by Tad Williams
Simon tore his gaze from Binabik’s. “That’s what I said. How do you fight a god? We’ll be crushed like ants.” Another stone went flying out into darkness.
“Perhaps. But if we are not trying, then there is no chance of anything but this antlike crushing, so we must try. There is always something beyond even the worst of bad times. We may die, but the dying of some may mean living for others. That is not much to cling to, but it is a true thing in any case.”
The troll moved a little way down the path and took a seat on another stone. The sky was darkening swiftly. “Also,” Binabik said gravely, “it may or may not be foolishness to pray to the gods, but there is certainly being no wisdom in cursing them.”
Simon said nothing. They passed some time in silence. At last Binabik twisted loose the knife end of his walking stick, allowing the bone flute inside the hollow stick to slide free. He blew a few experimental notes, then began to play a slow, melancholy air. The dissonant music, echoing down the mountainside in darkness, seemed to sing with the voice of Simon’s own loneliness. He shivered, feeling the wind through his tattered cloak. His dragon-scar stung fiercely.
“Are you still my friend, Binabik?” he said at last.
The troll took the flute from his lips. “To death and beyond, Simon-friend.” He began to play once more.
When the flutesong was finished, Binabik whistled for Qantaqa and walked back up the path toward camp. Simon followed him.
The fire had burned low and the wineskin was making the last of many trips around the circle when Simon finally worked up the courage to approach Sludig. The Rimmersman was sharpening the head of his Qanuc spear with a whetstone; he continued for some while as Simon stood before him. At last he looked up.
“Yes?” His voice was gruff.
“I’m sorry, Sludig. I should not have said what I did. You were only being kind.”
The Rimmersman stared at him for a moment, a certain cold look in his eyes. At last his expression softened. “You may think as you like, Simon, but do not speak such blasphemy of the One God before me.”
“I’m sorry. I’m only a kitchen boy.”
“Kitchen boy!” Sludig’s laugh was harsh. He looked searchingly into Simon’s eyes, then laughed again with better humor. “You really think so, don’t you! You’re a fool, Simon.” He stood up, chuckling and shaking his head. “A kitchen boy! A kitchen boy who swords dragons and slays giants. Look at you! You are taller than I am, and Sludig is not small!”
Simon stared at the Rimmersman, surprised. It was true, of course: he stood half a hand taller than Sludig. “But you’re strong!” Simon protested. “You’re a grown man.”
“As you are fast becoming. And you are stronger than you know. You must see the truth, Simon. You are a boy no more. You cannot act as though you are one still.” The Rimmersman contemplated him for a long moment. “As a matter of fact, it is dangerous not to train you better. You have been lucky to survive several bad fights, but luck is fickle. You need sword and spear teaching; I will give them to you. Haestan would have wanted it, and it will give us something to work at on our long trip to your Stone of Farewell.”
“Then you forgive me?” Simon was embarrassed by this talk of manhood.
“If I must.” The Rimmersman sat down again. “Now go and sleep. We have a long walk again tomorrow, then you and I will drill for some time after we make camp.”
Simon felt more than a little resentful about being sent to bed, but did not want to risk another argument. As it was, it had been difficult for him to come back to the campfire and eat with the others. He knew they had all been watching him, wondering if he would have another outburst.
He retreated to the bed he had made of springy branches and leaves and wrapped himself tightly in his cloak. He would be happy to be in a cave, or down off the mountain entirely, where they would not be exposed so nakedly to the wind.
The bright, cold stars seemed to quiver in the sky overhead. Simon stared up at them through unfathomable distances, letting thoughts chase themselves through his head until sleep came at last.
The sound of the trolls singing to their rams woke Simon from a dream. He dimly remembered a little gray cat and a feeling of being trapped by someone or something, but the dream was fading fast. He opened his eyes to the thin morning light, then closed them quickly. He did not want to get up and face the day.
