To Green Angel Tower, Volume 1

by Tad Williams

  Those few shivering peasants who were compelled to live within the Hayholt’s walls and tend the castle’s crumbling facilities seldom left their quarters unless forced by duty, which usually appeared in the form of a Thrithings-man overseer, whose commands were upheld by the possibility of sudden and violent retribution. Even the remainder of the king’s army now barracked itself in the fields outside Erchester. The story given out was that the king was unwell and wished his peace, but it was commonly whispered that the king was mad, that his castle was haunted. As a result, only a handful of people were creeping about the Inner Bailey this gray, murky afternoon, and of those few—a soldier bearing a message for the Lord Constable, a pair of fearful rustics carting a wagon full of barrels away from Pryrates’ chambers—not a one watched Elias’ uneven passage for more than a moment before looking away. Not only would it be dangerous, possibly even fatal, to be caught staring at the king in his infirmity, but there was something so dreadfully wrong in his stiff-legged gait, some quality so terrifyingly unnatural, that those who saw him felt compelled to turn aside and furtively make the sign of the Tree before their breasts.

  Hjeldin’s Tower was gray and squat. With the red windows in its upper story gleaming dully, it might have been some ruby-eyed pagan god of the Nascadu wastes. Elias came to a stop before the heavy oak doors, which were three ells high and painted an unglossy black, studded with bronze hinges going splotchily green. On either side of the entrance stood a figure hooded and robed in a black even darker and flatter than the door. Each bore a lance of strange, filigreed design, a fantastic weave of curlicues and whorls, sharp as a barber’s razor.

  The king swayed in place, staring at the twin apparitions. It was clear that the Norns filled him with unease. He moved another step closer to the door. Although neither of the sentries moved, and their faces were invisible in the depths of their hoods, they seemed to become suddenly more intent, like spiders feeling the first trembling steps of a fly on the outskirts of a web.

  “Well?” Elias said at last, his voice surprisingly loud. “Are you going to open the damned door for me?”

  The Norns did not reply. They did not move.

  “Blast you to hell, what ails you?!” he growled. “Don’t you know me, you miserable creatures? I’m the king! Now open the door!” He took a sudden step forward. One of the Norns allowed his lance to sag a handspan into the doorway. Elias stopped and leaned back as though the point had been waved in his face.

  “So this is the game, is it?” His pale face had begun to take on a gleam of madness. “This is the game? In my own house, eh?” He began to rock back and forth on his heels as though preparing to fling himself toward the door. One of his hands slithered down to clutch at the double-guarded sword which hung at his belt.

  The sentry turned slowly and thumped twice on the heavy doors with the butt of his lance. After a moment’s pause, he banged three more times before resuming his settled stance.

  As Elias stood staring, a raven screeched on one of the tower’s parapets. After what seemed like only a few heartbeats, the door grated open and Pryrates stood in the gap, blinking.

  “Elias!” he said. “Your Majesty! You honor me!”

  The king’s lip curled. His hand was still tightening and loosening on Sorrow’s hilt. “I don’t honor you at all, priest. I came to talk to you—and I am dishonored.”

  “Dishonored? How?” Pryrates’ face was full of shocked concern, but there was an unmistakable trace of mirth as well, as though he played mocking games with a child. “Tell me what has happened and what I can do to make it up to you, my king.”

  “These ... things wouldn’t open the door.” Elias jerked his hand toward the silent warders. “When I tried to do it myself, one of them blocked my path.”

  Pryrates shook his head, then turned and conversed with the Norns in their own musical speech, which he seemed to speak well if somewhat haltingly. He faced the king again. “Please do not blame them, Highness, or even me. You see, some of the things I do here in the pursuit of knowledge can be hazardous. As I told you before, I fear that someone coming in suddenly might find himself endangered. You, my king, are the most important man in the world. Therefore I have asked that no one be allowed to walk in until I am here to escort them.” Pryrates smiled, an unmodified baring of teeth that would have seemed appropriate on the face of an eel. “Please understand that it was for your safety, King Elias.”

