To Green Angel Tower, Volume 1

by Tad Williams

  Josua had seen Lady Vorzheva off to bed, then returned to preside over the final hour of the feast. He sat now, talking quietly with Deornoth. Both men looked tired.

  Jeremias was sleeping in a comer, determined not to go to bed while Simon was still up, despite the fact that his friend had the advantage of having slept until past noon. Still, Simon was beginning to think seriously about lurching off to bed when Binabik appeared in the doorway of Leavetaking House. Qantaqa stood beside him, sniffing the air of the great hall with a mixture of interest and distrust. Binabik left the wolf and came inside. He beckoned to Simon, then made his way over to Josua’s chair.

  “... So they have made him a bed? Good.” The prince turned as Simon approached. “Binabik brings news. Welcome news.”

  The troll nodded. “I do not know this man, but Isorn seemed to think that his coming was an important thing. Count Eolair, a Hernystirman,” he explained to Simon, “has just been brought across the water by one of the fishermen, brought here to New Gadrinsett.” He smiled at the name, which still seemed clumsily new-minted. “He is very tired now, but he is telling that he has important news for us, which he will give us in the morning if the prince is willing it.”

  “Of course.” Josua stroked his chin thoughtfully.. “Any news of Hernystir is valuable, although I doubt that much of Eolair’s tale is happy.”

  “As it may be. However, Isorn was also saying,” Binabik lowered his voice and leaned closer, “that Eolair claims to have learned something important about,” his voice became quieter still, “the Great Swords.”

  “Ah!” muttered Deornoth, surprised.

  Josua was silent for a moment. “So,” he said at last. “Tomorrow, on Saint Granis’ Day, perhaps we shall learn if our exile is one of hope or hopelessness.” He rose and turned his cup over, giving it a spin with his fingers. “Bed, then. I will send for you all tomorrow, when Eolair has had a chance to rest.”

  The prince walked away across the stone tiles. The torches made his shadow jump along the walls.

  “Bed, as the prince was saying,” Binabik smiled. Qantaqa pushed forward, thrusting her head beneath his hand. “This will be a day for long remembering, Simon, will it not?”

  Simon could only nod.

  2

  chains of Many Kinds

  Princess Miriamele considered the ocean.

  When she had been young, one of her nurses had told her that the sea was the mother of mountains, that all the land came from the sea and would return to it one day, even as lost Khandia was reputed to have vanished into the smothering depths. Certainly the ocean that had beaten at the cliffs beneath her childhood home at Meremund had seemed eager to reclaim the rocky verge.

  Others had named the sea as mother of monsters, of kilpa and kraken, oruks and water-wights. The black depths, Miriamele knew, did indeed teem with strange things. More than once some great, formless hulk had washed up on Meremund’s rocky beaches to lie rotting in the sun beneath the fearful, fascinated eyes of the local inhabitants until the tide rolled it away again into the mysterious deeps. There was no doubt that the sea birthed monsters.

  And when Miriamele’s own mother went away, never to return, and her father Elias sank into brooding anger over his wife’s death, the ocean even became a kind of parent to her. Despite its moods, as varied as the hours of sunlight and moonlight, as capricious as the storms that roiled its surface, the ocean had provided a constancy to her childhood. The breakers had lulled her to sleep at night, and she had awakened every morning to the sound of gulls and the sight of tall sails in the harbor below her father’s castle, rippling like great-petaled flowers as she stared down from her window.

  The ocean had been many things to her, and had meant much. But until this moment, as she stood at the aft rail of the Eadne Cloud with the whitecaps of the Great Green stretching away on all sides, she had never realized that it could also be a prison, a holdfast more inescapable than anything built of stone and iron.

