Stone of Farewell

by Tad Williams

  Except, of course, there would not be as much laughter today, the third morning since the hillside battle with the giants. Binabik’s folk were a cheerful people, but a little bit of the frost lodged in Simon’s heart seemed to have touched them, too. A folk that laughed at cold and at dizzying, breakneck falls at every turning of every trail had been chilled by a shadow they could not understand—not that Simon understood much himself.

  He had spoken truly to Binabik: somehow, he had thought things would get better once they found the great sword Thorn. The blade’s power and strangeness was so palpable it seemed impossible that it would not make a change in the struggle against King Elias and his dark ally. But perhaps the sword by itself was not enough. Perhaps whatever the rhyme had spoken of would not happen until all three swords had been brought together.

  Simon groaned. Even worse, perhaps the queer rhyme from Nisses’ book meant nothing at all. Didn’t people say Nisses was a madman? Even Morgenes had not known what the rhyme truly meant.

  When frost doth grow on Cloves’ bell

  And Shadows walk upon the road

  When water blackens in the Well

  Three Swords must come again

  When Bukken from the Earth do creep

  And Hunën from the heights descend

  When Nightmare throttles peaceful Sleep

  Three Swords must come again

  To turn the stride of treading Fate

  To clear the fogging Mists of Time

  If Early shall resist Too Late

  Three Swords must come again…

  Well, Bukken had certainly crept from the earth, but the memory of the squealing diggers was not one he wanted to pursue. Ever since the night of their attack on Isgrimnur’s camp near St. Hoderund’s, Simon had never felt the same way about the solid earth beneath his feet. That was the only advantage he could think of to traveling over Sikkihoq’s unforgiving stone.

  As for the rhyme’s mention of giants, with Haestan's death so fresh in his mind that seemed like a cruel joke. The monsters hadn’t even needed to descend from the heights, because Simon and his friends had been foolish enough to venture into their mountain territory. But the Hunën had left their high refuges which Simon knew as well as anybody. He and Miriamele—the thought of her brought a sudden yearning—had faced one in Aldheorte Forest, only a week’s ride from the very gates of Erchester.

  The rest did not make much sense to him, but none of it seemed impossible. Simon did not know who Claves was, or where his bell might be, but it seemed that soon there would he frost everywhere. Even so, what could the three swords do?

  I wielded Thorn, he thought. For a moment he felt the power of it once more. In that instant, I was a real knight…wasn’t I?

  But had it been Thorn, or had it only been that he had stood up and put fear aside? If he had done the same with a less mighty sword, would he have been any less brave? He would have been dead, of course…just like Haestan, just like An’nai, Morgenes, Grimmric…but did that matter? Didn’t great heroes die? Hadn’t Camaris, Thorn’s true master, died in the angry seas?

  Simon’s thoughts were wandering He felt himself sliding back toward sleep. He almost let it happen, but he knew it would only be a short while before Binabik or Sludig would be shaking him awake. Last night they had both said he was a man or nearly so. Just for once he didn’t want to be awakened last, a child allowed to sleep while the grown-ups talked.

  He opened his eyes, letting the light in, and groaned again. Uncurling himself from the cloak he picked loose twigs and clusters of pine needles from his clothing, then shook the cloak out before quickly wrapping it around himself once more. Suddenly unwilling to be parted even for a short while from his few miserable possessions, he picked up his pack, which had pillowed his head, and took it with him.

  The morning was chilly, a light scatter of snow in the air. Stretching the kinks out of his muscles, he walked slowly to the fire, where Binabik sat talking to Sisqi. The pair were seated side by side before the low, translucent flames, their hands clasped. Thorn lay propped on a tree stump beside them, a dull black bar that reflected no light. From behind, the two trolls looked like children talking earnestly about a game they might play or an interesting hole they might explore, and Simon felt a strong protective urge toward them. A moment later, as he realized they were probably discussing how to keep Binabik’s people alive if the winter did not abate, or what they should do if more giants found them, the illusion shredded and blew away. They were not children, and if not for their bravery he would be dead.

