by Tad Williams
When the echoes had died, she put down a small helping of jerked meat for the cat, which began to chew hungrily. The bowl full of meat and dried fruit she placed in a dusty alcove on the wall, above the cat’s reach, but where the living scarecrow could not fail to find it when he worked up the nerve to return.
Still not quite sure what her own purpose was, Rachel picked up her lamp and started back toward the stairwell that would lead to the higher, more familiar parts of the castle’s labyrinth. Now she had done it and it was too late to turn back. But why had she done it? She would have to risk the upper castle again, since the stores she had laid in were planned to feed one frugal person only, not two adults and a cat with a bottomless stomach.
“Rhiap, save me from myself,” she grumbled.
Perhaps it was the fact that it was the only charity she could perform in these terrible days—although Rachel had never been obsessed with charity, since so many mendicants were, as far as she could tell, perfectly able-bodied and most likely merely frightened of work. But perhaps it was charity after all. Times had changed, and Rachel had changed, too.
Or perhaps she was just lonely, she reflected. She snorted at herself and hurried up the corridor.
23
The Sounding of the Horn
Several odd thirigs happened in the days after Princess Miriamele and her companions arrived at Sesuad’ra.
The first and least important was the change that came over Lenti, Count Streáwe’s messenger. The beetle-browed Perdruinese man had spent his first days in New Gadrinsett strutting around the small marketplace, annoying the local women and picking fights with the merchants. He had shown several people his knives, with the thinly-veiled implication that he was prone to use them when the mood was upon him.
However, when Duke Isgrimnur arrived with the princess, Lenti immediately retired to the tent he had been given as his billet and did not come out for some time. It took a great deal of coaxing to get him to emerge even to receive Josua’s reply to his master Streáwe, and when Lenti saw that the duke was to be present, the knife-flourishing messenger became weak in the knees and had to be allowed to sit down for Josua’s instructions. Apparently—or so the story was later told in the market—he and Isgrimnur had met before, and Lenti had not found the acquaintanceship a pleasant one. Once given a reply for his master, Lenti left Sesuad’ra hurriedly. Neither he nor anyone else much regretted his departure.
The second and far more astounding event was Duke Isgrimnur’s announcement that the old man he had brought to Sesuad’ra out of the south was in fact Camaris-sá-Vinitta, the greatest hero of the Johannine Age. It was whispered throughout the settlement that when Josua was told this on the evening of the return, he fell to his knees before the old man and kissed his hand—which seemed proof enough that Isrimnur spoke truly. Oddly, however, the nominal Sir Camaris seemed almost entirely unmoved by Josua’s gesture. Conflicting rumors quickly swept through the community of New Gadrinsett—the old man had been wounded in the head, he had gone mad from drink or sorcery or any number of other possible reasons, even that he had taken a vow of silence.
The third and saddest occurrence was the death of old Towser. On the same night that Miriamele and the others returned, the ancient jester died in his sleep. Most agreed that the excitement had been too much for his heart. Those who knew the terrors through which Towser had already passed with the rest of Josua’s company of survivors were not so sure, but he was after all a very old man, and his passing appeared to be natural. Josua spoke kindly of him at the burial two days later, reminding the small party gathered there of Towser’s long service to King John. It was noted by some, though, that despite the prince’s generous eulogy, the jester was interred near the other casualties of the recent battle rather than beside Deornoth in the garden of Leavetaking House.
The harper Sangfugol made sure that the old man was buried with a lute as well as his tattered motley, in memory of how Towser had taught him his musical art. Together, Sangfugol and Simon also gathered snowflowers, which they scattered atop the dark earth after the grave was filled.
“It’s sad that he should die just when Camaris had returned.” Miriamele was stringing the remaining snowflowers, which Simon had given to her, into a delicate necklace. “One of the few people he knew in the old days, and they never had a chance to talk. Not that Camaris would have said anything, I suppose.”
