Empire of Grass

by Tad Williams

  It was not easy to keep up—Tanahaya had increased her speed, as though she heard a summons he did not, and seemed to float through the dense vegetation like an unsolid spirit. Morgan was less skillful or less fortunate; every branch and thorn seemed to snatch at him, and every root tangled his ankles like a cat eager to be fed. At last he burst out into a little clearing some hundred paces from the front of Himano’s burned house and found Tanahaya on her knees once more. This time he could guess what the dark bundle of dusty cloth beside her would turn out to be. When he got close enough he could see a single black arrow sticking up like a burnt reed from the ragged remains.

  “It is him,” Tanahaya said, and her voice was like a skin of ice hiding deep, dark waters. “They have killed my teacher and left him here without honor. The Hikeda’ya have killed Lord Himano.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Tanahaya remained on her knees for what seemed the best part of an hour in silent prayer or vigil over what was left of her mentor’s body. Morgan did not know what to do with himself and was worried that whoever had killed the two Sithi might still be near, so he remained beside her, fear and boredom fighting a strange battle within. A small, selfish part of him could not get over the disappointment of having nothing to eat, but he also knew that these deaths meant much more than that, not just for Tanahaya, but for their safety as well.

  “We must bury him,” she said at last. “And Gayali, too. He was a good student and loved Himano—I saw that even in our short time together. Dig a grave for him, Morgan. The ground will be soft. I will dig my master’s grave beside it.” She bent and began to scrape at the dry soil with her bare hands.

  “But what about the ones who did this—the Norns? Do you think they were the same soldiers we saw near Misty Vale? Will they come back?”

  “I think it was more than three scouts who did this,” she said. “But in any case, Himano’s killers are long gone. Their footprints are days old. They did what they came to do and left.”

  When Morgan dug down far enough that he could stand knee-deep in the hole, Tanahaya stopped him. Her anger, if that was what he had seen, had been pushed back inside during her hour of silent mourning; when she spoke she sounded almost ordinary. “I will go and bring Gayali to this place while you finish digging the holes. By rights they should be burned instead—my master would have preferred his ashes thrown to the wind—but even though I think the murderers are long gone, I do not want to show our presence here with fire.”

  She returned a short time later bearing the remains of Gayali. She set them carefully in the hole Morgan had scraped, then went to gather up what was left of Himano, but when she turned his violated body over, something fell out.

  “What is this?” she said, picking up a flattened roll of parchment streaked with dirt and dried blood. “A book? Was he trying to carry it away?”

  Morgan stood silently while Tanahaya studied the scroll, then put it to one side before gently bearing Himano forward to the grave. As she covered the two corpses with earth and then stones, Morgan worried he would see those contorted mouths and empty eye sockets in nightmares for the rest of his life.

  Tanahaya stood over the two graves. “I did not know you well, Gayali of the Southern Woods,” she said quietly. “But I know you loved Lord Himano, and I know you loved learning. Once when I heard you laugh I remembered forgotten joys from my childhood, and that was a gift, because such joys were few. I will tell your story at Year-Dancing Time and so will others. You will be remembered.”

  When she turned to speak over the second cairn her voice quavered. “There are not enough days in this world to tell all your virtues, Lord Himano of the Flowering Hills, and I am too young to know even half of them. You gave me so many gifts, and I will never forget you, not even when death closes my eyes. You were my family, though you did not share my blood, and my master, though you rejected all titles. You taught me to look, to listen, and to think before speaking, even if only asking a question. You taught me how meaning can hide in places where it seems nothing can be hidden, and how even the plainest revealed truth can be misshapen by hasty consideration.

  “I do not know why this terrible thing was done to you, but I pledge to discover the reason. I do not know who did it, but I pledge to hunt them and find them. Some justice will be done, although it will never restore your precious wisdom to your people. The world has lost a great heart here.

  “I will tell your story at Year-Dancing Time, and so will others. You will be remembered.”

