Empire of Grass

by Tad Williams

  Another hard blow to his cheek. “Speak!”

  “Stop!” Jarnulf felt weak as a child. “What happened?”

  “Do not pretend innocence. What did Nezeru do? Where is she?”

  Jarnulf groaned and rolled onto his side to protect himself from any more blows. “I don’t know. I don’t know!” He tried to get onto all fours to lift himself up, but the world swayed beneath him and after a fumbling attempt to crawl, he slumped back onto the ground. The stars overhead told him it was evening, which meant he had been insensible for some two or three hours.

  The Singer clutched a ni’yo, dimmed to a mere glow that showed Saomeji’s bones black beneath the rosy skin of his hand.

  Saomeji abruptly made a noise of fury and snatched something from the ground where Jarnulf had been lying, lifted the torn piece of cloth, examined it by the glow of the lightstone, then lifted it to his nose and cautiously sniffed. “Kei-vishaa—curse her! I knew some of my supply had gone missing, but I thought I had merely spilled it in my trance. May she spend centuries in the Cold, Slow Halls, the treacherous bitch.”

  Jarnulf licked his lips without thinking, and tasted the foreign sweetness around his mouth. It tingled against his tongue. He raised himself enough to spit it onto the ground. “I was kneeling, taking a stone out of her horse’s hoof,” he said, his words as slurred as if he had been drinking wine all evening. “Then . . . then I don’t know.”

  Saomeji’s fine-boned face was dead white with rage, which made his dark-circled, golden eyes seem even more alien. “She must have planned it since I made the Witness,” he said. “But why?” He looked at Jarnulf for a long moment. “Did you have a pact? Did she betray you?”

  Jarnulf’s thoughts were still so fuzzy that it was easier just to shake his head. “I was taking a stone out—”

  “Yes, yes, I heard. Only a mortal would let someone get so close without being alert to danger.”

  Jarnulf sat up. He needed to behave as he always did if he wanted to convince Saomeji of his innocence. “That is a fine jest coming from a Queen’s Talon who I saved after they camped atop a Furi’a nest.” He groaned and held his head. The kei-vishaa was still making him feel grossly ill and almost stupefied. He was even more impressed now with how quickly Nezeru had recovered her wits. “Where is the giant?”

  “You—silence.” Saomeji stood and shouted Goh Gam Gar’s name; an answering bellow came from lower on the hillside.

  The snow had almost stopped falling, but it was thick on the ground and thick on Jarnulf’s garments as well. He shook it off as he got unsteadily to his feet. He realized he had been lucky. What little he remembered of the lore of kei-vishaa, the potent poison made from witchwood pollen, had been taught to him by Xoka many, many years ago. If Saomeji’s mixture had been a little stronger, or Jarnulf had breathed in only a little more after sending Nezeru on her unwilling ride, he might easily have frozen to death before waking up.

  The giant appeared, shoving young trees out of his way as he climbed. “The snow covers all,” he rumbled. “It dulls her scent and the scent of the horse. There is not enough smell even to make old Gam hungry, and I love to eat horse more than anything beside manflesh.”

  Saomeji looked at him in distaste. “Pick this fool up and lift him into the saddle. I do not want to leave Makho alone for long, even in the cave. As for Nezeru, she may escape us for the present, but she will find a traitor’s death at the end of her road. Soon the mortals will be gone and the all world will be Nakkiga. She will have nowhere to hide.” He turned to Jarnulf. “Some of your kind might be spared destruction—there is always a need for slaves—but it will not be the stupid or the unfit. If I did not need you, you would not leave this spot alive.”

  “And I give you a good day as well,” Jarnulf said heavily. Still swaying a little, he looked around as if in surprise. “Where is my horse?”

  He almost did not hear the giant behind him until the huge hand had closed around his waist. He found himself suddenly lifted in the air, then was set down on the back of Nezeru’s gray horse.

