The Stone of Farewell

by Tad Williams

  He rolled onto his back, staring up into the violet sky. There was a resounding crack and rumble from above. A flurry of raindrops danced on his fevered skin. Tiamak smiled as he once more fell away into darkness.

  Isgrimnur got up from the bench and strode to the fireplace, turning to present his rump to the blaze. He would be off to bed in a short while, so he might as well soak up all the warmth he could before he had to return to that be-damned, arse-freezing cell.

  He listened to the muted sounds of conversation that filled the common room, marveling at the diversity of accents and languages. The Sancellan Aedonitis was like a little world of its own, even more so than the Hayholt, but varied as the talk had been all evening, he was not an inch closer to solving any of his problems.

  The duke had paced the near-endless halls all morning and afternoon, keeping an eye open for a suspicious pair of monks or anything else that might ease his predicament. His search had been fruitless, except to remind him of the size and power of Mother Church. He had become so frustrated by his inability to discover whether Miriamele was here or not that as the afternoon waned he had left the Sancellan Aedonitis entirely.

  He took his supper in an inn partway down the Sancelline Hill, then walked quietly in the Hall of Fountains, something he had not done for many years. He and Gutrun had visited the fountains shortly before their marriage, when they had come to Nabban on a nuptial pilgrimage traditional in Isgrimnur’s family. The glistening play of water and its continual music had filled him with a kind of pleasant melancholy; although his longing and worry for his wife were great, for the first time in weeks he had been able to think of her without being overwhelmed by pain. She must be safe—and Isorn, too. He would just believe it, for what else could he do? The rest of the family, his other son and two daughters, were in the capable hands of old Thane Tonnrud in Skoggey. Sometimes, when all was uncertain, a man just had to trust in the goodness of God.

  After his walk, Isgrimnur had returned to the Sancellan, his mind calmed and ready to turn to his task once more. His companions from the morning meal had come in for a while but had left early, old Septes explaining that they kept “country hours.” The duke had sat and listened long to the talk of others, but to no avail.

  Much of the gossip, although couched in careful terms, seemed to be about whether Lector Ranessin would legitimize Benigaris’ succession to Nabban’s ducal seat. Not that anything Lector Ranessin might say would actually lift Benigaris’ hind end from the throne, but the Benidrivine House and Mother Church had long ago reached a delicate balance concerning Nabban’s governance. There was much worry that the lector would do something rash, like denounce Benigaris on the basis of the rumors that the new duke had betrayed his father, or had not defended him properly in the battle before Naglimund, but most of the Nabbanai priests—the Sancellan’s home-grown men—were quick to assure their foreign brethren that Ranessin was an honorable and diplomatic man. The lector, they promised, would certainly do the right thing.

  Duke Isgrimnur flapped the hem of his cassock, trying to force a little warm air up beneath the garment. If only the lector’s honor and diplomacy could solve everybody’s problems ...

  Of course! That’s it! Damn my ignorant eyes for not seeing it before! Isgrimnur smacked a broad hand on his thigh and chuckled fruitily. I’ll talk to the lector. Whatever he thinks, my secret will be safe with him. I’m sure Miriamele’s will, too. If anyone has the authority to find her here without raising a fuss, it’s His Sacredness.

  The duke felt much better after this solution had presented itself. He turned and rubbed his hands before the flames a few more times, then set out across the polished wooden floor of the common room.

  A small crowd at one of the arched doorways caught his attention. Several monks were standing in the open door; several others stood on the balcony outside, cold air bleeding in past them. Many of the common room’s other inhabitants were protesting, or had already given up and moved nearer the fire. Isgrimnur wandered over, his hands tucked up in his voluminous sleeves as he peered over the shoulder of the hindmost monk.

  “What is it?” he asked. He could see a couple of dozen men milling in the courtyard below, half of them on horseback. It seemed nothing unusual: the figures moved calmly and unhurriedly, those on foot apparently the Sancellan’s guards, greeting new arrivals.

  “It’s the High King’s counselor,” the monk standing before him said. “That Pryrates fellow. He used to be here once—in the Sancellan Aedonitis, I mean. They say he’s a clever one.”

