To Green Angel Tower, Volume 1

by Tad Williams

  Freosel was watching the process critically. “We need all cattle and sheep we can get, Highness. Many mouths that need feeding.” He awkwardly urged his horse forward a few paces—he was still not used to riding. “Ha, there!” he shouted. “Give that wagon some room!”

  Isgrimnur thought that Josua was right: it did look like a traveling fair, although this company showed something less than the cheerfulness that usually attended such things. There were children crying—although not all the children were displeased to be traveling, by any means—as well as a steady undercurrent of bickering and complaint from the citizens of New Gadrinsett. Few among them had wanted to leave this place of relative safety: the idea of somehow forcing Elias from his throne was remote to them, and almost all the settlers would have preferred to stay on Sesuad’ra while others dealt with the grim realities of war—but it was also clear that staying in this remote place after Josua had taken all the men-at-arms away was no real alternative. So, angry but unwilling to risk more suffering without the protection of the prince’s makeshift army, the inhabitants of New Gadrinsett were following Josua toward Nabban.

  “We would not fright a nest of scholars with this lot,” the prince said, “let alone my brother. Yet, I do not think the less of them—of any of us—for our rags and poor weaponry.” He smiled. “In truth, I think I know for the first time what my father felt. I have always treated my liege-men as well as I could, since that is what God would have me do, but I never felt the strong love that Prester John did for all his subjects.” Josua stroked Vinyafod’s neck meditatively. “Would that the old man could have saved some of that love for both his sons as well. Still, I think I finally know what he felt when he rode out through the Nearulagh Gate and down into Erchester. He would have given his life for those people, as I would give mine for these.” The prince smiled again, shyly, as if embarrassed by what he had revealed. “I will bring this beloved rabble of mine safe through Nabban, Isgrimnur, whatever it takes. But when we get to Erkynland, we are putting the dice into the hands of God—and who knows what He will do with them?”

  “Not a one of us,” Isgrimnur said. “And good deeds do not buy His favor, either. At least your Father Strangyeard said that to me the other night, that he thought it might be as much a sin to try to buy God’s love by good deeds as it is to do bad ones.”

  A mule—one of the few such on all of Sesuad’ra—was balking at the rim of the road. His owner was pushing at the cart to which the mule was tethered, trying to urge him along from behind. The beast had gone stiff and spread-legged, silent but implacable. The owner moved forward and laid a switch across the mule’s back, but the creature only dropped back its ears and lifted its head, accepting the blows with mutely stubborn hostility. The owner’s curses filled the morning air, echoed by the people trapped behind his stalled cart.

  Josua laughed and leaned closer to Isgrimnur. “If you would see what I look like to myself, gaze on that poor beast. If it were uphill, he would pull all day and never show a moment’s weariness. But now he has a long and dangerous downward track before him and a heavy cart behind him—no wonder he digs in his heels. He would wait until the Day of Weighing-Out if he could.” His grin faded and he turned to fix the duke with his gray eyes. “But I have interrupted you. Say again what Strangyeard told you.”

  Isgrimnur stared at the mule and its drover. There was something both comic and pathetic about it, something that seemed to hint at more than it revealed. “The priest said that trying to buy God’s favor with good deeds was a sin. Well, first he apologized for having any thoughts at all—you know how he is, skittery mouse of a man—but said it anyway. That God owes us nothing, and we owe Him all, that we should do right things because they are right and that is closest to God, not because we will be rewarded like children given sweetmeats for sitting quietly.”

  “Father Strangyeard is a mouse, yes,” said Josua. “But a mouse can be brave. Small as they are, though, they learn it is wiser not to challenge the cat. So it is with Strangyeard, I think. He knows who he is and where he belongs.” Josua’s eyes strayed upward from the futile flogging of the mule to the western hills that walled the valley. “I will think on what he said, though. Sometimes we do act as God bids us out of fear or hope of reward. Yes, I will think on what he said.”

  Isgrimnur suddenly wished he had kept his mouth closed.