  The king looked at him for a moment, then peered at the two sentries; they had returned to their positions and were stiff as statues once more. “I thought you were using mercenaries to stand guard. I thought these things didn’t like the daylight.”

  “It does not harm them,” said Pryrates. “It is just that after several score centuries living in the great mountain Stormspike, they prefer shade to sun.” He winked, as though over the foibles of some eccentric relative. “But I am at an important point in my studies, now—our studies, Majesty—and thought they would be better warders.”

  “Enough of this,” Elias said impatiently. “Are you going to let me in? I came here to talk to you. It can’t wait.”

  “Of course, of course,” Pryrates assured him, but the priest seemed suddenly distracted. “I always look forward to speaking with you, my king. Perhaps you would prefer it if I came to your apartments... ?”

  “Damn it, priest, let me in. You don’t make a king stand on the doorstep, curse you!”

  Pryrates shrugged and bowed. “Of course not, sire.” He stepped aside, extending his arm toward the staircase. “Come up to my chambers, please.”

  Inside the great doors, in the high-ceilinged anteroom, a single torch burned fitfully. The corners were full of shadows that leaned and stretched as though struggling to free themselves. Pryrates did not pause, but went immediately up the narrow staircase. “Let me go ahead and make sure things are ready for you, Majesty,” he called back, his voice echoing in the stairwell.

  Elias stopped on the second landing to catch his breath. “Stairs,” he said direly. “Too many stairs.”

  The door to the chamber was open, and the light of several torches spilled out into the passageway. As he entered, the king looked up briefly at the windows, which were masked by long draperies. The priest, who was closing the lid of a large chest on what seemed to be a pile of books, turned and smiled. “Welcome, my king. You have not favored me with a visit here in some time.”

  “You have not invited me. Where can I sit down—I am dying.”

  “No, my lord, not dying,” Pryrates said cheerfully. “The opposite, if anything—you are being reborn. But you have been very sick of late, it’s true. Forgive me. Here, take my chair.” He ushered Elias to the high-backed chair; it was innocent of any decorations or carvings, yet somehow carried an air of great antiquity. “Would you like some of your soothing drink? I see Hengfisk has not accompanied you, but I could arrange to have some made.” He turned and clapped his hands. “Munshazou!” he called.

  “The monk is not here because I have knocked in his head, or near to,” Elias growled, shifting uncomfortably on the hard seat. “If I never see his pop-eyed face again, I will be a happy man.” He coughed, his fever-bright eyes blinking closed. At this moment, he did not look in the least like a happy man.

  “He caused you some trouble? I am so unhappy to hear that, my king. Perhaps you should tell me what happened, and I will see that he is ... dealt with. I am your servant, after all.”

  “Yes,” Elias said dryly. “You are.” He made a noise in his throat and shifted again, trying to find a better position.

  There was a discreet cough from the doorway. A small dark-haired woman stood there. She did not look particularly aged, but her sallow face was lined with deep wrinkles. A mark of some kind—it might have been a letter from some foreign script—was scribed on her forehead above her nose. She moved ever so slightly as she stood, weaving in a slow, circular motion so that the hem of her shapeless dress brushed against the floor and the tiny bone-
colored charms she wore at waist and neck tinkled gently.

  “Munshazou,” Pryrates said to Elias, “my servant from Naraxi, from my house there.” He told the dark woman: “Bring something the king can drink. And for me—no, I need nothing. Go now.”

  She turned with a rattle of ivory and was gone. “I apologize for the interruption,” said the alchemist. “You were telling me of your problem with Hengfisk.”

  “Don’t worry about the monk. He is nothing. I just woke suddenly and found him standing over me, staring. Standing over my bed!” Remembering, the king shook himself like a wet dog. “God, but he has a face only a mother could bear. And that cursed smile always ...” Elias shook his head. “I struck him—gave him my fist. Knocked him right across the bedchamber.” He laughed and then coughed. “Teach him to come spying on me while I sleep. I need my sleep. I’ve been getting precious little....”

