by Tad Williams
The great chamber had few furnishings. Beautiful rugs lay scattered everywhere, but in many places the grass grew uncovered. Shallow pools gleamed here and there, flowering bushes and stones around them, all things just as they were outside. The only differences were the butterflies and the Sithi.
The chamber was full of Sithi-folk, male and female, in costumes as variegated as the wings of the butterflies that quivered overhead. One by one at first, then in clusters, they turned to look at the new arrivals, hundreds of calm, catlike eyes agleam in the shifting light. What seemed to Simon a quiet but malicious hiss rose from the multitude. He wanted to run away, and actually made a brief, stumbling attempt, but Jiriki’s grip on his arm was gently unbreakable. He found himself led forward to a rise of earth before the base of the tree. A tall, moss-netted stone stood there like an admonishing finger sunken in the grassy ground. On low couches before it sat two Sithi dressed in splendid pale robes, a woman and a man.
The man, who was seated closest, looked up at Simon and Jiriki’s approach. His hair, tied high atop his head, was jet black, and he wore a crown of carved white birchwood. He had the same angular golden features as Jiriki, but there was something drawn at the corners of his narrow eyes and thin mouth that suggested a life of great length filled with vast but subtle disappointment. The woman who sat beside him on his left hand had hair of a deep, coppery red; she, too, wore a circlet of birchwood on her brow. Long white feathers hung from her many braids, and she wore several bracelets and rings as black and shiny as the hair of the man beside her. Of all the Sithi Simon had seen, her face was the most immobile, the most rigidly serene. Both man and woman had an air of age and subtlety and stillness, but it was the quiet of a dark old pond in a shadowed wood, the calm of a sky filled with motionless thunderheads: it seemed entirely possible that such placidity might hide something dangerous—dangerous to callow mortals, at least.
“You must bow, Seoman,” Jiriki said quietly. Simon, as much because of his shaking legs as anything else, lowered himself to his knees. The smell of the warm turf was strong in his nostrils.
“Seoman Snowlock, manchild,” Jiriki said loudly, “know you are come before Shima‘onari, King of the Zida’ya, Lord of Jao é-Tinukai’i, and Likimeya, Queen of the Dawn-Children, Lady of the House of Year-Dancing. ”
Still kneeling, Simon looked up dizzily. All eyes were focused on him, as though he were a singularly inappropriate gift. Shima’onari at last said something to Jiriki, words as harsh-sounding as anything Simon had yet heard the Sithi tongue produce.
“No, Father,” Jiriki said. “Whatever else, we must not so lightly turn our backs on our traditions. A guest is a guest. I beg you, speak words that Seoman can understand.”
Shima’onari’s thin face pinched in a frown. When he spoke at last, he proved far less facile with the Westerling tongue than his son and daughter.
“So. You are the manchild that saved Jiriki’s life.” He nodded his head slowly, but did not seem very pleased. “I do not know if you can understand this, but my son has done a very bad thing. He has brought you here against all laws of our people—you, a mortal.” He straightened up, looking from face to face among the Sithi-folk that surrounded them. “What is done is done, my people, my family,” he called. “No harm can come to this manchild: we have not sunk so far. We owe him honor as Hikka Staja—as bearer of a White Arrow.” He turned back to Simon, and a look of infinite sadness crept over his face. “But neither can you leave, manchild. We cannot let you leave. So you will stay forever. You will grow old and die with us, here in Jao é-Tinukai’i.”
The wings of a million butterflies murmured and whispered.
“Stay... ?” Simon turned, uncomprehending, to Jiriki. The prince’s usually imperturbable face was an ashen mask of shock and sorrow.
Simon was silent as they walked back to Jiriki’s house. Afternoon was slowly fading into twilight; the cooling valley was alive with the smells and sounds of untainted summer.
The Sitha did nothing to break the silence, guiding Simon along the tangled paths with nods and gentle touches. As they approached the river that ran past Jiriki’s door, Sithi voices lifted in song somewhere in the overhanging hills. The melody that spilled echoing over the valley was an intricately constructed series of descending figures: sweet, but with a touch of dissonance winding through it, like a fox dodging in and out among rainy hedgerows. There was something unquestionably liquid about the song; after a moment, Simon realized that the invisible musicians were in some way singing along with the noise of the river itself.
