To Green Angel Tower, Volume 2 by Tad Williams
Simon shook his head. “I believe that. I was there. It was worse inside. But why did they need us to bring the swords? Bright-Nail was less than a league away from Pryrates for two years. And surely, if they had really tried, they could have taken Thorn, either when we were coming back from Yiqanuc or when it was lying on a stone slab in Leavetaking House up on Sesuad‘ra. It doesn’t make sense.”
Jiriki spoke up. “Yes, this is perhaps the hardest matter of all to understand, Seoman. I can explain some of it. As we were struggling with Utuk‘ku at the Pool of Three Depths, much of her thought was revealed to us. She did not shield herself, but rather used that strength in her fight to capture and use the Pool. She believed there was little at that point we could do even if we understood the truth.” His slow hand-spread seemed a gesture of regret. “She was correct.”
“You held her off a long while,” Simon pointed out. “And at a great price, from what I heard. Who knows what might have happened if the Storm King hadn’t been forced to wait?”
Jiriki smiled thinly. “Of all of who fought beside the Pool, Likimeya understood the most in the short time we touched Utuk‘ku’s thoughts. My mother is recovering very slowly from the battle with her ancestor, but she has confirmed much that the rest of us suspected.
“The swords were almost living things. That will come as no surprise to anyone who bore one of them. A large part of their might was, as Binabik of Mintahoq suspected, the unwordly forces bound by the Words of Making. But almost as much of their power was in the effect those Words had. Somehow, the swords had life. They were not creatures like us—they had nothing in them that humans or even Sithi can fully understand—yet they lived. This was what made them greater than any other weapons, but it was also what made them difficult for anyone to rule or control. They could be called—their hunger to be together and to release their energies would eventually draw them to the tower—but they could not be compelled. Part of the terrible magic the Storm King needed for his plan to succeed, perhaps the most important part, was that the swords must come to the summoning themselves at the proper time. They must choose their own bearers.”
Isgrimnur watched Simon think carefully before speaking. “But Binabik also told me that the night Miriamele and I left Josua’s camp, the Norns tried to kill Camaris. But the sword had already chosen him—chosen him a long time ago! So why would they want him dead?”
“I may have the beginning of the answer to that,” Strangyeard spoke up. He was still nearly as diffident as when Isgrimnur had first met him years before, but a little boldness had begun to show through in recent days. “When we fled Naglimund, the Norns who pursued us behaved very strangely. Sir Deornoth was the first to realize that they were ... oh!” The archivist looked up, startled.
A gray shape had rushed into the throne room. It bounded up onto the steps before the dais, knocking Simon onto his side. The young man laughed, tangling his fingers in the wolf’s hackles, trying to keep the probing muzzle and long tongue from his face.
“She is full of gladness to see you, Simon!” Binabik called. He was just coming through the doorway, trotting in a futile effort to keep pace with Qantaqa. “She has been waiting long to bring you greeting. I was keeping her away before, while your wounds were new-bandaged.” The troll hurried forward, distractedly greeting the rest of the company as he wrestled Qantaqa to the stone floor beside the dais. She yielded, then stretched out between Binabik and Simon, huge and content. “You will be pleased for knowing I have found Homefinder this afternoon,” the troll told the young man. “She wandered away from the fighting and was roaming in the depths of the Kynswood.”
“Homefinder.” Simon said the name slowly. “Thank you, Binabik. Thank you.”
“I will take you for seeing her later.”
When all had settled in once more, Strangyeard continued. “Sir Deornoth was the first to see that they were not so much chasing us as ... herding us. They drove us out in fright, but they did not kill us when they surely could have. And they only became desperate to stop us when we turned toward the innermost depths of Aldheorte.”
“Toward Jao é-Tinukai‘i,” said Aditu softly.
“... And they also killed Amerasu when she had begun to see Ineluki’s plan.” Simon pondered. “But I still do not see why they tried to kill Camaris.”
