by Tad Williams
“. . . Strangely enough,”
he began,“the Conqueror Star, instead of shining above the birth or triumph of conquerors as its name might suggest, seems instead to appear as a herald of the death of empires. It trumpeted the downfall of Khand, of the old Sea Kingdoms, and even the ending of what may have been the greatest empire of all—the Sithi mastery of Osten Ard, which came to an end when their great stronghold Asu‘a fell. The first records collected by scholars of the League of the Scroll tell that the Conqueror Star was bright in the night sky above Asu’a when Ineluki, lyu’unigato’s son, pondered the spell that would soon destroy the Sithi castle and a large part of Fingil’s Rimmersgard army.
“It is said that the only event of pure conquest that ever saw the Conqueror Star’s light was the triumph of the Ransomer, Usires Aedon, since it shone in the skies above Nabban when Usires hung on the Execution Tree. However, the argument could be made that there, too, it heralded decline and collapse, since Aedon’s death was the beginning of the ultimate collapse of the mighty Nabbanai Imperium.... ”
Strangyeard took a breath. His eyes were shining now: Morgenes’ words had driven out his discomfort at speaking to a crowd. “So you see, there is some significance to this, we think.”
“But why, exactly?” Josua asked. “It already appeared at the beginning of my brother’s regnal year. If the destruction of an empire has been forecast, what of it? No doubt it is my brother’s empire that will fall.” He showed a weak smile. There was a small rustle of laughter from the assembly.
“But that is not the whole story, Prince Josua,” Geloë said. “Dinivan and others—Doctor Morgenes, too, before his death—studied this matter. The Conqueror Star, you see, is not yet gone. It will be coming back.”
“What do you mean?”
Binabik rose. “Every five hundreds of years, Dinivan was discovering,” he explained, “the star is in the sky not once, but three times. It is appearing for three years, bright the first, then almost too dim for seeing the second, then most bright of all for the last.”
“So it is coming back this year, at the end of the winter,” Geloë said. “For the third time. The last time it did that was the year Asu’a fell.”
“I still don’t understand,” Josua said. “I believe that what you say may be important, but we already have many mysteries to think about. What does the star mean to us?”
Geloë shook her head. “Perhaps nothing. Perhaps, as in the past, it heralds the passing of a great kingdom—but whether that would be the High King‘s, the Storm King’s, or your father’s if we are defeated, none of us can say. It seems unlikely that an occurrence with such a fateful history would mean nothing, however.”
“I am in agreement,” Binabik said. “This is not the season for the dismissing of such things as coincidence.”
Josua looked around in frustration, as though hoping someone else at the long table could provide an answer. “But what does it mean? And what are we supposed to do about it?”
“First, it could be that only when the star is in the sky will the swords be of use to us,” Geloë offered. “Their value seems to be in their otherworldliness. Perhaps the heavens are showing us when they will be most useful.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Or perhaps that will be a time when Ineluki will be strongest, and most able to help Elias against us, since it was five centuries ago he spoke the spell that made him what he is now. In that .case, we will need to reach the Hayholt before that times comes ’round again.”
Silence descended on the vast chamber, broken only by the quiet murmuring of the fireplace flames. Josua shuffled absently through a few pages of Morgenes’ manuscript.
“And you have learned nothing further about the swords on which we have staked so much—nothing which would be of use to us?” he demanded.
Binabik shook his head. “We have been speaking now many times with Sir Camaris.” The little man gave the old knight a respectful nod. “He has been telling us what he knows of the sword Thorn and its properties, but we have not yet learned of anything that tells us what we may do with it and the others.”
“Then we can’t afford to bet our lives on them,” Sludig said. “Magic and fairy-tricks will turn traitor every time.”
“You speak about things you do not know ...” Geloë began grimly.
Josua sat up. “Stop. It is too late in the day to abandon the three swords. If it was my brother alone we fought, then perhaps we might chance it. But the Storm King’s hand has apparently been behind him at every step of his progress, and the swords are our only thin hope against that dark, dark scourge.”