A flute joined in, ruffling the surface of the music like wind on the watercourse. Simon was abruptly and painfully struck by the strangeness of this place; loneliness welled within him, an aching emptiness that could not be filled by Jiriki or any of his alien kind. For all its beauty, Jao é-Tinukai’i was no better than a cage. Caged animals, Simon knew, languished and soon died.
“What will I do?” he said hopelessly.
Jiriki stared at the glinting river, smiling sadly. “Walk. Think. Learn how to play shent. In Jao é-Tinukai’i, there are many ways to pass time.”
As they walked toward Jiriki’s door the water-song cascaded down from the tree-mantled hillside, surrounding them with mournful music that seemed ever-changing but unhurried, patient as the river itself.
23
Deep Waters
“By Elysia the Mother, ” Aspitis Preves said, “what a terrible time you have had of it, Lady Marya!” The earl lifted his cup to drink but found it empty. He tapped his fingers on the cloth as his pale squire hurried forward to pour more wine. “To think that the daughter of a nobleman should be so ill-treated in our city.”
The trio sat around the earl’s circular table as the remains of a more than adequate supper were cleared away by a page. Flickering lamplight threw distorted shadows on the walls; outside, the wind sawed in the rigging. Two of the earl’s hounds brawled over a bone beneath the table.
“Your Lordship is too kind.” Miriamele shook her head. “My father’s barony is very small, just a freeholding, really. One of the smallest baronies in Cellodshire.”
“Ah, then your father must know Godwig?” Aspitis’ Westerling was a little difficult to understand, and not only because it was his second tongue: the goblet in his hand had been drained and filled several times.
“Of course. He is the most powerful of all the barons there—the king’s strong hand in Cellodshire.” Thinking of the despicable, braying Godwig, Miriamele found it hard to keep her expression pleasant, even while looking on the goldenly handsome Aspitis. She darted a glance at Cadrach, who was sunk in some dark mood, his brow furrowed like a thunderhead.
He thinks I’m saying too much, Miriamele decided. She felt a flash of anger. But who is he to make faces? He got us into this trap; now, thanks to me, instead of us going over the side as kilpa food, we’re at the master’s table drinking wine and eating good Lakeland cheese.
“But I am still astonished by your ill fortune, Lady,” Aspitis said. “I had heard that these Fire Dancers were a problem in the provinces, and I have seen a few heretical madmen preaching the Fire Dancer creed in Nabban’s public places—but the idea that they would actually dare to lay hands on a noblewoman!”
“An Erkynlandish noblewoman, a very unimportant one,” Miriamele said hastily, worried she might have gone too far in her improvisation.
“And I was dressed to travel to my new convent home. They had no idea of my position.”
“That is immaterial.” Aspitis waved his hand airily, almost knocking over the candle on the tabletop with his trailing sleeve. He had shed the finery he wore on the quarterdeck, choosing instead a long, simple robe like those worn by knights during their vigil. But for a delicate gold Tree on a chain about his neck, his only adornment was the insignia of the Prevan House woven on each sleeve; the osprey wings wrapped his forearms like climbing flames. Miriamele was favorable impressed that a wealthy young man like Aspitis would gr
eet guests in such modest attire. “Immaterial,” he repeated. “These people are heretics and worse. Besides, a noblewoman from Erkynland is no different than one of Nabban’s own Fifty Families. Noble blood is the same throughout Osten Ard, and like a spring of sweet water in an arid wilderness, must be protected at all costs.” He leaned forward and gently touched her arm through her sleeve. “Had I been there, Lady Marya, I would have given my life before letting one of them mishandle you.” He leaned back and patted the hilt of his scabbarded sword, studiedly casual. “But if I had been forced to make that ultimate sacrifice, I would have insisted that a few of them accompany me. ”
“Oh,” said Miriamele. “Oh.” She took a deep breath, a little overwhelmed. “But really, Earl Aspitis, there is no need to worry. We escaped quite safely—it’s just that we had to flee to your boat and hide. It was dark, you see, and Father Cadrach ...”
