118                                   Tad Williams

where should we begin? You have heard about Naglimund by now,
haven't you?"
 Miriamele nodded, her mouth full.
 "Something you may not know. Josua and some others escaped."
    In her excitement she choked on a crust of bread. Dinivan helped hold
the pitcher so she could drink.
    "Who went with him?" she asked when she could speak. "Duke
Isgrimnur? Vorzheva?"
    Dinivan shook his head. "I do not know. There was terrible destruction
and few survived. All the north is thick-shot with rumors. It is hard to sift
truth from them, but Josua's escape is certain."  "How did you find out?"
    "I'm afraid there are some things I may not say--not yet, anyway,
Princess. Please believe that it is for the best. The Lector Ranessin com-
mands me, and I am sworn to him--but there are some things I don't even
tell His Sacredness." He grinned. "Which is as it should be. A great man's
secretary must exercise discretion everywhere, even with the great man
himself."
  "But why did you have Count StreJwe send me to you?"
    "I did not know how informed you were. I heard that you were bound
for the Sancellan Mahistrevis to speak to your uncle, Duke Leobardis. I
could not let you go there. You know that Leobardis is dead?"
    "Strefiwe told me." She got up and took a peach from the plate. After a
moment's consideration, she broke off another hunk of cheese.
    "But did you know Leobardis died by treachery? By the hand of his
own son?"
    "Benigaris?" She was astonished. "But has he not taken the duke's
place? Haven't the nobles resisted?"
    "His treachery is not common knowledge, but there are whispers of it
everywhere. And his mother Nessalanta is his strongest supporter--although
I am sure that she at least suspects what her son did."
     "But if you know, why don't you do something!? Why hasn't the lector
 done anything?"
     Dinivan bowed his head, a look of pain on his face. "Because that is one
 of the things I haven't told him. I am sure he has heard the rumors,
 however."
     Miriamele put her plate on the bed. "Elysia, Mother of God! Why
 haven't you told him, Dinivan?"
     "Because I cannot prove it, nor can I reveal the source of my infbrma-
 tion. And there is nothing he could do without proof, my lady, except to
 upset an already strained situation. There are other grave problems in
 Nabban, Princess."
     "Please." She waved her hand impatiently. "Here I sit in a monk's robe,
 wearing my hair like a boy, and everyone is my enemy but you--or so it


STONE OF FAREWELL

119

seems. Call me Miriamele. And tell me what is happening in Nabban."
    "I will tell you a little, but most should wait. I have not entirely ignored
my secretarial duties: my master the lector would hke you to come to see
him in the Sancellan Aedonitis and we will have plenty of time to talk as
we ride." He shook his head. "It is enough to say that people are un-
happy, that the doom-criers who once were scorned in the streets of
Nabban are suddenly the subject of great attention. Mother Church is
under siege." He bent forward, staring at his large hands as he searched
for words. "The people feel a shadow over them. Although they cannot
name it, still it darkens their world. Leobardis' death--and your uncle was
much-beloved, Miriamele--has shaken his subjects, but it is rumor that
truly frightens them: rumor of things worse than war in the north, worse
than any contending of princes."
    Dinivan stood and pulled the door all the way open to let in the breeze.
The sea below was fiat and glossy. "The doom-shouters say that a force is
arising to cast down Holy Usires Aedon and the kings of men. In the
pubhc squares they cry that all must prepare to bow to a new sovereign,
the rightful master of Osten Ard."
    He came back and stood over Miriamele. Now she could see the signs of
deep worry on his face. "In some dark places a name is even being
whispered--the name of this coming scourge. They whisper of the Storm
King."
    Miriamele let out her breath in a great sigh. Even the staring sun of
noon could not disperse the shadows that seemed to come crowding into
the tower room.

    "They spoke of these things at Naglimund," Miriamele said later, as
they stood outside on the walkway looking out over the water. "The old
man at Naglimund, Jarnauga, seemed to think the end of the world was
coming, too. But I did not hear everything." She turned to look at
Dinivan, fierce grief upon her slender face. "They kept things from me
because I'm a girl. That's not right--I'm smarter than most of the men I
know!"
    Dinivan did not smile. "I've no doubt of that, Miriamele. In fact, I
think you should seek a greater challenge than merely being wiser than
men."
    "But I left Naglimund to do something," she continued unhappily.
"Hah! That was smart, wasn't it? I thought I'd bring Leobardis in on my
uncle's side, but he already was. And then he was killed, so what good did
it do Josua anyway?" She trooped a little way around the tower until she
looked out on the spine of the cliff and the backslope that fell away into a
green valley. Rolling hills stretched beyond, brushed with rippling light as
the wind moved among the grasses. She tried to imagine the end of the
world and could not do so. "How do you know Cadrach?" she asked at last.


120                                   Tad Williams

    "Cadrach is a name I never heard until you mentioned it," he replied. "I
knew him as Padreic, long years ago."
    "How many years ago could that be?" Miriamele smiled. "You're not
that old."
    The priest shook his head. "I have a young face, I suppose, but actually
I am nearing forty years--not much younger than your Uncle Josua."
She scowled. "All right, many years ago. Where did you know him?"
"Here and elsewhere. We were members of the same ... order, I
suppose you would say. But something happened to Padreic. He fell away
from us, and when I later heard tell of him the stories were not good. It
seemed that he had descended into very bad ways." "I'll say." Miriamele made a face.
    Dinivan looked at her curiously. "And how did you happen to give him
this unexpected--and no doubt undesired--bath?"
    She told him about their trip together, about Cadrach's suspected small
treacheries and her confirmation of his larger one. When she had finished,
Dinivan led her inside again, where Miriamele found her hunger had
returned.
    "He has not done right by you, Miriamele, but has not, I think, done
entirely wrong either. There may be hope for him--and not merely the
ultimate hope of salvation, which we all share. I mean that he may move
away from his criminal and drunkard ways." Dinivan walked a few steps
down from the top of the staircase, leaning over to look at Cadrach. Now
wrapped in a coarse blanket, the monk still slept, arms flung out as though
he had only this moment been dragged from the perilous waves. His wet
clothes were hanging in the low rafters.
    Dinivan returned to the room. "If he were beyond hope, why would
he have remained with you after he had received his silver from Strefiwe?"
    "So he could sell me to someone else," she responded bitterly. "My
father, my aunt, Naraxi child-merchants--who knows?"
    "Perhaps," said the lector's secretary, "but I do not think so. I think he
has conceived a feeling of responsibility to you--although that responsi-
bility does not prevent him from profiting where he thinks you will be
unharmed, as with the master of Perdruin. But unless the Padreic I know
is totally gone, vanished beyond any retrieval, I think he would not harm
you, nor would he willingly let harm come to you."
    "Small chance," Miriamele said grimly. "I will trust him again when
stars shine at noontime, but no sooner."
    Dinivan looked at her closely, then sketched the sign of the Tree in the
air. "We must be careful of such pronouncements in these strange days,
my lady." A grin came back to his face. "However, this talk of shining
stars reminds me--we have a job to do. When I arranged to use this
place to meet you, I promised the tower-keeper that we would light the
beacon tonight. The mariners who ply the coastline expect it to be there,


STONE OF FAREWELL                                                                121

lamp.

..........               you C,iF,,D here.. This~s*an 0i~ llader.
                         The tower's topmost room was little more than a place to hold the
                         beacon, a very large oil lamp squatting in the middle of the floor. There

                      . ~                          *   ~ -7=
                    :      =          =

            * z--!:~ a~ s_c~"5S_m: ha~=-~_~z om r~e.-::a;Ai; Dinz_x,--~-r s:ax_. ~-,; .......

                    -.,~ iJ,~,-,, ....water and some grapes. There. ~as really, no ~-e,-~e ~?,:,,:m~

           %e monk-va~:u~_ si~g:oa::tl~ ie~ elixir, sm~ng~uC L: _--rru~-ll, ths

                    n oi r:-S~ tr:~ -.':i Nam d e-a o .~<~ c ~:L- o d, ,b ': r a ~ fa~ ~c ak * dr~m~:t :~( ;v~:trr. ;:
                    After amoment he accepted ihe grapes as well
             "Padreic," Dinivan said, leaning close, "do you not remember me? I am
         Dinivan. We were friends once."
             "I recognize you, Dinivan," Cadrach said at last. His hoarse voice
         echoed strangely in the small round room. "But Padreic ec-Crannhyr is
         long dead. There is only Cadrach now. The monk avoided Miriamele s eyes.


122                                   Tad Williams

    Dinivan watched him intently. "Have you no wish to speak?" he asked.
"There is nothing you can have done that would make me think badly of
you."
    Cadrach looked up, a smirk on his round face, his gray eyes full of pain.
"Oh, is that true? Nothing so foul I might have done that Mother Church
and.., and our other friends . . . would not take me back?" He laughed
bitterly and waved his hand in disgust. "You lie, brother Dinivan. There
are crimes beyond forgiveness, and a special place prepared for their
perpetrators." Angry, he turned away and would not speak any more.
    Outside the waves murmured as they struck the rocky coast and fell
back, hushed voices that seemed to welcome the settling night.

    Tiamak watched Older Mogahib, Roahog the Potter, and the other
elders climb into the rocking flatboat. Their faces were grave, as befitted
the ceremonial occasion. The ritual feather necklaces drooped in the damp
heat.
    Mogahib stood uneasily in the stern of the boat and turned to look back.
"Do not fail us, Tiamak son of Tugumak," he croaked. The ancient one
frowned and impatiently brushed the leaves of his headdress out of his
eyes. "Tell the drylanders that the Wrannamen are not their slaves. Your
people have given you their greatest trust." Older Mogahib was helped to
sit down by one of his great-nephews. The overloaded boat wallowed
away down the watercourse.
    Tiamak made a sour face and looked down at the Summoning Stick
they had given him, its surface knobby with carvings. The Wrannamen
were upset because Benigaris, the new master of Nabban, had demanded
greater tithes of grain and jewels, as well as young sons from the houses of
the Wran to come and serve on the holdings of Nabhanai nobles. The
elders wanted Tiamak to go and speak for them, to protest this further
meddling by the drylanders in the lives of the Wrannamen.
    So yet another responsibility was now laid on Tiamak's slender shoul-
ders. Had any of his people ever said one respectful word to him about his
learning? No, they treated him as little more than a madman, someone
who had turned his back on the Wran and his people to follow the ways of
the drylanders--until they needed someone to write or speak to the
Nabbanai or Perdruinese in their own tongue. Then, it was: "Tiamak, do
your duty."
    He spat from the porch of his house and watched the green water ripple
below. He pulled up his ladder and left it lying in a heap instead of neatly
rolled as was usual. He was feeling very bitter.


STONE OF FAREWELL

123

    One good thing would come of this, he decided later while waiting for
his water pot to boil. If he went to Nabban, as his tribesmen insisted, he
would be able to visit his wise friend who lived there and find out if
anything more could be discovered about Doctor Morgenes' strange
note. He had been fretting over it for weeks, yet felt no closer to a
solution. His messenger birds to fat Ookequk in Yiqanuc had returned,
their messages unopened. That was troubling. The birds he had sent to
Doctor Morgenes had returned as well, but that, although disappointing,
was less worrisome than Ookequk's silence, since Morgenes had said in
his last note that he might not be able to communicate for some while.
Neither had his messages been answered by the witch woman who lived
in Aldheorte Forest, or by his friend in Nabban. Tiamak had only sent
those last birds out a few weeks ago, however, so they still might reply.
    But if I am traveling to Nabban, he realized, I will not see any replies for two
months or more.
    In fact, now that he thought of it, what would he do with his birds? He
didn't have nearly enough seed to keep them penned for the entire time
he would be gone, and he certainly couldn't take them all with him. He
would have to turn them loose to fend for themselves, hoping that they
would stay close to his little house in the banyan tree so he could
recapture them when he returned. And if they flew away and did not
come back, what would he do? He would have to train more, that was all.
    Tiamak's sigh was subsumed in the hiss of steam escaping from beneath
the pot lid. As he dropped in the yellowroot to steep, the little scholar
tried to remember the prayer for a safe journey that one should make to
He Who Always Steps on Sand, but could only think of the Showing-the-
Hiding-Places-of-Fish prayer, which was not really appropriate. He sighed
again. Even though he didn't quite believe in his people's gods anymore, it
never hurt to pray--but one really ought to say the right prayer.
    As long as he was pondering such things, what would he do with that
damnable parchment Morgenes talked about in his letter--or seemed to
talk about, for how could the old doctor know that Tiamak had it? Should
he take it with him and risk losing it? But he had to, if he was going to
show it to his friend in Nabban and ask his advice.
    So many problems. They seemed to be crowding his head like black-
flies, buzzing and buzzing. He had to think it all through clearly--especially
if he was to leave in the morning for Nabban. He had to look at each piece
of this puzzle.
    First Morgenes' message, which he had read and reread dozens of times
in the four moons or so since he had received it. He took it from the top
of the wooden chest and smoothed it, leaving smudges with his yellowroot-
stained hands. He knew the contents by heart.
    Doctor Morgenes wrote of his fears that "... the time of the Conqueror
Star" was surely upon them--whatever that might mean--and that Tiamak's


124                                   Tad Williams

help would be needed "... if certain dreadful things which--it is said--are
hinted at in the inJhmous lost book of the priest Nisses . . ." were to be avoided.
But what things? "The infamous lost book ..."--that was Nisses' Du
Svardenvyrd, as any scholar knew.
    Tiamak reached down into the chest and removed a leaf-wrapped bun-
dle, unrolling it to remove his prized parchment, which he spread on the
floor beside Morgenes' letter. This parchment page, which Tiamak had
stumbled on by luck at the market in Kwanitupul, was of much higher
quality than anything he himself could afford. The rusty brown ink
formed the northern runes of Rimmersgard, but the language itself was
the archaic Nabbanai of five centuries gone.

"... Bringe ~om Nuanni's Rocke Garden
The Man who tho' Blinded canne See
Discover the Blayde that delivers The Rose
At the foote of the Rimmer's greate Tree
Find the Call whose lowde Claime
Speakes the Call-bearer's name
In a Shippe on the Shallowest Sea--
--When Blayde, Ca!l, and Man
Come to Prince's right Hande
Then the Prisoned shall once more go Free . . ."

Below this incomprehensible poem was printed the name "NISSES."
So what was Tiamak to think? Morgenes could not know that Tiamak
had discovered a page of the near-mythical book--the Wrannaman hadn't
told a soul--yet still the doctor had said that Tiamak would have impor-
tant work to do, something to do with Du Svardenvyrd!
    His inquiries to Morgenes and the others had gone unanswered. Now
he must go to Nabban to plead his people's cause to the drylanders, yet he
still did not know what it could all mean.
    Tiamak poured the tea out of the pan into his third-favorite bowl--he
had dropped and broken his second-favorite bowl that morning, when
Older Mogahib and the others had started braying beneath his window.
He cupped the warm bowl in his slender fingers and blew across the top.
"Hot day, hot tea," his mother had always said. Today was certainly hot.
The air was so still and oppressive that he almost felt he could leap off his
porch and swim through it. Hot weather alone did not make him un-
happy, since he was always less hungry when the heat was fierce, but
nevertheless there was something disconcerting about the air today, as
though the Wran were a smoldering bar of tin on the world-anvil, with a
great hammer trembling above it, ready to smash down and change
everything.
 That morning Roahog the Potter, taking a moment to gossip while


STONE OF FAREWELL

125

Older Mogahib was helped up the ladder, had said that a colony of ghants
was building a new nest just a couple of furlongs down the watercourse
from Village Grove. Ghants had never come so close to a human settle-
ment before, and although Roahog had chuckled about how the Wrannamen
would soon put the nest to fire, the story nevertheless left Tiamak unset-
fled, as if some undefined but recognized law had been violated.
    As the slow, sweltering afternoon wore on toward evening, Tiamak
kept trying to think about the demands of the Duke of Nabban, and about
Morgenes' letter, but visions of the nest-building ghants pushed in--their
brownish-gray jaws clicking industriously, their mad little black eyes
glittering--and try as he might, he could not rid himself of the ridiculous
notion that somehow all these things were related.
    It is the heat, he told himself. If only I had a cool jug of tim beer, these wild
ideas would disappear.
    But he did not even have enough yellowroot to make another cup of
tea, let alone any fern beer. His heart was troubled and there was nothing
in the wide, hot Wran that would give him peace.

    Tiamak rose with the first light of dawn. By the time he had cooked
and eaten a rice-flour biscuit and drunk a little water, the swamp was
already becoming unpleasantly warm. He grimaced as he began his pack-
ing. This was a day to go splashing and swimming in one of the safe
ponds, not set out on a journey.
    There was actually little to pack. He selected a spare breechclout and a
robe and pair of sandals to wear in Nabban--there was no reason to
reinforce the unfortunate opinion of his people's backwardness held by
most Nabbanai. He had no use on this trip, however, for his stretched-
bark writing board, his wooden chest, or most of his other meager lot of
possessions. His precious books and scrolls he dared not take, since there
was a better than average chance he would wind up in the water a few
times before he reached the cities of the drylanders.
    He had decided he must take the Nisses parchment, so he wrapped it in
a second layer of leaves and bundled the whole into an oiled skin bag
given to him by Doctor Morgenes when Tiamak had lived in Perdruin.
He put the bag, the Summoning Stick, and his clothes into his fiat-
bottomed boat, along with his third-best bowl, a handful of cooking
implements, and a throwing-sling with a folded leaf full of round stones.
He hung his knife and his coin-pouch on his belt. Then, having stalled as
long as he could, he climbed up the banyan tree to the top of the house to
set his birds free.
    As he climbed across the thatched roof he could hear the drowsy, muffled
speech of the birds within their small cottage. He had put the remaining
seed in his fourth-best--and last--bowl, setting it out on the windowsill
below. They would at least stay near the house for a while after his departure.


126                                   Tad Williams

    He poked his hand into the little bark-roofed box and delicately re-
moved one of his pigeons, a pretty white-and-gray named So-fast, then
tossed her up into the air. She fanned her wings briskly, settling at last on
a hmb above his head. Unsettled by this unusual behavior, she hooted
quietly, questioningly. Tiamak knew the grief of a father whose daughter
must be sent to strangers. But he had to remove the birds, and the door to
their house, which only opened inward, had to be fastened shut. Other-
wise, these birds or their absent kindred would enter and be trapped. With
no Tiamak to rescue them, they would soon starve.
    Feeling very unhappy, he carefully removed Red-eye, Crab-foot, and
Honey-lover. Soon there was a disapproving chorus perched above him.
Alerted that something unusual was happening, the birds still inside had
fled skittishly to the back of the httle house, so that Tiamak had to strain
to reach them. As he tried to grasp one of these last recalcitrants, his hands
brushed against a small, cold bundle of feathers that lay just out of sight in
the shadows at the far end.
    Suddenly full of worry, he closed his hand around the object and lifted
it out. It was one of his birds, he saw immediately, and it was dead. Eyes
wide, he examined it closely. It was Ink-daub, one of the pigeons he had
dispatched to Nabban several days ago. Ink-daub had apparently been
injured by some animal: many of his feathers were missing and he was
spotted with dried blood. Tiamak was sure the bird hadn't been there
yesterday, so he must have arrived during the night, flying with his last
strength despite his wounds, reaching his home only to die.
    Tiamak found the world swimming before his eyes as the tears came.
Poor Ink-daub. He was a fme bird, one of the fastest fliers. He had been
very brave, too. Everywhere on the bird's body that Tiamak looked,
blood showed beneath the tattered feathers. Poor, brave Ink-daub.
    A slender strip of parchment was curled around the pigeon's twiglike
ankle. Tiamak placed the silent bundle aside for a moment and coaxed out
the last two birds, then wedged the small door closed with a notched
stick. With Ink-daub's body curled in a gentle hand, Tiamak climbed
down to the window and into the house. He set down the pigeon's body
and carefully removed the parchment, spreading it out on the floor be-
tween his fingertips, squinting at the tiny characters. The message was
from his wise friend in Nabban, whose hand Tiamak recognized even in
bird-writing, but was inexplicably unsigned.

The time has come,

it read,

and you are sorely needed. Morgenes cannot ask you, but I ask for him. Go
to Kwanitupul, stay at the inn we have spoken of, and wait there until I can


STONE OF FAREWELL

127

tell you more. Go there immediately and do not stray. More than lives may
depend on you.

At the bottom was scribbled a drawing of a feather in a circle--the
symbol of the League of the Scroll.
    Tiamak sat dumbstruck, staring at the message. He read it two more
times, hoping it would miraculously say something different, but the
words remained unchanged. Go to Kwanitupul! But the elders had or-
dered him to Nabban! There was no one else in his tribe who could speak
the drylander languages well enough to serve as an emissary. And what
would he tell his tribesmen--that some drylander they didn't know had
told him to go wait for instructions at Kwanitupul, that this was reason
enough to turn his back on his people's wishes? What did the League of
the Scroll mean to Wrannamen? A circle of drylander scholars who talked
of old books and older events? His people would never understand.
    But how could he ignore the gravity of the summons? His friend in
Nabban had been exphcit--had even said that this was what Morgenes
wanted him to do. Without Morgenes, Tiamak would never have sur-
vived his year in Perdruin, let alone gained the wonderful fellowship to
which the doctor had introduced him. How could he not do this one
thing--this, the only favor Morgenes had ever asked of him?
    The hot air was pushing in at the windows like a hungry beast. Tiamak
folded the note and slipped it into his sheath. He must attend to Ink-daub.
Then he would think. Perhaps it would be cooler as evening drew closer. Surely
he could wait one more day before leaving, wherever he was to go? Surely?
    Tiamak wrapped the bird's small body in oil palm leaves, then wound it
in a length of thin cord. He stilted through the shallows to a sandbar
behind his house, where he set the bundle of leaves on a rock and
surrounded it with bark and precious strips of old parchment. After
uttering a prayer for Ink-daub's spirit to She Who Waits to Take All Back,
he used his flint and steel to set the tiny pyre aflame.
    As the smoke coiled upward, Tiamak reflected that there was something
to be said for the old ways after all. If nothing else, they provided
something to do at a time when the mind was weary and hurting. For a
moment, he was even able to push aside the troubling thoughts of duty,
feeling instead a strange sort of peace as he watched Ink-daub's smoke take
flight, rising slowly into the feverish gray sky.
    Soon, though, the smoke was gone and the ashes were scattered across
the green water.

    When Miriamele and her two companions came down off the hill path
onto the North Coast Road, Cadrach jogged his mount ahead, putting


128                                   Tad Williams

several lengths between himself and Dinivan and the princess. The morn-
ing sun was at their backs. The horses Dinivan had brought trotted along
with heads waving, nostrils wide to catch the scents on the early breeze.
    "Ho, Padreic!" Dinivan shouted, but the monk did not reply. His round
shoulders bounced up and down. His hood was lowered as if he hung his
head in thought. "Very well, then--Cadrach," the priest called, "why do
you not ride with us?"
    Cadrach, a graceful horseman despite his bulk and short legs, reined up.
When the other two had nearly caught him, he turned.
    "It is a problem with names, brother," he said, showing his teeth in an
angry smile. "You call me by one that belongs to a dead man. The
princess, well now, she's given me a new one--"traitor"--and baptized
me with it in Emettin Bay to seal the bargain. So you see, don't you, it
would be all too confusing, this--one might say--multiplicity of names."
With an ironic bow of the head, he dug his heels into his horse's ribs and
forged ahead, slowing again to match their pace when he had extended his
lead to a dozen ells or so.
    "He is very bitter," Dinivan said as he watched Cadrach's hunched
shoulders.
 "What does he have to be bitter about?" Miriamele demanded.
 The priest shook his head. "God knows."
    Coming from a priest, she decided, it was hard to tell exactly what that
phrase might signify.

    Nabban's North Coast Road meandered along between the ridge of hills
and Emettin Bay, sometimes jogging inland so that the hills' tan flanks
rose on the right, blocking all view of the water. Farther on, the hills fell
away again for a short time and the rocky coastline appeared once more.
As the trio approached Teligure, the road began to fill with other traffic:
farm wains shedding streams of loose hay, foot peddlers carrying their
wares hung on poles, small troops of local guardsmen marching offi-
ciously from one place to another. Many travelers, seeing the golden Tree
that hung on Dinivan's black-robed chest and the monkish robes of his
companions, bowed their heads or made the Tree-sign across their breasts.
Beggars ran alongside the priest's horse, crying: "Father, Father! Aedon's
mercy, Father!" If they seemed truly crippled in some way, Dinivan
reached into his robes and produced a cintis-piece, which he tossed down
to them. Miriamele noticed that few of the beggars, no matter how
hobbled or deformed, ever let the coin strike the ground.
    They stopped at midday in Teligure itself, a sprawling market town set
in the lap of the hills, where they refreshed themselves with fruit and hard
bread bought from stalls in the town square. Here, in the crush of
commerce, three religious travelers drew little notice.
                 ~r    ~r    ~t


                                         STONE OF FAREWELL                                                                129

     Miriamele was basking in the bright sun, hood pushed back so that she
 could feel the warmth on her forehead. All around her echoed the cries of
 the hawkers and the outraged shrieks of swindled buyers. Cadrach and
 Dinivan stood nearby, the priest bargaining with a seller of boiled eggs
 while his sullen companion eyed a wine-merchant's booth next door.
 Miriamele realized with some surprise that she felt happy.
    Just like that? she chided herself, but the sun felt too nice for self-
vilification. She had been fed, had ridden all morning free as the wind, and
nobody around was paying the slightest attention to her. At the same
time, she felt strangely protected.
    She thought suddenly of the kitchen boy Simon and her contented
mood expanded to touch the memory of him as well. He had a nice smile,
Simon had--not practiced, like one of her father's courtiers. Father Dinivan
had a good smile, too, but it never looked surprised at itself, as Simon's
almost always did.
    In a strange way, she realized, the days spent traveling to Naglimund
with Simon and Binabik the troll had been some of the best of her life. She
laughed at herself, at such a ridiculous notion, and stretched as luxuriously
as a cat on a windowsill. They had faced terror and death, had been chased
by the terrible hunter Ingen and his hounds, and had nearly been killed by
a Hun~, a murderous, shaggy giant. But still she had felt very free.
Pretending to be a servant, she had felt more herself than ever before.
Simon and Binabik talked to her--not to her title, not to her father's
power or their own hopes for reward or advancement.
    She missed them both. She felt a sharp and sudden pang thinking of the
little troll and poor, gawky, red-thatched Simon wandering in the snowy
wilderness. In the frustration of her imprisonment in Perdruin she had
almost forgotten them--where were they? Were they in danger? Were
they even alive?
 A shadow fell across her face. She flinched, startled.
    "I don't think I can keep our friend out of the wine-stalls much longer,"
Dinivan said. "Nor am I sure I have a right to. We should take to the road
again. Were you sleeping?"
 "No." Miriamele pulled her hood forward and stood up. "Just thinking."

    Duke Isgrimnur sat wheezing before the fire, thinking seriously about
breaking something or hitting someone. His feet hurt, his face had itched
like sin ever since he had shaved off his beard--and what kind of
be-damned madman was he to have agreed to that?!--and he was not one
whit closer to finding Princess Miriamele than he had been when he left
Naglimund. All that was bad enough, but now things had gotten even
worse.


130                                   Tad Williams

    Isgrimnur had felt sure he was narrowing the gap. When he had fol-
lowed Miriamele's trail to Perdruin, and confirmed with the old tosspot
Gealsgiath that the captain had left her and the criminal monk Cadrach
here in Ansis Pellip~, the duke had been certain it was only a matter of
time. Even hobbled by his monk's disguise, Isgrimnur knew Ansis Pellip~
well, and could find his way through most of its seedier neighborhoods.
Soon, he had felt sure, he would have her in hand and could take her back
to her uncle Josua at Naglimund, where she would be safe from her father
Elias' doubtful charities.
    Then the twin blows had fallen. The first had been slower in effect, the
culmination of many fruitless hours and a small fortune in pointless bribes:
it had gradually become clear to Isgrimnur that Miriamele and her escort
had disappeared from Ansis Pelipp~, as completely as if they had sprouted
wings and flown away. Not a single smuggler, cutpurse, or tavern harlot
had seen them since Midsummer's Eve. She and Cadrach were a hard pair
to miss--two monks traveling together, one fat, one young and slender--
but they had vanished. Not a single boatman had seen them carried away,
or even heard of them inquiring after passage at the docks. Gone!
    The second blow, falling on top of his personal failure, struck Isgrimnur
like a great stone. He had not been on Perdruin a fortnight before the
wharfside taverns were alive with stories of the fall of Naglimund. The
sailors repeated the rumors cheerfully, talking of the slaughter Elias'
mysterious second army had wreaked on the castle's inhabitants as if
reveling in the twists and turns of an old fireside tale.
    Oh, my Gutrun, Isgrimnur had prayed, his innards knotted with fear and
rage, Usires protect you fi'om harm. Let you come out saJ~ again, wi~, and I will
build a cathedral to Him with my bare hands. And Isorn, my brave son, andJosua
and all the rest...
    He had cried that first night, in a dark alley by himself, where no one
would see the huge monk sobbing, where for at least a little while he need
not falsify. He was frightened in a way he had never quite been before.
    How could it have happened so swi~ly? he wondered. That damnable castle
was built to last out a ten-year siegel Was it treachery _from within?
    And how, even if his family had been saved by some miracle and he
could find them again, how would he ever get back his lands that Skali
Sharp-nose had stolen with the High King's help? With Josua broken,
with Leobardis and Lluth dead, there was none who could stand in Elias'
way.
    Still, he must find Miriamele. He could at least discover her, rescue her
from the traitor Cadrach and take her somewhere safe. That one piece of
misery still remained which he could prevent Elias from accomplishing.
    So, defeated, he had come at last to The Hat and Plover, an inn of the
lowest sort, which was just what his aching spirit craved. His sixth jug of
sour beer sat at his side, as yet untouched. Isgrimnur brooded.


                                 STONE OF FAREWELL                                                  131

    He might have dozed, for he had been walking the long waterfront all
day and was very tired. The man who stood before him might have been
there for some time. Isgrimnur did not like his look.  "What are you staring at?" he growled.
    The stranger's eyebrows came together over his eyes. His lantern jaw
was set in a contemptuous smirk. He was tall and dressed in black, but the
Duke of Elvritshalla did not find him nearly as impressive as the stranger
obviously felt himself to be.
    "Are you the monk who has been asking questions all over the city?"
the stranger demanded.
    "Go away," Isgrimnur replied. He reached to take a draught of beer. It
made him feel a little more alert, so he took another swallow.
    "fire you the one who has been asking about the other monks?" the
stranger began again. "About the tall and short ones?"
    "I might be. Who are you, and what business do you have with me?"
Isgrimnur grunted, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. His
head hurt.
    "My name is Lenti," the stranger said. "My master wishes to speak
with you."
 "find who is your master?"
 "Never mind. Come. We will go now."
    lsgrimnur belched. "I do not wish to go meet any nameless masters. He
can come to me if he wishes. Now go away."
    Lenti bent forward, his eyes keenly fixed on Isgrimnur's. There were
pimples on his chin.
    "You will come now, fat old man, if you don't want to be hurt," he
whispered fiercely. "I have a kn~."
    Isgrimnur's hamhock fist struck him right where his eyebrows met.
Lenti pitched backward and dropped bonelessly, as though he had been
struck with a slaughtering-hammer. A few of the other tavern-goers
laughed before turning back to their various unpleasant conversations.
    After a while the duke leaned forward, pouring-a stream of beer onto
his black-clad victim's face. "Get up, man, get up. I have decided I will go
with you and meet your master." Isgrimnur grinned wickedly as Lenti
spluttered foam. "I was feeling poorly before, but by Aedon's Holy Hand,
I suddenly feel a great deal better!"