The singing went on, accompanied by the clinking of harnesses. He had seen this ritual so many times since leaving Mintahoq that he could picture it in his head as vividly as if he was watching. The trolls were cinching up the straps and filling the saddlebags, guttural yet high-pitched voices busy with their seemingly endless chant. From time to time they would pause, stroking their mounts, currying the rams’ thick fleeces, leaning in close to sing softly and intimately while the sheep blinked their yellow, slotted eyes. Soon it would be time for salty tea and dried meat and quiet, laughing conversation.
Except, of course, there would not be as much laughter today, the third morning since the hillside battle with the giants. Binabik’s folk were a cheerful people, but a little bit of the frost lodged in Simon’s heart seemed to have touched them, too. A folk that laughed at cold and at dizzying, breakneck falls at every turning of every trail had been chilled by a shadow they could not understand—not that Simon understood much himself.
He had spoken truly to Binabik: somehow, he had thought things would get better once they found the great sword Thorn. The blade’s power and strangeness was so palpable it seemed impossible that it would not make a change in the struggle against King Elias and his dark ally. But perhaps the sword by itself was not enough. Perhaps whatever the rhyme had spoken of would not happen until all three swords had been brought together.
Simon groaned. Even worse, perhaps the queer rhyme from Nisses’ book meant nothing at all. Didn’t people say Nisses was a madman? Even Morgenes had not known what the rhyme truly meant.
When frost doth grow on Claves’ bell
And Shadows walk upon the road
When water blackens in the Well
Three Swords must come again
When Bukken from the Earth do creep
And Hunën from the heights descend
When Nightmare throttles peaceful Sleep
Three Swords must come again
To turn the stride of treading Fate
To clear the fogging Mists of Time
If Early shall resist Too Late
Three Swords must come again ...
Well, Bukken had certainly crept from the earth, but the memory of the squealing diggers was not one he wanted to pursue. Ever since the night of their attack on Isgrimnur’s camp near St. Hoderund’s, Simon had never felt the same way about the solid earth beneath his feet. That was the only advantage he could think of to traveling over Sikkihoq’s unforgiving stone.
As for the rhyme’s mention of giants, with Haestan’s death so fresh in his mind that seemed like a cruel joke. The monsters hadn’t even needed to descend from the heights, because Simon and his friends had been foolish enough to venture into their mountain territory. But the Hunën had left their high refuges, which Simon knew as well as anybody. He and Miriamele—the thought of her brought a sudden yearning—had faced one in Aldheorte Forest, only a week’s ride from the very gates of Erchester.
The rest did not make much sense to him, but none of it seemed impossible: Simon did not know who Claves was, or where his bell might be, but it seemed that soon there would be frost everywhere. Even so, what could the three swords do?
I wielded Thorn, he thought. For a moment he felt the power of it once more. In that instant, I was a great knight ... wasn’t I?
But had it been Thorn, or had it only been that he had stood up and put fear aside? If he had done the same with a less mighty sword, would he have been any less brave? He would have been dead, of course ... just like Haestan, just like An’nai, Morgenes, Grimmric ... but did that matter? Didn’t great heroes die? Hadn’t Cam
aris, Thorn’s true master, died in the angry seas... ?
Simon’s thoughts were wandering. He felt himself sliding back toward sleep. He almost let it happen, but he knew it would only be a short while before Binabik or Sludig would be shaking him awake. Last night they had both said he was a man, or nearly so. Just for once he didn’t want to be awakened last, a child allowed to sleep while the grown-ups talked.
He opened his eyes, letting the light in, and groaned again. Uncurling himself from the cloak, he picked loose twigs and clusters of pine needles from his clothing, then shook the cloak out before quickly wrapping it around himself once more. Suddenly unwilling to be parted even for a short while from his few miserable possessions, he picked up his pack, which had pillowed his head, and took it with him.
