by Tad Williams
The giant’s eyes flashed green like marsh-fire, then his massive arm shot out as he reached for the nearest stone, with the likely intention of dashing out Saomeji’s brains. The Singer’s hands were hidden in his sleeves and Nezeru saw no sign of movement at all, yet a heartbeat later Goh Gam Gar toppled over as though he had been poleaxed and lay twitching and panting, gasping in pain.
“You will stay inside the circle until I let you out again,” was all Saomeji said before turning his back on the writhing giant.
While Nezeru watched, wondering, Saomeji took more of the round stones he had gathered and filled the bottom of the pit that Goh Gam Gar had dug, then he bade Jarnulf and Nezeru bring armfuls of snow and dump it on top of the stones. Last, Saomeji arranged the more jagged rocks that he had gathered into several odd configurations at the center of the pit, then piled snow on top of them as well.
“I will have silence now,” Saomeji said. “Do not speak to me or approach me, if you value your lives.” He rucked up his robes and sat down beside the snow-filled hole. As Nezeru and Jarnulf watched, he lowered his chin to his chest and began to sing.
At some moments what he sang seemed almost understandable to Nezeru—she thought she could hear distorted versions of the Hikeda’yasao words for “pool,” “dragon-scale,” and “fire”—but at other times she could make out only guttural noises in bizarre cadences, repeated over and over. Once she looked up and caught Jarnulf staring at her intently, his expression quite indecipherable. Caught by surprise and annoyed by her own startled, almost guilty reaction, she looked away.
The song went on, and steam began to rise from the heaped snow. The white heaps filling the pit began to move a little, settling. Saomeji was heating the rocks to melt the snow, that seemed clear, although little else was. The Singer’s eyes were fixed above the pit, focused on nothing Nezeru could see. His hands were held out flat, palms down in the rising streams of vapor.
When the snow in the pit had melted into a steaming pool, she saw gleams of subtle light moving through the water—not-quite-possible colors, greenish reds and purplish yellows that circulated in the bubbling depths like clusters of fireflies. She also felt something changing around her, a sudden tightening of the air like a held breath, and a weird echo seemed to play around the edges of all sound. Saomeji had begun to perspire heavily, something even halfbloods almost never did; sweat ran from his long chin and dripped into the pool, but the Singer was oblivious, lost in his trancelike state.
He’s making a Witness, Nezeru abruptly realized, and was astonished. Stones and scales, pools and pyres—she had heard Ibi Khai recite the litany several times, and now she understood what Saomeji was trying to do. But how is that possible? Surely no Singer except perhaps Akhenabi himself could be that powerful! Not even a trained Echo could make such a powerful tool out of nothing!
The tightening air abruptly seemed to harden, becoming almost as solid as ice or glass. For a moment Nezeru could barely breathe, and it pushed other thoughts from her mind. Tiny, almost invisible hairs on her arms and neck rose, and shivers ran along her limbs.
And then he was there, sudden as a stooping hawk. Nezeru could feel the cold presence and knew in a heartbeat that Saomeji was reaching out to the Lord of Song, Akhenabi himself. She actually shrank back, as though in fear of being touched by the ancient masked magician, but it made no difference: he was everywhere at once, all around her, an invisible presence.
Akhenabi spoke then, and though she could not hear the words in her head she could feel each one of them, as though she were wrapped in a rotting burial shroud and spiders walked across her face.
She could not make out what he actually said, nor Saomeji’s replies, but she could sense them conversing and could feel fragments of meaning—the dragon, the mountain, the silver-masked queen—and a feeling of something else as well, a waiting something, dark and old, but growing ever stronger. If Akhenabi was a cold breath on her neck, this was an icy blast from the endless white wastes beyond Nakkiga. If Akhenabi was a deadly enemy, this was Death itself, implacable and final.
The Whisperer . . .
It came to her as not quite a word, or even a name, but a sensation, and it brought tears of horror to her eyes. It was a hole in everything, draining away light and life.
