To Green Angel Tower, Volume 1

by Tad Williams

  diplomacy—as also with love and commerce, two

  other not dissimilar occupations—the rewards

  usually do not fall to the strong or to even the

  just, but rather to the lucky. John also knew that

  he who moves swiftly and without undue caution

  makes his own luck.”

  Simon frowned at Binabik’s pleased expression. “So?” “Ah.” The troll was imperturbable. “Listen further.”

  “Thus, in the war that brought Nabban under his

  imperial hand, John took his far-outnumbered

  troop through the Onestrine Pass and directly

  into the spear-points of Ardrivis’ legions, when

  all knew that only a fool would do so. It was this

  very foolhardiness, this seeming madness, that

  gave John’s smaller force a great advantage of

  surprise—and even, to the startled Nabbanai

  army, an aura of God-touched irresistibility.”

  Simon found the note of triumph in the little man’s voice faintly disquieting. Binabik seemed to think that the point was somehow very clear. Simon frowned, thinking.

  “Are you saying that we should be like King John? That we should try to catch Elias by surprise?” It was an astonishing idea. “That we should . . . attack him?”

  Binabik nodded, his teeth bared in a yellow smile. “Clever Simon! Why not? We have only been reacting, not acting. Perhaps a change will be helpful.”

  “But what about the Storm King?” Shaken by the thought, he looked out at the beclouded horizon. Simon did not even like to say that name beneath the wide slate sky in this alien place. “And besides, Binabik, we are only a few hundred. King Elias has thousands of soldiers. Everybody knows it!”

  The troll shrugged. “Who says we must be fighting army to army? In any case, our little company is growing every day, as more folk come across the meadows to ... what was Josua’s naming? Ah. New Gadrinsett.”

  Simon shook his head and flung another shard of wind-smoothed stone. “It seems stupid to me—no, not stupid. But too dangerous.”

  Binabik was not upset. He whistled for Qantaqa, who came trotting back across the stone flags. “Perhaps it is being just that, Simon. Let us walk for a little while.”

  Prince Josua stared down at the sword, his face troubled. The good cheer he had shown at Simon’s feast seemed entirely gone.

  It was not that the prince was truly any happier of late, Sir Deornoth decided, but he had learned that his self-doubts made those around him uneasy. In times like these, people preferred a fearless prince to an honest one, so Josua labored to present a mask of calm optimism to his subjects. But Deornoth, who knew him well, had little doubt that Josua’s responsibilities still weighed on him as heavily as they ever had.

  He is like my mother, Deornoth realized. A strange thing to think of a prince. But like her, he feels he must take the worries and fears of all onto himself, that no one else can bear the burden.

  And, as Deornoth had seen his mother do, Josua also seemed to be aging faster than those around him. Always slender, the prince had become very thin during the company’s flight from Naglimund. He had regained a little of his girth, but there was a strange aura of fragility about him now that would not go away: Deornoth thought him a little unworldly, like a man just risen from a long illness. The gray streaks in his hair had increased drastically and his eyes, although still as sharp and knowing as ever, held a slightly feverish gleam.

  He needs peace. He needs rest. I wish I could stand at the foot of his bed and protect him while he slept for a year. “God give him strength,” he murmured.

  Josua turned to look at him. “I’m sorry, my mind was wandering. What did you say?”

  Deornoth shook his head, not wishing to lie, but not caring to share his thoughts either. They both turned their attention back to the sword.

  Prince and liege-man stood before the long stone table in the building Geloë had named Leavetaking House. All traces of the previous night’s feast had been cleared away, and now only one gleaming black object lay upon the smooth stone.

  “To think that so many have died at the end of that blade,” Deornoth said at last. He touched the cord-wrapped hilt; Thorn was as cold and lifeless as the rock on which it rested.

  “And more recently,” the prince murmured, “think of how many have died that we might have it.”

  “But surely, if it cost us so dearly, we should not just leave it lying here in an open hall where anyone may come.” Deornoth shook his head. “This might be our greatest hope, Highness—our only hope! Should we not hide it away safe, or put it under guard?”

