by Tad Williams
“Why?” Simon splashed more water on his face and rubbed it off with his jerkin sleeve, which was itself none too clean.
“Because I was casting the bones before we left Naglimund,” Binabik said crossly, “and the same figures I was getting! Exactly!”
“But why should that be bad?” Something bright lying at the pool’s edge caught his eye. He picked it up carefully, and discovered it was a round looking glass set in a splendidly carved wooden frame. The rim of the dark glass was etched with unfamiliar characters.
“Bad it often is when things are always the same,” Binabik answered, “but with the bones it is more than that. The bones to me are guides to wisdom, yes?”
“Mmm-hmmh.” Simon polished the mirror on his shirtfront.
“Well, what if you were opening your Book of the Aedon to discover that all its pages suddenly were having only one verse—the same verse, over then over?”
“Do you mean a Book I had already seen? That hadn’t been like that before? I suppose it would be magic.”
“Well, then,” Binabik said, mollified, “there you are seeing my problem. There are hundreds of ways the bones can find themselves. To be the same cast six times in running—I can only think it bad. Much as I have studied, still I am not liking the word ‘magic’—but some force there is gripping the bones, as a powerful wind is pushing all flags the same way…Simon? Are you listening?”
Staring fixedly at the mirror, Simon was astonished to find an unfamiliar face looking back. The stranger had an elongated, largeboned face, blue-shadowed eyes, and a growth of red-gold whiskers on chin, cheeks and upper lip. Simon was further amazed to realize that—of course!—he was only seeing himself, thinned and weathered by his travels, the first growth of man’s beard darkening his jaws. What kind of face was this, he suddenly wondered? He still had not a man’s features, worn and stern, but he fancied that he had sloughed off some of his mooncalfishness. Nonetheless, he found something disappointing in the long-chinned, shock-haired youth who stared back at him.
Is this what I looked like to Miriamele? Like a farmer’s son—a ploughboy?
And even as he thought of the princess, it seemed that he saw a flash of her features in the glass, almost growing out of his own. For a dizzy instant they were meshed together, like two cloudy souls in one body; an instant later it was Miriamele alone whose face he saw—or Malachias, rather, for her hair was short and black, and she wore boy’s clothes. A colorless sky lay beyond her, spotted with dark thunderheads. There was another, too, who stood just behind, a round-faced man in a gray hood. Simon had seen him before, he was sure, so sure—who was he?
“Simon!” Binabik’s voice splashed him like the cold pool-water, just as the elusive name flitted within reach. Startled, he juggled the mirror for a moment. When he clutched it tight again, no face was there but his own.
“Are you turning sick?” the troll asked, worried by the slack, puzzled expression Simon turned toward him.
“No…I don’t think so…”
“Then if you are washed, come to help me. We shall go to speaking of the auguries later, when your attention is not so delicate.” Binabik stood, dropping the knucklebones back into their leather sack.
Binabik went first down the ice chute, warning Simon to keep his toes pointed and his hands close to his head. The headlong seconds rushing down the tunnel were like a dream of falling from a high place, and when he thumped down into the soft snow beneath the tunnel mouth, bright, chill daylight in his eyes, he was content to sit for a moment and enjoy the feel of his heart’s rapid beating.
A moment later he was bowled over by a surprising clout on the back, followed by the smothering descent of a mountain of muscle and fur.
“Qantaqa!” he heard Binabik shout, laughing. “If it is your friends who are receiving such treatment, I am glad I am no enemy!”
Simon pushed the wolf away, gasping, only to face a renewed, rough-tongued assault on his face. At last, with Binabik’s aid, he rolled free. Qantaqa sprang to her feet whining excitedly, circling the youth and troll once, then sprang away into the snowy wood.
“Now,” Binabik said, brushing show from his black hair, “we must be finding where the Sithi have been putting up our horses.”
“Not far, Qanuc-man.”
Simon jumped. He turned to see a line of Sithi file silently out of the trees, Jiriki’s green-jacketed uncle at its head. “And why do you seek them?”
