The Stone of Farewell

by Tad Williams

  Sludig amazed them by dropping quickly to a knee. “I will remember,” was all he said.

  “Binbinaqegabenik,” Nunuuika began, “you have already received the greatest gift it is in our capacity to bestow. If she will still have you, we renew our permission for you to marry our youngest daughter. When the Rite of Quickening can be performed next year, you will be joined.”

  Binabik and Sisqi clasped hands and bowed on the step before the Herder and Huntress as words of blessing were said. The ram-faced Spirit Caller came forward. He chanted and sang as he daubed their foreheads with oil, but with what Simon thought was a very dissatisfied air. When Qangolik finished and stalked grumpily back down the steps of the Ice House, the betrothal had been reinstated.

  The Huntress and Herder said a brief personal farewell to the company, Binabik interpreting. Though she smiled and touched his hand with her small, strong fingers, Nunuiika still seemed cold and hard as stone to Simon, sharp and dangerous as her own spearhead. He had to force himself to smile back and retreat slowly when she had finished.

  Qantaqa was waiting for them, curled in a nest of snow outside of Chidsik ub Lingit. The noon sun had disappeared behind a spreading fog; the wind set Simon’s teeth to chattering.

  “Down the mountain we must now go, friend,” Binabik said to him. “I am wishing you and Haestan and Sludig were not so large, but there are no rams strong enough for your riding. It will make our going slower than I would wish.”

  “But where are we going?” Simon asked. “Where is this Stone of Farewell?”

  “All things in their season,” the troll replied. “I will look at my scrolls when we stop tonight, but we should leave now as soon as we can. The mountain passes will be treacherous. I smell more snow upon the wind.”

  “More snow,” Simon repeated, shouldering his pack. More snow.

  6

  The Nameless Dead

  “... So Drukhi found her,”

  Maegwin sang,“Beloved Nenais’u, wind-footed dancer,

  Stretched on the green grass, as silent as stone.

  Her dark eyes sky-watching,

  Only her shining blood gave him answer,

  Her head lay uncradled, her black hair undone.”

  Maegwin drew her hand over her eyes, shielding them from the stinging wind, then leaned forward to rearrange the flowers on her father’s cairn. Already the wind had scattered the violets across the stones; only a few dried petals remained on Gwythinn’s grave nearby. Where had the treacherous summer gone? And when would the flowers bloom again, so she could tend her loved ones’ resting places as they deserved?

  As the wind rattled the skeletal birch trees, she sang again.

  “Long time he held her,

  Through gray-shadowed evening, beneath shamefaced night,

  Matching the hours she had lain there alone.

  His bright eyes unblinking,

  Drukhi sang songs of the East’s timeless light.

  He whispered to her they would wait for the sun.

  “Dawn, golden-handed,

  Caressed but could not warm the nightingale’s child.

  Nenais’u’s swift spirit had fled unhomed.

  Close Drukhi clutched her,

  His voice echoed out through woods and through wild.

  Where two hearts had sounded now beat only one ...”

  She broke off, wondering absently if she had once known the rest of the words. She remembered her nurse singing it to her when she was young, a sad song about the Sithi-folk—“The Peaceful Ones,” as her ancestors had named them. Maegwin did not know the legend behind it. She doubted her old nurse had known, either. It was only that, a sad song from happier times, from her childhood in the Taig ... before her father and brother died.

  She stood, brushing the dirt from the knees of her black skirt, and scattered a few last withered flowers among the slender spears of grass pushing up from Gwythinn’s cairn. As she turned back up the path, clasping her cloak tight against the gnawing wind, she wondered once more why she should not join her brother and father Lluth here in peace on the mountainside. What did life hold for her?

  She knew what Eolair would say. The Count of Nad Mullach would tell her that her people had no one else but Maegwin to inspire and guide them. “Hope,” Eolair often said, in that quiet but fox-clever way of his, “is like the belly-strap on a king’s saddle—a slender thing, but if it snaps the world turns topside-down.”

