To Green Angel Tower, Volume 1

by Tad Williams

  They reached the shelter of a copse of wind-stripped elders that stood forlornly on the slope of the lowest-lying foothills. As Simon turned to stare back at the sprinkling of lights that marked the edge of Fengbald’s placid camp, the anger that had been hidden by his excitement suddenly began to well inside him—a cold fury at the thought of all those soldiers lying securely in their tents, like caterpillars that had gorged on the leaves of a beautiful garden and now lay safely wrapped in their cocoons. These were the despoilers, the Erkynguardsmen who had come to arrest Morgenes, who had tried to throw down Josua’s castle at Naglimund. Under Fengbald, they had crushed the whole town of Falshire as thoughtlessly as a child might kick over an anthill. Most importantly to Simon, they had driven him from his home, and now they would try to drive him from Sesuad’ra as well.

  “Which of you has a bow?” he said abruptly.

  One of the Thrithings-men looked up .in surprise. “I do.”

  “Give it to me. Yes, and an arrow, too.” Simon took the bow and hooked it over his saddle horn, still staring out at the dark shapes of the clustered tents. “Now give me that torch, Hotvig.”

  The Thrithings-man stared at him for a moment, then pulled the unlit brand from his belt and handed it to him. “What will you do?” he asked quietly. His expression betrayed nothing but calm interest.

  Simon did not reply. Instead, with his concentration on other matters freeing him for a moment from self-consciousness, he swung down from the saddle with surprising ease. He unpeeled the pitchy rag from the end of the torch and wrapped it instead around the head of the arrow, tying it tightly with the length of leather thong that had bound his Qanuc sheath against his thigh. Kneeling, sheltered from the wind by Homefinder’s bulk, he produced his flints and iron bar.

  “Come, Simon.” Sludig sounded midway between worry and anger. “We have done what we came for. What are you up to?”

  Simon ignored him, striking at the iron until a spark nestled in the sticky folds of the rag wound around the arrow’s tip. He blew on it until the flame caught, then pocketed his flints and swung back up into the saddle. “Wait for me,” he said, and spurred Homefinder out of the stand of trees and down the slope. Sludig started after him, but Hotvig reached out a hand and caught the harness of the Rimmersman’s mount, pulling him up short. They fell into an animated, but whispered, argument.

  Simon had found little chance to practice with a bow, and none at all to shoot one from horseback since the terrible, swift battle outside of Haethstad when Ethelbearn had been killed. Still, it was not accuracy or skill that was important now so much as his desire to do something, to send a small message to Fengbald and his confident troops. He nocked the arrow while still holding the reins, clinging with his knees to the saddle as Homefinder jounced across the uneven snow. The flame blew back along the arrow’s shaft until he could feel it hot on his knuckles. At last, as he swept down onto the valley floor, he pulled up. He used his legs to turn Homefinder slowly in a wide circle, then pulled the bowstring back to his ear. His lips moved, but Simon himself did not know what he was saying, so all-absorbing was the ball of flame quivering at the end of the shaft. He took a breath, then let the arrow go.

  It flew out, bright and swift as a shooting star, and arched across the night sky like a finger dipped in blood being drawn across black cloth. Simon felt his heart leap as he watched its erratic flight, watched the wind that nearly extinguished the flame carry it first to this side, then that, then drop it at last in among the crowded shadows of the camp. A few moments later a bright blossom of light arose as one of the tents caught fire. Simon watched for a moment, his heart beating as swiftly as a bird’s, then turned and spurred Homefinder back up the hill.

  He did not say anything about the arrow when he caught up with the rest of his companions. Even Sludig did not question him. Instead, the little company fell in around Simon and together they rode swiftly through the darkened hills with the wind blowing chill against their faces.

  “I wish you would go and lie down,” Josua said.

  Vorzheva looked up. She was sitting on a mat beside the brazier with the cloak she was repairing spread out on her lap. The young New Gadrinsett girl who was helping her also looked up, then quickly lowered her eyes to the mending once more.