Binabik smiled. “Certainly not for escaping you, good Khendraja’aro. Your hospitality is too lavish for us to hurry away from it. No, there are certain things only I wish to make sure we still have, things I was obtaining with some trouble at Naglimund that we will need on the roads ahead.”
Khendraja’aro looked down on the troll expressionlessly for a moment, then signaled to two of the other Sithi. “Sijandi, Ki’ushapo—show them.”
The yellow-haired pair walked a few steps along the hillside, away from the tunnel-mouth, then stopped, waiting for Simon and the troll to follow. When Simon looked back he saw Khendraja’aro still watching, an unreadable expression in his bright, narrowed eyes.
They found the horses put up a few furlongs away, in a small cavern hidden by a pair of snow-laden pine trees. The cave was snug and dry; all six horses were contentedly chewing away at a pile of sweet-smelling hay.
“Where did all this come from?” Simon asked, surprised.
“We often bring our own horses,” Ki’ushapo replied, speaking the Western tongue carefully. “Does it surprise you to find we have a stable for them?”
As Binabik rooted around in one of the saddlebags, Simon explored the cavern, noting the light spilling through a crevice high in the wall, and a stone trough filled with clean water. Propped against the far side was a pile of helmets, axes and swords. Simon recognized one of the blades as his own, from the armory of Naglimund.
“These are ours, Binabik!” he said. “How did they get here?”
Ki’ushapo spoke slowly, as though to a child. “We put them here after we took them from you and your companions. Here they are safe and dry.”
Simon looked at the Sitha suspiciously. “But I thought that you couldn’t touch iron—that it was poison to you!” He stopped short, fearful that he had ventured onto forbidden ground, but Ki’ushapo only exchanged a glance with his silent companion before replying.
“So, you have heard tales of the Days of Black Iron,” he said. “Yes, it was once thus, but those of us who survived those days have learned much. We know now what waters to drink, and from which certain springs, so that we can handle mortal iron for a little time without harm. Why did you think we allowed you to keep your coat of mail? But, of course, we have no liking for it, and do not use it…or even touch it when there is no need.” He looked over to Binabik, who was still rummaging intently in the traveling bags. “We shall leave you to finish your search,” the Sitha said. “You will find nothing missing—at least nothing you had when you came into our hands.”
Binabik looked up. “Of course,” he said. “I am only in worry over things that may have been lost during the fighting of yesterday.”
“Of course,” Ki’ushapo replied. He and the quiet Sijandi went out beneath the branches of the entrance.
“Ah!” Binabik said at last, holding up a sack that clinked like a purse full of gold Imperators. “A worry eased, this is.” He dropped it back in the saddle bag.
“What is it?” Simon asked, irritated to be asking another question.
Binabik grinned wickedly. “More Qanuc tricks, ones that will be found very useful soon. Come, we should be returning. If the others wake up, stiff with drink and alone, they may have fright and be doing something foolish.”
Qantaqa found them on their short journey back, her mouth and nose daubed with the blood of some luckless animal. She bounded several times around them, then stopped, hackles lifting as she sniffed at the air. She lowered her head and sniffed again, then went loping ahead.
Jiriki
and An’nai had joined Khendraja’aro. The prince had shed his white robe for a jacket of tan and blue. He held a tall bow, unstrung, and wore a quiver full of brown-fletched arrows.
Qantaqa circled the Sithi, growling and sniffing, but her tail waved in the air behind her as though she greeted old acquaintances. She lunged forward toward the blithe Fair Folk, then dodged back, rumbling deep in her throat and shaking her head as though snapping the neck of a rabbit. When Binabik and Simon joined the circle, she came forward long enough to touch Binabik’s hand with her black nose, then danced away again and resumed her nervous circling.
“Did you find all your possessions in good order?” Jiriki asked.
Binabik nodded. “Yes, with certainty. Thanks to you for seeing to our horses.”
Jiriki negligently waved his slender hand. “And what now to do?” he asked.
“I am thinking we should be on our road soon,” the troll responded, shading his eyes to look at the gray-blue sky.
“Surely not this day,” Jiriki said. “Rest this afternoon, and eat with us again. We still have much to speak of, and you can leave tomorrow by dawn light.”