  Thinking of the count, she felt a rare flash of anger. What could he know—what could anyone know about death who was as alive as Eolair, to whom life seemed a gift from the gods? How could he understand the dreadful weight of waking up each day, knowing that the ones she loved most were gone, that her people were uprooted and friendless, doomed to a slow, humiliating extinction? What gift of the gods was worth the gray burden of pain, the unceasing rut of bleak thoughts?

  Eolair of Nad Mullach came to her often these days, speaking to her as he would to a child. Once, long ago, Maegwin had fallen in love with him, but she had never been so foolish as to believe he might feel for her in turn. Tall as a man, clumsy and blunt in her words, far more like a farmer’s daughter than a princess—who could ever love Maegwin? But now that she and her bewildered young stepmother Inahwen were all that remained of Lluth ubh-Llythinn’s house, now Eolair was concerned.

  Not out of any base motives, though. She laughed out loud and did not like the sound of it. Oh, gods, base motives? Not honorable Count Eolair. That was the thing she hated in him more than anything else: his unrelenting kindness and honor. She was sick to death of pity.

  Besides, even if—impossibly—he could have thought of profiting at such a time, how would joining his fate to hers benefit him in any case? Maegwin was the last daughter of a broken house, the ruler of a shattered nation. The Hernystiri had become wild creatures living in the woodlands of the Grianspog Mountains, driven back to their primeval caves by the whirl-wind of destruction brought down on them by High King Elias and his Rimmersman tool, Skali of Kaldskryke.

  So perhaps Eolair was right. Perhaps she did owe her life to her people. She was the last of Lluth’s blood—a thin tie to a happier past, but the only such link that the survivors of Hernysadharc retained. She would live, then—but whoever would have thought that merely living could become a burdensome duty!

  As Maegwin made her way along the steep trail, something wet touched her face. She looked up. A host of tiny spots swarmed against the leaden sky. Another bit of wetness flecked her.

  Snow. The realization made her cold heart even colder. Snow in midsummer, in Tiyagar-month. Brynioch of the Skies and all the other gods have truly turned their backs on the Hernystiri.

  A single sentry, a boy of perhaps ten summers with a red and dripping nose, greeted her as she entered the camp. A few fur-wrapped children played on the mossy rocks before the cavern, trying to catch the now fast-falling snowflakes on their tongues. They scrambled back, wide-eyed, as she walked past with her black skirts swirling in the wind.

  They know the princess is mad, she thought sourly. Anyone would. The princess talks to herself, but to no one else for days at a time. The princess speaks of nothing but death. Of course the princess is mad.

  She thought it might be good to smile for the fearful-looking children, but as she looked down at their dirty faces and their tattered rags of clothing, she decided that such an effort might frighten them further. Instead, Maegwin hurried past into the cave.

  Am I mad? she wondered suddenly. Is this crushing weight what madness feels like? These heavy thoughts that make my head feel like the arms of a drowning swimmer, struggling, failing... ?

  The wide cavern was largely empty. Old Craobhan, recovering slowly from wounds received in the futile defense of Hernysadharc, lay by the banked fire talking quietly to Arnoran, who had been one of her father Lluth’s favorite harpers. They looked up as she approached. She could see them both studying her, trying to divine her mood. As Arnoran began to rise, she waved him b
ack down.

  “It’s snowing,” she said.

  Craobhan shrugged. The ancient knight was nearly bald but for a few wisps of white hair, his scalp a puzzle of delicate blue veins. “Not good, Lady. That’s not good. We’ve little livestock, but we’re close-quartered in these few caves as it is, and that’s with most of us outside during the day.”

  “More crowding.” Arnoran shook his head. He was not nearly as old as Craobhan, but was even more frail. “More angry folk.”

  “Do you know ‘The Leavetaking Stone’?” Maegwin asked the harper suddenly. “It’s an old song about the Sithi, about someone named Nenais’u dying. ”

  “I think I knew it once, long ago,” Arnoran said, squinting his eyes as he stared into the fire and tried to think. “It is a very old song—very, very old.”

  “You don’t have to sing the words,” Maegwin said. She settled cross-legged beside him, her skirt tight as a drumhead between her knees. “Just play the melody for me.”

