To Green Angel Tower, Volume 1

by Tad Williams

  He had seen her on a Hayholt tower top: her hair had been like golden floss. Simon, a poor scullion, had watched and felt like a mud-beetle catching a glimpse of the sun. And her face, so alive, so quick to change, full of anger and laughter, more mercurial and unpredictable than that of any woman he had ever met ...

  But it was fruitless to go on mooning this way, he told himself. It was unlikely in the extreme that she even thought of him as anything more than a friendly scullion, like the servants’ children with whom the nobility were raised, but who they quickly forgot upon reaching adulthood. And of course, even if she did care for him at all, there was no chance that anything could ever come of it. That was just the way of things, or at least so he had been taught.

  Still, he had been out in the world long enough now and had seen enough oddities that the immutable facts of life Rachel had taught him seemed much less believable. How were common folk and those of royal blood different, anyway? Josua was a kind man, a clever and earnest man—Simon had little doubt that he would make a fine king—but his brother Elias had proved to be a monster. Could any peasant dragged from the barley fields do any worse? What was so sacred about royal blood? And, now that he thought about it, hadn’t King John himself come from a family of peasants—or as good as peasants?

  A mad thought suddenly occurred to him: what if Elias should be defeated, but Josua died? What if Miriamele never returned? Then someone else must be king or queen. Simon knew little of the affairs of the world—at least those outside his own tangled journey of the past half year. Were there others of royal blood who would step forward and claim the Dragonbone Chair? That fellow in Nabban, Bigaris or whatever his name was? Whoever was the heir of Lluth, dead king of Hernystir? Or old Isgrimnur, perhaps, if he should ever come back. He, at least, Simon could respect.

  But now the fleeting thought was glowing like a hot coal. Why shouldn’t he, Simon, be as likely as anyone else? If the world were turned upside down, and if all those with claims were gone when the dust settled, why not a knight of Erkynland—one who had fought a dragon just as John had, and who had been marked by the dragon’s black blood? One who had been to the forbidden world of the Sithi, and who was a friend of the trolls of Yiqanuc? Then he would be fit for a princess or anyone else!

  Simon stared at his reflection, at the curl of white hair like a dab of paint, at his long scar and his disconcertingly fuzzy beard.

  Look at me, he thought, and suddenly laughed aloud. King Simon the Great! Might as well make Rachel the Duchess of Nabban, or that monk Cadrach the Lector of Mother Church. Might as well wait for the stars to shine in the middle of the day!

  And who would want to be the king, anyway?

  For that was it, after all: Simon saw little but pain in store for whoever replaced Elias on the chair of bones. Even if the Storm King could be defeated, which seemed a possibility small to the point of nonexistence, the whole of the land was in ruins, the people starved and frozen. There would be no tournaments, no processions, no sunlight gleaming on armor, not for many years.

  No, he thought bitterly, the next king should be someone like Barnabas, the sexton of the Hayholt’s chapel—someone good at burying the dead.

  He pushed the mirror back into the pocket of his cloak and sat down on a rock to watch the sun slipping behind the trees.

  Vorzheva found her husband in Leavetaking House. The long hall was empty but for Josua and the pale form of Deornoth. The prince himself scarcely seemed like one of the living, standing motionless as a statue beside the altar that bore his friend’s body.

  “Josua?”

  The prince turned slowly, as though waking from a dream. “Yes, lady?”

  “You are here too much. The day is ending.”

  He smiled. “I have only just returned. I was walking with Simon, and I had some other duties.”

  Vorzheva shook her head. “You returned long ago, even if you do not remember. You have been in this place most of the afternoon.”

  Josua’s smile faltered. “Have I?” He turned to look at Deornoth. “I feel, I don’t know, that it is wrong to leave him alone. He was always looking after me.”

  She stepped forward and took his arm. “I know. Come, walk with me.”

  “Very well.” Josua reached out and touched the shroud draped across Deornoth’s chest.