Simon shook his head. “Towser did speak to Camaris, Princess.” He paused. Her title still felt strange, especially when she sat before him in the flesh, living, breathing. “When Towser saw him—even before Isgrimnur said who it was—Towser went pale. He stood in front of Camaris for a moment, rubbing his hands like this, then whispered, ‘I did not tell anyone, Lord, I swear!’ Then he went off to his tent. Nobody heard him say it but me, I think. I had no idea what it meant—I still don’t.”
Miriamele nodded. “I suppose we never will, now.” She glanced at him, then immediately dropped her gaze back to her flowers.
Simon thought she was prettier than ever. Her golden hair, the dye now worn away, was boyishly short, but he rather liked how it emphasized the firm, sharp line of her chin and her green eyes. Even the slightly more serious expression she now wore just made her all the more appealing. He admired her, that was the word, but there was nothing he could do with his feelings. He longed to protect her from anything and everything, but at the same time he knew very well that she would never allow anyone to treat her as though she were a helpless child.
Simon sensed something else changed in Miriamele as well. She was still kind and courteous, but there was a remoteness to her that he did not remember, an air of restraint. The old balance forged between the two of them seemed to have been altered, but he did not quite understand what had replaced it. Miriamele seemed a little more distant, yet at the same time more aware of him than she had ever been before, almost as though he frightened her in some way.
He could not help staring at her, so he was grateful that for the moment her attention was fixed on the flowers in her lap. It was so strange to face the real Miriamele after all the months of remembering and imagining that he found it hard to think clearly in her presence. Now that the first week since her return had passed, a little of the awkwardness seemed to be gone, but there was still a gap between them. Even back in Naglimund, when he had first seen her as the king’s daughter she was, there had not been this quality of separation.
Simon had told her—not without some pride—of his many adventures in the last half-year; to his surprise, he had then discovered that Miriamele’s experiences had been almost as wildly improbable as his own.
At first he had decided that the horrors of her journey—the kilpa and ghants, the deaths of Dinivan and Lector Ranessin, her not-quite-explained confinement on the ship of some Nabbanai nobleman—were quite enough to explain the wall that he felt between them. Now he was not so sure. They had been friends, and even if they could never be more than that, the friendship had been real, hadn’t it? Something had happened to make her treat him differently.
Could it be me, Simon wondered. Could I have changed so much that she doesn’t like me anymore?
He unthinkingly stroked his beard. Miriamele looked up, caught his eye, and smiled mockingly. He felt a pleasant warmth: it was almost like seeing her in her old guise as Marya, the servant girl.
“You’re certainly proud of that, aren’t you?”
“What? My beard?” Simon was suddenly glad he had kept it, for he was blushing. “It just ... sort of grew.”
“Mmmm. By surprise? Overnight?”
“What’s wrong with it?” he asked, stung. “I’m a knight, by the Bloody Tree! Why shouldn’t I have a beard!”
“Don’t swear. Not in front of ladies, and especially not in front of princesses.” She gave him a look that was meant to be stem, but was spoiled in its effect somehow by her suppressed smile. “Besides, even if you are a knight, Simon—and I suppose I’ll have to take your word for
that until I remember to ask Uncle Josua—that doesn’t mean you’re old enough to grow a beard without looking silly.”
“Ask Josua? You can ask anyone!” Simon was torn between pleasure at seeing her act a little more like her old self and irritation at what she had said. “Not old enough! I’m almost sixteen years! Will be in another fortnight, on Saint Yistrin’s day!” He had only just realized himself that it was near when Father Strangyeard had made a remark about the saint’s upcoming holy day.
“Truly?” Miriamele’s look became serious. “I had my sixteenth birthday while we were traveling to Kwanitupul. Cadrach was very nice—he stole a jam-tart and some Lakeland pinks for me—but it wasn’t much of a celebration.”
“That thieving villain,” Simon growled. He still had not forgotten his purse and the shame he had endured over its loss, no matter how much had happened since then.
“Don’t say that.” Miriamele was suddenly sharp. “You don’t know anything about him, Simon. He has suffered much. His life has been hard.”
Simon made a noise of disgust. “He’s suffered!? What about the people he steals from?”
