The Stone of Farewell

by Tad Williams

  Strangers, Deornoth thought. That is what we suddenly seem here. As if we have passed out of the lands meant for our folk and crossed over into someone else’s domain. He remembered Geloë’s words on that night, weeks back, when they had first met her in the forest:

  “Sometimes you men are like lizards, sunning on the stones of a crumbled house, thinking: ‘what a nice basking spot someone built for me.’ ” The witch woman had frowned as she spoke.

  She told us we were in Sithi lands, he recalled. Now we are again entering their fields, that is all. That is why things seem so strange.

  Somehow this did not dispel his unsettled feeling.

  They made camp in a meadow. The low grass was dotted here and there with fairy-rings, as the woman Ielda had called them, perfect circles of small white toadstools that shone faintly against the dark turf as twilight came on. Duchess Gutrun did not like the idea of sleeping so near to these rings, but Father Strangyeard sensibly pointed out that the people of Gadrinsett said the whole of this land belonged to the “fairies,” so the proximity of a mushroom ring meant little. Gutrun, more concerned for the safety of the child Leleth than herself, gave in with reservations.

  A small fire, made with willow branches they had gathered during the journey, helped to dispel some of the strangeness. The prince’s party ate and talked quietly long into the evening. Old Towser, who had been sleeping so long and so deeply during the journey that he hardly seemed one of their company anymore, but more like a piece of baggage, awakened and lay staring at the night sky.

  “The stars aren’t right,” he said at last, so quietly that none heard him. He repeated himself more loudly. Josua came to kneel beside him, taking the jester’s trembling hand in his.

  “What is it, Towser?”

  “The stars, they aren’t right.” The old man pulled his fingers free from the prince’s grip and gestured upward. “There’s the Lamp, but it’s got one star more than it should. And where’s the Crook? It shouldn’t be gone ’til harvest time. And there’s others there I don’t know at all.” His lip quivered. “We’re all dead. We’ve gone through into the Shadow Land like my grandmother used to tell of. We’re dead.”

  “Come, now,” Josua said gently. “We are not dead. We are simply in a different place, and you have been in and out of dreams.”

  Towser fixed him with a surprisingly sharp eye. “It is Anitul-month, is it not? Don’t think I am crazy-old yet, no matter what I have been through. I have stared at summer skies for nearly twice your lifetime, young prince. We may be in a different place, but all Osten Ard shares the same stars—does it not?”

  Josua was silent for a while. A thin babble of voices rose from the campfire behind him. “I did not mean to say you had lost your wits, old friend. We are in a strange place, and who knows what stars may shine upon us? In any case, there is nothing to be done about it.” He took the old man’s hand again. “Why do you not come and sit closer to the fire? I think it would be comforting to have us all together, at least for a little while. ”

  Towser nodded and let Josua help him rise. “A little warmth would not go amiss, my prince. I feel a growing cold in my bones ... and I don’t like it.”

  “All the better, then, to sit near the fire on a damp night.” He led the old jester back.

  The fire had dimmed to embers and Towser’s unfamiliar stars were wheeling in the sky overhead. Josua looked up when a hand touched his shoulder. Vorzheva had a blanket draped over her arm.

  “Come, Josua,” she said. “Let us go and make our bed by the riverside.”

  He looked around at the others, all sleeping but Deornoth and Strangyeard, who talked quietly on the far side of the fire. “I do not think I should leave my people alone.”

  “Leave your people?” she said. There was an edge of anger in her voice, but a moment later it gave way to a quiet laugh. She shook her head and her black hair fell across her face. “You will never change. I am your wife now, do you remember that? We have gone four nights as if our marriage had never happened because you feared pursuit by the king’s soldiers and wished to be close to the others. Do you still fear?”

  He looked up at her. His lip curled in a smile. “Not tonight.” He rose and put his arm about her slender waist, feeling the strong muscles of her back. “Let us go down by the river.”