  Arnoran scrabbled for his harp, then played a few tentative notes. “I’m not sure I remember how to ... ”

  “It doesn’t matter. Try.” She wished she could think of something to say that would bring a smile to their faces, even for a moment. Did her people deserve to see her always in mourning? “It will be good,” she said at last, “to think of other times.”

  Arnoran nodded and plucked briefly at his strings, eyes closed, his quarry easiest sought in darkness. He finally began a delicate air, full of strange notes that quavered just on the edge of dissonance without ever crossing over. As he played, Maegwin, too, shut her eyes. She could once again hear the voice of her nurse from long ago, telling her the story of Drukhi and Nenais’u—what strange names they had in old ballads!—telling of their love and tragic deaths, their warring families.

  The music went on for a long while. Maegwin’s thought swirled with images of the distant and not-so-distant past. She could see pallid Drukhi bent in grief, swearing vengeance—but he wore her brother Gwythinn’s anguished face. And Nenais’u, sprawled lifeless on the greensward: was that not Maegwin herself?

  Arnoran had stopped. Maegwin opened her eyes, not knowing how long the music had been silent.

  “When Drukhi died avenging his wife,” she said as if continuing an earlier conversation, “his family could not live with Nenais’u’s family anymore.”

  Arnoran and Craobhan exchanged glances. She ignored them and went on.

  “I remember the story now. My nurse used to sing the song to me. Drukhi’s family fled away from their enemies, went far away to live apart.” After a pause, she turned to look at Craobhan. “When will Eolair and the others return from their expedition?”

  The old man counted on his fingers. “They should be back by the new moon, in a little less than a fortnight.”

  Maegwin stood up. “Some of these caverns run deep into the mountain’s heart,” she said. “Is that not true?”

  “There were always deep places in the Grianspog,” Craobhan nodded slowly, trying to understand her. “And some were delved even deeper, for mining.”

  “Then we will start exploring tomorrow at dawn. By the time the count and his men come back, we will be ready to move.”

  “Move?” Craobhan squinted, surprised. “Move where, Lady Maegwin?”

  “Farther into the mountains,” she said. “It came to me as Arnoran sang. We Hernystiri are like Drukhi’s family in the song: we cannot live here anymore.” She rubbed her hands together, trying to ward off the chill of the cavern. “King Elias has destroyed his brother Josua. Now there is nothing and no one left to drive Skali away.”

  “But my lady!” Arnoran said, startled into interrupting her. “Still there is Eolair, and with him many other brave Hernystirmen remaining...”

  “—There is no one to drive Skali away,” she continued harshly, “and the Thane of Kaldskryke will doubtless find Hernystir’s meadows a more hospitable home in this freezing summer than his own lands in Rimmersgard. If we stay here, we shall be trapped eventually, slaughtered before our caves like rabbits.” Her voice grew stronger. “But if we go deeper, they will never find us. Then Hernystir will survive, far away from the madness of Elias and Skali and the rest!”

  Old Craobhan looked up at her worriedly. She knew he was wondering what everyone else wondered: had Maegwin been unbalanced by her losses—by all their losses?

  Perhaps I have, she thought, but not in this. In this, I am sure I am right.

  “But, Lady Maegwin,” the old counselor said, “how will we eat? What will we do for cloth, for grain... ?”

  “You said it yourself,” she responded. “The mountains are shot through with tunnels. If we learn and explore them, we can live deep in stone and be safe from Skali, yet come out wherever we wish—to hunt, to gather stores, even to raid Kaldskryke’s own camps if we choose!”

  “But ... but ...” The old man turned to Arnoran, but the harper could offer no support. “But what will your mother Inahwen think of such a plan?” he said at last.

  Maegwin snorted in contempt. “My stepmother spends her days sitting with the other women, complaining about how hungry she is. Inahwen is less use than a child.”

  “Then what will Eolair think? What of the brave count?”

  Maegwin stared at Craobhan’s shaking hands, his rheumy old eyes. For a moment she felt sorry for him, but that did not quell her anger. “What the Count of Nad Mullach thinks, he may tell us—but remember, Craobhan: he does not command me. He has taken the oath to my father’s house. Eolair will do what I say!”

