To Green Angel Tower, Volume 1

by Tad Williams

  Camaris gave him a sharp look, as though he disapproved of the name, but went on as though he did not. “Then you must learn to care for her properly. She is more than a friend, Simon, she is as much a part of you as your two legs and two arms. A knight who cannot trust his horse, who does not know his horse as well as he knows himself, who has not cleaned and repaired every piece of harness a thousand times—well, he will be of little use to himself or to God.”

  “I am trying, Sir Camaris. But there is so much to learn.”

  “Admittedly it is a time of war,” Camaris continued. “So it is quite permissible to slight some of the less crucial arts—hunting and hawking and suchlike.” But he did not look as though he was entirely comfortable with this thought. “It is even conceivable that the rules of precedence are not so important as at other times, except insofar as they impinge on military discipline; still, it is easier to fight when you know your place in God’s wise plan. Little wonder the battle here with the king’s men was a brawl.” His look of severe concentration abruptly softened; his eyes turned mild. “But I am boring you, am I not?” His lips quirked. “I have been as one asleep for two score years, but still I am an old man, for all that. It is not my world.”

  “Oh, no,” Simon said earnestly. “You are not boring me, Sir Camaris. Not at all.” He looked at Jeremias for support, but his friend was goggle-eyed and silent. “Please, tell me anything that will help me be a better knight.”

  “Are you being kind?” asked the greatest knight in Aedondom. His tone was cool.

  “No, sire.” Simon laughed in spite of himself, and had a momentary fear that he would dissolve into terrified giggling. “No, sire. Forgive me, but to have you ask if you’re boring me ...” He could not summon words to describe the magnificent folly of such an idea. “You are a hero, Sir Camaris,” he said at last, simply. “A hero.”

  The old man rose with the same surprising alacrity with which he had seated himself. Simon was afraid he had somehow offended him.

  “Stand, lad.”

  Simon did as he was told. “You, too ... Jeremias.” Simon’s friend rose to the knight’s beckoning finger. Camaris looked at them both critically. “Lend me your sword, please.” He pointed to the wooden blade still clutched in Simon’s hand. “I have left Thorn scabbarded in my tent. I am still not quite comfortable having her near me, I confess. There is a restless quality to her that I do not like. Perhaps it is only me.”

  “Her?” Simon asked, surprised.

  The old man made a dismissive gesture. “It is the way we talk on Vinitta. Boats and swords are ‘she,’ storms and mountains are ‘he.’ Now, attend me well.” He took the practice-sword and drew a circle in the wet grass. “The Canon of Knighthood tells that, as we are made in the image of our Lord, so is the world ...” He made a smaller circle inside the first. “... made in the semblance of Heaven. But, woefully, without its grace.” He examined the circle critically, as if he could already see it populated with sinners.

  “As the angels are the minions and messengers of God the Highest,” he went on, “so does the fraternity of knighthood serve its various earthly rulers. The angels bring forth God’s good works, which are absolute, but the earth is flawed, and so are our rulers, even the best. Thus, there will be disagreement as to what is God’s will. There will be war.” He divided the inner circle with a single line. “By this test will the righteousness of our rulers be made known. It is war that most closely reflects the knife edge of God’s will, since war is the hinge on which earthly empires rise or fall. If strength alone were to determine victory, strength unmitigated by honor or mercy, then there would be no victory, because God’s will can never be revealed by the mere exercise of greater strength. Is the cat more beloved of God than the mouse?” Camaris shook his head gravely, then turned his sharp eyes on his audience. “Are you listening?” “Yes,” Simon said quickly. Jeremias only nodded, still silent as if struck dumb.

