Last King of Osten Ard 02 - Empire of Grass

by Tad Williams

  “Your own kind? The Norns?”

  She nodded. “As you call them, yes. And you, mortal man—who are you and why are you here? Liko feared you might be sent to spy on us, but I think the Hikeda’ya would not bother with observers who were so obviously out of place.”

  Aelin fought against rising anger. “Spies? The Hikeda’ya slaughtered my men, and hundreds more of my kind at Naglimund, only a league away on the other side of the hill. You are not the only one at war with them, my lady.”

  Her lips twitched in what might have been a smile, but it did not touch her hard stare. “Perhaps. But you still have not told me your name, mortal knight.”

  “I am Sir Aelin of Nad Mullach,” he said. “And who are you?” He nodded toward Evan, whose wound was being cleaned by the other Sitha. “At the very least, I owe you thanks for helping my man and giving us shelter.” He spread his hands. “Forgive me if I speak clumsily—I have never met one of your kind before today.”

  “My mother named me Ayaminu,” she told him. “And I know your mortal kind better than I might wish, Sir Aelin.”

  52

  The Crypt

  Viyeki already had a thousand problems to distract him as he drove his Builders and the mortal slaves through the backbreaking, dangerous work of pulling down the mortal temple and digging away the stone and hard-packed earth beneath its cellar. Then he received a visit from Pratiki, the Prince-Templar.

  “I apologize for not having spoken to you lately, High Magister,” Pratiki began as he entered Viyeki’s makeshift quarters in the residence, which had been the chambers of one of Naglimund’s lesser nobles. “I have had much to do mediating between the Orders of Sacrifice and Song. Both are fiercely loyal to our beloved queen, and both are eager to take the lead in this affair, since they know how close it is to her heart.”

  Viyeki nodded and did his best to look sympathetic, though the prince-templar’s visit worried him. “It must be very difficult, Serenity, since we are now poised between the most important work of the Sacrifices and the Singers. But my Builders still have much to do.”

  “And that is what I wish to speak to you about now.” Pratiki lifted a slender hand. “No, I have no complaints or criticisms. You have done an admirable job under difficult circumstances, High Magister.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Viyeki was not so alienated from his masters that he disliked praise. “I have done my best to do the queen’s bidding as efficiently as possible.”

  “You are planning to lift the stone lid of the Navigator’s crypt soon, I think.”

  “Yes, Prince-Templar. Tomorrow morning, if all goes well today.”

  “Your timing could not be better. The queen herself will arrive the day after that. We have received word.”

  Viyeki still found it astonishing that Queen Utuk’ku had left Nakkiga after countless centuries. It seemed like something that would happen in a dream, then dissolve with the return of waking life. “We are honored beyond any of our ancestors that she will come to us. It is historic.”

  “Yes, but it is also very, very important that all goes well, as I am sure you understand. The Mother of All does not wish to wait. That means all must be in readiness, and all must be . . .” Again he paused to search for a word, which always meant that a sensitive moment had arrived. Pratiki had not lived so long in the viper’s nest of the Hamakha court without a facility for knowing where danger lay. “All must be orderly.”

  “Does this mean you wish the slaves hidden?” Although most of their work was done, Viyeki dared not reveal his extreme reluctance to execute the captive mortals, who were mostly women, children, and old men. Pratiki might be largely uninterested in violent retribution against mortals, but he was still Hamakha.

  “No, Magister. My concerns lie elsewhere. I have seen the great crane you use to lift heavy pieces of stone and brickwork. I take it you will use it to remove the lid of the crypt as well.”

  “I had planned to, yes. Otherwise we must break up the crypt’s stone cover and risk damaging the queen’s prize within.”

  “Just so. But currently you are using Tinukeda’ya Carry-men to power the wheel.”

  “Their strength is vital, yes. They turn the drum, which allows the crane to lift great weights. Best of all, they do not complain.”

  Pratiki shook his head. “But I cannot promise you that will continue. In fact, I think we dare not use the Carry-men to lift the slab off the crypt.”