  As Earl Aspitis’ ship coursed southeast from Vinitta, bound toward the Bay of Firannos and its scatter of islands, Miriamele for the first time felt the ocean turn against her, holding her more surely than ever her father’s court had bound her with ritual or her father’s soldiers had hemmed her all around in sharp steel. She had escaped those wardens, had she not? But how was she to escape a hundred miles of empty sea? No, it was better to give in. Miriamele was tired of fighting, tired of being strong. Stone cliffs might stand proudly for ages, but they fell to the ocean at last. Instead of resisting, she would do better to float where the tides took her, like driftwood, shaped by the action of the currents but moving, always moving. Earl Aspitis wasn’t a bad man. True, he did not treat her with quite the same solicitude as he had a fortnight ago, but still he spoke kindly—that is, when she did as he wished. So she would do as he wished. She would float like an abandoned spar, unresisting, until time and events dropped her onto land again....

  A hand touched the sleeve of her dress. She jumped, surprised, and turned to find Gan Itai standing beside her. The Niskie’s intricately wrinkled face was impassive, but her gold-flecked eyes, though sun-shaded, seemed to glitter.

  “I did not mean to startle you, girl.” She moved up to the rail beside Miriamele and together they stared out over the restless water.

  “When there’s no land in sight,” Miriamele said at last, “you might as well be sailing off the edge of the world. I mean, it seems as if there might not be any land anywhere.”

  The Niskie nodded. Her fine white hair fluttered around her face. “Sometimes, at night, when I am up on the deck alone and singing, I feel as though I am crossing the Ocean Indefinite and Eternal, the one my people crossed to come to this land. They say that ocean was black as tar, but the wave crests glowed like pearl.”

  As she spoke, Gan Itai extended her hand and clasped Miriamele’s palm. Startled and unsure of what to do, the princess did not resist, but continued to stare out to sea. A moment later the Niskie’s long, leathery fingers pushed something into her hand.

  “The sea can be a lonely place.” Gan Itai continued as though unaware of what her own hand was doing. “Very lonely. It is hard to find friends. It is hard to know who can be trusted.” The Niskie’s hand dropped away, disappearing back into the wide sleeves of her robe. “I hope you will discover folk you can trust . . . Lady Marya.” The pause before Miriamele’s false name was unmistakable.

  “So do I,” said the princess, flustered. “Ah.” Gan Itai nodded. A smile tilted her thin mouth. “You look a little pale. Perhaps the wind is too much for you. Perhaps you should go to your cabin.” The Niskie inclined her head briefly, then walked away, bare brown feet carrying her artfully across the rocking deck.

  Miriamele watched her go, then looked up to the tiller where Earl Aspitis stood talking to the steersman. The earl lifted his arm to free himself from his golden cloak, which the wind had wrapped about him. He saw Miriamele and smiled briefly, then returned to his conversation. Nothing about his smile was unusual, except perhaps its perfunctory quality, but Miriamele suddenly felt chilled to the heart. She clutched the curl of parchment in her fist more tightly, fearful that the wind might pull it loose from her grasp and send it fluttering right up to Aspitis. She had no idea what it was, but somehow she knew beyond doubt that she did not want him to see it.

  Miriamele forced herself to walk slowly across the deck, using her empty hand to clutch the rail. She was not nearly so steady as Gan Itai had been.

  In the dim cabin, Miriamele carefully uncurled the parchment. She had to hold it up beside the candle flame to read the tiny, crabbed letters.

  I have done many wrongs,

  she read,

  and I know you no longer trust me, but please believe that these words are honest. I have been many people, none of them satisfactory. Padreic was a fool, Cadrach a rogue. Perhaps I can become something better before I die.

  She wondered where he had gotten the parchment and ink, and decided that the N
iskie must have brought it to him. As she stared at the labored script, Miriamele thought of the monk’s weak arms weighted by chains. She felt a stab of pity—what agony it must have been for him to write this! But why could he not leave her alone? Why could no one simply let her be?

  If you are reading this, then Gan Itai has done as she promised. She is the only one on this ship you can trust . . . except perhaps for me. I know that I have cheated and deserted you. I am a weak man, my lady, but in my warnings at least I have served you well, and still try to do so. You are not safe on board this ship. Earl Aspitis is even worse than I guessed him to be. He is not just a gilded creature of Duke Benigaris’ court. He is a servant of Pryrates.