  Isgrimnur clenched his teeth, choking down a shout of anger and surprise. He felt a hot breath of fury moving within him and stood up on his toes to see. There indeed was the priest’s tiny, hairless head bobbing atop a scarlet cloak that looked orange in the gateyard torchlight. The duke found himself wondering how he could get close enough to stick a knife into the sneaking traitor. Ah, sweet God, but that would be satisfying!

  But what good would it do, fool, besides the admitted good of removing Pryrates from this earth? It would not find Miriamele, and I would never escape to search for her after the deed was done. Not to mention what would happen if Pryrates did not die—p’raps he has some sorcerous shield.

  No, it would not do. But if he could get in to see the lector, he would give Ranessin an earful about that devil’s bastard of a red priest and his hellish counseling of the High King. But what was Pryrates doing here of all places?

  Isgrimnur tramped off to bed, thoughts of mayhem denied swimming through his mind.

  Twenty cubits below, Pryrates looked up to the common room balcony as though he had heard someone calling his name, his black eyes glitteringly intent, his pale head gleaming like a toadstool in the shadows of the gateyard. The spectators in the common room, separated by distance and darkness, could not see the smile that curled across the priest’s gaunt face, but they could feel the sudden draught of chill air that swept down on the Sancellan Aedonitis, setting the guards’ cloaks to billowing. Goosefleshed, the monks on the balcony quickly made their way inside, pushing the door shut behind them before hastening back to the fire.

  12

  Birdsflight

  Simon and his companions left Binabik’s people behind and rode southeast along the base of the Trollfells, clinging to the foothills like a nervous child unwilling to wade into deeper water. On their right, the white emptiness of the Waste stretched away into the distance.

  In the middle of the gray afternoon, as they walked their horses across a thin trail of stones that made an uncertain crossing over one of Blue Mud Lake’s inlet streams, a wedge of cranes flew overhead, gabbling and honking until it seemed they would rattle the sky. The birds swerved above the riders’ heads, wings thrusting, then banked as one and flew into the south.

  “Three months it is before they should be making that journey,” Binabik said ruefully. “It is wrong, very wrong. Spring and summer have been retreated like a beaten army.”

  “It doesn’t seem much colder than it did when we were on our way to Urmsheim,” Simon offered, clutching at Homefinder’s reins.

  “That was in late spring,” Sludig grunted, working to keep his footing on the water-slicked stones. “Now we are in midsummer.”

  Simon thought about that. “Oh,” he said.

  They stopped on the stream’s far bank to share a few of the provisions that Binabik’s folk had sent with them. The sun was gray and remote. Simon wondered where he would be when another summer came—if another summer came.

  “Can the Storm King make it winter forever?” he asked.

  Binabik shrugged. “That is not in my knowledge. He has been making winter very well during these Yuven- and Tiyagar-months. Let us not think of it, Simon. It will not be making our task any easier to worry over such things. Either the Master of Storms will triumph or he will not. There is nothing else for doing with what we have been given.”

  Simon swung himself clumsily into his saddle. He envied Sludig’s practiced grac
e. “I’m not talking about stopping it,” he said testily. “I just wondered what he was going to do.”

  “If I could know,” Binabik sighed, “I would not be cursing myself for an unfit student of my good master.” He whistled for Qantaqa.

  They stopped again that afternoon while some daylight still remained to scavenge for firewood and give Sludig some time to instruct Simon. The Rimmersman found a long tree limb beneath the snow and broke it in half, binding a strip of rag around one end of each piece for an easier grip.

  “Can’t we use real swords?” Simon asked. “I’m not going to be fighting anyone with wood.”

  Sludig raised a skeptical eyebrow. “So? You would prefer slipping and sliding on wet ground while fighting a trained swordsman with real blades? Using this black sword, perhaps, that you cannot lift half the time?” He indicated Thorn with a jerk of his head. “I know it is cold and dreary on this journey, Simon, but are you really so anxious to die?”

  Simon stared hard. “I’m not so clumsy. You told me so yourself. And Haestan taught me some things.”

