To Green Angel Tower, Volume 1

by Tad Williams

  “I have let myself run far afield,” Josua said, “and not only in my search for the prisoners. I asked you to come to me so I could ask you a question.”

  “Yes?” Simon could not help but be interested. What could the prince possibly want of him?

  “I wish to bury our dead on this hill.” Josua waved his arm, spanning the breadth of Sesuad’ra’s grassy summit. “You of all the people here know the Sithi best, I think—or at least the most intimately, for certainly Binabik and Geloë have studied them. Do you think that it would be allowed? This is their place, after all.”

  Simon thought about this for a moment. “Allowed? I can’t imagine the Sithi preventing it, if that’s what you mean.” He smiled wryly. “They didn’t even show up to defend it, so I don’t think that they would suddenly arrive with an army to keep us from burying our dead.”

  They walked on a short way in silence. Simon pondered before speaking again. “No, I don’t think they would object—not that I could ever claim to speak for them,” he added hurriedly. “After all, Jiriki buried his kinsman An’ nai with Grimmric, back on Urmsheim.” The days on the dragon-mountain seemed so far away now, as though they had been spent there by another Simon, a distant relative. He kneaded the muscles of his painfully stiff arm and sighed. “But, as I said, I cannot speak for the Sithi. I was there for—what, months? And I still could never hope to understand them.”

  Josua looked at him keenly. “What was it like to live with them, Simon? And what was their city like—Jao ... Jao... ?”

  “Jao é-Tinukai’i.” Simon was more than a little proud at how easily the difficult syllables fell from his lips. “I wish I could explain, Josua. It’s sort of like trying to describe a dream—you can tell what happened, but you can’t quite make someone understand how it felt. They are old, Highness, very, very old. But to look at them, they are young and healthy and ... and beautiful.” He remembered Jiriki’s sister Aditu, her lovely, bright, predatory eyes, her smile full of secret amusement. “They have every right to hate us, Josua—at least I think they do—but instead they seem ... puzzled by us. As we would feel if sheep became mighty and drove us out of our cities.”

  Josua laughed. “Sheep, Simon? Are you saying that the Imperators of Nabban and King Fingil of Rimmersgard ... and my father, for that matter ... were woolly, harmless creatures?”

  Simon shook his head. “No, I only mean that we are that different from the Sithi. They don’t understand us any more than we understand them. Jiriki and his grandmother Amerasu might not be as different as some—they certainly treated me with kindness and understanding—but the other Sithi ...” He stopped, at a loss. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

  Josua looked at him kindly. “What was the city like?”

  “I tried to describe it before, when I came here. I said then that it was like a huge boat, but that it was also like a rainbow in front of a waterfall. That’s terrible, but I still can’t describe it any better than that. It’s all made of cloth strung between the trees, but it seems as solid as any city I’ve ever seen. But it looks as though they could pack it up any moment and take it somewhere else.” He laughed despairingly. “You see, I keep running out of words!”

  “I think you explain it very well, Simon.” The prince’s thin features were pensive. “Ah, how I would like to truly know the Sithi someday. I cannot understand what made my father fear and hate them so. What a storehouse of history and lore they must possess!”

  They had reached the cave entrance, which was barred with a makeshift portcullis of heavy, rough-cut timbers. A guard posted there—one of Hotvig’s Thrithings-men—left the jug of coals over which he had been warming his hands to raise the gateway and let them in.

  Several more guards, an even mix of Thrithings-men and Freosel’s Erkynlanders, stood in the antechamber. They saluted both the prince and Simon respectfully, much to the bemused chagrin of the latter. Freosel, rubbing his hands together, appeared from the depths of the cavern.

  “Your Highness ... and Sir Seoman,” he said, inclining his head. “I think time has come. They be starting to get frisky-like. If we wait longer, we may have trouble—if you pardon my saying so.”

  “I trust your judgment, Freosel,” said Josua. “Take me to them.”

  The inner part of the wide cavern, which was separated from the front by a bend in the stone walls and thus hidden from the sun, had been divided by the use of more stout timbers into two stockades with a sizable open space between them.

