Last King of Osten Ard 02 - Empire of Grass

by Tad Williams

  “I must talk to Duke Osric,” he told Astrian and Olveris. “He needs to hear what I have seen. The troll Binabik sent a message to the king and queen—did they not get it?”

  “Message?” said Astrian. “I seem to remember that Ordwine was carrying some such thing when he died.”

  “Ordwine is dead?” Porto had liked the impious young guardsman. “God rest his soul. How did it happen?”

  “It might have had something to do with all the Thrithings arrows in him,” Astrian said, sharpening his knife on a whetstone.

  “If the troll’s message got through, then why is everyone saying that the clansmen have Prince Morgan? They don’t. I told you, he ran back into the forest. His tracks showed it.”

  “Ah, well, then,” said Astrian. “If his tracks showed it, it must be true. And when did you become so canny about the spoor of princes?”

  Porto shook his head. “Just take me to the duke, I beg you. This is no time for jokes.”

  “Here,” said Olveris, handing him a wineskin. “What time is it, old fellow? Is it time for this?”

  Porto gave him a hurt look, but accepted it and took a long draught. He had drunk nothing but foul Thrithings drippings for a fortnight, since his own wine had run out—some dreadful thing called yerut, sour as vinegar and as thick as whey—and he could not resist a proper beverage, no matter his hurry. “Thanks for that,” he said, wiping his lips. “Now, please—take me to Osric.”

  Astrian shrugged. “As you wish. But speak carefully when you speak of his grandson. He is in a fearful temper about Morgan, and he hates the Thrithings-men.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “You ask me to take the word of those little troll savages?” Duke Osric said, scowling so fiercely that Porto could almost feel it. “Because one of them saw footprints, I should apologize to the barbarian horse-men and head back to Erkynland, leaving them free to do what they please?”

  Porto had never seen Osric so distracted—the man could hardly look in one direction for more than a few moments. “Please, Your Grace, I only tell you what I know, what I saw, what I heard. The trolls are wonderful trackers, and the one called Binabik showed me where the footprints of Prince Morgan and Count Eolair came out of the forest to the battlefield, then Morgan’s footprints returned to the trees. When Levias of the Erkynguard recovers, he can tell you—”

  “He can tell me what? That he too believes in this fairytale? No, any fool can see what happened. Why would the clansmen attack a company of armed Erkynguard without a purpose? They came to take hostages. And what better prize than the heir to the throne?” In the firelight Osric seemed like some fierce old god of the north, long-bearded, his brow as menacing as a thunderhead.

  “But Morgan was not with the rest of the company when the clansmen attacked,” Porto said. It was hard to look at the duke when disagreeing with him. “The prince and Eolair had gone with the Sithi, as they were sent to do. The attack happened while they were away. What Binabik said made good sense—that they returned when the battle was already almost over—”

  “Then why flee back to the forest?” Osric rubbed both hands over his bald head as if to chase away distracting ideas. The weather had turned cold and the duke wore a fur mantle on his shoulders, which made him look more than a little like one of the Thrithings thanes. “Why would my grandson run away if the battle was over?”

  Porto did his best not to show frustration. “Because, Your Grace, the battle was over but the battlefield was not empty. We found signs of another struggle, and Eolair’s torn cloak was found nearby.”

  “Pfah.” Osric spat into the fire. “Stories. Ideas. Signs! The king wants me to deal kindly with these murdering horsemen, so I have sent their chieftain, this Unver, a message telling him to bring me my grandson and he will be rewarded. And Count Eolair, the Hand of the Throne, too,” he added as if to ward off any more comments from Porto. “And that is all I am going to speak of my charge to you, sir. You did what you could. The king and queen will hear of that, never fear.” The duke still could barely keep his gaze on Porto, his eyes roving as if the tent was filled with dozens of other people instead of only the two of them and Osric’s silent page, who moved only to tend the fire. “Now go. If this Unver Shan will not treat with me as he should then I will have to find other means to get my grandson back. I cannot waste my time arguing over shadows and smoke and what-might-have-beens.”