  Leavetaking House had been little more than a shell when Josua and his company had first come to Sesuad’ra. The settlers had built shutters for the gaping windows and stout wooden doors to make it a place where the business of New Gadrinsett could take place in warmth and privacy. There was still something of the makeshift about it, though—the crude contrivances of the latest residents made an odd contrast when set against the graceful handiwork of the Sithi. Josua let his fingers trail across a bloom of carvings as Vorzheva led him toward one of the doors in the back wall and out into the failing sunlight.

  The garden’s walls were crumbled, the stone walkways broken and upended. A few hardy old rosebushes had survived winter’s onslaught, and although it might be months or years before they would bloom again, their dark leaves and gray, thorny boughs looked strong and vigorous. It was hard not to wonder how long they had grown there, or who had planted them.

  Vorzheva and Josua walked past the knotted trunk of a huge pine tree which grew in the breach of one of the walls. The dying sun, a blur of burning red, seemed hung in its branches.

  “Do you still think of her?” Vorzheva asked suddenly.

  “What?” Josua’s mind seemed to have been wandering. “Who?”

  “That other one. The one you loved, your brother’s wife.”

  The prince inclined his head. “Hylissa. No, not often. There are far more important things to think on these days.” He put his arm about his wife’s shoulders. “I have a family now which needs my care.”

  Vorzheva looked at him suspiciously for a moment, then nodded her head with quiet satisfaction. “Yes,” she said. “You do.”

  “And not just a family, but a whole people, it seems.”

  She made a quiet noise of despair. “You cannot be everyone’s husband, everyone’s father.”

  “Of course not. But I must be the prince, whether I wish to or not.”

  They walked on for a while without talking, listening to the irregular music of a lone bird perched high in the swaying branches. The wind was chilly, but the edge seemed a little less than it had been in the days before, which might have been why the bird sang.

  Vorzheva pressed her head against Josua’s shoulder so that her black hair fluttered around his chin. “What will we do now?” she asked. “Now the battle is ended?”

  Josua led her toward a stone bench, fallen to shards at one end, but still with much of its surface unbroken. They brushed off a few melting spatters of snow and sat down. “I do not know,” he said. “I think it is time for another Raed—a council. We have much to decide. I have many doubts about what is the wisest course. We should not wait long after ... after we have buried our fallen.”

  Vorzheva looked at him, surprised. “What do you mean, Josua? Why such hurry to have this thing?”

  The prince raised his hand and examined the lines on his palm. “Because there is a possibility that if we do not strike now, an important chance will be lost.”

  “Strike?” She seemed astounded. “Strike what? What madness is this? We have lost one of every three! You would take these few hundred against your brother!?”

  “But we have won an important victory. The first anyone has had against him since he began his mad campaign. If we strike out now, while memory is fresh and Elias is unaware of what has happened, our people here will take heart; when others see we are moving, they will join us, too.”

  Vorzheva stood, her eyes wide. She held an arm around her middle as if to protect their unborn child. “No! Oh, Josua, that is too stupid! I thought you were to wait at least until the winter had passed! How can you go off to fight now?”

  “I never said I was going t
o do anything,” he said. “I have not decided yet—nor will I, until I have called a Raed.”

  “Yes, you men will sit around and talk of the great battle you fought. Will the women be there?”

  “Women?” He looked at her quizzically. “Geloë will be a part of it.”

  “Oh, yes, Geloë,” she said with scorn. “Because she is called a ‘wise woman.’ That is the only sort of woman you will listen to—one who has a name for it, like a fast horse or a strong ox.”

  “What should we do—invite everyone from all of New Gadrinsett?” He was growing annoyed. “That would be foolish.”

  “No more foolish than listening to only men.” She stared at him for a moment, then visibly forced herself to become calm. She took several breaths before speaking again. “There is a story the women of the Stallion Clan tell. It is about the bull who would not listen to his cows.”

  Josua waited. “Well,” he said at last. “What happened to him?”

  Vorzheva scowled and moved away down the broken path. “Go on as you are doing. You will find out.”