“Brother,” the monk said sourly from across the table. He took a draught of wine.
“... Brother Cadrach said that this would be the safest place. So we hid ourselves in the cargo hold. We are sorry for the imposition, Earl, and we thank you for your kindness. If you will only put us ashore at the next port ...”
“Leave you out among the islands somewhere? Nonsense.” Aspitis leaned forward, fixing her with his brown eyes. He had a dangerous smile, Miriamele realized, but it did not frighten her as much as she knew it should. “You will ride out the voyage with us, then we may put you safe back in Nabban where you belong. It will be little more than a fortnight, Lady. We will treat you well—both you and your guardian.” He briefly turned his smile on Cadrach, who did not seem to share Aspitis’ good humor. “I think I even have some clothes on board that will fit you, Lady. They should suit your beauty better than your ... traveling clothes.”
“How nice!” Miriamele said, then remembered her imposture. “If it meets with Brother Cadrach’s approval.”
“You have women’s clothes on board?” Cadrach asked, eyebrow raised.
“Left by my sister.” Aspitis’ smile was untroubled.
“Your sister.” He grunted. “Yes. Well, I shall have to think on it.”
Miriamele started to raise her voice to the monk, then remembered her situation. She strove to look obedient, but silently cursed him. Why shouldn’t she be allowed to wear nice clothes for a change?
As the earl began to talk animatedly of his family’s great keep beside Lake Eadne—ironically, a freehold that Miriamele had visited when a very young child, although she did not now remember it—there was a rap at the door. One of Aspitis’ pages went to answer it.
“I come to speak with the ship’s lord,” a breathy voice said.
“Come in, my friend,” Aspitis said. “You have all met, of course. Gan Itai, you were the one who found Lady Marya and her guardian, yes?”
“That is true, Earl Aspitis,” the Niskie nodded. Her black eyes twinkled as they reflected the lamplight.
“If you would be so good as to come back in a while,” Aspitis said to the sea watcher, “then we will talk.”
“No, please, Earl Aspitis.” Miriamele stood. “You’ve been very kind, but we should not keep you any longer. Come, Brother Cadrach.”
“Keep me?” Aspitis put a hand to his breast. “Should I complain at being the victim of such lovely company? Lady Marya, you must think me a dullard indeed.” He bowed and took her hand, holding it for a lingering moment against his lips. “I hope you do not think me too forward, sweet lady.” He snapped his fingers for a page. “Young Thures will show you to your beds. I have put the captain out of his cabin. You will sleep there.”
“Oh, but we couldn’t take the captain’s ... ”
“He spoke out of turn and did not show you proper respect, Lady Marya. He is lucky I do not hang him—but I am willing to forgive. He is a simple man, not used to women on his ships. A few nights sleeping at general quarters with his crew will do him no harm.” He dragged fingers through his curly hair, then waved his hand. “Go on, Thures, lead them.”
He bowed to Miriamele again, then smiled politely at Cadrach. This time Cadrach returned the smile, but it seemed little more than a baring of teeth. The little page, lantern held carefully before him, led his charges out the door.
Aspitis stood silent a while in thought, then found the wine ewer and poured himself another gobletful, which he drank off in a long swallow. At last he spoke.
“So, Gan Itai, it is unusual for you to come here—and it is even more unusual for you to leave the bow at night. Are the waters so untroubled that your song is not needed?”
The Niskie shook her head slowly. “No, Ship’s Master. The waters are very troubled, but for this moment they are safe, and I wished to come and tell you that I am disturbed.”
“Disturbed? By the girl? Surely Niskies are not superstitious like sailors.”
“Not like sailors, no.” She pulled her hood forward, hiding all but her bright eyes. “The girl and the monk, even if they are not what they say, are the least of my worries. There is a great storm coming down from the north. ”
Aspitis looked up at Gan Itai. “You left the bow to tell me that?” he asked mockingly. “I have known that since before we set sail. The captain says we will be out of deep waters before the storm reaches us.”
“That may be, but there are great shoals of kilpa moving in from the northern seas, as if they are swimming before the storm. Their song is fierce and cold, Earl Aspitis; they seem to come up from the blackest water, from the deepest trenches. I have never heard the like.”
