Empire of Grass

by Tad Williams

  But Ruyan was dust, he realized. They have clothed Hakatri’s bones in the Changeling’s armor.

  A fifth Singer walked close behind the litter, solemnly carrying Ruyan’s cylindrical helm. The weird, masklike face on the helmet seemed to stare back at those watching, its eyes and mouth round with surprise. Viyeki looked at Pratiki, and thought he saw a shadow of unhappiness in the set of the prince-templar’s lips, but he no longer trusted his own impressions.

  Several more Singers now clustered around the dragon. Three of them wrestled an ornamental urn of witchwood into place beneath the sleeping monster’s head, while another stepped forward holding something shiny in a gloved hand. Viyeki thought this one might be Sogeyu herself, but the cloth mask wrapped around her face made it hard to be certain. She placed the shiny thing—a large, sharp, and apparently hollow silver spike—against the dragon’s throat just beneath the jaw. Another Singer approached with a hammer. It was no ceremonial instrument, but a brutal-looking maul that had seen much use, and as Sogeyu held the spike in place, the maul swung and thumped home, forcing the spike into the dragon’s throat. A shudder ran through the creature from head to tail, but the ropes held and the kei-vishaa kept the prisoned beast insensible. An instant later a jet of steaming black blood spurted from the hollow spike to splatter against the rim of the urn; many of those watching gasped or groaned at the sight. Other Singers, also masked and gloved, hurried to tip the urn to a better angle to catch the pulsing blood as it gushed in great, gleaming arcs. Within moments the Singers and the dragon’s head had vanished in a growing cloud of vapor. The great beast did not move again.

  Dragon’s blood. The bones of a dead Zida’ya prince. The armor of the great lord of the Changeling folk. Viyeki felt not just fearful but actually ill. The Singers ranged beneath the tent now raised their voices in a harsh, sharp-edged chant that briefly outshouted the thunder. Such a dark, ugly song, he thought. Such dark old magicks. What good can come from any of this?

  As if she had heard his disloyal thoughts, Utuk’ku’s silver mask swiveled across those watching, freezing Viyeki like a startled animal. She raised her hand, and for a moment he thought she was about to single him out for some terrible punishment, but instead Akhenabi glided toward her and kneeled at her feet.

  Now the Opening of the Mouth and the Song of Resurrection.

  The queen’s thought was still echoing in Viyeki’s head like the tolling of a great stone bell as Akhenabi rose and made his way to the urn. Only a few black drops now trickled from the spike in the dragon’s neck. The great beast seemed to have settled lower in death, flattening like a bellows that had lost its air. One of Akhenabi’s Singers gave the Lord of Song a witchwood ladle, which he dipped into the urn to draw out a pitchy spoonful of blood. He carried the smoking stuff to the litter, which had been lifted by two more Singers at a steep angle, until it almost looked as though Ruyan’s armor stood waiting. Akhenabi pried open the mouth of the yellowed skull—for an instant Viyeki caught sight of the golden wires that held it to the neck bones inside the armor—then poured the contents of the ladle into the mouth as the skull disappeared within a cloud of steam.

  Akhenabi stepped back. Another Singer hurried forward with the masklike helmet, which the Lord of Song then placed over the skull until the bottom sat squarely on the high gorget. The wind, which had slowed for a moment, now rose to a shrieking pitch once more; the tent roof bulged upward in some places, while in others it pressed down as though a giant hand was feeling for those beneath. The guy-ropes that held the great cloth swayed and sang under the wind’s rough handling, and it seemed at any moment the whole covering might fly away. Viyeki heard the queen’s voice chanting in his head, echoed by Akhenabi and Sogeyu and the Singers, but it was impossible to separate out their words (if that rhythmic, vengeful-sounding song contained any words at all) from the storm winds and the continuing thunder.

  The door of a wagon that he had not noticed, which had been pulled to only a short distance from where the queen herself stood, now swung open. Red light spilled out of the doorway. With it came a feeling of such immense emptiness that Viyeki shook all over and had to struggle to stay on his feet. An imprecise figure took shape in the wagon’s doorway, a thing of fluttering bandages and fiery light.

