Empire of Grass

by Tad Williams

  Froye made a strange face. “You share their blood, Majesty. You of all people should know that what the Nabbanai most want is not peace, but their neighbors’ riches. It has always been that way.”

  “Then it is my duty to change that,” she said, but even as she spoke she felt the hollowness of her words. “At the moment, though, all I want to know is where in God’s holy name Duke Saluceris has gone.”

  “And his brother,” added Froye.

  “I care less about that,” she said. “As far as I’m concerned, Drusis and Dallo can both go to the Devil, and I will gladly pay their passage myself.”

  * * *

  Brother Etan watched as the peak of Sta Mirore grew taller and taller, filling the sky. The mountain dominated Perdruin like a roast boar on a serving tray, the island’s busy harbor located in a pocket bay where an apple would be wedged into the boar’s open jaws. He was glad to be out of Nabban, but the sight of another strange country coming into view from a boat filled him with melancholy.

  Lord Tiamak had said that it was good for a man to see the world, and Etan had seen a great deal of it on this trip, from the watery, steaming swamps of the Wran to the rolling, desolate dunes of the southern deserts. He had eaten things he had never imagined that people wouuld even put in their mouths, including crispy fried locusts on the wooden walkways of Kwanitupul, as well as the face of a goat presented to him with great reverence by a trader from the edge of the Nascadu barrens when Etan traveled on his scow. He had resisted eating the goat’s eyes, though the trader had not understood how he could turn down this greatest delicacy, but he had explained that his religious calling prevented it (though he would have been hard-pressed to find anywhere in the Book of Aedon where goats’ eyes were even mentioned). He had not wanted to insult the man, who had been otherwise a very kind and generous host, but his newfound worldliness simply would not stretch quite that far.

  The latest passage Madi had arranged for him was not as hospitable, a small coastal trader whose captain had been as anxious to get out of Nabban as Etan had been, and had been quite willing to take the monk’s silver to make up for the profits he had been unable to secure in the city. The great markets had been closed by order of the Sancellan Mahistrevis after fights between the ruling factions had in some cases turned to all-out battles, with trading pavilions set on fire and dying men left bleeding on the cobbles. The streets were no safer than the markets, full of roving gangs who used the excuse of public strife to create mischief of their own, robbing travelers and sometimes killing them for what seemed no more than sport. After discovering what he could about Prince Josua’s days with the Usirean Brothers, Etan had spent only a few more nights at the run-down inn near the harbor before deciding it would be better to move on. Queen Miriamele would be safe up on the Mahistrevine Hill with her guards and the duke’s army, but a humble monk had no such protection, even if he was a royal envoy of sorts.

  But in the midst of all this chaos, in places that made Etan fear for his life hourly, Madi and his two young children always seemed as happy as pigs in a world made entirely of mud and manure. As Etan’s funds had grown short—and as he had also learned to immediately halve any sum Madi requested of him before beginning to bargain with his servant and guide—young Parlippa and Plekto had taken it upon themselves to swell the family coffers with various thefts and cheats of their own, from stealing purses to pretending to be crippled beggars. After the pair of small villains had received charity from, then robbed a man of local importance in the town of Rasina, Etan and their father had been seized by local watchmen and almost hung as criminals. It had taken a large amount of Etan’s remaining coins to buy off the local officials. In truth, the family had left a trail of dubious behavior all along the route of Brother Etan’s voyage, but their conduct in Nabban had been nothing short of scandalous. One day Etan had even returned to their inn to find the children hiding someone’s horse in his room, which was on the highest of three floors. He still had no idea how they had managed to sneak it past the innkeeper, but Plip and Plek, as their father fondly called them, not only wouldn’t tell Etan where it had come from, they pretended to have no idea how the horse had wound up in the small rented room.

  Thus, though he understood much better now what Lord Tiamak had meant about a man growing by seeing more of the world, the main emotion Etan felt as he watched Perdruin’s great central mountain slide into view was that of homesickness.