  Binabik turned and saw him staring. The little man smiled a greeting as he listened intently to Sisqi's rapid Qanuc words. Simon grunted, bending to take the lump of cheese and heel of bread that Binabik pointed out, set on a stone near the fire. He took his meal and went to sit by himself.

  The sun, still hidden from view behind Sikkihoq, was not visible. The mountain’s shadow lay over the campsite, but the tops of the mountains in the west glowed with the sun’s rising light. The White Waste below was sunk in gray dawn-shadow. Simon took a bite of dry bread and chewed as he stared out across the Waste at the distant line of forest, which lay on the horizon like dark cream in a milk pail.

  Qantaqa, who had been lying at Binabik’s side, got up, stretched, and padded silently toward Simon. Her muzzle was red-flecked with the lifeblood of whatever poor animal had surrendered itself for her morning feeding, but the last traces were even now being scoured away by her long pink tongue. She approached Simon briskly, ears up, as if on some clearly-defined errand, but when she arrived she only stood for a moment to let him scratch her, then curled up beside him, exchanging one napping-spot for another. Her bulk was such that when it pushed against his leg he was almost forced off his stone seat.

  He finished his meal and opened the flap of his pack, rooting for his water bottle. A bright tangle of blue came up with it, wound on the carrying cord.

  It was the scarf Miriamele had given him, the one he had worn around his neck on the way up the dragon-mountain. Jiriki had removed it while nursing him back to health, but had thoughtfully stowed it with the rest of Simon’s meager belongings. Now it lay in his hands like a stripe of sky, the sight brought the sting of almost-tears to his eyes. Where in the great world was Miriamele? Geloë, in their brief moment of contact, had not known. Where in Osten Ard was the princess wandering? Did she ever think of Simon? And if she did, what did she think?

  Probably: Why did I give my nice scarf to a dirty kitchen boy? He enjoyed a brief twinge of self-pity. Well, he was not just any scullion. As Sludig said, he was a kitchen boy who sworded dragons and slew giants. Just at this moment, however, he would rather be a kitchen boy in a nice warm kitchen in the Hayholt and nothing more.

  Simon tied Miriamele's scarf about his neck, tucking the ends under the collar of his tattered shirt. He took a swallow of water, then rummaged in the pack again, but could not find what he was looking for. He remembered after a moment that he had put it in his cloak pocket and felt a moment of panic. When would he learn to be more careful? It could have easily fallen out a hundred times. He was happily reassured to feel its outline through the cloth. After some digging, he lifted it out into the morning light.

  Jiriki’s mirror was icy cold. He buffed it on his sleeve, then held it up, staring at his reflection. His beard had come in more thickly since he had last surveyed himself. The reddish hairs, almost brown in the dim light, were beginning to obscure the line of his jaw—but the same old nose poked out above the beard, and the same blue eyes stared back at him. Becoming a man, it seemed, would not mean becoming anything other than a slightly different type of Simon, which was a faintly saddening thought.

  The beard did hide most of his spots, so there was something for which to be grateful. But for a blemish or two on his forehead, he thought he looked like a reasonable approximation of a young man. He tilted the glass, staring at the white streak burned into his reddish locks by the dragon’s blood. Did it make him
look older? More manly? It was hard to tell. His hair was curling on his shoulders, though. He should ask Sludig or someone to cut it shorter, as many of the king’s knights had worn theirs. But why bother? They would probably all be dead at the hands of giants before it grew long enough to get in his way.

  He lowered the mirror to his lap, staring down into it as though it were a pool of water. The frame was finally beginning to warm beneath his fingers. What was it Jiriki had told him? That the mirror would be no more than a mere looking glass unless Simon needed him? That was it. Jiriki had said that Simon could talk to him…with the mirror? In the mirror? Through the mirror? It had not been clear at all, but for a moment Simon very much wanted to call for Jiriki’s help. The thought crept over him unbidden, but its claws were not easily dislodged. He would call Jiriki and tell him that they needed help. The Storm King was an enemy that mortals alone could not defeat.