  “So. All angels—excepting The One Who Fled—are obedient to God above all, because He is perfect, all-knowing and all-capable.” Camaris drew a series of ticks on the outer circle—representing the angels, Simon supposed. In truth, he was a little bit confused, but he also felt that he could grasp much of what the knight was saying, so he clung to what he could and waited. “But,” the old man continued, “the rulers of men are, as aforesaid, flawed. They are sinners, as are we all. Thus, although each knight is loyal to his liege, he must also be loyal to the Canon of Knighthood—all the rules of battle and comportment, the rules of honor and mercy and responsibility—which is the same for all knights.” Camaris bisected the line through the inner circle, drawing a perpendicular. “So no matter which earthly ruler wins a struggle, if his knights are true to their canon, the battle will have been won according to God’s law. It will be a just reflection of His will.” He fixed Simon with his keen gaze. “Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, sire.” In truth, it did make a kind of sense, although Simon wanted to think about it on his own for a while.

  “Good.” Camaris bent and wiped the mud-daubed wooden blade as carefully as if it had been Thorn, then handed it back to Simon. “Now, just as God’s priest must render His will understandable to the people, in a form that is pleasing and reverent, so, too, must His knights prosecute His wishes in a similar fashion. That is why war, however horrible, should not be a fight between animals. That is why a knight is more than simply a strong man on a horse. He is God’s vicar on the battlefield. Swordplay is prayer, lads—serious and sad, yet joyful.”

  He doesn’t look very joyful, Simon thought. But there is something priestlike about him.

  “And that is why one does not become a knight just by the passing of a vigil and the tapping of a sword, any more than one might become a priest by carrying the Book of the Aedon from one side of a village to another. There is study, study in every part.” He turned to Simon. “Stand and hold up your sword, young man.”

  Simon did. Camaris was a good handspan taller than he, which was interesting. Simon had become accustomed to being taller than nearly everyone.

  “You are holding it like a club. Spread your hands, thus.” The knight’s long hands enfolded Simon’s own. His fingers were dry and hard, as rough as if Camaris had spent his life working the soil or building stone walls. Abruptly, by his touch, Simon realized the enormity of the old knight’s experience, understood him as far more than just a legend made flesh or an aged man full of useful lore. He could feel the countless years of hard, painstaking work, the unnumberable and largely unwanted contests of arms that this man had suffered to become the mightiest knight of his age—and all the time, Simon sensed, enjoying none of it any more than a kind-hearted priest forced to denounce an ignorant sinner.

  “Now feel it as you lift,” said Camaris. “Feel how the strength comes from your legs. No, you are off your balance.” He pushed Simon’s feet closer together. “Why does a tower not fall? Because it is centered over its foundation.”

  Soon he had Jeremias working, too, and working hard. The afternoon sun seemed to move swiftly through the sky; the breeze turned icy as evening approached. As the old man put them through their rigorous paces, a certain gleam—chill, but nevertheless bright—came to his eye.

  Evening had descended by the time that Camaris finally turned them loose; the bowl of the valley was filled with campfires. This day’s work to bring everyone across the river would enable the prince’s company to leave with the first light in the morning. Now the people of New Gadrinsett were laying out their temporary camps, eating belated suppers, or wandering aimlessly in the deepening dark. A mood of stillness and anticipation hung over the valley, as real as the twilight. It was a little like the Between World, Simon thought—the place before Heaven.

  But it’s also the place before Hell, Simon thought. We’re not just traveling—we’re going to war ... and maybe worse.

  He and Jeremias walked silently, flushed with exertion, the sweat on their faces rapidly growing cold. Sim
on had a soreness in his muscles that was pleasant now, but experience told him that it would be less pleasant tomorrow, especially after a day on horseback. He was suddenly reminded of something.

  “Jeremias, did you see to Homefinder?”

  The young man looked at him in irritation. “Certainly. I said I would, didn’t I?”

  “Well, I think I’m going to go have a look at her anyway.”

  “Don’t you trust me?” Jeremias asked.

  “Of course I do,” Simon said hastily. “It’s nothing to do with you, truly. What Sir Camaris said about a knight and his horse just ... just made me think about Homefinder.” He was also feeling an urge to be on his own for a little while: other things Camaris had said needed to be thought about as well. “You understand, don’t you?”