  Josua almost smiled. “To what purpose, Deornoth? Any treasure can be stolen, any castle thrown down, any hiding place nosed out. Better it should lie where all can see and feel what hope is in it.” He narrowed his eyes as he stared down at the blade. “Not that I feel much hope looking at it. I trust you will not think me any the less princely if I say it gives me a kind of chill.” He slowly ran his hand down the length of the blade. “In any case, from what Binabik and young Simon have said, no one will take this sword where it does not wish to go. Besides, if it lies here in view of all, like Tethtain’s ax in the heart of the fabled beech tree, perhaps someone will come forward to tell us how it may serve.”

  Deornoth was puzzled. “You mean one of the common people, Highness?”

  The prince grunted. “There are all kinds of wisdom, Deornoth. If we had listened sooner to the common folk living on the Frostmarch when they told us that evil was abroad in the land, who knows what anguish we might have been spared? No, Deornoth, any word of wisdom about this sword is valuable to us now, any old song, any half-remembered story.” Josua could not hide his look of discontent. “After all, we have no idea of what good it can do us—in fact, no idea that it will do good at all, but for an obscure and ancient rhyme....”

  A harsh voice sang out, interrupting him.

  “When frost doth grow on Claves’ bell

  And shadows walk upon the road

  When water blackens in the Well

  Three Swords must come again.”

  The two men turned in surprise. Geloë stood at the doorway. She continued the rhyme as she walked toward them.

  . “When Bukken from the Earth do creep

  And Hunën from the heights descend

  When Nightmare throttles peaceful Sleep

  Three Swords must come again.

  “To turn the stride of treading Fate

  To clear the fogging Mists of Time

  If Early shall resist Too Late

  Three Swords must come again.

  “I could not help hearing you, Prince Josua—I have keen ears. Your words are very wise. But as to doubting whether the sword will help . . .” She grimaced. “Forgive an old forest woman for her bluntness, but if we do not believe in the potency of Nisses’ prophecy, what else do we have?”

  Josua tried to smile. “I was not disputing that it means something significant to us, Valada Geloë. I only wish I knew more clearly what kind of a weapon these swords will be.”

  “As do we all.” The witch woman nodded to Deornoth, then flicked a glance at the black sword. “Still, we have one of the three Great Swords, and that is more than we had a season ago.”

  “True. Very true.” Josua leaned back against the stone table. “And we are in a safe place, thanks to you. I have not grown blind to good fortune, Geloë.”

  “But you are worried.” It was not a question. “It is becoming harder to feed our growing settlement, and harder to govern those who live here.”

  The prince nodded. “Many of whom are not even sure why they are here, except that they followed other settlers. After such a freezing summer, I do not know how we will survive the winter.”

  “The people will listen to you, Highness,” said Deornoth. When the witch woman was present, Josua seemed more like a careful student than a prince. He had never learned to like i
t, and had only partially learned to hide his annoyance. “They will do what you say. We will survive the winter together.”

  “Of course, Deornoth.” Josua laid his hand upon his friend’s shoulder. “We have come through too much to be balked by the petty problems of today.”

  He looked as if he would say more, but at that moment they heard the sound of footsteps on the wide stairs outside. Young Simon and the troll appeared in the doorway, followed closely by Binabik’s tame wolf. The great beast sniffed the air, then snuffled at the stone on all sides of the door as well before trotting off to lie down in a far comer of the hall. Deornoth watched her go with some relief. He had seen numerous proofs of her harmlessness, but he had been raised a child of the Erkynlandish countryside, where wolves were the demons of fireplace tales.

  “Ah,” Josua said cheerfully, “my newest knight, and with him the honored envoy from far Yiqanuc. Come, sit down.” He pointed to a row of stools left from the previous evening’s festivities. “We wait on only a few more, including Count Eolair.” The prince turned to Geloë. “You saw to him, did you not? Is he well?”

  “A few cuts and bruises. He is thin, too—he has ridden far with little food. But his health is good.”