    Teligure disappeared behind the three riders. They continued west on the
Coast Road, following its winding course through a handful of compact
towns. The work of bringing in the hay was going forward at full speed
on the hillsides and in the valley below, haycocks rising all over the fields


132                                   Tad Williams

like the heads of wakened sleepers. Miriamele listened to the chanting
voices of the field-masters and the joking cries of the women as they
waded out into the tawny pastures with bottles and wallets containing the
workers' mid-afternoon meals. It seemed a happy, simple life, and she said
as much to Dinivan.
    "If you think working each day from before sunup to dark, breaking
your back in the fields is happy and simple work, then you are right," he
answered, narrowing his eyes against the sun. "But there is little rest, and
when the year is bad, little food. And," he said, smiling wickedly, "most
of your crop goes out as tithes to the baron. But that seems to be what
God intended. Certainly, honest labor is better than a life of beggary or
theft--in the eyes of Mother Church, anyway, if not in the eyes of some
beggars and most thieves."
    "Father Dinivan!" exclaimed Miriamele, a little shocked. "That sounds
 . . I don't know . . . heretical, I suppose."
    The priest laughed. "God the Highest gifted me with a heretical nature,
my lady, so if He regrets his gift, he will soon gather me back to His
bosom again and make all right. But my old teachers would agree with
you. I was frequently told that my questions were the devil's tongue
speaking in my head. Lector Ranessin, when he offered me the position of
his secretary, told my teachers: Better the devil's tongue to argue and
question than a silent tongue and an empty head.' Some of the Church's
more proper priests find Ranessin a difficult master." Here Dinivan frowned.
"But they know nothing. He is the best man on earth."
    During the long afternoon Cadrach allowed the distance between him-
self and his companions to diminish gradually, until at last they were
riding nearly side-by-side once more. This concession did not loosen his
lips, however; although he seemed to be listening to Miriamele's questions
and Dinivan's stories of the land through which they passed, he did not in
any way join the conversation.

    The cloud-strewn sky had turned orange and the sun was streaming into
their eyes as they approached the walled town of Granis Sacrana, the spot
Dinivan had chosen for them to spend the night. The town sat on a bluff
overlooking the Coast Road. The hills all around, sunset brushed, were
tangled with grape vines.
    To the travelers' surprise, a squad of guardsmen sat mounted at the
broad gate questioning those who sought entrance. They were not local-
levied troops, but armored men wearing the gold kingfisher of the royal
Benidrivine House. When Dinivan gave their names--choosing Cadrach's
by default and offering "Malachias" on the princess' behalf--they were
told that they must ride on and harbor elsewhere that night. "And why should such a thing be?" Dinivan demanded.
 The sheepish guardsman could only stubbornly repeat his order.


STONE OF FAREWELL

133

  "Then let me speak to your sergeant."
  The sergeant, when produced, echoed his subordinate's words.
    "But why, man?" the priest asked hotly. "By whose orders? Is there
plague here, or something like?"
    "Something like indeed," the sergeant said, scratching his long nose in a
worried manner. "It's by the orders of Duke Benigaris himself, or so I
take it to be. l have his seal on it."
    "And l bear the seal of the Lector Ranessin," Dinivan said, producing a
ring from his pocket and waggling its blood-red ruby beneath the startled
sergeant's nose. "Know that we are on the holy business of the Sancellan
Aedonitis. Is there plague, or what? If there is no dangerous air or diseased
water, we will stay here tonight."
    The troop-sergeant took off his helmet and squinted at Dinivan's signet
ring. When he looked up, his thick face was still troubled.
    "As I said, Your Eminence," he begun unhappily, "it's like a plague.
It's those madmen, those Fire Dancers."
    "What are Fire Dancers?" Miriamele asked, remembering to imitate a
boy's gruff tones.
  "Doom-criers," Dinivan said grimly.
    "If that were all," the sergeant said, spreading his hands helplessly. He
was a large man, broad-shouldered and thick-legged, but he looked quite
undone. "They're mad, the lot of them. Duke Benigaris has commanded
that we... well, keep a watch over them. We are not to interfere, but I
thought that at least we could keep more strangers from coming in . . ."
He trailed off, looking uneasily at Dinivan's ring.
    "We are not strangers, and as the lector's secretary I am in little danger
of falling under the sway of these people's exhortations," Dinivan said
sternly. "So let us in, that we may find shelter for the night. We have
ridden long. We are tired."
    "Very well, Your Eminence," the sergeant said, waving for his troops
to unblock the gates. "But I take no responsibility..."
    "We all take responsibility in this life, every one of us," the priest
responded seriously, then softened his expression. "But our Lord Usires
understands about difficult burdens." He made the sign of the Tree as they
rode in past the sergeant's jostling men-at-arms.
    "That soldier seemed very upset," Miriamele said as they clattered up
the central row. Many houses were shuttered, but pale faces peeped from
doorways, watching the travelers. For a town the size of Granis Sacrana,
the streets were surprisingly empty. Small groups of soldiers rode back
and forth from the gates, but only a few other folk hurried along the dusty
street, darting uneasy glances at Miriamele and her companions before
dropping their eyes and hustling on.
    "The troop-sergeant is not the only one," Dinivan answered as they
rode along in the shadows of the tall houses and shops. "Fear sweeps
through all Nabban like a plague these days."


134                                   Tad Williams

    "Fear goes where it is invited," Cadrach said quietly, but turned away
from their questioning looks.
    When they reached the marketplace in the center of town they discov-
ered why Granis Sacrana's streets were so preternaturally empty. A crowd
stood half a dozen deep around the town square, whispering and laughing.
Although the final glimmers of afternoon still warmed the horizon, the
torches had been lit in their sconces all around the square, throwing
quivering shadows into the dark places between houses and illuminating
the white robes of the Fire Dancers, who swayed and shouted in the
middle of the commons.
    "There must be a hundred of them or more!" Miriamele said in sur-
prise. Dinivan wore a scowling, worried face. Some in the watching
crowd were shouting derisively or throwing stones and refuse at the
capering dancers, but others stared intently, even fearfully, as if at some
animal upon which they feared to turn their backs.
    "Too late for repentance!" one of the robed ones screeched, bounding
away from his fellows to bob up and down like a jumping jack before the
front row of spectators. The crowd eddied away from him as if fearful of
some contagion. "Too late," he shouted. His face, that of a young man
with his first beard, split in a grin of glee. "Too late! The dreams told us!
The master's coming!"
    Another of the white-clad figures climbed onto a stone in the center of
the commons, waving to silence fellow dancers. The watchers murmured
as this one threw back a capacious hood, revealing the yellow-haired head
of a woman. She would have been very pretty, but for her staring eyes,
white-rimmed in the torchlight, and her huge, ghastly smile.
    "The fire is coming!" she cried. The other dancers capered and shouted,
then quieted. A few in the surrounding crowd called out insults, but
quickly fell silent as she turned her burning eyes upon them. "Do not fear
you will be left out," she said, and in the sudden quiet her voice carried
clearly. "The fires are coming for everyone--the fires and the ice that will
bring the Great Change. The master will spare no one who has not
prepared for him."
    "You blaspheme against our true Ransomer, demon-lover!" Dinivan
abruptly shouted, standing in his stirrups. His voice was powerful. "You
tell these people lies!"
    A few in the crowd repeated his words and their murmuring began to
grow. The woman in white turned and made a sign to some of the robed
ones near her. Several had been kneeling at the stone below her feet, as if
in prayer; one of them now rose and walked across the courtyard as she
stood staring imperiously outward, her mad eyes fixed on the lowering
twilit sky. He returned a moment later with a torch from one of the
sconces, which she took and raised above her head.
 "What is Usires Aedon," she screamed, "but a little wooden man on a


STONE OF FAREWELL

135

little wooden tree? What are any of the kings and queens of men but apes
raised far above their station? The master will throw down all that stands
before him and his majesty shall rise above all the oceans and lands of
Osten Ard! The Storm King comes! He brings with him ice to freeze the
heart, deafening thunder--and cleansing fire!"
    She threw the brand down at her feet. A fierce sheet of flame leaped up
around the rock. Some of the other dancers shrieked as their robes caught
fire. The crowd pushed back with a shout of surprise as a wall of heat
pushed out at them.
 "Elysia, Mother of God!" Dinivan's voice was full of horror.
    "So it shall be!" the woman shouted, even as the flames ran up her robe
into her hair, crowning her with fire and smoke. She was still smiling, a
lost, damned smile. "He speaks in dreams! Doom is coming!" The blaze
mounted, obscuring her, but her last words rang out over and over. "The
master is coming! The master is coming... !'
    Miriamele leaned over her horse's neck, fighting to keep from being
sick. Dinivan rode forward a short way before dismounting to try and
help some of those who had been knocked down and trampled in the
crowd's retreat. The princess straightened up, gasping for breath.
    Blind to her presence, Cadrach stared at the charnel scene before them.
His face, scarlet in the leaping light, was suffused with an unhappy but
hungering look--as though an important, terrible thing had come to pass,
a thing feared for so long that the waiting had become even worse than the
fear.



8


g' ~/V~rg A If'~ _~__ are we going, Binabik?" Simon leaned in, moving his

reddened hands nearer the fire. His gloves steamed on a fir trunk nearby.
    Binabik looked up from the scroll he and Sisqi were studying. "For
now, it is down the mountains. After that, we will be needing guidance.
Now let me continue to look for such guidance, please."
    Simon resisted the unmanly urge to stick out his tongue, but the troll's
rebuff did not really bother him very much. He was in a good mood.
    Simon's strength was returning. He had felt a little more fit each of the
two days of hard journeying that had brought them down across Mintahoq,
chief mountain of the Trollfells. Now they had left Mintahoq altogether
and had crossed over to the flank of her sister-peak Sikkihoq. Tonight, for
the first time, Simon had not wanted simply to fall asleep when the party
had stopped to make camp. Instead, he had helped find a scanty supply of
deadwood to build the fire, then dug snow out of the shallow cave where
they would spend the night. It was good to feel himself again. The scar on
his cheek pained him, but it was a quiet ache. More than anything else, it
helped him to remember.
    The dragon's blood had changed him, he realized. Not in a magical
way, like in one of Shem Horsegroom's old stories--he couldn't under-
stand the speech of animals, or see a hundred leagues. Well, that was not
quite true. When the snow had stopped for a moment today, the white
valleys of the Waste had leaped into clarity, seeming as near as the folds in
a blanket, but stretching all the way to the dark blur of faraway Aldheorte
Forest. For a moment, standing quiet as a statue despite the wind biting
his neck and face, he had felt as though he did possess magical vision. As in
the days when he climbed Green Angel Tower to see all Erkynland spread
below him like a carpet, he had felt as if he could reach out a hand and so
change the world.
    But moments like that were not what the dragon had brought him.
Pondering as he waited for his damp gloves to dry,' he looked to Binabik

136


STONE OF FAREWELL

137

and Sisqi, saw the way they touched even when they did not touch, the
long conversations that passed between the two of them in the shortest of
glances. Simon realized that he felt and saw things differently than he had
before Urmsheim. People and events seemed more clearly connected, each
part of a much larger puzzle--just as Binabik and Sisqi were. They cared
deeply for each other, but at the same time their world of two interlocked
with many other worlds: with Simon's own, with their people's, with
PrinceJosua's, and Gelo~'s... It was really quite startling, Simon thought,
how everything was part of something else! But though the world was
vast beyond comprehension, still every mote of life in it fought for its
own continued existence. And each mote mattered.
    That was what the dragon's blood had taught him, in some way. He
was not great; he was, in fact, very small. At the same moment, though,
he was important, just as any point of light in a dark sky might be the star
that led a mariner to safety, or the star watched by a lonely child during a
sleepless night ....
    Simon shook his head, then blew on his chill hands. His ideas were
getting away from him, cavorting like mice in an unlocked pantry. He felt
the gloves again, but they were not yet dried. He tucked his hands into his
armpits and inched a little nearer the fire.
    "Are you of great sureness that GeloE said 'Stone of Farewell,' Si-
mon?'' Binabik asked. "I have been reading Ookequk's scrolls for two
nights and no luck am I having."
    '"I told you everything she said." Simon looked out beyond the lip of
the cavern, where the tethered rams huddled, bumping together like an
ambulatory snowdrift. "I could not forget. She spoke through the little
girl we saved, Leleth, and she said: 'Go to the Stone of Farewell. That is the
only place of safity flora the growing storm--safety for a little while, anyway.'"
    Binabik pursed his lips, frustrated. He spoke a few quick words of
Qanuc to Sisqi, who nodded solemnly. "I have no doubt of you, Simon.
We have seen too much together. And I cannot be doubting GeloE, who is
the wisest one I know. It is a problem of my poor understanding." He
waved a small hand at the flattened hide before him. "Perhaps I did not
bring the correct works."
    "You think too much, little man," Sludig called from the other side of
the cavern. "Haestan and I are showing your friends how to play 'Con-
queror.' It works nearly as well with your troll throwing-stones as with
real dice. Come, play, take your mind off these things for a while."
    Binabik looked up and smiled, giving Sludig a wave of his hand. "Why
do you not join them in this play, Simon?" he asked. "Surely it would be
more interesting than watching my confusion."
    "I'm thinking, too," Simon said. "I've been thinking about Urmsheim.
About Igjarjuk and what happened."
"It was not as you were when young imagining it to be, hmmm?"


138                                   Tad Williams

Binabik said, absorbed in the perusal of his scroll once more. "Things are
not always as old songs tell them to be--especially when it is concerning
dragons. But you, Simon, acted as bravely as any Sir Camaris or Tallistro."
    Simon felt a pleasant flush. "I don't know. It didn't seem like bravery. I
mean, what else could I have done? But that isn't what I was thinking
about. I was thinking about the dragon's blood. It did more than this to
me." He indicated his cheek and the white stripe that now ran through his
hair. Binabik did not look up to see his gesture, but Sisqi did. She smiled
shyly, her dark, upturned eyes fixed on him as though on a friendly but
possibly dangerous animal; a moment later, the troll maiden rose and
walked away. "It made me think differently about things," Simon contin-
ued, watching her go. "The whole time you were in that hole, a prisoner,
I was thinking and dreaming."
  "And what did you think?" Binabik asked.
    "It's hard to say. About the world and how old it is. About how small I
am. Even the Storm King is small, in a way."
    Binabik inspected Simon's face. The troll's brown eyes were serious.
"Yes, he is perhaps small beneath the stars, Simon--as a mountain is small
in comparing to the whole world. But a mountain is bigger than we, and
if it falls on us, we will still be very dead in a very big hole."
    Simon fluttered his hand impatiently. "I know, I know. I'm not saying
that I'm not afraid. It's just . . . it's hard to say." He struggled for the
proper words, "It's like the dragon's blood taught me another language,
another way to see things when I think. How can you explain another
language to someone?"
    Binabik started to reply, then stopped, staring just over Simon's shoul-
der. Alarmed, Simon turned, but nothing was there but the oblique stone
of the cavern and a patch of gray, white-flecked sky.  "What's wrong? Are you ill, Binabik?
    "I have it," the troll said simply. "I knew there was something of
familiarity in it. But it was a confusion of language. They are translating
differently, you see." He bounced up onto his feet and trotted over to his
bag. A few of his fellow trolls looked up. One started to say something,
but broke off, deterred by Binabik's fixed expression. A few moments
later the little man returned with an armful of new scrolls.  "What's going on?" Simon asked.
    "It was language---the difference between tongues. You said: Stone of
Farewell."
  "That's what Gelo~ told me," he answered defensively.
    "Of course. But Ookequk's scrolls are not in the language you and I are
now speaking. Some are copied from original Nabbanai, some are in
Qanuc-tongue, and some few in the original speech of the Sithi. I was
looking for 'Stone of Farewell,' but in Sithi language, it would be named
'Leavetaking Stone'--a small difference, but one that makes much differ-
entness in the finding of it. Now wait."


$ are
ning
~0."
~/.I
 ring
 to
 his
 led
 ~ut
 nd

 ~r,

STONE OF FAREWELL

139

    He began to read swiftly through the scrolls, his lips moving as he
followed the movement of his stubby finger from one line to another.
Sisqi returned, bearing two bowls of soup. One she sat beside Binabik,
who was too preoccupied to do more than nod his thanks. The other bowl
she offered to Simon. Not knowing what else to do, he bowed his head as
he took it.
"Thank you," he said, wondering if he should call her by name.
Sisqinanamook started to say something in reply, then stopped as if she
could not remember the appropriate words. For a moment she and Simon
stared at each other, an inclination toward friendship hindered by their
inability to converse. At last, Sisqi bowed in return, then snuggled in next
to Binabik, asking him a quiet question.
    "Chash," he replied, "that is correct," then went silent again, searching.
"Ho ho!" he cried at last, thumping his palm on his hide-suited leg. "This
is the answer. We have found it!"
    "What?" Simon leaned in. The scroll was covered with strange marks,
little drawings like the feet of birds and the tracks of snails. Binabik was
pointing at one symbol, a square with rounded corners, full of dots and
slashes.
    "Sesuad'ra," the little man breathed, stretching the word out as if exam-
ining fine cloth. "Sesuad'ra--Leavetaking Stone. Or, as Gelo~ spoke it, the
Stone of Farewell. A Sithi thing it is, as I guessed."
    "But what is it?" Simon stared at the runes, but could not imagine
getting meaning from it as he could from Westerling script.
    Binabik squinted at the scroll. "It is the place, this is saying, where
covenant was broken when the Zida'ya and Hikeda'ya--the Sithi and the
Norns--split asunder to be going their separate ways. It is a place of
power and of great sorrow."
 "But where is it? How can we go there if we don't know where it is?"
    "It was once being part of Enki-e-Shao'saye, the Summer-City of the
Sithi."
    "Jiriki told me about that," Simon said, suddenly excited. "He showed
it to me in the mirror. The mirror he gave me. Maybe we could find it
there!" He fumbled in his pack, searching for Jiriki's gift.
    "No need, Simon, no need!" Binabik laughed. "A fool I would truly
be--and the poorest apprentice Ookequk could ever be having--if I did
not know of Enki-e-Shao'saye. It was one of the Nine Cities, great in
beauty and lore."
 "Then you know where the Stone of Farewell is?"
    "Enki-e-Shao'saye was at the southeast edge of the great forest Aldheorte."
Binabik frowned. "So it is not near, obviously. Many weeks of journey-
ing we will have. Where the city was standing is on the far side of the
forest from us, above the fiat lands of the High Thrithings." His expression
brightened. "But we are knowing now our destination. That is good.


140                                   Tad Williams

Sesuad'ra." He savored the word again reflectively. "I have never seen it,
but words of Ookequk come to me. It is a strange and grim place, as
legend speaks."
 "I wonder why Gelo~ chose it?" Simon said.
    "Perhaps there was no other choosing she could make." Binabik turned
his attention to his cold soup.

    The rams, understandably enough, did not like to walk with Qantaqa
behind them. Even after several days, the smell of the wolf still troubled
them deeply, so Binabik continued to ride ahead. Qantaqa picked her way
deftly along the steep, narrow trails, the ram-riders following after, talking
or singing quietly among themselves, keeping their voices low so as not to
wake Makuhkuya, the avalanche goddess. Simon, Haestan, and Sludig
trooped along at the rear, trying to stay out of the hoof-ruts and thereby
keep the snow from creeping in over the tops of their well-oiled boots.
    Where Mintahoq was rounded like an old man bent by years, Sikkihoq
was all angles and steep sides. The troll-paths clung to the mountain's
back, winding far out to swing around icy columns of rock, then passing
out of the sunlight in the mountain's own shadow, following the inside
line of a vertical crevice that dropped away beyond the path into mist and
snow.
    Trudging down the narrow trails hour after hour, constantly wiping the
fluttering snow from his eyes, Simon found himself praying they would
reach the bottom soon. Returning strength or no, he was not meant for
mountain life. The thin air hurt his lungs and made his legs feel heavy and
weak as sodden loaves of bread. When he tried to sleep at the end of the
day, his muscles were so painfully tight they almost seemed to hum.
    The very heights in which they traveled also disturbed him. He had
always thought of himself as a fearless climber, but that had been before
he left Hayholt for the wide world. Now, Simon found it much easier to
keep his eyes fastened to the back of Sludig's brown boots as they lifted
and fell than to look elsewhere. When his gaze swung away to the leaning
masses of stone above them or the empty depths below, he found it
difficult to remember level ground. Somewhere, he reminded himself,
there were places where a person could turn and walk in any direction
without risking a death-fall. He had lived in such a place, so they must still
exist. Somewhere mile after flat mile lay like a deep carpet, waiting for
Simon's feet.

    They had stopped at a wider place to rest. Simon helped Haestan take
off his pack, then watched as the guardsman slumped down onto a
snow-dampened stone, breathing so heavily that he soon surrounded


STONE OF FAREWELL

141

himself with a fog of vapors. Haestan slipped his hood off for a moment,
then shivered as the high wind struck him. He quickly pulled it back on.
Ice crystals glimmered in his dark beard.
  "S'cold, lad," he said. "Bitter." He suddenly looked old.
  "Do you have a family, Haestan?" Simon asked.
    The guardsman paused for a moment as if taken aback, then laughed.
"Of sorts. I've a woman, a wife, but no little'uns. First baby died, we've
gotten none since. I've not seen her since 'fore winter." He shook his
head. "She be safe, though. Gone t'live with folk in Hewenshire---
Naglimund be too dangerous, told her. War comin'." He shook his head.
"Now if y'r witch woman speaks true, war's over an' Prince Josua lost."
  "But Gelo~ said he escaped," Simon put in hurriedly.
  "Aye, that be somethin'."
    They sat in silence for a while, listening to the wind among the rocks.
Simon looked down at the sword Thorn lying atop Haestan's pack,
gleaming blackly, dotted with melting snowflakes. "Is the sword too
heavy for you? I could carry it for a while."
    Haestan considered him for a moment before grinning. "Y'r welcome
to it, Simon-lad. Y'should have sword, what with that first manly beard
an' all. Thing is, hard t'say if it be any good as a sword, if y'take my
meaning."
    "I know. I know how it changes." He remembered Thorn in his own
hands. At first it had been cold and heavy as an anvil. Then, as he stood
poised, balanced on the cliff's edge staring into the dragon's milky blue
eyes, it had become light as a birch-staff The glossy blade had seemed
inspirited, as though it breathed. "It's almost like it's alive. Like an animal
or something. Is it heavy for you now?"
    Haestan shook his head, looking up at the flurrying snow. "No, lad.
Seems it wants t'go where we're goin'. Thinks it be goin' home, mayhap."
    Simon smiled to hear them both talking about a sword as though it
were a dog or a horse. Still, there was an undeniable tension to the thing,
like a spider still in a web, or a fish hanging suspended in the cold darkness
of a river bottom. He looked at it again. The sword, if it was alive, was a
wild thing. The blackness of it devoured light, leaving only a thin residue
of reflection, sparkling crumbs in a miser's beard. A wild thing, a dark
thing.
    "It's going where we're going," Simon said, then considered for a
moment. "But that's not going to be home. Not my home."

    As he lay that night in a narrow cavern which was little more than a
nick in Sikkihoq's muscular stone back, Simon dreamed of a tapestry. It
was a moving tapestry, hanging on a wall of absolute blackness. In it, as in
the religious pictures of the Hayholt's chapel, a great tree stood, arms
rising to heaven. This tree was white and smooth as Harcha marble.


142                                   Tad Williams

Prince Josua hung upon it head down, like Usires Aedon Himself in His
suffering
    A shadowy figure stood before Josua, driving nails into him with a
great, gray hammer Josua did not speak or cry out, but his followers all
around were moaning. The prince's eyes were wide with patient suffering,
like the carved face of Usires that had hung on the wall of Simon's
boyhood home in the servant's quarters.
    Simon could not bear to see any more. He thrust himself through into
the tapestry itself and ran at the shadow-figure. As he ran, he felt a
weighty something dangling in his hand. He lifted his arm to swing it, but
the murky thing reached up and caught his hand, pulling Simon's weapon
away He had been holding a black hammer. But for its color, it was the
twin of the gray
    "Better," the thing said. It hefted the ebony mallet in its other shadowy
hand and began once more to drive nails. This time Josua screamed with
each blow, screamed and screamed . . .
     . . Simon awakened to find himself shivering in darkness, the raspy
breathing of his traveling companions all around him, vying with the
wind that moaned as it searched the mountain passes outside the cavern.
He wanted to waken Binabik, or Haestan, or Sludig--anybody who
could speak to him in his own tongue--but could not find any of them in
the dark, and knew even in his fear that he should not startle the others
awake.
    He lay down once more, hstening to the crooning wind. He was afraid to
go back to sleep, afraid he would hear those awful screams once more. He
strained to see in the darkness so he would know his eyes were open, but
there was nothing
    Some time before light returned, exhaustion overmatched his fretting
mind and he at last fell asleep. If more dreams troubled him, he did not
remember them on awakening.

    They were three more days on heart-freezingly narrow trails before they
made their way down out of Sikkihoq's heights. On the mountain's
shoulders they no longer had to travel single file, so as they came down
onto a broad shelf of snow-dotted granite the company stopped to cele-
brate. It was a rare hour of afternoon sunhght. The light had broken
through the cobweb of clouds and the wind for once seemed playful
instead of predatory.
    Binabik rode Qantaqa ahead to scout the terrain, then turned the wolf
loose to hunt. She was gone into a tumble of white-mantled boulders in an
instant. Binabik walked back to the rest of the party, a broad smile on his
face


,y

STONE OF FAREWELL

143

    "It is good to be off the cliffs for a time," he said, sitting next to Simon,
who had removed his boots and was rubbing blood back into his white
toes. "There is little time for thinking of anything else but balancing when
one rides on such narrow and endangering trails."
  "Or walks on them," Simon said, looking critically at his toes.
    "Or walks," Binabik agreed. "I will be returning in a moment." The
little man got up and walked across the gently curving stone to where most
of the trolls sat in a circle on the ground, passing around a drinking skin.
Several of them had taken off their jackets to sit bare-chested in the thin
sunlight, brown skins acrawl with tattoos of birds, bears, and sinuous
fish. The rams had been unsaddled and turned loose to graze on such
scanty fodder as they might find, moss and clumps of scruffy brush that
had taken root in rocky crevices. One of the troll men watched over them
as shepherd, although his heart did not seem to be in the job. He poked
the ground disconsolately with his crook-spear as he watched the skin go
around the circle. One of his fellows, pointing and laughing at his misery,
at last stumped over and shared the bag with him.
    Binabik approached Sisqi, who was sitting with some of the hunting
maidens. He bent to say something, then rubbed her face with his own.
She laughed, pushing him away, but her cheeks reddened. Watching,
Simon felt a faint tremor of jealously at his friend's happiness, but swal-
lowed it down. Someday maybe he, too, would find someone. He thought
sadly of Princess Miriamele, who stood far above any scullion. Nonethe-
less, she was only a girl, like those with whom Simon had bumblingly
conversed in the Hayholt in what seemed far-gone days of old. When he
and Miriamele had stood side by side at the bridge in Da'ai Chikiza, or
before the giant, there had been no difference between them. They had
been friends, facing danger together and equally.
    But I didn't know then that she was above me. Now I do, and that is the
di~rence. But why? Am I di~rent? Is she? Not truly. And she kissed me! And
that was aj~er she was the princess again!
    He felt a curious mixture of elation and frustration. Who was to say
what was right, anyway? The order of the world seemed to be changing,
and where was the law written that a heroic kitchen boy could not stand
proudly before a princess--who was at war with her father the king, after
all?
    A moment of grand daydreaming followed. Simon envisioned himself
entering a great city as a hero, riding on the back of a proud horse, the
sword Thorn held before him as in a picture of Sir Camaris he had once seen.
Somewhere, he knew, Miriamele was watching and admiring. The day-
dream foundered as he suddenly wondered what city he might enter
heroically into. Naglimund, by Gelo~'s word, had fallen. The Hayholt,
Simon's only home, was banned to him utterly. The sword Thorn was no
more his than Simon himself was Sir Camaris, the blade's most famous


144                                   Tad Williams

owner--and what was most important, he realized as he stared at his
blistered heels, he had no horse at all.
    "Here, friend Simon," Binabik said, rousing him out of this doleful
reverie, "I have secured you a draught of hunt-wine." He held out a skin
bag, smaller than the one being passed around the circle nearby.
    "I already drank some," Simon asked, sniffing suspiciously. "It tasted--
well, Haestan said it tasted like horse piss and I think he's right."
    "Ah. It is seeming that Haestan has changed his mind about kangkang."
Binabik chuckled, tilting his head in the direction of the drinking-circle.
The Erkynlander and Sludig had joined the trolls; Haestan was even now
taking a healthy swallow from the bag. "But this is not kangkang,"
Binabik said, pressing the bag into Simon's hand. "It is hunt-wine. The
men of my folk are not allowed to drink it--except for those, like myself,
who are using it sometimes for the purposes of medicine. Our huntresses
drink when they must be awake all the night away from our caves. It is
good especially for tired and hurting limbs and such."
"I feel fine," Simon said, looking doubtfully at the drinking skin.
"That is not being the point of my giving." Binabik was becoming
exasperated. "Be understanding that it is rare for anyone to get this
hunt-wine. We sit here now celebrating luck in having come a difficult
journey with no losses or woundings. We are celebrating a little sun and
hoping for some small luck on the rest of our journey. Also, it is a sort of
gift, Simon. Sisqinanamook wished you to have it."
    Simon looked up to the troll maiden, who sat in laughing conversation
with her fellow huntresses. She smiled and hoisted her spear as if in salute.
    "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't understand." He lifted the bag and took a
swig. The sweet, oily fluid slid down his throat. He coughed, but a
moment later felt its soothing warmth in his stomach. He took another
swallow, then held some in his mouth, trying to decide what the taste
reminded him of.
  "What's it made from?" he asked.
    "Berries from the high meadows of Blue Mud Lake, where my tribesmer
will be going. Berries and teeth."
Simon wasn't sure he had heard correctly. "Berries and what?"
"Teeth." Binabik grinned, showing his own yellow ones. "Teeth of th~
snow bear. Made into a powder, of course. That is for strongness ant
quietness on the hunt."
    "Teeth . . ." Simon, remembering that this was a gift, thought for 
moment before saying anything more. There wasn't really anything wronl
with teeth--he had a mouthful himself. The hunt-wine did not taste bad a
all, and made for a comforting tingle in his belly. He carefully lifted th
skin and took a final swallow. "Berries and teeth," he said, handing th
bag back. "Very good. How do you say thank you in Qanuc?"
  Binabik told him.