  “Is that why you came to me, Lord?” Pryrates asked. “For your sleep? I could perhaps make something for you—there is a sort of wax I have that you could burn in a dish by your bedside....”

  “No!” Elias said angrily. “And it’s not the monk, either. I came to you because I had a dream!”

  Pryrates looked at him carefully. The patch of skin above his eye—a spot where others had eyebrows—rose in a questioning look. “A dream, lord? Of course, if that is what you wish to speak with me about ...”

  “Not that sort of dream, damn you! You know what kind I mean. I had a dream!”

  “Ah.” The priest nodded. “And it disturbed you.”

  “Yes it bloody well did, by the Sacred Tree!” The king winced and laid his hand on his chest, then burst into another round of wracking coughs. “I saw the Sithi riding! The Dawn Children! They were riding to Hernystir!”

  There was a faint clicking noise from the door. Munshazou had reappeared, bearing a tray on which stood a tall goblet glazed in a deep rust-red. It steamed.

  “Very good.” Pryrates strode forward to take it from the woman’s hand. Her small, pale eyes watched him, but her face remained expressionless. “You may go now,” he told her. “Here, Majesty, drink this. It will help your clouded chest.”

  Elias took the goblet suspiciously and sipped. “It tastes like the same swill you always give me.”

  “There are ... similarities.” Pryrates moved back to his position near the trunk full of books. “Remember, my king, you have special needs.”

  Elias took another swallow. “I saw the immortals—the Sithi. They were riding against Skali.” He looked up from his cup to fix his green gaze on Pryrates. “Is it true?”

  “Things seen in dreams are not always wholly true or wholly false ...” Pryrates began.

  “God damn you to the blackest circles of hell!” Elias shouted, half-rising from the chair. “Is it true?!”

  Pryrates bowed his hairless head. “The Sithi have left their home in the fastness of the forest.”

  Elias’ green eyes glittered dangerously. “And Skali?”

  Pryrates moved slowly toward the door, as though preparing to flee. “The thane of Kaldskryke and his Ravens have ... decamped.”

  The king hissed out a long breath and his hand tugged at Sorrow’s hilt, sinews jumping in his pale arm. A length of the gray sword appeared, mottled and shiny as a pikefish’s back. The torches in the room seemed to bend inward, as though drawn toward it. “Priest,” Elias growled, “you are listening to your last few heartbeats if you don’t speak quickly and plainly.”

  Instead of cringing, Pryrates drew himself upright. The torches fluttered again, and the alchemist’s black eyes lost their luster; for a moment, the whites seemed to vanish, almost as though they had drawn back into his head, leaving only holes in a darkened skull. An oppressive tension filled the tower room. Pryrates raised his hand and the king’s knuckles tightened on the sword’s long hilt. After a moment’s stillness the priest lifted his fingers to his neck, carefully smoothed the collar of his red robe as though adjusting the fit, then let the hand drop again.

  “I am sorry, Highness,” he said, and allowed himself a small, self-mocking smile. “It is often a counselor’s wish to shield his liege from news that might be upsetting. You have seen rightly. The Sithi have come to Hernystir and Skali has been driven out.”

  Elias stared at him for a long moment. “What does this mean to all your plans, priest? You said nothing about the Dawn Children.”

  Pryrates shrugged. “Because it means nothing. It was inevitable once things reached a certain point. The increasing activity of ... of our benefactor was bound to draw them in. It should not disrupt any of our plans.”

  “Should not? Are you saying that what the Sithi do doesn’t matter to the Storm King?”

  “That one has planned long. There is nothing that will surprise him in any of this. In truth, the Norn Queen told me to expect it.”

  “She did, did she? You seem very well informed, Pryrates,” Elias’ voice had not lost its edge of fury. “Then tell me: if you knew this, why can you not tell me what is happening with Fengbald? Why have we no knowledge of whether he has driven my brother from his lair?”

