“And this hooded figure in the library was not the assassin who chased you in the alley,” asked Lisha.
“No,” I said. We had paused to eat some bread which she had brought with her, seated on the trunk of a tree that had torn up its entire root system as it fell. I continued, thoughtfully. “This was someone I had never come across before. Something, perhaps. I don’t know. He was more than just some old coot in a cloak. He was more than old, for a start. He was phenomenally old. And he knew things, and not just about the prophecy. I don’t think he even wanted me to hear that-I’d swear it wasn’t his voice. It was almost like I was hearing his memory, a memory he wanted to keep hidden. That’s the impression I had more than anything else: he remembers. It’s like he’s an embodiment of the people or the city. . Something. And he knew about me. About us. About the city. I’m not sure how I know, but he could see. . maybe not everywhere at once, but he could see a lot more than was in that room. It was weird.”
Lisha munched silently while I finished this lame and embarrassed account. I tried to grin, expecting her to dismiss the whole thing as the product of an overactive imagination, but even though I’d spent a lot of time with the likes of Renthrette, I should have known better. Lisha nodded thoughtfully, uncritically, and shaped a smile that was compassionate, as if offering sympathy for what she could tell had been a harrowing experience.
I pressed on. “Aliana knew, too. The girl who ran the library, I mean. There was more to her than met the eye. She knew there was no fire behind those doors, but she pretended there was to get rid of me. Somehow, finding my way in there and seeing him-it; whatever-was what shot me to the top of the most-wanted list. I don’t know why, partly because if I’m supposed to have learned something crucial from what I saw, I didn’t, and partly because I just walked in. It wasn’t guarded. It wasn’t even locked.”
“They must think you are dangerous,” said Lisha. “It must be the prophecy, though I am at a loss as to what it means or where it came from. Garnet is a greater warrior than you and they have accepted him, so it must be something you know or something you might guess.”
“I’ve eaten rabbits that knew more than me,” I mused. “No, if that old bloke in the library is some state secret worth killing for, I have no idea why. Yes, he was creepy and scared me to death, but that seems the rule rather than the exception round here. The line between the exotic and the downright terrifying has gotten very thin of late.”
I took a woolen blanket from my pack and wrapped it around myself. I was still damp, and the air was, if anything, getting colder.
“What about these recurring accounts of old battles and buildings?” she asked. “Could this mysterious old man have any connection to those?”
“I hadn’t thought about it, but now that you bring it up, I’m tempted to say yes. Each time I heard one of those strange, formulaic accounts, I felt like the words were coming from somewhere else.”
“From him?”
“It’s possible. I know it sounds absurd, but I think it could be true.”
“Why, though? What do the stories have in common?”
“I only heard a couple of variations and they were quite different,” I said. “One was about a particular family heirloom, a weapon. The other was about the building of the city, as I said.”
“And both were about continued family involvement,” she answered, reflectively. “Heritage. History. I don’t know, maybe-”
I cut her off, blinded by a realization. “History,” I thought aloud. “That’s got to be it. There were no history books in the library, and all the other books were being changed. Many were destroyed altogether. Some were in an unreadable language, but some were in Thrusian almost the same as ours or the ‘fair folk’s.’ I have some here.”
I fished in my pockets and pulled out a handful of burned scraps which I had taken from the furnaces. Lisha peered at them and I looked over her shoulder.
“A lot of it’s just old love poetry,” I remarked. “That was the batch they were burning, I guess. It doesn’t make sense. None of what I read was offensive in any way. Look,” I said, choosing the largest fragment of verse and beginning to read.
“My soul and I have traveled through the world
And yet in forest dark or ebon sky
I never have beheld a hue more black
Than that which pools and gleams in your fair eye.”
“Pretty predictable stuff,” I added. “ ‘Pools’ is nice, I suppose. Hardly worth burning though, don’t you think?”
“Hardly,” said Lisha, reading the other pieces silently to herself.
I watched her for a moment, and she noticed, glancing up at me suddenly. “What?” she said.
“Nothing,” I shrugged, flushing slightly. “I was just thinking about that line, you know, about blackness pooling in your eyes. Your eyes have that kind of look.” She looked confused, and I stammered hurriedly, “I don’t mean anything by that. I mean, I’m not, you know, trying to. .”
“It’s all right, Will,” she said, smiling suddenly. “I’ll take it as a compliment. Thank you.”
“It was a compliment,” I admitted stuffily. “But the words struck me because you don’t often see poetry that addresses people who, you know, look like you. Usually it’s all written for golden-haired ice queens with sky blue eyes and ruby lips. .”
It finally hit me.
I froze, then leaped to my feet. “That’s it!” I yelled. “That’s it! There is no history because the history is all wrong. The ‘fair folk’ didn’t write the books in that library. How many women with black eyes have you seen around Phasdreille? If there were any, they wouldn’t be the subject of poetry, I’ll tell you that, not unless things used to be very different.”