  “She stole it,” said Saomeji. “You said you were taking a stone from her horse’s hoof. Perhaps she did not want to risk it going lame, or perhaps she thought a mortal’s horse would be harder for me to find.” He shook his head, his face resuming its usual stony lack of expression. “As if I would waste time hunting for a mere deserter. She will be stricken from the Order of Sacrifice and her name will be a curse to all. I almost feel sorry for her father—poor Magister Viyeki will be humiliated.”

  They began to tramp back across the snowy hills.

  I took a great risk to send the woman away, Jarnulf told himself. To spare her from the vengeance I plan on the others. Was it worth it?

  The horse jounced across the rocky hillside. His stomach wanted to empty itself, and his head throbbed. I will likely never know, he told himself. Not until the hour of my death, when I stand before my Creator at last, and all questions are answered.

  18

  A Burning Field

  “Before we go into the throne hall,” Simon told Tiamak, “I would have some words with you. There are so many matters filling my head, but I feel as if there’s a hole in my skull and my wits are running out.”

  He nodded. “Of course, Simon.”

  Before either of them could say more, a herald announced Pasevalles. Simon waved the Lord Chancellor into the retiring room, ignoring a look of concern from Tiamak. “Come in and sit down, Lord Pasevalles—we will go in to the others presently. Have some wine—I suspect it will be thirsty work today.” He gestured to one of the servants.

  Tiamak was trying to give him a significant look, but Simon ignored it. Does he think he is my only councilor? Simon was still unhappy that the Wrannaman had kept important news from him. The Norns are making trouble again and my poor grandson is held prisoner by grasslanders. The times are too dangerous for my advisers to fight with each other like children for my attention. “I want to know about several things, Lord Tiamak,” he said, “but I fear the day ahead will be entirely taken up with Morgan and the Thrithings. Did you and your friend, that factor fellow, ever learn anything about the kitchen worker who tried to kill Count Eolair?”

  Tiamak shook his head, but he looked troubled. “You mean Lord Aengas. He is himself from Hernystir, and he says the man only babbles things from old tales about demons and the Morriga—”

  “At the moment, that seems a madness common among the Hernystiri,” Simon said, interrupting him. “Well, the fellow will do no harm now that he is locked up. I hate to punish a madman, but a would-be murderer cannot run free.” He turned to Pasevalles. “Did you have something urgent, my lord, or may I finish my business with Lord Tiamak first?”

  Pasevalles shook his head. “I await your pleasure, sire.” He lifted his cup to his lips.

  “Good. And one other thing, Tiamak. I have been thinking about our earlier talk.” The Wrannaman’s pleading looks were beginning to annoy him. “About John Josua, as I’m sure you remember. We must see if there are other ways down into the tunnels under the castle, and not just because of what happened to my son.”

  He was silenced by a loud clank and clatter. Pasevalles had dropped his cup. Wine splashed across the floor. “I beg your pardon, Majesty!” He hurriedly got down on his knees to pick it up, as if he feared he would be upbraided for interrupting.

  “Worry not, my lord,” Simon said, waving his hand. “Easily repaired—and, thank God, we have more wine.” He waved to the servant. “Clean that up, please, and bring Lord Pasevalles a fresh cup.” He turned back to Tiamak. “I think we need to go through the castle and find out if there are entrances to the old Sithi ruins that we have missed. If so, they must all be sealed. Perhaps Pasevalles can help with the project. We can use the Erkynguard—those we don’t send to the grasslands.”

  “I would like to speak of this later, Majesty.” Tiamak
seemed as upset by Simon’s words as Pasevalles had been at spilling his wine.

  “Very well,” he said, “but it cannot wait long. What if the Norns should march south? I wager the White Foxes know the depths underneath the Hayholt better than we do.” He drained his own cup, then stood. “Now, gentlemen, let us take ourselves to the throne hall. I fear we can avoid our allies no longer.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I miss Miri more than ever. If ever a problem called out for careful thought, for a knowledge of power and how best to use it, Morgan’s capture was such a problem. Simon knew his own limitations all too well.