  Exhaustion was a close second.

  * * *

  • • •

  Even after all these years Etan could still see many marks of the fire that had destroyed the neighborhood where the Scrollbearer Lady Faiera once lived, part of a crowded dockside settro the locals called the Cauldron. Most of the houses had been rebuilt long ago, but the church that had once been the tallest thing in the area was only tumbled stones half buried by earth that still made the rough outline of a Holy Tree. All that still stood was the steeple wall that had been its entrance, half-fallen and showing signs of the burning even after decades of rain and wind.

  “I was the sacristan here,” said someone behind him in excellent Westerling. “We passed buckets up the hill from the harbor, but we could do nothing to stop the flames.”

  Etan turned. The man who stood there was bent and old, but his eyes were unfilmed and his expression suggested he still had his wits; Etan felt a moment of quickening hope. He had spoken to many of the nearby residents, but nobody recognized Faiera’s name, let alone anything about a visit from the former Prince Josua. “You lived here?”

  “What kind of a sacristan would I be if I didn’t? In those days we lived and died serving a single church.” He shook his head and pulled meditatively at the end of his substantial nose. “Not like today, where they wander like beggars, trying to find the best posting, always greedy for more.”

  Etan nodded, not so much in agreement as to keep him talking. “What was it like here before the fire?”

  The erstwhile servant of the church looked him up and down, clearly taking note of his monkish robes, worn and dirty now after all his travels. “Like most places, I expect. Full of sinners and fools. If not for Mother Church, the Lord would have burned all the world by now like He burned these houses. Like He burned our church.” He did not sound as if he had entirely forgiven God.

  “Do you remember a woman who used to live here? She was named Faiera—Lady Faiera.”

  The man actually started and took a step back. “The witch?” He made the Sign of the Tree on his breast, and for a moment looked as though he might actually flee.

  “Is that what people called her?”

  “What else should they call her?” Curiosity seemed to be fighting with disquiet, and it resulted in the old man swaying in place like a windblown sapling. “A great house full of pagan books, visitors coming from strange places at all hours—even on holy days when they should have been on their knees at prayer!” He made the Sign of the Tree again. “You are a man of God, are you not, sir? One of the traveling orders, doing the Lord’s good work—or are you one of those other kind, the ones who wear the cowl but are no better than they should be? Why would you want to ask about such a woman, or even know of her?”

  “Tell me your name, sir, for the love of Usires and His Sacred Father, and I will tell you mine and answer your questions.”

  The old man squinted, clearly torn. “Bardo. Bardo of St. Cusimo’s, they called me then,” he said at last. “Many still do, though the church has been a ruin for long, long years.”

  “May God grant you a long, healthy life, good Bardo. I am Brother Etan, and I will tell you a secret.” He remembered something Tiamak had said once about catching fish, an occupation that seemed to have taken up much of the Wrannaman’s childhood and youth. “When it nibbles on the bait, that is the time you must be most still,” he had told Etan. “That is the time when any too-sudden movement can send it speeding away, never t
o return to your hook.”

  Etan carefully took the letter from inside his cassock. He had carried it so long and so far that it didn’t look like a scroll, but more like a Thrithings-man’s meat cured between saddle and horse. He had to unroll it slowly so it would not tear—the parchment had been flattened until he could barely pry it open. Finished, he held it under the man’s nose. “Can you read that?”

  “I . . . my eyes are not good. I was never much for reading anyway,” Bardo added a little defiantly.

  “But you see the seal, do you not? That is the royal seal of the High Ward in Erkynland. The king and queen themselves sent me to find this Faiera if she lived and ask her questions. I assure you my purposes are only godly.”

  The old man scowled as he leaned close to the parchment, but it seemed more a reflex than anything else. He looked up. “And what would you know, Brother Etan?” he said at last. “What can old Bardo tell you? Yes, I knew the witch back in those days—or the lady, if you’ll have it thus.”

