by Tad Williams
“Jump now!” he cried, his voice echoing faintly. “Hurry!”
Miriamele turned and looked briefly at Isgrimnur. The duke’s face was slack with wonder, but he drew himself together long enough to give Miriamele a gentle but purposeful shove.
“You heard him,” he growled. “Jump!”
She did, then landed hard in the sand and rolled. A fiery bit of something caught in her cloak, but she thumped it out with her hands. A moment later, with a whoof of outrushing breath, Isgrimnur crashed down beside her. The ghants, who were squealing and dashing madly back and forth across the grass-strewn beach, paid little attention to their former quarry. The duke turned and climbed to his feet, then reached up his hands. Camaris, leaning far over the uneven edge of the nest, dropped Tiamak down to him. The duke was knocked back to the sand, but cradled the unmoving Wrannaman; a moment later Camaris had vaulted down as well. The company dashed across the strand. A few ghants who had not been struck by Cadrach’s fiery attack scuttled toward them but Miriamele and Camaris kicked them out of the way. The fleeing company stumbled down the bank and waded out into the sluggish green water.
Miriamele sprawled in the bottom of the flatboat, gasping for air. With a few shoves of the pole, the monk sent the boat bobbing out toward the middle of the waterway, well out of reach of the capering ghants.
“Are you hurt?” Cadrach’s face was pale, his eyes almost feverishly bright.
“What ... what did you... ?” She could not find the breath to finish her sentence.
Cadrach dipped his head, shrugging. “The oil-palm leaves. I had an idea after you went into ... that place. I cooked them. There are things I know how to do.” He held up the tube he had made from a large reed. “I used this to throw the fire.” The hand that clutched the tube was covered with angry blisters.
“Oh, Cadrach, look what you’ve done.”
Cadrach turned to look at Camaris and Isgrimnur, who were huddled over Tiamak. Behind them on the shoreline, the ghants were leaping and hissing like damned souls made to dance. Smears of flame still burned along the nest’s front walls, sending knots of inky smoke into the late afternoon sky.
“No, look what you’ve done,” the monk said, and smiled a grim but not entirely unhappy smile.
PART TWO
The Winding Road
17
Bonfire Night
“I don’t think I want to go, Simon.” Jeremias was doing his best, with a rag and a smoothing stone, to clean Simon’s sword.
“You don’t have to.” Simon grunted in pain as he pulled on his boot. Three days had passed since the battle on the frozen lake, but every muscle still felt as though it had been pounded on a blacksmith’s anvil. “This is just something he wants me to do.”
Jeremias seemed relieved, but was unwilling to accept his freedom so easily. “But shouldn’t your squire go along when the prince calls for you? What if you need something that you’ve forgotten—who would go back for it.”
Simon laughed, but broke off as he felt a band of pain tighten around his ribs. The day after the battle he had barely been able to stand. His body had felt like a bag of broken crockery. Even now, he still moved like an old, old man. “I’ll just have to go and get it myself—or I’ll call for you. Don’t worry. It’s not like that here, which you should know as well as anybody. It’s not a royal court, like at the Hayholt.”
Jeremias peered closely at the blade’s edge, then shook his head. “You say that, Simon, but you never can tell when princes will get squinty on you. You can never tell when they might suddenly feel their blood and go all royal.”
“It’s a risk I’ll have to take. Now give me that damned sword before you polish it away to a sliver.”
Jeremias looked up anxiously. He had regained a little weight since coming to New Gadrinsett, but provisions were scarce and he was still far from being the chubby boy Simon had grown up with; he had a drawn look that Simon doubted would ever completely go away. “I would never harm your sword,” he said seriously.
“Oh, God’s Teeth,” Simon growled, swearing with the practiced indifference of a blooded soldier. “I was joking. Now give it here. I’ve got to go.”
Jeremias gave him a haughty look. “One thing about jokes, Simon—they’re supposed to be funny.” Despite the grin that was beginning to crinkle his lips, he handed the blade over carefully. “And I’ll let you know if you’re ever actually funny, I promise.”
