To Green Angel Tower, Volume 2 by Tad Williams
“A Nakkiga shaft,” he rasped. “I should have known. The Norns make strong weapons—but not strong enough.” The bleeding had stopped, and now a tiny wisp of smoke wafted from one of the holes in his neck.
Miriamele had nocked another arrow, and now trem blingly drew her bow and leveled the black point at his face. “May ... may God send you to Hell, Pryrates!” She struggled to form the words without falling into panicked shrieking. “What have you done with my father?!”
“He is upstairs.” The priest laughed suddenly. He stood now without wavering, and seemed almost gleefully drunk on his own display of power. “Your father is waiting. The time we have both waited for is come. I wonder who shall enjoy it more?” Pryrates lifted his fingers and curled them. The air grew momentarily hotter around Miriamele’s hand, then the arrow snapped. The suddenly empty bow almost flew from her grasp.
“It is not so pleasant tugging out arrows that I will stand and let you feather me all day, girl.” Pryrates turned to look back across the antechamber at Cadrach. The broken doorway behind the monk, barred by the alchemist’s ward, was full of shifting, crimson-streaked shadows. The priest beckoned. “Padreic, come here.”
Cadrach gave a low moan, then stood and took a lurching step.
“Don’t do it!” Miriamele called to him.
“Do not be so cruel,” said Pryrates. “He wishes to attend his master.”
“Fight him, Cadrach!”
The priest cocked his head. “Enough. Soon I shall have to go and attend to my duties.” He lifted his hand again. “Come here, Padreic.”
The monk staggered forward, sweating and mumbling. As Miriamele watched helplessly, he sank into a heap at Pryrates’ feet, face pressed against the stone. He edged forward, quivering, and laid his cheek against one of the priest’s black boots.
“That is better,” Pryrates crooned. “I am glad you are not so foolish as to challenge me—glad that you remember. I feared you had forgotten me during your travels. And where have you been, little Padreic? You left me and went to keep company with traitors, I see.”
“It is you who are being the traitor,” Binabik shouted at him. He grimaced as Camaris shifted, trying at last to break the troll’s grip on his legs. “To Morgenes, to my master Ookequk, to all who were taking you in and teaching you their secrets.”
The priest looked up at him, amused. “Ookequk? So you are the fat troll’s errand boy? This is splendid, indeed. All of my old friends gathered here to share this day with me.”
Camaris was clambering to his feet. Binabik struggled to retain his hold, but the old man reached down and effortlessly dislodged him, then straightened, black Thorn dangling in his hand. He took a few hesitant steps toward the stairs.
“Soon, now,” said Pryrates. “The call is very strong.” He turned his attention to Miriamele. “I fear the rest of our conversation will have to wait. The ritual will soon reach a delicate moment. It would be good for me to be there.”
Miriamele was desperate to distract him, to keep him away from her uncle and father. “Why do you do this, Pryrates? What can you gain?”
“Gain? Why, everything. Wisdom such as you cannot even imagine, child. The entire cosmos laid naked before me, unable to hide even its smallest secret.” He extended his arms, and for a moment seemed almost to grow. His robe billowed, and eddies of dust whirled away across the chamber. “I will know things at which even the immortals can only guess.”
Camaris suddenly cried out as though he had been stabbed, then stumbled toward the wide staircase. As he did, the great bell tolled again from somewhere above, making everything shiver and rock. The room wavered before Miriamele’s eyes; flames licked up the walls, then vanished as the echoes faded away.
Miriamele’s head was reeling, but Pryrates seemed unaffected. “That means the moment is very near,” he said. “You hope to detain me while Josua confronts his brother.” The priest shook his hairless head. “Your uncle can no more halt what is to come than he could carry this castle away on his shoulders. And neither can you. I hope I can find you when everything is finished, little Miriamele—I am not quite sure what will remain, but it would be a shame to lose you.” His cold eyes flicked over her. “There is so much we will do. And we will have as long as we want—forever, if need be.”
Miriamele felt her heart smothered in an icy fist.
