To Green Angel Tower, Volume 1

by Tad Williams

  “Then you should not hurry to have your Raed, Josua.” There was something like triumph in Vorzheva’s voice. “It would not make sense to have plans until you know if this is true or not. You must wait for this messenger. At least a little while.”

  The prince turned to her; a look passed between them, and although the others did not know what the silence between husband and wife meant, they waited. At last Josua nodded stiffly.

  “I suppose that is true,” he said. “The note says a fortnight. I will wait that long before calling the Raed.”

  Vorzheva smiled in satisfaction.

  “I agree, Prince Josua,” said Geloë. “But there is still much that we do not ...”

  She stopped as Simon appeared in the doorway. When he did not immediately enter, Josua beckoned to him impatiently. “Come in, Simon, come in. We are discussing a strange message, and what may be an even stranger messenger.”

  Simon started. “Messenger?”

  “A letter was sent to us, perhaps from Nabban. Come in. Do you need something?”

  The tall youth swallowed. “Perhaps now is not the best time.”

  “I can assure you,” Josua said dryly, “there is nothing that you could ask me that would not seem simple when set beside the quandaries I have already discovered today.”

  Simon still seemed hesitant. “Well ...” he said, then stepped inside. Someone followed him in.

  “Blessed Elysia, Mother of our Ransomer,” Strangyeard said in a curiously choked voice.

  “No. My mother named me Aditu,” replied Simon’s companion. For all her fluency, her Westerling was strangely accented; it was hard to tell whether she meant mockery or not.

  She was slender as a lance, with hungry golden eyes and a great spilling froth of snowy white hair tied with a gray band. Her clothes were white, too, so that she seemed almost to glow in the shadowed tent, as though a little piece of the winter sun had rolled through the doorway.

  “Aditu is my friend Jiriki’s sister. She’s a Sitha,” Simon added unnecessarily.

  “By the Tree,” Josua said. “By the Holy Tree.”

  Aditu laughed, a fluid, musical noise. “Are these things you all say magical charms to chase me away? If so, they do not seem to be working.”

  The witch woman stood. Her weathered face worked through an unreadable mixture of emotions. “Welcome, Dawn Child,” she said slowly. “I am Geloë.”

  Aditu smiled, but gently. “I know who you are. First Grandmother spoke of you.”

  Geloë lifted her hand as if to touch this apparition. “Amerasu was dear to me, although I never met her face-to-face. When Simon told me what had happened ...” Astonishingly, tears formed and trembled on her lashes. “She will be missed, your First Grandmother.”

  Aditu inclined her head for a moment. “She is missed. All the world mourns her.”

  Josua stepped forward. “Forgive me my discourtesy, Aditu,” he said, pronouncing the name carefully. “I am Josua. Besides Valada Geloë, these others are my wife, the lady Vorzheva, and Father Strangyeard.” He ran his hand across his eyes. “Can we offer you something to eat or drink?”

  Aditu bowed. “Thank you, but I drank from your spring just before dawn and I am not hungry. I have a message from my mother, Likimeya, Lady of the House of Year-Dancing, which you may be interested to hear.”

  “Of course.” Josua could not seem to help staring at her. Behind him, Vorzheva was also staring at the newcomer, although her expression was different than the prince’s. “Of course,” he repeated. “Sit down, please.”

  The Sitha sank to the floor in a single movement, light as thistledown. “Are you certain this is a good time, Prince Josua?” Her tuneful voice contained a hint of amusement. “You do not look well.”

  “It has been a strange morning,” the prince replied.

  “So they have already ridden to Hernystir?” Josua spoke carefully. “This is unexpected news indeed.”

  “You do not seem pleased,” Aditu commented.

  “We had hoped for Sithi aid—although we certainly did not expect it, or even think that it was deserved.” He grimaced. “I know you have no cause to love my father, and so no reason to love me or my people. But I am glad to hear that the Hernystiri will hear the Sithi’s horns. I have wished I could do more for Lluth’s folk.”

