Stone of Farewell

by Tad Williams

  Cadrach’s desertion had not been a complete surprise. So little good feeling remained between the two of them that it seemed only circumstance had kept him from deserting her earlier. She looked back on the cool deliberateness he had shown in selecting his traveling cloak before they left the boat and saw that he had clearly anticipated this escape, at least from the moment they had been summoned down to Vinitta. In a way, he had tried to warn her, hadn’t he? On the deck he had asked her to listen, saying “this last time.”

  The monk’s betrayal was unsurprising, but the pain was no less heavy for that. A long-anticipated blow had fallen at last.

  Desertion and indifference. That seemed to be the thread that ran through her life. Her mother had died, her father had changed into something cold and uncaring, her uncle Josua had only wished her out of his way—he would deny it, no doubt, but it had been plain in his every word and expression. For a while she had thought Dinivan and his master the lector could shelter her, but they had died and left her friendless. Although she knew it was not even remotely their fault, she still could not forgive.

  No one would help her. The kinder ones, like Simon and the troll or dear old Duke Isgrimnur, were absent or powerless. Now Cadrach, too, had left her.

  There must be something inside of her that pushed others away, Miriamele brooded—some stain like the dark discoloration in the white stone canals of Meremund, hidden until the tide went out. Or maybe it was not in her at all, but in the souls of those around her, those who could not stay rooted to obligation, who could not remember their duty to a young woman.

  And what of Aspitis, the golden earl? She had little hope that he would prove more responsible than the others, but at least he cared for her. At least he wanted her for something.

  Perhaps when all was over, when her father had reshaped the world in whatever way pleased his corrupt fancy, she would be able to find a home somewhere. She would be happy with a small house by the sea, would gladly shed her unwanted royalty like an old snakeskin. But until then, what should she do?

  Miriamele rolled over and pushed her face into the rough blanket, feeling the bed and the entire ship moving in the sea’s gentle but insistent grip. It was all too much, too many thoughts, too many questions. She felt quite strengthless. She wanted only to

  be held, to be protected, to let time slip away until she could wake into a better world.

  She cried quietly, fretfully, anchorless on the edge of sleep.

  The afternoon slipped past. Miriamele lay in the darkness of her cabin, wandering in and out of dreams.

  Somewhere above, the lookout cried sunset, no other sound intruded but the lap of waves and the muffled cry of sea birds. The ship was all but deserted, the sailing men ashore in Vinitta.

  Miriamele was not surprised when the cabin door quietly opened at last and a weight pressed down on the bed beside her.

  Aspitis’ finger traced her features. Miriamele turned away, wishing she could pull the shadows over her like a blanket, wishing she were a child again, living beside an ocean that was still innocent of kilpa, an ocean upon whose waves storms touched only lightly and disappeared at the sun’s golden rising.

  “My lady…” he whispered. “Ah, I am so sorry. You have been badly treated.”

  Miriamele said nothing, but his voice seemed a soothing balm to her painful thoughts. He spoke again, telling her other beauty and kindness. In her feverish sadness the words were little more than nonsense, but his voice was sweet and reassuring. She felt calmed by it, gentled like a nervous horse. When he slid beneath the sheet she felt his skin against hers, warm and smooth and firm. She murmured in protest, but softly, with no real strength: in a way, this, too, seemed a kindness.

  His mouth was at her neck. His hands moved over her with calm possessiveness, as though he handled some lovely thing that belonged only to him. Tears came to her again. Full of loneliness, she let herself be drawn into his embrace, but she could not suffer his touch unfeelingly. While apart of her yearned only to be held, to be drawn into a reassuring warmth, a safe harbor like the one in which Eadne Cloud rocked gently at anchor, untroubled by the storms that swept the great ocean, a different self wished to break free and run madly into danger. Still another shadow huddled deeper within her, a shape of dark regret, tied to her heart with chains of iron.

  The thin light leaking in at the doorframe caught glimmering in his hair as Aspitis pressed himself against her. What if someone should come in? There was no latch, no latch on the door. She struggled. Mistaking her fear, he whispered soothing things about her beauty.