  “I suppose so.” Jeremias scowled, but didn’t seem too upset. “I’m going to go and find something to eat, myself.”

  “Meet me at Isgrimnur’s fire later. I think Sangfugol is going to sing some songs.”

  Jeremias continued on toward the busiest part of the camp and the tent that he, Simon, and Binabik had erected that morning. Simon peeled off, heading for the hill-slope where the horses were tethered.

  The evening sky was a misty violet and the stars had not yet appeared. As Simon picked his way across the slushy meadowland in growing darkness, he found himself wishing for a little moonlight. Once he slipped and fell, cursing loudly as he wiped the mud off his hands onto his breeches, which were muddy and damp enough after the long hours of swording. His boots had already become thoroughly soaked.

  A figure coming toward him through murk turned out to be Freosel, returning from seeing to his own horse as well as to Josua’s Vinyafod. In this way, if no other, Freosel had taken Deornoth’s place in the prince’s life, and he seemed to fulfill the role admirably. The Falshireman had told Simon once that he came from a smithying family—something that Simon, looking at the broad-shouldered Freosel, could readily believe.

  “Greetings, Sir Seoman,” he said. “See you didn’t bring torch either. If you don’t be too long, y’may not need it.” He squinted upward, gauging the fast-diminishing light. “But have a care—there be a great mud pit half a hundred steps behind me.”

  “I already found one of those,” Simon laughed, gesturing to his mud-clotted boots.

  Freosel looked at Simon’s feet appraisingly. “Come by my tent and I’ll give you grease for ’em. Won’t do to have that leather crack. Or be you comin’ to hear the harper sing?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then I’ll bring it with.” Freosel gave him a courtly nod before walking on. “Mind that mud pit!” he called back over his shoulder.

  Simon kept his eyes open and managed to make his way without incident around a patch of sucking slime that was indeed a larger brother of the one with which he had already made acquaintance. He could hear the gentle whickering of the horses as he approached. They were tethered on the hillside, a dark line against the dim sky.

  Homefinder was where Jeremias had said he had left her, staked to a longish rope not far from the twisted black form of a spreading oak. Simon cupped the horse’s nose in his hand and felt her warm breath, then laid his head on her neck and rubbed her shoulder. The horse scent was thick and somehow reassuring.

  “You’re my horse,” he said quietly. Homefinder flicked an ear. “My horse.”

  Jeremias had draped her with a heavy blanket—a gift to Simon from Gutrun and Vorzheva, one which had been his own cover until the horses were moved from their warm stables in Sesuad’ra’s caves. Simon made sure that it had been tied in place well but not too tightly. As he turned from his inspection, he saw a pale shape flitting through the darkness before him, passing through the scatter of horses. Simon felt his heart jump within his chest.

  Norns?

  “Wh-who’s that?” he called. He forced his voice lower and shouted again. “Who’s there? Come out!” He let his hand fall to his side, realizing after a moment that he carried no weapon but his Qanuc knife, not even the wooden practice sword.

  “Simon?” “Miriamele? Princess?” He took a few steps forward. She was peering around at him from behind one of the horses, as if she had been hiding. As he moved closer, she moved out. There was nothing unusual in her dress, a pale gown and a dark cloak, but she had an oddly defiant look on her face.

  “Are you well?” he asked, then cursed himself for the stupid question. He was surprised to see her out here by herself and couldn’t think of anything to say. Another time, he supposed, when it would have been better to say nothing than to speak and prove himself a mooncalf.

  But why did she look so guilty?

  “I am, thank you.” She looked past his shoulders on either side as if trying to decide whether Simon was alone. “I was out seeing to my horse.” She indicated an undifferentiated mass of shadowy shapes farther down the hill. “He’s one of those we took from ... from the Nabbanai nobleman I told you about.”

  “You startled me,” Simon said, and laughed. “I thought you were a ghost or ... or one of our enemies.”

  “I am not an enemy,” Miriamele said with a little of her usual lightness. “I’m not a ghost either, so far as I can tell.”

