by Tad Williams
Quietly: “Disrespect.”
“…All the disrespect you want. Do not treat me like you do the farmers who come to you for justice. I do not want your careful thinking, your measuring, your talking, talking, talking…” An angry tear was quickly wiped away. “Just give your heart, you damned stone-dweller!”
They stopped, standing in wind-rippled grass to their knees. “I try,” he said.
“No, you do not,” she hissed bitterly. “You have that other woman’s face in your heart, your brother’s wife. Men! You are all little boys, you keep old loves in your heart like polished stones you have found. How can I fight a dead woman!? I cannot grab her, I cannot slap her, I cannot drive her away or follow you when you go to her!” She stood breathing heavily, her legs wide-set as though braced for battle. Her hands dropped to her stomach and her look changed. “But you did not give her a child. You gave one to me.”
Josua looked helplessly at her pale face, at the rosy flush of her cheeks and her cloud of black hair. A movement caught his eye: a rabbit, emerging from a thatch of tall grass, stopped for a moment and rose on its hindquarters to look around. Its dark, round eye touched his. A moment later it sprang forward and was gone, a thin gray shadow skimming the meadow.
“You have done nothing wrong. Lady,” he said. “Nothing but attach yourself to a brooding ghost of a man.” He smiled sadly, then laughed. “But in a way, I suppose, I have been reborn. I have been allowed to live when surely I ought to have died, so I must take that as an omen and see my life differently. You will bear our child, and we will be married when we reach the Stone of Farewell.”
A touch of indignation returned to Vorzheva’s dark eyes. “We will be married here, before my people,” she said firmly. “We are betrothed: now they will see and stop speaking behind their hands.”
“But Lady,” he began, “we have need of haste…”
“Have you no honor?” she demanded. “What if you are killed before we reach this place? The child in me will be a bastard…and I will not even be a widow.”
Josua began to speak, but instead broke into laughter once more. He reached his arm around her and pulled her close, unmindful of his injuries. She resisted for a moment, then allowed herself to be embraced, but retained her frown. “Lady, you are right,” the prince said, smiling. “It shall not be put off. Father Strangyeard will marry us and I will be a good husband to you and keep you safe. And if I die before we reach our destination, you will be the finest widow on the grasslands.” He kissed her. For a while they stood in the rain, faces pressed close together.
“You are trembling,” Vorzheva said at last, but her own voice seemed the unsteady thing. She pulled free of Josua’s embrace. “You have stood and walked too long. If you die before we marry, it will spoil everything.” Her look was softer, but still some trace of apprehension remained, an edge of fear that would not go away. Josua took her hand and lifted it to his lips. They turned and walked slowly back toward the encampment, as carefully as if they were both very, very old.
“I must leave,” Geloë announced that evening. Josua’s people huddled around the fire as fierce winds strummed at the walls of their makeshift shelter.
“I hope you do not mean that,” Josua said. “We have need of your wisdom.”
Deornoth felt himself both glad and sorry at the thought of the witch woman leaving.
“We will all meet again, and soon,” she said. “But I must go ahead to the Stone of Farewell. Now that you are safe, there are things I must do there before you come.”
“What things?” Deornoth heard the edge of suspicion in his own voice and was embarrassed by his lack of charity, but no one else seemed to notice.
“There will be…” Geloë searched for words, “…shadows there. And sounds. And faint traces like the ripples left behind when a pebble drops into a stream. It is vital that I try to read these before people come tramping around.”
“And what will these things tell you?” Josua asked.
Geloë shook her graying head. “I do not know. Perhaps nothing. But the Stone stands in a special and powerful place; it may be that there are things I can learn. We face an immortal enemy; perhaps we can find some clue toward his defeat among the vestiges of his immortal people.” She turned to Duchess Gutrun, who cradled sleeping Leleth in her lap. “Will you keep the child until you see me again?”
Gutrun nodded. “Of course.”
“Why do you not take her with you?” Deornoth asked. “You said she helped to…to center your skills in some way.”