  “Lie down?” Vorzheva said, cocking her head quizzically. “Why?”

  Josua resumed his pacing. “It ... it would be better.”

  Vorzheva ran a hand through her black hair as she watched him cross from one wall of the tent to the other then start back again, a journey of little more than ten cubits. The prince was tall enough that he could only stand upright at the very center of the tent, which gave his pacing progress an odd, hunchbacked look.

  “I do not want to lie down, Josua,” she said at last, still watching him. “What is wrong with you?”

  He stopped and flexed his fingers. “It would be better for the baby... and for you... if you did lie down.”

  Vorzheva stared at him for a moment, then laughed. “Josua, you are being foolish—the child will not come until the end of winter.”

  “I worry for you, Lady,” he said plaintively. “The bitter weather, the hard life we live here.”

  His wife laughed again, but this time there was a slight edge in her voice. “The women of the Stallion Clan, we give birth standing up on the grasslands, then we go back to work. We are not city women. What is wrong with you, Josua?”

  The prince’s thin face flushed violently. “Why must you always disagree with me?” he demanded. “Am I not your husband? I fear for your health and I do not like to see you working so strenuously, late into the night.”

  “I am no child,” Vorzheva snapped, “I only am carrying one. Why do you walk here and back, here and back? Stand and talk to me!”

  “I try to talk with you, but you quarrel with me!”

  “Because you tell me what things I should do, like you tell a child. I am not a fool, even though I do not speak like your castle ladies!”

  “Aedon curse it, I never said you were a fool!” he shouted. The moment the words were out of his mouth, he stopped his agitated walking. After staring at the ground for a moment, he raised his eyes to Vorzheva’s young helper. The girl was huddled in mortification, doing her best to vanish into the shadows. “You,” he said. “Would you leave us for a while? My wife and I would like to be alone.”

  “She is helping me!” Vorzheva said angrily.

  Josua fixed the girl with his hard gray eyes. “Go.”

  The young woman leaped to her feet and fled out through the tent flap, leaving her mending in a heap on the floormats. The prince stared after her for a moment, then turned his attention back to Vorzheva. He seemed about to say something, then stopped and swiveled around to the tent flap.

  “Blessed Elysia,” he murmured. It was hard to tell whether it was a prayer or a curse. He walked toward the doorway and out of the tent.

  “Where do you go?” Vorzheva called after him.

  Josua squinted into the darkness. At last he saw a lighter shape against one of the tents not far away. He walked toward it, clenching and unclenching his fist.

  “Wait.” He reached out to touch the young woman’s shoulder. Her eyes widened. She had backed herself against the tent; now she raised her hands before her as if to ward off a blow. “Forgive me,” he said. “That was an ungentle thing for me to do. You have been kind to my lady and she likes you. Please forgive me.”

  “For-forgive you, Lord?” she sniffled. “Me? I am no one.”

  Josua winced. “God values each soul at the same measure. Now please, go to Father Strangyeard’s tent over there. There, you can see the light of his fire. It will be warm, and I’m sure he will give you something to eat and drink. I will come to fetch you when I have finished talking to my wife.” A sad, tired smile crept onto his lean face. “Sometimes a man and woman must have some time alone, even when they are the prince and his lady.”

  She sniffled again, then tried
to curtsy, but was pressed back so firmly against the fabric of the tent that she could not bend. “Yes, Prince Josua.”

  “Go on, then.” Josua watched her hurry across the snowy ground toward the circle of Strangyeard’s fire. He saw the archivist and someone else stand to greet her, then he turned and walked back to the tent.

  Vorzheva stared at him as he entered, curiosity clearly mixed with anger on her face. He told her what he had done.

  “You are the strangest man I have ever known.” She took a deep, shaky breath, then looked down, squinting at her needlework.

  “If the strong can bully the weak without shame, then how are we different from the beasts of forest and field?”

  “Different?” She still avoided his eyes. “How is it different? Your brother chases us with soldiers. People die, women die, children die, all for grazing land and names and flags. We are beasts, Josua. Have you not seen that?” She looked up at him again, more kindly this time, as a mother at a child who has not learned life’s harsh lessons. She shook her head and returned to her task.