  “That’s good to know. Are you finished?”

  “Finished ... with what?” Miriamele looked at him with a strange intensity.

  “Seeing to your horse. I thought you might ...” He paused and started again. She seemed very uncomfortable. He wondered if he had done something to offend her. Offering her the White Arrow as a gift, perhaps. The whole thing seemed dreamlike now. That had been a very odd afternoon.

  Simon started again. “Sangfugol and a few others are going to play and sing tonight. At Duke Isgrimnur’s tent.” He pointed down the hillside to the rings of glowing fires. “Are you going to come and listen?”

  Miriamele appeared to hesitate. “I’ll come,” she said at last. “Yes, that would be nice.” She smiled briefly. “As long as Isgrimnur doesn’t sing.”

  There was something not quite right in her tone, but Simon laughed at the joke anyway, as much from nervousness as anything else. “That will depend on whether any of Fengbald’s wine is left over, I’d guess.”

  “Fengbald.” Miriamele made a noise of disgust. “And to think that my father would have married me to that ... that pig ....”

  To distract her, Simon said: “He’s going to sing a Jack Mundwode tune—Sangfugol is, I mean. He promised me he would. I think he’s going to sing the one about the Bishop’s Wagons.” He took her arm almost without thinking, then had a moment of apprehension. What was he doing, grabbing her like that? Would she be insulted?

  Instead, Miriamele seemed almost not to notice. “Yes, that would be very nice,” she said. “It would be good to spend a night singing by the fire.”

  Simon was puzzled again, since something like that had been going on most nights somewhere in New Gadrinsett, and even more frequently of late, when people had been gathered for the Raed. But he said nothing, deciding just to enjoy the feeling of her slender, strong arm beneath his.

  “It will be a very good time,” he said, and led her down the hillside toward the beckoning campfires.

  After midnight, when the mists had finally fallen away and the moon was high in the sky, bright as a silver coin, there was a stir of movement on the hilltop that the prince and his company had so recently abandoned.

  A trio of shapes, dark forms almost completely invisible despite the moonlight, stood near one of the standing stones at the outermost edge of the hilltop and looked down at the valley below. Most of the fires had burned low, but still a perimeter of flickering flames lay around the encampment; a few dim figures could be seen moving in the reddish light.

  The Talons of Utuk‘ku watched the camp for a long, long time, still as owls. At last, and without a word spoken between them, they turned away and walked silently through the high grasses, back toward the center of the hill. The pale bulk of Sesuad’ra’s
ruined stone buildings lay before them like the teeth in a crone’s mouth.

  The Norn Queen’s servants had traveled far in a short time. They could afford to wait for another night, a night that would doubtless come soon, when the great, shambling company beneath them was not quite so vigilant.

  The three shadows slipped noiselessly into the building the mortals called the Observatory, and stood for a long time looking up through the cracked dome at the newly emergent stars. Then they sat together on the stones. One of them began very quietly to sing; what floated within the crumbling chamber was a tune bloodless and sharp as splintered bone.

  Although the sound did not even make an echo in the Observatory, and certainly could not have been heard across the windy hilltop, some sleepers in the valley below still moaned in their sleep. Those sensitive enough to feel the song’s touch—and Simon was one of them—dreamed of ice, and of things broken and lost, and of nests of twining serpents hidden in old wells.

  26

  A Gift for the Queen

  The prince’s company, a slow-moving procession of carts and animals and straggling walkers, left the valley and edged out onto the plains, following the snaking course of the Stefflod south. The fray-edged army took close to a week to reach the place where the river joined with its larger cousin, the Ymstrecca.

  It was a homecoming of sorts, for they made camp in the hill-sheltered valley that had once been the site of the first squatter town, Gadrinsett. Many of those who laid down their bed rolls and scavenged for firewood in the desolation of their former home wondered if they had gained anything by leaving this place to throw in their lot with Josua and his rebels. There was a little mutinous whispering—but only a little. Too many remembered the courage with which Josua and others had stood against the High King’s men.