Firelight glinted in Geloë’s great eyes. “True. But she cannot travel in the way I must travel.” The witch woman stood, tucking her breeches into her heavy boots. “And I will do best traveling by night.”
“But you will miss our marriage!” Vorzheva exclaimed. “Father Strangyeard is to marry Josua and me at morning-time.”
Those who had not yet heard offered congratulations; Josua received all as calmly and graciously as if he stood again in his throne room at Naglimund. Vorzheva’s smiles at last dissolved into what were surely happy tears, which she cried on Gutrun’s accommodating shoulder. Leleth, who had awakened and rolled out of the duchess’ lap to stare silently at the ruckus, was quickly scooped up into the thin arms of Father Strangyeard.
“This is good news Vorzheva, Prince Josua, but I cannot stay,” Geloë said. “I do not think you will miss me I am not much for entertainments or merrymaking and I am feeling particularly pressed. I had wished to leave yesterday, but stayed to see that you actually claimed your horses.” She gestured out toward the darkness beyond the shelter, where the prince’s new steeds shifted and snorted in their own enclosure “Now I can wait no longer.”
After brief private conversations with Josua and Strangyeard and a few words whispered into Leleth’s ear—words which the little girl received as impassively as if listening to the ocean’s voice echoing in a sea shell—Geloë said her brisk farewells and strode out into the night, threadbare cloak snapping in the brisk wind.
Deornoth, who sat closest to the edge of the shelter, leaned his head out a short time later. He had heard a mournful echo sweeping down from the wind-raked sky, but when he looked up he caught only a momentary glimpse of some shadowy, winged thing passing before the gelid moon.
Deornoth was standing his watch—they had not become so trusting of the Thrithings-men that they had lost their sense—when Josua limped out to join him.
“The stars have barely swung around,” Deornoth whispered. “Look, there is the Lamp, scarcely moved.” He pointed to a dim flare in the cloudy night sky. “It is not your turn for hours, Highness. Go back to bed.”
“I cannot sleep.”
Deornoth was sure his smile was invisible in the darkness. “It is not uncommon to have worries and doubts on the night before a wedding, sire.
“It’s not that, Deornoth. My worries and my self-doubts, as once you so correctly pointed out, are trivial. There are larger matters to think of.”
Deornoth wrapped the collar of his cloak tighter around his neck during the moment of silence. The night had grown very chill.
“I am happy to be alive,” Josua said at last, “but I do feel a bit like a mouse that the cat has allowed to run into the corner. Alive, yes, but for how long? Far worse than even my brother’s evil, now the Hand of the North is reaching out.” He sighed. “Once I nurtured a hope that Jarnauga’s tale was untrue, despite all the evidence, but the moment I saw those white faces staring up at me from before the walls of Naglimund, something within me died. No, do not worry, good Deornoth,” the prince said hastily, “I am not about to run maundering, as I know you secretly dread. I have taken your admonitions to heart.” He laughed sourly. “But at the same time, I tell only the truth. There are hatreds that run through this world like blood, hot and lively. All my studies of evil with the Usirean brothers, all their learned considerations of the Devil and his work, never made that so clear as one instant staring into those black eyes. The wor
ld has a dark underbelly, Deornoth. I wonder if maybe it is better not to seek after knowledge.”
“But surely God put such things on the earth to test our faith, Prince Josua,” Deornoth ventured at last “If no one ever saw evil, who would fear Hell?”
“Who indeed?” The prince’s tone changed. “But this is not why I came out to speak to you. Leave it to Josua to turn any conversation into a dour and doomful one.” He laughed again, this time it seemed more cheerful. “Actually, I came to ask you to stand for me when Vorzheva and I are married in the morning.”
“Prince Josua, I am honored. Gladly—I will do it gladly.”
“You have been the most loyal of friends, Deornoth.”
“You are the best lord a man could have.”
“I did not say ‘liege man’ or ‘knight,’ Deornoth.” Josua spoke firmly, but with a hint of good humor in his voice “I said ‘friend’—but do not think that standing for me is an honor bereft of responsibility It is not.” He became serious. “I have not had a splendid history of caring for those dear to me, Deornoth my friend. You may protest, but it is a simple fact. Thus, if something happens to me, I want your word that you will look after Vorzheva and our child.”