  “In a fortnight?” Sludig’s look turned to amusement. “You are brave, Simon, and lucky, too—a trait not to be overlooked—but I am trying to make you a better fighter. The next thing you fight against may not be a brutish Hunë but an armored man. Now, take your new sword and hit me.”

  He kicked the branch to Simon and lifted his own weapon. Simon held the tree limb before him and circled slowly. The Rimmersman was right: the snowy ground was treacherous. Before he could even take a swing at his instructor, his feet went out from under him and he toppled heavily onto his rump. He remained there, scowling furiously.

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” Sludig said, taking a step forward and laying the end of his cudgel against Simon’s chest. “When you fall down—and men do trip and stumble in battle—make sure and keep your blade up or you may not live to resume the fight.”

  Seeing the sense in this, Simon grunted and shoved the Rimmersman’s branch away with his hand before getting onto his knees. He then rose to his feet once more and resumed his crablike circling.

  “Why are you doing that?” Sludig said. “Why do you not swing at me?”

  “Because you’re faster than I am.”

  “Good. You are right.” As he finished speaking, Sludig snapped his cudgel out, landing a smarting blow below Simon’s ribs. “But you must stay balanced at all times. I caught you with your feet crossed one over the other.” He aimed another blow, but this time Simon was able to twist his body out of the way, then return a swing of his own which Sludig deflected toward the ground.

  “Now you are learning, Warrior Simon!” Binabik called. He sat beside the young fire, scratching Qantaqa’s neck as he watched the cudgel-play. It was hard to tell whether it was due to the scratching or to the spectacle of Simon being thrashed, but the wolf seemed to be enjoying herself immensely: her tongue hung from her grinning mouth and her brushy tail twitched in pleasure.

  Simon and the Rimmersman worked for about an hour. Simon did not land a single blow, but received quite a few in return. When he at last flopped down to rest on a flat stone by the fire-circle, he was more than willing to take a swallow of kangkang from Binabik’s bag. He was willing to take a second swallow as well, and would have taken a third, but Binabik retrieved the skin bag.

  “I would be doing no friendliness if I let you drink yourself drunken, Simon,” the troll said firmly.

  “It’s just because my ribs ache.”

  “You have youth and will be fast healing,” Binabik replied. “I am, in a way, in responsibility for your care.”

  Simon made a face but did not argue. It was nice that someone cared about him, he supposed, even if he did not entirely agree with the form that caring took.

  Two more days of cold riding along the skirts of the Trollfells—as well as two more evenings of what the recipient began to think of as “scullion smacking”—did not do much to brighten Simon’s view of the world. Many times during his instruction, as he sat on the soggy ground feeling some new part of his body throb into painful prominence, he considered telling Sludig he was no longer interested, but the memory of Haestan’s pale face inside his winding cloth forced him onto his feet once more. The guardsman had wanted Simon to learn these things, to be able to defend himself and also to help defend others. Haestan had never been able to quite explain the way he felt—the Erkynlander had not been a man given to aimless talking—but he had often said that “strong folk a-bullyin’ th’weak” was not right.

  Simon thought back on Fengbald, Elias’ ally. He had taken a troop of armored men and burned down a district of his own earldom, slaughtering with a free hand because the guild of weavers had flouted his will. It made Simon feel a little sick to remember how he had admired Fengbald and his handsome armor. Bullies, that was the proper name for the Earl of Falshire and his like—Pryrates, too, although the red priest was a bully of a subtler and more frightening sort. Simon sensed that Pryrates did not so much revel in his ability to crush those who opposed him, as Duke Fengbald and others like him did; rather, the priest used his strength with a kind of thoughtless cruelty, heeding no obstacles between himself and his unknown goals. But whichever was true, it was bullying all the same.