Simon’s witty reply—which in truth he had not yet formulated—was forestalled by the opening of the tent flap. A small figure appeared in the doorway, silent and solemn.
“Leleth!” Jeremias said. “Come in. Would you like to go for a walk with me? Or I could finish telling you that story about Jack Mundwode and the bear.”
The little girl moved a few steps into the tent, which was her way of showing assent. Her eyes, as they turned momentarily to Simon’s, were disturbingly adult. He remembered how she had looked on the Dream Road—a free creature in its element, flying, exulting—and felt an obscure sense of shame, as if he were somehow helping to keep a beautiful thing prisoned.
“I’ll be on my way,” he said. “Take care of Jeremias, Leleth. Don’t let him handle anything sharp.”
Jeremias flung the polishing cloth at him as he stepped through the tent flap.
Outside, Simon took a deep breath. The air was chill, but he thought it felt subtly warmer than it had a few days before, as though somewhere nearby Spring was looking for a way in.
We only beat Fengbald, he cautioned himself. We didn’t hurt the Storm King at all. So there’s not much chance we’ve driven the winter away.
But the thought raised another question. Why hadn’t the Storm King sent help to Fengbald as he had to Elias at the siege of Naglimund? Survivors’ stories of the horror of the Norns’ attack were almost as vivid in Simon’s mind as the memories of his own strange adventures. If the swords were so important, and if Josua was known by the Hikeda‘ya to have one of them—which, according to the prince and Deornoth, was almost certainly the case—why hadn’t Sesuad’ra’s defenders found themselves staring down at an army of ice-giants and armored Norns? Was it something about the Stone itself?
Perhaps because it is a Sithi place. But they weren’t afraid to attack Jao é-Tinukai’i, finally.
He shook his head. It was something to share with Binabik and Geloë, although he was sure it had already occurred to them. Or had it? It might be almost too overwhelming to add another unsolvable puzzle to the pile they already faced. Simon was so tired of questions without answers.
His boots crunched in the thin snow as he made his way across the Fire Garden toward Leavetaking House. He had gladly played the fool with Jeremias, since it seemed to bring his friend out of his worries and evil memories, but Simon was not in a particularly cheerful frame of mind. His last nights had been filled with dreams of the battle’s carnage, of madness and blood and screaming horses. Now he was going to see Josua, and the prince was in an even blacker mood than he was. Simon was not looking forward to this at all.
He stopped, his frosty breath rising around his head in a cloud, and stared at the broken dome of the Observatory. If only he dared take the mirror and try to speak with Jiriki again! But the fact that the Sithi had not come, despite the defenders’ great need, made it clear that Jiriki had more important things on his mind than the doings of mortals. Also, the Sitha had expressly warned Simon that this was a perilous time to walk the Road of Dreams. Perhaps if he tried, he would somehow bring the Storm King’s attention to Sesuad’ra—Simon might shatter the very indifference that seemed to have been the single greatest reason for their unbelievable victory.
He was a man now, or might as well be. There could be no more mooncalf tricks, he decided. The stakes were far too high.
Leavetaking House was poorly lit: only a few torches burned in the sconces, so that the great room seemed half-dissolved in shadow. Josua was standing by the bier.
“Thank you for co
ming, Simon.” The prince barely raised his eyes before returning his gaze to Deornoth’s body, which was laid out on the slab of stone with the Tree and Drake banner draped across it, as though the knight were only sleeping beneath a thin blanket. “Binabik and Geloë are there,” the prince said, gesturing to a pair of figures sitting beside the firepit near the far wall. “I will join you in a moment.”
Simon walked to the fire with a careful tread, trying to avoid disrespectful noise. The troll and the witch woman were talking quietly.
“Greetings, friend Simon,” said Binabik. “Come, sit and be warm.”