  Josua left his boots by the fire circle and together they went barefoot through the damp grass until the glow of the coals had disappeared behind them. The murmur of the river grew louder as they made their way down to the sandy verge. Vorzheva unfurled the blanket and sank down upon it. Josua joined her, pulling his heavy cloak over them both. For a while they lay in silence beside the dark Stefflod, watching the moon holding court among her stars. Vorzheva’s head rested on Josua’s chest, her river-washed hair against his cheek.

  “Do not think that because our wedding was foreshortened, it meant any less to me,” he said finally. “I promise you that one day we will have our lives back as they were meant to be. You shall be the lady of a great house, not an exile in the wilderness.”

  “Gods of my clan! You are a fool, Josua,” she said. “Do you think that I care what kind of house I live in?” She turned and kissed him, wriggling closer against his body. “Fool, fool, fool.” Her breath was hot against his face.

  They spoke no more. The stars gleamed in the sky and the river sang to them.

  Deornoth awakened just after dawn to the sound of Leleth crying. It took him a moment to realize why that seemed so strange. It was the first sound he had heard the child make.

  Even as the last shreds of dream fell away—he had stood before a great white tree whose leaves were flames—he was clawing for the hilt of his sword. He sat up to see Duchess Gutrun holding the little girl on her lap. Beside her, Father Strangyeard had poked his head tortoiselike from beneath his cloak; the priest’s wispy red hair was dew-dampened.

  “What is it?” Deornoth asked.

  Gutrun shook her head. “I don’t know. She woke me up with her crying, the poor thing.” The duchess tried to cradle Leleth against her breast, but the child pulled back. She continued to cry, her eyes wide open, staring at the sky. “What’s the matter, little one, what’s the matter?” Gutrun crooned.

  Leleth tugged her hand free from the woman’s embrace and tremblingly pointed toward the northern horizon. Deornoth could see nothing but a black fist of clouds in the most distant part of the sky. “Is something out there?” he asked.

  The child’s cries died away to hiccoughing sobs. She pointed again at the horizon, then turned away to huddle in Gutrun’s lap, face hidden.

  “It’s just a bad dream, that’s all,” the duchess soothed. “There now, little one, just a bad dream ...”

  Josua was suddenly standing before them, Naidel unsheathed in his hand. The prince wore nothing but his breeches; his slender frame gleamed pallidly in the dawnlight. “What is it?” he demanded.

  Deornoth pointed to the darkened horizon. “The child saw something there that made her cry.”

  Josua stared grimly. “We who saw Naglimund’s last days would do well to pay attention. That is an ugly knot of stormclouds.” He looked around at the wet grasslands. “We are all tired,” he said, “but we must make a faster pace. I do not like the look of that storm any more than did the child. I doubt we will find any shelter on these open plains until we reach Geloë’s Stone of Farewell. He turned and shouted to Isorn and the others, who were just waking up. ”Saddle up. We will break our fast as we travel. Come, there is no longer such a thing as a simple storm. If I can help it, we will not be caught by this one.”

  The river valley continued to deepen. The vegetation began to grow thicker and more lush, the sparse meadowland now broken by freestanding groves of birches and alders, as well as thickets of strange trees with silvery leaves and slim trunks deep-furred in moss.

  The prince’s party had little time to admire this new greenery. They rode at a fierce pace all day, stopping only for a brief res
t in afternoon, then continuing on until long after the sun had dropped behind the horizon and twilight had sapped the brightest colors from the land. The threatening stormclouds now obscured much of the northern sky.

  As the rest made a circle of stones and built a healthy blaze—firewood was now in broad supply—Deornoth and Isorn took the horses down to the river.

  “At least we are no longer on foot,” Isorn said, uncinching the buckle on a set of saddlebags, which slid to the grass with a soft thump. “That is something worth thanking Aedon’s goodness for.”

  “True.” Deornoth patted Vildalix. The drops of perspiration on the horse’s neck had already chilled in the evening breeze. Deornoth rubbed him dry with a saddle blanket before moving on to Josua’s horse Vinyafod. “We have precious little else to be thankful for.”