My mind was racing. Things were slotting into place, and I talked quickly to let them all out. “The brass panels on the doors that feel warm? They show the library being built. But the builders are squat and heavy-looking, not like the ‘fair folk’ at all. God, Lisha! Goblins built that city! Is that possible? It would explain why the new stonework looks so inferior. The masons had nothing to learn from. There were no hammers passed on from father to son, no heirloom weapons notched on goblin collars. It’s all been a lie. The history is being rewritten. Every part of that culture is being remade as the work of the ‘fair folk.’ ”
“But that would mean. .”
“That Sorrail’s ancestors are the newcomers,” I said. “They took the city from the goblins and the goblins want it back. No wonder the goblins don’t know their way around the Falcon’s Nest. They may have carved it out of the rock generations ago, but they haven’t used it in just as long. The so-called fair folk know about its secret entrances because they moved into it. It was their fortress, their base when they first invaded. That’s what they do. They commandeer and appropriate, and when it’s theirs, they ornament. But they don’t build, not really. They don’t construct. They don’t have the skills. They capture or they con their way in and then they make everything theirs. You see? It makes sense. That’s why the statues have been defaced. That’s why the library has been closed down while the books are edited for any reference to the goblin past.”
“But why?” demanded Lisha. “Why spend so much time and effort trying to convince the people of something they must know isn’t true?”
“They might not know,” I said. “I think the library, and that one room and whoever lives in it, is somehow affecting or altering the people’s memories of the past.”
“But you said these stories started cropping up long before you got near the city,” said Lisha. “Can his power have that kind of range?”
“What if the hammers and swords somehow do it, or focus his sorcery?” I said, thinking aloud. “They are all set with diamonds. We’ve seen stones that had power before. Maybe they serve as a kind of matrix for storing those bogus personal histories. But how he’s doing it is less important than what it all means. There were no great goblin invasions and no
‘fair folk’ builders, but the war and the city have to be explained, so history is being rewritten, even in the minds of those who live there. It’s the ultimate way to prop up their own sense of righteousness: Rather than feeling like the aggressor, the people of Phasdreille get to think of themselves as the victims, the righteous ones on the receiving end of evil and malice. I can’t think of a better way to make people fight than in defense of something they believe to be their ancestral home. Maybe this is what they expected me to realize earlier, though who the ‘they’ is, I couldn’t say. The king? Sorrail? Aliana? The hooded figure in the library? Him, at least.”
There was a long silence between us.
“And this would be enough to want you dead, I think,” said Lisha.
“Yes,” I agreed. “I see now. I seem to have become dangerous. Though what I could do with this knowledge, I really don’t know. Still, we can’t go back there now. I suspect that being caught by Sorrail and his fair-haired and perfectly attired men-at-arms would not be much better than being taken by goblins in these swamps.”
And before Lisha had time to agree, perfectly on cue, as if I had set the whole speech up just for dramatic effect, the swamp was swarming with them: goblins, gray and olive and yellowish and black, all snarling, all staring at us, all approaching cautiously with weapons at the ready.
Lisha leaped to her feet and swung her metal-shod staff up before her. I drew my sword hurriedly and stood at her back. Together we rotated slowly in some absurd dance as goblins crept closer, sputtering their foul words at each other. I don’t think that holding a sword had ever felt so pointless. There were dozens of them emerging, as if from the vile pools themselves, and through a thicket of tangled vines a goblin the color of sandstone riding a great bear led a dozen wolves, heads low and menacing, toward us.
The goblins came on, creeping watchfully, as if making sure we had no escort, until they formed a rough circle around us and stood no more than twenty feet away. There was a good deal of shouting from outside the circle and some rapid movement, but I was watching those goblins that were closest to me, those near enough for me to see their ragged armor and gnarled hands; their twisted, skinny frames; their eyes. They were glancing from us back to each other, and they were talking. Something strange was happening, and my sense that they were about to rush us en masse and tear us to pieces faded. The confusion which replaced it was shattered when the circle broke and a great black goblin came bounding toward us, brandishing a long and lethal-looking sword.
“Lisha!” I cried and stepped around to block the brute’s assault. It came toward me, taking huge strides and shouting. Then my sword arm was seized and held, my weapon twisted from my grasp. I wrenched my head around and saw Lisha taking my weapon and tossing it on the floor as a scrawny goblin came from behind me and pulled my arms behind my back.
“You are one of them!” I screamed at her. “You are. I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you all!”
Lisha, or whatever it was that seemed to have taken her shape, stepped up to me so that her face was only inches from mine. She caught my face in her hands. I spat at her. “I’ll kill you, you foul bitch. What have you done with Lisha?”
“Will,” she said, and her voice was soft. “Will, look.”
She pointed me toward the huge black goblin who had almost reached us before stopping dead in his tracks. I looked.
It was Orgos. His armor was grimy and his tunic torn, but it was Orgos. I don’t know how I could have failed to recognize him.
“It’s all right, Will,” said Lisha. “You see? It’s all right.”
She broke from me and wiped her face.
My eyes fell on Orgos. He had dropped his sword, the one with the yellow stone in the pommel. I think he had been running to embrace us, but now his eyes were full of doubt.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought. . I saw the other goblins and I thought. . Sorry.”
The goblin who had pinned my arms released me and Orgos stepped up to me.