  Ommu the Whisperer had joined her power to the queen’s.

  Viyeki’s head was empty of everything but the shrieking wind and the now constant bellowing of thunder. He could not stand to look at Ommu for more than an instant, but everywhere else he turned his gaze he saw chaos. Some of the Singers were now leaping and twitching in fits. Many Sacrifices had fallen to the ground, dropping their weapons, their helmets rolling loose like severed heads. Even as he felt the great hole that had been opened into the very substance of the world, he could also feel that whatever was on the other side was fighting not to be drawn through. The air had grown thick and moist, nearly impossible to breathe: Viyeki saw his people shrieking and clutching their heads, but still the moaning song went on and on and the sky flashed light and bellowed like an angry beast.

  Darkness swallowed everything.

  * * *

  • • •

  For a long moment after sight and thought came back to him, Viyeki believed the entire world had been turned sideways. Then he realized he had fallen to the ground. Laboriously, he levered himself onto his hands and knees. The thunder had ended but the rain still poured down. The wind had pulled the huge tented roof to tatters, and Viyeki was crouching in a cold puddle.

  Something moved, catching his eye. The crystal-plated armor of Ruyan Vé stood upright by itself now, arms slowly spreading as if in astonishment, gloved fingers clawing the air. The Singers who had held the litter lay face-down on the ground beside it, either dead, senseless, or prostrated by awe and terror. The armored thing took a step, swayed, took another step. It looked up at a sky full of thunderheads, then turned to look at the queen, one of the few figures still standing upright.

  For the moment the two empty faces simply stared at each other, the queen’s expressionless silver mask and the crystal-eyed helmet of Ruyan.

  You have come back to us, Hakatri of the Sa’onserei, the queen said. Now you will do what must be done. Now we will end the cursed mortals.

  Hakatri, if it was indeed him, seemed to look at her for a long moment, then threw back his head and raised his hands toward the hidden stars. He screamed—not just in thought, like Utuk’ku’s words, but in sound as well, a cry so loud and terrible that it echoed from every stone of the fallen castle and all along the hillside above, a cry so full of anguish and rage and desperation that all those climbing to their feet dropped back onto their knees. Viyeki’s very thoughts seemed to catch fire and burn, blazing and then turning to ash, floating away, even as the awful cry went on and on.

  Dark shapes began to fall from the clouded night sky, pattering to the ground all across the courtyard. Viyeki looked down and saw a dead bird lying beside him, but could not understand why it was there. Though the ruined fortress had now gone silent but for the wind and the moans of those who could not rise, Sacrifices and Singers alike scattered on the muddy ground like the bleeding survivors of a dreadful battle, Viyeki could still hear Hakatri’s scream echoing in his mind. He knew with terrible certainty that he would never be free of it, no matter how long he lived.

  55

  My Enemy

  As she led Morgan up the stairs into the ruined splendor of the Place of Sky-Watching, Tanahaya saw with a sinking heart that Hikeda’ya soldiers had already fought their way inside the great chamber. Perhaps a dozen of the Pure were fighting hand to hand against them, but they were outnumbered by more than two to one, white robes almost swallowed up by the dark garb of the Norn attackers.

  “Morgan, stay!” she called, but the mortal youth came leaping up the stairs behind her, so that she had to put out her arm to keep him from charging into the midst of the fray. Something was
amiss here and she needed a moment to understand it.

  The attackers were not just ordinary Hikeda’ya Sacrifices, she saw: they wore dark, hooded cloaks, but although rain was falling through the ancient stone web of the domed ceiling, the Sacrifices were famously contemptuous of weather. These warriors must be cloaked for concealment and stealth, she decided, and that was a mark of the Talons, Queen Utuk’ku’s elite fighters and spies. These were not the ordinary soldiers she had seen in the forest—these had come specifically to attack Da’ai Chikiza and the Pure. Why?

