Empire of Grass

by Tad Williams

  “I’m sure I can catch a fish,” he said without feeling too confident about it.

  “Well, then, you may do so while I begin on the reeds.”

  “What for?”

  “To make a boat, course.”

  He stared in dismay at the fragile stalks that lined the bank of the stream and clustered even more thickly along the river below them. “We’re going to make a boat out of those?”

  She laughed, a sound he had not heard for a while, as cheering and yet unlike a mortal laugh as a songbird’s trill. “Unless you think you can swim all the way to Da’ai Chikiza, then yes, Prince Morgan—that is exactly what we will do.”

  * * *

  Binabik sat on a stone at the edge of their campsite and scratched Vaqana behind her ears, which the wolf seemed to enjoy very much, tongue lolling, eyes tight shut. They had lit no fire because of the Norns they had spotted only two short days earlier.

  “No, do not bother yet to pack up our few things,” Binabik said to Sisqi. “We must have a family council. There is much to discuss.”

  “Let me go out first,” said Qina. “I swear by our ancestors that I can find the track again.”

  “That is not what today speaks to me,” her father said. “No, we must sit and talk as a family.”

  “This is not Mintahoq,” she said in exasperation. “There are no fires to be tended, no chores to be given out. Every moment the sun climbs higher we are falling farther behind.”

  “Just so,” Binabik said. “But he who chases something he cannot see may be caught from behind by something he has not noticed.”

  “Spare me your old sayings, Father,” Qina said sourly. “I have heard them all, I think. Who said those wise words? Your master Ookekuq? Some lowland Scrollbearer?”

  “As it happens, my sharp-tongued daughter, the one who told that to me was my own mother—your grandmother—and she was right, because she and my father were both caught in a snowfall and killed. That is why you did not know her or your grandfather—why only your mother’s parents are known to you.”

  She was sorry she had said it, but not entirely chastened. “But why now? Why did we not talk about this at night, when we could not search for Prince Morgan?”

  “Because when night was upon us I was thinking about this,” her father said. “I thought long while you and Little Snenneq were making enough noises sleeping to frighten away even the bears. And now that I speak of him, where is your betrothed?”

  “He went to get some water for washing,” said her mother. “He works hard to be a good son-in-law.”

  “Yes, he does,” Binabik said. “And I work hard to be the same sort of father. In truth, I am so old and so full of wisdom sometimes I fear I will burst. But my daughter does not recognize that, and continuously asks me why this and why that.” But he did not look put out, only tired, and Qina walked to him and gave his cheek a swift nuzzle.

  “I am sorry, my father,” she said. “But it is hard to wait, and we have been doing it often these last days.”

  Snenneq came back to camp, half a dozen bulging skins draped around his neck like saddlebags. “Why is the water never at the top of the hill where we camp?” he asked. “This is a question that torments even the wise. Or why do we not camp down where the water is?”

  “Mosquitoes,” said Binabik. “And bears coming down to drink in the middle of night. And also River Man waiting to pull you down into his dark lair until your lungs fill with muddy water. But if you wish to sleep down by the side of the stream to make your morning’s work easier, you have my permission.”

  Snenneq let the full bags drop to the ground. Nearby, the rams that would have to carry them snorted and shuffled. “To that I say thank you but no, Master. I am young and handsome still. I do not want my face disfigured by those flying demon blood-drinkers, let alone by bears. Perhaps Qina would not love me anymore.”

  “I will always love your face, my betrothed,” she said. “Especially when your mouth is closed.”

  “Such a pointed tongue my daughter has!” Binabik said, shaking his head, but he seemed to have enjoyed it more this time.

  “Ah! Wounded! I am wounded and near death!” Snenneq sat on the ground near Binabik. “Let me just catch my breath and wet my throat, then we can set out on our way again.”

  Qina rolled her eyes. “My father wants to talk.”

