by Tad Williams
Coming down out of the Dillathi, Eolair steered wide of high-walled Crannhyr, Hernystir’s strangest and most insular city, guiding his horse instead toward Abaingeat at the mouth of the River Baraillean. He was unsurprised to find that the Hernystirmen of Abaingeat had found a way to live under the heavy hands of both Elias and Skali; Abaingeaters had a reputation for flexibility. It was a common joke in other parts of the country to refer to the port city as “Extremely North Perdruin” because of the shared affection for profits and dislike of politics—the kind of politics that interfered with business, anyway.
It was also in Abaingeat that Eolair received his first real clue to Josua’s whereabouts, and it happened in a very typical Abaingeat way.
Eolair shared a supper table with a Nabbanai priest in an inn along the waterfront. The wind was howling and rain was beating on the roof, making the common room rumble like a drum. Under the very eyes of bearded Rimmersmen and haughty Erkynlanders—Hernystir’s new conquerors—the good father, who had perhaps had one tankard of ale too many, told Eolair a disjointed but fascinating story. He had just arrived from the Sancellan Aedonitis in Nabban, and he swore that he had been told by someone there, someone he characterized as “the most important priest in the Sancellan,” that Josua Lackhand had survived Naglimund with seven other survivors, had made his way eastward through the grasslands to safety. These facts had been told to him, the priest said, only under the condition of his complete discretion.
Immediately after telling this tale, Eolair’s companion, full of drunken remorse, begged him swear to secrecy—as, the count felt sure, the priest had begged many other recipients of this same secret. Éolair agreed with a commendably straight face.
There were several things that interested Eolair about this tale. The exact number of survivors in Josua’s party seemed a possible indication of its authenticity, although he had to admit it sounded almost like a legend in the making: The One-Handed Prince and his Gallant Seven. Also, the priest’s contrition about blurting out the secret seemed genuine. He had not told the tale to make himself appear more grand; rather, he was simply the kind of man who could not keep a confidence to save his soul.
This, of course, raised a question. Why would a man of some importance to Mother Church, as the priest’s informant supposedly was, entrust such a vital piece of intelligence to a numbwit on whose flushed, foolish face untrustworthiness was clearly written? Surely no one could expect this cheerful drunkard to keep anything to himself, let alone keep hidden a subject of such interest in the war-torn North?
Eolair was puzzled but intrigued. As thunder growled over the Frostmarch, the Count of Nad Mullach began to consider a journey to the grassy country beyond Erkynland.
Later that night, coming back from the stables—Eolair never trusted others to take proper care of his horse, a habit that had benefited him more often than not—he stopped outside the inn’s front door. A fierce wind laden with snow blew down the street, banging the shuttered windows. Beyond the docks the sea murmured uneasily. All of Abaingeat’s inhabitants seemed to have vanished. The midnight city was a ghost ship, floating captainless beneath the moon.
Strange lights played across the northern sky: yellow and indigo and a violet like the after-image of lightning. The horizon pulsed with rippling, radiant bands unlike anything Eolair had ever seen, at once chilling and yet incredibly vital. Compared to silent Abaingeat, the North seemed wildly alive, and for a mad moment the count wondered if it was worth fighting any more. The world he had known was gone. and nothing could bring it back. Perhaps it would be better just to accept…
He smacked his gloved hands together. The clap echoed dully and faded. He shook his head, trying to shake the leadenness from his thoughts.
The lights were compelling indeed.
And where would he go now? It was a ride of several weeks to the meadowlands beyond Hasu Vale of which the priest had spoken. Eolair knew he could cling to the coastline, passing Meremund and Wentmouth, but that would mean riding as a lone traveler through an Erkynland that owed its complete allegiance to the High King. Or, he could let the shimmering aurora draw him north instead, to his home in Nad Mullach. His keep was occupied by Skali’s reavers, but those of his people who survived in the countryside would give him shelter and news, and also a chance to rest and reprovision himself for the remainder of his long journey. From there he could turn east and pass Erchester to the north, moving in the protective shadow of the great forest.