Miriamele’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t want you to say another word about Cadrach. Not a word.”
Simon opened his mouth, then shut it again. Damn me, he thought, you can get in trouble with girls so quickly! It’s like they’re all practicing to grow up to be Rachel the Dragon!
He took a breath. “I’m sorry your birthday wasn’t very nice.”
She eyed him for a moment, then relented. “Perhaps when yours comes, Simon, we can both celebrate. We can give each other gifts, like they do in Nabban.”
“You already gave me one.” He reached into the pocket of his cloak and removed a wisp of blue cloth. “Do you remember? When I was leaving to go north with Binabik and the others.”
Miriamele stared at it for a moment. “You kept it?” she asked quietly.
“Of course. I wore it the whole time, practically. Of course I kept it.”
Her eyes widened, then she turned away and rose abruptly from the stone bench. “I have to go, Simon,” she said in an odd tone of voice. She would not meet his eye. “Your pardon, please.” She swept up her skirts and moved swiftly off across the black and white tiles of the Fire Garden.
“Damn me,” said Simon. Things had seemed to be going well at last. What had he done? When would he ever learn to understand women?
Binabik, as the nearest thing to a full-fledged Scrollbearer, took the oaths of Tiamak and Father Strangyeard. When they had sworn, he in turn spoke his oath to them. Geloë looked on sardonically as the litanies were spoken. She had never held much with the formalities of the League, which was one reason she had never been a Scrollbearer, despite the immense respect in which she was held by its members. There were other reasons as well, but Geloë never spoke of those, and all of her old comrades who might have been able to explain were now gone.
Tiamak was torn between pleasure and disappointment. He had long dreamed that this might happen someday, but in his imagination he had received his scroll-and-pen from Morgenes, with Jarnauga and Ookequk beaming their approval. Instead he had brought Dinivan’s pendant up from Kwanitupul himself after Isgrimnur delivered it, and now he sat with the largely unproved successors of those other great souls.
Still, there was something unutterably exciting even in such a humble realization of his dream. Perhaps this would be a day long remembered—the coming of a new generation to the League, a new membership which would make the Scrollbearers as important and respected as they had been in the days of Eahlstan Fiskerne himself... !
Tiamak’s stomach growled. Geloë turned her yellow eyes on him and he smiled shamefacedly. In the excitement of the morning’s preparations he had forgotten to eat. Embarrassment spread through him. There! That was They Who Watch and Shape reminding him of how important he was. A new age, indeed—those gathered here would have to labor mightily to be half the Scrollbearers that their predecessors had been. That would teach Tiamak, the savage from Village Grove, to allow himself to become so heady!
His stomach growled again. Tiamak avoided Geloë’s eye this time and pulled his knees closer in to his body, huddling on the mat floor of Strangyeard’s tent like a pottery merchant on a cold day.
“Binabik has asked me to speak,” Geloë said when the oaths were done. She was brisk, like an Elder’s wife explaining chores and babies to a new bride. “Since I am the only one who knew all the other Scrollbearers, I have agreed.” The fierceness in her stare did not make Tiamak particularly comfortable. He had only corresponded with the forest woman before his arrival in Sesuad’ra, and had possessed no idea of the force of her presence. Now, he was frantically trying to remember the letters he had sent her and hoping that they had all been suitably courteous. She was clearly not the sort of person one wanted to upset.
“You have become Scrollbearers in what may be the most difficult age the world has yet seen, worse even than Fingil’s era of conquest and pillage and destruction of knowledge. You have all heard enough now to understand that what is happening seems clearly far more than a war between princes. Elias of Erkynland has somehow enlisted the aid of Ineluki Storm King, whose undead hand has reached down out of the Nornfells at last, as Ealhstan Fiskerne feared centuries ago. That is the task set before us—to somehow prevent that evil from turning a fight between brothers into a losing struggle against utter darkness. And the first part of that task, it seems, is to solve the riddle of the blades.”
The discussion of Nisses’ sword-rhyme went far into the afternoon. By the time Binabik thought to find something for them all to eat, Morgenes’ precious manuscript was scattered about Strangyeard’s tent, virtually every page having been held up for scrutiny and argued over until the incense-scented air seemed to ring.