  “Good.” Snenneq lifted one of the skin bags and took a long swallow. “Let us talk first about where we can find more kangkang, because soon I will die from drinking nothing but water. Even croohok beer is better for one’s innards. Water is fine for giving to the rams, and when it is cold enough it becomes snow and that is good too, but it makes a poor drink for a Singing Man.”

  “You are not one yet,” said Binabik. “Now, come and join us, my wife. We will help you with those last chores later. You too, daughter of my heart.”

  Qina moved closer and sat beside Snenneq. She reached up and wiped his broad forehead with her sleeve. “You are not used to summer in these lands,” she said quietly.

  “Summer? Summer is Blue Mud Lake, where the sun shines and the wind blows.” He scowled. “Where a man can live without growing scrawny. This is something different.” He swiped at his forehead, which was already beaded with sweat again. “This ‘summer’ as you call it is like what it would feel like to live on a soup stone, spending life at the bottom of a boiling pot. And it is still morning!”

  “We will not escape these southern lands for some time,” said Binabik, “so you must resign yourself, Snenneq. But we cannot go on as we have been. Each day the signs grow fainter, and each day we hunt for his track, the one we seek increases the distance between us.”

  “It makes no sense,” Snenneq complained. “He has left the trees, or at least we cannot find any trace of the foot-irons I made for him. Why has he become so hard to track? Qina should be finding traces of him on the ground.”

  “I do not know the reason,” said Binabik. “But I know we must do things differently. We were nearly caught by the Hikeda’ya. If not for Sisqi’s sharp ears, we might all be dead.”

  “But they were going the other direction,” Qina said. “Surely we do not have to worry about those Norn soldiers again.”

  “Yes. But it could be they are hunting Morgan too,” Sneneq pointed out. “Whatever we will do differently, we must do it soon.”

  “Yes. So we are turning back toward Erkynland,” said Binabik, then lifted his hand as Qina and Little Snenneq immediately began to protest. “We must return to Simon and Miriamele at the Hayholt to tell them what we have learned. It could be they do not even know their grandson Morgan is lost, because we cannot know if the Erkynlandish soldiers found their way home with my message. And if there are Hikeda’ya here in the great wood where they have not roamed freely in centuries, then our friends should know that too.”

  “But we cannot give up searching for Prince Morgan!” said Qina. “He is not far away—we know that. He has not sprouted wings, unless you have lied to me all my life about what lowlanders can do.”

  Her father smiled sadly. “I have told you only truth, my little snow cat—or at least as far as I know it, for nobody knows all. But we cannot take any more time here. If we were Sithi, we might use our magical mirrors to talk to our friends far away. If wise Geloë still lived we might use the birds she trained, as the League of the Scroll once conversed with each other. But we have neither, only our own selves, our eyes and tongues, and our friends must be told about the prince. And our friends can send many soldiers to search the forest—enough to deal with Hikeda’ya if they meet them.”

  “I cannot desert Prince Morgan,” declared Snenneq. “He and I share a destiny. I know this to be true.”

  “Do not talk to me about destiny, please,” Binabik said with equal certainty. “The destiny of many peoples is involved here—numbers beyond counting even wit
h every tally-stick from Mintahoq and all our other mountains combined. We must do what is best for the largest number of folk, no matter how painful.”

  “Then we will continue to hunt for him,” Qina said. “You and Mother can go to Erkynland and carry the news. Snenneq and I will stay and search. Who knows what dangers Prince Morgan might face in the time it takes for your friends to send soldiers?”

  “Do not pull on our hearts, Qina,” her mother said. “Simon and Miriamele have lost their grandchild. How could we lose our only daughter, too?”

  “You will not lose me,” Qina said. “My betrothed often speaks more than he should, but he is smart and strong—and so am I. We are children no longer. You must see that it is the best way, whether you fear it or not.”