  “We are alive,” Isorn said reprovingly, his wide face serious. “My wife and children are alive and safe with Tonnrud in Skoggey, and I am here to protect my mother.” He pointedly avoided mentioning his father Isgrimnur, from whom there had been no word since the duke had left Naglimund.

  Deornoth said nothing, understanding the worry Isorn must feel. He knew well the love his Rimmersman friend felt for the duke. In a way, he envied Isorn, and wished his feelings for his own father could be so admirable. Deornoth was unable to fulfill God’s command for sons to honor their sires. Despite his knightly ideals, he had never been able to feel anything but the most grudging respect and no love whatsoever for the pinch-souled old tyrant who had made Deornoth’s boyhood a misery.

  “Isorn,” he said at last, considering, “someday, when things are as they were before—before all this happened—and we are telling our grandchildren about it, what will we say?” The breeze blew harder, making the willow branches slap together.

  His friend did not respond. After a moment, Deornoth stood up and looked across Vinyafod’s back to where Isorn stood a few ells away, holding the horses’ reins as they drank from the river. The Rimmersman was only a faint silhouette against the purple-gray evening sky. “Isorn?”

  “Look to the south, Deornoth,” he said, his voice strained. “There are torches. ”

  Away across the grasslands, back down the Stefflod in the direction from which they had come, a swarm of tiny lights moved across the land.

  “Merciful Aedon,” Deornoth groaned, “it is Fengbald and his men. They have caught us up after all.” He turned and gave Vinyafod a light slap on the flanks, causing the charger to take a few prancing steps forward. “No rest for you yet, fellow.” He and Isorn sprinted up the bank toward the wind-whipped flames that marked their camp.

  “... And they are less than a league away,” Isorn finished breathlessly. “Down by the river we could see the lights clearly.”

  Josua’s face was composed, but noticeably pale in the firelight. “God has given us a hard test, to let us get so far and then pull the trap shut.” He sighed. The eyes of all watched him in fearful fascination. “Well, at least we must kick out the fire and ride on. Perhaps if we can find a thick enough copse of trees to hide in, and if they have no hounds, they may pass us by. Then we can think of what other plan might suffice.”

  As they clambered into their saddles once more, Josua turned to Deornoth. “We brought two bows as part of our booty from Fikolmij’s camp, did we not?”

  Deornoth nodded.

  “Good. You and Isorn take them.” The prince laughed grimly, brandishing the stump of his right wrist. “I am not much of a bowman, but I think we will have need of a little arrow-play.”

  Deornoth nodded again, wearily.

  They rode swiftly, though all the party sensed that they could not do so for long. The Thrithings horses ran gamely, but it had already been a long day’s trek before the company had stopped. Vinyafod and Vildalix seemed as though they had several hours left in them, but some of the other mounts were clearly winded; their riders were scarcely stronger. As his horse moved beneath him and the moonlit grasslands rolled past, Deornoth could almost feel his will to resist ebbing away, draining like sand through the neck of an hourglass.

  We have come ten times as far as anyone would have dreamed possible, he thought, clinging tightly to the reins as Vildalix topped one of the meadow downs and plunged down the opposite slope like a boat breasting a wave. There is no dishonor in failing now. What more can God expect than that we give our all? He looked back. The rest of the party was beginning to fall behind. Deornoth pulled up on the reins, slowing his charger until he was in the midst of the company once more. God might be ready to reward them with a hero’s place in Heaven, but he could not give up the struggle while innocents like the duchess and the child were at risk.

  Isorn was beside him now, clutching Leleth on the saddle before him. The young Rimmersman’s face was a gray blur in the moonlight, but Deornoth did not need to see his friend to know the anger and determination written on his broad features.

  He looked back once more. For all their haste, the rippling torches had gained ground on them, closing the distance in the last two hours until they trailed the prince’s folk by less than a dozen furlongs.

  “Slow up!” Josua cried behind him in the darkness. “If we run farther, we will have no strength left to fight. There is a grove of trees atop the rise there. That is where we will make a stand.”

  They followed the prince up the slope. The cold wind had risen and the trees bent and thrashed, branches scraping together. In the darkness the pale, swaying trunks seemed white-robed spirits lamenting some terrible circumstance.