Tiamak saw now that Morgenes’ message to him must have referred to the rhyme of the Three Swords. The Wrannaman had thought it impossible that anyone could have knowledge of his own secret treasure: it was clear that no one had. Still, if he hadn’t already developed a scholar’s healthy respect for coincidence, this day’s revelations would have convinced him. When bread and wine had been passed around, and the sharper disagreements had been softened by full mouths and the necessity of sharing a jug, Tiamak at last spoke up.
“I have found something myself that I hope you will look at.” He placed his cup down carefully and then withdrew the leaf-wrapped parchment from his sack. “I found this in the marketplace at Kwanitupul. I had hoped to take it to Dinivan in Nabban to see what he would say.” He unrolled it with great caution as the other three moved forward to look. Tiamak felt the sort of worried pride a father might feel on first bringing his child before the Elders to have the Naming confirmed.
Strangyeard sighed. “Blessed Elysia, is it real?”
Tiamak shook his head. “If it is not, it is a very careful forgery. In my years in Perdruin, I saw many writings from Nisses’ time. These are Rimmersgard runes as someone in that age would have written them. See the backward spirals.” He pointed with a trembling finger.
Binabik squinted. “... From Nuanni’s Rocke Garden ...” he read.
“I think that it means the Southern Islands,” Tiamak said. “Nuanni ...”
“—Was the old Nabbanai god of the sea.” Strangyeard was so excited that he interrupted—an amazing thing from the diffident priest. “Of course—Nuanni’s rock garden—the islands! But what does the rest mean?”
As the others bent close, already arguing, Tiamak felt a glow of pride. His child had met with the Elders’ approval.
“It’s not enough to stand our ground.” Duke Isgrimnur sat on a stool facing Josua in the prince’s darkened tent. “You have won an important victory, but it means little to Elias. Another few months and no one will remember it ever happened.”
Josua frowned. “I understand. That is why I will call the Raed.”
Isgrimnur shook his head, beard wagging. “That’s not enough, if you’ll
pardon my saying so. I’m being blunt.”
The prince smiled faintly. “That is your task, Isgrimnur.”
“So then let me say what I need to say. We need more victories, and soon. If we do not push Elias back, it won’t matter whether this ‘three swords’ nonsense will work or not.”
“Do you really think it is nonsense?”
“After all I’ve seen in the last year? No, I wouldn’t quickly call anything nonsense in these times—but that misses the point. As long as we sit here like a treed cat, we have no way to get to Bright-Nail.” The duke snorted. “Dror’s Mallet! I am still not used to thinking that John’s blade is really Minneyar. You could have knocked my head off with a goose feather when you told me that.”
“We all must become used to surprises, it seems,” Josua said dryly. “But what do you suggest?”
“Nabban.” Isgrimnur spoke without hesitation. “I know, I should urge you to hasten to Elvritshalla to free my people there. But you’re right in your fears. If what I have heard is true, half the able-bodied men in Rimmersgard were forced into Skali’s army: it would mean a drawn-out struggle to beat him. Kaldskryke’s a hard man, a canny fighter. I hate his treacherous innards, but I’d be the last to call him an easy match.”
“But the Sithi have ridden to Hernystir,” Josua pointed out. “You heard that.”
“And what does that mean? I can make neither hide nor hair of the lad Simon’s stories, and that white-haired Sitha witch-girl doesn’t strike me as the kind of scout whose information should be used to plan an entire campaign.” The duke grimaced. “In any case, if the Sithi and the Hernystiri drive Skali out, wonderful. I will cheer louder and longer than any. But those of Skali’s men we would even want to recruit will still be scattered far and wide across the Frostmarch: even with the weather getting a little better, I would not want to have to try to round them up and convince them to attack Erkynland. And they’re my people. It’s my country, Josua ... so you’d better listen to what I say.” He worked his bushy eyebrows furiously, as if the mere thought of the prince’s possible disagreement called his own good sense into question.