STONE OF FAREWELL

145

    "Guyop.t'' Simon called to Sisqi, who smiled and nodded her head as her
companions burst into high-pitched laughter once more, hiding their rices
in the fur of their hoods.
    For a while Simon and Binabik sat quietly side by side, enjoying the
warmth. Simon felt the hunt-wine creeping pleasantly through his veins,
so that even the daunting lower slopes of Sikkihoq that still awaited them
began to look friendly. The mountain f~ll away below into a rumpled
quilt of snow-covered hills, leveling out at the bottom into the tree-spiked
monotony of the Waste.
    As he turned to survey the terrain, Simon's attention was caught by
Namyet, one of Sikkihoq's sister mountains, which in the momentary
clarity of the bright afternoon seemed to loom only a stone's throw away
on his left side. Namyet's skirts were creased with long blue vertical
shadows. Her white crown sparkled in the sun.  "Do trolls live there, too?" he asked.
    Binabik looked up and nodded. "Namyet is also one of the Yiqanuc
mountains. Mintahoq, Chugik, Tutusik, Rinsenatuq, Sikkihoq and Namyet,
Yamok, and the Huudika--the Gray Sisters--those are the troll-country.
Yamok, which means Little Nose, is the place where my parents died.
That is her, out beyond Namyet, do you see?" He pointed at a dim
angular shape limned by the sun. "How did they die?"
    "In dragon snow, as we call it on the Roof of the World--snow that
freezes on its top, then breaks through without warning, jaws closing
swiftly. Like a dragon's jaws are closing. As you know."
    Simon scuffed at the ground with a stone, then looked up, squinting at
the faint outline of Yamok in the east. "Did you cry?"
    "With certainty--but in my own secret place. And you.., but no, you
were not knowing your parents, were you?"
    "No. Doctor Morgenes told me about them. A little. My father was a
fisherman and my mother was a chambermaid."
    Binabik smiled. "Poor yet honorable forebears. Who could ask for more,
as a place from which to make a starting? Who would be born into the
tight restricting of royal blood? Who could think to be finding their true
selves when all around are bowing and kneeling?"
    Simon thought of Miriamele, and even Binabik's betrothed, Sisqinana-
mook, but said nothing.
    After a while, the troll stretched and pulled his pack closer. He rum-
maged in it for a few moments, at last producing a clinking leather bag.
"My knuckle bones," he said as he spilled them gently out onto the stone.
"We will be seeing if they are now a more truthful guide than at the
last questioning." He began humming quietly to himself as he scooped
them up in his palms. For long moments he held the handful of bones
before him, eyes closed in concentration while he muttered a song. At


146                                   Tad Williams

last he dropped them to the ground. Simon could see no discernible
pattern in the jumble.
    "Circle of Stones," Binabik said, as calmly as though it were written on
the bones' yellowed smoothness. "That is where we are standing, so to
speak. It means, I am thinking, a council meeting. We are searching for
wisdom, for help in our journeying."
    "The bones you ask for help tell you that you're looking for help?"
Simon grunted. "That's not much of a trick."
    "Silence, foolish lowlander," Binabik said mock-severely. "There is
more to the bones than you understand. The reading of them is not so
simple." He hummed and cast again. "Torch at the Cave-Mouth," he said,
but cast again without pause for explanation. He frowned and sucked his
hp as he surveyed the scatter. "The Black Crevice. That is the second time
only I have ever seen that patterning, and both have been in the time we
have been together. It is an ominous throw."
    "Explain, please," Simon said. He pulled his boots back on, testing his
toes by wiggling.
    "The second throwing, Torch at the Cave-Mouth, means we must look
for an advantage in the place we go--Sesuad'ra, I make that, Gelo~'s
Stone of Farewell. That is not proving we will find luck there, but it is our
chance for advantage. The Black Crevice, the last throwing, I have told you
of before. The third throw is that which should be feared, or that which
we need being aware of. The Black Crevice is a strange, rare pattern that
could mean treachery, or could mean something coming from else-
where..." He broke off, staring absently at the littered bones, then swept
them back into his bag.
  "So what does it all mean?"
    "Ah, Simon-friend," the troll sighed, "the bones are not simply an-
swering questions, even at the best of times. At a troubled hour like the
one we are living, the understanding becomes more difficult still. I must
think long about these throws. I must perhaps sing a song of slight
differentness, then cast again. This is the first throwing in a long while
that I have not seen The Shadowed Path--but I cannot be thinking that our
path is any less shadowy. There, you see, is the danger of trying to take
simple answers from the bones."
     Simon stood up. "I don't understand much of what you're saying, but I
 wish we did have a few simple answers. It would make things much easier."
     Binabik smiled as one of his folk approached. "Simple answers to life's
 questioning. That would be a magic beyond any I have ever been seeing."
     The new troll, a stocky, tuft-bearded herder Binabik introduced as
 Snenneq, threw a distrustful look up at Simon, as though his very height
 was an affront to civilized behavior. He conversed excitedly with Binabik
 in Qanuc for a short time, then trudged away. Binabik sprang up and
 whistled for Qantaqa.


STONE OF FAREWELL

147

    "Snenneq says the rams are acting skittishly," Binabik explained. "He
wanted to know where Qantaqa was, if she had been at stalking their
mounts." A moment later the wolf's gray form appeared on a crag half a
furlong away, head tilted questioningly. "She is down the wind from us,"
the little man said, shaking his head. "If the rams are restless, it is not
Qantaqa's scent that is so making them."
    Qantaqa sprang down from the rocky outcropping. A few moments
later she was at her master's side, butting his ribs with her large, broad
head.
    "She herself seems disturbed," Binabik said. He kneeled to scratch the
wolf's belly, his arms disappearing into her thick fur up to the shoulder.
Qantaqa did indeed seem distracted, standing still only a moment before
lifting her snout to the breeze. Her ears flicked like the wings of an
alighting bird. She made a low rumbling noise before butting Binabik
with her head again. "Ah," he said, "a snow bear, perhaps. This must be
a season of hungering for them. We should move to a lower place--we
may be in less danger when we are leaving Sikkihoq's heights." He called
to Snenneq and the rest of his fellows. They began striking the makeshift
camp, resaddling their rams and stowing the drinking skins and food bags.
    Sludig and Haestan approached. "Ho, lad," Haestan said to Simon,
"back to our boot leather again. Now you know what's like t'be soldier.
March, march, march, 'til feet freeze and lungs go limp."
    "l never did want to be a foot soldier," Simon said, shouldering his
pack.

    The friendly weather did not hold. By the time they made camp that
night near the edge of the long fiat shelf, the stars had disappeared. The
company's cookfires were the only light beneath a wild and snow-spread
sky.
    Dawn lightened the dark horizon to a stony gray that oddly mirrored
the granite below their feet. The traveling party made their way carefully
down from the shelf and onto another series of narrow trails that wound
back and forth across the mountain face in steep switchbacks. By midday
they had come to another relatively level place, a long, down-sloping talus
hill, a vast refuse heap of boulders and smaller stones left by the passage of
some ancient glacier. The footing was treacherous: even the rams had to
pick their way carefully, sometimes choosing to leap from one large stone
to another rather than walk across the loose rubble. Simon, Haestan, and
Sludig followed behind. Their trudging footsteps occasionally freed a
fist-sized stone to bound down the slope, eliciting bleats and annoyed
stares from the saddled rams. Such terrain was also hard on the knees and
ankles. Before they had gone far down the slope, Simon and his compan-
ions stopped to wind rags about their boots for support.
 Snow fluttered all around, not a heavy fall, but enough to dust the tops


148                                   Tad Williams

of the larger stones with pale powder and ffil the crevices between the
smaller rocks like mortar. As Simon looked back up the long disordered
slope, the upper reaches of Sikkihoq loomed through the mist and squall
like a dark shadow in a doorway. He was amazed by how far they had
come, but on turning found himself disheartened in equal measure by the
length of descent that still remained before they would reach the doubtful
comforts of the Waste below.
    Haestan saw his expression and offered Simon the beribboned wineskin
that had been the trolls' gift to the guardsman. "Two more days t'flat
ground, lad," he said, smiling sourly. "Have some."
    Simon warmed himself with a swallow of kangkang before passing it
along to Sludig. A toothy smile showed briefly in the Rimmersman's
yellow beard as he lifted the skin to his mouth. "Good," he said. "It is
not the mead I know, or even southern wine, but it is certainly better than
nothing."
    "God's curse if that don't be truth," Haestan said. He took the skin
back, savoring a long swallow before letting the bag drop to his belt once
more. Simon thought the guardsman's voice a little furry, and realized
that Haestan had been drinking all day. Still, what else did they have to
combat the pain in their legs and the monotonous, flurrying snow? Better a
little drunkenness to take off the chill than hours of misery.
    Simon squinted against the sleet flying into his face. He could see the
bobbing shapes of the trolls riding just before them, but beyond he could
discern only misty shapes. Somewhere past even the foremost, Binabik
and Qantaqa were searching for the best route off the talus slope. The
guttural exclamations of the ram-riders ahead drifted back to Simon on the
wind, incomprehensible but oddly reassuring.
    A stone bounced past his foot and rolled to a halt a few cubits ahead, the
sound of its passage obliterated by the song of the wind. Simon wondered
what would happen if a truly large stone ever began rolling downhill
toward them. Would they even hear it above the clamor of the elements?
Or would it be upon them suddenly, like a hand dropping down to crush
a fly sunning on a windowsill? He turned anxiously to look back, seeing in
his mind's eye a vast, round shape growing larger, a great stone that
would crush all in its path.
    There was no great stone, but there were shapes moving on the slope
above. Caught staring open-mouthed, Simon knew a moment's unsureness
as he wondered if some strange snow blindness caused him to see things
that could not be real, huge shadows flailing in the uncertain light.
Following Simon's backward glance, Sludig opened his eyes wide.
    "Hun~!n!" the Rimmersman shouted. "Vaer Hun~n.t There are giants up
the slope behind us!" Downslope, invisible in the drifting snows, one of
the trolls echoed Sludig's alarm with a harsh cry.
  Dim, elongated figures were loping down the rock-strewn hill. Dis-


STONE OF FAREWELL

149

lodged stones rolled before them, bounding past Simon and his compan-
ions as the shouting trolls tried to pull their rams about,to face this sudden
danger. The advantage of surprise lost, the charging giants bellowed out
wordless challenges in voices that seemed deep enough to shake down the
very mountain. Several huge figures plunged through the mist, brandish-
ing broad clubs like gnarled tree limbs. The black faces, snarling-mouthed,
seemed to float bodilessly in the flurrying snow, but Simon knew the
strength in those shaggy white forms. He recognized Death's face in the
leathery masks and Death's inescapable clutch in the broad sinews and
lashing arms twice as long as any man's.
  "Binabik!" Simon screamed. "Giants are coming!"
    One of the Hun~n snatched up a boulder and heaved it down the slope.
It struck and spun end over end, bounding downhill like a runaway
wagon. Even as a flurry of troll-spears sliced back through the air toward
the attackers, the great stone crunched past Simon and smashed into the
nearest ranks of the trolls. The shrill, terrified bleating of rams and the
howls of their broken and dying riders echoed across the foggy slope.
Simon found himself gaping in stunned immobility as a towering shape
rose before him, club backfiung like the straining arm of a catapult. As the
black bar of shadow whistled down, Simon heard someone call his name,
then something struck him aside and he was flung on his face among
stones and snow.
    A moment later he was on his feet, stumbling back through the mist
toward the roaring, contorted shapes of conflict. Hun~n loomed and then
disappeared, huge, grasping shadows that at some moments were almost
invisible in the flurrying snow.
    Inside Simon's mind a hysterical, terrified voice shouted for him to run
away, to hide, but the voice was muffled, as though his head were stuffed
with cushioning down. There was blood on his hands, but he did not
know whose. He wiped it absently on his shirt front before reaching down
to pull his Qanu knife from its sheath. The roaring was all around now.
    A group of trolls had couched their spears and were spurring their rams
up the slope. Their bellowing target flailed with a shaggy arm broad as a
tree trunk and swept the foremost trolls from their saddles. Men and
mounts together soared back down the rise in a bloody tangle, tumbling
to a boneless halt at flight's end, but their trailing fellows drove home half
a dozen spears, raising a coughing, sputtering roar from the beleaguered
giant.
    Simon saw Binabik downslope. The troll dismounted Qantaqa, who
charged off into the swirling shadows of another skirmish. Binabik was
pushing darts into the hollow section of his walking stick--darts with
poison-blacked tips, Simon knew--but before Simon could take even a
step toward his friend another shape pushed hard against him, then fell to
the ground at his feet.


150                                   Tad Williams

    It was Haestan, lying facedown among the stones, the sword Thorn still
hanging from his pack. As Simon stared, something howled so loudly it
cut through the fuzziness in his ears and mind; he whirled to see Sludig
backing toward him down the unstable slope, his long troll-spear jabbing
before him as he retreated from a giant whose angry screams rattled the
sky. The giant's white belly and arms were dotted with crimson blood-
flowers, but Sludig, too, was bloodied: his left arm looked as though it
had been dipped into a bowl of red paint.
    Simon bent and grasped Haestan's cloak, shaking him, but the guardsman
was limp. Grabbing at Thorn's black hilt, Simon pulled it slowly back
through the loop on Haestan's pack. It was cold as frost and heavy as a
suit of horse-armor. Cursing with anger and terror, he tried with all his
strength to lift it, but could not bring the point off the ground. Despite
his ever more panicky exertions, he could not even lift the hilt above his
waist.
    "Usires, where are You!?" he railed, letting the blade fall heavily to the
ground like a block of tumbled masonry. "Help me! What use is this
damnable sword!?" He tried again, praying for God's help, but Thorn lay
fiat on the ground, beyond his strength.
    "Simon!" Sludig shouted breathlessly. "Flee! I . . . cannot... !" The
giant's shaggy white arm swung out and the Rimmersman stumbled back,
just out of reach. He opened his mouth to call to Simon once more, but
had to throw himself to one side to avoid a clawing backswipe. Blood
flecked the northerner's pale beard and matted his yellow hair. His helmet
was gone.
    Simon looked around wildly, then spotted a troll-spear lying among the
rocks. He caught it up and circled around the giant, whose reddened eyes
and wide-flaring nostrils were fixed only on Sludig. The creature's shaggy
back loomed before him like a white wall. A moment later, before he
even had time to be surprised at himself, Simon was leaping forward over
the slippery stones, thrusting the spear as hard as he could into the matted
fur. The shock of impact leaped up his arms, rattling his teeth, and for a
moment he slumped strengthlessly against the giant's broad back. The
Hun~ threw its head up in a howl, weaving from side to side as Sludig
drove in from the front with his spear. Simon saw the Rimmersman
disappear, then saw the beast bend, shuddering, and knock Sludig to the
ground.
    Coughing blood, the giant stood over Sludig, feeling for its club with
one arm, clutching at its red-dripping stomach with the other. With a
shout of anger, mad with fury that this horrible thing should strike at his
friends even while its own life leaked out, Simon snatched a handful of its
pelt in one hand and the wagging spear butt protruding from the giant's
back in the other, then dragged himself up onto its back.
  Reeking of wet fur and musk and rotting meat, the great, quivering


STONE OF FAREWELL

151

body straightened beneath him. Huge talon-nailed hands came up, smack-
ing sightlessly in search of the insect that had lighted upon it, even as
Simon drove his Qanuc dagger to the hilt in the giant's neck, just below
the contorted jaw. A moment later he felt himself caught up and flung
loose by wrist-wide fingers.
    There was a moment of weightlessness; the sky was a cracked swirl of
gray and white and dimmest blue. Then Simon struck down.
    He was staring at a round stone, just a hand's breadth beyond his nose.
He could not feel his extremities, his body limp as boned fish, nor could
he hear any sounds but a faint roaring in his ears and thin squeals that
might be voices. The stone lay before him, spherical and solid, unmoving.
It was a chunk of gray granite, banded with white, which might have lain
in this place since Time itself was young. There was nothing special about
it. It was only a piece of the earth's bones, rough corners smoothed by
eons of wind and water.
    Simon could not move, but he could see the immobile, magnificently
unimportant stone. He lay staring at it for a long time, feeling nothing but
emptiness where his body had been, until the stone itself began to gleam,
throwing back the faintest pink sheen of sunset.

    They came for him at last when Sedda the moon appeared, her pale face
peering down through the mist and twilight. Small, gentle hands lifted
him and laid him on a blanket. He swayed gently as they carried him
downslope and set him down near a roaring fire. Simon stared up at the
moon as she mounted higher in the sky. Binabik came to him and said
many soothing things in a quiet voice, but the words seemed nonsense. As
others helped bind his wounds and laid cool, water-soaked rags on his
head, Binabik crooned strange, circular songs, then gave him a bowl of
something warm to drink, holding up Simon's limp head as the sour
draught trickled down his throat.
    I must be dying, Simon thought. He felt a certain peace in the idea. It
seemed as though his soul had left his body already, for he felt very little
connection with his own flesh. I would have liked to have gotten out of the
snows, first. I would have liked to have gone home ....
    He thought of another stillness such as he now felt: the moment when
he had stood before Igjarjuk, the silence that had seemed to envelop the
whole world, the timeless time before he had brought the sword down,
before the black blood had fountained up.
    But this time the sword didn't help me ... Had he lost some kind of
worthiness since he had left Urmsheim? Or was Thorn merely as incon-
stant as the wind and weather?
    Simon remembered a warm summer afternoon back in the Hayholt, when
the sunlight had angled down through the high windows of Doctor Morgenes'
chambers, making the lazily floating dust gleam, like drifting sparks.


152                                   Tad Williams

    "Never make your home in a place," the old man had told him that day.
"Make a home Jbr yourself inside your own head. You'll find what you need to
furnish it--memory, ~iends you can trust, love of learning, and other such things.
That way it will go with you wherever you journey . . ."
  Is that what dying is? Simon wondered. Is it going home? That's not so bad.
    Binabik was singing again, a drowsy sound like rushing water. Simon
let go and drifted.

    When he awakened late the next day, he was not immediately certain
that he was still alive. The survivors had moved during the morning and
Simon had been carried, along with the other wounded, to a cave beneath
a leaning rock. On waking, he saw before him only an open hole into the
gray sky. It was the ragged black birds gliding past the cave-mouth that
taught him at last that he was still in the world--the birds, and the pain in
all his limbs.
    He lay for a while testing his hurts, bending his joints one by one. He
ached, but movement had come back with the pain. He was sore but
whole.
    After a while Binabik came to him again with another drink of his
healing beverage. The troll himself had not escaped without harm, as long
runnels down his cheek and neck attested. Binabik's look was solemn, but
he seemed to give Simon's wounds only a cursory inspection.
    "We have received grievous damaging," the troll said. "I wished I had
not to say this, but... Haestan is dead."
    "Haestan?!" Simon sat up, forgetting his aching muscles for a moment.
"Haestan?" His stomach seemed to sink away inside him.
    Binabik nodded his head. "And of my twice-dozen companions, nine
were killed and six more are being badly wounded."
    "What happened to Haestan?" He felt a sickening sense of unreality.
How could Haestan be dead? Had they not spoken only a few moments
before.., before... ?" What about Sludig?"
    "Sludig was hurt, but not badly. He is out with my tribesmen, cutting
up wood for building of fires. It is important for healing the injured, do
you see? And Haestan..." Binabik thumped his chest with the heel of his
hand--a gesture the Qanuc used, Simon had learned, to ward evil. The
troll looked profoundly unhappy. "Haestan was struck to the head by one
of the giant's clubs. I am told that he pushed you away from danger and
was shortly after himself killed."
    "Oh, Haestan," Simon groaned. He expected tears to come, but they
did not. His face felt strangely numb, his sorrow somehow weak. He put
his head in his hands. The big guardsman had been so alive, so hearty. It
was wrong that a life could be taken just that swiftly. Doctor Morgenes,
Grimmric and Ethelbearn, An'nai, now Haestan--all dead, all struck down
because they tried to do what was right. Where were those powers that
should protect such innocents?


STONE OF FAREWELL

153

    "And Sisqi?" Simon asked, suddenly remembering the troll maiden. He
scanned Binabik's face anxiously, but the troll showed only a distracted
smile.
  "She has survived, and with only small wounding."
    "Can we take Haestan down off the mountain? He wouldn't want to be
left here."
    Binabik reluctantly shook his head. "We cannot carry his body, Simon.
Not on our rams. He was a man of largeness, too much for our mounts.
And we still have a dangerous way to go before we are on flat land. He
must stay here, but his bones will lie in honor with the bones of my
people. He will be with other good and brave warriors. That is, I think, as
he would be wishing. Now, you should sleep again--but first there are
two who would speak with you."
    Binabik stepped back, Sisqi and the herder Snenneq were there, waiting
at the cave-mouth. They came forward to stand beside Simon. Binabik's
intended spoke to Simon in troll speech. Her dark eyes were grave. Beside
her, Snenneq seemed uncomfortable, shuffling from foot to foot.
    "Sisqinanamook says she is sorrowful for you in the losing of your
friend. She also says you showed rare bravery. Now all have seen the
courage that you showed also on the dragon-mountain."
    Simon nodded, embarrassed. Snenneq made a throat-clearing noise and
began a speech of his own. Simon waited patiently until Binabik could
explain.
    "Snenneq, herd-chief of Lower Chugik, says he, too, is sorry. Many
good lives were lost yesterday. He also wishes to give you something back
which you lost."
    The herder produced Simon's bone-handled knife, passing it to him
with a show of reverence.
    "It was taken from the neck of a dead giant," Binabik said quietly. "The
gift of the Qanuc has been blooded in defense of Qanuc lives. This means
much to my people."
    Simon accepted the knife, sliding it back into the decorated sheath on
his belt. "Guyop," he said. "Please tell them I am glad to have it back. I'm
not quite sure what 'defense of Qanuc lives' means--we all fought the
same enemy. But I don't want to think about killing just now."
    "Of course." Binabik turned to Sisqi and the herder, speaking briefly.
They nodded. Sisqi leaned forward to touch Simon's arm in wordless
commiseration, then turned and led awkward Snenneq from the cave.
    "Sisqi is leading the others in building the cairns of stone," Binabik
said. "And as for you, Simon-friend, there is nothing more to be done by
you this day. Sleep."
    After tucking the cloak carefully around Simon's shoulders, Binabik
disappeared out through the opening of the cavern, stepping carefully
around the sleeping forms of the other wounded. Simon watched him go,


154                                   Tad Williams

thinking of Haestan and the rest of the dead. Were they even now
traveling the road toward the complete stillness that Simon had glimpsed?
    As he fell asleep, he thought he saw his Erkynlandish friend's broad
back vanishing down a corridor into white silence. Haestan, Simon thought,
did not seem to walk like a man who bore regrets--but then, it was only
a dream.

    Next day the noon sun pierced the mists, splashing light on Sikkihoq's
proud slopes. Simon's pain was less than he had thought it would be.
With Sludig's help, he was able to limp down from the cave to the fiat shelf
of rock where the cairns were being finished. There were ten, nine small
and one large, the rocks carefully piled so that no wind or weather would
shift them.
    Simon saw Haestan's pale face, blood-striped, before Sludig and his troll
helpers finished winding the guardsman's cloak about him. Haestan's eyes
were shut, but his wounds were such that Simon could not maintain any
illusion that his long-time companion only slept. He had been killed by the
Storm King's brutal minions, and that was something to be remembered.
Haestan had been a simple man. He would appreciate the notion of
vengeance.
    After Haestan had been laid away and the stones fitted atop his cairn.
Binabik's nine tribesmen and tribeswomen were lowered into their own
graves, each with some article particular to him or her--or so Binabik
explained it to Simon. When this was done and the nine cairns were
sealed, Binabik stepped forward. He raised his hand. The other trolls
began to chant. There were tears in many eyes, both male and female; one
glimmered on Binabik's own cheek. After some time had passed, the
chanting came to a halt. Sisqi stepped forward, handing Binabik a torch
and a small bag. Binabik sprinkled something from the bag on each
grave, then touched the flame to it. A thin coil of smoke rose from each
cairn in his wake, quickly shredded by the mountain wind. When he had
finished the last, he handed the torch to Sisqi and began to sing a long
string of Qanuc words. The melody was like the voice of the wind itself,
rising and falling, rising and falling.
    Binabik's wind-song came to an end. He took torch and sack and raised
a plume of smoke on Haestan's barrow as well.

"Sedda told her children,"

he sang in the Westerling speech,


STONE OF FAREWELL

"Lingit and Yana,
Told them to choose their way
Bird's way or moon's way
'Choose now,' she said.

155

"Bird's way is egg's way
Death is a door then
Egg-children stay behind
Fathers and mothers go beyond
Do you choose this?

"Moon's way is no-death
Live always under stars
Go through no shadowed doors
Find no new land beyond
Do you choose this?

" Sw~.blooded Yana
Pale-haired and laughing-eyed
Said: 'I choose moon's way.
I seek no other doors.
This world is my home.'

"Lingit her brother
Slow-footed, dark-eyed,
Said: 'I'll take bird's way.
Walk under unknown skies
Leave world to my young.'

"We children of Lingit all
Share his g~ equally
Pass through the lands of stone
Just once, then we are gone,
Out through the door

"We go to walk beyond
Search for stars in the sky
Hunt the caves past the night
Strange lands and di~rent lights
But do not return."

    When he had finished singing, Binabik bowed to Haestan's cairn. "Fare-
well, brave man. The trolls will remember your name. We will sing of
you in Mintahoq a hundred springs from now!" He turned to Simon and


156                                   Tad Williams

Sludig, who stood by solemnly. "Would you like to be saying something?"
    Simon shook his head uncomfortably. "Only... God bless you, Haestan.
They will sing of you in Erkynland, too, if I have my way."
    Sludig stepped forward. "I should say an Aedonite prayer," he said.
"Your song was very good, Binabik of Mintahoq, but Haestan was an
Aedonite man and must be properly shriven."
 "Please," Binabik said. "You have listened to ours."
    The Rimmersman took his wooden Tree from beneath his shirt and
stood at the head of Haestan's cairn. The smoke continued to waver
upward.

"Our Lord protect you,"

Sludig began,

"And Usires His only Son lift you up.
May you be carried to the green valleys
Of His domains.
Where the souls of the good and righteous sing.~om the hilltops,
And angels are in the trees,
Speaking joy with God's own voice.

"May the Ransomer protect you
From all evil,
And may your soul find peace everlasting,
And heart's ease beyond compare."

Sludig laid his Tree atop the stones, then walked back to stand by
Simon.
    "One last thing let me say," Binabik called out, raising his voice. He
spoke the same words in Qanuc and his people listened attentively. "This
is the first day in a thousand years that Qanuc and Utku--troll and
lowlander--have been fighting at each other's side, have been blooded
together and have fallen together. It is the hate and the hating of our
enemy that has been bringing this upon us, but if our peoples can stand
together for the battle that is coming--a greatest, but perhaps also last,
battle---the deaths of all our friends will be even better given than they
now are." He turned and repeated the words for his tribesmen. Many of
them nodded their heads, pounding their spear butts on the ground. From
somewhere up the slope, Qantaqa howled. Her mournful voice echoed all
over the mountain.

    "Let us not forget them, Simon," Binabik said as the rest of his fellows
mounted up. "These, or any of the others who have already died. Let us


STONE OF FAREWELL

157

be taking strength from the gifting of their lives--because if we fail, they
will perhaps be seeming the lucky ones. Are you able to walk?" "For a while," Simon replied. "Sludig will walk with me."
    "We will not ride long today, for the afternoon has far advanced," the
troll said, squinting up at the white spot of sun. "But all speed is necessary.
Half our company, nearly, we have lost in killing five giants. The Storm
King's mountains to the west are full of such creatures, and we cannot
be knowing there are not more nearby."
    "How long before your fellow trolls turn their own way," Sludig
asked, "to go to this Blue Mud Lake your master and mistress spoke of?."
    "That is another thing for concern," Binabik agreed grimly. "Another
day or two days, then we will be three travelers only in the Waste." He
turned as a large gray shape appeared at his elbow, panting hugely.
Qantaqa nudged him impatiently with her broad nose. "Four travelers, if I
may be pardoned," he amended, but did not smile.
    Simon felt himself empty as they started down Sikkihoq's last reaches,
hollowed out, so that if he stood just right the wind might whistle
through him. Another friend was gone, and home was only a word.


9

Cofif and Curses

IJwc was ~iling. PrinccJosua's tattered minions
were tumbled all together beneath a tangle of willows and cypresses in a

moss-carpeted gulley that had once been a riverbed. A slender, muddy
trickle ran along in the middle, all that remained of the watercourse.
Above them rose a hilly slope whose heights were hidden behind close-
crowding trees.
    They had hoped to be atop the rise when the sun went down, a
defensive position superior to anything they could hope to find in this
thick-shrouded valley, but twilight was now imminent and the company's
progress had slowed to a crawl.
    Either they had guessed correctly, Deornoth reflected, and the Norns
were indeed trying to herd them rather than kill them, or else they had
been very lucky. Arrows had flown in biting swarms throughout the day.
Several had found targets, but none of the wounds had been mortal.
Einskaldir had been struck on his helmet, causing a gash above his eye that
wept blood all the long afternoon. The back of Isorn's neck had been
slashed by another arrow, and Lady Vorzheva had received a long, bloody
weal on her forearm.
    Surprisingly, Vorzheva had seemed almost unaffected by her injury,
binding it with a strip of her tattered skirt and plodding on without a
word of complaint. Deornoth had been impressed by this show of cour-
age, but had also wondered if it might not be an indication of dangerous
and despairing unconcern. She and Prince Josua were pointedly not speaking
with each other. Vorzheva's face turned grim whenever the prince was near.
    Josua, Father Strangyeard, and Duchess Gutrun had so far escaped
damage. Ever since their fleeing troop had reached the gulley and had
taken advantage of its scanty protection to fall down exhausted, they had
all been busily engaged in binding of wounds. At the moment, the priest
was tending to Towser, who had fallen sick during the march; the other
pair were looking after Sangfugol's injuries.