“You…and your uncle…show much kindness to us, Prince Jiriki. And honor.” Binabik bowed.
“We are not a kind race, Binbiniqegabenik, not as we once were, but we are a courteous one. Come.”
After a splendid lunch of bread, sweet milk, and a wonderfully odd, tangy soup made from nuts and snowflowers, the long afternoon was spent by Sithi and men alike in quiet talk and singing and long naps.
Simon slept shallowly, and dreamed of Miriamele standing atop the ocean as though it were a floor of uneven green marble, beckoning him to come to her. In his dream he saw furious black clouds on the horizon, and called out, trying to give warning. The princess did not hear over the gathering wind, only smiled and beckoned. He knew he could not stand on the waves, and dove in to swim toward her, but he felt the cold waters, pulling him down, tugging him under…
When he fought free of the dream at last, it was to awaken in dying afternoon. The pillars of light had dimmed, and leaned as though drunken. Some of the Sitha were setting the crystal lamps in their wall niches, but even watching the process gave Simon no better understanding of what lit them: after being put in place they simply, slowly, began to glow with gentle, suffusive light.
Simon joined his companions at the stone circle around the fire. They were alone: the Sithi, although hospitable and even friendly, nevertheless seemed to prefer their own company, sitting in small knots around the cavern.
“Boy,” Haestan said, reaching up to clap his shoulder, “we feared ye’d sleep all th’ day.”
“I would sleep too, if I ate as much bread as he,” Sludig said, cleaning his nails with a sliver of wood.
“All here were agreeing on an early leave-taking tomorrow,” Binabik said, and Grimmric and Haestan nodded. “There is no certainty this mildness of weather will continue long, and it is far we must still go.”
“Mild weather?” said Simon, frowning at the stiffness in his legs as he sat down. “It’s snowing like mad.”
Binabik chuckled deep in his throat. “Ho, friend Simon, talk to a snow-dweller if you are wanting to know cold weather. This is like our Qanuc spring, when we play naked in the snows of Mintahoq. When we are reaching the mountains, then, I am sorry to say, you will be feeling real coldness.”
He doesn’t look very sorry at all, Simon thought. “So when do we start out?”
“First light in the east,” Sludig said. “The sooner,” he added significantly, looking around the cavern at their unusual hosts, “the better.”
Binabik eyed him, then turned back to Simon. “So we shall be at putting things in order tonight.”
Jiriki had appeared as though from thin air to join them at the fireside. “Ah,” he said, “I wish to speak to you about just these matters.”
“Surely there is no problem had with our leaving?” Binabik asked, his cheerful expression not entirely masking a certain anxiousness. Haestan and Grimmric looked worried, Sludig ever-so-faintly resentful.
“I think not,” the Sitha replied. “But there are certain things I wish to send with you.” He reached a long-fingered hand into his robe with a fluid gesture, producing Simon’s White Arrow.
“This is yours, Seoman,” he said.
“What? But it…it belongs to you. Prince Jiriki.”
The Sitha lifted his head for a moment, as though listening to some distant call, then lowered his gaze once more. “No, Seoman, it is not mine until I earn it back—a life for a life.” He held it up between his two hands, like a length of string, so that the slanting light from above burnished the minute and complicated designs along its length.
“I know you cannot read these writings,” Jiriki said slowly, “but I will tell you that they are Words of Making, scribed on the arrow by Vindaomeyo the Fletcher himself—deep, deep in the past, before we of the First People were torn apart into the Three Tribes. It is as much a part of my family as if it were made with my own bone and sinew—and as much a part of me. I did not give it lightly—few mortals have ever held a Sta’ja Ame—and I certainly could not take it back until I had paid the debt it signifies.” So saying, he handed it to Simon, whose fingers trembled as they touched the arrow’s smooth barrel.
“I…I didn’t understand…” he stammered, feeling as if he were the one suddenly under obligation. He shrugged, unable to say more.
“So,” Jiriki said. turning to Binabik and the others. “My destiny, as you mortals might have it, seems strangely bound with this manchild. You will not then find it too surprising when I tell you what else I would send along with you on your unusual and probably fruitless errand.”