  I have told you many lies, my lady, and there are also many truths that I have kept hidden. I cannot set all to right here. My fingers are tired already, my arms are sore. But I will tell you this: there is no one alive who knows the evil of the priest Pryrates better than I. There is no one alive who bears more responsibility for that evil, since I helped him become what he is.

  It is a long and complicated tale. Enough to say that I, to my eternal and horrible shame, gave Pryrates the key to a door he should never have opened. Worse, I did so even after I knew him for the ravening beast he is. I gave in to him because I was weak and frightened It is the worst thing I have ever done in a life of grievous errors.

  Believe me in this, lady. To my sorrow, I know our enemy well. I hope you will also believe me when I say that Aspitis does not only the bidding of his lord Benigaris, but the work of the red priest as well. It was common knowledge in Vinitta.

  You must escape. Perhaps Gan Itai can help you. Sadly, I do not think you will ever again go under such light guard as you did on Vinitta. My cowardly attempt at flight will assure that. I know not how or why, but I beg you to leave as soon as you can. Flee to the inn called Pelippa’s Bowl, in Kwanitupul. I believe Dinivan has sent others there, and perhaps they can help you escape to your uncle Josua.

  I must stop because I hurt. I will not ask you to forgive me. I have earned no forgiveness.

  A smear of blood had stained the edge of the parchment. Miriamele stared at it, her eyes blurring with tears, until someone knocked sharply on the door and her heart erupted into frenzied pounding. She crumpled the note in her palm even as the door swung open.

  “My sweet lady,” said grinning Aspitis, “why do you hide yourself down here in the dark? Come, let us walk on the deck.”

  The parchment seemed to burn her, as though she clutched a smoldering coal.

  “I . . . I do not feel well, my lord.” She shook her head, trying to hide her shortness of breath. “I will walk another time.”

  “Marya,” the earl chided, “I told you that it was your country openness that charmed me. What, are you becoming a moody court wench?” He reached her side in a long step. His hand trailed across her neck. “Come, it is no wonder you feel poorly, sitting in this dark room. You need air.” He leaned forward and brushed his lips below her ear. “Or perhaps you prefer it here, in the dark. Perhaps you are merely lonely?” His fingers dragged delicately across her throat, soft as spiderwebs on her skin.

  Miriamele stared at the candle. The flame danced before her, but all around it was sunken deep in shadow.

  The stained glass windows of the Hayholt’s throne room had been broken. Ragged curtains restrained the flurrying snow, but did not keep out the freezing air. Even Pryrates seemed to feel the cold: although he still went bareheaded, the king’s counselor was wearing red robes lined with fur.

  Alone of all the folk who came into the throne room, the king and his cupbearer did not seem to mind the chill air. Elias sat bare-armed and bare-footed on the Dragonbone Chair; but for the great scabbarded sword that hung from his belt, he was dressed as casually as if he lounged in his private chambers. The monk Hengfisk, the king’s silent page, wore a threadbare habit and his customary lunatic grin, and appeared no less comfortable than his master in the frosty hall.

  The High King slouched deep in the cage of dragon’s bones, chin on chest, peering out from beneath his eyebrows at Pryrates. In contrast to the black malachite statues which stood on each side of the throne, Elias’ skin seemed white as milk. Blue veins showed at his temples and along his wiry arms, bulging as though they might burst through the flesh.

  Pryrates opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. His sigh was that of an Aedonite martyr overwhelmed with the foolish wickedness of his persecutors.

  “Damn you, priest,” Elias snarled, “my mind is made up.”

  The king’s advisor said nothing, but only nodded; the torchlight made his hairless skull gleam like a wet stone. Despite the wind that fluttered the curtains, the room seemed full of a curious stillness.

  “Well?” The king’s green eyes were dangerously bright.

  The priest sighed again, more softly. His voice, when he spoke, was conciliatory. “I am your counselor, Elias. I only do what you would wish me to: that is, help you decide what is best.”

  “Then I think it best that Fengbald take soldiers and go east. I want Josua and his band of traitors driven out of their holes and crushed. I have delayed too long already with this business of Guthwulf and with Benigaris’ fumblings in Nabban. If Fengbald leaves now, he and his troops will reach my brother’s den in a month. You know what kind of winter it will be, alchemist—you of all people. If I wait any longer, the chance is lost.” The king pulled at his face irritably.