158


STONE OF FAREWELL

159

    Even if the Norns do not mean to kill us, they obviously intend to stop us,
Deornoth thought, rubbing his aching leg. Perhaps they no longer care
whether we have one of the Great Swords, or perhaps their spies told them we do
not. But why don't they simply kill us, then? Do they wish to capture Josua?
Trying to understand the Norns was dizzying. What should we do, in any
case? Is it better to be shot to pieces and then captured, or to turn and fight to the
death?
    But did they even have a choice? The Norris were mere shadows in the
forest. As long as they had arrows to shoot, the white-faced pursuers
could do as they wished. What could Josua's folk do to force them to
fight?
    Fog was forming rapidly on the damp ground, turning the trees and
stones indistinct, as though Josua's people were trapped in some between-
world that straddled life and death. An owl flitted silently overhead like a
gray ghost.
    Deornoth struggled to his feet and went to help Strangyeard. The prince
came to join them, watching as the priest swabbed Towser's feverish
brow with his kerchief.
    "It is a pity..." Strangyeard said without looking up. "A pity, I mean,
that the fog is everywhere, but we still have so little clean water. Even the
ground is wet, but it does us no good."
    "If tonight is as damp and cold as the last," Deornoth said, grasping
Towser's hand as the old man fretfully clutched at the kerchief, "we will
be able to wring out our clothes and fill the Kynslagh."
    "We must not spend the night here," Josua said. "We must get to high
ground."
    Deornoth looked at him carefully. The prince was showing no signs of
his earlier lassitude--in fact, Josua's eyes were bright. He seemed to be
coming back to life just as all around him were dying. "But how, my
prince?" Deornoth asked. "How can we hope to drag our bleeding bodies
up that hill? We do not even know how high it is."
    Josua nodded, but said: "Nevertheless, we must climb it before dark.
What little ability to resist that we retain will be useless if they can come
down on us from above."
    His fierce face daubed with dried blood, Einskaldir came and crouched
beside them. "If only they would come within reach." He dandled his axe
and laughed sourly. "If we show ourselves, they pick us to pieces. They
see better in dark than us."
    "We must go up the slope all in a herd," the prince said, "--huddled up
like frightened cattle. Those on the outside will wrap their legs and arms
in whatever thick clothing we have. That way, if they fear to make a fatal
shot, they will be perhaps less likely to let fly into a crowd, where the
missed wounding in the front may take a life in the rear."
    Einskaldir grunted. "So we make us an unmissable target--cannot shoot
one without shooting more. Madness!"


160                                   Tad Williams

    Josua turned on him sharply. "You are not answerable for the lives of
this company, Einskaldir. I am! If you would fight your own way, then
go! If you would remain with us, then be silent and do as I say."
    Several among the company who had been talking fell silent, waiting.
The Rimmersman stared at Josua for a moment, his eyes blank, his
bearded jaw twitching. Then he smiled in grim admiration.  "Haja---yes, Prince Josua," was all Einskaldir said.
      The prince put a hand on Deornoth's shoulder. "We can do nothing
else, even when hope is gone, but struggle on . . ."  "There is still hope, if you will hear it."
    Deornoth turned, expecting to find Duchess Gutrun standing by--for it
had seemed an older's woman's voice, deep and a little hoarse---but
Gutrun was tending the harper Sangfugol and was too far away to have
been the source.
    "Who speaks?" Josua said, staring away from his companions, out into
the forest. He drew his slender sword from its scabbard. Those around
him felt silent, sensing his alarm. "I said, who speaks?"
    "I do," the voice replied in a matter-of-fact way. The accent was that of
one not native to the Westerling speech. "I did not want to catch you
unaware. There is hope, I said. I come as a friend."
    "Norn tricks!" Einskaldir snarled, hefting his axe as he tilted his head to
locate the source of the voice.
    Josua raised his hand to hold him back and called: "If you are a friend,
then why do you not come forward?"
    "Because I have not finished changing and I do not want to frighten you. Your
friends are my friends--Morgenes of the Hayholt, Binabik of Yiqanuc."
    Deornoth felt the hair stirring on his neck at the invisible being's words.
To hear those names here, in the middle of unknown Aldheorte! "Who are
you?" he cried.
    There was a rustling in the shadowed undergrowth. A strangely-shaped
figure stepped toward them through the rising fog. No, Deornoth real-
ized, there were two figures, one large and one small.
    "In this part of the world," the taller one said, with what sounded like a
touch of amusement in her harsh voice, "I am known as Gelo~."
    "Valada Gelo~!" Josua breathed. "The wise woman. Binabik spoke of
you."
    "Some say wise, some say witch," she answered. "Binabik is small but
polite. Such things we may talk about later, however. Now it grows
dark."
    She was not tall or particularly large, but there was something in her
posture that spoke of strength. Her short-cropped hair was mostly gray, her
nose prominent and sharp, with a downward curve. Gelo~'s most arrest-
ing feature was her eyes: wide and heavy-lidded, they caught the dying
sun with a peculiar yellow gleam, reminding Deornoth of nothing so


STONE OF FAREWELL

161

much as a hawk or owl. So striking were they that it was some time
before he noticed the young girl whose hand she held.
    This one was small, perhaps eight or nine years, and pale of face. Her
eyes, although an unexceptional shade of dark brown, had much of the
curious intensity of the older woman's. But where Gelo~'s gaze seized
attention like an arrow quivering on a drawn string, the little girl looked
starkly into nothingness, her stare as objectless as a blind beggar's.
    "Leleth and I are here to join you," Gelo~ said, "--and to lead you if we
may, at least for a short while. If you try to climb that hill, some of you
will die. None of you will reach the summit."
    "What do you know about it?" Isorn demanded. He looked confused.
He was not the only one.
    "This. The Norns are reluctant to slay you--this is obvious, or a party
like yours on foot would not have gotten a tenth this far into the forest.
But if you cross that hill, you will have crossed over into territory
through which the Hikeda'ya cannot follow. If there are any of you they
do not need alive--and surely not all of you are valuable to them, if that is
even the reason the Norns have let you get so far--they will take the risk
of trying to kill the dispensable ones to frighten the rest off the slopes."
    "So what are you telling us, then?" Josua asked, stepping forward.
Their eyes locked. "Over this hill safety lies, but we dare not go there?
What, should we lay down and die?'
     "No," Gelo~ responded calmly. "l only said you should not climb the
hill. There are other ways." "Fly?" Einskaldir snarled.
    "Some do." She smiled as at a quiet joke. "But all you need do is follow
us." Taking the girl's hand again, she started off along the edge of the
gulley.
    "Where are you going?" Deornoth cried, and felt a pang of fear at being
left behind as the pair began to fade into the twilit shadows.
"Follow," Gelo~ called back over her shoulder. "Darkness is growing."
Deornoth turned to stare at the prince, but Josua was already helping
Duchess Gutrun onto her feet. As the rest hurried to pick up their meager
belongings, Josua walked briskly to where Vorzheva sat and extended his
hand. She ignored him and got to her feet, then strode down into the
gulley with head held high, like a queen in procession. The others fol-
lowed limping after her, whispering wearily among themselves.

    Gelo6 stopped to wait for the farthest-trailing stragglers. At her side
Leleth disconcertingly stared offinto the forest, as if she expected someone.
    "Where are we going?" Deornoth asked as he and Isorn rested, scraping
the slimy mud of the streambed from their boots. The harper Sangfugol,
who could not walk without someone at either shoulder, was sitting on
his own for a moment, breathing heavily.


162                                   Tad Williams

    "We are not leaving the forest," the witch woman said, inspecting the
bit of purple sky that could be seen through the willow branches. "But we
will pass beneath the hill into a part of the old woods once known as
Shisae'ron. As I said, the Hikeda'ya are not likely to follow us there."
  "Pass under the hill? What can that mean?" Isorn demanded.
    "We walk in the bed of Re Suri'eni, an ancient river," Gelo~ said.
"When I first came here, the forest was a lively country, not the clark
tangle it has become. This river was one of many that spanned the great
woods, carrying all manner of things and all manner of folk from Da'ai
Chikiza to high Asu'a."
    "Asu'a?" Deornoth wondered. "Was that not the Sithi name for the
Hayholt?"
    "Asu'a was more than the Hayholt ever will be," Gelo6 said sternly, her
eyes searching for the last of the wandering line. "Sometimes you men
are like lizards, sunning on the stones of a crumbled house, thinking:
'what a nice basking-spot someone built for me.' You stand in the sad
mud of what was a wide, beautiful river, where the boats of the Old Ones
skimmed and flowers grew."
    "This was a fairy river?" Isorn's attention had been wandering. Now,
startlement on his broad face, he peered around as though the streambed
itself might exhibit signs of treachery.
    "Idiot!" Gelo~ said scornfully. "Yes, it was a 'fairy river.' This entire
land was--as you would put it--a fairy country. What sort of creatures do
you think pursue you?"
    "I... I knew that," Isorn muttered, abashed. "But I had not thought
of it that way. Their arrows and swords were real, that was all I could
think of."
    "As were the arrows and swords of your ancestors, Rimmersmannf,
which accounts for some of the bad blood between your folk and theirs.
The difference is, though King Fingil's reavers killed many Sithi with their
blades of black iron, Fingil and your other ancestors at last aged and died.
The Children of the East do not die---at least, not in such a time as you
can understand--and neither do they forget old wrongs. If they are old,
they are all the more patient for it." She stood up, looking about for
Leleth, who had wandered off. "Let us go," she called sharply. "Time to
nurse wounds when we have passed through."
 "Passed through where?" Deornoth asked. "How? You never told us."
 "Nor need I waste my breath now," she said. "We will be there soon."

    The light was fading fast and the footing was treacherous, but Gelo~
was an unflagging guide. She had increased the pace, waiting only long
enough for the first stragglers to catch up before pushing on again.
    The sky had taken on night's earliest hues when the riverbed bent again.
A darker shape suddenly loomed before them, a shadow tall as the trees


STONE OF FAREWELL

163

and blacker than the surrounding obscurity. The walkers stumbled to a
halt, those who could summon the breath moaning in weariness.
    Gelo~ took an unlit brand from her bag, handing it to Einskaldir. His
sour remark died in his throat as she narrowed her yellow eyes. "Take this
and put flint and steel to it," she said. "We will at least need some light
where we are going."
    A furlong or less from where they stood, the streambed vanished into
darkness as it entered a vast hole in the hillside, an arched mouth whose
dressed stones had been almost completely engulfed by a clinging blanket
of moss.
    Einskaldir struck with his axe head; a flint spark jumped, igniting the torch.
Its growing yellow light brought forward other stones that shone pale
beneath the overgrown frontage. Trees of great size and age had thrust out
from the hillside above the arch, pushing aside the facing in their reach
toward the sun.
  "A tunnel all the way through the hill?" Deornoth gasped.
    "The Old Ones were mighty builders," Gelo~ said, "but never better
than when they built around the things earth had already grown, so that
city lived together with forest or mountain."
Sangfugol coughed. "It looks.., an abode of ghosts," he whispered.
Gelo~ snorted. "Even if so, they are not the dead that you should
fear." She seemed about to say something else when there was a hiss and a
smack. Suddenly an arrow was shivering in the trunk of a cypress near
Einskaldir's head.
    "You who would flee," a cold voice called, echoing so that it was
impossible to discern its source, "you must surrender now. We have spared
you thus far, but we may not allow you to cross through. We will destroy you
all."
    "Aedon preserve us!" Duchess Gutrun wept, her great courage finally
weakening. "Save us, Lord!" She sagged down onto the wet turf.
    "It is the torch!" Josua said, coming up quickly. "Put out the torch,
Einskaldir."
    "No," Gelo~ said, "you will never find your way in the dark." She
raised her voice. "Hikeda'yei," she cried, "do you know who ! am?"
    "Yes, we know you, old woman," the voice said. "But whatever respect you
might deserve was lost the moment you threw in your lot with these mortals. The
world could have spun on, leaving you undisturbed in your solitary house--but
you would not let well enough alone. Now you also are unhomed, and must go
naked like a crab with no shell. You too can die, old woman."
    "Douse the torch, Einskaldir," Josua snapped, "we can light another
when we have reached shelter."
    The Rimmersman stared at the prince for a moment. Darkness had
arrived: but for the torch's rippling flame, Josua would never have seen
him smile.


164                                   Tad Williams

    "Don't wait too long to follow me," was all Einskaldir said. A moment
later he had dashed away down the riverbed toward the great arch, the
flame held high over his head. Arrow hissed past his companions as the
Rimmers/nan, now only a leaping spot of light, swerved and dodged.
  "Go! Up and run!" Josua cried. "Help the one nearest you. Run!"
  Someone was shouting in an alien tongue--indeed, the whole forest
  seemed suddenly alive with noise. Deornoth reached down and caught at
  Sanfugol's arm, dragging the wounded harper to his feet, and together
  they plunged through the overhanging greenery after the dwindling spark
  of Einskaldir's torch.
    Branches slapped at their faces and snatched at their eyes with cruel
talons. Another shout of pain rang out before them and the shrill cries
redoubled. Deornoth turned to look briefly over his shoulder. A swarm of
pale shapes were sweeping forward over the misty ground, faces whose
pitchy eyes filled him with despair, even from afar.
    Something struck the side of Deornoth's head violently, staggering him.
He could hear Sangfugol sobbing in pain as the harper tugged at his
elbow. For a long moment it seemed to the knight that it would be easier
just to he on the ground.
      "Merczful Aedon, give me rest," he heard himself praying, "in Your arms
will I sleep, upon Thy bosom I will take my peace . . ." but Sangfugol would
not stop pulling at him. Dazed, irritated, he stumbled to his feet once
more and saw a scatter of stars gleaming through the treetops.
    Not enough light to see under the hill, he thought, then noticed he was
running again. But running or not, Deornoth thought, he and Sangfugol
were moving very slowly: the dark smear on the hillside didn't seem to be
getting any closer. He put his head down and watched his feet, dim,
shadowy shapes slipping on the muddy streambed.  My head. I've hurt my head again . . .
    The next thing Deornoth knew, he had plunged into darkness as abruptly
as if someone had thrown a sack over him. He felt more hands take his
elbows and help him forward. His head felt curiously light and empty.
  "There's the torch, ahead," someone said nearby.
That sounds like Josua's voice, Deornoth decided. Is he under the sack, too?
He staggered on a few steps and saw a light glowing. He looked down,
trying to make sense of it all. Einskaldir sat on the ground, leaning against
a stone wall that rose and curved overhead. The Rimmersman held a torch
in his hand. There was blood in his beard.
    "Take this," Einskaldir said to no one in particular. "I've got.., arrow
in . . . back. Can't . . . breathe . . ." He sagged slowly forward against
Josua's leg. It looked so odd that Deornoth tried to laugh, but couldn't.
The empty feeling was spreading. He bent forward to help Einskaldir, but
instead found himself down a deep black hole.
  "Usires save us, look at Deornoth's head... !" someone cried. He


                                         STONE OF FAREWELL                                                                165

didn't recognize the voice, and wondered who it was they were so upset
about . . . Then the darkness had returned and it was hard to think. The
hole that he had fallen into seemed very deep indeed.

    Rachel the Dragon, the Hayholt's Mistress of Chambermaids, lifted her
bundle of wet linens higher on her shoulders, trying to find the balance
least trying to her aching back. It was useless, of course: there would be
no ending to the pain until God the Father gathered her up to Heaven.
    Rachel was feeling distinctly un-Dragonlike. The chambermaids who
had given her the name long ago, when the force of Rachel's will had been all
that stood between the age-old Hayholt and the tides of decay, would
have been surprised to see her as she was now--a bent, complaining old
woman. She was surprised herself. A chance reflection in a silver serving
tray one recent morning had shown her a gaunt-faced harridan with
dark-circled eyes. It had been many a long year since she had thought
much about her looks, but still, this seemed a shocking transformation.
    Had it been only four months since Simon died? It felt like years. That
had been the day when she felt things beginning to slip away from her.
She had always lorded over the Hayholt's vast household like a tyrant
river-captain, but despite her young charges' whispered complaints, the
work had always gotten done. Mutinous talk had never bothered Rachel
much, in any case: she knew that life was but a long struggle against
disorder, and that disorder was the inevitable winner. Rather than leading
her to accept the futility of her role, however, this knowledge instead had
whipped Rachel on to greater resistance. Her parents' fierce northern
Aedonite faith had taught her that the more hopeless the struggle, the
more crucial it was to struggle valiantly. But some of the life had leaked
out of her when Simon died in the smoking inferno that had been Doctor
Morgenes' chambers.
    Not that he had been a well-behaved boy--no, far from it. Simon had
been willful and disobedient, a woolgatherer and a mooncalf. He had,
however, brought a certain irritating liveliness to Rachel's life. She would
have even welcomed the sputtering rages into which he provoked her--if
only he were still here.
    In fact, it was still hard to believe he was dead. Nothing could have
survived the firing of the Doctor's quarters--caused when some of Morgenes'
devilish potions had caught flame, or so members of the king's Erkynguards
had informed her. The fused wreckage and shattered beams made it
impossible to suppose anyone in the room could have lived for more than
a few moments. But she could not j~el that he was really dead. She had
been almost a mother to the boy, had she not? Raised him--with the help
of her chambermaids, of course--since his first hour, when his mother had


166                                   Tad Williams

died in childbirth despite all Doctor Morgenes' attempts to save her. So
shouldn't Rachel know if he was truly gone? Shouldn't she feel the final
severing of the cord that had bound her to that stupid, addle-pated, gawky
boy?
    Oh, merci~l Rhiap, she thought, are you crying again, old woman? Your
brains have gone soft as sweetmeats.
    Rachel knew of other domestics who had lost actual birth-children and
still talked about them as if they were alive, so why should she feel any
differently about Simon? It didn't change anything. The boy was undeni-
ably dead, killed by his love for hanging about with that mad alchemist
Morgenes, and that was that.
    But things had certainly seemed to go wrong since then. A cloud had
descended on her beloved Hayholt, a fog of discomfort that crept into
every corner. The battle against untidiness and dirt had swung against her,
becoming lately a thoroughgoing rout. All this, despite the fact that the
castle seemed emptier than it had any time she could remember--at least at
night. In daylight, when the clouded sun shone through the high windows
and lit the gardens and commons, the Hayholt was still a riot of activity.
In fact, with the Thrithings mercenaries and South Islanders now flooding
in to replace the soldiers Elias had lost at Naglimund, the castle's environs
were noisier than ever. Several of her girls, frightened by the scarred,
tattooed Thrithings-men and their rough manners, had left the Hayholt
entirely to live with country relatives. To Rachel's disgust and increasing
dismay, despite the hordes of hungry mendicants roaming Erchester and
camped around the walls of the Hayholt itself, it was almost impossible to
replace the departing chambermaids.
    But Rachel knew that it was not just the castle's wild new inhabitants
that made it hard to find new girls. Crowded with brawling soldiers and
disdainful nobles as it was during the light of day, by night the Hayholt
seemed as uninhabited as the lich-yard beyond Erchester's walls. Echoes
and strange voices floated through the corridors. Footfalls sounded where
no one walked. Rachel and her remaining wards now locked themselves in
at night. Rachel told them it was to keep out the drunken soldiery, but she
and her chambermaids both knew that the carefully-checked door bolt and
shared prayers before retiring did not come from fear of anything as easy
to name as a besotted Thrithings-man.
    Even stranger--although she would never, never admit it to her Blessed-
Rhiap-preserve-them charges--Rachel had found herself lost a few times
in recent weeks, wandering in corridors she did not recognize. Rachel
herselO. She who had bestrode this castle as confidently as any ruler for
decades, now lost in her own home. This was either madness or the folly
of age.., or some demon's curse.
    Rachel thumped down the sack of wet sheets and leaned against a wall.
A trio of older priests eddied around her in their passage, talking heatedly


STONE OF FAREWELL

167

in Nabbanai. They gave her no more of a glance than they would a dog
dead in the road. She stared after them as she fought to catch her breath.
To think that at her age, after all her years of service, she should be
carrying around sodden bed linens like the lowliest downstairs maid! But
it had to be done. Someone had to carry on the fight.
    Yes, things had been going wrong ever since the day Simon died, and
did not look to get better soon. She frowned and hoisted her burden once
more.

    Rachel had finished hanging out the wet bedding. Watching the linen
flap in the late-afternoon breeze, she marveled at such cool weather.
Tiyagar-month, the middle of summer, and still the days were as cold as
early spring. It was certainly better than the deadly drought that had ended
last year, but even so, she felt herself longing for the hot days and warm
nights that were the yearly summer's-due. Her joints hurt and chill mornings
only made the hurting worse. The dampness seemed to slip stealthily into
her very bones.
    She crossed back across the commons, wondering where her helpers
had gotten to. Having a sit-down and a giggling conversation, no doubt,
while the Mistress of Chambermaids labored like a yeoman. Rachel was
sore, but there was enough strength still in her good right arm to sting a
few girls into service!
    It was too bad, she reflected as she made her way slowly around the
Outer Bailey, that there wasn't somebody who could take a strong hand
to this castle. Elias had seemed like the type after blessed old King John
had died, but Rachel had been sorely disappointed. The apple, she
thought, had fallen quite a bit farther from the tree than anyone could
have guessed. But that was no surprise, really. It was just men, was what
it was. Swaggering, bragging men--exactly like little boys, when you got
down to it, even the grown ones acting no smarter than young mooncalf
Simon had been. They didn't know how to deal with things, men didn't,
and King Elias was no exception.
    Take this madness with his brother. Now, Rachel had never much liked
Prince Josua. He was a sight too clever and solemn for her, obviously one
who thought himself pretty blessed smart. But to think that he was a
traitor--well, that was just foolishness and anyone could tell it! Josua had
been too bookish and high-minded for such nonsense, but what had his
brother Elias done? Gone dashing off to the north with an army, and
through some trick pulled down Josua's castle at Naglimund and slaugh-
tered and burned. And why? Some damned man's pride on King Elias'
part. Now a lot of Erkynlandish women were widows, the harvest was
going badly, and all the Hayholt and its inhabitants were-Lord Usires
pardon for her thinking it, but it was only the truth--going straight to
Hell.


168                                   Tad Williams

    The back of the Nearulagh Gate loomed before her, its long shadow
painting the walls on either side with darkness. Quarreling birds, kites and
ravens, fought over the few remaining scraps of the ten skeletal heads
fixed on pikes atop the gate.
    Rachel shuddered despite herself as she made the sign of the Tree. This
was something else that had changed. Never in all the long years she had
kept house for King John had there been such a show of cruelty as Elias
had made of these traitors. They had all been beaten and quartered in
Battle Square down in Erchester, before a restive and uneasy crowd. Not
that any of the executed nobles had been particularly popular--Baron
Godwig, especially, was much hated for his ill-rule of Cellodshire--but
everyone had sensed the wispiness of the king's accusations. Godwig and
the rest had gone to their deaths like men astounded, shaking their heads
and protesting their innocence until the cudgels of the Erkynguards had
smashed the life out of them. Now their heads had stood above the
Nearulagh Gate for a full two weeks while the carrion birds, like clever
little sculptors, slowly brought the skulls to the surface. Few of those who
passed beneath them stared for long. Most who looked up turned away
quickly, as if they had glimpsed something forbidden instead of the abject
public lesson the king desired.
    Traitors, the king called them, and as traitors they had died. Rachel
thought they would be little missed, but still their deaths brought the fog
of despair down a bit closer.
    As Rachel hurried past with eyes averted, she was almost knocked
down by a young squire sloshing through the muddy road leading a
horse. After she had scrambled to a position of safety against the outer
wall, Rachel turned to see the riders pass.
    They were all soldiers--all but one. Where the armored men wore the
green tunics of the king's Erkynguard, the other wore a robe of flaming
scarlet, a black traveling cloak, and tall black boots.
    Pryrates! Rachel stiffened. Where was that devil going with his honor
guard of soldiers?
    The priest seemed to float above his companions. As the soldiers laughed
and talked, Pryrates looked neither right or left, his hairless head rigid as a
spearpoint, his black eyes fixed on the gate before him.
     Things had truly begun to go wrong when the red priest arrived--as if
 Pryrates himself had put an evil spell on the Hayholt. Rachel had even
 wondered for a while if Pryrates, whom she knew had not liked Morgenes,
 might have burned down the doctor's rooms. Could a man of Mother
 Church do such a thing? Could he kill innocent people-like her Simon--
 for a grudge? But the rumors did say that the priest's father was a demon,
 his mother a witch. Rachel made the sign of the Tree again, watching his
 proud back as the party ambled past.
  Could one man bring evil down on everyone, she wondered? And why?


                                        STONE OF FAREWELL                                                                169

Just to be doing the devil's work? She looked around carefully, embar-
rassed, then spat in the mud to ward evil. What did it matter? There was
nothing an old woman like her could do, was there?
    She watched Pryrates and the company of soldiers ride out through the
Nearulagh Gate, then turned and began trudging toward the residences,
thinking about curses and cold weather.

    The late afternoon sun slanted in through the trees, making the thin
leaves glow. The forest mist had finally burned away. A few birds trilled
in the treetops. Deornoth, feeling the pain in his head diminishing, stood
up.
    The wise woman Gelo~ had nursed Einskaldir's terrible wounds all
morning before leaving him at last to the ministrations of Duchess Gutrun
and Isorn. The Rimmersman, feverish and raving while Gelo~ had applied
poultices to the arrow-spites in his back and side, now lay quietly. She
could not say if he would live.
    Gelo~ had labored the rest of the afternoon on the other members of the
company, treating Sangfugol's festering leg wound and the many injuries
the rest of the party had suffered as well. Her knowledge of healing herbs
was wide and her pockets were well-stuffed with useful things. She
seemed certain that all except for the Rimmersman would be quickly
improved.
    The forest on this side of the hill-tunnel was not much different from
that which they had just left, Deornoth thought--at least in looks. The
oaks and elders grew close here, too, and the ground was powdery with
the remains of long-dead trees, but there was something different in the
heart of it, some faint grace or inner liveliness, as if the air were lighter or
the sun shone more warmly. Of course, Deornoth realized, it might only
be that he and the others in Prince Josua's party had lived another day
longer than they had expected.
    Gelo~ was sitting on a log with Prince Josua. Deornoth started to
approach, then hesitated, unsure of his welcome. Josua smiled wearily and
waved him over.
 "Come, Deornoth, sit down. How is your head?"
 "Sore, Highness."
 "It was a cruel blow," Josua said, nodding.
    Gelo~ looked up and briefly surveyed Deornoth. Earlier she had scanned
the bloody wound in Deornoth's scalp where the tree limb had struck
him, then pronounced it "not serious."
    "Deornoth is my right hand," Josua told her. "It is good that he should
hear all this, against the chance anything should happen to me."
 Gelo~ shrugged. "Nothing I will speak of is a secret. At least, not the


170                                   Tad Williams

kind we should keep from each other." She turned for a moment to watch
Leleth. The child sat quietly in Vorzheva's lap, but her eyes were fixed on
nothing visible, and no words or c~'resses from Vorzheva could arouse her
attention.
    "Where do you think to go, Prince Josua?" Gelo~ said at last. "You
have escaped the vengeance of the Norns, at least for a while. Where will
you go?"
    The prince frowned. "I have not thought of anything but winning our
way to safety. I suppose if this--" he waved his hand at the forest clearing,
"is a place of refuge against the demons, as you say it is, we should stay
here."
    The witch woman shook her head. "Of course, we must stay until all
are well enough to walk. But then?"
    "I have no idea yet." Josua looked at Deornoth, as if hoping for some
suggestion. "My brother stands victorious over all the lands of the High
King's Ward. I cannot think of who would hide me under peril of Elias'
anger." He slapped his left hand against the stump of his right. "All our
chances seem to have come to nothing. It was a poor game."
    "I did not ask the question innocently," Gelo~ said, rearranging her seat
upon the log. She wore boots as a man did, Deornoth saw, and well-
traveled boots at that. "Let me tell you of some important things and you
will be better able to see the possibilities. First of all, before Naglimund
fell, you sent out a party in search of something, did you not?" Josua narrowed his eyes. "How could you know?"
    Gelo~ shook her head impatiently. "I told you when we met that I knew
both Morgenes and Binabik ofYiqanuc. I also knewJarnauga of Tungoldyr.
We were in communication while he was at your castle and he told me
much."
  "Poor Jarnauga," Josua said. "He died bravely."
    "Many of the wise have died; there are few left," she answered him.
"And bravery is by no means the province only of soldiers and nobles.
But since the circle of the wise is growing smaller with each such death, it
has become more than ever important that we share knowledge among
ourselves and with others. So it was that Jarnauga passed on to me all that
he did after reaching Naglimund tom his home in the north. Ah!" She sat
up. "I am reminded of something." She raised her voice. "Father
Strangyeard!"
     The priest looked up at her call, uncertain. She gestured for him to
 come and he rose from the harper Sangfugol's side and approached.
     "Jarnauga thought highly of you," Gelo~ said. A smile crossed her
 weathered features. "Did he give you anything before he left you?"
     Strangyeard nodded. He produced a glittering pendant from beneath his
 cassock. "This," he said quietly.
  "I thought so. Well, you and I shall speak of it later, but as a member of


                                          STONE OF FAREWELL                                                                171

 the League of the Scroll, you should certainly be part of our councils."
     "A member ..." Strangyeard seemed astonished. "Me? Of the
 League... ?"
     Gelo~ smiled again. "Certainly. Knowing Jarnauga, I'm sure it was a
 careful choice. But as I said, we shall talk more of this later, you and I."
 She turned back to the prince and Deornoth. "You see, I know about the
 search for the Great Swords. I do not know if Binabik and the others have
 succeeded in their search for Camaris' blade Thorn, but I can tell you that
 as of a day or so ago, the troll and the boy Simon were both still alive."
     "Aedon be praised," Josua breathed, "that is good news! Good news in
 a time that has been short of it. My heart has been heavy for them ever
 since they set out. Where are they?"
     "I believe they are in Yiqanuc among the trolls. It is hard to explain
 quickly, so I will say only this: my contact with young Simon was brief
 and did not allow much discussion. Also, I had a message to give to them
 that was most important."
    "And what was that?" Deornoth asked. As pleased as he had been at the
witch woman's arrival, he now found himself a little resentful at how she
had stolen the initiative away from Prince Josua. It was a foolish and
presumptuous worry, but he wanted very much to see the prince leading
in the way that Deornoth knew he could.
    "The message I gave Simon I will also give to you," Geloi responded,
"but there are other things we must speak of first." She turned to
Strangyeard. "What have you found of the other two swords?"
    The priest cleared his throat. "Well," he began, "we ... we know
altogether too well the whereabouts of Sorrow. King Elias wears it--a gift
from the Storm King, if stories we heard are true--and it goes with him
everywhere. Thorn, we think, is somewhere in the north; if the troll and
the others still live, I suppose there is hope they may find it. The last one,
Minneyar, once King Fingil's sword---but dear me, you must have known
that, of course--well, Minneyar seems never to have left the Hayholt. So
two . . . two . . ."
    "Two of the swords are in my brother's hands," Josua finished, "and
the third is being sought in the trackless north by a troll and a young
boy." He smiled worriedly, shaking his head. "As I said before, it is a
poor game."
    Geloi fixed him with her fierce yellow eyes and spoke sharply. "But a
game, Prince Josua, in which surrender is not an alternative, a game which
we must play with the pieces we have drawn. The stakes are very large
indeed."
    The prince sat up straighter, raising his hand to silence Deomoth's
angry response. "Your words are well-spoken, Valada Gelo~. This is the
only game we can play. We dare not lose. So, is there more you would tell
US?"