“Of course, my prince.”
“Say it.” Then, more gently: “Swear it to me.”
“I swear by the honor of Blessed Elysia that I will protect the welfare of Lady Vorzheva and the child she carries as if they were my own family I will lay down my life without hesitation, if need be.”
Josua clasped the knight’s wrist and held it for a moment. “Good. Many thanks. The Lord bless you, Deornoth.”
“May He bless you, too, Prince Josua.”
The prince sighed. “And all the rest as well. Did you know, Deornoth, that tomorrow is the first day of Anitul? That means tomorrow is Hlafmansa. There are many absent friends to whom our blessings should go this night—many who no doubt are far closer to the fearful face of darkness than we are. “Deornoth saw the shadow beside him move abruptly as the prince made the sign of the Tree. They shared a long moment of silence before Josua spoke again. “May God bless us all and deliver us from evil.”
The men were up with the darkling dawn, saddling the horses and packing the supplies gained when Josua had traded two of his new steeds for a quantity of food and clothing. Since Leleth would ride with Duchess Gutrun, and Towser and Sangfugol would share a horse, four horses remained to carry goods.
When the mounts had been readied, the men returned to the bull run. They found it surrounded by more than a few curious Thrithings-folk.
“What, have you made some announcement?” Josua demanded crossly. Vorzheva eyed him unblinkingly. She had donned the white bride-band once more.
“Do you think my people would not notice you loading the horses?” she snapped “Besides, what is the use of being married if it is done like thieves stealing by night?” She strutted away, the wide skirt of her wedding dress swirling. A moment later she returned, leading the wide-eyed young girl who had been waiting on Fikolmij when Josua’s folk had first come as prisoners to the wagon camp. “This is Hyara, my youngest sister,” Vorzheva explained. “She will be married someday, so I want her to see that it is not always frightful.”
“I will do my best to look like a nice person to marry,” Josua said, arching an eyebrow. Hyara stared back at him, anxious as a startled fawn.
Vorzheva insisted that they be married beneath the open sky and before the eyes of her clanfolk. The wedding party made its way out from beneath the roof of blankets. Father Strangyeard mumbling fretfully as he tried to remember the important sections of the marriage ceremony—he had not, of course, been able to bring a Book of the Aedon from Naglimund, and had never performed a marriage before. Of the principals, he was dearly the most nervous. Young Hyara, sensing a kindred spirit, walked so close to him that she was almost between his feet, adding to the priest’s discomfiture.
It was not surprising to see a cheerful and curious crowd of Thrithings-folk assembled along the edges of the bull run—a crowd not greatly different in mood, Deornoth reflected, than that which had come to watch Josua be cut into slivers. It was a little disconcerting to see among them the mother and sisters of he who had failed to slice Josua up, the late Utvart. This group of women, dressed identically in dresses and scarves of dark mourning blue, stared balefully at the emerging stone-dwellers, their mouths pulled tight in uniform expressions of ill-regard.
If the attendance of Utvart’s family was surprising, the appearance of Fikolmij on the scene was even more so. The March-thane, who had taken his foul temper and virtually gone into hiding after Josua’s victory, now came swaggering through the camp to the bull run, trailed by a handful of scarred randwarders. Although the gray dawn was not an hour passed, Fikolmij’s red-eyed stare had the look of drunkenness.
“By the Grass-Thunderer!” he bellowed, “surely you did not think I would let my daughter and her horse-rich husband be wedded without coming to share their happiness!?” He slapped his broad belly and guffawed. “Go on! Go on! We are waiting to see how marriages are done in the mazes of the stone-dwellers!”
At the sound of her father’s roar, little Hyara took a step backward and looked wildly around, preparing to flee. Deornoth reached out and gently took her elbow, holding it loosely until she gathered courage to move forward and stand at Vorzheva’s side once more. Hopelessly rattled, Father Strangyeard started the Mansa Connoyis—the Prayer of Joining—several times without success, each time losing his way after a few lines and stuttering to a halt like a millwheel whose ox was balking in the traces. Each failed attempt drew more laughter from Fikolmij and his randwarders. The archive-master’s already pink face grew redder and redder. At last, Josua leaned forward and whispered in his ear.