  Each curl of his hair was intricate, textured and individual as a tree. His head seemed a forest, his dark form looming like a distant mountainside. She cried out softly, unable to resist such implacability.

  Time slid by in the shadows and Miriamele felt herself drifting away. Aspitis once more began to speak.

  He loved her, her goodness and wit and loveliness.

  His words, like caresses, were blind but enflaming. She did not care for flattering talk, but felt her resistance melting before his strength and sureness. He cared for her, at least a little. He could hide her away in darkness, pull it around her like a cloak. She would disappear into the deeps of a sheltering forest until the world was right again.

  The boat swayed gently on the cradling waters.

  He would protect her from those who would harm her, he said. He would never desert her She gave herself up to him at last. There was pain, but there were also promises. Miriamele had hoped for nothing more. In a way, it was a lesson the world had already taught her.

  Awash with strange new feelings, not completely comfortable with any of them, Miriamele sat quietly across the dining table from Aspitis, pushing food from one side of her plate to the other. She could not understand why the earl had forced her to come sit with him in the brightly candlelit room. She could not understand why she was not even slightly in love.

  A soldier rapped at the doorway, then entered.

  “We’ve caught him, Lord,” the guardsman said. His satisfaction at having redressed the earlier error of the monk’s escape was plain in his voice. Miriamele, seated across the table from Earl Aspitis, felt herself stiffen.

  The guardsman stepped aside and two of his fellows brought Cadrach in, slumped between them. The monk seemed to be having trouble keeping his head up. Had they beaten him? Miriamele felt a sickening pang of regret. She had half-hoped that Cadrach would just vanish, so that she would never have to see him again. It was easier to hate him when he was not around.

  “He’s drunk, Lord Aspitis,” the guardsman said. “Stinking. We found him in the Feathered Eel, down on the east dock. He’d already bought a place out on a Perdruinese merchantman, but the fool got pissed and diced it away.”

  Cadrach looked up blearily, his face slack with despair. Even from across the table, Miriamele could smell the stink of wine. “Was ’bout t’ win it back, too. Would’ve.” He shook his head. “Maybe not. Luck’s gone bad. Water’s rising…”

  Aspitis rose and strode around the table. He reached out a hand and grasped the monk’s chin, pressing with his strong fingers until the flesh bulged between them. He forced Cadrach’s pink face upward until their eyes met.

  The earl turned to Miriamele. “Has he tried to do this before, Lady Marya?”

  Miriamele nodded helplessly. She wished she were somewhere else. “More or less.”

  Aspitis returned his attention to the monk. “What a strange man. Why does he not just leave your father’s service instead of sneaking away like a thief?” The earl turned to his squire. “And you are sure nothing is missing?”

  The squire shook his head. “Nothing, Lord.”

  Cadrach tried to pull his head free from Aspitis’ restraining fingers. “Had m’own gold. Stole nothing. Need t’get away…” His eyes fixed uncertainly on Miriamele, his voice took on a note of added desperation. “Dangerous…storm will get us. Danger.”

  The Earl of Eadne let go o
f the monk’s chin and wiped his fingers on the tablecloth. “Afraid of a storm? I knew he was not a good sailor, but still…that is very strange If he were my liege man, his back would be flayed for this trick Still, the fellow shall certainly not be rewarded for deserting his innocent ward. Neither shall he share a cabin with you anymore, Lady Marya.” The earl’s smile was stiffly reassuring. “He may have gone mad, or have conceived some drunken fancy. He says danger, but he is the dangerous one as I see it. He will be confined on the Eadne Cloud until I return you to Nabban, and we shall then hand him over to Mother Church for discipline.”

  “Confine him?” Miriamele asked. “That is not…”

  “I may not leave him loose to plague you or worry you, my lady.” The earl turned to his guardsmen. “The hold will do nicely for him. Give him water and bread, but put the leg irons on him.”

  “Oh, no!” Miriamele was genuinely horrified. However much she despised the monk and his cowardly treachery, the thought of any living thing forced to wear a chain, trapped in a dark hold…

  “Please, my lady.” Aspitis’ voice was soft but firm. “I must have order on my ship. I gave you sanctuary, and this man with you. He was your guardian. He betrayed your trust. I still am not sure he has not stolen something from me, or perhaps thinks to sell some intelligence of my mission here in Vinitta. No, I am afraid you must leave such men’s business to me, pretty Marya.” He waved his hand; Cadrach was led out, staggering between his escorts.