172                                   Tad Williams

    "Much you know already, or can guess. Hernystir in the west is fallen,
King Lluth dead and his people taken to the hills. By treachery, Nabban is
now the dukedom of Elias' ally Benigaris. Skali of Kaldskryke rules
Rimmersgard in Isgrimnur's stead. Now Naglimund is cast down and the
Norns haunt it like ghosts." As she spoke she took her walking stick and
drew a map in the dirt before them, marking each place as she spoke of it.
"Aldheorte Forest is free, but it is not a place for men to come together in
resistance, except perhaps in the last hope, when all else is denied them."
    "And what is this, if not the last hope?" Josua said. "This is my
kingdom, Gelo6, as you see it, all gathered here within a stone's throw.
We may hide, but how could we challenge Elias with so few, let alone his
ally the Storm King?"
    "Ah, now we come to what I said should be saved for later," Gelo6
answered, "and also where we speak of matters stranger than human
wars." Her gnarled brown hands moved quickly, sketching once more on
the ground beside her boots. "Why are we safe in this part of the forest?
Because it is under the ward of the Sithi, and the Norns dare not attack
them. A fragile peace has stood for countless years between the two
families. Even the soulless Storm King, I should think, is in no hurry to
rouse the remaining Sithi to action."
    "They are ~milies?" Deornoth asked. Gelo6 turned her fierce stare upon
him.
    "Did you not listen to what Jarnauga told you at Naglimund?" she
demanded. "What use is there in the wise giving up their lives if those for
whom they sacrifice do not listen?"
    "Jarnauga told us that Inelukimthe Storm King--was once a prince of
the Sithi," Strangyeard said hurriedly, flapping his hands as if to fan away
strife. "That we knew."
    "The Norns and Sithi were for eons one people," Gelo6 said. "When
they went their separate ways, they divided Osten Ard between them and
promised they would not cross over into each other's fields without
warrant."
"And what use is this knowledge to we poor mortals?" Deornoth asked.
Gelo6 waved her hand. "We are safe here because the Norns tread
carefully along the borders of the Sithi lands. Also, even in these dimin-
ished days there is a power in such places that would make them hesitate
in any case." She looked fixedly at Deornoth. "You have felt it, have you
not? But the problem is that we ten or eleven are not enough to fight
back. We must find some place safe from the Norns, but also a place
where the others who resent your brother Elias' misrule can find us. If
King Elias tightens his control over Osten Ard, if the Hayholt becomes an
unbreachable stronghold, then we will never pry loose the Great Sword
we know he has, or the other that he may have. We do not fight sorcery
only, but also a war of position and placement."


STONE OF FAREWELL

173

    "What are you saying?" Josua asked, his eyes intent on the witch
woman's face.
    Gelo~ pointed at the map with her walking stick. "Out here, beyond the
forest to the east, run the meadows of the High Thrithings. There, near
the site upon which the ancient city of Enki-e-Shao'saye once stood, along
the border between woods and grassland, is the place where Norns and
Sithi parted ways forever. It is called Sesuad'raAthe Stone of Farewell."
  "And... and we would be safe there?" Strangyeard asked, excited.
  "For a time," GeloE responded. "It is a place of power, so its heritage
  may keep us safe from the Storm King's minions for a short while. But
  that is good enough, for time is what we need mostAtime to gather those
  who would fight back against Elias, time to bring our scattered allies
  together. But most importantly, we need time to solve the mystery of the
  three Great Swords and find a way to fight the menace of the Storm
  King."
    Josua sat and st~red at the line-scratched dirt. "It is a beginning," he said
at last. "Against all despair, it is a small flame of hope."
    "That is why I came to you," the witch woman said. "And that is why
I told the boy Simon to come there when he could, bringing any who
were with him."
    Father Strangyeard coughed apologetically. "I'm afraid I do not under-
stand, Goodwoman Gelo~. How did you speak to the boy? If he is in the
distant north, you would not have been able to get here in time. Did you
use messenger birds, as Jarnauga often did?"
    She shook her head. "No. I spoke to him through the girl, Leleth. It is
hard to explain, but she helped make me stronger so I could reach out all
the way to Yiqanuc and tell Simon of the Stone of Farewell." She began
scratching away her map with the toe of her boot. "Not smart to leave a
message showing where we're bound," she said and chuckled hoarsely.
    "But could you reach out to speak with anyone this way?" Josua asked
keenly.
    GeloE shook her head. "I have met Simon and touched him. He was in
my house. I do not think I could find and converse with someone I did not
already know."
    "But my niece Miriamele was at your house, or so I was told," the
prince said eagerly. "I have been deeply worried about her. Could you
find her for me, speak to her?"
    "I have already tried." The witch woman got up, looking again to
Leleth. The little girl was walking aimlessly along the rim of the clearing,
pale lips moving as though in silent song. "There is something or some-
one close to Miriamele that prevented my reaching her--a wall of some
kind. I had very little strength and my time was short, so I did not try
twice."
 "Will you try again?" Josua asked.


174                                   Tad Williams

    "Perhaps," she said, turning to look at him once more. "But I must use
my strength carefully. There is a long struggle before us." She turned to
Father Strangyeard. "Now, priest, come with me. There are things we
must speak about. You have been given a responsibility that may prove a
heavy burden."
    "I know," Strangyeard answered quietly. The two of them moved
away, leaving Josua deep in thought. Deornoth watched his prince for
some long moments, then wandered back to his cloak.
    Towser, lying nearby, was tossing and babbling in the throes of a
nightmare. "White faces . . . hands reaching for me, hands . . ." The old
man's clawed fingers raked at the air, and for a moment the noise of
birdsong was stilled.

    "... So," Josua finished, "there is a gleam of hope. If Valada Gelo~
thinks we can find sanctuary in this place..."
"--And strike a blow at the king," Isorn growled, his pink face scowling.
"... Yes, and prepare to resume the struggle," Josua continued, "then
we must do so. There is nowhere else for us to go, in any case. When all
can walk, we will leave the forest and cross the High Thrithings, heading
east to the Stone of Farewell."
    Vorzheva, pale with anger, opened her mouth as if to say something,
but Duchess Gutrun spoke up instead. "Why leave the forest at all, Prince
Josua? Why should we go a longer way just to expose ourselves on the plains?"
    Gelo~, sitting beside the prince, nodded. "You ask a good question.
One reason is that we can move twice as quickly across open land and
time is precious. Also, we must leave the forest because the same ban that
keeps the Norns at a distance serves for us as well. These are Sithi lands.
We have come here because we have been driven here in peril of our lives,
but to stay long would be to invite their notice. The Sithi do not love
mortals."
  "But won't the Norns pursue us?"
    "I know ways through the forest that will keep us safe until we reach
the meadowlands beyond," the witch woman responded. "As to the High
Thrithings, I doubt the Norns are already so cocksure that they will cross
over in light of day to open country. They are deadly, but still far, far
fewer than humans. The Storm King has waited centuries; I think he is
patient enough to keep his full power hidden from mortals a little longer.
No, it is likely Elias' armies and the Thrithings-men we need to worry
about." She turned to Josua. "You know better than I, perhaps. Do the
Thrithings-dwellers now serve Elias?"
     The prince shook his head. "They are never predictable. Many clans live
 there and their allegiance even to their own March-thanes is loose. Be-
 sides, if we do not venture far from the forest's edge, we may never see
 another soul. The Thrithings are vast."


STONE OF FAREWELL

175

    As he finished speaking, Vorzheva rose and stalked away, disappearing
from the clearing into a stand of birches. Josua watched her go, then a
moment later stood, leaving Gelo~ to answer the questions of those who
had not heard her earlier explanation of Sesuad'ra.

    Vorzheva was leaning against a birch trunk, angrily peeling away strips
of papery bark. Josua paused for a long moment, watching her. Her gown
was a tattered rag, torn away to just above her knees. Her underslip had
also been shredded for bandages. Like everyone else she was dirty, her
thick black hair full of twigs and tangles, her arms and legs crisscrossed
with scratches. The arrow-wound on her forearm was wrapped in a soiled
and bloody rag.
 "Why are you angry?" he asked. His voice was soft.
Vorzheva whirled, eyes wide. "Why am I angry? Why? You are a fool!"
"You have avoided me since we were cast out of Naglimund," Josua
said, taking a step nearer. "When I lie down beside you, you stiffen like a
priest with the stench of sin in his nostrils. Is this the way a lover acts?"
    Vorzheva raised her hand as though to slap at him, but he was too far
away. "Love?" she choked, her accent changing the word into something
heavy and painful. "Who are you, saying love to me? I have lost all for
you and you say this?" She rubbed at her face with her hand, leaving a
dark smear.
    "The lives of all are in my hands," the prince said slowly. "And on my
soul. Men, women, children, hundreds dead in the ruins of Naglimund.
Perhaps I have been distant since the castle fell, but it was because of the
darkness of my thoughts, the ghosts who haunt me."
    "Since the castle fell, you say," she hissed. "Since the castle fell, you
have treated me like a whore. You do not speak to me, you speak to all
others but me, then at night you come to touch me and hold me! Do you
think you bought me at market like a horse? I came away with you to be
free of the plains-lands . . . and to love you. You never treated me well.
Now you will drag me back--drag me back and show my shame to
everyone!" She burst into angry tears and quickly moved to the other side
of the tree, so that the prince could not see her face.
    Josua looked puzzled. "What do you mean? Show your shame to
whom?"
    "To my people, you fool!" Vorzheva cried. Her voice echoed dully
through the copse. "To my people!"
 "To the Thrithings-people . . ." Josua said slowly. "Of course."
    She came around the tree like an angry spirit, eyes bright. "I will not
go. You take your little kingdom and walk where you will, but I will not
return to my homeland in shame, like . . . like this!" She gestured furi-
ously at her raggedness.
 Josua smiled sourly. "This is foolish. Look at me, the son of High King


176                                   Tad Williams

Prester John! I am a scarecrow! What does it matter? I doubt we shall see
any of your people, but even if we did, what does it matter? Are you sc
stiff-necked that you would rather die in the forest than have a few of youl
wagon-folk see you in tatters?"
    "Yes!" she shouted. "Yes! You think I am a fool! You are right! I lef
my home for you and fled my father's lands. Should I come back to theft
hke a whipped dog? I would die a thousand times before that! Everythin~
else has been taken from me, would you see me crawl, too?" She droppec
to the ground, her white knees sinking into the loam. "Then I will be~
you. Do not go to the High Thrithings. Or if you do, leave me enough
food to hve for a while and I will walk to this place through the forest."
    "This is madness of the worst sort," Josua growled. "Did you not hea
what Gelo~ said? If the Sithi do not kill you as a trespasser, the Norns wiJ
catch you and do worse."
    "Then kill me." She reached up to snatch at Naidel, sheathed on Josua'
belt. "I will die before I go back to the Thrithings."
    Josua grabbed her wrist and pulled her upright. She squirmed in hi
grip, kicking at his shins with feet clad in muddy, threadbare shppers
"You are a child," he said angrily, then leaned away as her free han,
struck at his face. "A child with claws." He pulled her around so her bad
was to him, then pushed her stumbling ahead of him until they reached
fallen tree. He sat, pulhng her down with him so that she was caught il
his lap, his arms wrapped around hers, pinioning them at her side.
    "If you will act like a willful girl, I will treat you like one," he sai,
through clenched teeth. He swayed backward, avoiding the flailing swee'
of her head as she struggled. "I hate you!" she panted.
    "At this moment, I hate you, too," he said, squeezing harder, "--bt
that may pass."
    At last her writhing slowed until she sagged in his arms, exhaustec
"You are stronger," she moaned, "but you must sleep sometime. Then
will kill you and kill myself."
    Josua, too, was breathing heavily. Vorzheva was not a weak woma
and the prince having but one hand did not make the struggle any eask
for him. "There are too few of us left for any killing," he muttered. "Bt
I will sit here and hold you until it is time to walk again, if necessary. W
will go to this Sesuad'ra, and we will all reach there alive if I have an
power to make it so."
    Vorzheva again tried to pull free, but gave up quickly when it becam
obvious Josua had not relaxed his grip. She sat quietly for some time, h
breathing gradually slowing, the trembling of her limbs abating.
    The shadows grew longer. A lone cricket, anticipating the eveninl
began its creaking recitation. "If you only loved me," she said at las
staring out at the darkening forest, "I would not need to kill anyone."
 "I am tired of talking, Lady," the prince said.


STONE OF FAREWELL                                                                177

    Princess Miriamele and her pair of religious companions left the Coast
Road in late morning, riding down into the Commeis Valley, the gateway
to the city of Nabban. As they followed the steep switchbacks down the
face of the hill, Miriamele found it hard to watch the road beneath her
horse's hooves. It had been a long time since she had seen the real face of
Nabban, her mother's homeland, and the temptation to gawk was very
strong. Here the farmlands began to give way to the sprawl of the
once-imperial city. The valley floor was crowded with settlements and
towns; even the steep Commeian hills were encrusted with houses of
whitewashed stone that jutted from the hillsides like teeth.
    The smoke of countless fires rose up from the valley floor, a grayish
cloud hanging overhead like an awning. Most days, Miriamele knew,
the winds from the sea swept the blue sky clear, but today the breezes
were absent.
 "So many people," she marveled. "And more in the city itself."
    "But in some ways," Father Dinivan remarked, '*that means little.
Erchester is less than a fifth this size, but the Hayholt there is the capital of
the known world. Nabban's glory is only a memory--except for Mother
Church, of course. Nabban is her city now."
    "Is it not interesting, then, how those who slew our Lord Usires now
clasp Him to their bosom?" Cadrach said, a little farther down the trail.
"One always makes more friends after one is dead."
    "I do not understand your meaning, Cadrach," Dinivan said, his homely
face solemn, "but it sounds like bitterness rather than insight."
    "Does it?" said Cadrach. "I speak of the usefulness of heroes who are
not present to speak for themselves." He scowled. "Lord love me, I wish I
had some wine." He turned away from Dinivan's questioning glance,
offering no further remarks.
    The plumes of smoke reminded Miriamele of something. "How many
of those Fire Dancers we saw in Teligure are there? Are they in every
town?"
    Dinivan shook his head. "There are some few that come from every
town, I would guess, but they join together and travel from place to place,
preaching their vile message. It is not their numbers that should frighten
you, but the despair they carry with them like a plague. For every one
who joins and follows them to the next town, there are a dozen more who
take the message into their secret hearts, losing faith in God."
    "People believe in what they see," Cadrach said, eyes suddenly intent
on Dinivan. "They hear the Storm King's message and see what the
Storm King's hand can inspire. They wait for God to strike down the
heretics. But God does nothing."
  "That is a lie, Padreic," Dinivan said hotly. "Or Cadrach, or whatever


178                                   Tad Williams

name you now choose. For choosing is what matters. God allows each
man or woman to choose. He does not compel love."
    The monk snorted as if in disgust, but continued to stare at the priest.
"That He certainly does not."
    In a strange way, Miriamele thought, Cadrach seemed to be pleading
with Dinivan, as though trying to show the lector's secretary something
that Dinivan would not recognize.
 "God wishes . . ." the priest began.
    "But if God does not cajole, and does not force, and does not respond
to challenges from the Storm King or anyone else," Cadrach interrupted,
his voice hoarse with suppressed emotion, "why, why do you find it
surprising that people think there is no God, or that He is helpless?"
    Dinivan stared for a moment, then shook his head angrily. "That is
why Mother Church exists. To give out God's word, so that people may
decide."
    "People believe what they see," Cadrach replied sadly, then dropped
back into silent thought as they plodded slowly down toward the valley
floor.

    At midday they reached the crowded Anitullean Road. Streams of
people moved in each direction, eddying around wagons going to and
from market. Miriamele and her companions attracted little attention. By
sundown they had covered a great distance up the valley.
    They stopped for the evening in Bellidan, one of the score of towns that
had grown together along the road until it was nearly impossible to tell
where one left off and the next began. They slept at the local priory,
where Dinivan's lectoral signet ring and exalted status made them the
center of a great deal of interest. Miriamele slipped off early to the small
cell provided for her, not wanting to take the chance of her disguise being
compromised. Dinivan explained to the monks that his companion was ill,
then brought her a satisfying meal of barley soup and bread. When she
blew out the candle to sleep, the image of the Fire Dancer was again
before her eyes, the white-robed woman bursting into flame, but here
behind the priory's thick walls it did not seem quite so frightening. It had
been just another unsettling occurrence in an unsettling world.

    By late afternoon of the following day they had reached the spot where
the Anitullean Road began to climb upward through the hill passes that
led to Nabban proper. They passed dozens of pilgrims and merchants who
sat exhausted by the roadside, fanning themselves with wide-brimmed
hats. Some had merely stopped to rest and drink water, but several others
were frustrated peddlers whose donkeys had proved reluctant to pull
overloaded wagons up the steep road.
 "If we stop before dark," Dinivan said, "we can stay the night in one of


STONE OF FAREWELL

179

the hill towns. Then it would be a short ride into the city in the morning.
For some reason, though, I am reluctant to take any longer than necessary.
If we ride past nightfall, we can reach the Sancellan Aedonitis before
midnight."
    Miriamele looked back down the road, then ahead, where it wound out
of sight among the dry golden hills. "I wouldn't mind stopping," she said.
'Tin more than a little sore."
    Dinivan looked worried. "I understand. I am less used to riding than
you are, Princess, and my rump is smarting, too." He blushed and
laughed. "Your pardon, Lady. But I feel that the sooner we reach the
lector, the better."
    Miriamele looked to Cadrach to see if he had something to add, but the
monk was deep in his own private thoughts, swaying from side to side as
his horse plodded uphill. "If you think there is any advantage in it at all,"
she said at last, "then let us ride the night through if necessary. Truthfully,
though, I can't think what I might tell the lector--or that he might tell
me--that would be spoiled if it waits another day."
    "There are many things changing, Miriamele," Dinivan replied, lower-
ing his voice, though the road in this spot was empty but for a farm-
wagon creaking along half a furlong up the road. "In times like these,
when all is uncertain and many dangers are still not completely known, a
chance for speed not taken is often regretted later. This much wisdom I
have. With your permission, I will trust in it."

    They rode all through the darkening evening and did not stop when the
stars began to appear above the hills. The road wound through the passes
and then down, past more towns and settlements, until at last they reached
the outskirts of the great city, lit with so many lamps that it outshone the
sky.
    The streets of Nabban were crowded, even as midnight approached.
Torches burned on every corner. Jugglers and dancers performed in pools
of flickering light, hoping for a coin or two from drunken passersby. The
taverns, their window shutters up on a cool summer night, spilled lantern
light and noise out into the cobbled streets.
    Miriamele was nodding with weariness as they left the Anitullean Road
and followed the track of the Way of the Fountains up the SanceUine Hill.
The Sancellan Aedonitis loomed before them. Its famous spire was only a
slender thread of gold in the lamplight, but a hundred windows glowed
with warm light.
 "Someone is always awake in God's house," Dinivan said quietly.
    As they climbed through the narrow streets, heading for the great
square, Miriamele could see the pale, curving shapes of the Sancellan
Mahistrevis' towers just beyond the Sancellan Aedonitis to the west. The
ducal castle sat on the rocky promontory at Nabban's outermost point,


180                                   Tad Williams

commanding the sea view as Nabban itself had once commanded the lands
of men.
    The two Sancellans, Miriamele thought, one built to rule the body, the other
to rule the soul. Well, the Sance!ian Mahistrevis has ~!len already to that
father-murderer Benigaris, but the lector is a godly man---a good one, too, Dinivan
says, and Dinivan is no fool. At least there is hope there.
    A seagull keened somewhere in the darkness above. She felt a pang of
regret. If her mother had never married Elias, then Miriamele could have
grown up and lived here, above the ocean. This would have been her
home. She would be coming back to a place she belonged.
    But if my mother had never married my .~ther, she thought sleepily, I
wouldn't be me anyway. Stupid girl.
    Their arrival at the doors of the lectoral palace was a confusing blur for
Miriamele, who was finding it difficult to stay awake. Several people
greeted Dinivan warmly--he seemed to have many friends--and the next
thing she knew, she was being shown to a room with a warm, soft bed.
She did not bother to take off anything but her boots, crawling beneath
the blanket while still wrapped in her hooded cloak. Hushed voices spoke
in the corridor outside her room, then a little later she heard the Clavean
bell tolling far above her, striking more times than she could count.
  She fell asleep to the sound of distant singing.

    Father Dinivan woke her in the morning with berries and milk and
bread. She ate sitting up in bed while the priest lit the candles and paced
back and forth across the windownless room.
    "His Sacredness was up early this morning. He was gone before I got to
his chambers, out walking somewhere. He often does that when he has
something to think about. Just takes to the corridors in his night robe. He
doesn't take anyone with him--except me, if I'm around." Dinivan flashed
a boyish smile. "This place is nearly as big as the Hayholt. He could be
anywhere."
    Miriamele dabbed milk from her chin with a flapping sleeve. "Will he
see US?"
    "Of course. As soon as he comes back, I'm sure. I wonder what he
thinks about. Ranessin is a deep man, deep as the sea, and like the sea, it is
often difficult to tell what hides beneath a placid surface."
    Miriamele shuddered, thinking of the kilpa in the Bay of Emettin. She
put her bowl down. "Shall I wear men's clothes?" she asked.
    "What?" Dinivan stopped, surprised by her question. "Oh. To meet the
lector, you mean. I don't think anyone should know yet that you are here.
I would like to say that I trust my fellow priests with my life, and I
suppose I do, but I have hved and worked here too long to trust tongues
not to wag. I did bring you some cleaner robes." He gestured to a bundle
of garments lying on a stool, beside a basin of water that steamed faintly.


STONE    OF    FAREWELL

181

"So if you are ready and have finished breaking your fast, let us be off."
He stood, waiting expectantly.
    Miriamele stared at the clothes for a moment, then back at Father
Dinivan, whose face wore a distracted half-frown. "Could you turn
around," she asked at last, "so I can change?"
    Father Dinivan gaped for a moment, then blushed furiously, much to
Miriamele's secret amusement. "Princess, forgive me! How could I be so
discourteous? Forgive me, I will leave at once. I will be back for you soon.
My apologies. I am thinking of so many other things this morning." He
backed out of the room, closing the door carefully behind him.
    When he was gone, Miriamele laughed and rose from bed. She shucked
the old robes over her head and washed herself, shivering, noting with
more interest than dismay how sun-browned her hands and wrists had
become. They were like a barge-man's hands, she thought with some
satisfaction. How her ladies-in-waiting would wince if they could see her!
    The water was warm, but the chamber itself was cold, so when she
finished she hurriedly pulled on the clean clothes. Running her hands
through her short-cropped hair, she considered washing it, too, but de-
cided against it, thinking of the drafty corridors. The cold reminded her of
young Simon, walking somewhere in the chilly north. In an impulsive
moment she had given him her favorite blue scarf, a favor that now
seemed pitifully inadequate. Still, she had meant it well. It was too thin to
keep him warm, but perhaps it would help him remember the frightening
journey they had survived together. Perhaps he would take heart.
    She found Dinivan in the hall outside, trying his best to look patient.
Back in his familiar home, the priest seemed like a war-horse awaiting
battle, full of trembling need to go, to do. He took her elbow and led her
gently down the corridor.
"Where is Cadrach?" she asked. "Is he going with us to see the lector?"
Dinivan shook his head. "I am not sure of him anymore. I said that I
think there is no great harm in him, but I also think he is a man who has
given in to many weaknesses. That is sad, because the man he once was
would have been valuable counsel indeed. Still, I thought it best to expose
him to no temptations. He is having a pleasant meal with some of my
brother priests. He will be quietly and discreetly watched."
    "What was Cadrach?" she asked, craning her head to stare at the ceiling-
high tapestries that lined the corridor, scenes of Aedon's Elevation, the
Renunciation of Saint Vilderivis, the chastising of Imperator Crexis. She
thought of these frozen figures, eyes wide and white-rimmed, and of all
the centuries they had hung here while the world spun on. Would her
uncle and father someday be the subjects of murals and tapestries, long
after she and all she knew were dust?
    "Cadrach? He was a holy man, once, and not just in dress." Dinivan
appeared to consider for a moment before speaking again. "We will speak


182                                   Tad Williams

of your companion another time, Princess, if you will pardon my rude-
ness. Now you might be thinking of what things you would tell the
lector."
 "What does he want to know?"
    "Everything." Dinivan smiled, the harried edge to his voice softening.
"The lector wishes to know everything about everything. He says it is
because the weight and responsibility of Mother Church are upon his
shoulders and his decisions must be informed ones--hut I think that he is
also a very curious fellow." He laughed. "He knows more about book-
keeping than most of the Writing-Priests in the Sancellan chancelry, and I
have heard him talk for hours about milking with a Lakelands farmer."
Dinivan's expression became more serious. "But these are truly grave
times. As I said before, some of my sources of knowledge cannot be
revealed even to the lector, so your words and the witness of your own
eyes will be of great help in telling him things he must know. You need
fear to tell him nothing. Ranessin is a wise man. He knows more of what
spins the world than anyone else I know."
    To Miriamele, the walk though the dark corridors of the Sancellan
Aedonitis seemed to take an hour. But for the tapestries and the occasional
flock of priests hurrying by, each corridor seemed identical to the last, so
that before long she was hopelessly lost. The great stone hallways were
also damp and poorly-lit. When they at last reached a large wooden door,
delicately carved with a spreading Tree, she was grateful that their journey
had ended.
    Dinivan, about to push the door open, stopped. "We should continue to
exercise caution," he said, leading her to a smaller door a few ells down
the corridor. He pushed this open and they went through into a small
chamber hung with velvet cloth. A fire burned in a brazier against the
wall. The wide table that filled much of the room was scattered with
parchments and heavy books. The priest left Miriamele to warm her hands
before the flames.
    "I will return in a moment," he said, pushing aside a curtain in the wall
beside the table. When the curtain fell back, he was gone.
    When her fingers were tingling satisfactorily, she left the brazier to
examine some of the parchments lying unrolled on the table. They seemed
quite uninteresting, full of numbers and descriptions of property bound-
aries. The books were uniformly religious, except for one strange volume
full of woodcuts of strange creatures and unfathomable ceremonies that
lay open atop the rest. As she flipped carefully through the pages, she
found one that had been marked with a ribbon of cloth. It was a crude
illustration of an antlered man with staring eyes and black hands. Terrified
people huddled at the horned one's feet; above his head, a single dazzling
star hung in a black sky. The eyes seemed to stare out of the page and
directly into her own.


STONE OF FAREWELL

183

    Sa Asdridan CondiquiUes, she read from the caption below the picture.
The Conqueror Star.
    A fit of shivering came over her. The picture chilled her in a way that
the Sancellan's dank corridors never could. It seemed something she had
seen in a nightmare, or a story told her in childhood whose evil she only
now recognized. Miriamele hastily restored the book to its original posi-
tion and moved away, rubbing her fingers up and down her cloak as
though she had touched something unclean.
    Soft voices were coming from behind the arras through which Dinivan
had disappeared. She moved closer, straining to make out the words, but
they were too faint. She cautiously pulled the hanging aside to expose a
sliver of light from the room beyond.
    It seemed to be the lector's audience room, for it was ornate beyond
anything she had seen since the entry chamber which she had sleepily
traversed the night before. The ceilings were high, painted with hundreds
of scenes from the Book of the Aedon. The windows were slices from the
gray morning sky. Behind a chair at the room's center hung a great azure
banner embroidered with the Pillar and Tree of Mother Church.
    Lector Ranessin, a slender man in a tall hat, was sitting on the chair
listening to a fat man who wore the tentlike golden robes of an escritor.
Dinivan stood to one side, scuffing his foot back and forth impatiently in
the deep carpet.
    "... But that is the point, Your Sacredness," the fat one said, his face
shiny, his tone beautifully measured. "Of all times to avoid offending the
High King . . . well, he is not in the most receptive mood just now. We
must think carefully of our lofty position, as well as the welfare of all who
look to Mother Church for moderation and good influence." He pulled a
small box from his sleeve and popped something into his mouth. His
round cheeks flattened briefly as he sucked at it.
    "I understand, Velligis," the lector responded, raising his hand with a
gentle smile. "Your counsel is always good. I am eternally grateful that
God brought us together."
 Velligis tilted his round head in a bow of acknowledgment.
    "Now, if you will be so good," Ranessin continued, "I really should
give some time to poor Dinivan here. He has been riding for days and I
am anxious for his news."
    The escritor dropped to his knees--not an easy feat for a man his
size---and kissed the hem of the lector's blue robe. "If you need me for
anything, Your Sacredness, I will be in the chancelry until afternoon." He
rose and left the room in a graceful waddle, prying another sugar-sweet
from his box.
    "Are you truly grateful God brought you together?" Dinivan asked
with a smile.
 The lector nodded. "Indeed. Velligis is a living reminder to me of why


184                                   Tad Williams

men should not take themselves seriously. He means well, but he is so
blessedly pompous."
    Dinivan shook his head. "I am willing to believe he means well, but his
advice is criminal. If there is ever a time when Mother Church must show
herself a living force for good, this is the time."
    "I know your feelings, Dinivan," the lector said gently. "But this is not
a time in which decisions may be hastily made, lest they be repented later
at tragic length. Did you bring the princess?"
    Ranessin's secretary nodded. 'TII fetch her. I left her in my work-
room." He turned and headed across the Audience Chamber. Miriamele
hurriedly dropped the hanging back into place; when Dinivan came through,
she was standing before the brazier once more.
 "Come with me," he said. "The lector is free now."
    When she reached the chair, Miriamele curtseyed, then kissed Ranessin's
hem. The old man reached down a surprisingly strong hand and helped
her to her feet.
    "Please, sit beside me," he said as he gestured for Dinivan to bring her a
chair. "On second thought," he told his secretary, "fetch one for yourself
as well."
    While Dinivan was getting the chairs, Miriamele had her first chance
to look at the lector. She had not seen him for over a year, but he seemed
little different. His thin gray hair hung down beside his pale, handsome
face. His eyes were as alert as a child's, with an air almost of hidden
mischief. Miriamele could not help comparing him to Count Streiwe, the
lord of Perdruin. Stre~we's lined face had been suffused with cunning.
Ranessin looked much more innocent, but Miriamele did not need Dinivan's
assurances to believe that a great deal went on behind the lector's gentle
exterior.
    "Well, my dear princess," Ranessin said when they had seated them-
selves, "I have not seen you since your grandfather's funeral. My, yol
have grown--but what odd clothes you wear, my lady." He smiled
"Welcome to God's house. Do you lack for anything?"
  "Not in the way of food or drink, Your Sacredness."
    Ranessin frowned. "I am not a lover of titles, and mine is particularl:
awkward upon the tongue. When I was a young man in Stanshire, I neve:
dreamed I would end out my life in far Nabban, being called 'Sacred' ant
'Exalted' and never hearing my birth name again."
  "Isn't Ranessin your real name?" Miriamele asked.
    The lector laughed. "Oh, no. I was born an Erkynlander, hight Oswinc
But since Erkynlanders are seldom elevated to such heights, it seeme
politic to take a Nabbanai name." He reached out to pat softly at her hand
"Now, speaking of assumed names, Dinivan tells me you have travele
far and seen much since you left your father's house. Will you tell n-
something of your journeys?"