  But the Storm King is not here, Simon thought, and Jiriki knows everything about the situation that he needs to. What would I tell him? That he should come running back to the mountains because a kitchen boy is scared and wants to go home?

  Simon stared into the mirror, remembering when it had shown him Miriamele. The princess had been on a ship, staring out over the railing at cloudy skies, gray and cloudy skies…

  As he watched his own face in the upturned mirror, it suddenly seemed that he could again see that misty sky, tatters of cloud floating across the mirror’s surface obscuring his features. A fog seemed to be drifting past him, and he could no longer separate himself from the image in the looking glass. He wavered dizzily, as though he were falling into the reflection. The noises of the camp diminished and then disappeared as the mist became a solid and featureless curtain of gray. It was all around him, shutting away the light…

  The gray mist slowly dissolved, like steam escaping from beneath a pot-lid, but as it cleared he saw that the face before him was no longer his own. Staring back at him through narrowed eyes was a woman—a beautiful woman who was both old and young at the same time. The lines of her face were shifting, as though she gazed up through rippling water. Her hair was white beneath a circlet of gemlike flowers; her stare burned like molten gold, the eyes bright and reflective as a cat’s. She was old, he somehow knew, very old, but there was little about her face that spoke of age; only a tightness in the line of her jaw and mouth, a brittleness to her features as though the skin was stretched close against the bone. Her eyes were glorious with ancient knowledge and imprisoned memory. Her high cheekbones and smooth forehead made her look like a statue…

  A statue…? His thoughts were a jumble, but Simon knew he had seen a statue that looked like this woman…he had seen such a face…seen it in…in…

  “Please answer me,” she said. “I come to you a second time. Do not ignore me again! Please forget your ancient grievances, however justified. Ill will has stood too long between our house and that of Ruyan Ve. Now we have a common enemy. I need your help!”

  Her voice was faint in his head, as though it echoed down a long corridor, but even so, she wielded a commanding power—like Valada Geloë’s, but in some way deeper, smoother, with none of the witch Woman’s rough but reassuring edges. This one was as different from Geloë as the forest-woman herself was from Simon.

  “I do not have the strength I once wielded,” the woman pleaded. “And what little I have may be needed against the Shadow in the North—and you must know of that shadow. Tinukeda’yei! Children of the Garden, please answer!” The woman’s voice faded on an imploring note. There was a long moment of silence, but if reply was made, Simon did not hear it. Suddenly, the flake-gold eyes seemed to see him for the first time. The musical voice abruptly took on a note of suspicion and concern. “Who is this? A mortal child?”

  Frozen in alarm, Simon said nothing. The face in the mirror stared, then Simon could feel something reaching out to him through the mist, a force as diffuse but powerful as the sun hidden behind clouds.

  “Tell me. Who are you?”

  Simon tried to answer, not because he wanted to, but because it was impossible not to try with such compelling words echoing in his head. Something prevented him.

  “You are traveling in places not meant for you,” the voice said. “You do not belong here. Who are you?”

  He struggled, but found that something was throttling his responses as surely as fingers on his throat would choke off words. The face before him rippled as a pallid blue light began to shine through it, fraying the image of the beautiful old woman. A wave of cold passed through him that it seemed might turn his very innards to black ice.

  A new voice spoke, harsh, chilling.

  “Who is he? He is a meddler, Amerasu.”

  The first face was now entirely gone. A gleam of silver swam upward through the mirror’s gray depths. A face appeared, all gleaming metal, expressionless and immobile. He had seen that face on the Dream Road

  and had felt the same sick dread. He knew the name: Utuk’ku, Queen of the Norns. Try as he might to look away, he could not. He was held in an unshakable grip. Utuk’ku’s eyes were invisible in the mask’s black depths, but he felt their stare on his face like freezing breath.

