wait for another ship that he suddenly remembered the parchments that old Vash had given him—the autarch’s writ. The whole memory seemed strange, as though it had happened to someone else, but the documents had served him well when he commandeered the first ship in Hierosol, and could do so again . . . if he still had them....
Fortunately, Daikonas Vo had not had the wit for most of the last month even to remember the oilskin pouch hidden behind his belt, so it was still there. The documents were still there, too, although a bit smeared and hard to read after his unexpected swim from Vilas’ boat to the Brennish shore. Still, the falcon glyph of Sulepis III was unmistakable, and the bright vermilion ink showed that it was no mere copy but a document approved by the autarch himself. With the waterlogged parchments clutched tight in his fist he headed toward the cog, reminding himself not to howl no matter how hot the sun felt or how his gut burned him.
The mulasim, the officer who came down when the guards at the top of the gangplank called him, was one of those old hands Vo had seen a thousand times. While the mulasim looked skeptically at Vo’s documents, the soldiers behind him stared at Vo himself. He couldn’t even imagine what he looked like, but the part of him that could think through the pain knew it must be bad. They might not doubt the documents themselves, but they were bound to wonder if he had stolen these from the real messenger.
“Hear me,” he said, summoning what felt like a great deal of strength to speak calm, sensible words. “I have taken tremendous injury in the autarch’s service. I have critical information to give him which he needs this moment. I have sworn my complete loyalty to the Golden One. If you refuse to take me to his camp, I will have no choice but to kill you all, then eat your hearts and livers so that I have the strength to swim across Brenn’s Bay.”
Something about the way he said it must have been convincing. When the ship left Onir Beccan on the evening tide, Vo was on board, with a great deal of the deck to himself.
Despite the dangers—and they were many—Matt Tinwright felt exhilarated to be out of the royal residence at night and on his own. Of course as bad as the inner keep had become it was still was nothing like the outer keep, which was so crammed with hungry, terrified people that walking across it at night would be taking your life in your hands even were it not for the destruction being rained down by the autarch’s cannons and the dangerous ruins left in the wake of the cannon fire.
Two days of freedom in a row! Tinwright prayed that Hendon Tolly would continue to be distracted just a bit longer.
He had considered waiting until late to try to sneak into his sister’s house, but the inner keep was almost as crowded with refugees as the outer; if he went during waking hours the noise from the camps would be good cover. He went through an empty shop and climbed out an upstairs window, then clambered across and dropped into a knacker’s yard, also deserted. From there, he made his way into that building and then climbed the stairs to the room at the top that his mother shared with Elan. He watched the street for some time, but could see no one obviously keeping an eye on the place.
To Tinwright’s disappointment, it was his mother who answered his discreet rap at the shutter. She had her triskelion clutched tightly against her stomacher until the shutter was halfway up, then she thrust a fist holding the chain through the gap so suddenly that she hit Tinwright in the chin as he was about to speak.
“The Brothers abjure you, foul demon!” cried Anamesiya Tinwright, then struck him on the ear with the triskelion.
“Sweet Zosim Salamandros, woman, what are you doing?” He tried to keep his voice down, but it stil
l came out in a muffled shriek. “You’ve bloodied my nose! Let me in.”
“Matthias, is that you?” His mother stepped back as he half-clambered, half-fell through the window. “What are you doing at the window, you fool? I thought you were a demon!”
He sat on the floor collecting himself for a moment. “I am not. Do we agree on that? Or would you prefer to hit me again?”
“Matthias?” It was Elan this time, calling not from the bed but from a stool by the table where the single lamp burned. She had been sewing, and she looked so pretty in his sister’s simple clothes that it took him a moment to realize what she had called him. Not Matt, or even Matty, but Matthias. What his mother called him.
“Yes, it’s me.” He got up and dusted himself off, wiped a few drops of blood from his upper lip, then walked over to give Elan’s hand a kiss. “I’ve come to . . .”
“Do you have my money?” his mother asked. “It was the tennight three days ago.”