Jiriki spoke. “They were content when you had the sword, Seoman, although I am sure it made Utuk‘ku unhappy when Ingen Jegger brought her the news that Dawn Children accompanied you. Still, she and Ineluki must have thought it doubtful we would so quickly grasp what they planned—and as it turned out, they were correct. Only First Grandmother perceived the lineaments of their plot. They removed her and sowed much other confusion beside. For those who dwelled in Stormspike, the Zida’ya were then little threat. They must have felt sure that when the time came, the black sword would select you or the Rimmersman Sludig or someone else to be its bearer. Josua would come for Bright-Nail-his father’s sword, after all—and the final rituals could take place.”
“But Camaris came back,” said Simon. “I suppose they didn’t suspect that might happen: Still, he had carried Thorn for decades. It only makes sense the sword would choose him again. Why should they fear him?”
Strangyeard cleared his throat. “Sir Camaris, may God rest his troubled soul—” the priest quickly sketched the Tree, “—confessed to me what he could not tell others. That confession must go with me to my grave.” Strangyeard shook his head. “Ransomer preserve him! But the reason he confessed to me at all was that Aditu and Geloë wished to know whether he had traveled to Jao ... whether he had met Amerasu. He had.”
“He told Prince Josua his secret, I am sure,” muttered Isgrimnur. Remembering that night, and Josua’s terrible expression, he wondered again at what mere words could have made the prince look as he had. “But Josua is dead, too, God rest him. We will never know.”
“But even though Father Strangyeard swears that it had nothing to do with our battles here,” Jiriki said, “it seems that Utuk‘ku and her ally did not know that. Nakkiga’s queen knew that Amerasu had met Camaris—perhaps she somehow gleaned the knowledge from First Grandmother herself during their tests of will. Having Camaris suddenly and unexpectedly appear On the scene, perhaps with some special wisdom Amerasu might have given him, and also with his long experience of one of the Great Swords ...” Jiriki shook his head. “We cannot know, but it seems they decided it was too much of a risk. They must have thought that with Camaris dead, the sword would find a new bearer, one less likely to complicate their scheme. After all, Thorn was not a loyal creature like Binabik’s wolf.”
Simon leaned back and stared at nothing. “So all our hopes, our quest for the swords, were a trap. And we walked into it like children.” He scowled. Isgrimnur knew that it was himself he berated.
“It was a damnably clever trap,” the duke offered. “One that must have been a-building for a long time. And in the end they failed.”
“Are we sure?” Simon turned to Jiriki. “Do we know they’ve failed?”
“Isgrimnur has told how the Hikeda‘ya fled when the tower fell—those that still lived. I am not sorry that he did not pursue them, for they are few now, and our kind give birth infrequently. Many died at Naglimund, and many here. The fact that they fled instead of fighting to the death tells much: they are broken.”
“Even after Utuk‘ku wrested control of the Pool from us,” Aditu said, “we fought her still. And when Ineluki began to cross over, we felt it.” The long pause was eloquent. “It was terrible. But we also felt it when his mortal body—King Elias’ body—died. Ineluki had abandoned the nowhere-place which had been his refuge, and risked final dissolution to enter back into the world. He risked, and he lost. There is surely nothing left of him.”
Simon raised an eyebrow. “And Utuk‘ku?”
“She lives, but her power is destroyed. She, too, gambled much, and it was through her magics that Ineluki’s being could be fixed in the tower duri
“You mean you saw her? Saw her face?”
Aditu inclined her head. “Horror of her own antiquity made her hide her features long ago—but to you, Seoman Snowlock, she would seem nothing but an old woman. Her features are lined and sagging, her skin mottled. Utuk‘ku Seyt-Hamakha is the Eldest, but her wisdom was corrupted by selfishness and vanity ages ago. She was ashamed that the years had caught up with her. And now even the terror and strength she wielded is gone.”
“So the power of Sturmrspeik and the White Foxes is finished,” Isgrimnur said. “We have suffered many losses, but we could have lost far more, Simon—lost everything. We have much to thank you and Binabik for.”
“And Miriamele,” Simon said quietly.
“And Miriamele, of course.”
The young man looked at the gathering, then turned back to the duke. “There’s more brings you here, I know. You answered my questions. What are yours?”