Miriamele now stood. “Then let me ask again, Uncle Josua ... Prince Josua, that we go directly to Erkynland. If the swords are valuable, then we need to take Sorrow back from my father and recover Bright-Nail from my grandfather’s grave. From what Geloë and Binabik are saying, we seem to have little time.”
Her face was solemn, but Duke Isgrimnur thought he sensed desperation behind her words. That surprised him. Important, all-important as these decisions were, why should little Miriamele sound like her own life was so absolutely dependent on going straight to Erkynland and confronting her father?
Josua’s look was cool. “Thank you, Miriamele. I have listened to what you say. I value your counsel.” He turned to face the rest of the assembly. “Now I must tell you my decision.” The desire to be finished with all this was audible in his every word.
“Here are my choices. To remain here—to build up this place, New Gadrinsett, and hold out against my brother until his misrule turns the tide in our favor. That is one possibility.” Josua ran his hand through his short hair, then held up two fingers. “The second is to go to Nabban, where with Camaris to march at the head of our army, we may quickly gain adherents, and thus eventually field an army capable of bringing down the High King.” The prince raised a third finger. “The third, as Miriamele and Freosel and others have suggested, is to move directly into Erkynland, gambling that we can find enough supporters to overcome Elias’ defenses. There is also a possibility that Isorn and Count Eolair of Nad Mullach may be able to join us with men recruited in the Frostmarch and Hernystir.”
Young Simon rose. “I beg your pardon, Prince Josua. Don’t forget the Sithi.”
“Nothing is promised, Seoman,” said the Sitha woman Aditu. “Nothing can be.”
Isgrimnur was a little taken aback. She had sat so quietly during the debate that he had forgotten she was here. He wondered if it had been wise to talk so openly before her. What did Josua and the rest truly know about the immortals, anyway?
“And perhaps the Sithi will join with us,” Josua amended, “although as Aditu has told us, she does not know what is happening in Hernystir, or what exactly her folk plan to do next.” The prince closed his eyes for a long moment.
“Added to these possibilities,” he said at last, “is the need to recover the other two Great Swords, and also what we have learned here today about the Conqueror Star—which is little, I must say frankly, except that it may have some bearing on things.” He turned to Geloë. “Obviously, if you learn more I ask to hear it at once.”
The witch woman nodded.
“I wish that we could stay here.” Josua looked quickly at Vorzheva, but she would not meet his eyes. “I would like nothing better than to see my child born here in something like safety. I would love to see all our settlers make of this ancient place a new and living city, a refuge for all who sought one. But we cannot stay. We are nearly out of food as it is, and more outcasts and war victims are arriving every day. And if we stay longer, we invite my brother sending a more formidable army than Fengbald’s. It is also my sense that the time for a defensive game is past. So, we will move on.
“Of our two alternatives, I must, after much thought, choose Nabban. We are not strong enough to confront Elias directly now, and I fear that Erkynland is so much reduced that we might find it hard to raise an army there. Also, if we failed, we would have nowhere to run but b
ack across the empty lands to this place. I cannot guess how many would die just trying to flee a failed battle, let alone in the battle itself between Elias’ troops and our ragtag army.
“So it will be Nabban. We will go far before Benigaris can bring an army to bear, and in that time Camaris may lure many to our banner. If we are lucky enough to force Benigaris and his mother out, Camaris will also have the ships of Nabban to put at our service, making it easier for us to move against my brother.”
He raised his arms, silencing the gathering as whispers began to fill the room. “But this much of the Scroll League’s warnings about the Conqueror Star will I take to heart. I would rather not ride out in winter, especially since it has long seemed the tool of the Storm King, but I think that the sooner we can make our way from Nabban to Erkynland, the better. If the star is a herald of empire’s fall, still it need not be our herald as well: we will try to reach the Hayholt before it appears. We will hope that this mildness in the weather will hold, and we will leave this place in a fortnight. That is my decision.” He lowered his hand to the tabletop. “Now go, all of you, and get some sleep. There is no point in further arguing. We leave this place for Nabban.”