“You are a Scrollbearer now, Father, as was your friend Jarnauga.” He spoke so quietly that none but Strangyeard could hear. “Surely a simple mansa is child’s play for you, whatever the distractions.”
“One-eye speaks the marriage for One-hand!” Fikolmij shouted.
Strangyeard tugged self-consciously at his patch, then grimly nodded his head. “You…you are right. Prince Josua. Forgive me. Let us continue.”
Speaking each word carefully, Strangyeard worked his way through the long ritual as though wading in high and treacherous waters. The March-thane and his jibing cronies shouted louder and louder, but the priest would no longer be deterred. At last, the crowd of watching Thrithings-folk became restive, tiring of Fikolmij’s rudeness. Every time another graceless jest echoed across the bull run, the murmur grew louder.
As Strangyeard neared the end of the prayer, Hotvig appeared on horseback out of the west. He was windblown and disheveled, as though he had ridden fast in his return to the wagon-city.
The rider sat dazedly surveying the scene for a moment, then swung down from the saddle and trotted to his thane’s side. He spoke rapidly, then pointed back in the direction from which he had come. Fikolmij nodded, grinning hugely, then turned and said something to the other randwarders which set them rocking with laughter. A look of confusion came over Hotvig’s face—confusion which soon turned to anger. As Fikolmij and the others continued to chortle over the news he had brought, the young Thrithings-man strode to the fence around the bull run and waved for Isorn’s attention. Hotvig spoke into Isorn’s ear; the Rimmerman’s eyes widened. When Father Strangyeard paused in his recital a few moments and bent to look for the bowl of water he had filled earlier and put by for this moment in the prayer, Isgrimnur’s son pushed away from the fence and marched directly to Prince Josua’s side.
“Forgive me, Josua,” Isorn hissed, “but Hotvig says there are three score armored riders coming down on the wagon camp. They are less than a league away and riding hard. The leader’s coat is a falcon in scarlet and silver.”
Startled, Josua looked up. “Fengbald! What is that whoreson doing here?!”
“Fengbald?” Deornoth echoed, astounded. It seemed a name
from another age. “Fengbald?”
A rustle of wonder went through the crowd at this odd turn to the ceremony.
“Josua,” Vorzheva said tightly, “how can you talk of these things now?”
“I am truly sorry, my lady, but we have little choice.” He turned to Strangyeard, who stood staring, his increasingly confident rhythms again disrupted. “Go on to the final part,” Josua directed him.
“Wha…what?”
“The final part, man. Come, then, hurry to it! I won’t have it said I left my lady unmarried against my promise, but if we stand much longer she will be a widow before the mansa is over.” He gave the priest a gentle shove. “The end, Strangyeard!”
The archivist’s one eye bulged. “May the love of the Ransomer, His mother Elysia, and His Father the All-Highest bless this joining. May…may your lives be long and your love be longer still. You are married.” He waved his hands anxiously. “That’s…that’s it. You are married, just as it says.”
Josua leaned and kissed the astonished Vorzheva, then grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the paddock gate while Isorn hurried the rest of their party after them.
“Are you so anxious for your wedding night, Josua?” Fikolmij smirked. He and his randwarders pushed toward the gate as the crowd shouted questions at their thane. “You seem to be in a hurry to leave.”
“And you know why,” Deornoth shouted at him, his palm itching on the hilt of his sword. “You knew they were coming, didn’t you? You treacherous dog!”
“Watch your tongue, little man,” Fikolmij growled. “I only said I would not hinder your going. I sent word to the king’s men long ago—in the hour when you first crossed over into my Thrithings.” He laughed heartily. “So I broke no promises. But if you wish to fight my men and me before the Erkynlanders get here, come ahead. Otherwise, you had better get on your new ponies and ride away.”