Aspitis stared for a moment, his whole aspect slightly out of kilter, as though the wine had finally begun to effect him. “Eadne Cloud has many important tasks to perform for Duke Benigaris,” he said. “You must do what it is your life’s work to do.” He lowered his head into the palms of his hands. “I am tired, Gan Itai. Go back to the bow. I need to sleep.”
The Niskie watched him for a moment, full of imponderable gravity, then bowed gracefully and backed out of the door, letting it fall shut behind her with a quiet thump. Earl Aspitis leaned forward across the table, pillowing his head on his forearms in the circle of lamplight.
It is good to be around a nobleman once more,” Miriamele said. ”They are full of themselves, yes, but they do understand how to show a woman respect.”
Cadrach snorted from his pallet on the floor. “I find it hard to believe you could see any value in that ringleted fop, Princess.”
“Hush!” Miriamele hissed. “Idiot! Don’t speak so loudly! And don’t call me that. I am Lady Marya, remember.”
The monk made another noise of disgust. “A noblewoman chased by Fire Dancers. That was a pretty tale to spin.”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“Yes, and now we must spend our time with Earl Aspitis, who will ask question after question. If you had only said you were a poor tailor’s daughter who had hidden in fear for her virtue, or some such, the earl would leave us alone and put us off at the first island where they take on water and provisions.”
“And make us work like dogs until then—if he didn’t just throw us into the sea. I, for one, am growing tired of this disguise. It is bad enough I have been an acolyte monk all this time, now should I be a tailor’s daughter as well?”
Although she could not see him in the darkened cabin, Miriamele knew by the sound of his voice that Cadrach was shaking his heavy head in disagreement. “No, no, no. Do you understand nothing, Lady? We are not choosing parts like a children’s game, we are struggling to stay alive. Dinivan, the man who brought us here, has been killed. Do you understand? Your father and your uncle are at war. The war is spreading. They have killed the lector, the Ransomer’s chief priest on the face of Osten Ard, and they will stop at nothing, Lady! It is no game!”
Miriamele choked back an angry reply, thinking instead about what Cadrach had said. “Then why didn’t Earl Aspitis say anything about the lector? Surely it’s the kind of thing people would talk about. Or did you
make that up as well?”
“Lady, Ranessin was only killed late last night. We left early in the morning.” The monk struggled to keep his patience. “The Sancellan Aedonitis and the Escritorial Council may not announce what has happened for a day or two. Please, believe what I say is true, or we will both come to a terrible end.”
“Hmmph.” Miriamele lay back, pulling the blanket up to her chin. The feeling of the boat rocking was quite soothing. “It seems that if it weren’t for my inventiveness and the earl’s good manners, we might have come to a terrible end already.”
“Think what you like, Lady,” Cadrach said heavily, “but do not, I beg you, extend your trust to others any farther than you have with me.”
He fell silent. Miriamele waited for sleep. An odd, hauntingly alien melody floated on the air, timeless and arrhythmic as the roar of the sea, persistent as the rising and falling wind. Somewhere in the darkness outside, Gan Itai was singing the kilpa down.
Eolair rode down out of the heights of the Grianspog Mountains in the midst of the summer’s worst snowstorm. The secret trails that he and his men had so laboriously cut through the forest only weeks before were now buried beneath three cubits of drifting white. The dismal skies hung oppressively close, like the ceiling of a tomb. His saddlebags were crammed with carefully-drawn maps, his head with brooding thoughts.
Eolair knew there was no use pretending that the land was suffering only a long bout of freakish weather. A grievous sickness was spreading over Osten Ard. Perhaps Josua and his father’s sword truly were tied up in something vaster than the wars of men.
The Count of Nad Mullach was suddenly reminded of his own words, uttered over the King’s Great Table a year before—Gods of earth and sky, he thought, but didn’t it seem a lifetime since those relatively peaceful days! “Evil is abroad ... ” he had told the assembled knights that day. “It is not only bandits who prey on travelers and cause the disappearance of isolated farmers. The people of the North are afraid ...”