Voices were raised as some of those gathered began to call out questions. “Enough!” Josua cried. “Go and leave me in peace!”
As he helped herd the others out, Isgrimnur looked back. Josua was slumped in his chair, rubbing his temples with his fingers. Beside him Vorzheva sat and stared straight ahead, as though her husband were a thousand miles away.
Pryrates emerged from the stairwell into the bellchamber. The high-arching windows were open to the elements, and the winds that swirled around Green Angel Tower fluttered his red robe. He stopped, his boot heels clicking once more on the stone tiles before silence fell.
“You sent for me, Your Highness?” he asked at last.
Elias was staring out across the jumble of the Hayholt’s roofs, looking toward the east. The sun had dropped below the western rim of the world and the sky was full of heavy black clouds. The entire land had fallen into shadow.
“Fengbald is dead,” the king said. “He has failed. Josua has beaten him.”
Pryrates was startled. “How could you know!?”
The High King whirled. “What do you mean, priest? A half-dozen Erkynguardsmen arrived this morning, the remnants of Fengbald’s army. They told me many surprising tales. But you sound as though you knew already.”
“No, Highness,” the alchemist said hastily. “I was just surprised that I was not informed immediately when the guardsmen arrived. It is usually the king’s counselor’s task ...”
“... To sift through the news and decide what his master is allowed to hear,” Elias finished for him. The king’s eyes glittered. His smile was not pleasant. “I have many sources of information, Pryrates. Never forget that.”
The priest bowed stiffly. “If I have offended you, my king, I beg your forgiveness.”
Elias contemplated him for a moment, then turned back to the window. “I should have known better than to send that braggart Fengbald. I should have known he would muck it up. Blood and damnation!” He slapped his palms on the stone sill. “If only I could have sent Guthwulf.”
“The Earl of Utanyeat proved himself a traitor, Highness,” Pryrates observed mildly.
“Traitor or not, he was the finest soldier I have ever seen. He would have ground up my brother and his peasant army like pig meat.” The king bent and picked up a loose stone, holding it before his eyes for a moment before flinging it out the window. He watched its fall in silence before speaking again. “Now Josua will move against me. I know him. He has always wanted to take the throne from me. He never forgave my being firstborn, but he was too clever to say so aloud. He is subtle, my brother. Quiet but poisonous, like an adder.” The king’s pale face was drawn and haggard, but he seemed nevertheless full of an awful vitality. His fingers curled and uncurled spasmodically. “He will not find me unready, will he, Pryrates?”
The alchemist allowed a smile to curl his own thin lips. “No, my lord, he will not.”
“I have friends, now—powerful friends.” The king’s hand dropped to the double hilt of Sorrow, sheathed at his waist. “And there are things afoot that Josua could never dream of if he lived for centuries. Things he will never guess until it is too late.” He drew the sword from its scabbard. The mottled gray blade seemed a living thing, something pulled against its will from beneath a rock. As Elias held it before him, the wind lifted his cloak, spreading it above him like wings; for a moment, the blotchy twilight made him a pinioned thing, a demon out of dark ages past. “He and all he leads will die, Pryrates,” the king hissed. “They do not know who they meddle with.”
Pryrates regarded him with genuine uneasiness. “Your brother does not know, my king. But you will show him.”
Elias turned and brandished the sword at the eastern horizon. In the distance, a flicker of lightning played across the turbulent darkness.
“Come, then!” he shouted. “Come, all of you! There is death enough to be shared! No one will take the Dragonbone Chair from me. No one can!”
As if in answer, there came a dim rumble of thunder.
25
The Semblance of Heaven
They rode down out of the north on black horses-steeds raised in cold darkness, surefooted in deep night, unafraid of icy wind or high mountain passes. The riders were three, two women and one man, all Cloud Children, and their deaths were already being sung by the Lightless Ones, since there was little chance they would ever return to Nakkiga. They were the Talons of Utuk’ku.