  Aditu stretched her arms high over her head, a gesture that seemed oddly childlike, out of place with the gravity of the discussion. “As have we. But we have long exiled ourselves from the doings of all mortals, even the Hernystiri. We might have remained that way, even at the expense of honor,” she said with casual frankness, “but events forced us to admit that Hernystir’s war was ours, too.” She turned her luminous eyes on the prince. “As is yours, of course. And that is why, when Hernystir is free, the Zida’ya will ride to Naglimund.”

  “As you said.” Josua looked around the circle, as though to confirm that the others had heard the same thing as he. “But you did not say why.”

  “Many reasons. Because it is too close to our forest, and our lands. Because the Hikeda’ya must not have any foothold south of Nakkiga. And other worries I am not at leave to explain.”

  “But if the rumors are true,” Josua said, “the Norns are already at the Hayholt.”

  Aditu cocked her head on one side. “A few are there, no doubt to reinforce your brother’s bargain with Ineluki. But, Prince Josua, you should understand that there is a difference between the Norns and their undead master, just as there is a difference between your castle and your brother’s. Ineluki and his Red Hand cannot come to Asu‘a—what you call the Hayholt. So it falls to the Zida’ya to make sure that they cannot make a home for themselves in Naglimund either, or anywhere else south of the Frostmarch.”

  “Why can’t the ... why can’t he come to the Hayholt?” Simon asked.

  “It is an irony, but you can thank the usurper Fingil and the other mortal kings who have held Asu‘a for that,” Aditu said. “When they saw what Ineluki had done in his final moments of life, they were terrified. They had not dreamed that anyone, even the Sithi, could wield such power. So prayers and spells—if there is a difference between the two—were said over each handspan of what remained of our home before the mortals made it their own. As it was rebuilt, the same was done over and over again, until Asu’a was so wrapped in protections that Ineluki can never come there until Time itself ends, when it will not matter.” Her face tightened. “But he is still unimaginably strong. He can send his living minions, and they will help him rule over your brother and, through him, mankind.”

  “So you think that is what Ineluki plans?” Geloë asked. “Is that what Amerasu thought?”

  “We will never know for certain. As Simon has no doubt told you, she died before she could share with us the fruits of her pondering. One of the Red Hand was sent into Jao é-Tinukai‘i to help silence her—a feat that must have exhausted even Utuk’ku and the Unliving One below Nakkiga, so it says much of how greatly they feared First Grandmother’s wisdom.” She briefly crossed her hands over her breast, then touched a finger to each eye. “So the Houses of Exile came together in Jao é-Tinukai‘i to consider what had happened and to make plans for war. That Ineluki plans to use your brother to rule mankind seemed to all the gathered Zida’ya the most likely possibility.” Aditu leaned down to the brazier and picked up a piece of wood that smoldered at one end. She held it before her, so that its glow crimsoned her face. “Ineluki is, in a way, alive, but he can never truly exist in this world again—and in the place he covets most, he has no direct power.” She looked around the gathering, sharing her golden stare with each in turn. “But he will do what he can to bring the upstart mortals under his fist. And if he can also humble his family and tribe while he does so, then I do not doubt he will.” Aditu made a noise that sounded a little like a sigh and dropped the wood back into the embers. “Perhaps it is fortunate that most heroes who die for their people cannot come back to see what the people do with that hard-bought
life and freedom.”

  There was a pause. Josua at last broke the silence.

  “Has Simon told you that we buried our fallen here on Sesuad’ra?”

  Aditu nodded. “We are not strangers to death, Prince Josua. We are immortal, but only in the sense that we do not die except by our own choice—or the choice of others. Perhaps we are all the more enmeshed with dying because of it. Just because our lives are long when held against yours does not mean we are any more eager to give them up.” She allowed a slow, coolly measured smile to narrow her lips. “So we know death well. Your people fought bravely to defend themselves. There is no shame to us in sharing this place with those who died.”

  “Then I would like to show you something else.” Josua stood and extended his hand toward the Sitha. Vorzheva, watching closely, did not look pleased. Aditu rose and followed the prince toward the door.