“But you’ve failed!” she shouted at him. “The other sword isn’t here! You’ve failed, Pryrates!”
He smiled mockingly. “Have I?”
She turned as something moved just at the edge of her vision. Camaris’ resistance had faded at last, and he was shambling up the first flight of stairs; within moments he had vanished around the spiraling stairwell. She watched the old man go with dull resignation. They had done everything they could, but it had not been enough.
Pryrates stepped past Binabik and Miriamele to follow the old knight, then stopped at the base of the steps and slapped at his neck. He turned slowly to stare at the troll, who had just taken his blowpipe from his lips. Pryrates plucked something from behind his ear and examined it. “Poison?” he asked. “You are a fitting apprentice for Ookequk. He was always slow to learn.”
He dropped the dart on the floor and ground it beneath his black boot, then mounted the stairs.
“He is fearing nothing,” Binabik whispered, awed. “I do not ...” He shook his head.
Miriamele stared at the priest’s red garment until it had disappeared into the shadows. Her gaze moved down to the sad, broken bodies of Isorn and the other soldiers. The flame of her anger, which had nearly been extinguished by fear, suddenly sprang up again.
“My father is up there.”
On the floor beside them, Cadrach lay weeping with his face buried in his sleeve.
Tiamak hurried up the stairs.
All our calculations, all our clever plans, our hopes, he mourned. All for nothing. The swords were a trick, they said. We have been foolish, foolish....
He scrambled upward, ignoring the flare of pain each step brought as he fought to keep close to Josua, who was a slender gray shadow moving through the near-darkness above him. Tiamak’s mouth was dry. Something waited at the top of these stairs.
Death, he thought. Death, crouching like a ghant in the treetops.
From somewhere above the bell thundered again, a shuddersome impact that shook him as an angry parent shakes a child. Flames flickered again before his eyes, and the very substance of things seemed to shred apart. It seemed an agonizingly long time before he could see the steps before him once more, and could make his clumsy, nerveless legs do what he bade them. The tower ... was it coming to life? When everything else was about to die?
Why did she send me? What can I do? He Who Always Steps on Sand, I am so frightened!
Prince Josua pulled farther ahead, then disappeared from view, but the lame Wrannaman climbed on. Quick glances through the tower windows showed him brawling chaos raging across the unfamiliar terrain below. The Conqueror Star glared like an angry eye overhead. Snow cluttered the reddened skies, but he could make out the faint shapes of men swarming over the walls, small skirmishes forming along the battlements, other combats spilling across the open ground around the tower. For a moment Tiamak felt hope, guessing that Duke Isgrimnur and the rest of Josua’s army must be forcing their way in—until he remembered the ward with which Binabik said the tower was sealed. Isgrimnur and the others would be unable to prevent whatever was to happen here.
So much was confusing. What exactly had Miriamele and the troll meant about the swords? They were a trick, somehow—and, more importantly, Pryrates and Elias wanted them brought here. But why? What had they planned? Clearly, Utuk‘ku’s presence beneath the castle had something to do with it. The Sithi had said they could slow her but not stop her. There had been some vast power in the Pool of Three Depths, and Tiamak felt sure the Norn Queen intended to harness it. The Sithi had been struggling to slow her, but they had seemed to be failing at even that task.<
Tiamak heard Josua’s voice close by. He paused, quivering, afraid to go the final steps. Suddenly he did not want to see whatever the prince had found at the top of the stairs. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and prayed with all his strength that he would wake up in his banyan-tree hut once more, everything that had happened just an evil dream. But the sound of the restless winds outside never faded, and when he opened his eyes the pale, polished walls of Green Angel Tower’s stairwell still surrounded him. He knew he must go on, although every hammerblow of his heart urged him to flee back down the stairs. His legs too weak to hold him upright, he sank to the stone, then climbed the last few steps on his hands and knees, until his head rose past the top step into cold wind and he found himself inside the airy bellchamber.