  Her last words hung in the air after she spoke, as if some inaudible echo gave them added life. She turned and strode off down the hillside in the evening gloom, and Morgan followed her—a tag-end, an afterthought.

  28

  Countess Rhona’s Tears

  Third Day of Anitul, Founding Year 1201

  My dear Lord Tiamak,

  Greetings from your servant, Etan. I pray that God gives good health to you, your lady, and our king and queen.

  Here I will tell you a few of the adventures I have had and the things I have learned since I left Kwanitupul. Since I know you for a supremely busy man, I will preface all by saying that I have discovered nothing that much advances the search for Prince Josua. Whether my quest has so far been completely without useful results, I will leave you to judge.

  The voyage from the edge of the Wran to the city of Nabban brought a few unpleasant surprises. All ships stay very close to the shore these days because of the current savagery of the kilpa, so travel is slow.

  I told you in my last letter, which I hope you received, that I had seen kilpa for the first time, and of how unpleasant I found them. I have had closer sight of the creatures since then, and it has not improved my opinion. They are very lively this year, the sailors always enjoyed warning me, although I think even they had begun to tire of trying to frighten the monk new to the sea by the time we had the encounter I will describe.

  The fishing boat on which Madi the guide had bought our passage lay at anchor one night near Dellis Latia. It was the sort of boat owned by fisher-folk too poor to have a Niskie on board—one of the terrible sea-creatures actually climbed onto the boat in the middle of the night. Madi, his children, and I were all sleeping in a sort of tent the captain had put up for us in the middle of the deck, and we awakened to the sound of shouting and men running up and down the deck with torches.

  I did not dare rush out at first, knowing nothing of what was happening, but the shouting suddenly stopped and I could hear the sailors talking in more normal tones again, so I asked Madi to go and see what had happened. He refused, stating his duty to stay near his children, which does not seem to stop him from spending nights in portside taverns and returning only with the dawn’s light, so I went myself.

  The small crew was gathered at the stern around what, at first, I took for a dead man but soon learned was something quite different. A kilpa had climbed silently up the anchor rope and onto the deck. Luckily for all, the ship’s mate had seen the creature and had gone silently for an ax, then came up behind the thing and killed it, staving in its head so deeply that the ax could not be easily pulled out again.

  As the men held torches close, making the Sign of the Tree and spitting into their hands—a sailor’s custom, I’m told—I took the chance to examine the creature, but only after convincing myself by several hard pokes that it was truly dead. As best I could tell in the dim light it was gray and smooth in some places and knobby in others, like a frog, but its shape was too much like a man for any Godly person’s comfort. It smelled of the sea and of corruption. The eyes were black and shiny, and its mouth was like a hole, almost completely round, as if the horrible thing had been surprised by the suddenness of its own death. But one of the sailors leaned in with a boat hook and pulled the mouth open, showing me that inside was a pair of jaws much like a bird’s beak, except that both halves of the beak we
re divided into many sharp, back-curving teeth.

  “Get those into you, you’ll never get loose,” the sailor told me, and it was easy to believe him. I still cannot forget how disturbingly manlike the brutish thing seemed, especially in the shape of its head and the flabby, splayed fingers that looked so much like ours.

  We heard many more of the creatures in the water all around the ship that night, honking and hooting and splashing, and so the mate stayed awake on deck with a lantern and the ax that had served him so well, but by God’s grace we had no other unwanted guests. I do not know if you have ever heard kilpa, my lord, and I hope you have never heard them in such a situation. The noise they make, I would say, is what you might expect from a goose with a mouthful of water. I do not mean to be flippant, nor to disturb you overmuch with these descriptions, but I know your love of philosophy is wide, my lord, and along with the plants and herbs you love so much, I think you are interested in even the less wholesome parts of God’s unfathomable Nature.