  That’s all Josua needs—another reason to fault himself. Keep him moving, old man, not thinking. He is magical when he throws away his cares. He is a true prince, then. That is what will give us a chance of living to talk about such things over the fire someday.

  “What do you say we move this idiot and his mule out of the road?” Isgrimnur suggested. “Otherwise, this place is going to be less like a town fair and more like the Battle of Nearulagh soon.”

  “Yes, I think so.” Josua smiled again, sunny as the cold, bright morning. “But I don’t think it’s the idiot drover who will need convincing—and mules are no respecters of princes.”

  “Yah, Nimsuk!” Binabik called. “Where is Sisqinanamook?”

  The herder turned and raised his crook-spear in greeting. “She is by the boats, Singing Man. Checking for leaks so the rams’ feet don’t get wet!” He laughed, displaying an uneven mouthful of yellow teeth.

  “And so you don’t have to swim, since you’d sink to the bottom like a rock,” Binabik grinned back. “They’d find you in the summer when the water went away, a little man of mud. Show some respect.”

  “It’s too sunny,” Nimsuk replied. “Look at them frisk!” He pointed to the rams, who were indeed very lively, several of them playing at mock combat, something they almost never did.

  “Just don’t let them kill each other,” Binabik said. “Enjoy your rest.” He bent and whispered into Qantaqa’s ear. The wolf leaped forward over the snow with the troll clinging to her hackles.

  .Sisqi was indeed inspecting the flatboats. Binabik released Qantaqa, who shook herself vigorously and trotted off to the nearby skirts of the forest. Binabik watched his betrothed with a smile. She was examining the boats as distrustfully as a lowlander might count the lashings on a Qanuc chasm-bridge.

  “So careful,” Binabik chided her, laughing. “Most of our people are crossed already.” He waved his arm at the stippling of white rams dotted across the valley floor, the knots of troll herdsmen and huntresses enjoying the short hour of peace before the journeying began once more.

  “And I will see every single one across safely.” Sisqi turned and opened her arms to him. They stood face-to-face for a while, unspeaking. “This traveling-on-water is one thing when a few are fishing on Blue Mud Lake,” she said eventually, “another when I must trust the lives of all my people and rams.”

  “They are fortunate in your care,” Binabik said, serious now. “But for a moment, forget the boats.”

  She squeezed him hard. “I have.”

  Binabik lifted his head and looked out across the valley. The snow was melted in many places, with tufts of yellow-green grass showing through. “The herds will eat until they are sick,” he said. “They are not used to such abundance.”

  “Is the snow going away?” she asked. “You said before that these lands were normally not snowbound at this time of year.”

  “Not always, but the winter has spread far south. Still, it does seem to be falling back again.” He looked up into the sky. The few clouds did not in the least diminish the strength of the sun. “I do not know what to think. I cannot believe that he who made the winter reach down so far has given up. I do not know.” He freed a hand from Sisqi’s side and bumped it once against his breastbone. “I came to say that I am sorry I have seen you so little of late. There has been much to decide. Geloë and the others have been working long hours with Morgenes’ book, trying to find the answers we yet seek. We have been studying Ookequk’s scrolls as well, and that cannot be done without me.”

  Sisqi raised the hand of his she retained up to her cheek, pressing it there before
letting it go. “You have no need for sorrow. I know what you do ...” she inclined her head toward the boats bobbing at the water’s edge, “... just as you know what I must do.” She lowered her eyes. “I saw you stand at the lowlander’s council and speak. I could not understand most of the words, but I saw them watching you with respect, Binbiniqegabenik.” She gave his full name a ritual sound. “I was proud of you, my man. I only wish my mother and father could see you as I did. As I do.”

  Binabik snorted, but he was obviously pleased. “I do not think that the respect of lowlanders would count for much on your parents’ tally stick. But I thank you. The lowlanders think highly of you, too—of all our people, after having seen us in battle.” His round face grew serious. “And that is the other thing I wished to speak of. You told me once that you thought to go back to Yiqanuc. Will you do that soon?”

  “I am still considering,” she said. “I know we are needed by my mother and father, but I also think there are things we can do here. Lowlanders and trolls fighting together—perhaps that is something that will make our people safer in days ahead.”