The huge bronze bells hung beneath the vaulted ceiling like poisonous green marsh flowers, and indeed, despite the buffeting wind, the chamber was filled with the odor of decaying flesh that such flowers produced. Around the center of the chamber a cluster of dark pillars rose to the ceiling, and on all four sides great arched windows opened out onto swirling snow and angry crimson clouds. Josua stood a few steps before Tiamak, facing the north window. The prince’s attitude was stiff, as though he did not know what to do, how to stand. Facing him, seated before the window on a simple wooden stool, was his brother Elias.
The king wore a dark iron crown on his pale brow, and held in his hands a long gray something that Tiamak could not quite see. It had something of the shape of a sword, but Tiamak’s eyes could not fasten on it properly, as though it did not entirely reside within the natural world. The king himself was dressed in full royal pomp, but his clothes were stained, and his cloak where the wind caught and lifted it showed more holes than cloth.
“Throw it away?” Elias said slowly. His eyes were still downcast, and he replied to whatever Josua had said with the air of one. who had been daydreaming. “Throw it away? But I could never do that. Not now.”
“For God’s love and mercy, Elias!” Josua said desperately, “it is killing you! And it is meant to do more—whatever Pryrates has told you, he plans only evil!”
The king lifted his head, and Tiamak, though he was behind Josua and hidden by the shadows in the stairwell, could not help recoiling in horror. The red light from the windows played across the king’s colorless face; muscles writhed beneath the skin like worms. But it was his eyes that made Tiamak choke back a shout of fear. A dull gleam smoldered in them, an inhuman light like the pallid glare of marsh-candles.
“Aedon save us,” Josua gasped.
“But this is not Pryrates’ plan.” Elias’ lips pulled back in a stiff smile, as though he could no longer make his face work properly. “I am the High King, do not forget: everything moves at my will. It is my plan. The priest has only done my bidding, and soon I will have no further need of him. And you . . .” he rose, unfolding himself with odd jerking movements until he stood at full height, the uncertain gray thing still resting point-down on the floor, “... you were my brother. Once.”
“Once!?” Josua shouted. “Elias, what has happened to you? You have become something foul—something demonic!” He took a step back and almost fell into the hole of the stairwell, then turned Naidel’s hilt in his trembling hand and made the sign of the Tree over his own breast. Thunder growled outside and the light flickered, but the king only stared at him blankly.
“I am no demon,” the king said. He seemed to be considering the matter carefully. “No. But soon I will be more—much more—than a man. I can feel it already, feel myself opening to the winds that cry between stars, feel myself as a night sky where comets flare....”
“May Usires the Ransomer forgive me,” Josua breathed. “You are correct, Elias. You are no longer my brother.”
The king’s calm expression twisted into rage. “And whose is the fault?! You have envied me since you were a child and have done your best to destroy me. You took my wife from me, my beloved Hylissa, stole her and gave her to Death! I have not had a moment’s peace since!” The king lifted a twitching hand. “But that was not enough—no, cutting out my heart was not enough for you, but you would have my rightful kingship, too! So you covet my crown, do you?” he bellowed. “Here, take it!” He wrenched at the dark circlet as Josua stared. “Cursed iron—it has burned me until I thought I would go mad!” Elias grunted as he ripped it free and cast it to the floor. A seared shadow-crown of torn, blackened flesh remained on his brow.
Josua took a step back, eyes wide with horror and pity. Tears ran down his cheeks. “I pray ... Aedon’s mercy! I pray for your soul, Elias.” The prince lifted his leather-capped arm as though to push away what he saw. “Ah, God, you poor man!” He stiffened, then raised Naidel and extended it until the point trembled before the king’s breast. “But you must surrender that cursed sword. There are only moments before Pryrates comes. I cannot wait.”
The king dropped his chin, peering out at Josua from beneath his eyebrows, head lolling as if his neck was broken. A thick droplet of blood oozed from the place where the crown had been. “Ah. Ah. Is it that time, then? I grow confused, since everything has already happened—or so it seems ...” He swept up the gray thing, and for a moment it hardened into existence, a long mottle-bladed sword with a double guard, streaked with fiery gleams. Tiamak quailed, but stayed where he was, unable to look away. The blade seemed a piece of the storm-tortured sky. “Very well....”