The morning was chilly, a light scatter of snow in the air. Stretching the kinks out of his muscles, he walked slowly to the fire, where Binabik sat talking to Sisqi. The pair were seated side by side before the low, translucent flames, their hands clasped. Thorn lay propped on a tree stump beside them, a dull black bar that reflected no light. From behind, the two trolls looked like children talking earnestly about a game they might play or an interesting hole they might explore, and Simon felt a strong protective urge toward them. A moment later, as he realized they were probably discussing how to keep Binabik’s people alive if the winter did not abate, or what they should do if more giants found them, the illusion shredded and blew away. They were not children, and if not for their bravery he would be dead.
Binabik turned and saw him staring. The little man smiled a greeting as he listened intently to Sisqi’s rapid Qanuc words. Simon grunted, bending to take the lump of cheese and heel of bread that Binabik pointed out, set on a stone near the fire. He took his meal and went to sit by himself.
The sun, still hidden from view behind Sikkihoq, was not visible. The mountain’s shadow lay over the campsite, but the tops of the mountains in the west glowed with the sun’s rising light. The White Waste below was sunk in gray dawn-shadow. Simon took a bite of dry bread and chewed as he stared out across the Waste at the distant line of forest which lay on the horizon like dark cream in a milk pail.
Qantaqa, who had been lying at Binabik’s side, got up, stretched, and padded silently toward Simon. Her muzzle was red-flecked with the lifeblood of whatever poor animal had surrendered itself for her morning feeding, but the last traces were even now being scoured away by her long pink tongue. She approached Simon briskly, ears up, as if on some clearly-defined errand, but when she arrived she only stood for a moment to let him scratch her, then curled up beside him, exchanging one napping spot for another. Her bulk was such that when it pushed against his leg he was almost forced off his stone seat.
He finished his meal and opened the flap of his pack, rooting for his water bottle. A bright tangle of blue came up with it, wound on the carrying cord.
It was the scarf Miriamele had given him, the one he had worn around his neck on the way up the dragon-mountain. Jiriki had removed it while nursing him back to health, but had thoughtfully stowed it with the rest of Simon’s meager belongings. Now it lay in his hands like a stripe of sky; the sight brought the sting of almost-tears to his eyes. Where in the great world was Miriamele? Geloë, in their brief moment of contact, had not known. Where in Osten Ard was the princess wandering? Did she ever think of Simon? And if she did, what did she think?
Probably: Why did I give my nice scarf to a dirty kitchen boy? He enjoyed a brief twinge of self-pity. Well, he was not just any scullion. As Sludig said, he was a kitchen boy who sworded dragons and slew giants. Just at this moment, however, he would rather be a kitchen boy in a nice warm kitchen in the Hayholt and nothing more.
Simon tied Miriamele’s scarf about his neck, tucking the ends under the collar of his tattered shirt. He took a swallow of water, then rummaged in the pack again, but could not find what he was looking for. He remembered after a moment that he had put it in his cloak pocket and felt a moment of panic. When would he learn to be more careful? It could have easily fallen out a hundred times. He was happily reassured to feel its outline through the cloth. After some digging, he lifted it out into the morning light.
Jiriki’s mirror was icy cold. He buffed it on his sleeve, then held it up, staring at his reflection. His beard had come in more thickly since he had last surveyed himself. The reddish hairs, almost brown in the dim light, were beginning to obscure the line of his jaw—but the same old nose poked out above the beard, and the same blue eyes stared back at him. Becoming a man, it seemed, would not mean becoming anything other than a slightly different type of Simon, which was a faintly saddening thought.
The beard did hide most of his spots, so there was something for which to be grateful. But for a blemish or two on his forehead, he thought he looked like a reasonable approximation of a young man. He tilted the glass, staring at the white streak burned into his reddish locks by the dragon’s blood. Did it make him look older? More manly? It was hard to tell. His hair was curling on his shoulders, though. He should ask Sludig or someone to cut it shorter, as many of the king’s knights had worn theirs. But why bother? They would probably all be dead at the hands of giants before it grew long enough to get in his way.