  The rest of the trip toward the city passed without any great trouble, and at last we came around the Horn of Nabban and reached the city’s great harbor and safety, at least from kilpa.

  Here in Nabban I have only Josua’s distant early days to use as a guide, his years studying with the Usirean Brotherhood and his later time here during the war in which he lost his hand. It was not easy to find anyone who still remembers the prince. I might have had better luck among his fellow nobles, but the city is dangerous now and many of the rich and powerful have fled to their country estates. My best luck came from finding comrades of Josua’s from his days among the Usirean Brothers, many of whom are now high officials in the church. A few of these kindly gave me their time but had little to tell about Josua, at least little of interest to us. The most useful source was Syllaris the Younger (his father was also a paragon of the Church) who exchanged letters with Prince Josua for many years—even after he had taken his family to Kwanitupul at the end of the Storm King’s War. But Syllaris had not heard from him or anything about him since the time he left on that fateful journey whose ending we still cannot guess.

  Syllaris did, however, have many letters from Prince Josua that he kindly allowed me to copy. I would never make a writing priest, I fear, and after three days of transcribing them, my arms and hands ached and trembled so that you would have thought me palsied, but I have them with me and if my other tasks permit, will copy them for you as well.

  Not a single person of those I spoke to had heard anything about Prince Josua since his great silence began. If anything truly useful is to come of my journey, it will have to be found in Perdruin, his last known destination. But I must confess, my lord, that I am doubtful any trace of him remains there after twenty years and more. Still, my God can work wonders!

  May the Good Lord bless you and keep you, Lord Tiamak, and our noble King and Queen as well.

  Your humble servant,

  Fr. Etan Ercestris

  * * *

  When the rap on the door came, loud and insistent, even the king’s servants were confused. Several of them appeared from out of the side rooms connected to the royal bedchamber, none of them completely dressed. Simon was groggy too, but none of the servants were accomplishing anything useful so he pushed past them in his nightshirt and went to the door.

  “Who is there? What hour of the clock is it?” he demanded.

  “It is Countess Rhona, Majesty. I must talk to you!”

  Something in the tone of her voice made Simon open the door without asking first to see if there were guards with her. It was a foolish mistake—he knew even popular monarchs should not be so careless with their safety—but he was alarmed, worrying for all his loved ones, Miri and Morgan and little Lillia, and terrified at the prospect of more bad news.

  Rhona stood before a huddle of guards. She was dressed in a white night robe as if she had just come from bed, with only a blanket thrown around her shoulders for warmth against the castle’s night draughts; one of her maids stood beside her, similarly attired but without a blanket, young face full of fear. “Oh, Majesty, I am so sorry,” said Rhona, and then burst into tears.

  As the countess struggled for composure Simon felt a chill of dread creep over him, but the guards were watching and he did not want to show it. “Good God, woman, sorry about what? Tell me! You are frightening everybody. Has something happened to my granddaughter?” Although Rhona’s title lifted her far above such tasks and responsibilities, her own kindness of heart had made her one of Lillia’s most careful guardians.

  “No, no,” Rhona managed at last. “Lillia is well so far as I know, all the gods bless her. No, it is my husband. He just rode in and his news . . .” She suddenly became aware of the soldiers staring, their faces pale and ghostly in the dim, lamplit corridor, and took a moment to collect herself. “It was just that his news shocked me. I am sorry to be such a fool, to weep like this. But he is coming directly to speak to you. I am very sorry for the late hour.”

  Simon heard a clatter on the stairs at the end of the passage, then Rhona’s husband Count Nial appeared, still dressed for the road in cloak and high boots. He had clearly not shaved in several days, but it was still easy to see the rivulet of blood on his cheek.

  “Are you hurt?” Simon asked.

  “No, praise Heaven. Just a branch when I was riding too fast.” Nial reached up and dabbed at the blood, then squinted at it briefly. “I must request an audience, Majesty. I am sorry to wake you at such a cruel hour.”