Isgrimnur couldn’t help noticing how Simon’s confidence had grown. He was still courteous, but his voice suggested that he deferred to no one. Which was as it should be. But there was an undercurrent of anger which made Isgrimnur hesitate before speaking. “Jiriki has been talking to me about you, about your ... heritage. I was astonished, I must say, but I can only believe him, since it fits with everything else we’ve learned—about John, about the Sithi, everything. I thought we would be bringing you the news, but something in your face told me you had already discovered it.”
Simon’s lips quirked in an odd half-smile. “I did.”
“So you know that you are of the blood of Eahlstan Fiskerne,” Isgrimnur forged on, “last king of Erkynland in the centuries before Prester John.”
“And the founder of the Scroll League,” Binabik added.
“And the one who truly killed the dragon,” Simon said dryly. “What of it?” Despite his calm, something intense and powerful moved beneath the surface. Isgrimnur was puzzled.
Before Isgrimnur could say anything more, Jiriki spoke. “I am sorry I could not tell you earlier what I knew, Seoman, my friend. I feared it could only burden and confuse you, or perhaps lead you to take dangerous risks.”
“I understand,” Simon said, but he did not sound pleased. “How did you know?”
“Eahlstan Fiskerne was the first mortal king after the fall of Asu‘a to reach out to the Zida’ya.” The sun was setting outside, and the sky beyond the windows was turning dark. A brisk wind coursed through the throne room and ruffled some of the banners on the floor. Jiriki’s white hair fluttered. “He knew us, and some of our folk came at times to meet with him in the caverns below the Hayholt—in the ruins of our home. He feared that what we Zida‘ya knew would be lost forever, and even that we might turn against humankind entirely after the destruction that Fingil had wrought. He was not far wrong. There has been little love for mortals among my folk. There was also little love for immortals among Eahlstan’s own kind. But as the years of his reign passed, small steps were taken, small confidences exchanged, and a delicate trust began to build. We who were involved kept it a secret.” Jiriki smiled. “I say ’we,‘ but I myself was only the message-bearer, running errands for First Grandmother, who could not let her continuing interest in mortals be widely known, even within her own family.”
“I was always jealous of you, Willow-Switch,” said Aditu, laughing. “So young, and yet with such important tasks!”
Jiriki smiled. “In any case, whatever might have been if Eahlstan had lived and his line had continued did not come to pass. The fire-worm Shurakai came, and in killing it, Eahlstan was himself killed. Whether his eventual successor John knew something of Eahlstan’s secret dealings with us and feared we would expose John’s lie that he was the dragon-slayer or there was some other reason for his enmity toward us, I do not know. But John set out to drive us from the last of our hiding places. He did not find them all, and never came near to discovering Jao é-Tinukai‘i, but he did us great harm. Almost all our contact with mortals ended during John’s life.”
Simon folded his hands. “I am sorry for the things my people have done. And I am glad to know my ancestor was such a man.”
“Eahlstan’s folk scattered before the wrath of the dragon. Eventually they settled into their exile, I am told,” Jiriki said. “And when John came and conquered, all hope of regaining the Hayholt was gone. So they nursed their secret and went on, a fishing folk living close to the waters as they had been in the days of Eahlstan Fiskerne’s ancestors. But Eahlstan’s ring they kept in the royal family, and passed it down from parent to child. One of Eahlstan’s great-grandchildren, a scholar like his forebear, studied the old Sithi runes from one of Eahlstan’s treasured scrolls, then had the motto that was the family’s pride—and Prester John’s secret shame—inscribed upon the ring. That was what Morgenes held in trust for you, Seoman: your past.”
“And I’m certain he would have told me some day.” Simon had listened to Jiriki’s tale with poorly-hidden tension. Isgrimnur stared, looking for the cracks in Simon’s nature that he half-expected, but feared, to see. “But what has it to do with anything now? All the royal blood in the world did not make me less of a dupe for Pryrates and the Storm King. It’s a pretty tale, no more. Half the noble houses in Nabban must have Imperators in their history. What of it?” His jaw was set belligerently.