Simon sat cross-legged on the stone floor, then moved forward to a warmer spot. “He seems even sadder than yesterday,” he whispered.
The troll looked at Josua. “It has struck him with a great weightiness. It is as though all the people he was loving, and for whose safety he was fearing, were all killed with Deornoth.”
Geloe made a noise of mild exasperation. “You cannot fight battles without losses. Deornoth was a good man, but others died, too.”
“Josua is now mourning for all of them, I am thinking—in his way.” The troll shrugged. “But I have certainty he will recover.”
The witch woman nodded. “Yes, but we have little time. We must strike while the advantage is ours.”
Simon looked at her curiously. Geloe seemed as ageless as ever, but she seemed to have lost a little of her vast assurance. Not that it would be surprising if she had: the past year had been a dreadful one. “I wanted to ask you something, Geloë,” he said. “Did you know about Fengbald?”
She turned her yellow eyes on him. “Did I know he would send someone onto the field wearing his armor, to fool us? No. But I did know that Josua had conspired with Helfgrim, the Lord Mayor. I did not know whether Fengbald would take the bait.”
“I am afraid that I was also knowing, Simon,” said Binabik. “My help was needed for planning how to split the ice. It was done with the helping of some of my Qanuc fellows.”
Simon felt a little warmth rise to his cheeks. “So everybody knew but me?”
Geloë shook her head. “No, Simon. Besides Helfgrim, Josua and myself, there were only Binabik, Deornoth, Freosel, and the trolls that helped prepare the trap-that was all who knew. It was our last hope, and we dared not take a chance of it being even rumored to Fengbald.”
“Didn’t you trust me?”
Binabik laid a calming hand on his shoulder. “Trust was not the thing that was mattering, Simon. You and any others who were fighting on the ice could have been captured. Even the bravest will tell all they know if they are under torturing—and Fengbald was not being the sort for scruples in such things. The fewer who knew, the better were being chances that the secret would hold. If there had been need to tell you, as there was with those others, we would have told you with no hesitating.”
“Binabik is right, Simon.” Josua had come up silently as they spoke and now stood over them. The firelight threw his shadow across the ceiling, a long empty stripe of darkness. “I trust you as fully as I trust anyone—anyone living, that is.” A hint of something darted across his face. “I ordered that only those necessary to the plan should know. I am sure you can understand.”
Simon swallowed. “Of course, Prince Josua.”
Josua lowered himself down onto a stone and gazed absently at the wavering flames. “We have won a great victory—it is a miracle, truly. But the price was so very high....”
“No price that kept innocent people alive could be too high,” Geloë replied.
“Perhaps. But there is a possibility that Fengbald would have let the women and children go....”
“But now they are alive and free,” said Geloë shortly. “And a good number of the men are, too. And we have had an unexpected victory.”
The ghost of a smile flickered on Josua’s lips. “Are you to take Deornoth’s place, then, Valada Geloe? For that is what he always did for me-reminded me when I began to brood.”
“I cannot take his place, Josua, but I do not think we need to apologize for winning. Mourning is honorable, of course. I do not seek to take that away from you.”
“No, of course not.” The prince looked at her for a moment, then pivoted slowly and surveyed the long hall. “We must honor the dead.”
There was a scrape of leather in the doorway. Sludig stood there, a pair of saddlebags draped over his brawny arm. Looking at the strain on the Rimmersman’s face, Simon wondered if they were packed full of stones. “Prince Josua?”
The prince turned. “Yes, Sludig?”
“These are all that were found. They have Fengbald’s crest on them. They are soaking wet, though. I have not opened them.”
“Put them down here by the fireside. Then please sit and speak with us. You have been a great help, Sludig.”
The Rimmersman bobbed his head. “Thank you, Prince Josua. But I also have another message for you. The prisoners are ready to talk now—or so Freosel says.”
“Ah.” Josua nodded. “And Freosel is no doubt right. He is rough, but very clever. Not unlike our old friend Einskaldir, eh, Sludig?”