  Her mother and father did not agree, of course, but Qina was stubborn, and Snenneq was wise enough to let her do most of the arguing. They went back and forth for most of an hour, like Blue Mud Lake sparrows fetching sticks to build nests, until both sides had piled their arguments high, but Qina was as much her mother’s child as her father’s and would not be swayed.

  “And if I ordered you, as your father, to come with us?” Binabik said at last.

  “Then I would disobey you. Because you did not bring us into this world only to be your eyes and hands, to do only what you wished done. You made us whole, with minds to think for ourselves and hearts to know right from wrong. It is wrong to give up the chance to find Morgan after we have followed his track so long—we might never again be so close to him. Think what will happen if he meets the Hikeda’ya on his own, with no friends to help him.”

  At last they all fell silent. Her father looked to her mother, and Qina could see from his face that she had won, though it did not feel much like victory.

  “I will not order you to come with us against your will,” he said at last. “Sisqi, can you see any other way?”

  “Unless we tie them both and carry them back to the Hayholt across their saddles, no,” she said. “But I am fearful. Qina, my daughter, you are right, you are fully grown. But the world is large and dangerous—more dangerous than ever. Meddling in the affairs of the immortals may bring your deaths. Know that if anything happens to you, my heart will shatter in my breast, as will your father’s.”

  “I will protect her, honored Sisqinanamook,” said Snenneq. “Know I will give everything I have to keep her safe.”

  Qina snorted. “It will be me saving you, if it comes to it.” But the small jest did not cover the emptiness she suddenly felt. The argument had been about what might be, but now she had to face the cold fact of parting from her parents in these unknown lands. She took a breath. “We will do our best to stay safe. I still want to see my marriage day. Try not to fear. You two have taught us both long and well.” She felt tears come to her eyes and wiped them away with her sleeve. “We will make you proud.”

  “You have never made us anything but proud.” Binabik looked as though he had grown several years older just during the hour they had spent in talk. “Listen to me carefully, before I change my mind and tie you to the saddles, as your mother suggested.”

  “I did not suggest it,” Sisqi said sharply.

  “I know, my love. Sometimes I joke to keep my own fear away.” He frowned, thinking. “The stars that were so untrustworthy where the Sithi make their home have become stretched and strange again here—I cannot guess why—so you may find that the White Bear and the Old Woman are no longer your best guides. But if you continue in the path we have walked the last few days, toward the setting sun, you will certainly at last reach the Wealdhelm Hills. Naglimund Castle, one of Simon’s and Miriamele’s strongholds, will be on its far side.” He took a stick and began scratching a map in the dirt. “In fact, it could be that in a day or two you might find the old Sithi city of Da’ai Chikiza, which lies on the Aelfwent River that runs along this side of the Wealdhelm. From there a path called the Stile will climb the hills and lead you to the castle. You can get help there, and if you find Morgan, you can take him to Naglimund and he will be safe.”

  “Then why should you two go all the way back to the Hayholt? Why not find this Naglimund place and send a message from there to your friends?”

  “Because my heart misgives me, Qina, and I do not trust messengers,” her father said. “Too many strange and deadly things have happened of late. Do you remember the Sithi envoy, Tanahaya? She was waylaid in Erchester itself, on her way to Simon and Miriamele, and would have died if not for the luck of being found. Someone did not want her to reach our friends, and that someone has never been discovered. Either the chilly hand of the Norn Queen herself reaches all the way to the Hayholt’s gates or else my friends have an enemy closer to them than anyone has dreamed. No, I will trust no more messengers, not with such important news.”

  “But then you and my mother will be in danger, too!” Qina said. “If someone can attack the Sitha, they can attack you just as easily to keep you from reaching your friends.”

  Binabik nodded. “That is the way it must be, when a family is separated. Just as we must fear for you two on your own, you must fear for us. Nothing is given to any of us but our lives and the few hours in which we live them. We must pray to the Daughter of the Mountains that we all find our way together again. Remember our home and have courage.”

  When the parting came there were tears in all their eyes, even Little Snenneq’s, though he blamed his on dust blown by the summer breeze.