Then the contact ended, and both the Lord of Song and the greater, colder presence that had hovered behind him were gone.
Saomeji staggered to his feet and swayed like a drunkard beside the steaming pit. “My master will aid us to complete our task,” he said, each word an obvious effort. “He will send horses and warriors to us at the foot of the mountain. Now I must rest. I have done a mighty thing today. Our people will speak of it with awe in time to come.”
Nezeru’s tears had turned to ice on her cheeks. She felt hollow, as though something had reached into her and torn away all that gave her life and hope. As Saomeji stumbled off to sleep, she scraped the tears from her face with the back of her hand, but could not otherwise move or speak for a long time.
6
Meeting the Bride
Escritor Auxis came to Miriamele’s cabin on the Hylissa to offer his condolences. Her ladies—all but Shulamit, who had been seasick for two days and was moaning in her narrow bed—scuttled to the back of the small room and stood behind the queen’s chair like a choir of painted angels around Holy Elysia’s throne.
Miri did not much feel like the mother of God or in fact the mother of anything. She had a hole inside her that seemed far greater than all her feelings for her dead daughter-in-law.
“Your Majesty.” Auxis went down to a knee, then bowed his handsome head to kiss her extended hand. “I come to give you the condolence of Mother Church, and to share my own sadness at your bereavement as well.”
This would make a pretty painting too, she thought, but felt too numb even to amuse herself. “Thank you, Escritor. Please, sit with me.”
“You are kind, Majesty, but I will not intrude on you so long.”
She did her best to smile. Auxis was a tall man, and had to bend beneath the low ceiling that was just high enough for Miri and her ladies to stand without striking their heads against the timbers. “Even so. But are you allowed to take off your hat? I fear you will injure it, or it will be smeared with pitch.”
This caught Auxis by surprise, and he struggled for a moment to decide whether he was being mocked. “I take your point,” he said. “Perhaps I will sit, if only for a short while. Your Majesty is very kind.” He lowered himself onto a stool, which vanished beneath his magnificent golden robes. “The Sacred Father, I’m sure, would want me to extend his gratitude that you will continue your journey to Nabban. He would understand, I’m sure, what a sacrifice it is on your part.”
“Not such a sacrifice,” she said, her strange mood driving her toward honesty, even with this man she did not much like. “We will reach the Port of Nabban tomorrow. Even were I to turn back immediately, I would not be in time for Princess Idela’s funeral.”
“Of course, Majesty. But still, it must be a terrible time for you.”
“It is more terrible for my husband. He has our granddaughter to care for, who must be comforted over the loss of her mother, as well as the people of Erkynland.”
Auxis nodded. “And your grandson, Prince Morgan?”
Miri wondered at this. Was it only because she had not mentioned him, or was there something else to the escritor’s interest? “He is on a mission for the High Throne. It breaks my heart to think he has likely not even heard yet about his mother’s death.”
Auxis shook his head in sorrow. If it was an imposture, the escritor was an even better mummer than Miri suspected. “We can never be prepared for death, except that we stand in the light of Usires, our Ransomer.”
She decided to take him at face value, at least for now. She needed the lector and Mother Church to help her make peace between Nabban’s feuding factions. “Oh
, have no fear on that score, Eminence—Princess Idela was a devout Aedonite. She read little but religious tracts, and of course the Book of the Aedon was her constant companion, may she already stand in God’s grace and light.” Miri made the sign of the Tree, and Auxis joined her before she had finished the first stroke. “If anyone was prepared for the fate that comes to us all, she was.”
“It makes my heart glad to hear that, Majesty. It is balm to the soul of those left behind, to know that our loved ones are with our Heavenly Father.”
Despite her better instincts, Miriamele was tiring of this round of platitudes. “You have been most kind to visit, and to bring me the Church’s condolence. Please keep Princess Idela in your prayers.”
The escritor, as much courtier as churchman, knew when he was being excused. He stood, holding his tall hat in place, and backed toward the door. “It is always a privilege to speak with you, Majesty. I hope we shall continue our acquaintanceship, the demands on your time notwithstanding, when you have reached Nabban.”