STONE OF FAREWELL

185

    Dinivan nodded encouragingly, so Miriamele took a deep breath and
began to talk.
    As the lector listened attentively, she spoke of her father's growing
madness and how it had at last driven her from the Hayholt, of the evil
counsels of Pryrates, and of the imprisoning of Josua. Brighter sunhght
began to creep in through the windows high overhead. Dinivan got up
to have someone bring them some food, as the noon hour was fast
approaching.
    "This is fascinating," the lector said as they waited for his secretary to
return. "It confirms many rumors that I have heard." He rubbed his finger
along the side of his thin nose. "Lord Usires grant us wisdom. Why can
men not be content with what they have?"
    Dinivan soon returned, followed by a priest with a heaping salver of
cheese and fruit, as well as a posset of mulled wine. Miriamele began
again. As she talked and ate, and as Ranessin plied her with gentle yet
shrewd questions, she began to feel almost as though she spoke with some
kindly old grandfather. She told him of the Norn hounds that had pursued
her and the maidservant Leleth, then of their rescue by Simon and Binabik.
As she told of the revelations in the house of the witch woman Gelo~, and
related Jarnauga's dire warnings at Naglimund, Dinivan and the lector
exchanged glances.
    When she had finished, the lector pushed his tall hat back into place--it
had slipped down several times during the course of the audience--and sat
back in his chair with a sigh. His bright eyes were sad.
    "So much to think about, so many dreadful questions unanswered. Oh,
God, You have seen fit to test Your children sternly. I have a premonition
of dire evil coming." He turned to Miriamele. "Thank you for your news,
Princess. It is none of it happy, but only a fool desires cheerful ignorance
and I try not to be a fool. That is my heaviest burden." He pursed his hps
in thought. "Well, Dinivan," he said at last, "this lends an even more
ominous air to the news I received yesterday."
    "What news is that, Sacredness?" Dinivan asked. "We have had httle
chance to talk since I returned."
    The lector took a sip of wine. "Elias is sending Pryrates to see me. His
ship arrives tomorrow from the Hayholt. His mission, the message said, is
an important one from the High King."
    "Pryrates is coming?" Miriamele asked, alarmed. "Does my father
know I'm here?"
    "No, no, do not fear," the lector said soothingly. He patted her hand
again. "It is Mother Church with whom he would trade words. No one
knows you are here but Dinivan and myself."
 "He's a devil," she said harshly. "Do not trust him."
 Ranessin nodded gravely. "Your warning is well taken, Princess


186                                   Tad Williams

Miriamele, but sometimes it is my duty to speak with devils." He lowered
his eyes to stare at his hands, as if hoping to find clutched therein a
solution to all problems. When Dinivan took Miriamele out, the lector bid
her good-bye courteously, but he seemed wrapped in melancholy.


10

Tile Mirror

S~,O~ found himself in the grip of a stubborn anger that would not
go away. As he and Sludig followed the mounted trolls away down the
mountain, away from the solemn piles of stone lying nakedly beneath the
sky, he felt a rage seeping through him that muddled all his thoughts, so
that he could scarcely think of anything for more than a moment at a time.
    He walked stiffly, his body still bruised and sore, his stomach churning
with anger. As he walked, he brooded. Haestan was dead. Another friend
was dead. There was nothing he could do about it. He couldn't change it.
He couldn't even cry over it. That was the most infuriating thing: he
could do nothing. Nothing.
    Sludig, pale-faced and shadow-eyed, did not seem anxious to break the
silence. The two lowlanders trudged along side by side down broad, flat
sheets of weathered granite and waded through drifts of snow churned
into a white froth by rams' hooves.

    The foothills seemed to be growing up to meet them. At each bend in
the trail the snowy-shouldered hills emerged once more into the travelers'
view, each time larger than before. Sikkihoq, in turn, seemed to be
stretching away into the sky behind them as they steadily descended, ever
taller, as though the mountain had finished its business with these mortals
and now returned to the loftier and more congenial company of the sky
and clouds.
    I won't forget you, Simon warned Sikkihoq as he looked back up the
great dagger of stone. He fought the urge to shout it aloud. If he squinted,
he thought he could still see the spot where the cairns stood. I won't forget
that my fiiemt is buried on your slopes. I'1l never Jbrget.
    Afternoon passed swiftly. They made faster time as the mountain broad-
ened and the paths began to level out, with longer stretches between
switchbacks. Simon noticed signs of the mountain's life that he had not
seen higher up: a family of white and brown rabbits grazing between

187


188                                   Tad Williams

patches of snow, jays and squirrels bickering in the stunted, wind-curled
trees. This evidence of life on what had seemed a barren and heartless rock
should have made him feel better; instead, it served only to fuel his
directionless anger. What right to exist did all these small and insignificant
things have, when others were dying? He wondered why they should
bother, when any moment a hawk or snake or hunter's arrow might snuff
out their lives. The thought of life scrabbling pointlessly beneath th~
shadow of death filled him with an oddly exhilarating disgust.
    When evening came, the company chose a gently sloping expanse ol
stone and brush in which to make camp, sheltered by Sikkihoq's bod~
from the worst of the snow-laden wind. Simon shed his pack and begar
picking up deadwood for the fire, but stopped to watch the sun slip dowr
behind the mountains to the west--one of which, he knew, was Urmsheim
the dragon-mountain. The horizon was streaked with light, as richl5
colored as any rose grown in the Hayholt's gardens.
    An'nai, Jiriki's Sithi kinsman, who had been killed while fighting for th~
lives of his companions, was buried there on Urmsheim; the soldim
Grimmric, a wiry, quiet man, had been interred beside him. Simor
remembered Grimmric whistling as they rode north from Naglimund,
thin trill of sound alternately annoying and reassuring. Now he would bc
eternally silent. He and An'nai would never see a sunset like the one thai
painted the sky before Simon, beautiful and meaningless.
    Where were they? Heaven? How could Sithi go to heaven when the~
didn't believe in it--and where did they think they went when they died
They were pagans, Simon supposed, which meant they were different-
but An'nai had been loyal and brave. More than that, he had been kind t~
Simon, very kind in his strange Sithi way. How could An'nai not go tc
heaven? How could heaven be such a stupid place?
    The anger, which had abated for a moment, returned. Simon flung on,
of the sticks he had gathered as hard as he could. It whirled through th~
air, then struck and cartwheeled down the long stony hill, disappearing a
last into the underbrush below.
    "Come, Simon," Sludig called from behind him. "We need your woo(
for the fire. Aren't you hungry now?"
    Simon ignored him, staring out at the reddening sky as he ground hi
teeth in frustration. He felt a hand on his arm and angrily shrugged it off
    "Please, come," the Rimmersman said kindly. "Supper will be read,
soon."
 "Where is Haestan?" Simon asked through tight lips.
    "What do you mean?" Sludig cocked his head. "You know where w,
left him, Simon."
 "No, I mean where is Haestan? The real Haestan."
    "Ah." Sludig smiled. His beard had grown very thick. "His soul is i
heaven, with Usires and the Lord God."


STONE OF FAREWELL

189

    "No." Simon turned to look at the sky again, darkening now with the
first mortal blues of night.
  "What? Why do you say that?"
    "He's not in heaven. There is no heaven. How can there be a heaven,
when everyone thinks it's different?"
    "You are being foolish." Sludig stared at him for a moment, trying to
sense Simon's thought. "Perhaps everyone goes to their own heaven," the
soldier said, then placed his hand again on Simon's shoulder. "God knows
what He knows. Come and sit down."
    "How could God let people die for no reason?" Simon demanded,
hugging himself as though trying to keep something inside. "If God can
do that, then He is cruel. If He isn't cruel, well . . . well, then, He just
can't do anything. Like an old man who sits at the window, but can't go
out. He's old and stupid."
    "Do not talk against God the Father," Sludig said, his voice chilly.
"God will not be mocked by an ungrateful boy. He has given you all the
gifts of life..."
    "It's a lie!" Simon shouted. The soldier's eyes widened in surprise.
Heads turned from the campfire, looking to the sudden noise. "It's a lie, a
lie! What gifts? To crawl around like a bug, here and there, trying to fred
something to eat, somewhere to sleep--and then without warning some-
thing smashes you? What kind of gift is that!? To do the right thing, and
 . . and fight against evil, like the Book of the Aedon saysmif you do that
you get killed! Just like Haestan! Just like Morgenes! The bad ones live
onmlive on and grow rich and laugh at the good ones! It's a stupid lie!"
    "That is terrible, Simon? Sludig said, his voice also rising. "You speak
from madness and grief..."
    "It's a lie---and you are an idiot to believe it!" Simon yelled, throwing
his wood down at Sludig's feet. He turned and ran down the mountain
path with a great, grieving pain in his middle that almost took his breath
away, following the twisting course until the camp had disappeared from
view. Qantaqa's bark wafted after him, faint and percussive as someone
clapping in another room.
    At last he sank down on a stone beside the path, rubbing his hands back
and forth over the worn cloth of his breeches. There was moss growing
on the stone, burnt brown by frost and wind, but still somehow vital and
alive. He stared at it, wondering why he could not cry and whether he
even wanted to.
    After some time he heard a clicking noise and looked up to see Qantaqa
pacing toward him over the sloping rocks above the path. The wows nose
hovered low, sniffing close to the stone. She hopped down onto the path,
and regarded him quizzically for a moment with her head cocked to one
side, then walked past, brushing against his leg. Simon trailed his fingers
along the thick pelt of her flank as she went by. Qantaqa continued on
down the path, a dim gray shape in the growing darkness.


190                                   Tad Williams

    "Simon-friend." Binabik appeared around the bend in the track. "Qantaqa
is off to hunt," he said, watching her disappearing form. "It is hard for a
wolf to be walking all day where I ask her. She is a good companion to
make such sacrifice for my sake."
     When Simon did not respond, the troll came forward and squatted at his
side, his walking stick balanced on his knees.  "You are much upset," he said.
    Simon took a deep breath, then let it out. "Everything is a lie," he
sighed.
    Binabik raised an eyebrow. "What is 'everything'? And what is making
it a lie?"
    "I don't think we can do anything at all. Anything to make things
better. We're going to die."
  "At some time," the troll nodded.
    "We're going to die fighting the Storm King. It's a lie if we say we're
not. God's not going to save us, or even help us." Simon picked up a
loose stone and flung it across the path, where it went rattling into
darkness. "Binabik, I couldn't even pick up Thorn. What good is the
sword going to be if we can't even use it? How is a sword---even three
Great Swords or whatever they're called--going to kill an enemy like
him? Kill someone who's already dead?"
    "These are questions that need answering," the little man replied. "I do
not know. How do you know that the sword is for killing? And if it is for
that, what makes you think any of us is to be the killer?"
    Simon chose another rock and threw it. "I don't know anything, either.
I'm just a kitchen boy, Binabik." He felt immensely sorry for himself. "I
just want to go home." The word caught in his throat.
     The troll stood, brushing off his seat. "You are not a boy, Simon. You
 are a man in all the ways for measuring. A young man, true, but a
 man--or with great nearness."
     Simon shook his head. "It doesn't matter, anyway. I thought ... I
 don't know. I thought that it would be like a story. That we would find
 the sword and it would be a powerful weapon, that we would destroy our
 enemies and things would be right again. I didn't think any more people
 would die! How could there be a God who would let good people die, no
 matter what they do?"
     "Another question I cannot be answering." Binabik smiled, but gently,
 mindful of Simon's pain. "And I cannot be telling you what is right for
 belief. The truths that became our stories of gods are far away in the past.
 Even the Sithi, who live for eons, do not know how the world began or
 what began it--at least not for certain, I am thinking. But I can tell you
 something important..."
     The troll leaned forward, touching Simon's arm, waiting until his
 young friend had raised his eyes from the moss once more. "Gods in the


STONE OF FAREWELL

191

heaven or in the stone are distant, and we can guess only at what they
intend." He squeezed Simon's forearm. "But you and I, we are living in a
time when a god walks the earth once more. He is not a god who intends
kindness. Men may fight and die, they may build walls and break stone,
but Ineluki has died and come back: that is something no one else has ever
been doing, not even your Usires Aedon. Forgive me, because I am not
meaning blasphemy, but is not what Ineluki has done a thing like a god
can do?" Binabik gave Simon a little shake, staring into his eyes. "He is
jealous and terrible, and the world he can make will be a terrible place. We
are having a task of great fear and very great difficulty, Simon--it may
even be that there is no possibility of succeeding--but it is not a task we
can be fleeing."
    Simon tore his gaze from Binabik's. "That's what I said. How do you
fight a god? We'll be crushed like ants." Another stone went flying out
into darkness.
    "Perhaps. But if we are not trying, then there is no chance of anything
but this antlike crushing, so we must try. There is always something
beyond even the worst of bad times. We may die, but the dying of some
may mean living for others. That is not much to cling to, but it is a true
thing in any case."
    The troll moved a little way down the path and took a seat on another
stone. The sky was darkening swiftly. "Also," Binabik said gravely, "it
may or may not be foolishness to pray to the gods, but there is certainly
being no wisdom in cursing them."
    Simon said nothing. They passed some time in silence. At last Binabik
twisted loose the knife end of his walking stick, allowing the bone flute
inside the hollow stick to slide free. He blew a few experimental notes, then
began to play a slow, melancholy air. The dissonant music, echoing down
the mountainside in darkness, seemed to sing with the voice of Simon's
own loneliness. He shivered, feeling the wind through his tattered cloak.
His dragon-scar stung fiercely.
  "Are you still my friend, Binabik?" he said at last.
    The troll took the flute from his lips. "To death and beyond, Simon-
friend." He began to play once more.
    When the fiutesong was finished, Binabik whistled for Qantaqa and
walked back up the path toward camp. Simon followed him.

    The fire had burned low and the wineskin was making the last of many
trips around the circle when Simon finally worked up the courage to
approach Sludig. The Rimmersman was sharpening the head of his Qanuc
spear with a whetstone; he continued for some while as Simon stood
before him. At last he looked up. "Yes?" His voice was gruff.
    "I'm sorry, Sludig. I should not have said what I did. You were only
being kind."


                'X-~d W~Xlt~s

~xx~. tXla not speak sxxclx ~l. asphern of the One God before me. ''  "I'm sorry. I'm outl a kitchen boy."
 "Kitchen boy!" Sludig's laugh was harsh. He looked searchingly into
 ~imon's e-,/es, then lau'p*:.X"tca a~e,~xxx x~:tt~ ~c~er,~.et ~'xxxxx-_ox. "x'~:~x.x x~--~,lx~-',I X.~XX'x~c,.

  his head. "A kitchen boy! A kitchen boy who swords dragons and slays
  giants. Look at you! You are taller than I am, and Sludig is not small?
      Simon stared at the Rimmersman, surprised. It was true, of course: he
  stood half a hand taller than Sludig. "But you're strongl" Simon pro-
  tested. "You're a grown man."
      "As you are fast becoming. And you are stronger than you know. You
  must see the truth, Simon. You are a boy no more. You cannot act as
  though you are one still." The Rimmersman contemplated him for a long
  moment. "As a matter of fact, it is dangerous not to train you better. You
  have been lucky to survive several bad fights, but luck is fickle. You need
  sword and spear teaching; I will give them to you. Haestan would have
  wanted it, and it will give us something to work at on our long trip to
  your Stone of Farewell."
  "Then you forgive me?" Simon was embarrassed by this talk of manhood.
  "IfI must." The Rimmersman sat down again. "Now go and sleep. We
  have a long walk again tomorrow, then you and I will drill for some time
  after we make camp."
      Simon felt more than a little resentful about being sent to bed, but did
  not want to risk another argument. As it was, it had been difficult for him
  to come back to the campfire and eat with the others. He knew they had
  all been watching him, wondering if he would have another outburst.
      He retreated to the bed he had made of springy branches and leaves and
  wrapped himself tightly in his cloak. He would be happy to be in a cave,
  or down off the mountain entirely, where they would not be exposed so
  nakedly to the wind.
      The bright, c01d stars seemed to quiver in the sky overhead. Simon
  stared up at them through unfathomable distances, letting thoughts chase
  themselves through his head until sleep came at last.

    The sound of the trolls singing to their rams woke Simon from a
dream. He dimly remembered a little gray cat and a feeling of being
trapped by someone or something, but the dream was fading fast. He
opened his eyes to the thin morning light, then closed them quickly. He
did not want to get up and face the day.
    The singing went on, accompanied by the clinking of harnesses. He had
seen this ritual so many times since leaving Mintahoq that he could picture
it in his head as vividly as if he was watching. The trolls were cinching


STONE OF FAREWELL                                                                193

up the straps and filling the saddlebags, guttural yet high-pitched voices
busy with their seemingly endless chant. From time to time they would
pause, stroking their mounts, currying the rams' thick fleeces, leaning in
close to sing softly and intimately while the sheep blinked their yellow,
slotted eyes. Soon it would be time for salty tea and dried meat and quiet,
laughing conversation.
    Except, of course, there would not be as much laughter today, the third
morning since the hillside battle with the giants. Binabik's folk were a
cheerful people, but a little bit of the frost lodged in Simon's heart seemed
to have touched them, too. A folk that laughed at cold and at dizzying,
breakneck falls at every turning of every trail had been chilled by a shadow
they could not understand--not that Simon understood much himself.
    He had spoken truly to Binabik: somehow, he had thought things
would get better once they found the great sword Thorn. The blade's
power and strangeness was so palpable it seemed impossible that it would
not make a change in the struggle against King Elias and his dark ally. But
perhaps the sword by itself was not enough. Perhaps whatever the rhyme
had spoken of would not happen until all three swords had been brought
together.
    Simon groaned. Even worse, perhaps the queer rhyme from Nisses'
book meant nothing at all. Didn't people say Nisses was a madman? Even
Morgenes had not known what the rhyme truly meant.

When fiost doth grow on Claves' bell
And Shadows walk upon the road
When water blackens in the Well
Three Swords must come again

When Bukken from the Earth do creep
And Hunin from the heights descend
When Nightmare throttles peaceful Sleep
Three Swords must come again

To turn the stride of treading Fate
To clear the fogging Mists of Time
If Early shall resist Too Late
Three Swords must come again . . .

    Well, Bukken had certainly crept from the earth, but the memory of the
squealing diggers was not one he wanted to pursue. Ever since the night
of their attack on Isgrimnur's camp near St. Hoderund's, Simon had never
felt the same way about the solid earth beneath his feet. That was the only
advantage he could think of to traveling over Sikkihoq's unforgiving
stone.


194                                   Tad Williams

    As for the rhyme's mention of giants, with Haestan's death so fresh in
his mind that seemed like a cruel joke. The monsters hadn't even needed
to descend from the heights, because Simon and his friends had been
foolish enough to venture into their mountain territory. But the Hun~n
had left their high refuges, which Simon knew as well as anybody. He and
Miriamele--the thought of her brought a sudden yearning--had faced one
in Aldheorte Forest, only a week's ride from the very gates of Erchester.
    The rest did not make much sense to him, but none of it seemed
impossible: Simon did not know who Claves was, or where his bell might
be, but it seemed that soon there would be frost everywhere. Even so,
what could the three swords do?
    I wielded Thorn, he thought. For a moment he felt the power of it once
more. In that instant, I was a great knight.., wasn't I?
    But had it been Thorn, or had it only been that he had stood up and put
fear aside? If he had done the same with a less mighty sword, would he
have been any less brave? He would have been dead, of course . . . just
like Haestan, just like An'nai, Morgenes, Grimmric ... but did that
matter? Didn't great heroes die? Hadn't Camaris, Thorn's true master,
died in the angry seas... ?
    Simon's thoughts were wandering. He felt himself sliding back toward
sleep. He almost let it happen, but he knew it would only be a short while
before Binabik or Sludig would be shaking him awake. Last night they
had both said he was a man, or nearly so. Just for once he didn't want to
be awakened last, a child allowed to sleep while the grown-ups talked.
    He opened his eyes, letting the light in, and groaned again. Uncurling
himself from the cloak, he picked loose twigs and clusters of pine needles
from his clothing, then shook the cloak out before quickly wrapping it
around himself once more. Suddenly unwilling to be parted even for a
short while from his few miserable possessions, he picked up his pack,
which had pillowed his head, and took it with him.
    The morning was chilly, a light scatter of snow in the air. Stretching the
kinks out of his muscles, he walked slowly to the fire, where Binabik sat
talking to Sisqi. The pair were seated side by side before the low, translu-
cent flames, their hands clasped. Thorn lay propped on a tree stump beside
them, a dull black bar that reflected no light. From behind, the two trolls
looked like children talking earnestly about a game they might play or an
interesting hole they might explore, and Simon felt a strong protective
urge toward them. A moment later, as he realized they were probably
discussing how to keep Binabik's people alive if the winter did not abate,
or what they should do if more giants found them, the illusion shredded
and blew away. They were not children, and if not for their bravery he
would be dead.
    Binabik turned and saw him staring. The little man smiled a greeting as
he listened intently to Sisqi's rapid Qanuc words. Simon grunted, bending


STONE OF FAREWELL

195

to take the lump of cheese and heel of bread that Binabik pointed out, set
on a stone near the fire. He took his meal and went to sit by himself.
    The sun, still hidden from view behind Sikkihoq, was not visible. The
mountain's shadow lay over the campsite, but the tops of the mountains in
the west glowed with the sun's rising light. The White Waste below was
sunk in gray dawn-shadow. Simon took a bite of dry bread and chewed as
he stared out across the Waste at the distant line of forest which lay on the
horizon like dark cream in a milk pail.
    Qantaqa, who had been lying at Binabik's side, got up, stretched, and
padded silently toward Simon. Her muzzle was red-flecked with the
lifeblood of whatever poor animal had surrendered itself for her morning
feeding, but the last traces were even now being scoured away by her long
pink tongue. She approached Simon briskly, ears up, as if on some
clearly-defined errand, but when she arrived she only stood for a moment
to let him scratch her, then curled up beside him, exchanging one napping
spot for another. Her bulk was such that when it pushed against his leg he
was almost forced off his stone seat.
    He finished his meal and opened the flap of his pack, rooting for his
water bottle. A bright tangle of blue came up with it, wound on the
carrying cord.
    It was the scarf Miriamele had given him, the one he had worn around
his neck on the way up the dragon-mountain. Jiriki had removed it while
nursing him back to health, but had thoughtfully stowed it with the rest of
Simon's meager belongings. Now it lay in his hands like a stripe of sky;
the sight brought the sting of almost-tears to his eyes. Where in the great
world was Miriamele? Gelo~, in their brief moment of contact, had not
known. Where in Osten Ard was the princess wandering? Did she ever
think of Simon? And if she did, what did she think?
    Probably: Why did I give my nice scarf to a dirty kitchen boy? He enjoyed a
brief twinge of self-pity. Well, he was not just any scullion. As Sludig
said, he was a kitchen boy who sworded dragons and slew giants. Just at
this moment, however, he would rather be a kitchen boy in a nice warm
kitchen in the Hayholt and nothing more.
    Simon tied Miriamele's scarf about his neck, tucking the ends under the
collar of his tattered shirt. He took a swallow of water, then rummaged in
the pack again, but could not find what he was looking for. He remem-
bered after a moment that he had put it in his cloak pocket and felt a
moment of panic. When would he learn to be more careful? It could have
easily fallen out a hundred times. He was happily reassured to feel its
outline through the cloth. After some digging, he lifted it out into the
morning light.
    Jiriki's mirror was icy cold. He buffed it on his sleeve, then held it up,
staring at his reflection. His beard had come in more thickly since he had
last surveyed himself. The reddish hairs, almost brown in the dim light,


196                                   Tad Williams

were beginning to obscure the line of his jaw--but the same old nose
poked out above the beard, and the same blue eyes stared back at him.
Becoming a man, it seemed, would not mean becoming anything other
than a slightly different type of Simon, which was a faintly saddening
thought.
    The beard did hide most of his spots, so there was something for which
to be grateful. But for a blemish or two on his forehead, he thought he
looked like a reasonable approximation of a young man. He tilted the
glass, staring at the white streak burned into his reddish locks by the
dragon's blood. Did it make him look older? More manly? It was hard to
tell. His hair was curling on his shoulders, though. He should ask Sludig
or someone to cut it shorter, as many of the king's knights had worn
theirs. But why bother? They would probably all be dead at the hands of
giants before it grew long enough to get in his way.
    He lowered the mirror to his lap, staring down into it as though it were
a pool of water. The frame was finally beginning to warm beneath his
fingers. What was it Jiriki had told him? That the mirror would be no
more than a mere looking glass unless Simon needed him? That was it.
Jiriki had said that Simon could talk to him . . . with the mirror? In the
mirror? Through the mirror? It had not been clear at all, but for a moment
Simon very much wanted to call for Jiriki's help. The thought crept over
him unbidden, but its claws were not easily dislodged. He would call Jiriki
and tell him that they needed help. The Storm King was an enemy that
mortal~s alone could not defeat.
    But the Storm King is not here, Simon thought, andJiriki knows everything
about the situation that he needs to. What would I tell him? That he should come
running back to the mountains because a kitchen boy is scared and wants to go
home?
    Simon stared into the mirror, remembering when it had shown him
Miriamele. The princess had been on a ship, staring out over the railing at
cloudy skies, gray and-cloudy skies . . .
    As he watched his own face in the upturned mirror, it suddenly
seemed that he could again see that misty sky, tatters of cloud floating
across the mirror's surface obscuring his features. A fog seemed to
be drifting past him, and he could no longer separate himself from
the image in the looking glass. He wavered dizzily, as though he were
falling into the reflection. The noises of the camp diminished and then
disappeared as the mist became a solid and featureless curtain of gray. It
was all around him, shutting away the light...
    The gray mist slowly dissolved, like steam escaping from beneath a pot
lid, but as it cleared he saw that the face before him was no longer his
own. Staring back at him through narrowed eyes was a woman--a beauti-
ful woman who was both old and young at the same time. The lines of
her face were shifting, as though she gazed up through rippling water. Her


STONE OF FAREWELL

197

hair was white beneath a circlet of gemlike flowers; her stare burned like
molten gold, the eyes bright and reflective as a cat's. She was old, he
somehow knew, very old, but there was little about her face that spoke of
age, only a tightness in the line of her jaw and mouth, a brittleness to her
features as though the skin was stretched close against the bone. Her eyes
were glorious with ancient knowledge and imprisoned memory. Her high
cheekbones and smooth forehead made her look like a statue . . .
    A statue... ? His thoughts were a jumble, but Simon knew he had seen
a statue that looked like this woman.., he had seen such a face.., seen
it in...in...
    "Please answer me," she said. "I come to you a second time. Do not ignore me
again! Please forget your ancient grievances, however justified. Ill will has stood
too long between our house and that of Ruyan V~. Now we have a common
enemy. I need your help!"
    Her voice was faint in his head, as though it echoed down a long
corridor, but even so, she wielded a commanding power--like Valada
Gelo~'s, but in some way deeper, smoother, with none of the witch
woman's rougb but reassuring edges. This one was as different from
Gelo~ as the forest-woman herself was from Simon.
    "I do not have the strength I once wielded," the woman pleaded. "And what
little I have may be needed against the Shadow in the North--and you must know
of that shadow. Tinukeda'yei! Children of the Garden, please answer? The
woman's voice faded on an imploring note. There was a long moment of
silence, but if reply was made, Simon did not hear it. Suddenly, the
flake-gold eyes seemed to see him for the first time. The musical voice
abruptly took on a note of suspicion and concern. "Who is this? A mortal
child?"
    Frozen in alarm, Simon said nothing. The face in the mirror stared, then
Simon could feel something reaching out to him through the mist, a force
as diffuse but powerful as the sun hidden behind clouds.  "Tell me. Who are you?"
    Simon tried to answer, not because he wanted to, but because it was
impossible not to try with such compelling words echoing in his head.
Something prevented him.
    "You are traveling in places not meant for you," the voice said. "You do not
belong here. Who are you?"
    He struggled, but found that something was throttling his responses as
surely as fingers on his throat would choke off words. The face before him
rippled as a pallid blue light began to shine through it, fraying the image
of the beautiful old woman. A wave of cold passed through him that it
seemed might turn his very innards to black ice.
  A new voice spoke, harsh, chilling.
  "Who is he? He is a meddler, Amerasu."
 The first face was now entirely gone. A gleam of silver swam upward


198                                   Tad Williams

through the mirror's gray depths. A face appeared, all gleaming metal,
expressionless and immobile. He had seen that face on the Dream Road
and had felt the same sick dread. He knew the name: Utuk'ku, Queen o!
the Norns. Try as he might to look away, he could not. He was held in an
unshakable grip. Utuk'ku's eyes were invisible in the mask's black depths,
but he felt their stare on his face like freezing breath.
    "The manchild is a meddler." Each word came sharp and cold as an icicle.
"As are you, granddaughter. And meddlers will not prosper when the Storm King
      J~
comes...
    The thing in the silver mask laughed. Simon felt hammerblows of frost
against his heart. A poisonous cold began climbing inexorably upward,
from fingers to hand to arm. Soon it would reach his face, like a deadly
kiss from silvery, frost-glittering lips . . .
    Simon dropped the mirror, tumbling after it. The ground seemed a
league away, the fall endless. Somebody was screaming. Fie was screaming.

    Sludig helped Simon to his feet, where he swayed, panting. After a
moment he shook off the Rimmersman's hands. He felt wobbly, but
wanted to stand on his own. The trolls had gathered around and were
muttering among themselves, clearly confused.
    "What has happened, Simon?" Binabik asked, pushing his way through
to his side. "Are you hurt by something?" Sisqi, still holding Binabik's
hand, stared up at the strange lowlander as though trying to read his
malady in his eyes.
    "I saw faces in Jiriki's mirror," Simon said, shivering uncontrollably.
Sisqi held up his cloak, which he took gratefully. "One of them was the
Norn Queen. She could see me, too, I think."
    Binabik spoke to the other ram-riders, gesturing with his hands. They
turned and wandered back to the fire. Stocky Snenneq waved his spear at
the sky as though taunting an enemy.
 Binabik fixed Simon with his brows. "Tell it to me."
    Simon related all that had happened from the moment he first lifted the
mirror. As he described the first face Binabik frowned in concentration,
but when the recitation was finished the troll only shook his head.
    "The Norn Queen we are knowing all too well," Binabik growled. "It
was her hunters who arrowed me at Da'ai Chikiza and I have not been
forgetting that gift. But thinking of who the other might be, I have
unsureness. You say that Utuk'ku called her 'granddaughter'?"
    "I think so. And the Norn Queen called her something else, too. A
name--but I can't remember it." Some of the details, once spoken aloud,
were not so sure in his mind as they had been moments before.
    "Then it is someone of one of the ruling houses, Sithi or Norn. IfJiriki
were now with us, he would be knowing in an instant who it was and
what her words meant. You say she seemed to be at pleading with someone?"