  “We have buried my friend—my dearest friend—in the garden behind Leavetaking House,” he said. “Simon, perhaps you will accompany us? And Geloë and Strangyeard, too, if you would like,” he added hurriedly.

  “I will stay and talk with Vorzheva for a while,” the wise woman said. “Aditu, I look forward to a chance to speak with you later.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I think I will come, too,” Strangyeard said, almost apologetically. “It’s very pretty there.”

  “Sesu-d’asú is a sad place now,” said Aditu. “It was beautiful once.”

  They stood before the broad expanse of Leavetaking House; its weatherworn stones glinted dully in the sunlight.

  “I think it is still beautiful,” Strangyeard said shyly.

  “So do I,” Simon echoed. “Like an old woman who used to be a lovely young girl, but you can still see it in her face.”

  Aditu grinned. “My Seoman,” she said, “the time you spent with us has made you part Zida’ya. Soon you will be composing poems and whispering them to the passing wind.”

  They walked through the hall and into the ruined garden, where a cairn of stones had been built over Deornoth’s grave. Aditu stood silently for a moment, then laid her hand atop the uppermost stone. “It is a good, quiet place.” For a moment, her gaze grew distant, as though she beheld some other place or time. “Of all the , songs we Zida’ya sing,” she murmured, “the closest to our hearts are those which tell of things lost.”

  “Perhaps that is because none of us can know something’s true value until it is gone,” said Josua. He bowed his head. The grass between the broken paving stones rippled in the breeze.

  Strangely, of all the mortals living on Sesuad’ra, it was Vorzheva who most quickly befriended Aditu—if a mortal could truly become a friend to one of the immortals. Even Simon, who had lived among them and had rescued one of them, was not at all certain that he could count any of them as friends.

  But despite her initial coolness toward the Sitha-woman, Vorzheva seemed to be drawn by something in Aditu’s alien nature, perhaps the mere fact that Aditu was alien, the only one of her kind in that place, as Vorzheva herself had been for all the years in Naglimund. Whatever Aditu’s attraction, Josua’s wife made her welcome and even sought her out. The Sitha also seemed to enjoy Vorzheva’s company: when she was not with Simon or Geloë, she could often be found walking with the Thrithings-woman among the tents, or sitting by her bedside on days when Vorzheva felt ill or tired. Duchess Gutrun, Vorzheva’s usual companion, did her best to show good manners to the strange visitor, but something in her Aedonite heart would not let her be fully comfortable. While Vorzheva and Aditu talked and laughed, Gutrun watched Aditu as though the Sitha were a sort of dangerous animal that she had been assured was now tame.

  For her part, Aditu seemed oddly fascinated by the child Vorzheva carried. Few children were born to the Zida’ya, especially in these days, she explained. The last had come over a century before, and he was now as much of an adult as the eldest of the Dawn Children. Aditu also seemed interested in Leleth, although the little girl was no more expressive with her than with anyone else. Still, she would allow Aditu to take her for walks, and even to carry her occasionally, something that almost no one else was permitted to do.

  If Aditu was interested in some of the mortals, the ordinary citizens of New Gadrinsett were in turn both fascinated and terrified by her. Ulca’s tale—the truth of which was strange enough—had grown in the telling and retelling until Aditu’s arrival had come in a flash of light and puff of smoke; the Sitha, the story continued, enraged by the mortal girl’s flirtation with her intended, had threatened to turn Ulca into stone. Ulca quickly became the heroine of every young woman on Sesuad’ra, and Aditu, despite the fact that she was seldom seen by most of the hill-dwellers, became the subject of endless gossip and superstitious mumbling.

  To his chagrin, Simon also continued to be a subject of rumor and speculation in the small community. Jeremias, who frequently loitered in the marketplace beside Leavetaking House, would gleefully report the latest strange tale—the dragon from whom Simon had stolen the sword would come back someday and Simon would have to fight it; Simon was part Sitha and Aditu had been sent to bring him back to the halls of the Fair Folk; and so on. Simon, hearing the fantasies that seemed to be woven from empty air, could only cringe. There was nothing he could do—every attempt he made to quell the stories merely convinced the folk of New Gadrinsett that he was either manfully modest or slyly deceptive. Sometimes he found the fabrications amusing, but he still could not help feeling more closely observed than was comfortable, leading him to spend his time only with people he knew and trusted. His evasiveness, of course, only fueled more speculation.