Pondering, he stared at the spectral glow in the northern sky. It made for a very chilly light.
The waves were choppy, the dark sky wild with tattered, ominous clouds. A zigzag of lightning flared on the blackened horizon.
Cadrach gripped the railing and groaned as the Eadne Cloud lifted high, then settled once more into the trough of a wave. Overhead the sails popped in the strong wind, percussive bursts of sound like whip cracks. “Oh, Brynioch of the Skies,” the monk implored, “take this tempest away!”
“This is barely a storm at all,” Miriamele said derisively. “You’ve never been in a real sea-storm.”
Cadrach made a gulping sound. “Nor do I want to be.”
“Besides, what are you doing, praying to pagan gods? I thought you were an Aedonite monk.”
“I have been praying for Usires’ intercession all afternoon,” Cadrach said, his face pale as fish-flesh. “I thought it time to try something different.” He rose on tiptoes and leaned farther out over the railing. Miriamele turned her head away. A moment later the monk settled back, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. A spatter of rain drifted across the deck.
“And you, Lady,” he said, “does nothing bother you?”
She bit back a mocking reply. He looked truly pathetic, his few strands of hair pasted flat, his eyes dark-rimmed. “Many things, but not being on a boat at sea.”
“Count yourself blessed,” he mumbled, then turned back to sag against the rail once more. Instead, his eyes widened. He screeched in shock and tumbled backward, falling rump-first to the deck.
“Bones of Anaxos!” he shouted. “Save us! What is it?!”
Miriamele stepped to the rail to see a gray head bobbing in the saddle of the waves. It was vaguely manlike, hairless yet unsealed, sleek as a dolphin, with a red-rimmed, toothless mouth and eyes like rotting black-berries. The flexible mouth rounded into a circle as though it would sing. It gave out a strange, gurgling hoot, then slipped beneath the waves, showing a glimpse of long-toed, webbed feet as it dove A moment later the nub of head appeared again a little closer to the ship It watched them
Miriamele’s stomach fluttered “Kilpa,” she whispered
“It is horrible,” Cadrach said, still crouching below the wale “It has the face of a damned soul.”
The empty black eyes followed Miriamele as she moved a few steps up the railing. She understood the monk clearly. The kilpa was far more horrifying than any mere animal could be, no matter how savage—so dreadfully near-human, yet so devoid of anything that looked like human feeling or understanding.
“I have not seen one in years,” she said slowly, unable to tear her eyes away. “I don’t think I have ever seen one so close.” Her thoughts tumbled back to her childhood, to a trip she had taken with her mother Hylissa from Nabban to the island of Vinitta. Kilpa had glided in and out of their wake, and to the younger Miriamele they had seemed almost sportive, like porpoises or flying fish. Seeing this one so closely, she now understood why her mother had hastily dragged her from the rail. She shuddered.
“You say that you have seen them before, my lady?” a voice asked. She whirled to find Aspitis standing behind her, his hand resting on crouching Cadrach’s shoulder. The monk looked quite sick.
“On a long-ago visit to…to Wentmouth,” she said hastily. “They are terrible, aren’t they?”
Aspitis nodded slowly, staring at Miriamele rather than the slick gray thing bobbing off the stern rail. “I hadn’t realized that kilpa traveled into cold northern w
aters,” he said.
“Doesn’t Gan Itai keep them away?” she said, trying to change the subject. “Why has this one come so close?”
“Because the Niskie is exhausted and is sleeping for a while, and also because the kilpa have become very bold.” Aspitis bent and picked a square-headed iron nail off the deck, then pitched it at the silent watcher. It splashed a foot from the kilpa’s noseless, earless head. The black eyes did not blink. “They are more active than I have ever heard of, these days,” the earl said. “They have swarmed several small craft since the winter, and even a few large ones.” He hurriedly raised a hand on which gold rings sparkled. “But fear not, Lady Marya. There is no better singer than my Gan Itai.”
“That thing is a horror and I am ill.” Cadrach groaned. “I must go and lie myself down.” He ignored Aspitis’ proffered hand and clambered to his feet, then went stumbling away.