  She’d see the most important bits right off. He glanced down the length of the Pellarine Table at the members of the Inner Council. Countess Rhona had the combination of experience and caution closest to his wife’s, but she was only a single sensible voice. A new face, Father Boez, sat beside her, a quiet, slender young priest who seemed old beyond his years. Boez had taken the place of Archbishop Gervis as Chief Almoner now that Gervis was to be made an escritor. He had been cautious about speaking in front of the rest of the council.

  The same was not true for Earl Rowson, of course, who had no problem speaking up but was unlikely to offer anything useful. And Rowson’s ally Baron Evoric and the other landed nobles of the Inner Council usually believed as Rowson did—that they should be left in peace to work their peasants into early graves and to defend their hunting preserves against poachers.

  God forbid a poor man might take a deer out of Evoric’s private forest to feed his family, even though the baron himself never goes out to the country at all. But I suppose Miri would say I am always siding with the common folk no matter the crime, and ignoring the rights of the nobles.

  But it was Duke Osric who truly worried Simon. After days spent stalking the castle corridors, full of dire words like an Aedonite prophet stumbling out of the wilderness to proclaim God’s growing anger, the duke had finally bathed and shaved. He seemed more or less sober as well, but Simon still thought he saw something distant in the duke’s stare, something fierce that seemed beyond mourning or ordinary anger. Pasevalles, however, said the duke had regained his wits, and even Tiamak had argued strongly that Osric must be present at any meeting of the Inner Council.

  It wasn’t Osric’s loudly stated desire to punish the grassland barbarians for laying hands on his grandson Morgan that worried Simon—he would have liked to do something bold and sudden for his grandson too. Simon was not used to being the one to counsel patience—that was generally Miriamele’s role, Simon was not practiced at it. But he was terrified by the thought of doing something that might endanger Morgan’s life.

  And I fear for Eolair, as well. The problems seemed all but overwhelming, and he was moved to sudden prayer. Help me, O Lord. Help me, Usires our Ransomer. Give me the wisdom to choose the right course. Give me the strength to be cautious, if caution is what is needed . . .

  “Who else but Duke Osric can be sent—should be sent?” Baron Evoric asked loudly, dragging Simon’s attention back to the conversation. The baron was a fleshy, bearded man with a port-wine birthmark across his nose and cheeks that gave him the unfortunate appearance of perpetual drunkenness. “It is his grandson who has been captured. And he is the lord constable, after all.”

  “The lord constable’s calling is to protect the Hayholt and the throne,” observed Countess Rhona.

  “But those barbarians have taken the heir!” Evoric cried. “Is that not an attack on the throne itself?”

  On another day Simon would actually have agreed with the baron—a nearly unheard-of event—but it was not Osric’s sworn duty that concerned him today but Osric’s state of mind. He bowed to the inevitable. “The duke has been waiting to speak,” he said. “Please make your thoughts known to us, Duke Osric.”

  Osric ran a hand through his beard, which was still damp and curly from his recent bath. “Before I say anything else, Majesty, I owe you and the High Throne an apology.”

  Simon raised an eyebrow. “Why is that, my lord?”

  “You know the reason, Majesty. I have not been myself. My grief over my daughter’s death, and now Morgan—now this—!” He balled his fingers into a fist, then slowly unclenched them. “I have shamed myself. And I have drunk to excess, as my wife has informed me.” He smiled in a shamefaced way. “Informed me many times and very loudly.” When the polite laughter ended, he shook his head. “There is no escaping it, Majesty—I have failed the throne and my family. And I crave your pardon before anything else.”

  Simon did not like having such a conversation in front of the entire Inner Council. “You have my pardon, of course, Your Grace. We’re all grieving, but there’s no doubt you and your wife have had the worst of things.”

  Tiamak gave the king an approving nod. Pasevalles was still carefully watching Osric.

  “Then if I am forgiven, Your Majesty,” the duke said, “I would ask that you let me take a large company to the grasslands to rescue our grandson. I promise I will not fail you. I will not fail Erkynland.”

  Simon sat back in his chair, uncertain of what to say. Around the long table many of the council members darted glances at each other. “Do not be silent, sirs and ladies,” Simon said at last. “You are the Inner Council. You heard the Lord Constable’s words. Let me know your thoughts.”