Several of the company turned to Isgrimnur. The duke moved uncomfortably on the step. “Erkynland needs a ruler,” he said at last. “The Dragonbone Chair is empty.”
Simon’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “And.. ? ” he said at last. He stared at Isgrimnur dis trustfully. “Miriamele is in good health and has only a few wounds. In fact, she is just the same as she ever was,”—the bitterness in his voice was plain—“so surely she will soon be able to rule.”
“It is not her health that concerns us,” said the duke gruffly. Somewhere, this conversation had gone wrong. Simon was acting like one awakened from his rightful sleep by a group of misbehaving children. “It is—damn it, it’s her father!”
“But Elias is dead. She killed him herself. With the White Arrow of the Sithi.” Simon turned to Jiriki. “Come to think of it, since that arrow certainly saved my life, I suppose we have evened our debt.”
The Sitha did not respond. The immortal’s face was, as usual, unrevealing, but something in his posture suggested he was troubled.
“The people have suffered so under Elias that they may not trust Miriamele,” Isgrimnur said. “It’s foolish, I know, but there it is. If Josua had lived, they might have welcomed him with open arms. The barons know the prince resisted Elias ever since he began to go bad, that he suffered terribly and fought his way back from exile. But Josua is dead.”
“Miriamele did all those things, too!” Simon cried angrily. “This is nonsense!”
“We know, Simon,” said Tiamak. “I traveled with her a long way. Many of us know of her bravery.”
“Yes, I know it, too,” Isgrimnur growled, his own irritation flaring. “But what is true does not matter here. She fled Naglimund before the siege started and she did not reach Sesuad‘ra until after Fengbald had been defeated. Then she vanished again, and wound up in the Hayholt with her father at the very ending.” He grimaced. “And there are tales, doubtless spread by that whoreson Aspitis Preves, that she was his doxy while he served Pryrates. Rumors are flying.”
“But some of those things are true of me, too. Am I a traitor?”
“Miriamele is not a traitor, God knows—and I know.” Isgrimnur glared at him. “But after what her father has done, she may not be trusted. The people want someone on the throne they can trust.”
“Madness!” Simon slapped his hands against his thighs,
“We do not concern ourselves in these kind of mortal affairs,” Jiriki said a little stiffly.
“You are our friend, Seoman,” Aditu added. “Whatever we can do for you to help you in this time, we will. However, we also have only respect for Miriamele, though we know her but little.”
Simon turned to the troll. “Binabik?”
The little man shrugged. “I cannot say. Isgrimnur and the rest of you must be making decisions to settle it yourselves. You and Miriamele are both my friends. If you are wishing advice later, Simon, we will take Qantaqa off for walking and we will speak.”
“Speak about what? People telling lies about Miriamele?”
Isgrimnur cleared his throat. “He means he will talk to you about accepting the crown of Erkynland.”
Simon turned back to stare at the duke. This time, for all his newfound maturity, the young man could not hide any of his feelings. “You are ... you are offering me the throne?” he asked derisively, incredulously. “This is madness! Me? A kitchen boy!”
Isgrimnur could not help smiling. “You are much more than a kitchen boy. Your deeds are already filling up songs and stories everywhere between here and Nabban. Wait until the Battle in the Tower is added to the tally.”
“Aedon preserve me,” Simon said in disgust.
“But there are more important things.” The duke grew serious. “You are well-liked and well-known. Not only did you battle a dragon, you fought bravely for Sesuad‘ra and Josua, and people remember that. And now we can tell them that you have the blood of Saint Eahlstan Fiskeme, one of the most beloved men ever to hold a throne. In fact, it if weren’t true, I would be tempted to make it up.”
“But it doesn’t mean anything!” Simon exploded. “Don’t you think I’ve thought about it? I’ve been doing nothing but thinking since the moment I realized. I am a scullion who was taught by a very wise, very kind man. I have been lucky in my friends. I have been caught up in terrible things, I did what I had to, and I lived through it. None of that has anything to do with who my great-great-however-many-greats-grandfather was!”