  Josua’s expression seemed half-amusement, half-displeasure. “Wait, Vorzheva.” He rose and followed her. “You are right to chide me. I should listen to what you have to say. What happened to the bull?”

  She looked him over carefully. “I will tell you some other time. I am too angry now.”

  Josua took her hand and fell into step beside her. The path curled through the disarranged stones, bringing them close to the tumbled blocks of the outer garden wall. There was a noise of voices from beyond.

  “Very well,” she said abruptly. “The bull was too proud to listen to his cows. When they told to him that a wolf was stealing the calves, he did not believe, because he did not see it himself. When all the calves were stolen, the cows drove the bull away and found a new bull.” Her stare was defiant. “Then the wolves ate the old bull, since he had no one to protect him while he slept.”

  Josua’s laugh was harsh. “And is that a warning?”

  She squeezed his arm. “Please, Josua. The people are tired of the fighting. We make a home here.” She pulled him closer to the breach in the stone. From the far side rose the noise of the ragtag marketplace that had sprung up in the shelter of Leavetaking House’s outer walls. Several dozen men, women, and children were bartering with old possessions carried out of their former homes and new things gathered on and about Sesuad’ra. “See,” Vorzheva said, “they make a new life. You told them they fought for their home. How can you make them move again?”

  Josua stared at a group of bundled children playing tug-o-war with a colorful rag. They were shrieking with laughter and kicking up puffs of snow; nearby, someone’s mother was calling angrily for her child to come in out of the wind. “But this is not their true home,” he said quietly. “We cannot stay here forever.”

  “Who is staying forever?” Vorzheva demanded. “Until spring! Until our child is born!”

  Josua shook his head. “But we may never have a chance like this again.” He turned away from the wall, his face grave. “Besides, I owe it to Deornoth. He gave his life, not for us to quietly disappear, but so that we could pay back the wrongs my brother has done.”

  “Owe it to Deornoth!” Vorzheva sounded angry, but her eyes were sad. “What a thing to say! Only a man would say such a thing.”

  Josua turned and caught her up, pulling her toward him. “I do love you, Lady. I only try to do what is right.”

  She averted her eyes. “I know. But ...”

  “But you do not think I am making the best decision.” He nodded, stroking her hair. “I am listening to everyone, Vorzheva, but the final word must be mine.” He sighed and held her for a while without speaking. “Merciful Aedon, I would not wish this on anyone,” he said at last. “Vorzheva, promise me something.”

  “What?” Her voice was muffled in his cloak.

  “I have changed my mind. If something happens to me ...” He thought. “If something happens to me, take our child away from this. Do not let anyone put him on a throne, or use him as the rallying symbol for some army.”

  “Him?”

  “Or her. Do not let our child be forced into this game as I was.”

  Vorzheva shook her head fiercely. “No one will take my baby away from me, not even your friends.”

  “Good.” He looked out through the blowing tendrils of her hair. The sun had fallen behind Leavetaking House, reddening the entire western sky. “That makes whatever will come easier to bear.”

  Five days after the battle, the last of Sesuad’ra’s dead were buried—men and women of Erkynland, Rimmersgard, Hernystir and the Thrithings, of Yiqanuc and Nabban, refugees from half a hundred places, all laid to rest in the shallow earth on the summit of the Stone of Farewell. Prince Josua spoke carefully and seriously about their suffering and sacrifice as his cloak billowed in the winds that swirled around the hilltop. Father Strangyeard, Freosel, and Binabik all rose in turn to say words of one sort or another. The citizens of New Gadrinsett stood, hard-faced, and listened.

  Some of the graves had no markers, but most had some small monument, a carved board or rough-chiseled piece of stone that bore the name of the fallen one. After great labors to hack into the icy ground, the Erkynguard had buried their own dead in a mass grave beside the lake, crowning it with a single slab of rock that bore the legend: “Soldiers of Erkynland, killed in the Battle of Stefflod Valley. Em Wulstes Duos.” By God’s will.