“I am sure I can depend on the reliability of your counsel.” The reliability that it will be entirely selfish, she thought, but that felt a little unfair. The man had done nothing but what was necessary and right. Still, she was in a mood to trust no one, least of all one of the leading powers of Mother Church. Although what Simon had said of Idela’s death had made it sound no more than a terrible accident, it also felt like a blow against safety and security—a blow she felt strongly on this journey to a divided and dangerous country. Dangerous even for the High Queen? That was something she would know better when she could feel and hear the mood of Nabban for herself.
What was it my grandfather used to say? Patience is the greatest tool of a king. Patience and a long memory.
* * *
On those occasions when Duchess Canthia was being dressed in the full panoply of her title and position, when her retiring room was full of happily talking women, Jesa could feel for a moment at least that she was back home in the Wran. On the day of a wedding the women there would gather in the hut of the bride’s parents and help the bride through the rituals.
Today’s gathering felt something like that, and even Jesa joined in the merriment. Because she was Canthia’s friend and childhood companion, instead of looking at her like something that should be sent out of doors, the ladies-in-waiting treated her as though she belonged among them. But even though the room was full of excitement and glee, Jesa did not feel like laughing very often. She could see that her mistress was fretful, though trying not to show it. Even the broadest smile that came to Canthia’s face looked like something carefully created. Jesa wondered if she alone noticed, or if others knew the duchess well enough to be worried.
Not that anyone was truly calm today. Queen Miriamele’s ship had arrived and the queen was coming to the Sancellan Mahistrevis this morning. Ever since the news of her visit had been brought to Nabban a sennight ago, on a fast merchant ship, the entire Sancellan had seemed to Jesa like a tree full of birds suddenly aware a snake was making its way up the trunk. Worried, she had asked Canthia if the queen was someone to be feared, but Canthia had promised her that Queen Miriamele was very kind and that the queen and Canthia were on good terms. The duchess assured her the excitement in the ducal palace came only from the concern to make a good impression.
Which was a relief, but Jesa’s real worry was about the duchess herself, who had seemed troubled for many days, beginning long before the news had come. Not that Canthia did not have reasons for worry. Riots were still taking place in the city, and quite a few people had been killed. The enmity between the two main parties, the duke’s Kingfishers and the Stormbirds of Dallo Ingadaris, even divided the Dominiate, where the noble families met to make law. Jesa heard these recitations directly from the duke every night—though he spoke them to his wife, not her—when she brought little Serasina to her parents so they could bid the baby goodnight.
But Jesa thought her mistress seemed to have even more dire things on her mind than the warring families and unrest in the streets. Duchess Canthia was normally quite courageous, trained by a terrifying mother to maintain her composure in all circumstances, as she had often said with dark amusement. Jesa thought whatever was bothering her now seemed almost like one of the spirits who troubled the people of Red Pig Lagoon, the hungry ones who drank up people’s lives at night, little by little, like a dog lapping water.
If I were home, I’d go to one of the healers and have her make up a charm against hungry ghosts to put beneath my lady’s pillow. Of course, many of Jesa’s people lived in the city of Nabban, especially near the docks—perhaps she could find such a one. But how? She certainly would not be leaving the Sancellan Mahistrevis while the queen was visiting—not unless the duchess herself set her some task that took her out into the city.
She had run many such errands of late for the duchess, mostly carrying letters. To her silent but genuine pleasure, several of them had been to Viscount Matreu, the handsome brown man (as she always thought of him, only realizing when she did how long she had been surrounded by paler faces) who had saved Jesa, baby Serasina, and the duchess from disaster when they were caught in a riot.
In other circumstances Jesa might have suspected herself the go-between in an illicit romance, but she could not believe that of her mistress. Canthia showed none of the feverish excitement of love, only the deep, hidden sadness that Jesa found so disturbing, and Canthia seemed to treat the letters to Matreu no differently than those from her other correspondents. For that matter, the duchess wrote more to ugly old Bellin Hermis, the earl of Vissa, than she did to the handsome viscount.