After a moment, Binabik asked “And what is that being, Prince?”
Jiriki smiled, a feline, self-satisfied smile. “Myself,” he answered. “I will go with you.”
The young pikeman stood long seconds, unsure of whether to interrupt the prince’s thoughts. Josua was staring out into the middle distance, knuckles white as he clutched the parapet of Naglimund’s western wall.
At last the prince seemed to notice the foreign presence. He turned, revealing a face so unnaturally pale that the soldier took a half step back.
“Y’r Highness…?” he asked, finding it hard to look into Josua’s eyes. The prince’s stare, the soldier thought, was like that of the wounded fox he’d once seen the hounds take, and tear before it was dead.
“Send me Deornoth,” the prince said, and forced himself to smile, which the young soldier thought the most horrible thing of all. “And send me the old man Jarnauga—the Rimmersman. Do you know him?”
“I think so, Y’r Highness. With th’one-eyed father in bookroom.”
“Good man.” Josua’s face tilted toward the sky, watching the mass of inky clouds as though they were a book of prophecy. The pikeman hesitated, unsure of whether he was dismissed, then turned to sidle off.
“You, man,” the prince said, stopping him in midstep.
“Y’r Highness?”
“What is your name?” He might have been asking the sky.
“Ostrael, Highness…Ostrael Firsfram’s son. Lord…out Runchester.”
The prince looked over briefly, then his gaze flicked back to the darkening horizon as though irresistibly drawn. “When were you last home in Runchester, my good man?”
“Elysiamansa ‘fore last, Prince Josua, but I send ’em half my gettin’s, Lord.” The prince pulled his high collar closer, and nodded his head as though at great wisdom. “Very well, then…Ostrael Firsfram’s son. Go and send Deornoth and Jarnauga. Go now.”
Long before this day the young pikeman had been told that the prince was half-mad. As he clomped down the gatehouse stairs in his heavy boots, he thought of Josua’s face, remembering with a shiver the bright, ecstatic eyes of painted martyrs in his family’s Book of the Aedon—and not only the singing martyrs, but also the weary sadness of Usires Himself, led in chains t
o the Execution Tree.
“And the scouts are certain, Highness?” Deornoth asked carefully. He did not want to give offense, but he sensed a wildness in the prince today that he did not understand.
“God’s Tree, Deornoth, of course they are certain! You know them both—dependable men. The High King is at the Greenwade Ford, less than ten leagues away. He’ll be before the walls by tomorrow morning. With considerable strength.”
“So Leobardis is too slow.” Deornoth squinted his eyes, looking not south where Elias’ armies crept inexorably nearer, but west, where somewhere beyond the late-morning mist the Legions of the Kingfisher were laboring across the Inniscrich and the southern Frostmarch.
“Barring a miracle,” the prince said. “Go to, Deornoth. Tell Sir Eadgram to hold all in readiness. I want every spear sharp, every bow right-strung, and not a drop of wine in the gatehouse…or in the gatekeepers. Understood?”
“Of course, Highness,” Deornoth nodded. He felt a quickening of his breath, a slightly sickening thrill of anticipation in his stomach. By the Merciful God, they would give the High King a taste of Naglimund honor—he knew they would!
Someone cleared his throat warningly. It was Jarnauga, scaling the stairs up to the broad walkway as effortlessly as a man half his age. He wore one of Strangyeard’s loose black robes, and had tucked the end of his long beard under the belt.
“I answer your summons. Prince Josua,” he said, stiffly courteous.
“Thank you, Jarnauga,” Josua replied. “Go on, Deornoth. I will talk with you at supper.”
“Yes, Highness.” Deornoth bowed, helmet in hand, then was gone down the stairway two steps at a time.
Josua waited some moments after he was gone to speak.
“Look there, old man, look,” he said at last, sweeping his arm out over the clutter of Naglimund-town and the meadows and farmland beyond, the greens and yellows dark-painted by the glowering sky. “The rats are coming to gnaw at our walls. We will not see this untroubled view for a long time, if ever.”