  Viyeki was startled. “My lord, what do you mean? Those eight Carry-men do the work of dozens of ordinary workers. How could we replace them?”

  “I’m afraid that is something you must decide for yourself. High Magister. But we cannot use them to lift the slab atop Ruyan’s tomb.”

  His mind racing, already wondering how he might compensate for losing the single most important element of this final step, Viyeki could only ask, “Why, my lord? Why?”

  “Because they are Tinukeda’ya,” Pratiki said. “And this spot has long been sacred to their kind. To them, Ruyan the Navigator represents almost what our queen means for us—the embodiment of their race, the touchstone of their beliefs.”

  “But the Carry-men are witless! They are docile—less intelligent than oxen or dray-goats.”

  “In any other year, I would agree with you, High Magister.” Pratiki motioned to his cleric and guards to wait outside the shelter. When they had gone the Prince-Templar leaned forward, his face carefully expressionless. “But the truth is, Magister Viyeki, that something strange is happening to all the Tinukeda’ya. In Nakkiga, many have become restless and badly behaved. Before I left the city, several went mad and had to be destroyed. Many of those who could speak, delvers and house-slaves, talked of a great day coming. Others said the opposite—that they had dreamed of the destruction of their race. Several of the other nobles asked for an audience with the queen to talk of this unrest among the Changelings, but Her Majesty only sent word that it was ‘to be expected.’”

  “What could that mean?”

  Pratiki shook his head. “I do not know, but when the queen has spoken— well, then it is for lesser folk to determine how to deal with a problem that is not.” He spoke the phrase with a certain archness. The words struck a chord of familiarity, but Viyeki was too overwhelmed by Pratiki’s declaration to ponder it.

  “So you worry that something similar might happen here? That the Carry-men might run mad?” It was a frightening thought. They were as large as the hairy giants, but even stronger. If one of them suddenly went mad, the carnage would be terrible. And if it happened in the presence of the Queen herself . . . Viyeki shuddered.

  “What matters,” the prince-templar said, “—especially knowing how much importance the Mother of All places on our success here—is that we dare not risk such a thing. The Carry-men and any other Changelings must be kept away from Ruyan’s tomb when it is opened.”

  “But how are we to replace them? It would take several dozen Sacrifices to match their strength, but there is no room for so many in the drum!”

  Pratiki’s mouth curled in distaste. “By the Dreaming Sea, Magister, do not even think of asking for Sacrifices. I cannot imagine trying to convince Kikiti to let his warriors take the place of Changeling slaves. He would assassinate me and then kill himself to avoid the dishonor, as he would see it. No, somehow you must get your mortal prisoners to manage it.”

  “Women and children! And weakened by hunger and hard labor.” Viyeki forced himself to take a breath. “And I must do all this in one day?” He was staggered, and becoming more fearful by the moment. It would require rebuilding the great crane and its windlass drum, something that had taken several days to construct even with his engineers working in shifts from dawn to dawn.

  “I am sorry I could not bring this to you sooner, High Magister. I have the needs of many to reconcile.” Pratiki stood and laid a hand on Viyeki’s shoulder, a
very unusual gesture for a noble of his stature. “I understand that I have presented you with a terrible task. If you can accomplish it and the queen is satisfied with our labors here, I will not forget your loyalty.”

  And if we don’t accomplish it, Viyeki thought, then the queen will doubtless have me killed. And you may not have a happy reunion with Her Majesty, either, Prince-Templar. You may even join me in the Fields of the Nameless. But knowing that one of the Hamakha might share his ugly fate did not make Viyeki feel a great deal better.

  * * *

  • • •

  Viyeki called in his engineers, and as midnight came silently to the ruins of Naglimund after hours of desperate work, they hit on an idea that might allow them to finish on time. The great hollow wheel of the windlass which, when turned, lifted any weight the crane carried in ratched steps, had been built for Carry-men and so was not wide enough to hold the dozens of mortals who would have to replace the monstrous Tinukeda’ya slaves in turning it. But after many calculations, Viyeki decided that if he built a second wheel inside the first, this one a much longer cylinder, and buttressed both wheel and crane with additional support on either side, they could accomodate the greater number of bodies needed to turn the wheel. He put several dozen Builders to work on it immediately. They would have to take the crane out of operation for that time, but human slaves could continue clearing the dirt and rubble from on top of the crypt.