“Hello, Will,” he said. And it was him: No goblin. No undead apparition. It was Orgos, my friend. Slowly, a smile as broad as only he could manage spread across his face.
“I missed you,” I said as he flung his great arms about me. Over his shoulder I saw Lisha embrace another large man: Mithos, still bandaged, but walking and well.
“And now you have to tell us how you come to be here,” Orgos said, still grinning, “and we’ll introduce you to our new friends.”
“Friends?” I spluttered.
“Friends,” said Mithos firmly.
The impact of the word put the finishing touch on all my former thoughts about Phasdreille, the rewritten history of the “fair folk,” and all the other suspicions which had been mounting in my head. I watched Orgos casually say something to one of the “goblins” in their own tongue and watched the listener smile with understanding. The goblin features shifted as easily as any human face and I found myself looking not at the spawn of hell, but at a person. The unavoidable conclusion came charging through with the rest of the wild horses that were my thoughts, and I grew instantly cold and struck with horror.
“My God,” I breathed aloud. “What have I done? Lisha. .”
She turned to me and her eyes were full of a sad understanding. She wanted to make me feel better and knew it was futile.
As the full weight of my realization hit me, I felt my eyes well with tears, and, staring at her, I managed to say it.
“Lisha, I’ve been fighting on the wrong side.”
SCENE XVIII Goblins
I was still cold, and evening was coming on. One of the goblins, a thin, gray creature with deep-set eyes and high, angular cheekbones, was adjusting a blanket strapped to a small backpack, using his long, bony fingers. The blanket was worn in places, but it looked clean and dry, unlike mine. A matter of hours ago I might have killed him for it, or tried to, but now I didn’t know what to do. I shifted uneasily, hardly daring to meet the creature’s eyes and fearful of what would follow if I did. I coughed. When his gaze fell blankly on me, I looked jealously at the blanket.
“You want this?” he said in perfect Thrusian. “Here. Dry yourself off. The swamp may freeze tonight.”
I gaped at him. It was as if I had sat down to milk a cow and the beast had turned to me at the first squeeze of its udders and said, “Gentler, if you don’t mind.”
There’s something about hearing words come out of someone’s mouth that changes the way you look at them. I guess it’s the casual ease with which the lips and tongue shape sounds so intimate and meaningful to you, putting the two of you on the same level, establishing an equilibrium of sorts. A talking cow, then, would not merely be a curiosity; it would violate your understanding of the universe and your place in it. It would force you, I suspect, to rethink every action you had ever performed. It would change more than your attitude to steak, I’ll tell you that.
This was where I found myself now. The goblin unfastened the buckled straps and tossed me the rolled blanket without another word. I stood there doing my world-famous impersonation of a fence post, waking only when the parcel hit me in the chest and fell into my hastily raised arms. It-or perhaps I should say he-grinned broadly and walked away. I watched him go.
His grin had been genuine and yet somehow alarming. It reminded me that he was a goblin, for his jaw was heavy and his teeth were over-large, but it also seemed so ordinary, so human. Before I could take my eyes off him, Lisha appeared silently beside me.
“Will?” she said. “Are you all right?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, my eyes still on the back of the receding goblin. “I. . I’m really not sure.”
“We should talk,” she said.
“Yes, we should,” I echoed distantly.
“Will! Look at me!”
I turned slowly and met her eyes. They pooled at me in the twilight.
“We made a mistake,” she said. “That’s all. We were given false information and, without any reason to dou
bt it, we believed it.”
We. The extent of her mistake was getting mistaken for one of them. I, however, had. .
Don’t think about it.
I nodded and managed a smile, but it was a thin ruse. She knew as much, knew also that, for once, I didn’t feel like talking after all, and she respected that. She touched my cheek and walked over to where Mithos and Orgos were studying a map.
I sat on a log, dazed with shock. How could I have been so stupid? I had trusted my eyes and ears and, as a result, fallen for the oldest theatrical ploy there is. I was taken in by the desire to believe something preposterously convenient was real. I had forgotten to read between the lines. I had known something was wrong but I just went on standing there like the idiot in the pit who thinks everything on the stage is real because a few paid con men tell him it is. It had all been a show, just storytelling and spectacle, and I had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. I had risked my life for the “fair folk” and-and here was the scorpion in my underpants-I had killed for them.
Now morals aren’t my strong suit, and I still had a hard time thinking of the goblins as people exactly, but my glorious ride with the cavalry, my brave defense of the city, and my valiant raid on the Falcon’s Nest fortress were beginning to look a little tarnished, as if my heirloom silver tankard had turned out to be made of oven-baked cow dung. The “fair folk” had said that all the light-against-dark, good-against-evil rubbish that I’d been laughing at my entire life was actually true, and I had believed them. They had told me that every old tale, every fairy story about ogres and goblins, every half-baked morality play aimed at children and the mentally deficient was right, and the world as I had always known it was wrong. Beauty (of the right kind) really is virtue, they had said, and ugliness (someone else’s) is evil. And I had believed them. Cynical Bill, Will the realist, had polished up his sword and gone out goblin slaying, glad to be doing his bit for goodness and light and fluffy bunny rabbits. I should have known Garnet couldn’t be right.
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