  Miriamele felt her eyes blurring with tears. They spilled over and she lurched suddenly from her chair. “Excuse me, Earl Aspitis,” she mumbled, feeling her way along the table toward the door. “I wish to lie down.”

  He caught her before she reached the handle, grasping her arm and pulling her smoothly around. The heat of him was very close. She averted her face, conscious of how foolish she must look, eyes red-rimmed and cheeks wet. “Please, my lord. Let the monk go.”

  “I know you must feel quite lost, pretty Marya,” Aspitis said softly. “Do not fear. I promised that I would keep you safe.”

  She felt herself yielding, becoming pliant. Her strength seemed to be draining away. She was so tired of running and hiding. She had only wanted someone to hold her, to make everything go away…

  Miriamele shivered and pulled away. “No. It is wrong. Wrong! If you do not let him go, I will not stay on this ship!” She pushed out through the door, stumbling blindly.

  Aspitis caught her long before she reached the ladder to the deck. The sea watcher Gan Itai was crooning quietly in the darkness above.

  “You are upset, Lady,” he said. “You must lie down, as you said yourself.”

  She struggled, but his grip was firm. “I demand that you release me! I do not wish to stay here any longer. I will go ashore and find my own passage from Vinitta.”

  “No, my lady, you will not.”

  She gasped. “Let go of my arm. You’re hurting me.”

  Somewhere above, Gan Itai’s song seemed to falter.

  Aspitis leaned forward. His face was very close to hers. “I think there are things that must be made clear between us.” He laughed shortly. “As a matter of fact, there is much for us to talk about—later. You will go to your cabin now. I will finish my supper and then come to you.”

  “I won’t go.”

  “You will.”

  He said it with such quiet certainty that her angry reply caught in her throat as fear clutched her. Aspitis pulled her close against him, then turned and forced her along the passageway.

  The sea watcher’s song had stopped. Now it began again, rising and fading as Gan Itai murmured to the night and the quiet sea.

  27

  The Black Sled

  “They are getting close,” Sludig gasped. “If your Farewell Stone is more than half a league from here, little man, we will have to turn and fight.”

  Shaking the water from his hood, Binabik leaned forward across Qantaqa’s neck. The wolfs tongue lolled and her sides heaved like a blacksmith’s bellows. They had been traveling without a stop since daybreak, fleeing through the storm-battered forest.

  “I wish I could be telling you that it is near, Sludig. I do not know how much distance remains, but I fear it is most of a day’s riding.” The troll stroked Qantaqa’s sodden fur. “A brave run, old friend.” She ignored him, absorbed in drinking rainwater from the hollow stump of a tree.

  “The giants are hunting us,” Sludig said grimly. “They have developed a taste for man-meat.” He shook his head. “When we make our stand at last, some of them will regret that.”

  Binabik frowned. “I have too little size to be a satisfying morsel, so I will not waste their time by being caught. That way, no one will be having regrets.”

  The Rimmersman steered his mount over to the stump. Trembling with the cold, parched despite the pelting rain, the horse was heedless of the wolf a hands breadth away.

  As their steeds drank, a long rumbling howl lifted above the wind, blood-freezingly close.

  “Damn me!” Sludig spat, slapping his palm against his sword-hilt. “They are no farther behind us than they were an hour ago! Do they run fast as horses?”

  “Near to it it is seeming,” Binabik said. “I am thinking we should move deeper into the forest. The thicker trees may slow them.”

  “You thought getting off the flatlands would slow them, too,” Sludig said, reining his reluctant horse away from the hollow stump.

  “If we live, then you can be telling me all my incorrectness,” Binabik growled. He took a tight grip on the thick fur that mantled Qantaqa’s neck. “Now, unless you have been thinking of ways to fly, we should ride. “Another deep, coughing cry came down the wind.

  Sludig’s sword swished from side to side, clearing the brush as they pushed their way down the long, wooded slope. “My blade will be dull when I have greatest need,” he complained.