  Viyeki and his foremen labored desperately all through the night and into the morning, but as the hidden sun climbed to midday behind threatening gray clouds, the great windlass was again ready for use.

  Only a few hours late, Viyeki thought. If I have not managed to save my life, it is because I have been given an impossible task. That was faint comfort, though, and as he checked his engineers’ final calculations and his workers finished bracing the tall crane, he found himself thinking of all he loved that he might never see again if the new drum and buttresses could not handle lifting the great weight of the slab.

  Nezeru, my daughter, he thought, I hope your successes will make you safe even if I fail. Pratiki had told him in secret some days earlier that his daughter had been part of a group of Queen’s Talons who had accomplished great things. Viyeki longed to hear the story from his child’s own mouth, but had no idea where she was or when he might see her again. And Tzoja too—my dear Tzoja, he thought sadly. I hope your daughter’s triumphs will bring you security as well. I had hoped I could always protect you, but now—who can say?

  Rain began to fall as the crane’s massive ropes, each as thick as Viyeki’s arm, were secured in the notches the masons had carved in the side of the thick stone slab that covered the grave. Almost all the Builders not actually engaged in the project had gathered around the edge of the great pit, and quite a few of General Kikiti’s Sacrifice troops were watching as well. Only Sogeyu’s Singers, whose great work was still to come, stayed away.

  At Viyeki’s signal the chief foreman shouted a command and the slaves who had been chosen to move the wheel began to walk forward inside the longer inner wheel. Each time they managed to turn it far enough, winding up a few measures of the crane’s ropes, a tooth of the mechanism fell into place and kept the wheel from spinning backward. The ropes tightened, creaking in a loud and worrisome manner, but they held, and the slaves, under the direction of several Builders with whips, kept the wheel slowly turning. The tension in the ropes grew greater until at last the great slab began to lift away from the crypt. Several of the watching Builders cheered, but Viyeki was busily praying that everything would hold during the next and most delicate part of the operation, the moment when his work and life were most endangered.

  Now that the walls of the crypt no longer supported the immense weight of the slab, the great crane, built on a swiveling base with a monstrous counterweight of gathered stone, had to be turned so the slab could be lowered again to one side, exposing the sarcophagus beneath. At any moment the immense weight of the unsupported slab might cause the whole thing to shatter, dropping pieces of stone a cubit thick and as wide as the foundation of a small house on those below, killing dozens of Builders and—even more horribly—burying the crypt again under rubble they would never be able to clear before the queen’s arrival. Worst of all, it might destroy the contents of Ruyan’s tomb. Viyeki watched with his fists clenched so tightly his nails scored the skin of his hands as the Builders pushed and pulled and the vast mechanism slowly rotated.

  Another cheer went up as the inside of the crypt was exposed. Viyeki and waited impatiently while boards were laid across the top of the tomb so that they could inspect it from close up, but even from a distance he could see something inside gleaming wetly under the bouncing rain drops.

  “Cover that!” he shouted, then clambered down a ladder into the pit. He waited for Pratiki, then the two of them went cautiously over the rain-slicked boards until they could look down into the tomb.

  Several Builders pulled back the heavy cloth they had spread over the sarcophagus to protect its contents. Viyeki squatted at the edge of the board, mindful not to block Pratiki’s view. For a moment, he was fearful at what he saw, that all their work might have been for naught. “Is this what you hoped to see, Prince-Templar?”

  Pratiki spoke in words that seemed almost reverent. “It is. The armor of Ruyan Vé. It has not been seen for many Great Years. We are blessed. And the queen has blessed us with this great task.”