  “Because our allies deem it of little account.” Pryrates lifted his hand again, this time to forestall the king’s angry reply. “Please, majesty, you asked for candor and so I give it to you. They feel that Josua is beaten and that you waste your time with him. The Sithi, on the other hand, have been the enemies of the Norns since time out of mind.”

  “But still of no account, apparently, if what you said before is correct.” The king glowered. “I do not understand how they can be more important than my treacherous brother and yet not important enough for us to worry about—even when they have destroyed one of my chief allies. I think you are playing a double game, Pryrates. God help you if I find that to be true!”

  “I serve only my master, Highness, not the Storm King, not the Norn Queen. It is all a matter of timing. Josua was a threat to you once, but you defeated him. Skali was needed to protect your flank, but he is no longer necessary. Even the Sithi are no threat, because they will not come against us until they have saved Hernystir. They are cursed by ancient loyalties, you see. That will be far too late for them to be any hindrance to your ultimate victory.”

  Elias stared into his steaming cup. “Then why did I see them riding in my dreams?”

  “You have grown close to the Storm King, sire, since you accepted his gift.” Pryrates gestured to the gray sword, now sheathed once more. “He is of the Sithi blood—or was when he still lived, to speak rightly. It is only natural that the mustering of the Zida’ya should draw his attention and thus make its way to you.” He moved a few steps closer to the king. “You have had other ... dreams ... before this, have you not?”

  “You know I have, alchemist.” Elias drained the cup, then made a face as he swallowed. “My nights, those few when sleep actually comes, are full of him. Full of him! Of that frozen thing with the burning heart.” His eyes wandered across the shadowed walls, suddenly full of fear. “Of the dark spaces between ...”

  “Peace, your Majesty,” Pryrates said. “You have suffered much, but the reward will be splendid. You know that.”

  Elias shook his head heavily. His voice, when he spoke, was a straining rasp. “I wish I had known the way this would feel, the things ... the things it would do to me. I wish I had known before I made that devil’s bargain. God help me, I wish I had known.”

  “Let me get my sleeping-wax for you, Highness. You need rest.”

  “No.” The king lifted himself awkwardly from the chair. “I do not want any more dreams. It would be better never to sleep again.”

  Elias moved slowly toward the door, waving away Pryrates’ offer of assistance. He was a long time going down the stairs.

  The red-robed priest stood and listened to his entire descent. When the great outer doors creaked open and then crashed closed, Pryrates shook his head once, as if dismissing an irritating thought, then went to retrieve the books he had hid
den.

  Jiriki had gone ahead, his smooth strides carrying him deceptively quickly. Eolair, Isorn, and Ule followed at a slower pace, trying to take in the strange sights.

  It was particularly unsettling for Eolair, to whom Hernysadharc and the Taig had been a second residence. Now, following the Sitha across Hern’s Hill, he felt like a father come home to find that all his children were changelings.

  The Sithi had built their tent city so swiftly, the billowing cloths stretched artfully between the trees that ringed the Taig, that it almost seemed it had always been there—that it belonged. Even the colors, which had been so jarringly bright when seen from a distance, now seemed to him more muted—tones of summer sunset and dawn more in keeping with a king’s house and gardens.

  If their lodgings already seemed like a natural part of the hilltop, the Zida’ya themselves seemed scarcely less at home. Eolair saw no sign of diffidence or meekness in those Sithi who surrounded him; they paid scant attention to the count and his companions. The immortals walked proudly, and as they worked they sang lilting songs in a language that, although strange to him, seemed oddly familiar in its swooping vowels and birdlike trills. Although they had been in the place scarcely a day, they seemed as comfortable on the snowy grass and beneath the trees as swans scudding across a mirror-still pond. Everything they did seemed to speak of immense calm and self-knowledge; even the act of looping and knotting the many ropes that gave their tent city its shape became a kind of conjuror’s trick. Watching them, Eolair—who had always been judged a nimble, graceful man—felt bestial and clumsy.