STONE OF FAREWELL

199

    "I think so. But Binabik, Jiriki told me that the mirror was nothing but
a mirror now! He said the magic was gone, unless I wanted to call
him--and I didn't try to call him! I truly didn't!"
    "Calm, Simon, is how you must be. I am having no doubts of what
you say. Jiriki himself may have misunderstood the nature of the mirror's
powers--or, it is being possible, many things may be changing just since
Jiriki has gone from us. In either way, I think it best you are leaving the
mirror, or at the least not using it more. That is a suggestion, only--it is
your gift to do as you like. Remember, please, it may bring danger for
all."
    Simon looked at the mirror, which lay facedown on the rock. He picked
it up and brushed dust from its surface without looking at it, then slid it
into his cloak pocket. "I won't leave it," he said, "because it was a gift.
Also, we may need Jiriki someday." He patted it. The frame was still
warm. "But I won't use it until then."
    Binabik shrugged. "The deciding is yours. Come back to the fire and
make yourself warm. Tomorrow we are riding with dawn's appearance."

    After an early start, the ragged troop reached Blue Mud Lake in the late
afternoon of the following day. Nestled among the foothills of Sikkihoq,
the lake was a dark blue mirror, fiat as the glass in Simon's pocket, fed by
two cataracts that spilled from the icy heights. The noise of their falling
was deep and sonorous as the breathing of gods.
    As the party crossed through the last pass above the lake and the quiet
rumble of the water rose, the trolls reined up their mounts. The wind had
abated. The steaming breath of rams and riders hung in the air. Simon
could see fear written in every trollish face.
    "What's wrong?" he asked nervously, expecting at any moment to hear
the bellowing voices of giants.
    "I think they had hoped Binabik was wrong," Sludig said. "Perhaps
they were hoping to find springtime hidden here."
    Simon saw little that was unusual. The sheltering hills were thatched
with snow and many of the trees that surrounded the lake were bare of
leaf. The evergreens were mantled in white, like cottonwool spears.
    Many of the trolls brought the heels of their hands to their chests, as if
what they saw spoke more eloquently of trouble than any words of
Binabik or his master Ookequk. As they spurred their mounts along the
narrow trail, Simon and Sludig trudged forward once more, following the
tracks of the rams into the lake valley. Another flurry of snow came
sifting down from Sikkihoq.
    They made camp at a great cavern on the lake's northwestern banks.
The cave was surrounded by well-worn pathways. The massive stone fire
pit, nearly brimful with frozen ash, testified to the generations of trolls
who had camped there. Soon a huge fire, the biggest they had made since


200                                    Tad Williams

leaving Mintahoq, was burning by the lakeside. As darkness fell and the
stars began to kindle, the flames threw wild shadows on the rocky faces of
the hills.
    Simon was sitting near the fire oiling his boots when Binabik found
him. At the troll's bidding, he put the boots back on and took a burning
brand from the blaze, then followed Binabik away into the darkness. They
walked along the edge of the hillside for a furlong, circling around the
lakeshore until they reached another cave, its high entranceway almost
hidden behind a stand of spruces. A strange whistling noise came from
within. Simon knitted his brows in apprehension, but Binabik only smiled
and waved at him to follow, pushing back a low-hanging branch with his
walking stick so taller Simon could enter without catching his torch in the
trees.
    The cavern was thick with the smell of animals, but it was a familiar
smell. Simon lifted the brand so the light splashed the farthest depths of
the cavern. Six horses looked back, whinnying nervously. The cavern
floor was piled high with dried grass.
    "Good that is," Binabik said, coming up beside him. "I had been
fearing they might have run away, or the food might not have been of
sufficiency."
    "Are they ours?" Simon asked, approaching slowly. The nearest horse
fluttered its lips and danced back a step; Simon held out his hand for it to
smell. "I think they are."
    "Of course," Binabik chuckled. "We Qanuc are not horse-murderers.
My folk put them here for safety when we were all taken up-mountain.
We also keep this place for our rams when they are birthing and the
weather is cold. From now on, Simon-friend, you need be walking no
more."
    After stroking the nearest horse, which submitted grudgingly but did
not pull away, Simon saw the gray and black spotted mare he had ridden
from Naglimund. He moved toward her, wishing he had something to
give her.
  "Simon," Binabik called, "catch!"
    He turned in time to receive something small and hard, which crumbled
slightly as he clutched it in his palm.
    "Salt," Binabik said. "I brought it from Mintahoq. I have brought one
lump for each. The rams have a great fondness for salt and I am guessing
your horses will, too."
    Simon offered it to the gray=and-black. She took it, her mouth tickling
his hand. He stroked her powerful neck, feeling it tremble beneath his
fingers. "I don't remember her name," he whispered sadly. "Haestan told
me, but I forgot."
    Binabik shrugged and began distributing the salt among the other
horses.


STONE OF FAREWELL

201

    "It's good to see you again," Simon told the mare. "I'll give you
a new name. How about 'Homefinder'?"
    Names did not seem to be very important to her. She flicked her tail
and nosed Simon's pockets for more salt.

    When Simon and Binabik got back to the fire the kangkang was flowing
vigorously and the trolls were singing, rocking back and forth before the
flames. As they approached, Sisqi detached herself from the group and
came to take Binabik's hand, silently laying her hooded head upon his
shoulder. From a distance the trolls sounded as though they were having a
hilarious time of it, but as Simon drew nearer the expressions on their
faces told differently.
 "Why do they look so sad, Binabik?"
    "We are having a saying on Mintahoq," the little man explained,
"--'Mourning is for home.' When we are losing one of our folk on the
trail we bury them in that place, but we save our tears until we are safe in
our caves once more. Nine of our folk died on Sikkihoq."
"But you said 'mourn at home.' These people are not home yet."
Binabik shook his head, then answered a quiet question from Sisqi
before returning his attention to Simon. "These hunters and herders are
making ready for the coming of the rest of Yiqanuc's folk. The word is
even now flying from one mountain to another: the highlands are not a
place of safety and spring is not coming." The little man smiled wearily.
"They are home, Simon-friend."
    Binabik patted Simon's hand, then he and Sisqi veered off toward the
fire to join the chorus. The blaze was fed and the flames leaped higher, so
that all the lake valley seemed to glow with orange light. The mourning
songs of the Qanuc echoed out across the still waters, carrying even above
the bitter voice of the wind and the rush of the falls.
    Simon went off in search of Sludig. He found the Rimmersman bundled
in his cloak a short distance from the fire, sitting on a rock with a skin full
of kangkang between his knees. Simon sat down beside him and took a
long swallow from the offered wineskin, sucking cold air afterward. He
wiped his mouth with his sleeve and handed it back.
    "Have I told you of the Skipphavven, Simon?" Sludig asked, staring at
the fire and the swaying trolls. "You have not seen beauty until you have
seen the maidens who gather mistletoe from the mast of Sotfengsel,
Elvrit's buried ship." He took a drink and passed it to Simon. "Ah, sweet
God, I hope Skali of Kaldskryke at least has enough Rimmersman pride to
tend to the graves of the longships at the Skipphavven. May he rot in
hell."
    Simon took two more long pulls on the wineskin, hiding the faces he
made from Sludig. The kangkang tasted awful, but it warmed him. "Skali
is the one who took Duke Isgrimnur's land?" he asked.


202                                    Tad Williams

    Sludig looked over, a little blearily. He had been working at the skin for
some time. "He is. Black-hearted, treacherous son of a wolf-bitch and a
carrion crow. May he rot in Hell. It is blood feud now." The Rimmersman
pulled meditatively at his beard and turned his gaze upward to the stars.
"It is blood feud all over the world, these days."
    Simon looked up with him and saw an advancing line of dark clouds
out of the northwest obscuring the stars along the horizon. For a moment
he thought he could see the Storm King's dark hand reaching out, blotting
light and warmth. He trembled, pulling his cloak tighter, but the cold did
not go away. He reached for the skin again. Sludig was still staring
upward.
    "We are very small," Simon said between swallows. The kangkang
seemed to be flowing in his veins like blood.
    "So are the stars, kund~-mann~'," Sludig murmured. "But they each one
burn as bright as they can. Have another drink."
    Later--in truth, Simon was not sure exactly how much time had passed,
or what had become of Sludig--he found himself seated on a log beside
the fire, Sisqi on one side of him, the bearded herder Snenneq on the
other. They were all holding hands. Simon reminded himself to be gentle
with the small, rough palms folded in his own. All around him the trolls
swayed and he swayed with them. They sang, and although he did not
understand the words of their song, he added his voice to theirs, listening
to the brave roar they all made beneath the night sky, feeling his heart
beating in his chest like a drum.

    "Do we really have to go today?" Simon asked, struggling to hold the
saddle in place while Sludig tightened the belly-strap. The single torch did
not throw much light in the darkened cave that served as a stable. Beyond
the wall of spruces dawn was unfolding.
    "It is seeming a good thought to me," Binabik said, voice muffled, his
head hidden by a leather flap as he inspected the saddlebags. "Chukku's
Stones! Why am I not waiting until we are outside in the light? Like
hunting white weasels in deep snow, this is."
    "I would have liked a day to rest," Simon said. In fact, he was not
feeling too badly, considering all the Qanuc liquor he had drunk the night
before; but for a faint hammering in his temples and a certain weakness in
his joints, he' was doing fairly well.
    "As would I. As also, no doubt, would Sludig . . ." the troll replied.
"Ah! Kikkaksut! There is something sharp in here!"
    "Hold that damned thing!" Sludig growled as the saddle jerked free of
Simon's grasp. The horse nickered in irritation and jogged a step to the
side before Simon grasped the saddle again.


STONE OF FAREWELL

203

    "But, you are seeing," Binabik continued, "we have no knowledge
how long it will take to cross the Waste. If winter is spreading, the sooner
this is clone will make the better for us. There are others, too, who may be
carrying word of us to ears that are not friendly. We are not knowing who
survived Urmsheim from the huntsman's troop. They saw Thorn, I am
thinking." He patted the sword, which was now wrapped in hides and
strapped to the back of Simon's saddle.
    The mention of Ingen Jegger made Simon's stomach--already uneasy
after a morning meal of dried fish--twist. He did not like to think of the
terrible Queen's Huntsman in his snarling-muzzled helm, who had pur-
sued them like an avenging ghost.
    Please, God, Simon thought, let him be dead on the dragon-mountain. We
don't need any more enemies, especially one like him.
 "I suppose you're right," he said heavily. "But I don't like it."
    "What was it that Haestan used to say?" Sludig asked, straightening up.
"'Now you know what it is like to be a soldier'?"
 "That's what he used to say." Simon smiled sadly.

    Sisqinanamook and her folk gathered around as Simon and his compan-
ions brought out their saddled mounts. The Qanuc men and women
seemed torn between the ceremonies of leavetaking and the fascination
inspired by the horses, whose legs were longer than the herders and
huntresses were tall. The horses shuffled nervously at first as the little
people stroked and patted them, but the trolls seemed to have learned
more than a little in their generations of sheepherding; the horses soon
gentled, pluming the frosty air with their breath as the Qanuc admired
them.
    At last Sisqi waved for order, then spoke rapidly to Simon and Sludig in
the language of the Trollfells. Binabik smiled and said: "Sisqinanamook
bids you farewell on behalf of the Mintahoq Qanuc and our Herder and
Huntress. She says that the Qanuc people have seen many new things in
late days, and though the world is changing for worse, not all the changes
are being for bad." He nodded to Sisqi and she spoke again, now fixing
her eyes on Sludig.
    "Good-bye, Rimmersman," Binabik translated. "You are the kindest
Croohok she has ever heard about, and none of the folk who stand here
are now afraid of you any more. Tell your Herder and Huntress--" he
grinned, perhaps imagining Duke Isgrimnur answering to either title,
"--that the Qanuc are being a brave folk, too, but also a just folk who do
not like pointless fighting." Sludig nodded. "I will."
    Sisqi turned her attention to Simon. "And you, Snowlock, do not be
afraid. She will tell any of the Qanuc back on Mintahoq who wonder at
the story of your dragon-lashing about the bravery she has been able to


204                                    Tad Williams

witness. Any others here will be doing the same." He listened carefully for
a moment, then grinned. "She also urges you for being careful of her
intended--who is me---and for using your bravery to keep him safe. This
she is asking in the name of new friendship."
    Simon was touched. "Tell her," he said slowly, "that I will protect her
intendedmwho is also my friend--to death and beyond."
    As Binabik relayed his words, Sisqi stared at Simon, her eyes intent and
serious. When the troll had finished, Sisqi bowed her head toward them,
stiff and prideful. Simon and Sludig did the same. The other Qanuc
pressed forward, touching those who were about to leave as though to
send something with them. Simon found himself surrounded by small,
black-haired heads, and again had to remind himself that the trolls were
not children, but mortal men and women who loved and fought and died
just as bravely and seriously as any knight of Erkynland. Callused fingers
squeezed his hand and many things that sounded kind were said to him in
words he could not understand.
    Sisqi and Binabik had wandered off from the others, back toward the
sleeping cave. When they got there, Sisqi ducked in, emerging a moment
later with a long spear in her hands, its shaft busy with carvings.
    "Here," she said. "You will need this where you are going, beloved, and it
will be longer than nine times nine days before you return. Take it. I know we
will be together once more---if the gods are kind."
    "Even if they are not." Binabik tried to smile, but could not. He took the
spear from her and rested it against the facing of the cave. "When we meet
again, may it be granted that it is beneath no shadow. I will hold you in my heart,
Sisqi."
      "Hold me against you now," she said quietly, and they stepped forward
into each other's arms. "Blue Mud Lake is cold this year."
  "! will be back . . ." Binabik began.
  "No more talk. Our time is short."
    Their faces came together, vanishing as their hoods touched each other,
and they stood that way for a long time. They were both trembling.


PART TWO


Storm's Hand;


                   ~Gadrinsett
               .~m~,~~m~recca
~--            --  HIGH THRITHING

MEADOW THRITHING



                           .O/&,'     ~ ,i.h,.
~J/,, LAKE THRITHING


11

Bones of tile Earth

It was often said that of all the lands of men in Osten Ard, secrets ran
deepest in Hernystir. Not that the land itself was hidden, like the fabled
Trollfells lurking beyond the icy fence of the White Waste, or the land of
the Wrannamen, shrouded in treacherous swamps. The secrets Hernystir
kept were hidden in the hearts of its people, or below its sunny meadows,
deep in the earth.
    Of all mortal men, the Hernystiri once had known and loved the Sithi
best. They learned much from them--although the things they had learned
were now mentioned only in old ballads. They had also traded with the
Sithi, bringing back to their own grassy country articles of workmanship
beyond anything the finest smiths and craftsmen of Imperial Nabban
could produce. In return, the Hernystirmen offered their immortal allies
the fruits of the earth--nightblack malachite, ilenite and bright opal,
sapphire, cinnabar, and soft, shiny gold--all painstakingly mined from the
thousand tunnels of the Grianspog Mountains.
    The Sithi were gone now, vanished absolutely from the earth as far as
most men knew or cared. Some of the Hernystiri knew better. It had been
centuries since the Fair Ones had fled their castle Asu'a, deserting the last
of the Nine Cities accessible to mortal man. Most mortals had forgotten
the Sithi entirely, or saw them only through the distorting veil of old
stories. But among the Hernystiri, an open-hearted and yet secretive folk,
there were still a few who looked at the dark holes that pitted the
Grianspog and remembered.

    Eolair was not particularly fond of caves. His childhood had been spent
upon the grasslands in the meadows of western Hernystir, at the conjoin-
ing of the Inniscrich and the Cuimnhe rivers. As Count of Nad Mullach,
he had ruled over that territory; later, in service to his king, Lluth ubh-

207


208                                    Tad Williams

Llythinn, he had traveled to all the great cities and courts of Osten Ard,
carrying out Hernystir's wishes beneath the lights of countless lamps and
the skies of every nation.
    Thus, although his bravery was questioned by no one, and though his
oath to King Lluth meant he would follow Lluth's daughter Maegwin to
the fires of perdition if that were his duty, he was not altogether pleased to
find himself and his people living deep in the rock of the mighty Grianspog.

    "Bagba bite me!" Eolair cursed. A drop of burning pitch had fallen on
his sleeve, scorching his arm through the thin cloth in the time it took him
to put it out. The torch was guttering and would not last much longer. He
considered lighting the second, but that would mean it was time to turn
back; he was not ready to do that. He briefly weighed the risks of finding
himself stuck without light in an unfamiliar tunnel deep in the bowels of
the earth, then cursed again, quietly. If he had not been such a hasty idiot,
he might have remembered to bring his flints with him. Eolair did not like
making that sort of mistake. Too many errors of such an obvious sort and
one's luck would at last run out.
    His sleeve extinguished, he turned his attention back to the forking of
the tunnel, squinting at the floor in the vain hope of seeing something that
would help him decide which way to go. Seeing nothing, he hissed in
exasperation.
    "Maegwin!" he called, and heard his voice go rolling out into darkness,
echoing down the tunnels. "My lady, are you there?"
    The echoes died. Eolair stood in silence with a dying torch and won-
dered what to do.
    It was painfully evident that Maegwin knew her way about this under-
ground maze far better than he did, so perhaps his concern was misplaced.
Surely there were no bears or other animals dwelling this far in the depths,
or they would have made themselves apparent by now. The tattered
remainder of Hernysadharc's citizens had already spent a fortnight in the
mountain deeps, building a new home for an unhomed people among the
bones of the earth. But there were other things to fear down here beside
wild beasts; Eolair could not so lightly dismiss danger. Strange creatures
walked in the heights of the mountains, and there had been mysterious
deaths and disappearances all across the face of the land long before Skali
of Kaldskryke's army came at King Elias' bidding to put down the
rebellious Hernystirmen.
    Other, more prosaic dangers might await as well: Maegwin could fall
and break a leg, or tumble into an underground river or lake. Or she
might overestimate her own knowledge of the caverns and wander lost
and lightless until she died from starvation.
    There was nothing to do but go on. He would walk a short way farther,
but turn to go back before his torch was half-consumed. That way, by the


STONE OF FAREWELL                                                                209

time darkness overcame him he should be within hailing distance of the
caverns that now housed the greatest remnant of the Hernystiri nation-in-
exile.

    Eolair lit his second torch with the smoldering remains of the first, then
used the smoking butt of the expired brand to mark the wall at the forking
of the tunnels with the signature runes of Nad Mullach. After a moment's
consideration he chose the wider of the two ways and started forward.
    This tunnel, like the one he had just left, had once been part of the
mines that crisscrossed the Grianspog. At this depth within the mountains
it knifed through solid rock. A moment's thought brought home the
unimaginable labor that must have gone into its making. The cross-
timbers that braced it up were broad as the trunks of the greatest trees!
Eolair could not help admiring the careful but heroic work of the vanished
workmen--his and Maegwin's ancestors--who had burrowed their way
through the very stuff of the world to bring beautiful things back to the
light.
    The old tunnel slanted downward. The bobbing torch shone on strange,
dim marks scratched into the walls. These tunnels were long-deserted, but
still there seemed an expectant air to them, as though they waited for
some imminent return. The sound of Eolair's boots on the stone seemed
loud as a god's heartbeat, so that the Count of Nad Mullach could not
help but think of Black Cuamh, the master of deep places. The earth-god
suddenly seemed very real and very near, here in a darkness the sun had
never touched since Time's beginning.
    Slowing to look more closely at the shallow carvings, Eolair suddenly
realized that many of the curious shapes scratched on the walls were crude
pictures of hounds. He nodded as understanding came. Old Criobhan had
once told him that the miners of elder days called Black Cuamh "Earthdog,"
and left him offerings in the farthest tunnels so that he would grant his
protection against falling rocks or bad air. These carvings were pictures of
Cuamh surrounded by the runes of miner's names, tokens that begged the
god's favor. Other offerings implored the help of Cuamh's servants, the
deep-delving dwarrows, supernatural beings presumed to grant favors and
wealthy ore-veins to lucky miners.
    Eolair took the snuffed torch and made his initials again beneath a
round-eyed hound.
    Master Cuamh, he thought, if you still watch these tunnels, bring Maegwin
and our people through to saJ~ty. We are sorely, sorely pressed.
    Maegwin. Now there was a distressing thought. Had she no feeling for
her responsibilities? Her father and brother were dead. The late king's wife
Inahwen was little older than Maegwin herself and far less capable. Lluth's
heritage was in the princess' hands--and what was she doing with it?
 Eolair had not objected so much to the idea of moving deeper into the


210                                   Tad Williams

caverns: summer had brought no respite from the cold or from Skali's
armies, and the slopes of the Grianspog Mountains were not the kind of
place to last out a siege of either sort. The Hernystiri who had survived
the war were scattered throughout the farthest wildernesses of Hernystir
and the Frostmarch, but a large and important part was here with the
shreds of the king's household. This was indeed where the kingdom
would endure or fail: it was time to make it a more permanent and
defensible home.
    What had worried Eolair, though, was Maegwin's wild fascination with
the depths of the earth, with moving ever deeper into the mountain's
heart. For days now, long after the shifting of the camps was finished,
Maegwin had been wandering away on unspecified errands, disappearing
into remote and unexplored caverns for hours at a stretch, returning at
sleeping-time with her face and hands dirty and her eyes full of a preoccu-
pation that looked much like madness. Old Criobhan and the others asked
her not to go, but Maegwin only drew herself up and coldly declaimed
that they had no right to question Lluth's daughter. If she was needed to
lead the people in defense of their new home, she said, or to tend the
wounded, or to make decisions of policy, she would be there. The rest of
the time was her own. She would use it as she saw fit.
    Concerned with her safety, Eolair also asked her where she went,
suggesting that she should not go wandering in the depths again without him
or some other companions. Maegwin, unmoved, would only speak mys-
teriously of "help from the gods," and the "tunnels that led back into the
days of the Peaceful Ones"--as much as saying that small-minded idiots
like the Count of Nad Mullach should not concern themselves With things
they could not understand.
    Eolair thought she was going mad. He was frightened for Maegwin and
her people--and also for himself. The count had watched her long slide.
Lluth's mortal injury and the treacherous slaying of her brother Gwythinn
had wounded something inside her, but the wound was in a place Eolair
could not reach and all his best efforts seemed only to make things worse.
He did not know why his attempts to help her in her sorrow should
distress her so, but he understood that the king's daughter feared being
pitied more than she feared death.
    Unable to ease her pain, or his own hurt at the sight of her suffering, he
could at least help keep her alive. But how could he do even that when the
king's daughter did not want to be saved?
    Today had been the worst yet. Maegwin had risen before the first gleam
of dawn bled through the chink in the cavern roof, then had taken torches
and ropes and a collection of other ominous things before vanishing into
the tunnels. She had not returned by the end of the afternoon. After
supper, Eolair--tired himself from a day's patrolling through the Circoille
Woods--had set out after her. If he did not find her soon, he would return
and raise a search party.


STONE OF FAREWELL

211

                 .k    ~e    ~e

    For the better part of an hour he followed the meandering tunnels
downward, marking his progress on the walls, watching his torch dwin-
dle. He had gone beyond the point where he could pretend to himself he
would be able to walk all the way back in light. He was unwilling to give
up, but if he waited much longer there would be two lost in the cata-
combs, and what benefit was that to anybody?
    He stopped at last in a place where the way opened out into a rough-
hewn chamber, with black tunnel mouths leading away in three more
directions. He swore, realizing that the time had come to stop fooling
himself. Maegwin could be anywhere; he might even have passed her. He
would return to the jibes of the others, the princess back safely an hour
before. Eolair smiled grimly and bound up his horsetail of black hair,
which had come unbraided as he walked. Jokes would not be so bad.
Better to suffer a little humiliation than...
    A thin voice whispered into the rock chamber, a trace of melody faint as
an old memory.

"... His voice echoed out through woods and through wild.
Where two hearts had sounded now beat only one . . ."

    Eolair's heart sped. He walked into the chamber's center and cupped his
hands around his mouth.
 "Maegwin!" he cried. "Where are you, Lady? Maegwin!"
    The walls boomed with echoes. When they had died he listened care-
fully, but there was no answering cry.
    "Maegwin, it is Eolair!" he called. Again he waited for the chorus of
shouting voices to quiet. This time the stillness was broken by another
tenuous strand of song.

"... Her dark eyes sky-watching,
Only her shining blood gave him answer,
Her head lay uncradled, her black hair undone . . ."

    He moved his head from side to side, determining at last that the
singing seemed loudest from the left-hand opening. He ducked his head
through and shouted in surprise as he almost tumbled into blackness. He
pushed outward at the craggy walls to steady himself, then bent to pick up
the torch he had dropped, but even as he reached down, the flame sizzled and
vanished. His hand felt water by the torch's haft and empty space beyond.
Dancing before his blinded eyes was the last thing he had seen before thc
light went out, a crude but discernible image painted on black nothing. He
was standing at the top of a rough stone staircase that fell away down the
steep tunnel, a parade of steps that seemed to lead to the center of the world.


     '~]~e ....    , ~' ~                                                      ~ying a similar le.,g-th ~l~ 'lay
       gtep~ing do                                          ~ e ~g~lZ]' b~ ~o o~e w
                  pplng wa~er, runnin steadil                        u    see only darkness. ~-he
 the only Sound beside his                       g           y fro~ the walls on all sides, was
               own scuffing feet.
   After many cautiously negotiated steps and a drift of time that could
have been hours, the stairway ended. As far as he inched his foot ahead,
the ground stayed level. Eohir took a few cautious steps forward ..... inn
~[~kge~f (~RC~ m~re for n~t ~l~ringi~g his ~i~ts. ~ig/ho would ever have
guessed that this short search for a wandering princess would have turned
into a struggle for life? And where was the one who had sung, whether
Maegwin or some less friendly cavern-dweller?
    The tunnel seemed level. He pushed on slowly, following the pathway's
twists with one hand dragging on the wall and the other held before him,
probing in blackness. After he had gone a few hundred paces the tunnel
turned once more. To his immense relief, he found that here he could
actually see something: a faint glow outlined the tunnel's interior, brighter
at its turning a dozen ells ahead.
    As he came around the corner, he was splashed with a strong light
welling up from an opening in the tunnel wall. The stone corridor itself
continued on until it bent to the right and he could see no farther, but the
hole in the wall now drew all his attention. Apprehension speeding his
heart more than a little, Eolair got down on his knees and stared through,
starting up again with such surprise that he grazed his head on the stone.
A moment later he had dangled his legs through the opening, letting
himself slide off the floor of the tunnel down into the hole. He landed,
bending his knees to keep from falling over, then slowly stood upright.
    He was in a wide cavern whose fluted ceilings, ornate with hanging
spikes of stone, seemed to waver in the light from a pair of flickering oil
lamps. At the far end of the cavern stood a great door, twice as tall as a


212                                    Tad Williams

    Blackness. Trapped in absolute darkness. Eolair felt a spasm of fea
beginning and choked it off. It had been Maegwin's voice he had heard, h
was nearly certain. Of course it had been! Who else would be singing ol,
Hernystiri songs in the deeps of creationf
    A quiet, childish fear of something that might hide in the dark am
summon its prey with familiar voices struggled inside him. Bagba's Herd
what kind of man was he?
    He touched the walls on either side. They were damp. The step belov
him, when he kneeled to inspect it with his fingers, was sunken in th
middle; water had pooled there. At a reasonable distance below it la
another step. His probing foot found another lying a similar length belo~
the second.
  "Maegwin?" he called again, but no one was singing.
    Stepping down cautiously, keeping his hands above his shoulders so h
could grab at the walls, Eolair began to make his way down the coarse
hewn stairway. The last flash of light and the picture it had painted ha
vanished from his eyes. He strained, but could see only darkness. Th
noise of dripping water, running steadily from the walls on all sides, w~
the only sound beside his own scuffling feet.
    After many cautiously negotiated steps and a drift of time that coul
have been hours, the stairway ended. As far as he inched his foot aheac
the ground stayed level. Eolair took a few cautious steps forward, cursir
himself once more for not bringing his flints. Who would ever ha~
guessed that this short search for a wandering princess would have turin
into a struggle for life? And where was the one who had sung, wheth,
Maegwin or some less friendly cavern-dweller?
    The tunnel seemed level. He pushed on slowly, following the pathway
twists with one hand dragging on the wall and the other held before hin
probing in blackness. After he had gone a few hundred paces the tunn
turned once more. To his immense relief, he found that here he cou'~
actually see something: a faint glow outlined the tunnel's interior, bright4
at its turning a dozen ells ahead.
    As he came around the corner, he was splashed with a strong ligl
welling up from an opening in the tunnel wall. The stone corridor its~
continued on until it bent to the right and he could see no farther, but tZ
hole in the wall now drew all his attention. Apprehension speeding }
heart more than a little, Eolair got down on his knees and stared throug
starting up again with such surprise that he grazed his head on the ston
A moment later he had dangled his legs through the opening, lettil
himself slide off the floor of the tunnel down into the hole. He lande
bending his knees to keep from falling over, then slowly stood upright.
    He was in a wide cavern whose fluted ceilings, ornate with hangi~
spikes of stone, seemed to waver in the light from a pair of flickering c
lamps. At the far end of the cavern stood a great door, twice as tall as


                                          STONE OF FAREWELL                                                                213

 man, flush with the very face of the rock. The door joined the stone lintel
 as closely as if it had grown there, its mighty hinges bolted directly to the
 wall of the cavern. Sitting against the door in a clutter of ropes and tools
 was . . .
     "Maegwin1'' he cried, running forward, tripping on the uneven ground.
 The princess' head rested upon on her knees, unmoving. "Maegwin, are
 you... ?"
     She raised her head as he approached. Something in her eyes caught him
 up short. "Princess... ?"
     "I was sleeping." She shook her head slowly and ran her hands through
 her sorrel hair. "Sleeping, and dreaming..." Maegwin paused and stared
 at him. Her face was almost black with dirt; her eyes gleamed eerily.
 "Who... ?" she began, then shook her head again. "Eolair! I was having
 the oddest dream . . . you were calling me . . ."
     He sprang forward, squatting at her side. She seemed to have suffered
 no injury. He quickly ran his hands through her hair, feeling her head for
 the mark of a fall.
     "What are you doing?" she asked, but did not seem overly concerned.
 "And what are you doing here?"
    He leaned away so he could look at her face. "I must ask you that
question, Lady. What are you doing here? Your people are sick with
worry."
She smiled lazily. "I knew I would find it," she said. "I knew it."
"What are you talking about?" Eolair said angrily. "Come, we must go
back. Thanks to the gods that you have lamps, otherwise we would be
trapped here forever!"
    "Do you mean you didn't bring a torch? Foolish Eolair! I have brought
many things with me, since it is such a long way back to the upper
caverns." She gestured at her scattered tools. "I have some bread, I think.
Are you hungry?"
    Eolair sat back on his heels, baffled. Was this what happened when
someone went irretrievably mad? The princess seemed quite happy, here
in a hole far beneath the earth. What had happened to her?
    "I ask you again," he said as calmly as he could. "What are you doing
here?"
    Maegwin laughed. "Exploring. At least at first. It is our only hope, you
know. To go deeper, that is. We must always keep going deeper, or our
enemies will find us."
    Eolair let out a hiss of exasperation. "We have done as you wish
already, Princess. The people have taken to the caves, as you directed.
Now they wonder where the king's daughter has gone."
    "But I also knew I would find this," she said, continuing as ifEolair had
not spoken. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "The gods have not deserted
us," she said, looking around as though she feared eavesdroppers, "--for