  Outside, Porto found his two friends waiting for him. Astrian wore a sour, knowing grin. “So you see, old bag of bones, Duke Osric does not need to be told anything by you. He already knows all he needs to know.”

  “Surely he is not going to war over this—Morgan is not even there!”

  Astrian laughed. “Men do not need reasons to go to war—not good ones, anyway. But you are not being ignored completely. In fact, we want you to tell us everything you remember about the Thrithings’ encampment—especially the part where this Unver Shan has his stronghold.”

  “It is no stronghold,” said Porto testily. “It is a group of tents in a paddock. They are not preparing to make war, or even to defend themselves.”

  “All the better,” said Astrian. “Because if Olveris and myself can quietly make our way into the place and remove Count Eolair from the clansmen, and if Morgan is truly somewhere else as you say, there will be no need for war at all.”

  Porto felt a momentary surge of hope. He had seen more than enough of blood lately. “Perhaps you are right.”

  Astrian bowed. “When have I ever been wrong?”

  Olveris snorted. “Every time you call yourself a swordsman. Or a ladies’ man.”

  “I like you better when you are silent, sir,” Astrian told him. “In truth, everybody likes you better when you are silent.”

  38

  Two Offered Bargains

  “Don’t climb on that, Lillia.”

  “Why not? It’s not alive, silly. There aren’t any dragons anymore.”

  “I don’t care. For one thing, it’s very heavy. It might fall over and hurt you.”

  “It’s not heavy, Grandfather! Look, it doesn’t fall over even when I do this—”

  “Lillia!” The king’s voice had the sound that meant “I’m about to be angry.” Reluctantly, she climbed down from the chair made of dragon’s bones. “Then can I sit in your lap?” she asked.

  “For a moment only. I have many things to do today. Why aren’t you upstairs doing . . . something? Something else.”

  She climbed up, using the arms of his chair and also his leg, which made her grandfather grunt. She knew she hadn’t hurt him, though, because King Grandfather Simon was very big and couldn’t be hurt by anything. That’s how he had killed the dragon that was now a throne. She was quite certain of that, because one of her nurses had told her. “I’m not upstairs because it’s terrible, terrible boring,” she explained. “Auntie Rhoner’s never around anymore and the nurses are all mean. Nurse Loes has a big red face and she shouts. And Aedonita and Elyweld went back to the country with their mama and there’s nobody to play with except some stupid boys and all they want to do is pretend to be knights.”

  Her grandfather looked at her for a moment. “Don’t you ever pretend to be a knight? I thought I saw you galloping around the Monk’s Walking Hall the other day with your wooden horse and a lance.”

  “I wasn’t pretending to be that kind of knight, the kind they always want to be. I was being a hero.”

  “Ah, well. That’s all right, then.” But she could tell he was thinking of something else and it annoyed her.

  “Why won’t Auntie Rhoner play with me?”

  “Because there are some very important things happening just now, and she and her husband are helping me.” He looked around. “Where is Tiamak?”

  “Important things are stupid,” was Lillia’s opinion. “When’s Grandmother Miri coming bac
k? I miss her.”

  The king’s smile was sad. “I miss her too. She had to stay longer in Nabban because there are still things she has to do there. What about your other grandmother? Doesn’t she want to spend time with you?”

  “All Grandmother Nelda ever does is pray. And she tries to make me pray, and I do, but then I start thinking about other things and I forget the words. She gets grumpy and tells me I have to pray for Grandfather Osric and Morgan. Why do I have to pray for them? I do it at night every night already.”

  The king looked grumpy. “Is that what she tells you? Well, Grandfather Osric has gone out to bring back Morgan.”

  “Why? Did he get lost?”

  Her grandfather took a long breath. “Not really. But he’s out in the Thrithings—that’s the grasslands on the far side of the Gleniwent River.”