  “They do shout at each other cross the cave.” Freosel’s grin revealed the gap in his teeth. “Blaming each other, like. Take turns keeping each other awake nights. Do our job for us, they do.”

  Josua nodded as he approached the left-hand stockade, then turned to Simon. “Say nothing,” he said firmly. “Just listen.”

  In the dim, torchlit cavern, Simon at first had trouble making out its occupants. The smell of urine and unwashed bodies—something Simon had thought he could no longer notice—was strong.

  “I wish to speak with your captain,” Josua called. There was slow movement in the shadows, then a figure in the tattered green surcoat of an Erkynguardsman stepped up to the rough bars.

  “That is me, your Highness,” the soldier said.

  Josua looked him over. “Sceldwine? Is that you?”

  The man’s embarrassment was plain in his voice. “It is, Prince Josua.”

  “Well.” Josua seemed to be taken aback. “I never dreamed to see you in a place like this.”

  “Nor did I, Highness. Nor expected to be sent to fight against you either, sire. It’s a shame ...”

  Freosel abruptly stepped forward. “Don’t you listen to him, Josua,” he sneered. “He and his murdering cronies will say anything to save their lives.” He thumped his powerful hand against the stockade wall hard enough to make the wood quiver. “The rest of us haven’t forgot what your kind did to Falshire.”

  Sceldwine, after drawing back in alarm, leaned forward to see better. His pale face, exposed now by the torchlight, was drawn and worried. “None of us were happy about that.” He turned to the prince. “And we did not want to come against you, Prince Josua. You must believe us.”

  Josua started to say something, but Freosel, astonishingly, interrupted him. “Your people won’t have it, Josua. This ben’t the Hayholt or Naglimund. We don’t trust these armored louts. If you let them live, there’ll be trouble.”

  A mumbling growl ran through the prisoners, but there was more than a little fear in it.

  “I don’t want to execute them, Freosel,” Josua said unhappily. “They were sworn to my brother. What choice did they have?”

  “What choice have any of us got?” the Falshireman shot back. “They made the wrong one. Our blood be on their hands. Kill them and have done. Let God worry about choices.”

  Josua sighed. “What do you say, Sceldwine? Why should I let you live?”

  The Erkynguardsman seemed momentarily at a loss. “Because we are just fighting men, serving our king, Highness. There is no other reason.” He stared out between the bars.

  Josua beckoned for Freosel and Simon and walked away from the stockade to the center of the cavern, out of earshot.

  “Well?” he said.

  Simon shook his head. “Kill them, Prince Josua? I don’t ...”

  Josua raised his hand. “No, no. Of course I won’t kill them.” He turned to the Falshireman, who was grinning. “Freosel has been working on them for two days. They are convinced he wants their hides, and that the citizens of New Gadrinsett are demanding they be hung before Leavetaking House. We just want them in the proper mood.”

  Simon was again embarrassed: he had misjudged. “What are you going to do, then?”

  “Watch me.” After stalling for a few moments more, Josua assumed an air of solemnity and walked slowly back to the stockade and the nervous prisoners. “Sceldwine,” he said, “I may regret this, but I am going to let you and your men live.”

  Freo
sel, scowling, snorted a great angry snort and marched away. An audible sigh of relief rose from the prisoners.

  “But, ” Josua raised his finger, “we will not keep you and feed you. You will work to earn your lives. My people would hang me if I did any less—they will already be very displeased to be cheated of your executions. If you prove yourselves trustworthy, we may let you fight at our side when we push my mad brother from the Dragonbone Chair.”

  Sceldwine gripped the wooden bars with both his hands. “We will fight for you, Josua. No one else would show us such mercy in these mad times.” His comrades gave ragged shouts of agreement.

  “Very well. I will think further on how this is to be accomplished.” Josua nodded stiffly, then turned his back on the prisoners. Simon followed him out into the middle of the room once more.

  “By the Ransomer,” said Josua, “if they will fight for us, what a boon! A hundred more disciplined soldiers. They may be the first of many more defections, when word begins to spread.”