He lowered the mirror to his lap, staring down into it as though it were a pool of water. The frame was finally beginning to warm beneath his fingers. What was it Jiriki had told him? That the mirror would be no more than a mere looking glass unless Simon needed him? That was it. Jiriki had said that Simon could talk to him ... with the mirror? In the mirror? Through the mirror? It had not been clear at all, but for a moment Simon very much wanted to call for Jiriki’s help. The thought crept over him unbidden, but its claws were not easily dislodged. He would call Jiriki and tell him that they needed help. The Storm King was an enemy that mortals alone could not defeat.
But the Storm King is not here, Simon thought, and Jiriki knows everything about the situation that he needs to. What would I tell him? That he should come running back to the mountains because a kitchen boy is scared and wants to go home?
Simon stared into the mirror, remembering when it had shown him Miriamele. The princess had been on a ship, staring out over the railing at cloudy skies, gray and cloudy skies ...
As he watched his own face in the upturned mirror, it suddenly seemed that he could again see that misty sky, tatters of cloud floating across the mirror’s surface obscuring his features. A fog seemed to be drifting past him, and he could no longer separate himself from the image in the looking glass. He wavered dizzily, as though he were falling into the reflection. The noises of the camp diminished and then disappeared as the mist became a solid and featureless curtain of gray. It was all around him, shutting away the light ...
The gray mist slowly dissolved, like steam escaping from beneath a pot lid, but as it cleared he saw that the face before him was no longer his own. Staring back at him through narrowed eyes was a woman—a beautiful woman who was both old and young at the same time. The lines of her face were shifting, as though she gazed up through rippling water. Her hair was white beneath a circlet of gemlike flowers; her stare burned like molten gold, the eyes bright and reflective as a cat’s. She was old, he somehow knew, very old, but there was little about her face that spoke of age, only a tightness in the line of her jaw and mouth, a brittleness to her features as though the skin was stretched close against the bone. Her eyes were glorious with ancient knowledge and imprisoned memory. Her high cheekbones and smooth forehead made her look like a statue ...
A statue... ? His thoughts were a jumble, but Simon knew he had seen a statue that looked like this woman ... he had seen such a face ... seen it in ... in ...
“Please answer me,” she said. “I come to you a second time. Do not ignore me again! Please forget your ancient grievances, however justified. Ill will has stood too long between our house and that of Ruyan Vé. Now we have a common enemy. I need your help!”
Her voice was faint in his h
ead, as though it echoed down a long corridor, but even so, she wielded a commanding power—like Valada Geloë’s, but in some way deeper, smoother, with none of the witch woman’s rough but reassuring edges. This one was as different from Geloë as the forest-woman herself was from Simon.
“I do not have the strength I once wielded,” the woman pleaded. “And what little I have may be needed against the Shadow in the North—and you must know of that shadow. Tinukeda’yei! Children of the Garden, please answer!” The woman’s voice faded on an imploring note. There was a long moment of silence, but if reply was made, Simon did not hear it. Suddenly, the flake-gold eyes seemed to see him for the first time. The musical voice abruptly took on a note of suspicion and concern. “Who is this? A mortal child?”
Frozen in alarm, Simon said nothing. The face in the mirror stared, then Simon could feel something reaching out to him through the mist, a force as diffuse but powerful as the sun hidden behind clouds.
“Tell me. Who are you?”
Simon tried to answer, not because he wanted to, but because it was impossible not to try with such compelling words echoing in his head. Something prevented him.
“You are traveling in places not meant for you,” the voice said. “You do not belong here. Who are you?”
He struggled, but found that something was throttling his responses as surely as fingers on his throat would choke off words. The face before him rippled as a pallid blue light began to shine through it, fraying the image of the beautiful old woman. A wave of cold passed through him that it seemed might turn his very innards to black ice.