  If this was fame, Simon decided, he would have preferred to stay a lowly and unknown scullion. Sometimes when he walked through New Gadrinsett these days, when people waved to him or whispered to each other as he passed, he felt quite naked, but there was nothing to do but walk by with a smile on his face and his shoulders back. Scullions could hide or run away; knights could not.

  “He is outside, Josua. He swears you are expecting him.”

  “Ah.” The prince turned to Simon. “This must be the mysterious messenger I spoke of—the one with news of Nabban. And it has been a fortnight—almost to the day. Stay and see.” To Sludig he said: “Bring him in, please.”

  The Rimmersman stepped out, then returned a moment later leading a tall, lantern-jawed fellow, pale-complected and—Simon thought—a little sullen-looking. The Rimmersman stepped back beside the wall of the tent and remained there with one hand on the handle of his ax, the other toying with the hairs of his yellow beard.

  The messenger dropped slowly to one knee. “Prince Josua, my master sends his greetings and bids me give you this.” As he put his hand in his cloak Sludig took a step forward, even though the messenger was several paces away from the prince, but the man withdrew only a roll of parchment, beribboned and sealed in blue wax. Josua stared at it for a moment, then nodded to Simon to fetch it to him.

  “The winged dolphin,” Josua said as he gazed at the emblem stamped into the melted wax. “So your master is Count Streáwe of Perdruin?”

  It was hard not to call the look on the messenger’s face a smirk. “He is, Prince Josua.”

  The prince broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. He scanned it for a few long moments, then curled it up and set it on the arm of his chair. “I will not hurry through this. What is your name, man?”

  The messenger nodded his head with immense satisfaction, as though he had been long expecting this crucial question. “It is ... Lenti.”

  “Very well, Lenti, Sludig will take you and see that you get food and drink. He will also find you a bed because I will want some time before I send my answer—maybe several days.”

  The messenger looked around the prince’s tent, assessing the possible quality of New Gadrinsett’s accommodations. “Yes, Prince Josua.”

  Sludig came forward and, with a jerk of his head, summoned Lenti to follow him out.

  “I didn’t
think much of the messenger,” Simon said when they had gone.

  Josua was inspecting the parchment once more. “A fool,” he agreed “jumped up beyond his capabilities, even for something as simple as this. But don’t confuse Streáwe with his minions—Perdruin’s master is clever as a marketplace cutpurse. Still, it doesn’t speak well of his ability to deliver on this promise if he can find no more impressive servitor to bear it to me.”

  “What promise?” Simon asked.

  Josua rolled the message and slid it into his sleeve. “Count Streáwe claims he can deliver me Nabban.” He stood. “The old man is lying, of course, but it leads to some interesting speculation.”

  “I don’t understand, Josua.”

  The prince smiled. “Be glad. Your days of innocence about people like Streáwe are fast disappearing.” He patted Simon’s shoulder. “For now, young knight, I would as soon not talk about it. There will be a time and place for this at the Raed.”

  “You’re ready to have your council?”

  Josua nodded. “The time has come. For once, we will call the tune—then we will see if we can make my brother and his allies dance to it.”

  “That is a most interesting deception, clever Seoman.” Aditu stared down at the game of shent she had constructed from wood and root-dyes and polished stones. “A false thrust played falsely: a seeming that is revealed as a sham, but underneath is a true thing after all. Very pretty—but what will you do if I place my Bright Stones here ... here ... and here?” She suited action to words.

  Simon frowned. In the dim light of his tent, her hand moved almost too swiftly to be seen. For an unpleasant moment he wondered if she might be cheating him, but another instant’s reflection convinced him that Aditu had no need to cheat someone to whom the subtleties of shent were still largely a mystery, any more than Simon would trip a small child with whom he was running a race. Still, it raised an interesting question.