  She walked away, leaving the two men whispering beside the fire. The biting chill outside the cave could not cool her heated face, even though she stood in the snowy wind for a long time.

  Earl Guthwulf of Utanyeat awakened to hear the Hayholt’s midnight bell, high above in Green Angel Tower, shuddering into silence.

  Guthwulf closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to return, but slumber was elusive. Picture after picture appeared before his shuttered gaze, images of battles and tournaments, the dry repetitions of court etiquette, the chaos of the hunt. Foremost in every scene was King Elias’ face—the flash of panicky relief, quickly hidden, that had greeted Guthwulf as he broke through a ring of attackers to rescue his friend during the Thrithings wars; the blank, black stare with which Elias received confirmation of his wife Hylissa’s death; and most disturbing of all, the secretive, gleeful, yet at the same moment shamefaced stare that the king now wore whenever he and Guthwulf met.

  The earl sat up, cursing. Sleep had fled and would not return soon.

  He did not light the lamp, but dressed in darkness, relying on the sprinkle of starlight from the narrow window to help him step over his manservant, who lay dozing on the floor at the foot of Guthwulf’s bed. He pulled a cloak over his nightshirt and donned a pair of slippers, then made his way out into the corridor. Addled with such foolish, troubled thoughts, he decided he might as well walk for an hour.

  The halls of the Hayholt were empty, with not a guard or servant in sight. Here and there torches burned fitfully in their wall sconces, consumed almost to the socket. The halls were untenanted, but still faint murmurs swept through the darkened passageways—voice of sentries on the walls, the earl decided, rendered bodiless and spectral by distance.

  Guthwulf shivered. What I need is a woman, he thought. A warm body in the bed, a prattling voice to silence when I wish and to fill the quiet when I let. This monkish living would unman anyone.

  He turned and strode down the hall, heading for the servant’s quarters. There was a saucy, curly-headed chambermaid who wouldn’t say no—hadn’t she told him her intended had died at Bullback Hill, that she was all alone?

  If that one is in mourning—hah! Then I will become a monk!

  The great door to the servant’s quarters was locked. Guthwulf snarled and tugged, but the bolt was shot on the inner side. He contemplated banging on the heavy oak with his fist until someone came to open it—someone who would swif
tly feel Utanyeat’s wrath—but decided against it. Something about Hayholt’s silent corridors made him unwilling to attract attention. Besides, he told himself, the curly-haired wench was not worth the beating down of doors.

  He stepped away, rubbing his bristled chin, and saw something pale moving at the turning of the hall, near the edge of his vision. He whirled, startled, but found nothing there. He walked a few steps and leaned around the corner. The hall beyond was also empty. A breathless whisper drifted along the passageway—a woman’s low voice, muttering as if in pain. Guthwulf turned on his heel and stalked back toward his chamber.

  Night tricks, he grumbled to himself. Doors locked, corridors empty—the whole damnable, Bleeding Usires castle might as well be deserted!

  He stopped, suddenly, looking around. What hallway was this? He did not recognize the polished tiles, the oddly-shaped banners hanging shadowed on the dark wall. Unless he had made a wrong turning and lost his way, this should be the chapel’s walking-hall. He retraced his way back to the forking of the hall and turned, taking the other route. Now, although this new corridor was featureless but for a few window-slits, he was sure he had found his way once more.

  He grabbed at the base of one of the windows and pulled himself up, hanging by his strong arms. Outside would be either the front or side of the chapel courtyard....

  Startled, Guthwulf let go and slid the short distance back to the ground. His knees buckled, dropping him to the floor. He rolled quickly to his feet, heart pounding, and reached for the window slit to haul himself up again.

  It was the chapel courtyard, sunk in deep night, just as it should be.

  But what then had he seen the first time? There had been white walls and the forest of looming spires that he had first taken for trees, then recognized in an instant later as towers—a forest of slim minarets, ivory needles that caught the moonlight and glowed as if full-charged with it! The Hayholt had no such towers!