  As she hesitated, Vinyedu and other Pure poured out of the stairwell, then pushed past her and threw themselves against the Hikeda’ya. The rest of Da’ai Chikiza’s defenders were falling back—several of the Pure had already fallen—and Tanahaya knew she should carry her blade to the fight, but she could not help hearing the words of her master Himano: “When something seems not to fit, look for a missing piece.” If her use of the Witness had touched off this attack, how had it begun so quickly? Why would the Queen’s Talons have been waiting for this very moment to strike when Vinyedu had said that the Hikeda’ya had been lurking on the edges of Da’ai Chikiza for several moons?

  Tanahaya could not hold Morgan back any longer, nor could she leave the others to fight alone, but she knew something was very wrong and that she would regret not giving it proper thought. “Forward, then,” she told Morgan. “But stay behind me no matter what happens. No, behind me! We are fighting the Norn Queen’s elite warriors.”

  She could almost smell his anger at her warning, but Tanahaya could not imagine letting the young prince die under her protection, not after she had just told Jiriki and Aditu that he was alive. She led him through toppled and unbalanced pillars toward the place where the Pure were trying to defend the eastern portal of the great sky-chamber.

  “We must keep them here until the rest of our people in the city can come to our aid,” Vinyedu called to Tanahaya. The invading Hikeda’ya seemed content for the moment merely to push the Pure farther away from the center of the chamber and thus limit their movements, but Tanahay knew that Sacrifice archers would soon join the rest of their foes and then the fight here would become hopeless. Still, a desperate question was burning in her thoughts, and she had only this one moment to ask it.

  “Vinyedu, has that happened before? Have Akhenabi or some other powers among the Hikeda’ya taken control of the Witness?”

  “What are you talking about?” Vinyedu avoided a Hikeda’ya sword-thrust, knocking it aside with her own blade; while the Talon fighter was off-balance, one of the other Pure drove a spear through his neck and he fell to the stone floor, coughing out blood. “They have never wrested it from me, though I have used it many times. Now stop wasting breath. We must hold this door until more of my people can come to help us.”

  Tanahaya knew that she was not wrong in her concern, but also realized that death would silence her inquiries forever, so she gave her attention to keeping herself and the mortal prince alive.

  One of the Talons suddenly leaped onto the top of a broken pillar and crouched above the fighting for a moment, like a hawk ready to stoop. An instant later he flung himself down, cloak billowing, and landed on his feet behind Tanahaya. Nothing stood between him and Morgan, and though the mortal youth did his best to defend himself he was badly overmatched; he could only struggle to keep his blade up as he stumbled backward toward the wall. Tanahaya knew that was what the attacker wanted, that when the youth had run out of room to retreat he would be quickly skewered, but she was too far away to reach them before the fight was over.

  She bent to snatch up a chunk of stone that had fallen from one of the columns and threw it at the Hikeda’ya, who was intent only on the mortal boy. The Garden favored her aim: Tanahaya saw it crunch against the attacker’s neck and knock him staggering. As the Talon lowered his sword to try to regain his balance, Morgan saw the chance and thrust his sword into the attacker’s side, a lucky blow between two pieces of the witchwood armor; when he yanked his blade away again a great freshet of blood followed. The Talon took a few steps in a bewildered circle before dropping to his knees, hands cupping the pulsing hole beneath his bottom rib. Tanahaya stabbed him in the neck and kicked him to the floor.

  “That was luck—for both of us!” she shouted at Morgan. “Now stay close to me!”

  But as she turned back to the fighting it was clear that the dispatch of the Talon had only been a moment’s respite. Other dark shapes were now swarming into the chamber from other entrances, and Tanahaya knew that even if she and the city’s white-clad defenders fought to the last breath, there were not enough of them to hold the attackers at bay more than a short while. Where were the rest of the Pure? Or were they already under attack in other parts of Da’ai Chikiza?

  Shisae’ron, Shisae’ron, she sang silently to herself, and in that instant could hear her mother’s voice across the years, as if even now she sat beside her. Land of beautiful water. Land of soft grass. I will never see you again, but in my heart you live forever. Tanahaya thought it strange that the story of her life would end here, beneath a gray, rainy sky in the ruins of a city she had never lived in, and even stranger that the life of a scholar should end on the point of a kinsman’s sword.