“Just as you say, Highness.” Sludig seemed uncomfortable talking to the prince. He was finally getting the attention and credit he seemed to have wanted, Simon noted, but did not seem completely happy with it.
Josua laid his hand on Simon’s shoulder. “I suppose I must go and do my duty, then,” he said. “Would you come with me, Simon?”
“Of course, Prince Josua.”
“Good.” Josua made a gesture toward the others. “If you would be so good, attend me after supper. There is much to speak about.”
As they approached the door, Josua put the stump of his right wrist beneath Simon’s elbow and led him toward the bier where Deornoth lay. Simon could not help noticing that he was a little taller than the prince. It had been a long time since he had stood so close to Josua, but he was still surprised. He, Simon, was tall—and not just for a youth, but for a man. It was a strange thought.
They stopped before the bier. Simon stood on the balls of his feet, respectfully silent but anxious to move on. Being so close to the knight’s body made him uncomfortable. The pale, angular face that lay upon the stone slab looked less like the Deornoth he remembered than like something carved in soap. The skin on his face, especially on his eyelids and nostrils, was bloodlessly translucent.
“You did not know him well, Simon. He was the best of men.”
Simon swallowed. His mouth felt dry. The dead were ... so dead. And someday Josua, Binabik, Sludig, everyone in New Gadrinsett would be that way. Even he would be that way, Simon realized with a feeling of distaste. What was it like? “He was always very kind to me, Highness.”
“He knew no other way. He was the truest knight I have ever known.”
The more Josua had spoken of Deornoth in the last few days, the more Simon had come to realize that he had apparently not known the man at all. He had seemed a simple man, kind and quiet, but hardly an exemplar of knightliness as Josua seemed to think him, a modern Camaris.
“He died bravely.” It seemed a lame sort of condolence to offer, but Josua smiled.
“He did. I wish you and Sludig could have reached his side sooner, but you did your best.” Josua’s face changed abruptly, like clouds blowing across a spring sky. “I do not mean to suggest that you two failed in some way, Simon. Please forgive me—I have grown thoughtless in my grief. Deornoth could always chivvy me out of my self-indulgence. Ah, God, I will miss him. I think he was my best friend, although I never knew it until he was dead.”
Simon was further discomfited to see tears forming in Josua’s eyes. He wanted to look away, but was suddenly reminded of the Sithi, and of what Strangyeard had said. Perhaps it was the highest and the greatest who always bore the largest griefs. How could there be shame in such sadness?
Simon reached up and took the prince’s elbow. “Come, Josua. Let’s walk. Tell me about Deornoth, since I never had the chance to know him p
roperly.”
The prince tore his gaze away from Deornoth’s alabaster features. “Yes, of course. We will walk.”
He let Simon lead him out the door and into the hilltop wind.
“... And he actually came to me and apologized!” Josua was laughing now, although there seemed little joy in it. “As though he himself had transgressed. Poor, loyal Deornoth.” He shook his head and wiped at his eye. “Aedon! Why is it that this cloud of regret seems to surround me, Simon? Either I am pleading forgiveness, or those around me are—it is no wonder that Elias thought I was soft-headed. Sometimes I think he was right.”
Simon suppressed a grin. “Perhaps the problem is only because you are too quick to share your thoughts with people you do not know well—like escaped scullions.”
Josua looked at him narrowly for a moment, then laughed, but this time his mirth seemed less constrained. “Perhaps you are right, Simon. People like their princes strong and unswerving, don’t they?” He chuckled. “Ah, Usires the Merciful, could they ever have a prince less like that than me?” He looked up, squinting across the field of tents. “God help me, I have wandered. Where is the cave where the prisoners are kept?”
“There.” Simon pointed to a rocky outcropping just inside Sesuad’ra’s outer barrier, barely visible behind the wind-shimmied walls of the tent city. Josua altered his course and Simon followed, moving slowly to ease the ache of his several wounds.