  Deornoth thought she would not say much more if the Count of Nad Mullach had been drawn and quartered—but still would have him on his feet again soon. The witch woman did not show his prince proper respect, and had few traits that Deornoth considered womanly, but he had to admit that she was very good at the things she did.

  “I am happy to hear it.” Josua tucked his hand under his cloak. “It is cold here. Let us make a fire so we can speak without our teeth chattering.”

  As Josua and the others talked, Simon fetched pieces of wood from the pile in the comer and stacked them in the firepit, happy to have something to do. He was proud to be part of this high company, but not quite able to take his membership for granted.

  “Stand them touching at the top, spread at the bottom,” Geloë advised.

  He did as she suggested, making a conical tent of firewood in the middle of the ashes. When he had finished, he looked around. The crude firepit seemed out of place on the finely-crafted stone floor, as though animals had taken up residence in one of the great houses of Simon’s own kind. There seemed no Sithi-built equivalent of the pit anywhere in the long chamber. How had they kept the room heated? Simon remembered Aditu running barefoot on the snow and decided that they might not have bothered.

  “Is Leavetaking House really the name of this place?” he asked Geloë as she came forward with her flint and steel. She ignored him for a moment as she squatted beside the firepit, putting a spark to the curls of bark that lay around the logs.

  “It is as close a name as any. I would have called it ‘Hall of Farewell,’ but the troll corrected my Sithi grammar.” She showed a tight smile. A thread of smoke floated up past her hands.

  Simon thought she might have made a joke, but he wasn’t quite sure. “‘Leavetaking’ because this room was where the two families split up?”

  “I believe it is the place where they parted, yes. Where the accord was struck. I imagine it has or had some other name for the Sithi, since it was in use long before the parting of those two tribes.”

  So he had been right: his vision had shown him the past of this place. Pondering, he stared along the pillared hall, at the columns of carved stone still clean and sharp-edged after countless years. Jiriki’s people had once been mighty builders, but now their homes in the forest were as changeable and impermanent as the nests of birds. Perhaps the Sithi were wise not to put down deep roots. Still, Simon thought, a place that was always there, a home that did not change, seemed right now to be the finest treasure in the world.

  “Why did the two families separate?”

  Geloë shrugged. “There is never one reason for such a great change, but I have heard that mortals had something to do with it.”

  Simon remembered the last, terrible hour in the Yasirá. “The Norn Queen—Utuk‘ku. She was mad that the Sithi hadn’t ... ‘scourged the mortals from the land,’ she said. And she also said that Amerasu wouldn’t leave the mortals be. Us mortals. Like me.” It was hard to think of Amerasu the Ship-Born without shame: her assassin had claimed that he followed Simon to Jao é-Tinukai’i.

  The witch woman stared at him for a moment. “I forget sometimes how much you have seen, boy. I hope you do not forget when your time comes.”

  “What time?”

  “As to the parting of Sithi and Norn,” she continued, ignoring his question, “mortals came into it, but also it is told that the two houses were uneasy allies even in the land of their origin.”

  “The Garden?”

  “As they call it. I do not know the stories well—such tales have never been of much interest to me. I have always worked with the things that are before me, things that can be touched and seen and spoken to. There was a woman in it, a Sitha-woman, and a man of the Hikeda’ya as well. She died. He died. Both families were bitter. It is old business, boy. If you see your friend Jiriki again, ask him. It is the history of his own family, after all.”

  Geloë stood and walked away, leaving Simon to warm his hands before the flames.

  These old stories are like blood. They run through people, even when they don’t know it or think about it. He considered this idea for a moment. But even if you don’t think about them, when the bad times come, the old stories come out on every side. And that’s just like blood, too.

  As Simon sat contemplating, Hotvig arrived with his right-hand man Ozhbern. They were quickly followed by Isorn and his mother, Duchess Gutrun.

  “How is my wife, Duchess?” asked Josua.

  “Not feeling well, your Highness,” she replied, “or she

  would have been here. But it is only to be expected. Children aren’t just difficult after they arrive, you know.”