The earl turned and shouted instructions to the crewmen swarming in the wind-buffeted rigging. “We must reef the sails,” he said by way of explanation. “There is a very fierce storm coming, and we can only ride it out.” As if to underscore his point, lightning flashed once more on the northern horizon. “Perhaps you would be good enough to join me for my evening meal.” Thunder came rolling across the swells, a flurry of rain swept over them. “That way, your guardian can be given some privacy to recuperate, and you need not be without company if the storm grows frightening.” He smiled, showing even teeth.
Miriamele felt tempted but cautious. There was an impression of coiled strength to Aspitis, as though some potential were being hidden so as not to frighten. In a way, it reminded her of old Duke Isgrimnur, who treated women with gentle, almost excessive deference, as though his blundering bluffness might at any time escape his control and burst forth to shock and offend. Aspitis, too, seemed to hold something in check. It was a quality she found intriguing.
“Thank you, your Lordship,” she said at last. “I would be honored—you will have to excuse me, though, if I must leave from time to time to see that Brother Cadrach is not suffering too badly for want of aid or company.”
“Did you not,” Aspitis said, smoothly taking her arm, “you would not be the good and gentle lady that you are. I can see that you two are as close as family, that you respect Cadrach as you would a beloved uncle.”
Miriamele could not help looking over her shoulder as Aspitis led her across the deck, beneath the crewmen shouting at each other in the rigging so they could be heard above the wall of the wind. The kilpa still floated in the rough green seas, watching solemnly as a priest, its open mouth around black hole.
The earl’s squire, a thin, whey-faced young man with a resentful frown, directed the two pages as they loaded the table with fruit and bread and white cheese. Thures, the smaller of the pages, tottered out beneath the weight of a salver bearing a cold joint of beef The boy stayed to assist, handing the squire a new carving utensil each time that artist impatiently waved his hand. The little page seemed clever—his dark eyes watched the pasty-faced squire intently for the slightest sign—but the bad-tempered older boy nevertheless found several opportunities to cuff him for his slowness.
“You seem very comfortable on a ship. Lady Marya,” Aspitis said, smiling as he filled a wine goblet from a beautiful brass ewer. He had his other page carry it around the table to her “Have you been at sea before? It is a long way from Cellodshire to what we in Nabban call the Veir Maynis—the Great Green.”
Miriamele silently cursed herself. Perhaps Cadrach was right. She should have thought of a simpler story to tell. “Yes. I mean, no, I haven’t. Not really.” She took a long, studied sip of wine, forcing herself to smile back at the earl despite its sourness “We traveled on shipboard down the Gleniwent several times. I have been on the Kynslagh as well.” She took another long sip and realized she had emptied the goblet. She set it down, embarrassed. What would this man think of her?
“Who is ‘we’?”
“I beg your pardon?” She guiltily pushed the goblet away, but Aspitis took this as a sign and refilled it, pushing it back to her side of the rimmed table with an understanding smile. As the cabin pitched with the boat’s motion, the wine threatened to overtop the edge of the goblet. Miriamele picked it up, holding it very gingerly.
“I said, who is ‘we’, Lady Marya, if I may ask? You and your guardian? You and your family? You mentioned your father, Baron…Baron…” He frowned. “A thousand apologies, I’ve forgotten his name.”
Miriamele had forgotten also. She covered her moment of panic with another sip of wine; it became rather a long sip as she struggled with her memory. The name she had chosen came back at last. She swallowed.
“Baron Seoman.”
“Of course—Baron Seoman. Was that who took you down the Gleniwent?”
She nodded her head, hoping not to get into any further trouble.
“And your mother?”
“Dead.”
“Ah.” Aspitis’ golden face became somber as a cloud-curtained sun. “Forgive me. I am being rude, asking so many questions. I am terribly sorry to hear that.”
Miriamele had a moment of inspiration. “She died in the plague last year.”
The earl nodded. “So many did. Tell me. Lady Marya—if you will allow me one last and quite forward question—is there a special man to whom you are promised?