  “Clever Sisqi,” Binabik smiled. “But the fighting may grow too fierce for our folk. You have never seen a war for a castle—what the lowlanders call a ‘siege.’ There might be scant place for our people in such a battle, yet much danger. And at least one or two battles of that kind lie before Josua and his people.”

  She nodded her head solemnly. “I know. But there is a more important reason, Binabik. I would find it very hard to leave you again.”

  He looked away. “As I found it hard to leave you when Ookequk took me south—but both of us know that there are duties that make us do what we wish we did not have to.” Binabik slid his arm through hers. “Come, let us walk for a while, since we will not have much time to be together in days ahead.”

  They turned and made their way back toward the base of the hill, avoiding the press of people waiting for boats. “I regret most that these troubles prevent us from our marriage,” he said.

  “The words, only. The night I came for you, to set you free, we were married. Even had we never seen each other again.”

  Binabik hunched his shoulders. “I know. But you should have the words. You are the daughter of the Huntress.”

  “We have separate tents,” Sisqi smiled. “All that is honorable is observed.”

  “And I do not mind sharing mine with young Simon,” he shot back. “But I would prefer sharing with you.”

  “We have our times.” She squeezed his hand. “And what will you do when this is all over, my dear one?” She kept her voice steady, as if there were little question whether there would be an afterward. Qantaqa appeared from the curve of the forest and loped toward them.

  “What do you mean? You and I will go back to Mintahoq—or, if you have already gone, I will come to you.”

  “But what about Simon?”

  Binabik had slowed his pace. Now he stopped and pushed snow from a hanging branch with his stick. Here in the hill’s long shadow, the raucous noise of the departing throngs was less. “I do not know. I am bound to him by promises, but the day will come when those can be discharged. After that ...” He shrugged, a trollish gesture made with his palms held out. “I do not know what I am to him, Sisqi. Not a brother, not a father, certainly....”

  “A friend?” she suggested gently. Qantaqa was beside her, nosing at her hand. She scratched the wolf’s muzzle, running her fingers along jaws that could swallow her arm to the elbow. The wolf growled contentedly.

  “Certainly that. He is a good boy. No, he is a good man, I suppose. I have watched him growing.”

  “May Qinkipa of the Snows bring us all through this safely,” she said gravely. “Simon to grow happily old, you and I to love each other and raise children, our kind to keep our mountains as our home. I am not frightened of lowlanders any more, Binabik, but I am happier among people I understand.”

  He turned and pulled her close. “May Qinkipa grant what you ask. And don’t forget,” he said, reaching out to lay his fingers next to hers where they touched the wolf’s neck, “we must wish for the Snow Maiden to protect Qantaqa, too.” He grinned. “Come, go with me a little farther. I know a quiet spot on the hillside, sheltered from the wind—the last private place we may see for day upon day upon day.”

  “But the boats, Singing Man,” she teased. “I must look at them again.”

  “You have looked at each one a dozen times,” he said. “Trolls could swim laughing through that water if they had to. Come.”

  She put her arm around him and they went, heads leaning close together. The wolf padded after them, silent as a gray shadow.

  “Blast you, Simon, that hurt!” Jeremias fell back, sucking on his wounded fingers. “Just because you’re a knight doesn’t mean you have to break my hand.”

  Simon straightened up. “I’m just trying to show you something Sludig taught me. And I need the practice. Don’t be a baby.”

  Jeremias gave him a disgusted look. “I’m not a baby, Simon. And you’re not Sludig. I don’t even think you’re doing it right.”

  Simon took a few deep breaths, fighting down a cross remark. It wasn’t Jeremias’ fault that he was restless. He hadn’t been able to speak to Miriamele for days, and despite the huge and complicated process of breaking camp on Sesuad’ra, there still seemed little of importance for Simon to do. “I’m sorry. I was stupid to say that.” He lifted the practice sword, made of timbers rescued from the war barricade. “Just let me show this to you, this thing where you turn the blade ...” He reached out and engaged Jeremias’ wooden weapon. “Like ... so ...”