  On more than one occasion the memory of the hairless priest was enough to bring Simon back up from the ground, swinging fiercely. Sludig would back off, eyes narrowed in concentration, until he could control Simon’s fury in a way that would force the youth back into the lesson once more. The thought of Pryrates reminded Simon of why he must learn to fight—not that sword skill would be of use against the alchemist, but it might keep him alive long enough to get at Pryrates once more. The priest had many crimes to answer for, but the death of Doctor Morgenes and Simon’s banishment from his own home were reasons enough to keep Pryrates’ face before Simon’s eyes, even as he crossed staves with Sludig in the snows of the White Waste.

  Shortly after the dawning of the fourth day since they had left Blue Mud Lake, Simon awakened shivering beneath the flimsy shelter of lashed-together branches in which the foursome had spent the night. Qantaqa, who had been lying across his legs, had gone out to rejoin Binabik. The loss of her furry warmth was enough to bring Simon out into the crystalline morning light, teeth chattering as he brushed pine needles from his hair.

  Sludig was nowhere in sight, but Binabik sat on a snowy stone beside the remains of the previous night’s fire, staring into the eastern sky as though contemplating the direct light of the sun. Simon turned to follow the line of Binabik’s gaze, but could see nothing but the pale sun itself crawling up past the last peaks of the Trollfells.

  Qantaqa, lying at the troll’s feet, raised her head briefly as Simon approached crunchingly through the snow, then lay her shaggy head back down on her paws once more.

  “Binabik? Are you well?” Simon asked.

  The troll seemed not to hear him for a moment, then turned slowly, a slight smile creasing his face. “A good morning to you, Simon-friend,” he said. “I am feeling completely well.”

  “Oh. I just ... you were staring.”

  “Look.” Binabik extended a stubby finger from the sleeve of his jacket, pointing into the east.

  Simon turned to look once more, shading his eyes. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Be looking more closely. Look to the last peak, standing on your right hand. There.” He indicated an icy slope, thrown into shadow by the sun behind it.

  Simon stared for some time, unwilling to admit failure. A moment before he gave up in despair, he at last saw something: dark lines running beneath the glassy face of the mountain like facets in a gemstone. He squinted, trying to make out the details.

  “Do you mean those shadows?” he asked at last. Binabik nodded, a rapt expression on his face. “Well,” Simon demanded, “what are they?”

  “More than shadows,” Binabik said quietly. “What you are there seeing are the towers of lost Tumet’ai.”

 
“Towers inside the mountain? And what’s ‘Tooma-tie’?”

  Binabik frowned mockingly. “Simon. You have been hearing its name several times. What kind of student did Doctor Morgenes take on? Are you remembering when I spoke with Jiriki of the ‘Ua’kiza Tumet‘ai nei-R’i’anis’?”

  “Sort of,” Simon said uncomfortably. “What is it?”

  “The song of the fall of the city of Tumet‘ai, one of the great Nine Cities of the Sithi. That song is telling the tale of Tumet’ai’s abandonment. Those shadows you see are its towers, imprisoned in many thousand years of ice.”

  “Truly?” Simon stared at the dark vertical blurs that ran like stains beneath the milky ice. He tried to see them as towers, but could not. “Why did they abandon it?” he asked.

  Binabik ran his hand along the fur of Qantaqa’s back. “A number of reasons there are, Simon. If you like, I will tell you part of its story later, when we are riding. It will be a help for passing the time.”

  “Why did they build their city on an icy mountain in the first place?” Simon asked. “That seems stupid.”

  Binabik looked up peevishly. “You are speaking, Simon, to one raised in the mountains, as you are no doubt able to recall. Part of manhood, I am thinking, is to ponder one’s words before opening one’s mouth.”

  “I’m sorry.” Simon tried to suppress a mischievous smile. “I didn’t realize that trolls actually liked living where they do.”

  “Simon,” Binabik said sternly, “I think it would be a good thing if you went to gather up the horses.”

  “So, Binabik,” Simon said at last, “what are the Nine Cities?”

  They had been riding for an hour, tilting away at last from the base of the mountains and out onto the vast white sea of the Waste, following the line of what Binabik called the Old Tumet’ai Road, a broad causeway that had once linked the ice-bound city with its sisters to the south. There was little to see of any road now, only a few large stones still standing on either side of the trail and an occasional patch of cobbles still in place beneath the covering snow.