  “I know the Gleniwent. We went on it when Mama took me to Meremund once.” She remembered something that made her frown. “It made my stomach sick.” She decided not to think about that. “Why is Morgan in the Ridings?”

  “He was on his way to visit the Sithi. I told you about all this. As to why he’s in the Thrithings—well, it’s a long story. But your grandfather Duke Osric went to get him. Grandmother Nelda worries a lot. Just pray with her when she asks you. It will make her feel better, because she’s also missing your other grandfather.”

  Lillia had finally found a comfortable spot halfway up King Grandfather Simon’s leg just above his knee. His leg was a little bony, but not too bad because he had on woolen hose. Her feet didn’t quite touch the ground, so she swung her legs like she did on the high garden benches.

  “Oh,” said her grandfather and made a face. “Lilly, you’re getting too big to do that. You’re going to break my leg.”

  She laughed at his joke. “When will Morgan be back? I miss him, too. He promised to take me down to the Kynslagh to see the heron nests, but then he went away again and I still haven’t seen them.” Another thought occurred to her. “Do you think my mama is in Heaven yet?”

  “I’m fairly certain she is. And likely she’s keeping an eye you. So you’d better not do anything you shouldn’t, especially with all the rest of us too busy to watch you properly.”

  For the moment, the thought that all the grownups were too busy to watch her properly washed over her like a very cool breeze on a hot day, both exciting and chilling. “Really?” she said.

  “Really what?”

  “Never mind.” She slid down from his lap. “So Morgan and Grandmother Miri are coming back soon? How soon?”

  “I didn’t say ‘soon,’ but I hope so, yes. I don’t know—they’re both a long way away and—” For a moment the king seemed to lose his voice. When he spoke again, his words sounded a little raggedy at the edges. “Don’t forget to pray for them. And Grandfather Osric. And your mother, of course.”

  “But Mama’s in Heaven with God. So I don’t need to pray for her.”

  Her grandfather smiled, a small, gentle one this time. “You might as well, young Lilly. It couldn’t hurt.”

  * * *

  The chambers given to Aengas as First Factor of the Northern Alliance were large but unfortunately dark, because of their position facing the eastern wall of the Inner Bailey. Not even the window looking out over the courtyard below brought in much light, so the main room was full of candles. Surrounded by flickering flames, Tiamak felt as though he sat once more on the roof of his long-lost hut back in the Wran as stars warmed into light in the evening sky.

  Tiamak sighed. “I have failed my two greatest trusts,” he said as Aengas’s cook Brannan set a cup of wine down before him on a table otherwise buried under books and parchments. The Herynsitiri wine was sour to Tiamak’s taste, but a few sips helped to ease his racing mind.

  “Well, there lies a grand and self-absorbed statement, my dear little man,” Aengas said with a mocking smile. “But if you feel the need to unburden yourself, well, of course you must. I am here to listen, and to agree with you out of pure loyalty that you are one of the great villains of the age.” He made a show of settling himself comfortably in his large wooden chair, a process that, due to his limited range of movement, mostly consisted of craning his neck toward Tiamak and resettling his hands in his lap. “Proceed, my dear. How have you failed so dismally?”

  Tiamak could not even muster a smile of his own. “You jest, but the truth is evident. It is my task to foresee problems and try to solve them without unduly troubling the High Throne. Norns, missing heirs, attempted murders and sudden deaths—I have solved none of them.”

  “And do not forget that my Northern Alliance is at war with the she-wolf Countess Yissola and her Perdruinese shipping syndicate,” Aengas declared with a certain satisfaction. “That clearly counts as a failure of yours as well. Even worse, she is coming here to plead her case to the king and you did not stop her. Also, my dear, the weather has been a bit dry this year as well, and you have done nothing whatsoever about improving it.”

  “I am beyond amusement, Aengas. And, yes, the shipping conflict is a failure of mine, because at a time when we might have been solving that disagreement—”

  “Disagreement? With that grasping, cold-blooded bitch?”