  Viyeki could now see the outlines of the armor amid the rubble of smashed or deteriorated grave goods, though it was covered in drifts of dust that the rain was rapidly turning into mud. The armor was flattened, and he could see no sign of the legendary Navigator’s body inside it, but it unquestionably had the shape of something with two arms and two legs. As more of the dust washed away under the splashing rain Viyeki could see that the entire suit of armor was made, not from witchwood or metal, but from scales of some transparent crystalline material held together tightly with golden wire, which shone as if it had been placed there only yesterday. The helm, which had slid forward as though Ruyan had put his chin on his chest to sleep, was a golden cylinder decorated with dirt-caked shapes Viyeki could not easily make out, and from what he could see, the eye holes were filled with the same crystal as the rest of the armor.

  “I have never seen anything like it,” he said with a shiver of superstitious awe. He had never experienced a feeling quite like it, had never felt the past so strongly, not even in the presence of deathless Utuk’ku herself. “So this is what remains of the great Navigator.”

  “When the queen arrives,” said Pratiki, “I would suggest you refer to him only as ‘the Great Traitor.’”

  “But is it truly Ruyan Vé? Where is his fleshly body?” Viyeki asked.

  “Gone to dust, no doubt,” the prince-templar said. “Eventually we all come to the same end, the greatest and the worst, mortals and those called immortal, too.”

  “Except the Mother of All,” said Viyeki dutifully, staring at the mounded dust, now darkening as raindrops struck it.

  “Except the Mother of All, of course,” Pratiki agreed.

  * * *

  Cuff had slept very badly the night before. He could not remember much about his dreams except that he had awakened several times during the night with his heart beating fast and tears coursing down his cheeks.

  Now, as all the other mortal survivors of Naglimund stood beside the far wall of the slave pit, trying to make out what the Norns were doing with their great lifting engine in the wreckage of what had once been St. Cuthbert’s church, more or less his home, Cuff the Scaler sat by himself on the far side of the enclosure feeling sick and frightened.

  “Not right,” Cuff said over and over, though nobody was listening. “Not right, knock down the church, dig it up. Shouldn’t do it. Father Siward would say so.” But Father Siward was gone like so many others, burned, buried, or killed during the madness on the
night Naglimund fell.

  Still, though his desperation at being alone again had caused him many miserable nights, that was not why he sat by himself now, long arms around his knees, rocking back and forth on the muddy ground as the rain soaked his tattered garments. Instead it was the feeling that had gripped him all day that frightened him so—a feeling no one else seemed to have, despite the fear and hunger they all felt. And now it was getting worse.

  As the other slaves stared sullenly, watching white-skinned Norns scuttling over the ruins of the church like maggots in spoiled meat, Cuff felt his fear growing until he could think of nothing else. It seemed as if something was lifting the top off his head, pulling open his skull to expose him to the sullen thunderclouds—as if something invisible could see him, even see his thoughts. He felt as though someone or something was staring at every private, shameful thought he had ever had—and whatever it was, that something did not like Cuff the Scaler at all. It thought he was an insect. It thought he was a worm.

  But even this was not the worst.

  Because as the other slaves murmured, some holding their thin, ragged children on their shoulders as though to watch a passing saint’s parade, Cuff felt the air tighten around him until his chest ached and his ears were filled with stabbing pain. Something was coming, though he did not know what it could be. Something was being born—a thing that should not exist. He could feel it in every limb of his body, every pore of his skin, and it was all he could do not to throw himself face down in the mud and beg for someone to kill him.

  It’s a sin, I know it’s a sin, Father—but I hurt! I hurt so much!

  Then the other slaves let out a dull cry as something happened that Cuff could not see and did not care about, because at that precise moment the top of his head finally came off, or felt as if it did. Suddenly he was naked and unprotected beneath an angry, hating sky. A great black funnel reached down from a place beyond the clouds and pulled all the things out of him that made Cuff who he was, then scattered them to the winds. He felt himself come apart, and all the bits of him were swept helplessly through a terrible rushing blackness.