  Etan sized up the old man’s thin wrists, unshaven cheeks, and ragged cloak, worn even on this hot summer day and likely to conceal even more ragged garments beneath. “I tell you, sir, I have been walking all morning and I have a fierce hunger. Is there anywhere nearby where we could have a bite to eat—and perhaps a bowl of ale, too?”

  Bardo hesitated.

  “Surely you would not deny me a chance to spend a little of the High Throne’s money on your comfort?” Etan said.

  Bardo licked his lips. “As a matter of fact, Brother, there is a tavern just down the hill where I sometimes take my custom. The owner will likely have a few plump quail on the spit.” He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “And the ale—the ale there is not bad, either.”

  * * *

  On that long-ago day, Jesa and one of her older brothers had stood before the entrance to a cavern that burrowed into a rocky hill, both rare things in the flat, swampy Wran. She had been small then, and had accompanied Hoto without knowing what he wanted to show her or why he was being so secretive about it. But as they reached the dark hole into the earth, the gray sky hot and wet above the trees, she had become frightened, and Hoto had clutched her arm hard to keep her from running away. The cavern opening looked like a mouth, and it was not hard for her to imagine it opening to swallow her down, like the maw one of the Wran’s great crocodiles. She struggled, but he only tightened his grip.

  “Don’t be stupid,” he told her. “I just want to show you something. Now watch.” One hand still firmly gripping her arm, he took a chunk of stone that had rolled down from the hill and tossed it into the gaping blackness.

  An instant later they were surrounded by shrilling, rustling shadows, a storm of small shapes so thick that for long moments Jesa could see no light at all. Wings slapped at her hair and face and shoulders. She had no idea what was happening, only that the world had turned dark and burst into twittering pieces. She tried to throw herself to the ground but her brother held her up, and it was only long moments later, when the storm cloud of wings had dispersed, that she realized she was still shrieking with terror.

  Hoto slapped her on the top of her head and let go of her arm. “Stop screaming! Mother will hear you!”

  But she could not stop, so he hit her again. At last, angry and ashamed, he picked her up—her screams had finally turned to whimpers—and carried her back to their house. There was no hiding her terror, and her mother was furious with Hoto, who kept saying over and over, “But I only wanted to show her where the bats live!”

  That was what the Sancellan Mahistrevis felt like to her in this dreadful moment, with people running everywhere, shouting that the duke was gone, that someone had taken him or killed him. It was all Jesa could do not to begin screaming again, just as she had on that day so long ago. Only the baby in her arms helped her keep her head, and she clung to little Serasina like a charm, but her heart sped on and on until she was dizzy.

  “How could this be?” Duchess Canthia asked yet again. She was weeping, her face wet and red, but she swatted angrily every time one of her ladies tried to wipe away her tears. “Where is my husband? A hundred guards and nobody saw him? What madness is this?”

  Jesa crouched in a corner of the chamber and rocked Serasina in her arms. The wet nurse had tried to feed her, but even an infant could feel the wrongness, could hear the cries of alarm and the sound of running feet, and she had refused the breast. Now Jesa clutched the small, silky-soft head against her bosom and crooned wordless tunes and snatches of things that had been sung to her when she was young and frightened.

  Storm winds blow, blow, blow

  But our house is strong, strong, strong

  Rain falls down, down, down

  But our roof is high, high, high . . .

  Queen Miriamele came and sat beside Canthia. She said little to soothe the duchess, but held her hand. As always, Jesa marveled at the queen’s calm strength. Her face gave away almost nothing, only a little annoyance when one of the maids shrieked or burst into tears.

  “Enough of that,” the queen told one serving girl, a helplessly talkative idiot Jesa often thought would not survive an hour in the Wran, but would immediately wander into a ghant nest or a crocodile’s mouth. “The duchess needs your help, child, not your blubbering.” She looked to Jesa and the baby before turning back to the girl. “Where is young Blasis?”