  32

  The Hole in the Door

  Porto managed to keep Sergeant Levias breathing through the first night and through the second day as well. He gave him sips of water from his hand and cleaned and bandaged the wound in the Erkynlander’s belly as best he could, but he could see it was a losing struggle, and that was devastating. He had been in a nightmare like this before.

  Many years earlier, during the battle for the Nakkiga Gate, a younger Porto had nursed his dying friend Endri until the last moments. But Endri’s wound had been made by a poisoned Norn arrow; this one had been made by comparatively clean Thrithings steel, and that was the only thing that gave Porto hope. But it was a long walk to the nearest water, and no matter how hot his companion’s skin, how pitiful his calls for something to drink, Porto hated to leave him. It had been while Porto was away from him young Endri had died.

  Whatever chaos had gripped the crowds at the Thanemoot seemed to have quieted by the second day. From time to time Porto still heard Thrithings-men shouting outside their hiding place, but the calls and cries no longer sounded like men fighting. Still, he was yoked to a dying man by more than his pride and grief: even if Levias succumbed, it would only release Porto to a long, suffering end of his own. Their horses were gone, and he could not imagine walking all the way back to Erkynland, not even if he were twenty years younger.

  But as long as I have my sword and dagger, he told himself, I will at least have a choice of how I die.

  When Levias began breathing a little more easily in the hours of the second dawn after their fight with the grasslanders, Porto risked carrying him in search of water. He heaved the other man onto his back and then staggered farther away from the Thanemoot and settled his insensible burden by the side of one of the streams that fed Blood Lake. It was shallow this late in the summer, just a thread of water moving between the wide, muddy banks, but the water did move and it tasted sweet to Porto’s lips, so he dragged Levias into the shade of the trees and washed out the wounded man’s bloody undershirt, then mopped Levias’s forehead before trying to clean the wound again. He had seen many such injuries on the battlefield and knew there was small chance the sergeant would survive, but to leave the sergeant to die alone would have been like abandoning poor, lost Endri a second time.

  He sat beside Levias all day, moving him now and then to keep the hot sun off his face, cleaning the dark, drying blood off his wound, and giving him water to drink when he seemed thirsty. H
e could not imagine moving him again any great distance, and could only wait for God to take his friend back. Levias had stopped speaking. Porto had no real company but his own grim thoughts.

  * * *

  • • •

  A strange noise startled Porto awake from a shallow doze—a scratchy, drawn-out sound like a nail being pulled from old wood. It came from the nearby stream, so after making sure that Levias was still drawing shallow breath, the knight took his sword in his hand and crawled through the undergrowth toward the water until he could get a better look.

  At first he thought the stranger must be some kind of giant, because he bulked so large atop his horse, which was drinking from the stream. Then he saw the stranger was truly not so oversized, but only seemed so because he was mounted on the back of a small donkey.

  The man turned toward him, though Porto had not made any noise. He gripped his sword hilt tightly, prepared to fight or to lead the stranger away from helpless Levias, but the man on the donkey only nodded his head and then turned away again, as if sword-wielding men crawling through the grass was nothing unusual to him. The stranger was barrel-chested but short of leg, as if one of Prince Morgan’s troll friends had grown to man-size, but unlike any of the trolls, he wore a long beard gathered in a single braid. The hair on his cheeks and head seemed to cover most of his face, as though he were part ape or part Hunën, though his features seemed ordinary enough.

  “Vilagum,” the strange called. “Ves zhu haya.”

  It took a moment for Porto to understand the man’s Thrithings words, which were nothing more threatening than “Welcome” and wishing him health.

  “Zhu dankun,” he answered—thank you.

  The bearded man recognized that Porto was not a native speaker: when he spoke again it was in good Westerling, though strongly accented, each word as full of sharp bits as an autumn pinecone. “You are not from the great grass, I see. Where do you come?”