  Jeremias sighed. “I wish you would just go and talk to the princess instead of beating on me, Simon.” He raised the sword. “Oh, come on, then.”

  They feinted and engaged, the blades clacking loudly. Some of the sheep pasturing nearby looked up long enough to see if the rams were fighting again; when it proved instead to be a contest of two-legged younglings, they turned back to their grass.

  “Why did you say that about the princess?” Simon asked, panting.

  “What?” Jeremias was trying to stay out of reach of his opponent’s longer arms. “Why do you think? You’ve been moping around after her since she got here.”

  “I have not.”

  Jeremias stepped back and let the point of his stave-sword sag to the ground. “Oh, you haven’t? It must have been some other hulking, red-haired idiot.”

  Simon smiled, embarrassed. “That easy to tell, is it?” “Usires Ransomer, yes! And who wouldn’t? She’s certainly pretty, and she seems kind.”

  “She’s ... more than that. But why aren’t you moping after her, then?”

  Jeremias darted him a quick, hurt look. “As if she would notice me if I fell dead at her feet.” His face grew mocking. “Not that she seems to be flinging herself at you, either.”

  “That’s not funny,” said Simon darkly.

  Jeremias took pity. “I’m sorry, Simon. I’m sure being in love is horrible. Look, go ahead and break the rest of my fingers if it will make you feel better.”

  “It might.” Simon grinned and raised his blade once more. “Now, damn you, Jeremias, do this right.”

  “Make someone a knight,” Jeremias huffed, dodging a downward blow, “and you ruin his friends’ lives forever.”

  The noise of their conflict rose again, the irregular smack of blade on blade fierce as the hammering of a huge and drunken woodpecker.

  They sat gasping on the wet grass, sharing a water skin. Simon had untied the neck of his shirt to let the wind at his heated skin. Soon he would be uncomfortably chilly, but at the moment the air felt wonderful. A shadow fell between the two of them and they looked up, startled.

  “Sir Camaris!” Simon struggled to rise. Jeremias just stared, wide-eyed.

  “Hea, sit, young man.” The old man spread his fingers, gesturing Simon back down. “I was only watching the two of you at your bladework.”

  “We
don’t know much,” Simon said modestly.

  “That you do not.”

  Simon had been half-hoping that Camaris would contradict him. “Sludig tried to teach me what he could,” he said, trying to keep his voice respectful. “We haven’t had much time.”

  “Sludig. That is Isgrimnur’s liege-man.” He looked at Simon intently. “And you are the castle-lad, are you not? The one that Josua knighted?” For the first time, it was apparent that he had a faint accent. The slightly over-rounded roll of Nabbanai speech still clung to his stately phrases.

  “Yes, Sir Camaris. Simon is my name. And this is my friend—and my squire—Jeremias.”

  The old man flicked his gaze to Jeremias and dipped his chin briefly before returning his pale blue eyes to Simon. “Things have changed,” he said slowly. “And not for the better, I think.”

  Simon waited a moment for Camaris to explain. “What do you mean, sire?” he asked.

  The old man sighed. “It is not your fault, young fellow. I know that a monarch must sometimes make knights upon the field, and do not doubt that you have done noble deeds—I heard you helped find my blade Thorn—but there is more to knighthood than a touch of a sword. It is a high calling, Simon ... a high calling.”

  “Sir Deornoth tried to teach me what I needed to know,” Simon said. “Before I had my vigil, he taught me about the Canon of Knighthood.”

  Camaris sat down, astonishingly nimble for a man of his age. “But even so, lad, even so. Do you know how long I was in service to Gavenaxes of Honsa Claves, as page and squire?”

  “No, sire.”

  “Twelve years. And every day, young Simon, every single day was a lesson. It took me two long years simply to learn how to care for Gavenaxes’ horses. You have a horse, do you not?”

  “Yes, sire.” Simon was uncomfortable yet fascinated. The greatest knight in the history of the world was talking to him about the rules of knighthood. Any young nobleman from Rimmersgard to Nabban would have given his left arm to be in Simon’s place. “She’s called Homefinder.”