  As she stepped up to stand shoulder to shoulder with the remaining Pure once more, her eye briefly swept across the decrepit stone of the roof canopy and the columns that time and earth movement had slowly begun to pull into pieces. A memory struck her. Her mother’s most beloved songs had been those of Benhaya, the ancient warrior-poet. One of his famous numi had a favorite of Himano’s as well:

  Find the melody of the conflict—find its rhythm.

  Change that rhythm.

  Introduce new melodies that unravel your opponent’s song and make it anew.

  Thus will seeming defeat be turned into something useful, even beautiful.

  Himano had quoted it in discussions of scholarly argument and the search for truth, but at the moment the only thing that mattered was keeping herself and Morgan alive. Blessings on your memory, Mother, she thought. Blessings on your memory, Himano my teacher. You have given me the gift of hope.

  She had no time to explain her idea to Morgan, but did her best to stay between him and the worst of the fighting as she threw down her pack and began to dig inside it. Hikeda’ya archers were pushing in at the far side of the chamber; already black shafts were leaping across the wide room so swiftly that she could not see them in the shadows but could only hear them as they passed. She found her coil of rope and yanked it free of the pack, then quickly tied one end around the hilt of her dagger. “Stay behind the others!” she told Morgan, then sank her fingers into the cracks of the nearest pillar and began climbing. The top of the column had long since fallen away, but the shaft still stretched up almost three times her own height. She tried to keep the uneven cylinder of weather-pitted stone between her and the Hikeda’ya arrows as she climbed. The pillar been made in pieces that had originally been stacked together in perfect symmetry, but centuries of neglect had created many places where she could catch a broad gap and swiftly pull herself upward.

  At the top of the broken pillar, still trying to stay hidden from the enemy archers, Tanahaya swung the weighted length of rope in a broad circle before letting it go, so that the dagger at the end drew it upward toward the immense stone spider’s web—all that remained of the Place of Sky-Watching’s once-famous ceiling. The first cast missed, but she spun the rope harder the next time and saw the knife sail up and over a branch of the arched stone lattice. She slackened the rope to let it drop down, then found a boss of stone where she could tie the loop tightly in place, linking the pillar on which she clung to the cracked web of the ceiling.

  “Morgan!” she called when the rope was tied. “Move back to the doorway—now!”

  A couple of the Pure glanced up at what she was doing, but they were pressed hard from sev
eral sides by black-cloaked Talons. Another arrow flew past her, buzzing like a wasp, but she ignored it and grabbed at a crack in the pillar with one hand, then bent herself backward until she could touch the wall behind her with her other hand. Next she put her feet against the pillar and extended herself between it and the nearby wall, then moved her other hand to the wall as well, so that she stretched between wall and pillar. Struggling to keep her back rigid, she straightened her legs and began to push at the great cylinder of stone.

  The section of column she was pushing gave a little, but the scrape of stone was so small it was lost in the noisy clash of witchwood and bronze weapons. Tanahaya did not dare look down to see where Morgan was—everything depended on the next few seconds. She set her feet more squarely and pushed until she was almost horizontal between pillar and wall, but though the piece of column slid again it was only a little way, and she was unable to make it topple.

  Something struck her then, a blow that almost knocked her from her dangerous, upside-down position, followed by a sensation of weakness and cold. An arrow stood quivering in her shoulder. Dizziness swam up her spine and into her skull, but she dared not let anything stop her. She was already beginning to believe her effort was pointless—she was simply not strong enough to make even a half-crumbled stone pillar collapse—but she had to try.

  “Shisae’ron,” she sang, in part to distract herself from the pain of her wound, and this time the words came from her mouth as well as her thoughts—breathless and shaky, but something to hang onto in that moment of last effort. “Shisae’ron, my heart . . . !”

  And then she could hear, feel, sense someone just below her, also pushing. She looked down and saw that Vinyedu the mistress of the Pure had taken up a position below her between the column and the wall but the reverse of Tanahaya’s, Vinyedu’s feet against the wall and her hands against the column.