“No,” she answered quickly, then wondered if she could have given a better and less potentially troublesome answer. She took a deep breath, holding the earl’s gaze. The pomander that scented the cabin air was nchin her nostrils. “No,” she repeated. He was very handsome.
“Ah.” Aspitis nodded gravely. With his youthful face and head of brilliant curls, he seemed almost a child play-acting as an adult. “But see, you have not eaten anything, Lady. Does the fare displease you?”
“Oh, no, Earl Aspitis!” she said breathlessly, looking for a spot to put her wine goblet down so she could pick up her knife. She noticed that the cup was empty. Aspitis saw her look and leaned forward with the ewer.
As she picked at her food, Aspitis talked. As if in apology for his earlier interrogation, he kept his conversation airy as swansdown, speaking mostly of odd or silly things that happened at the Nabbanai court. To hear him talk, it was quite a glittering place. He told stones well and soon had her laughing—in fact, with the rocking of the ship and the walls of the small, lamplit cabin pressing in upon her, she began to wonder if she was laughing too much. The whole thing felt rather dreamlike. She was having difficulty keeping her eyes squarely on Aspitis’ smiling face.
As she suddenly realized that she could no longer see the earl at all, a hand came to rest lightly upon her shoulder: Aspitis was behind her, still talking about the ladies of the court. Through the wine fumes that filled her head, she could feel his touch, weighty and hot.
“…But of course their beauty is that rather…arranged beauty, if you know what I mean, Marya. I do not mean to be cruel, but sometimes when Duchess Nessalanta is caught in a breeze, the powder flies off her like snow from a mountaintop!” Aspitis’ hand squeezed gently, then moved to her other shoulder as he altered his stance. On the way, his fingers trailed gently across the nape of her neck. She shuddered. “Do not misunderstand me,” he said, “I would defend to the death the honor and beauty of our courtly Nabbanai women—but in my heart there is nothing so fine as the unimproved loveliness of a country girl.” His hand moved to her neck again, the touch delicate as a thrush’s wing. “You are such a beauty, Lady Marya. I am so pleased to have met you. I had forgotten what it was to see a face that needed no embellishment…”
The room spun. Miriamele abruptly straightened and her elbow toppled the wine cup. A few drops like blood pooled on her hand towel. “I must go outside,” she said. “I must have some air.”
“My lady,” Aspitis said, concern plain in his voice, “are you ill? I hope it is not my poor table that has offended your gentle constitution.”
She waved a hand, tryin
g to placate him, wanting only to be out of the glaring lamplight and the stiflingly warm, perfumed air. “No, no. I just.want to go outside.”
“But there is a storm, my lady. You would be soaked. I can’t allow it.”
She stumbled a few steps toward the door. “Please. I’m ill.”
The earl shrugged helplessly. “Let me at least get you a warm cloak that will keep out most of the damp.” He clapped for his pages, who were trapped with the unpleasant squire in the tiny room that served as both larder and kitchen. One of the pages began to go through a large chest in search of an appropriate garment while Miriamele stood by miserably. She was at last outfitted in a musty-smelling wool cloak with a hood, Aspitis, similarly dressed, took her elbow and guided her up onto the deck.
The wind was blowing in earnest. Torrents of rain sliced down, turning to cascades of sparkling gold as they passed through the guttering lamp-light, then vanishing back into blackness. Thunder drummed.
“Let us at least sit beneath the canopy, Lady Marya,” Aspitis cried, “or we will both of us catch some terrible ague!” He led her aft, where a red-striped sailcloth awning stretched between the wales, humming as it vibrated in the strong wind. A steersman in a flapping cloak bowed his head as they ducked beneath the cloth, but kept his hands firmly clasped on the tiller. The pair sat down on a pile of dampened rugs.
“Thank you,” Miriamele said. “You are kind. I feel very foolish to trouble you.”
“I only worry that this is a cure worse than the illness,” Aspitis said, smiling. “If my physician were to hear of this, he would be leeching me for brain fever before I could blink.”