  Simon smiled. “You were very convincing. Freosel, too.”

  Josua looked pleased. “I think that there may be a few strolling players in the constable’s family history. As for me—well, all princes are born liars, you know.” His expression turned serious. “And now I must deal with the mercenaries.”

  “You will not make them the same offer, will you?” Simon asked, suddenly worried.

  “Why not?”

  “Because ... because someone who fights for gold is different.”

  “All soldiers fight for gold,” Josua said gently.

  “That’s not what I mean. You heard what Sceldwine said. They fought because they thought they must—that’s at least partly true. Those Thrithings-men fought because Fengbald paid them. You can’t pay them with anything but their lives.”

  “That’s not an inconsiderable sum,” Josua pointed out.

  “But after they’re armed again, how much weight will that have? They’re different than the Erkynguard, Josua, and if you want to make a kingdom that’s different than your brother’s, you can’t build it on men like the mercenaries.” He stopped abruptly, horrified to discover he was lecturing the prince. “I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I have no right to speak this way.”

  Josua was watching him, eyebrow raised. “They are right about you, young Simon,” he said slowly. “There is a good head under that red hair of yours.” He laid his hand on Simon’s shoulder. “I had not planned to deal with them until Hotvig could join me, in any case. I will think carefully on what you have said.”

  “I hope you can forgive me my forwardness,” Simon said, abashed. “You have been very kind with me.”

  “I trust your thoughts, Simon, as I do Freosel’s. A man who will not listen carefully to advice honestly given is a fool. Of course, a man who blindly takes any advice he receives is a bigger fool.” He gave Simon’s shoulder a squeeze. “Come, let us walk back. I would like to hear more about the Sithi.”

  It was strange to use Jiriki’s mirror for such a mundane purpose as trimming his beard, but Simon had been told by Sludig—and none too subtly—that he was looking rather straggly. Propped on a rock, the Sithi glass winked in the failing afternoon light. There was a faint mist in the air which continually forced Simon to clean the mirror with his sleeve. Unfamiliar with the art of grooming with a bone knife—he could have borrowed a sharper steel blade from Sludig, but then the Rimmersman probably would have stood by and made comments—Simon had accomplished little more than causing himself a few twinges of pain when the three young women approached.

  Simon had seen all three of them around New Gadrinsett—he had even danced with two of them the evening he had become a knight, and the thinnest one had made him a shirt. They seemed terribly young, even though he was probably no more than a year older than any of them. One of them, though, a dark-eyed girl whose round figure and curly brown hair was a little reminiscent of the chambermaid Hepzibah; he thought was rather fetching.

  “What are you doing, Sir Seoman?” the thin one asked. She had large, serious eyes which she hooded with her lashes whenever Simon looked at her too long.

  “Cutting my beard,” he said gruffly. Sir Seoman, indeed! Were they making fun of him?

  “Oh, don’t cut it off!” the curly-haired girl said. “It makes you look so grand!”

  “No, don’t,” her thin friend echoed.

  The third, a short girl with straight yellow hair and a few spots on her face, shook her head. “Don’t.”

  “I’m just trimming it.” He marveled at the silliness of women. Just days before, people had been killed defending this place! People that these girls knew, most likely. Yet here they were, bothering him about his beard. How could they be so flittery? “Do you really think it looks ... grand?” he said.

  “Oh, yes,” Curly-Hair blurted, then reddened. “That is, it makes you ... it makes a man look older.”

  “So you think I need to look older?” he asked in his sternest voice.

  “No!” she said hurriedly. “But it looks nice.”

  “They say you were very brave in the battle, Sir Seoman,” said the thin girl.

  He shrugged. “We were fighting for our home ... for our lives. I was just trying not to be killed.”

  “Just like Camaris would have said,” the thin girl sighed.

  Simon laughed aloud. “Nothing like Camaris. Nothing at all.”

  The small girl had sidled around and was now looking intently at Simon’s mirror. “Is that the Fairy Glass?” she asked.

  “Fairy Glass?”

  “People say ...” She faltered and looked to her friends for help.