  The maid’s face was as shapeless with fear as a dollop of swamp yam paste. “He is . . . he is with his tutor,” she said, struggling for words. “It is his . . . his day for lessons. He hates them, but the duke insists . . .” At the thought of the duke, her mouth writhed as though she would weep again.

  “Go and get him,” said the queen, making her words hard as the ring of a jeweler’s hammer. “Bring the tutor as well. They can continue their lessons here.”

  The maid performed a shaky courtesy and scurried toward the door.

  “You go with her,” the queen told another maid, one who at least was not screaming or crying. “Find the duke’s heir and bring him back here.”

  “But what could have happened?” Canthia asked again. One of her ladies brought her a cup of wine. She accepted it without looking and drank it straight down. The queen shook her head when one was offered to her. “Where could Saluceris be?”

  “He will be found,” said Queen Miriamele. “You will see. But remember, you are the duchess—you are the heart of Nabban. Do you want your husband’s enemies to say you fell to pieces at the first sign of trouble?”

  “First sign!” Outrage and anger crackled in Canthia’s voice, and for a moment Jesa was fearful that the duchess actually might strike the queen. “First sign? There has been nothing but trouble for months! It’s Drusis, that cursed, damned traitor, stirring up the people! And that poisonous toad, Count Dallo . . .” Canthia’s voice had risen so that every eye in the room turned toward her. She finally realized it and stopped, breathing heavily. “Someone tries to destroy us,” she said more quietly. “And now they have taken my husband . . . !” Again tears overspilled her eyes and coursed down her cheeks.

  At that moment the door of the retiring room swung open and Countess Alurea, the wife of Count Rillian, burst into the room with several confused guards in her wake who were clearly not sure they had done the right thing in letting her pass. The sight of Alurea’s face, almost death-white, her eyes as wide as a startled owl’s, sent a cold shock of fear all the way down into Jesa’s innards, a clutch so hard and so sudden that she almost lost her grip on the baby.

  “Sweet Usires save us!” the countess cried, as unsteady as if she stood on the deck of a foundering ship. “He is dead! They found him dead in the chapel! Oh, by our Lady and the child of her holy womb, they slit his throat! They will kill us all!”

  “God save me!” screamed Canthia. “Saluceris!” The duchess rose halfway to her feet, then her face went whiter than Al
urea’s, and she tumbled to the floor. The queen had clutched at her hand but could not keep her from falling.

  “The duchess has swooned,” said the queen, and though she kept her voice level, Jesa thought she could see fear even in Miriamele’s face. “Someone go and get the hartshorn salts.” She turned to the countess, still standing in the doorway like an apparition from a mummer’s play. “Stop shouting like a fishwife, Countess. What has happened? Who is dead? Is it the duke?”

  For a long instant Alurea stared at her as though the queen spoke some tongue she had never heard before. Then, just as the countess opened her mouth to reply, shouting and the clanking of weapons and armor echoed in the corridor outside. Without thinking, Jesa grabbed Serasina and got down on the floor to hide behind a wooden chest, but before she had even reached it she heard a familiar voice.

  “Great Hell, what goes on here? Did nobody even notice I was gone? What sort of fools serve me?”

  Duke Saluceris stood in the door, surrounded by more guards. “Canthia!” he cried in alarm when he saw his wife. “What has happened to her? What madness is this?”

  “She is well,” said the queen. “Only swooned. I am glad to see you well, my lord duke. But now I think we must hear what Countess Alurea has to say.”

  The noblewoman seemed hardly to notice the duke’s presence, though he stood just behind her. She was still pale, and as she spoke her hands trembled. “It is Drusis,” she said. “Earl Drusis. He . . . oh, by the Tree, I can hardly say it . . . !”

  “Out with it,” barked Saluceris.

  Startled, the countess turned. “Oh, my lord! Oh, my lord! Your brother . . . he is dead!”

  “Dead? That cannot be.” Saluceris looked to his soldiers as though one of them might be able to solve this puzzle. “What do you mean, dead?”