  The prince moved to the pallet, then sat down among the piles of cushions and blankets. “Come sit with me.” He patted the bed beside him.

  “It is warmer here, close to the fire.” Vorzheva seemed engrossed in her stitchery.

  “It would be just as warm if we sat together here.”

  Vorzheva sighed, then put down her sewing, stood, and walked to the bed. She fell down beside him and leaned back upon the cushions. Together they stared up at the roof of the tent, which sagged beneath its burden of snow.

  “I am sorry,” Josua said. “I did not mean to be harsh. But I worry. I fear for your health, and for the child’s health.”

  “Why is it that men think they are brave and women are weak? Women see more blood and pain than men ever do, unless men are fighting—and that is foolish blood.” Vorzheva grimaced. “Women tend the hurts that cannot be helped.”

  Josua did not reply. Instead, he slid his arm around her shoulder and let his fingers move in the dark curls of her hair.

  “You have no need to fear for me,” she said. “Clan women are not weak. I will not cry. I will make our child and it will be strong and fit.”

  Josua maintained his silence for a while, then took a deep breath. “I blame myself. I did not give you a chance to understand what you were doing.”

  She turned suddenly to look at him, her face twisting in fear. She reached up and plucked his hand from her hair, then held it tightly. “What are you saying?” she demanded. “Tell me.”

  He hesitated, looking for words. “It is a different thing being a prince’s wife than it is being a prince’s woman.”

  She swiftly moved a little way across the bed so she could turn and face him. “What are you saying? That you would bring some other woman to take my place? I will kill you and her, Josua! I swear on my clan!”

  He laughed softly, although at that moment she looked quite capable of carrying out her threat. “No, that is not what I mean. Not at all.” He looked at her and his smile faded. “Please, my lady, never think anything like that.” He reached out and clasped her hand again. “I meant only that as prince’s wife, you are not like other women—and our child is not like other children.”

  “So?” The fear still lingered. She was not yet appeased.

  “I cannot let anything happen to you, or to our child. If I am lost, the life you bear within you might be the only remaining link to the world as it was.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that our child must live. If we fail—if Fengbald defeats us, or even if we survive this battle, but I die—then one day our child must avenge us.” He rubbed his face. “No, that is not what I mean. This is more important than vengeance. Our child could be the last light against an age of darkness. We do not know if Miriamele will come back to us, or if she even lives. If she is lost, then a prince’s son—or a prince’s daughter, for that matter—a grandchild of Prester John, would raise the only banner that could bring together a resistance to Elias and his ungodly ally.”

  Vorzheva was relieved. “I told you, we Thrithings-women bear strong children. You need have no worry—our child will live to make you proud. And we will win here, Josua. You are stronger than you know.” She moved closer to him. “There is too much worry in you.”

  He sighed. “I pray that you are right. Usires and His mercy, is there anything worse than being a ruler? How I wish I could simply walk away.”

  “You would not do that. My husband is no coward.” She lifted herself to look at him closely, as if he might be an impostor, then settled back once more.

  “No, you are right. It is my lot—my test, perhaps... my own Tree. And each nail is sharp and cold indeed. But even the condemned man is allowed to dream of freedom.”

  “Do not talk of this any more,” she said into his shoulder. “You will bring bad luck.”

  “I can stop speaking, my love, but I cannot so easily silence my thoughts.”

  She pushed her head against him like a young bird trying to force its way out of an egg. “Be quiet now.”

  The worst of the storm had passed, moving southeast. The moon, although curtained and invisible, still shed enough light to give a faint shine to the snow, as though all the river valley between Gadrinsett and Sesuad’ra were sprinkled with powdered diamonds.

  Simon watched the snow fountain up from the hooves of Sludig’s horse and wondered if he would live to look back on this year. What might he be, if by some odd chance he managed to survive? A knight, of course, which was already something so grand he had only imagined it in his most childish daydreams—but what did a knight do? Fought for his liege in war, of course, but Simon did not want to think about wars. If there were peace someday, and if he lived to see it—two possibilities that seemed sadly remote—what sort of life would he have?