  Only the fallen Thrithings mercenaries were unmourned and unmarked. Their living comrades dug a vast barrow for them on the grasslands below Sesuad’ra—half believing it would be their own, that Josua planned to execute them. Instead, when the labor was finished they found themselves escorted by armed men far out onto the open lands and then set free. It was a terrible thing for a Thrithings-man to lose his horse, but the surviving mercenaries decided quickly that walking was better than dying.

  So, at last, all the dead were buried and the ravens were cheated of their holiday.

  As solemn music played, vying with the harsh wind to be heard, the thought came to many of those who watched that although Sesuad’ra’s defenders had won an improbable and heroic victory, they had paid dearly for it. The fact that they had defeated only the tiniest portion of the forces arrayed against them, and had lost nearly half their number in doing so, made the winter-shrouded hillcrest seem an even colder and lonelier place.

  Someone caught Simon’s arm from behind. He turned swiftly, tugging his arm loose, and raised it to strike.

  “Here, lad, here, don’t be so hasty-quick!” The old jester cowered, hands held over his head.

  “I’m sorry, Towser.” Simon rearranged his cloak. The bonfire was glowing in the near distance and he was impatient to be going. “I didn’t know who it was.”

  “No offense taken, laddie.” Towser swayed slightly. “The thing is ... well, I was just wondering if I could walk with you a way. Over to the celebration. I’m not as steady on my feet as I was.”

  Not surprising, Simon thought: Towser’s breath was heavily scented with wine. Then he remembered what Sangfugol had said and fought down his urge to hurry on. “Of course.” He extended a discreet arm for the old man to lean on.

  “Kind, lad, very kind. Simon, isn’t it?” The old man looked up at him, his shadowed face a puzzle of wrinkles.

  “That’s right.” Simon smiled in the darkness. He had reminded Towser of his name a dozen different times.

  “You’ll do well, you will,” the old man said. They moved toward the flickering light, walking slowly. “And I’ve met them all.”

  Towser did not stay with him long once they reached the celebration. The old jester quickly found a group of drunken trolls and went off to reintroduce them to the glories of Bull’s Horn—and himself to the glories of kangkang, Simon suspected. Simon wandered for a while on the periphery of the gathering.

  It was a true feast night, perhaps the first that Sesuad’ra had seen. Fengbald’s camp had p
roven to be groaningly full of stocks and stores, as though the late duke had plundered all Erkynland to insure he would be as comfortable in the Thrithings as if he had remained at the Hayholt. Josua had wisely made sure that most of the food and other useful things were hidden away for later—even if the company was to leave the Stone, it would not be tomorrow—but a generous portion had been made available for the celebration, so that tonight the hilltop had a genuinely festive air. Freosel, in particular, had derived no little pleasure from breaching Fengbald’s casks, draining off the first mug of Stanshire Dark himself with as much pleasure as if it had been the duke’s blood instead of only his beer.

  Wood, one of the other things not in short supply, had been piled high in the center of the vast flat surface of the Fire Garden. The bonfire was burning brightly, and most of the people were gathered on the wide field of tiles. Sangfugol and some of the other musical citizens of New Gadrinsett were strolling here and there, playing for knots of appreciative listeners. Some of the listeners were more enthusiastic than others. Simon had to laugh as a particularly sodden trio of celebrants insisted on joining the harper in his rendition of “By Greenwade’s Shore.” Sangfugol winced but gamely played on; Simon silently congratulated the harper on his fortitude before wandering away.

  The night was chilly but clear, and the wind that had bedeviled the hilltop during the burial rites was all but gone. Simon, after pondering for a moment, decided that considering the time of the year, the weather was actually rather nice. Again he wondered if the Storm King’s power might somehow be slipping, but this time the thought was followed by an even more worrisome question.

  What if he’s only gathering his strength? What if he’s going to reach out now and do what Fengbald couldn’t?

  That was not a line of thought Simon wished to pursue. He shrugged and readjusted his sword belt.