  “I know very little, good lady,” Josua laughed. “Especially about this. I have never been a father before.”

  Soon Father Strangyeard appeared, accompanied by Count Eolair of Nad Mullach. The count had replaced his traveling garments with Thrithings clothes, breeches and shirt of thick brown wool. He wore a golden torque at his neck, and his black hair was pulled back in a long tail. Simon remembered seeing him long ago, at the Hayholt, and once again had to marvel at the strangeness of Fate, how it moved people about the world like markers in a vast game of shent.

  “Welcome, Eolair, welcome,” Josua said. “Thanks be to Aedon, it does my heart good to see you again.”

  “And mine, Highness.” The count tossed the saddlebags he carried against the wall by the door, then touched a knee briefly to the ground. He rose to Josua’s embrace. “Greetings from the Hernystiri nation in exile.”

  Josua quickly introduced Eolair to those he had not met. To Simon, the count said: “I have heard something of your adventures since I arrived.” The smile on his thin face was warm. “I hope you will put aside some time to speak with me.”

  Flattered, Simon nodded. “Certainly, Count.”

  Josua led Eolair to the long table where Thorn waited, solemn and terrible as a dead king upon his bier.

  “The famous blade of Camaris,” said the Hernystirman. “I have heard of it so many times, it is strange to see it at last and realize it is a real thing, forged of metal like any other weapon.”’

  Josua shook his head. “Not quite like any other weapon.”

  “May I touch it?”

  “Of course.”

  Eolair was barely able to lift the hilt from the stone table. The cords of his neck stood out in sharp relief as he strained at it. At last he gave up and rubbed his cramped fingers. “It is as weighty as a millstone.”

  “Sometimes.” Josua patted his shoulder. “Other times it is as light as goosedown. We do not know why, nor do we know what good it will do us, but it is all we have.”

  “Father Strangyeard told me of the rhyme,” the count said. “I think I have more to tell
you about the Great Swords.” He looked around the room. “If this is the proper time.”

  “This is a war council,” Josua said simply. “All these folk can be told anything, and we are anxious for any news about the swords. We also wish to hear of your people, of course. I understand that Lluth is dead. You have our great sympathy. He was a splendid man and a fine king.”

  Eolair nodded. “And Gwythinn, too, his son.”

  Sir Deornoth, seated on a stool nearby, groaned. “Oh, that is foul news! He set out from Naglimund shortly before the siege. What happened?”

  “He was caught by Skali’s Kaldskrykemen and butchered.” Eolair stared down at the ground. “They dumped his body at the foot of the mountain, like offal, and rode away.”

  “A curse on them!” Deornoth snarled.

  “I am ashamed to call them countrymen,” said young Isorn.

  His mother nodded her agreement. “When my husband returns, he will deal with Sharp-nose.” She sounded as certain as if she spoke of sunset coming.

  “Still, we are all countrymen, here,” Josua said. “We are all one people. From this day forward, we go together against common enemies.” He gestured to the stools that stood against the wall. “Come, everybody sit down. We must fetch and carry for ourselves: I thought that the smaller this group remained, the easier it would be to speak openly.”

  When all were arrayed, Eolair told of Hernystir’s downfall, beginning with the slaughter at the Inniscrich and Lluth’s mortal wounding. He had barely started when there was a commotion outside the hall. A moment later, the old jester Towser stumbled through the door with Sangfugol tugging at his shirt, trying to restrain him.

  “So!” The old man fixed Josua with a reddened stare. “You are no more loyal than your murdering brother!” He swayed as Sangfugol pulled at him desperately. Pink-cheeked and wild-haired—what little hair was left—Towser was clearly drunk.

  “Come away, curse you!” the harper said. “I’m sorry, my prince, he just suddenly leaped up and . . .”

  “To think that after all my years of service,” Towser spluttered, “that I should be ... should be ... excluded,” he pronounced the word with proud care, unaware of the strand of spittle that hung from his chin, “should be shunned, barred from your councils, when I was the one closest to your father’s heart....”