  “Here.” The prince ushered them past the outermost circle of trees. “Where are those bows, Sir Deornoth?” His voice was flat.

  “At my saddle, Prince Josua.” Deornoth heard the awful formality echoed in his own tones, as though they all participated in some ritual. He loosed the two bows and flung one to Isorn, who had handed Leleth over to his mother to free his hands. As Deornoth and the young Rimmersman strung the supple ashwood, Father Strangyeard accepted an extra dagger from Sangfugol. He held it unhappily, as though he pinched a serpent’s tail. “What will Usires think?” he said mournfully. “What will my God think of me?”

  “He will know you fought to save the lives of women and children,” Isorn said shortly, nocking one of their few arrows.

  “Now we wait,” Joshua hissed. “We stay close together, in case I see a chance for us to run once more, and we wait.”

  The minutes stretched as taut as the bowstring beneath Deornoth’s fingers. The nightbirds had gone silent in the trees overhead, but for one whose eerie, whispering call echoed over and over until Deornoth wished he could put an arrow through its feathered throat. A sound as of distant and continuous drumming began to separate itself from the droning murmur of the Stefflod, growing ever louder. Deornoth thought he could feel the ground beginning to shudder beneath his feet. He suddenly wondered if blood had ever been shed in this seemingly uninhabited land before. Had the roots of these pale trees ever drunk of things other than water? The great oaks around the battlefield at the Knock were said to have gorged on blood until their pith was rosy pink.

  The thunder of hoofbeats rose until it was louder than Deornoth’s own heart drumming in his ears. He lifted his bow but did not bend it, saving his strength for the moment it would be needed. A swirl of flickering lights appeared on the meadow below them. The headlong flight of the horsemen slowed, as though they somehow sensed the prince’s folk hiding in the grove above them. As they reined up, the flames of their streaming torches bobbed upright once more, blooming like orange flowers.

  “They are nearly two dozen,” Isorn said unhappily.

  “I will take the first,” Deornoth whispered. “You take the second.”

  “Hold,” said Josua quietly. “Not until I say.”

  The leader got down from his horse, bending to the ground so that he disappeared out of the glow of torchlight. When he stood his pale, hooded face turned to look up the slope, so that it almost seemed to Deornoth he had sighted them
in the fastness of the shadows. Deornoth lowered his arrowhead until it pointed at the cloaked chest beneath the faint moon of face.

  “Steady now,” Josua murmured, “a moment more ...”

  There was a rush and clatter in the branches overhead. A dark shape battered at Deornoth’s head, startling him so that the arrow flew free, high above its intended mark. Deornoth shouted in alarm and staggered back, raising his hands to protect his eyes, but whatever had struck him was gone.

  “Stop!” a voice cried from the trees above, a creaking, whistlingly inhuman voice. “Stop!”

  Isorn, who had stared in stupefaction as Deornoth swatted at nothing, turned grimly and lowered his own arrow to the target. “Demons!” he growled, pulling his bowstring back to his ear.

  “Josua?” somebody called from the meadow below. “Prince Josua? Are you there?”

  There was a moment of silence. “Aedon be praised,” Josua breathed. He pushed his way through the crackling undergrowth and strode out into the full light of the moon, his cloak billowing like a sail in the fierce wind. “I am here!” he shouted.

  “What is he doing?” Isorn hissed frantically. Vorzheva let out a small cry of anguish, but Deornoth, too, had recognized the voice.

  “Josua?” the leader of the horsemen cried. “It is Hotvig of the Stallion Clan.” He pushed back his hood to show his beard and wind-tossed yellow hair. “We have followed you for days!”

  “Hotvig!” Vorzheva shouted anxiously. “Is my father with you?”

  The Thrithings-man laughed harshly. “Not him, Lady Vorzheva. The March-thane is no happier with me than he is with you or your husband!”

  As the randwarder and Josua clasped hands, the rest of the prince’s party emerged from the copse of trees, tight-strung muscles trembling, babbling among themselves with relief.