  “The manchild is a meddler.” Each word came sharp and cold as an icicle. “As are you, granddaughter. And meddlers will not prosper when the Storm King comes…”

  The thing in the silver mask laughed. Simon felt hammerblows of frost against his heart. A poisonous cold began climbing inexorably upward, from fingers to hand to arm-Soon it would reach his face, like a deadly kiss from silvery, frost-glittering lips…

  Simon dropped the mirror, tumbling after it. The ground seemed a league away, the fall endless. Somebody was screaming. He was screaming.

  Sludig helped Simon to his feet, where he swayed, panting. After a moment he shook off the Rimmersman’s hands. He felt wobbly, but wanted to stand on his own. The trolls had gathered around and were muttering among themselves, clearly confused.

  “What has happened, Simon?” Binabik asked, pushing his way through to his side. “Are you hurt by something?” Sisqi, still holding Binabik’s hand, stared up at the strange lowlander as though trying to read his malady in his eyes.

  “I saw faces in Jiriki’s mirror,” Simon said, shivering uncontrollably.

  Sisqi held up his cloak, which he took gratefully. “One of them was the Norn Queen. She could see me, too, I think.”

  Binabik spoke to the other ram-riders, gesturing with his hands. They turned and wandered back to the fire. Stocky Snenneq waved his spear at the sky as though taunting an enemy.

  Binabik fixed Simon with his brows. “Tell it to me.”

  Simon related all that had happened from the moment he first lifted the mirror. As he described the first face Binabik frowned in concentration, but when the recitation was finished the troll only shook his head.

  “The Norn Queen we are knowing all too well,” Binabik growled. “It was her hunters who arrowed me at Da’ai Chikiza and I have not been forgetting that gift. But thinking of who the other might be, I have unsureness. You say that Utuk’ku called her ‘granddaughter’?”

  “I think so. And the Norn Queen called her something else, too. A name—but I can’t remember it.” Some of the details, once spoken aloud, were not so sure in his mind as they had been moments before.

  “Then it is someone of one of the ruling houses, Sithi or Norn. If Jiriki were now with us, he would be knowing in an instant who it was and what her words meant. You say she seemed to be at pleading with someone?”

  “I think so. But Binabik, Jiriki told me that the mirror was nothing but a mirror now! He said the magic was gone, unless I wanted to call him—and I didn’t try to call him! I truly didn’t!”

  “Calm, Simon, is how you must be. I am having no doubts of what you say. Jiriki himself may have misunderstood the nature of the mirror’s powers—or, it is being possible, many things may be changing just since Jiriki has gone from us. In either way, I think it
best you are leaving the mirror, or at the least not using it more. That is a suggestion, only—it is your gift to do as you like. Remember, please, it may bring danger for all.”

  Simon looked at the mirror, which lay facedown on the rock. He picked it up and brushed dust from its surface without looking at it, then slid it into his cloak pocket. “I won’t leave it,” he said, “because it was a gift. Also, we may need Jiriki someday.” He patted it. The frame was still warm. “But I won’t use it until then.”

  Binabik shrugged. “The deciding is yours. Come back to the fire and make yourself warm. Tomorrow we are riding with dawn’s appearance.”

  After an early start, the ragged troop reached Blue Mud Lake in the late afternoon of the following day. Nestled among the foothills of Sikkihoq, the lake was a dark blue mirror, flat as the glass in Simon’s pocket, fed by two cataracts that spilled from the icy heights. The noise of their falling was deep and sonorous as the breathing of gods.

  As the party crossed through the last pass above the lake and the quiet rumble of the water rose, the trolls reined up their mounts. The wind had abated. The steaming breath of rams and riders hung in the air. Simon could see fear written in every trollish face.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked nervously, expecting at any moment to hear the bellowing voices of giants.

  “I think they had hoped Binabik was wrong,” Sludig said. “Perhaps they were hoping to find springtime hidden here.”