  Thin One jumped in. “People say that you are a fairy-friend. That the fairies come when you call them with your magic looking-glass.”

  Simon smiled again, but hesitantly. Bits of truth mixed up with silliness. How did that happen? And who was talking about him? It was odd to think about. “No, that’s not quite right. This was given to me by one of the Sithi, yes, but they do not simply come when I call. Otherwise, we would not have fought by ourselves against Duke Fengbald, now would we?”

  “Can your looking-glass grant wishes?” Curly-Hair asked.

  “No,” Simon said firmly. “It’s never granted any of mine.” He paused, remembering his rescue by Aditu in Aldheorte’s wintery depths. “I mean, that’s not really what it does,” he finished. So he, too, was mixing truth with lies. But how could he possibly explain the madness of this last year so that they could understand it?

  “We were praying that you would bring us allies, Sir Seoman,” the thin girl said seriously. “We were so frightened.”

  As he looked at her pale face, he saw that she was telling the truth. Of course they had been upset—did that mean that they could not be glad that they were alive? That wasn’t the same as being flittery, really. Should they brood and mourn like Josua?

  “I was frightened, too,” he said. “We were very lucky.”

  There was a pause. The curly-haired girl arranged her cloak, which had fallen open to reveal the soft skin of her throat. The weather was getting warmer, Simon realized. He had been standing motionless here for some time, but had not shivered once. He looked up at the sky, as if hoping to find some confirmation of winter’s dwindling.

  “Do you have a lady?” the curly-haired girl said suddenly.

  “Do I have a what?” he asked, although he had heard her perfectly well.

  “A lady,” she said, blushing furiously. “A sweet-heart.”

  Simon waited for a moment before replying. “Not really.” The three girls were staring at him raptly, expectant as puppies, and he felt his own cheeks grow hot. “No, not really.” He had been clutching his Qanuc knife so long that his fingers-had begun to ache.

  “Ah,” said Curly-Hair. “Well, we should leave you to your work, Sir Seoman.” Her slender friend pulled at her elbow, but she ignored her. “Will you be coming to the bonfire?”

  “Bonfire?” Simon furrowed his brow.<
br />
  “The celebration. Well, and the mourning, too. In the middle of the settlement.” She pointed toward the massed tents of New Gadrinsett. “Tomorrow night.”

  “I didn’t know. Yes, I suppose I might.” He smiled again. These were really quite sensible young women when you talked with them a while. “And thank you again for the shirt,” he told Thin One.

  She blinked rapidly. “Maybe you will wear it tomorrow night.”

  After saying good-bye, the three girls turned and walked off across the hillside, leaning their heads very close together, wriggling and laughing. Simon felt a moment’s indignation at the thought that they might be laughing at him, but then he let it pass. They seemed to like him, didn’t they? That was just the way that girls were, as far as he could tell.

  He turned to his mirror once more, determined to finish with his beard before the sun began to set. A bonfire, was it... ? He wondered if he should wear his sword.

  Simon pondered his own words. It was true, of course, that he had no lady love, as he supposed knights should—even the ragtag sort of knight he had become. Still, it was hard not to think about Miriamele. How long had it been since he had seen her? He counted the months on his hand: Yuven, Anitul, Tiyagaris, Septander, Octander ... almost half a year! It was easy to believe she had forgotten him entirely by now.

  But he had not forgotten her. There had been moments, strange and almost frightening moments, when he had been certain that she felt as drawn to him as he was to her. Her eyes had seemed so large when she looked at him, so careful to take him in, as though she memorized his every line. Could it be only his imagination? Certainly they had shared a wild and almost unbelievable adventure together, and almost equally certainly, she considered him a friend ... but did she think anything more of him than that?

  The memory of how she had looked at Naglimund swept over him. She had been dressed in her sky-blue gown and had been suddenly almost terrible in her completeness—so different from the ragged serving girl who had slept on his shoulder. And yet, the very same girl had been inside that blue dress. She had been almost hesitant when they had met in the castle courtyard—but was it out of shame at the trick she had played him, or worry that her resumption of station might have separated them?