  Binabik, who was leading the string of balking horses, tripped and fell to the muddy earth, then slid a short way down the hillside. The horses milled nervously, confined to the path Sludig had hacked in the swarming undergrowth. Struggling to keep his balance in the mud, the troll got up and tracked down the bridle of the lead horse.

  “Qinkipa of the Snows! This storm is never-ending!”

  They took most of the noon hour to make their way down the slope. It appeared that Binabik’s reliance on the forest cover had been at least partially correct; the occasional howls of the Hunën became a little fainter, although they never faded completely. The forest appeared to be growing thinner. The trees were still huge, but not as monumental as their kin that grew closer to Aldheorte’s center.

  The trees, alder and oak and tall hemlock, were garlanded in looping vines. The grass and undergrowth grew thick, and even in this queerly cold season a few yellow and blue wildflowers lifted their heads up from the mud, bobbing beneath the heavy rain. Had it not been for the torrent and the biting wind, this arm of the southern forest would have been a place of rare beauty.

  They reached the base of the slope at last and clambered onto a low shelf of stone to scrape the worst of the mud from their boots and clothing before riding once more. Sludig looked back up the hillside, then lifted a pointing finger.

  “Elysia’s mercy, little man, look.”

  Far up the slope but still horribly near, a half-dozen white shapes were pushing their way through the foliage, long arms swinging like Nascaduapes. One lifted its head, the face a black hole against the pale, shaggy fur. A cry of thundering menace rang down the rainy hillside and Sludig’s horse pranced in terror beneath him.

  “It is a race,” Binabik said. His round, brown face had gone quite pale. “For this moment, they are having the best of it.”

  Qantaqa leaped from the shelf of stone, bearing the troll with her. Sludig and his mount were just behind, leading the other horses. Hooves drummed on the sodden ground.

  In their haste and ill-suppressed fear, it was some while before they noticed that the ground, while still ov
ergrown, had become unusually flat.

  They rode beside long-empty riverbeds that were now filled anew with rushing, foaming rainwater. Here and there bits of root-gnawed stone stood along the banks, covered with centuries of moss and clinging vines.

  “These look like bridges, or the bones of broken buildings,” Sludig called as they rode.

  “They are,” Binabik replied “It means we are nearing our goal, I hope. This is a place where once the Sithi had a great city.” He leaned forward, hugging Qantaqa’s neck as she leaped over a fallen trunk.

  “Do you think it will keep the giants at bay?” Sludig asked. “You said that the diggers did not like the places that the Sithi lived.”

  “They do not like the forest and the forest does not like them,” the troll said, gentling Qantaqa to a halt. “The giant Hunën seem to be having no such trouble—perhaps because they are less clever, or less easily frightened. Or because they are not digging. I do not know.” He tilted his head, listening. It was hard to hear anything over the relentless hissing patter of rain on leaves, but for the moment the surroundings seemed innocent of danger. “We will follow the flowing water.” He pointed to the new-grown river hurrying past them, laden with broken branches knocked loose by the storm. “Sesuad’ra, the Stone of Farewell, is in the valley beside the forest’s ending, very close to the city Enki-e-Shao’saye—on whose outskirts we are sitting.” He gestured around him with his stubby, mittened hand. “The river must be flowing down to the valley, so it is sense for us to accompany it.”

  “Less talking, then—more accompanying,” Sludig said.

  “I have been speaking, in my day,” Binabik said with a certain stiffness, “to more appreciative ears.” With a shrug, he urged Qantaqa forward. They rode past countless remnants of the vast and long untenanted city. Fragments of old walls shimmered in the undergrowth, masses of pale, crumbled brick forlorn as lost sheep, in other spots the foundations of eroded towers lay exposed, curved and empty as ancient jawbones, choked with parasitic moss. Unlike Da’ai Chikiza, the forest had done more than grow into Enki-e-Shao’saye; there was virtually nothing left of this city but faint traces. The forest, it seemed, had always been a part of the place, but over the millennia it had become a destroyer, smothering the elaborate stonework in a mass of snaking foliage, enfolding it with roots and branches that patiently unmade even the matchless products of the Sithi builders, returning all to mud and damp sand.