  “Please, no apologies, my lord.” Simon felt a little relieved—it was doubtful Nial would be bringing him news about his wife, so that meant neither Miri nor Lillia were the cause of Rhona’s tears. “I can see you have come in haste. Come into my chamber. I will have the servants bring you something to drink and to eat, then we’ll hear your news.”

  The guards, understanding that the moment had passed, and they would have to wait like everyone else to find out what was happening, retreated to their respective posts outside the royal bedchamber. Simon ushered Rhona and her husband in, but the maid lingered in the doorway.

  “Rhona?” he asked, indicating the fretful servant.

  The countess nodded. “She is trustworthy, Sire. She is my niece from Hernystir. And she has already heard my husband’s news when he woke me up.”

  Simon decided it was better to have the maid inside than outside talking to the soldiers, so he ushered her in, then sent his servants for refreshment for the count.

  It was obvious that whatever Nial had to tell was unpleasant: he could barely wait for the food and drink, tapping his foot on the floor. Simon, though, was in no hurry. After so long without dreaming, he was beginning to feel as if his missing dreams had flooded into waking life instead—terrible, mad dreams, like his grandson vanished and his daughter-in-law dead—and he was reluctant to hear what was next.

  I never wanted to be a king, he thought as a servant came in and poured wine. He snatched up his own cup and lifted it to his lips. Never even thought of it. I could barely imagine being a knight. How did this all come to me? And why, if I am only to rule over disaster?

  For a moment he remembered the dull red anger of the Conqueror Star, the flaming comet that had hung over the Hayholt in the earliest days of Miriamele’s father’s reign. It had been a warning that bad times were on the way, although King Elias had paid little attention. But where is my warning? Simon thought.

  He became aware that Nial and Rhona were both waiting for him to say something. He paused, his second cup of wine halfway to his lips. “Please, Count, if you’ve eaten something, give me your news.” He did his best to smile. “I am fortified now.”

  “We will need a different kind of fortification, I fear, your Majesty.” Nial’s long face was pinched, and beneath the grime of travel he was clearly distraught. “What good men have long feared has come to pass. An army of Norns have left their moun
tain and crossed into Erkynland.”

  “What?” Simon nearly sprang out of his chair in surprise. He folded his long legs under him and perched on the edge of the seat. His hands were shaking, so he clasped them together. “Tell me all.”

  It did not take long. Nial explained that while in Hernysadharc he had received a private message from Earl Murdo of Carn Inbarh concerning Aelin and Naglimund—a message so shocking and dangerous that it had been committed to memory by a trusted third party instead of written down. Simon listened in amazement coupled with a newer, greater sense of unreality, as if his fantasy about dreams escaping to bedevil his waking life had proved itself true.

  “I know Sir Aelin,” Simon said at last, struggling to make sense of what he had just heard. “I know he is trustworthy, and not only because he is Eolair’s kin.” Anger rose in him, a fury he had not felt in a long time. “God’s Bloody Tree, what is King Hugh playing at? Is he completely mad? And what do those white goblins want this time? Surely if Aelin is right, the troop he saw crossing Hernystir is too small to attack our cities, even with the Norns’ strongest magicks.”

  “It is hard for me to say, Majesty.” Nial looked like a man who had just lost his closest friend. “If this Aelin’s report is true, then by all the gods, beyond even the danger it portends, the honor of my country has been thrown down and trampled in the mud! I have never felt ashamed to be a Hernystirman until today.”

  “You are not to blame for King Hugh’s actions, my lord.” But God in his Heaven knew that Simon was itching to lash out at someone. The moment Miri had gone the entire world seemed to tumble off its perch. He took a breath. “Eolair had concerns about Hugh the last time we saw him, and then Queen Inahwen wrote to tell that it was worse even than Eolair had thought. But I never suspected Hugh would do this. Nothing like this. Blessed Saint Rhiap, what could have possessed him?”