Jesa was also disgusted because even though she did not believe her mistress cared anything about Matreu beyond friendship and gratitude, she still felt a little jealous about their communications.
The viscount asked you to come work for him, foolish girl, that’s all, she scolded herself. Maybe he would have taken you to his bed, too. But nothing beyond that. Would you leave your friend and her daughter, sweet Serasina you love so much, to be a rich man’s plaything?
When Duchess Canthia was dressed and powdered, she sent her ladies out. “I must have a moment to catch my breath,” she said, propping herself on a tall stool. “These skirts are so stiff! Here, Jesa, bring me my little darling.”
But one of Canthia’s attendants had stayed behind, clearly seeking a word with her, so Jesa waited. The duchess, understanding they were not alone yet, made a weary face before turning. “Yes, Mindia?”
The young woman hesitated. “It is just, Your Grace, that I heard my uncle, the baron, talking to some of the other men.”
“I’m not a priest, dear one. I cannot absolve you of eavesdropping.”
Lady Mindia colored. “It is not that. I just . . . it is what he said. He told them that he fears Count Dallo and his faction will make trouble at the duke’s brother’s wedding. They are planning something, he said, because Queen Miriamele will be there.”
Canthia looked at her with flat disbelief. “At Drusis’s wedding? A wedding that Dallo himself is paying for, and which benefits him more than anyone? Who would disrupt a wedding for such petty ends? I cannot believe it.”
“Nevertheless, my uncle told his men to lay by arms in case there is trouble.”
Now the duchess was angry. “These are the kind of tales that can make things happen, Mindia. You should know better.”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace. I only wanted you to know—”
“And I do know. I will speak to my husband about it. But I do not want you carrying that tale anywhere else. Promise me you will speak no more of it to anyone.”
The lady looked troubled, but said, “Of course, Duchess.”
Jesa thought that sounded like a very unconvincing promise. She held infant Serasina a little closer. Surely the duchess was right, though—no matter how bad the Ingadarines were, it made no sense that th
ey would risk anything dangerous at their own festivities.
When Mindia had gone out, Canthia again asked for her daughter. As she held the child, one of the nurses brought in her son, young Blasis, also dressed for the state occasion in his finest clothes, but fidgeting as if he wore not silk and velvet but itchy grass. He was a handsome little boy with clear, dark eyes and a high forehead, but few children his age cared anything for meeting important people, and the duke’s son was no exception.
“And there’s my other darling,” the duchess said when she saw him. “What a fine young man you look!”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” said the nurse. “He fought every bit of it, though I beg pardon at having to tell you.”
Blasis scowled. “I want to shoot my bow and arrows.”
“And you will, my brave little son, but first you must meet the queen. She is a very wonderful woman, a good friend to Nabban. Did you know she is half Nabbanai herself?”
Blasis only looked down at his new slippers.
“Ah, well. Take him out and keep him clean, please, at least until the queen sees him looking tidy.”
When her son had been conducted out again, doing his best to scuff those slippers with each dragging step, the duchess looked back down at Serasina. “And here is the smallest angel,” she said, pressing her face close against the baby’s pink skin. “She smells so lovely! Is there any fragrance to match it?”
Jesa, who had a greater familiarity than the duchess with the tiny girl’s less pleasant smells, only smiled and shook her head. “No, Your Grace.”
Canthia gave her a sharp look. “Is something troubling you as well, Jesa? Do not tell me otherwise—I know you too well.” She set a few delicate, nibbling kisses on her baby’s ear. “Out with it.”
“It is what Lady Mindia said.”
“Ah.” She sighed. “Did you hear what I told her? There is no reason to fear. Yes, some of Dallo’s Stormbirds might make trouble in the streets. They will use the excuse of public celebration to pick fights and perhaps even riot in the poorer quarters. Drink makes the peasants loud and full of themselves. But nothing worse will happen, I promise.”