As they departed Stormspike, they rode through the ruins of the old city, Nakkiga-that-was, sparing hardly a glance to the tumbled relics of an age when their people had still lived beneath the sun. By night they passed through the villages of the Black Rimmersmen. There they met no one, since the inhabitants of those settlements, like all the mortals in that ill-fated land, knew better than to stir our of doors once twilight had fallen.
Despite the speed and vigor of their mounts, the three riders were many nights crossing the Frostmarch. Except for those sleepers in remote settlements who suffered unexpectedly bad dreams, or the rare travelers who noticed an added chill to the already freezing wind, the riders went unperceived. They continued on in silence and shadow until they reached Naglimund.
They stopped there to rest their horses—even the cruel discipline of the Stormspike stables could not prevent a living animal from tiring eventually—and to confer with those of their kind who now made Josua of Erknyland’s desolated castle their home. The leader of Utuk’ku’s Talons—although she was only first-among-equals—paid uncomfortable homage to the castle’s shrouded master, one of the Red Hand. He sat in his gray winding sheets peeping ember-red at every crease, on the smoldering wreckage of what had once been Josua’s princely throne of state. She was respectful, although she did nothing more than that which was necessary. Even to the Norns, hardened through the long centuries, blasted by their cold exile, the Storm King’s minions were unsettling. Like their master, they had gone beyond—they had tasted Unbeing and then returned; they were as different from their still-living brethren as a star was from a starfish. The Norns did not like the Red Hand, did not like the singed emptiness of them—each one of the five was little more than a hole in the stuff of reality, a hole filled by hatred—but as long as their mistress made Ineluki’s war her own, they had little choice but to bow before the Storm King’s chief servants.
They also found themselves distanced from their own brethren. Since the Talons were death-sung, the Hikeda’ya of Naglimund treated them with reverent silence and boarded them in a cold chamber far from the rest of the tribe. The three Talons did not stay long in the wind-haunted castle.
From there they rode over the Stile, through the ruins of Da‘ai Chikiza, and then westward through the Aldheorte, where the travelers made a wide circle around the borders of Jao é-Tinukai’i. Utuk’ku and her
ally had already had their confrontation with the Dawn Children and received its full benefit: this task was one that required secrecy. Although at times the forest seemed actively to resist them with paths that abruptly vanished and tree limbs so close-knit they made the filtered light of the stars seem different and confusing, still the trio rode on, heading inexorably southeast. They were the Norn Queen’s chosen: they were not so easily put off their quarry.
At last they reached the forest’s edge. They were close now to that which they sought. Like Ingen Jegger before them, they had come down from the north bearing death for Utuk‘ku’s enemies, but unlike the Queen’s Huntsman, who had met defeat the first time he had turned his hand against the Zida’ya, these three were immortals. There would be no hurry. There would be no mistakes.
They turned their horses toward Sesuad’ra.
“Ah, by the good God, I feel a weight lifted from my shoulders.” Josua took a deep breath. “It is something fine to be moving at last.”
Isgrimnur smiled. “Even if all do not agree,” he said. “Yes. It’s good.”
Josua and the Duke of Elvritshalla were sitting their horses by the gate stones that marked the hilltop’s edge, watching the citizens of New Gadrinsett decamp in a most disorderly fashion. The parade wound past them down the old Sithi road, spiraling around the bulk of the Stone of Farewell until it vanished from sight. As many sheep and cows seemed to be setting out as people, an army of unhelpful animals bleating, lowing, bumping along, causing chaos among the overloaded citizenry. Some of the settlers had built crude wagons and had piled their possessions high on them, which added to the strange air of festival.
Josua frowned. “As an army, we look more like a town fair being moved.”
Hotvig, who had just ridden up with Freosel the Falshireman, laughed. “This is how our clans always look when they travel. The only difference is that most of these are your stone-dwellers. You will become accustomed.”