  In the hour that followed, most of the members of the council felt compelled to speak in support of Osric—not surprising with Osric sitting beside them. When Simon called a temporary halt to allow the councillors to relieve themselves and the servants to clear the table and bring in a fresh round of fruits and sweetmeats, Tiamak spoke quietly into Simon’s ear. “You can see as well as I that Osric may have washed and trimmed his beard, but he is still badly frayed—with dangling threads at all his edges.”

  Simon was annoyed. If anyone should be arguing forgiveness it should be Tiamak, who had recent sins of his own. “Morgan is Osric’s grandson too,” he said. “I would go myself if I could.”

  “Questioning his fitness is not the same as questioning his right,” Tiamak said.

  “Do not lecture me, please. I am trying to do what is best.”

  After everyone was in their seats again, Pasevalles asked Simon’s permission to speak. “Before we decide who will be sent to parley with the Thrithings-men,” he asked, “should we not speak more of what the soldiers who go with him will do once they get there?”

  “They will defend His Grace, the duke,” said Tiamak. “And make it clear this is a serious matter to us. What else should happen at a parley?”

  “But why should we pay ransom to barbarians and thieves?” complained Earl Rowson. “We should put as many of them as possible to the sword. They will be quick enough to bargain then. If Osric is not well enough to go, I would be honored to lead the Erkynguard myself, Majesty. Rest assured, I will chastise the barbarians well and properly.”

  For a moment Simon feared he wouldn’t be able to swallow his anger, that he would lean across the table, wrap his hands around the earl’s throat, and yank Rowson out of his chair. “And what if the barbarians decide to pay us back by murdering the prince, my lord?” he demanded. “What if they should kill my grandson, the heir to the High Throne? Who then will have been most chastised?”

  Rowson’s mouth worked for a moment as he realized that he had waded in deeper than he had planned. “Oh, we must secure the prince first, Majesty, of course. That goes without saying. I am only talking of afterward.”

  Which the earl had plainly not been doing, but Simon felt that if he said any more he would begin shouting and perhaps not be able to stop. “Whatever happens, there will be no attack against any of the grasslanders until the prince is free and safe. Count Eolair, too. If that is not clear to anyone, speak up now.” He glared up and down the table. “Good.” He looked to Pasevalles. “Were you finished, my lord?”

 
“In fact, Majesty, I had a suggestion. No matter who is sent—and I agree with most here that Osric should be the one, yes. But we must have more than one strategy in place. What if the grasslanders will not bargain? Or what if there is no thane who can speak for those holding Prince Morgan and Count Eolair? What if your grandson has already been taken somewhere else?”

  “What if, what if—!” Simon forced himself to take a breath. “Do you have a suggestion, my lord, or do you merely seek to make us feel hopeless?”

  Pasevalles nodded, sober and careful. “I might have a plan, sire. You see, two of the Erkynguard have been keeping a watch on Morgan for some time, at my bidding. But they did not go with him on the mission to the Sithi, so they are available for our use now.”

  “Use? What use? And who are you talking about?” Simon demanded.

  “I speak of Sir Astrian of Poines and his friend, Sir Olveris, our two Nabbanai knights,” said Pasevalles. “They fought in the south along the edge of the Thrithings for many years in the skirmishes that followed the Second Thrithings War. Astrian speaks the grasslander tongue passably well.”

  “What do you mean, they have been watching Morgan?” Simon asked. “It seems to me that they have been the ones leading him astray!”

  “Appearances can be deceiving, Majesty,” said Pasevalles. “I will be happy to explain all after the council meeting has ended.”

  “But what are you suggesting?” asked Tiamak. “Not that these two should be in charge of the mission, I hope.”

  “No, no.” Pasevalles shook his head emphatically. “But when our forces go into the field, our army—and it must be an army of sufficient size to show we mean to ruin them if they play us false in any way—should not be the only tool. If we send the two Nabbanai knights with them, they can make their own way into the grasslands, passing for sell-swords. They may then have a chance of finding out where the prince is being held and perhaps even of rescuing him with no cost to the throne.”