Josua leaped forward with a wordless cry, Naidel darting like lightning. The king flicked Sorrow and knocked the blow aside, but did not return the thrust. Josua danced back, shaking as though fevered; Tiamak wondered if merely having the gray sword touch his own made him quiver so. The prince waded in again, and for long moments he strove to break through his brother’s guard. Elias seemed to fight in a sort of dream, moving in sudden spasms, but only enough to block Josua’s attacks, waiting until the last moment each time as though he knew where the prince would strike.
Josua at last drew back, gasping for breath. The sweat on his brow gleamed as lightning flickered in the distance.
“You see,” Elias said, “it is too late for such crude methods.” He paused for a moment; a rumble of thunder gently shook the bells. “Too late.” The smoky light in his eyes flared as he lifted Sorrow. “But it is not too late for me to enjoy a little repayment for all the evil you have done me—my wife dead, my throne made unsafe, my daughter’s heart poisoned against me. Later I will have other concerns. But for this time I can think on you, once-brother.” He stepped forward, the sword a shadowy blur.
Josua fought a desperate battle of resistance, but the king had a more than human strength. He quickly backed Josua against the southern window, then, despite the strange stiffness of his movements, kept the prince pinned there with heavy blows that Josua only barely managed to keep from his vital spots. Slender Naidel was not enough to hold the king away, and within instants Josua tottered against the window-ledge, unable to protect himself any longer. Elias abruptly reached out and grasped Naidel by the blade, then yanked it from Josua’s grip. Tiamak, desperate beyond sense, clambered up out of the stairwell and flung himself at the king’s back as Sorrow rose overhead. The Wrannaman dragged at Elias’ sword arm.
It was not enough to save the prince. Josua flung up his arms to protect himself, but the gray blade hammered down at his neck. Tiamak did not see the sword bite, but he heard the awful smash of impact and felt it shiver up the king’s arm. Josua’s head jerked and he flew to one side, blood streaming from his neck. He collapsed like an empty sack, then lay still.
Thrown off his balance, the king staggered sideways, then reached up and grasped the back of Tiamak’s neck with his free hand. For a moment the Wrannaman’s hands closed on Sorrow; the sword was so cold that it burned him. A horrible lance of chill pierced Tiamak’s chest and his arms lost their feeling. He had time only to let out a scream of anguish for his pain, for Josua, for all that had gone so terribly wrong, then the king tugged him free and threw hi
He lay on his side, crumpled against the wall.
Tiamak was unable to speak or move. His already fading vision blurred as his eyes filled with tears. A great noise suddenly boomed through the chamber, shaking even the floor beneath him. Red light bloomed even more brightly beyond the windows, as though flames surrounded the tower—for a moment they leaped high enough that he could see them, and see the king’s fire-drawn silhouette in the window. Then they were gone.
The bell had rung a third time.
32
The Tower
Simon paused at the throne room door. Despite the strange calm he had felt on his trip through the Hayholt’s underbelly, despite Bright-Nail hanging on his hip, his heart was thudding in his chest. Would the king be waiting silently in the dark, as in Hjeldin’s Tower?
He pushed through the doorway, one hand falling to his sword hilt.
The throne room was empty, at least of people. Six silent figures flanked the Dragonbone Chair, but Simon knew them of old. He stepped inside.
The heraldic banners that had hung along the ceiling had fallen, worried free by the teeth of the wind that streamed in through the high windows. Flattened beasts and birds lay in tangled piles, a few of them even draped limply across the bones of the great chair. Simon stepped over a waterstained pennant; the falcon stitched upon it stared, eye wide as though shocked by its tumble from the heavens. Nearby, partially covered by other damp banners, lay a black cloth with a stylized golden fish. As Simon looked at it, a memory came drifting up.
The tumult was growing outside. He knew he had little time to spare, but the wisp of memory teased him. He moved toward the black malachite statues. The pulsing storm light made their features seem to writhe, and for a moment Simon worried that the same magics that made the entire castle shift and change might be bringing the stone kings to life, but to his relief they remained frozen, dead.