  What did knights do? Ruled over their fiefdoms, if they had land. That was more or less like being a farmer, wasn’t it? It certainly didn’t seem grand, but suddenly the idea of coming home from a wet day spent walking through the fields seemed very appealing. He would pull off his cloak and boots and wiggle into his slippers, then warm himself in front of a great roaring fire. Someone would bring him wine, and mull it with a hot poker... but who? A woman? A wife? He tried to conjure a suitable face out of the darkness, but could not. Even Miriamele, if she lost her legacy and consented to marry a commoner, and if she would choose Simon in any case—if the rivers ran uphill and fish flew, in other words—Miriamele would not be, he sensed, the kind of woman who would wait quietly at home for her husband to return from the fields. To imagine her thus was almost to think of a beautiful bird with its wings tied.

  But if he did not marry and have a household, what then? The thought of tournaments, that staple of the knight’s spring and summer entertainment which had occupied his excited thoughts for several years, nearly sickened him now. That healthy men would hurt each other for no reason, lose eyes and limbs and even their lives for a game when the world was already such a dreadful and dangerous place, made Simon furious. “Mock-war” some called it, as though any mere sport, no matter how hazardous, could approach the horror of the things Simon had seen. War was like a great wind or an earth tremor, something dreadful that should not be trifled with. To imitate it seemed almost blasphemous. Practicing at tilting and swordwork was something you did to stay alive if war caught you. When this all ended—if it ended—Simon wanted to get as far away from war, mock or otherwise, as he could.

  But one did not always go looking for war, for pain and terror; certainly death did not need to be sought out. So shouldn’t a knight always be ready to do his duty defending himself and others? That was what Sir Deornoth said, and Deornoth did not strike Simon as the kind who fought needlessly or happily. And what was it that Doctor Morgenes had said once about the great Camaris? That he blew his famous battle horn Cellian not to summon help or make himself glorious, but to let his enemies know he was comin
g so they could safely escape. Morgenes had written time after time in his book that Camaris took no pleasure in battle, that his mighty skills were only a burden, since they drew attackers to him and forced him to kill when he did not want to. There was a paradox. No matter how adept you were, someone would always wish to test you. So was it better to prepare for war or to avoid it?

  A clump of snow fell from a branch overhead and, as if it had life, avoided his heavy scarf and slid easily down the back of his neck. Simon gave a muffled squeak of dismay, then quickly looked around, hoping none of the others had heard him make such an unmanly noise. No one was looking at him; the attention of all his companions seemed fixed on the silver-gray hills and spiky, shadowy trees.

  So which was better? To flee war, or to try to make yourself so strong that no one could hurt you? Morgenes had told him that such problems were the stuff of kingship, the sort of questions that kept goodhearted monarchs awake at night when all their subjects were sleeping. When Simon had complained about such a vague response, the doctor had smiled sadly.

  “That answer is certainly unsatisfactory, Simon, ” the old man had said. “So are all possible answers to such questions. If there were correct answers, the world would be as orderly as a cathedral—flat stone on flat stone, pure angle mating with pure angle—and everything as solid and unmoving as the walls of Saint Sutrin’s. He had cocked his beer jug in a sort of salute. ”But would there be love in such a world, Simon? Beauty or charm, with no ill-favor to compare them to? What kind of place

  would a world without surprises be?” The old man had taken a long drink, wiped his mouth, then changed the subject. Simon had not thought any more of what the doctor had said again—until this moment.

  “Sludig.” Simon’s voice was startlingly loud as it broke the long silence.

  “What?” Sludig turned in his saddle to look back. “Would you rather live in a world without surprises? I mean without good ones and bad ones both?”

  The Rimmersman glared at him for a moment. “Don’t talk foolishness,” he grunted, then turned back, using his knees to urge his horse around a boulder standing stark against the white drifts.