It was all Tinwright could do not to shout. He had to remind himself that there might very well be spies, even armed soldiers, watching the building. “I have been more or less Hendon Tolly’s prisoner, Mother, kept at his side morning and night.”
“Oh, so you truly are coming up in the world.” His mother smiled with pleasure. “We heard, but we were not sure . . .”
“You poor man,” said Elan. “Can you bear it? Is he cruel?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” He sat down cross-legged beside her. “How are you, my lady? Is it too hard for you living in these . . .” he looked at his mother,” . . . rough circumstances?”
She laughed. “With what is going on around us? Did you know that the Erilonian shrine just one street over was blown into firewood by a cannonball? I am fortunate to have a place to live and people to help me.” She smiled teasingly. “Your mother has been very kind.”
“Oh, I have been filling Lady Elan’s head with the wonders of the temple and the stories of the gods’ kindness. She is all but signed and dismembered to become a Trigonate Sister.”
“Signed and delivered,” he said offhandedly. “I see now that I am not the only one suffering. You do not have to listen to her, Elan. She is used to her speeches being ignored.”
This time, the young woman’s smile was calmer, more genuine. “No. I like to hear of it. I think I might indeed find some peace, someday, in holy orders . . .” She saw the stricken look on Tinwright’s face and misunderstood it. “No, truly, I do not say it simply to please your mother.”
Anamesiya Tinwright nodded happily. “Lady Elan knows that the gods punish wickedness, and that the only way to avoid punishment is to do what the gods wish. . . .”
“But you have told us nothing of what brings you,” Elan said, cutting across his mother’s preamble. “Tell us your news, Matthias.”
“Ah!” He sat up. “You have reminded me—I brought you something.” He dug into the pocket of his doublet, where he had been carrying it next to his heart. “Here. It is a book of prayer with images of the life of Zoria.” He handed it to her. “It once belonged to Princess Briony. I found it in the chapel.”
Elan looked at it carefully, but she seemed less than ecstatic with the gift. “It is very beautiful, Matthias. Look at the paintings! Such skill!” She turned the pages slowly, then handed it back. “But I cannot accept such a gift. It belongs to the princess and if she comes back, she will want this lovely thing again.”
He was surprised and confused. “But . . . surely she would not begrudge it to someone who . . . who has suffered as you have suffered . . .”
“No, thank you. It is a kind thought and a lovely thing, but I can’t accept it.” She would not quite meet his eyes. “It belongs to someone else.”
“But what am I to do with it?”
She shook her head. “I do not know, Matthias.”
He was so disappointed that for a moment he considered leaving it there and walking out, but his mother was watching him with such a poorly-hidden expression of satisfaction that he changed his mind and put it back in his breast pocket again. “I will think of something, then. Perhaps I’ll offer it at the Zorian shrine.”
“Have you any other news to share?” Elan asked. He had the distinct feeling now that his presence was being endured rather than enjoyed.
“Nothing much,” he said, and stood. “In fact, I am on an errand to the Erivor Chapel for Hendon Tolly even now and should be on my way. Things at the residence are . . . well, they are bad, to speak truthfully. Tolly is full of strange notions and doesn’t seem to have any desire to withstand the autarch’s siege—he can hardly be bothered to speak to Berkan Hood or Avin Brone. . . .”
“Our poor lord protector has forgotten that the gods do not give any of us burdens too great to bear,” Tinwright’s mother said piously. “He will recover his faith. He is a good man.”
Even the newly religious Elan couldn’t quite go along with this. “We must pray for Lord Hood and Lord Brone, Anamesiya. They will need the gods’ help, too.”
Anamesiya! She was even calling his mother by her first name! What next?
He had never thought he would make up excuses to leave the company of Elan M’Cory, but now he found himself doing exactly that.
Alone among the thousands of people crowded into Southmarch Castle, Father Uwin did not seem to realize that a war was going on, let alone that its result might be the end of the world.