  “—At a time when we might have been solving that disagreement,” Tiamak continued, more loudly, “we were caught up in other things, some of them that now seem so unimportant to me I could weep. But my greatest failings have been to the League.”

  “Do you mean my Northern Alliance? Because while you have not done as much for us as you should, I would hardly call your failings worse there than with other things.”

  “Aengas, I told you I am not in the mood. I am genuinely unhappy. Also, I am getting to something, but with your continual mockery I will never arrive. I am talking about the League of the Scroll.”

  “Goodness! I have not heard you mention that name in a long time.”

  “And that, sadly, shows the depth of my failure. When Doctor Morgenes died, the League was left with no leader, no guiding force to hold us together. It could have been Prince Josua, but he was new to our ranks then and resisted any kind of responsibility as a matter of course. It could have been Binabik the troll, but he lives far away, and with Geloë gone, as her trained birds aged and died, we had nothing to replace them, and communication became ever more difficult. It takes the best part of half a year or more now to send a message to Mintahoq.”

  “Where is that? On the moon?”

  Tiamak frowned. “It might as well be. So if responsibility for the Scroll League belonged to anyone, it was to me. But there was so much to do here, especially in those first years after the Storm King’s War. So much rebuilding! So many people without homes, without food, the toll of that terrible, evil winter. I spent every moment trying to put the High Throne’s plans to work, and trying to make plans of my own. There are so many things we could have made better if we had only had the time . . . and the gold—”

  “And there is the difference between us in a nutshell, as we Hernsmen say.” Aengas cleared his throat and waved for Brannan to bring him his cup again. “Gods, I am dry. My friend, your work is so careful and rigorous in both your studies and your writings, my sweet fellow—thank you, Brannan, now why don’t you go and see if you can find something Lord Tiamak can eat since he looks so thin and drawn?—but your ideas are so large and unworkable. I am the opposite. My scholarship is a horror to those who love rigor, but I know human beings so much better than you. My faith in humanity was lost long before my legs, but you still imagine people to be creatures who can be made perfect and perfectly happy.”

  “That is one reason I wished to talk to you today—” Tiamak said, but Aengas was in full flow.

  “You fault yourself for what others do not do, but your fellow men will always fail you. If not individually, then they will manage it as a group. That is almost the same fallacy as that of the
Aedonites, the idea of a single, perfect God who somehow contrived to make humanity so utterly imperfect. Was it a jest on some scale we cannot conceive? Do they think their God so bored that only the hapless flailings of His creatures can entertain Him, or did He really set them a series of tasks that none of them could ever fulfill? Cruelty, my friend from the swamps—I call such an idea pure cruelty.”

  Tiamak took a breath, then another. “Perhaps I take too much on myself, as you say, Aengas. Perhaps the fraying and unraveling of the League was inevitable during long years of peace, since we were always so few and so separated by distance. But the fact remains, at a point when we are most needed, when wisdom and scholarship are the only things that might help us, the League of the Scroll has fallen to pieces. In plain fact there are but two of us now, Binabik and myself. Josua is long gone and so is Faiera, if she even lives. Perhaps Etan will bring us back some word of her, but I doubt it, for why would she not have made herself known if she lived?”

  “Is all this because we have had so little luck finding evidence of what ‘Witchwood Crown’ might mean?” Aengas waved his hand at the books and scrolls. “It is obvious that it has many meanings to the Hikeda’ya and the Zida’ya both. We have found at least half a dozen mentions since we have been searching, almost all of them different. A prize, a funerary token, a strategy for a Sithi pastime . . . and what if the whole thing is only some misdirection or a trick, like the nature of the swords collected during the Storm King’s War?”

  “Anything is possible,” Tiamak admitted. “The immortals, especially the Norn Queen, play a long game and we cannot guess all their ends or means. But the fact is, when the League is most needed again, it is a broken thing. And much of that is my fault.”