  “As to the weather, there is little doubt,” Pryrates said equably. “I can only once again question the need to pursue your brother. He is no threat. Even with an army of thousands, he could not stop us before your glorious, complete, and permanent victory is assured. There is only a little while longer to wait.”

  The wind changed direction, making the banners that hung from the ceiling ripple like pondwater. Elias snapped his fingers and Hengfisk scuttled forward with the king’s cup. Elias drank, coughed, then drank again until the goblet was empty. A bead of steaming black liquid clung to his chin.

  “That is simple for you to say,” the king snarled when he had finished swallowing. “Aedon’s Blood, you have said it often enough. But I have waited long already. I am cursedly tired of waiting.”

  “But it will be worth the wait, Majesty. You know that.”

  The king’s face grew momentarily pensive. “And my dreams have been getting more and more strange, Pryrates. More ... real.”

  “That is understandable.” Pryrates lifted his long fingers soothingly. “You bear a great burden—but all will soon be made right. You will author a reign of splendor unlike anything the world has seen, if you will only be patient. These matters have their own timing—like war, like love.”

  “Hah.” Elias belched sourly, his irritation returning. “Damned little you know of love, you eunuch bastard.” Pryrates flinched at this, and for a moment narrowed his coal-black eyes to slits, but the king was gazing down morosely at Sorrow and did not see. When he looked up again, the priest’s face was as blandly patient as before. “So what is your payment for all this, alchemist? That I’ve never understood.”

  “Besides the pleasure of serving you, Majesty?”. Elias’ laugh was sharp and short, like a dog’s bark. “Yes, besides that.”

  Pryrates stared at him appraisingly for a moment. An odd smile twisted his thin lips. “Power, of course. The power to do what I want to do ... need to do.”

  The king’s eyes had swung to the window. A raven had alighted on the sill and now stood preening its oily black feathers. “And what do you want to do, Pryrates?”

  “Learn.” For a moment the priest’s careful mask of statecraft seemed to slip; the face of a child showed through—a horrible, greedy child. “I want to know everything. For that I need power, which is a sort of permission. There are secrets so dark, so deep, that the only way to discover them is to tear open the universe and root about in the very guts of Death and Unbeing.”

  Elias lifted his hand a
nd waved for his cup once more. He continued to watch the raven, which hopped forward on the sill and tilted its head to return the king’s stare. “You talk strangely, priest. Death? Unbeing? Are they not the same?”

  Pryrates grinned maliciously, although at what was not clear. “Oh, no, Majesty. Not remotely.”

  . Elias suddenly whirled in his chair, craning his head around the yellowed, dagger-fanged skull of the dragon Shurakai. “Curse you, Hengfisk, did you not see me call for my cup!? My throat is burning!”

  The pop-eyed monk hurried to the king’s side. Elias carefully took the cup from him and set it down, then hit Hengfisk on the side of his head so swiftly and powerfully that the cupbearer was flung to the floor as if lightning-struck. Elias then calmly drained the steaming draught. Hengfisk lay boneless as a jellyfish for several long moments then rose and retrieved the empty cup. His idiot grin had not vanished; if anything, it had become wider and more deranged, as though the king had done him some great kindness. The monk bobbed his head and backed into the shadows once more.

  Elias paid him no attention. “So it is settled. Fengbald will take the Erkynguard and a company of soldiers and mercenaries and go east. He will bring me back my brother’s smirking, lecturing head on a lance.” He paused, then said thoughtfully: “Do you suppose that the Norns would go with Fengbald? They are fierce fighters, and cold weather and darkness are nothing to them.”

  Pryrates raised an eyebrow. “I think it unlikely, my king. They do not seem to like to travel by day; neither do they seem to enjoy the company of mortals.”

  “Not much use as allies, are they?” Elias frowned and stroked Sorrow’s hilt.

  “Oh, they are valuable enough, Majesty.” Pryrates nodded his head, smiling. “They will render service when we truly need them. Their master—your greatest ally—will see to that.”