“Yes, yes, of course, with pleasure—we get so few visitors these days!” the spritely old man said as he led Tinwright into the chapel’s library, which was in the King’s South Cabinet, a room for prayer and meditation that doubled as the chaplain’s office. It had been less than a year since he had replaced Father Timoid, who had been the Eddon family priest for years. “What does Lord Tolly want? What can we do for him?”
Tinwright tried to tell Father Uwin what he had learned to this point, a confusing jumble of happenstances, rumors, and strange ideas. He had spent all of the past two days (traveling only in daylight, of course) in the great Trigonate Temple in the outer keep to study the books there. “I was trying to find out why some of the Hypnologues thought Southmarch was such a significant place, you see.”
“Hypnologues?” The priest cocked his small head. With his tuft of white hair waving atop his head he looked like a startled chicken. “That heretic sect from the old days? The ones who thought the gods were asleep? Why should Lord Tolly care about them?”
Tinwright wanted to end this particular discussion before it ever began. “That is for him to say, Father. It is only for me to do his bidding.”
“Of course, of course.” Uwin rubbed dust from his eyeglass lenses, which hung on a scissor-shaped holder around his neck, then lifted them to his squinting eyes. “Here is Clemon—he wrote on them, I think, although only briefly. But you must have seen that already in the great temple library.”
“Yes, I have. I came here because there was a rumor mentioned about a sacred stone that the Hypnologues believed came from the gods themselves, and on which they based much of their beliefs. Rhantys thought that the stone was lost somewhere below the earth here in Southmarch. But another book said that very stone was displayed here during King Kyril’s reign—right here in the Erivor Chapel! Do you know anything about that, Father?”
“A stone sacred to heretics, here in the chapel?” He shuddered and ostentatiously made the sign of the Three. “I find it hard to believe—I have certainly never heard of any such thing. Perhaps you could find Father Timoid and ask him. I’ve heard he’s living at the university on the far side of the bay. . . .”
Uwin obviously wasn’t considering the difficulties of visiting East-march on the other side of the autarch’s besieging forces, even if the university hadn’t already been burned down by one of the occupying armies. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Father. But I would like to look through the books here if I could. Especially if there are records kept by your predecessors.”
Uwin gave him a
skeptical look. “The bond between the Erivor chaplains and the royal family is not for outsiders to scrutinize, and their conversations are not meant . . .”
Tinwright held up his hand. “I’m only interested in the daybook, or whatever it would be called here. Records, purchases, things like that.”
The little priest led him down to a row of heavy, leather-bound volumes. “These are the charter books for Kyril’s reign. Good luck with your search.”
When Uwin had left him alone, Matt Tinwright pulled a stack of thick books from the shelf and sat down on the floor. He had not told Uwin everything, and one of the most significant facts he had left out was the strange thing he had read about how the statue came to be in the chapel. Kyril, the king, had taken the stone from the Funderlings as part of some dispute and then had dedicated it to Erivor. But why? And why did the Hypnologues and other believers think it was something to do with the gods in the first place?
Most importantly, though, could this statue truly be the Godstone that Hendon Tolly and the autarch were looking for? The thought made Tinwright’s skin go cold. Could he truly have found the key to the war that raged all around?
Father Uwin came back about an hour later. “And how do you, Master Tinwright? Any fortune?”
“I think so, Father. See here.” He pointed at a passage in the charter book and read aloud. “ ’Given to the chapel, by His Majesty, King Kyril, a statue of a god made from some unknown stone or gem, taken from an altar of the Funderlings beneath the castle, dedicated by the king to great Erivor . . .’ So you see, that might be it. But I could find no other mention of it . . .”
“We have no such thing in the chapel now,” Uwin said with certainty. “I would have seen it.”
“You didn’t let me finish, Father. I found no other mention of it for fifty years, until Father Timoid spoke of it in his own charter book—here, a bit less than ten years ago: ‘The statue of Kernios given to the chapel by Kyril has been stolen. I have informed King Olin and begun a search through the castle. I suspect a servant.’ Later he mentions that several servants were questioned and some were beaten, but no sign of it was ever found.”