214                                   Tad Williams

they have spoken to me in dreams. They have not deserted us." She
pointed at the great door behind them. "And neither have our old allies
the Sithitfor that is what we need, do we not, Eolair? Allies?" Her eyes
were fearfully bright. "I have thought about this until my head is splitting
and I know I am right! Hernystir needs help in this terrible hourtand
what better allies than the Sithi, who stood with us once before?! Every-
one thinks the Peaceful Ones have disappeared from the earth. But they
haven't! I am sure they have only gone deeper."
    "This is more than I can stand," Eolair said, taking her arm. "This is
madness, Lady, and it tears my heart in my chest to see you so. Come. Let
us go back."
    Maegwin pulled away, eyes bright with anger. "You are the one who
speaks madness, Count! Go back?! I have spent more hours than I can
count cutting the bolt. I had to sleep for a little when I had finished, but
I have done it! It is done, and I am going to go through the door! Do not
speak to me of going back!"
    Eolair looked up to see that the princess spoke truthfully. The bolt, big
as a man's wrist, had been chipped through. A hammer and dented chisel
lay nearby.
    "What is this door?" he asked suspiciously. "It is part of the old mines,
surely."
    "I told you," she responded coldly. "It is the door to the past~the door
that leads to the Peaceful Ones. To the Sithi." As she faced him, her iron
gaze seemed to soften and melt. Another emotion pushed its way to the
surface, bringing confusion and longing to Maegwin's face; the Count of
Nad Mullach felt a deep, helpless pang of sorrow. "Oh, Eolair," she said,
pleading now, "don't you see? We can be safe! Come, help me! Please,
Eolair, I know you think I am a fool, a plainfaced horse of a woman, but
you loved my father! Please, help me open the door!"
    Eolair could not meet her gaze. He turned away to stare up at the great
door, tears welling in his eyes. Wretched girl! What could have tormented
her so? The death of a father and brother? The loss of a kingdom?
Tragedies, all--but others who had suffered the same did not fall into such
pitiable notions. The Sithi had been real once, certainly--real as rain and
stone. But five long centuries had passed since even a rumor of the Fair
Folk had made its way to Hernystir. And the idea that the gods were
leading Maegwin to these long-vanished Sithi . . . even Eolair, with his
respect for the unknown, could still see that this was clearly the madness
of her loss speaking.
    He wiped his face with his sleeve. The stone facing around the door was
covered with strange, intricate symbols and minutely detailed carvings of
faces and figures, mostly worn down by dripping water. It was true that
they were constructions of exquisite subtlety, seemingly far above even
the most ambitious work of Hernystiri miners. What could this place have


                                 STONE OF FAREWELL                                                 215

been? Some ancient temple, from the earliest days? Had strange rituals
been performed here for Black Cuamh, away from the simple shrines of
other gods that dotted the face of the land above?
    Eolair took a breath and wondered if he was making a foolish decision.
"I do not wish to hear you malign yourself untruthfully any longer,
Princess, and I do not want to carry you back by force. If I help you open
the door," he said slowly, not daring to see the painful look of hope on
her face, "will you return with me afterward?"
    "Oh, yes, whatever you want!" She was childlike in her eagerness. "I
will let you decide, because I know when you see the land where the Sithi
still live, you will not want to hurry back to any sooty cavern. Yes!"
    "Very well, then. I have your word, Maegwin." He stood up and
grasped the handle of the door, giving it a sharp tug. There was no
movement at all.
  "Eolair," Maegwin said quietly.
      He pulled again, harder, until he could feel the cords of his neck
standing out, but the door did not budge.  "Count Eolair," Maegwin said.
  He gave the door another futile pull, then turned. "What?"
    She gestured at the door with a broken-nailed finger. "I sawed the bolt
through, but the pieces are still there. Shouldn't we take them out?"
    "That would make no difference ..." he began, then looked more
closely. Part of the severed bolt had fallen into the door loop, effectively
preventing the door's opening. Eolair hissed, then pushed the pieces out.
They fell clinking to the damp stone.
    This time, as Eolair pulled, the hinges creaked protestingly. Maegwin
came forward, curling her hands around the door handle beside the count's,
adding her strength to his. The hinges spoke louder. As he kept up the
pressure, he distractedly watched the muscles in her forearms. She was
strong, this young woman--but then, she never had been a weak or
retiring type. Except around him, where he had often noticed her sharp
tongue suddenly blunted.
    Straining, Eolair sucked in a chestful of air and could not help noticing
Maegwin's scent. Sweaty and covered with dirt, the princess did not smell
like a perfumed lady from the court in Nabban, but there was something
raw and warm and lively about her that was not unpleasant at all. Eolair
shook his head at such musings and redoubled his effort, watching
Maegwin's determined face as the noise of the hinges rose to a shriek. The
door began to grate open--an inch, then a few inches more, then a foot,
protesting loudly all the way. When a cubit of blackness was exposed they
stopped, leaning against the heavy timbers to catch their breath.
    Maegwin bent anti'picked up a lamp, then slipped through the opening
while Eolair was still gasping.
 "Princess!" he called breathlessly, then edged through after her. "Wait!


216                                   Tad Williams

The air may be bad!" Even as he spoke he realized that the air was fine, if
a little heavy. "Just ..." he began, then stopped short at Maegwin's
shoulder. The lamp she held threw light all around.
    "I told you!" Her voice was full of satisfied awe. "This is where our
friends live!"
  "Brynioch of the Skies!" Eolair murmured, stunned.
    A great city lay before them, stretched along the bottom of a wide
canyon. As they stood at the canyon's edge, gazing down, the vast
expanse of buildings seemed to be hewed directly from the mountain's
heart, as though the entire city were one seamless, incalculably immense
piece of living stone. Every window and door had been cut into solid
rock, every tower carved out of pillars of pre-existing stone, pillars that
stretched up toward the cavern's ceiling far overhead. But for all its size,
the city also looked to be surprisingly close, as though it were in truth
only a miniature, made to trick the eye. From where they stood on the top
steps of a broad staircase that wound down into the canyon, it seemed
they could almost reach out and touch the domed roofs.
  "The city of the Peaceful Ones . . ." Maegwin said happily.
    If it was a Sithi city, Eolair thought, then its immortal inhabitants must
have decided their declining years would be better spent on the sunny
surface, for this spread of delicately hewn and shaded stone was empty--or
so it certainly seemed. Shaken by the discovery of such an uncanny place,
the count found himself fervently hoping that it was indeed as deserted as
it looked.

The small cell was cold. Duke Isgrimnur snorted miserably, rubbing his
hands together.
    Mother Church would do better to take a.~w of those damned offerings and use
them to heat her greatest house, he thought. The tapestries and gold candlesticks
are all well and good--but how can anyone admire them when he's ~eezing to
death?
    He had stayed long in the common room the night before, sitting
quietly before the great fireplace as he listened to the stories of other
traveling monks, most of whom had come to the Sancellan Aedonitis on
some sort of business with the lectoral establishment. When friendly
questions were directed toward him, Isgrimnur had replied tersely and
infrequently, knowing that here---among others of the same guild, so to
speak--the danger of his masquerade being detected was greatest.
    Now, as he sat listening to the Clavean bell tolling for morning prayer,
he felt himself strongly inclined to go back to the common room again.
The risk of exposure was great, but how else could be help to uncover the
news he so urgently sought?


STONE OF FAREWELL

217

    If only that damnable Count Stredwe spoke straightly. Why should he bn'ng me
all the way across Ansis Pelippd just to tell me Miriamele was at the Sancellan
Aedonitis? How could he know that? And why should he tell me, about whom he
knew only that I was asking questions about two monks, an old one and a young?
    lsgrimnur considered briefly the possibility that Stre~we had known
who he was, and worse, that the count had set him to some kind of wild
chase on purpose, when Miriamele was in reality nowhere near the lector's
palace. But if that was the case, why should Perdruin's master speak to
him personally? They had sat there, the count and monkishly-disguised
Isgrimnur, drinking wine in the count's own sitting room. Did Stre~we
know who he was? What did the man have to gain by sending Isgrimnur
to the Sancellan Aedonitis?
    Trying to puzzle out Count Streiwe's game made Isgrimnur's head
ache. What choice did he have, anyway, but to take the count's word at its
face value? He had been at a complete dead end, combing the alleyways of
Perdruin's greatest city for word of the princess and the monk Cadrach
with little result. So here he was, a mendicant monk taking a little charity
in Mother Church's bosom, hoping to find out if Strelwe was correct.
    He stamped his feet. The soles of his boots were worn thin and the chill
seemed to crawl up through the dank stone floors right into the bottoms
of his feet. This was foolishness, this hiding in his cell; it would not help
him in his quest. He must get out and mix with the Sancellan's swarming
throngs. Besides, when he sat too long by himself, the faces of his wife
Gutrun and his children came to him, filling him with despair and helpless
rage. He remembered the joy when Isorn had come back to him out of
captivity, the bursting pride, the exhilaration of fear defeated. Would he
live to have another such reunion with them all? God grant that he would.
It was his fondest hope, but one that seemed so tenuous that, like a spider
web, to handle it unnecessarily might sl~ell its ruin.
    But in any case, hope alone was not a fit diet for a knight--even an old
one like the duke, with his best days behind him. There was also duty.
Now that Naglimund was fallen and Isgrimnur's folk were all scattered
God knew where, the only duty he had left was to Miriamele, and to
Prince Josua who had sent him after her. Indeed, he was grateful there was
something left for him to do.

     Isgrimnur stood in the hallway stroking his chin. Praise Usires, the
beard stubble was not too pronounced. He had not been able to force
himself to shave this morning. The bowl of water had been nearly frozen,
and even after several weeks of traveling as a monk he was still not
reconciled to running a sharp blade over his face every day. He had worn a
beard since his first year as a man. He mourned it now the way he would
have a missing hand or foot.
 The duke was trying to decide which direction might lead him back


218                                    Tad Williams

toward the common room--and toward its blazing fire--when he felt a
hand on his arm. He turned quickly, startled, and found himself sur-
rounded by a trio of priests. The one who had touched him, an old man
with a harelip, smiled.
    "Did I not see you in the room last night, brother?" he asked. He spoke
the Westerling tongue carefully, hampered by a strong Nabbanai accent.
"You have just come from the north, no? Come and join us for the
morning meal. Are you hungry?"
 Isgrimnur shrugged and nodded.
    "Good." The old man patted his arm. "I am Brother Septes. These are
Rovalles and Neylin, two others of my order," He indicated the younger
monks. "You will join us, yes?"
    "Thank you." Isgrimnur smiled uncertainly, wondering if there was
some monkish etiquette known only to initiates. "God bless you," he
added.
    "And you," Septes said, taking Isgrimnur's large arm with his thin
fingers, leading him up the corridor. The other two monks fell in behind,
talking quietly.
  "Have you seen the Elysia Chapel yet?" the old man asked.
  Isgrimnur shook his head. "I only arrived last night."
    "It is beautiful. Beautiful. Our abbey is near Lake Myrme, to the east,
but I try to come here once a year. I always bring a few of the younger
ones with me, to show them the glory that God has built for us here."
    Isgrimnur nodded piously. They walked on in silence for a while, their
path joining that of other monks and priests who converged from criss-
crossing hallways onto the main thoroughfare, blending together like
shoals of drab fish, being drawn as though by a current toward the dining
hall.
    The mass migration slowed at the hall's wide doors. As Isgrimnur and
his new companions joined the pressing throng, Septes asked the duke a
question. Isgrimnur could not hear above the clamor of voices, so the old
man stood on tiptoe to speak into his ear.
    "I said, how are things in the north?" Septes almost shouted. "We have
heard terrible stories. Famine, wolves, deadly blizzards."
    Isgrimnur nodded, frowning. "Things are very bad," he called back. As
he spoke, he and the others were propelled through the door like a stopper
from the neck of a bottle, and found themselves milling inside the dining
hall entrance. The roar of conversation seemed enough to shake the
roof beams.
    "I thought it was custom to have silence at mealtimes!" Isgrimnur
shouted. Septes' young followers, like the duke, stared goggle-eyed at the
scores of tables that stretched end to end across the wide room. There
were some dozen or so rows, and each table in each row was crowded
with the hunched backs of cassocked men, their tonsured heads a profu-


STONE OF FAREWELL

219

sion of pink spots, like the fingernails of some hundred-handed ogre. Each
man seemed to be engaged in loud conversation with his neighbors, some
waving their spoons for attention. The sound was as vast as the ocean that
surrounded Nabban.
    Septes laughed, the sound subsumed in the greater roaring. He stood on
tiptoe again. "It is silent in our abbey at home and in many others--as no
doubt it is in your Rimmersgard monasteries, yes? But here at the Sancellan
Aedonitis are those who are doing God's business: they must speak and
listen just like merchants."
    "Speculating on the price of souls?" Isgrimnur grinned sourly, but the
old man did not hear him.
    "If you prefer silence," Septes shouted, "you should go down to the
archives. The priests there are silent as the tomb and a whisper sounds like
a thunderclap. Come! Bread and soup can be got over there, where that
door is, then you will tell me more about what happens in the north,
yes?"

    lsgrimnur tried not to watch the old man eat, but it was difficult.
Because of his harelip, Septes dribbled soup constantly, and soon had a
little river of it running down the front of his robe.
    "I am sorry," the old man said at last, mumbling at a crust of bread; he
did not seem to have many teeth, either. "I have not asked your name.
What are you called?"
"Isbeorn," the duke said. It was his father's name and fairly common.
"Ah, Isbeorn. Well, I am Septes . . . but I told you that, no? Tell us
more of what happens in the north. That is another reason I come to
Nabban--for news we do not get in the Lakelands."
    Isgrimnur told him something of what had happened north of the
Frostmarch, of the killing storms and evil times. Choking down his
bitterness, he told of Skali of Kaldskryke's usurpation of his own power in
Elvritshalla and the devastation and kinslaying that had resulted.
    "We had heard that Duke Isgrimnur was proved a traitor to the High
King," Septes said, mopping the last of the soup from his bowl with a
rind of bread. "Travelers told us that Elias found out the duke was in
league with the king's brother Josua to take the throne."
    "That's a lie!" Isgrimnur said angrily, smacking his hand on the table so
that young Neylin's bowl almost overtipped. Heads turned on all sides.
    Septes raised an eyebrow. "Forgive us," he said, "for we only speak of
rumors we have heard. Perhaps we have touched on a painful subject. Was
lsgrimnur a patron of your order?"
    "Duke Isgrimnur is an honest man," the duke said, cursing himself for
letting his temper get the best of him. "I hate to hear him slandered."
    "Of course," Septes spoke as soothingly as he could while still being
heard above the ruckus. "But we have heard other stories from the north


220                                   Tad Williams

as well, very frightening, yes? Rovalles, tell him what the traveler told to
you."
    Young Rovalles started to speak, but broke into a fit of coughing as he
choked on a crust. Neylin, the other acolyte, pounded him on the back
until he got his breath, then continued pounding, perhaps a little overexcited
at being in Nabban for the first time.
    "A man we meet when we are coming here," Rovalles said when
Neylin had been restrained, "he is from Hewenshire, or some place up
in Erkynland." The young monk did not speak Westerling as well as
Septes; he had to stop and think carefully before choosing words. "He say
that when Elias' siege cannot throw down Josua's castle, the High King
raise up white demons from the earth, and by magic they kill everyone in
the keep. He swear it is so, that he sees it himself."
    Septes, who had been dabbing at the front of his robe while Rovalles
spoke, now leaned forward. "Like me, Isbeorn, you know how full of
superstition people can be, yes? If only this man told the story, I would
call him madman and have done. But many are speaking quietly here in
the Sancellan, many who say Elias has trafficked with demons and evil
spirits." He touched Isgrimnur's hand with his bent fingers; the duke
fought an urge to recoil. "You must have heard of the siege, even though
you say you left the north before it ended. What is the truth behind these
stories?"
    lsgrimnur stared at the old monk for a moment, wondering if there was
more to this question than met the eye. At last he sighed. This was a
kindly old man with a harelip, nothing more. These were frightening
times--why should Septes not try to cadge information from someone
who had come from the heartland of rumor?
    "I have heard little more than you," he said at last, "but I can tell you
that evil things are afoot--things that godly men would rather not know
about, but damn me if that makes them go away." Septes' eyebrow
twitched upward again at Isgrimnur's language, but he did not interrupt.
Isgrimnur, warming to the subject, spoke on. "Sides are forming, you
could say, and some that look prettier are really the fouler. I can't say
more than that. Don't believe everything you hear, but don't be too quick
to cry 'superstition,' either ..." He broke off, realizing that he was
entering dangerous territory. There was little more he could say without
attracting attention as a source of substantiation for the gossip that was
doubtless flying through the Sancellan Aedonitis. He could not afford to
be the subject of attention until he had learned if Princess Miriamele was
indeed here.
    The bits and pieces he had doled out, however, seemed to satisfy Septes.
The old man leaned back, still scratching idly at the drying soup stain on
his breast. "Ah," he nodded. His voice just carried above the tabletalk.
"Welladay, we have heard enough fearsome stories to take what you say


                              STONE OF FAREWELL                                          221

seriously, yes? Very seriously." He gestured for the nearest acolyte to help
him up. "Thank you for sharing our meal, Isbeorn," he said. "God keep
you. I hope we can speak more in the common room tonight. How long
do you stay?"
  "I'm not sure yet," Isgrimnur replied. "My thanks to you, too."
    The old man and his two companions disappeared into the crush of
retreating monks, leaving Isgrimnur to sort out his thoughts. After a
moment he gave up and rose from the table.
    I can't even hear myself think in here. He shook his head grimly, pushing
toward the doorway. His large size helped him make rapid progress and
he reached the main hallway swiftly. Now I've gone and spouted my own
piece, but I'm not a whit closer to finding poor Miriamele, he thought sourly.
And how can I find out her whereabouts, anyway? Just ask someone if Elias'
missing daughter is anywhere in the place? Oh, and she's traveling as a boy,
besides. That's even better. Perhaps I'll just ask around, find out if any young
monks have shown up at the Sancellan Aedonitis lately.
    He gave a bitter snort as he watched the river of habited forms swirl
past.
    Elysia, Mother of God, I wish Eolair was with me. That damned Hernystirman
loves this kind of nonsense. He'd track her down quick enough, with his smooth
ways. What am I doing here?
    The Duke of Elvritshalla rubbed his fingers along his unnaturally smooth
jaw. Then, startling even himself, he began to laugh at his own hopeless
foolishness.
    Passing priests eddied nervously around the big-bellied northern monk,
who was evidently caught up in some kind of religious fit. Isgrimnur
roared and bellowed with laughter until the tears coursed down his chafed
pink cheeks.

    Thunderstorm weather lay on the swamp like a blanket, damp and
oppressively hot. Tiamak could feel the storm's yearning hunger to exist;
its prickly breath made the hair stand up on his arms. What he would not
give for the storm to break and a little cool rain to fall! The thought of
raindrops splashing on his face and bending the leaves of the mangroves
seemed like a dream of the most benevolent magic.
    Tiamak sighed as he lifted his pole from the water and laid it across the
thwarts of his flatboat. He stretched, trying without success to unkink the
muscles of his back. He had been poling for three days and had suffered
two near-sleepless nights filled with worry about what he should do. If he
went to Kwanitupul and stayed there, would he be betraying his tribesmen?
Could they ever understand a debt he owed to drylanders--or owed to a
few drylanders, anyway?


222                                   Tad Williams

    Of course they wouldn't understand. Tiamak frowned and reached for
his waterskin, sloshing a generous mouthful around before swallowing it.
He had always been thought of as strange. If he did not go to Nabban to
plead his people's case with Duke Benigaris, he would simply be a strange
traitor. That would be the end of it as far as the elders of Village Grove
were concerned.
    He took his kerchief from his head and dipped it over the side of the
boat into the water, then arranged it atop his hair once more. Blessedly
cool water dribbled down his face and neck. The bright, long-tailed birds
perched in the branches overhead stopped screeching for a moment as a
dim rumble rolled across the swamp. Tiamak felt his heart beat faster.
  He Who Always Steps on Sand, let the storm come soon!
    His boat had begun to slow when he had stopped poling. Now the stern
began to swing gradually out to the middle of the watercourse, turning
him sideways so that he faced the bank--or rather, what would have been
the bank if this were a dryland river. Here in the Wran it was only a tangle
of clustered mangroves whose roots held in just enough sand for the
colony of trees to grow and prosper. Tiamak made a resigned noise and
pushed his pole back into the water once more, straightening the boat
and prodding it forward through a thick clump of lilies which clutched at
his passing hull like the fingers of drowning swimmers. It was several
more days to Kwanitupul, and that was if the storm he was praying for
did not bring heavy winds in its train, winds which might uproot trees
and make this part of the Wran an unpassable snarl of roots and trunks and
broken branches.
    He Who Always Steps on Sand, he amended his prayer, let a cooling but
gentle storm come soon!
    His heart felt unutterably heavy. How could he choose between two
such awful possibilities? He could go as far as Kwanitupul before choosing
whether to stay there in accordance with Morgenes' wishes or to go on to
Nabban as Older Mogahib and the rest had ordered. He tried to soothe
himself with that idea, but wondered if such thinking was not in fact just
like allowing a wound to fester, when instead he should grit his teeth and
clean it out so the healing could start?
    Tiamak thought of his mother, who had spent most of her life on her
knees, tending the cookfire, grinding grain in the pestle, working every
day from the darkness before dawn until it was time to crawl into the
hammock at night. He had little respect for the village elders, but now he
felt a sudden fear that his mother's spirit might be watching him. She
would never understand her son turning his back on his people for the
sake of strangers. She would want him to go to Nabban. Serve his own
folk first, then take care of his personal honor, that was what his mother
would say.
  Thinking of her made it seem very clear. He was a Wrannaman first:


STONE OF FAREWELL

223


nothing would change that. He must go to Nabban. Morgenes, that kind
old man, would understand his reasons. Afterward, after he had finished
his duties to his people, he would go back to Kwanitupul as his drylander
friends had asked.
    The decision lifted part of the load of worry from Tiamak's shoulders.
He decided he might as well stop soon and scare up something for a noon
meal. He reached down and tested his fishing line, tied to the back of the
flatboat. It seemed light; as he pulled it up he saw to his disgust that the
bait had been eaten again, but whatever had dined at his expense had not
waited around to pay respects. At least the hook was still there. Metal
hooks were painfully expensive itemsmhe had paid for this one with an
entire day of work as an interpreter in the market at Kwanitupul. The next
month at market he had found the parchment with Nisses' name on it, and
had paid a full day's wages for that as well. Two expensive purchases, but
the fishook had indeed proved much sturdier than the ones he whittled of
bone, which usually broke on the first snag. The Nisses parchment--he
patted protectively at the oilskin bag lying at his feet--if he was correct
about its origins, was a gem beyond price. Not bad work for two days'
marketing.
    Tiamak hauled in the line, wrapping it gently, then steered the boat over
closer to the bank of mangroves. He poled along slowly, waiting until the
mangrove roots gave way for a while to a short stretch of soggy dirt
cluttered with waving reeds. Bringing the boat as close to the edge of the
watercourse as he could, he pulled his knife from his belt and dug in the
wet soil, at last turning up some spitfiy roe. He wrapped the shiny things
in his kerchief, saving one only to bait the hook. This done, he tossed the
line back into the water to trail behind the boat. As he poled out into the
middle of the stream once more, thunder grumbled in the distance. It
seemed to be farther away than last time. He shook his head sadly. The
storm was in no hurry.

    It was late afternoon when he passed out of the overhanging thicket
of mangroves and emerged into unshadowed sunlight once more. Here
the waterway grew wider and deeper. A sea of reeds rolled out toward the
horizon, all but motionless in the oppressive heat, crisscrossed with
the shining tracks of other watercourses. The sky was gray with threatening
clouds, but the sun burned brightly behind them, and Tiamak could not
help but feel more lighthearted. An ibis rose, white wings flapping slowly,
then settled down into the reeds a short distance away. To the south, past
miles of marsh and swamp forest, he could see the dark line of the
Nascadu Mountains. To the west, invisible beyond an endless prairie of
cattails and mangroves, lay the sea.
    Tiamak poled distractedly, momentarily caught up in a correction he
had decided to make in his great work of scholarship, a revision of The


224                                    Tad Williams

Sovran Remedies of the Wranna Healers. He had suddenly realized that the
shape of the cattail itself might have something to do with its use among
the men of the Meadow Thrithings as a marital potion, and was planning
the wording of a footnote that would delicately suggest this connection
without seeming too clever, when he felt a strange vibration against his
back. He turned, startled, and saw that his fishing line was pulled taut,
humming like the plucked string of a lute.
    For a moment he was sure it must be a snag--the pull was so strong
that it had imparted some of its tension to the stern of the boat--but as he
leaned over he saw some silver-gray thing rise briefly toward the surface,
wriggling, then dive down into the brackish water again. A fish! As long
as Tiamak's arm! He gave a small cry of delight and began to pull on the
line. The silver thing seemed to leap up at him. For a split instant one pale,
shiny fm appeared above the water, then it vanished beneath the boat,
stretching the line tight. Tiamak heaved and it gave a little, but not much.
It was a strong fish. A sudden image of the line snapping and his next two
days' worth of meals swimming away filled Tiamak's heart with sick
horror. He lessened the tension on the fishing line. He would let the fish
tire itself, then he could reel it in at his leisure. In the meantime, he would
keep an eye open for a dry patch where he could build a fire. He could
wrap the fish in minog leaves, and surely there would be wild quickweed
growing somewhere nearby... In his thoughts he could already taste it.
The heat, the recalcitrant thunderstorm, his betrayal of Morgenes (as
he still saw it) and all else receded in the warm glow of the contem-
plated meal. He tested the line again, rejoicing at the firm, steady pull. He
had not had fresh fish in weeks!
    A splash impinged on his reverie. Tiamak looked up to see a rainbow of
ripples spreading beside the shoreline, a couple of long stone-throws
away. There was something else as well: a moment later he picked out a
row of low bumps like tiny islands moving smoothly through the water
toward his boat.
    Crocodile.t Tiamak's heart quailed. His wonderful dinner! He tugged
hard at the line, but the fish was still beneath the flatboat and resisting
fiercely; the line burned his palms as he struggled unsuccessfully to wrestle
the fish to the surface. The crocodile was a dark blur just below the
surface, the motion of its powerful tail sending eddies across the still
water. Its craggy back breached for just a moment, a hundred cubits from
where Tiamak sat, then it was gone--diving toward his fish!
    There was no time to think, no time at all. His dinner, his fishing hook,
his line, all would be lost if he waited a moment longer. Tiamak felt a
black rage flare into life in his empty stomach and a band of pain tighten
itself around his temples. His mother, had she lived to see him at this
moment, would hardly have recognized her shy, clumsy son. If she had
seen what he did next, she would have stumbled to the shrine of She Who


STONE OF FAREWELL

225

Birthed Mankind at the back wall of the family hut, then fainted dead
away.
    Tiamak looped the cord tied to his knife-hilt around his wrist, then
flung himself over the stern of the boat. Mumbling inarticulately with
anger and despair, he barely sucked in a hasty breath and closed his mouth
before the green, cloudy water closed over his head.
    Flailing, he opened his eyes. The sunlight filtered down through the
watercourse, passing through plumes of drifting silt as through clouds. He
darted a glance up at the rectangular darkness that was the bottom of his
boat and saw a glittering shape hanging there. Despite his wild, heart-
thumping panic, he felt a moment of satisfaction at the size of the fish
lying torpid at the end of his line. Even his father Tugumak would have
had to admit it was a splendid catch!
    As he stroked upward, reaching toward his prize, the shimmering thing
darted along the boat-bottom and slipped out of sight along the craft's far
side, rising up out of Tiamak's view. The line pulled taut against the
wooden hull. The Wrannaman snatched at it wildly, but it now hugged
the boat so tightly that his fingers could find no purchase. He gave a little
cough of dread, sending bubbles dancing outward. Hmry, he must hurry!
The crocodile would be upon him in a moment!
    His heartbeat boomed in the watery silence of his ears. His scrabbling
fingers could not grip the line. The fish remained out of sight and out of
reach, as if perversely determined that it should not suffer alone, and panic
was making Tiamak clumsy. He finally gave up and pushed himself away
from the bottom of the boat, kicking to bring himself upright. The fish
was lost. He had to save himself.  Too late!
    A dark shape slid past him and angled upward, slipping in and out of
the shadow of his boat. The crocodile was not the largest he had ever seen,
but it was certainly the largest he had ever been beneath. Its white belly
passed over him, the tail a diminishing stripe buffeting him with its wake.
    His breath was pressing on his lungs, burning to escape and fill the
murky water with bubbles. He kicked and turned, his eyes feeling as
though they would push from his head, and saw the blunt arrow-shape of
the crocodile skimming toward him. Its jaws parted. There was a glimpse
of red-shadowed darkness and an infinity of teeth. He whirled, swinging
his arm, and watched the horrifyingly slow movement of the knife as he
pushed it against the wall of water. The reptile thumped against his ribs,
rasping him with its horny hide as he struggled out of its way. His knife
bit shallowly into its flank, dragging along the armored skin for a moment
before bouncing off. A thin brown-black cloud trailed the crocodile as it
swam on, circling the boat once more.
    Tiamak's lungs felt as though they had grown impossibly large within
his chest, straining at his ribs until spots of blackness began to appear


226                                   Tad Williams

before his eyes. Why had he been such a fool? He didn't want to die like
this, drowned and eaten!
    Even as he tried to struggle upward toward the surface, he felt a
crushing pressure enfold his leg; in the next instant, he was jerked down-
ward. His knife spilled loose from his hand, and his arms and free leg
kicked wildly as he was pulled toward the darkness of the river bottom. A
belch of bubbles escaped his lips. The faces of the elders of his tribe,
Mogahib and Roahog the Potter and others, seemed to press down on his
dimming sight, their expressions full of weary disgust at his idiocy.
    His knife-cord still looped his wrist; as he whirled down into river-
darkness he struggled to find the hilt. His hands coiled against it and he
summoned his strength, then leaned forward against the bottomward pull,
finding the hard, rough jaws that clutched his leg. Clinging with one hand
so that he could feel the crooked teeth beneath his fingers, he set the
knifepoint against the leathery eyelid and pushed. The head jerked beneath
his hands as the crocodile convulsed and bit down harder, which sent a
bolt of scalding pain up his leg and into his heart. Another clutch of
precious bubbles sprang from Tiamak's mouth. He pushed the blade in as
hard as he could, his thoughts a swirling black blur of faces and nonsensi~
cal words. As he twisted at the handle in mad agony, the crocodile
loosened its jaws. He pulled at its upper jaw with desperate strength,
forcing it up just far enough to jerk his leg free before it snapped shut
again. The water was clouding with blood. Tiamak could feel nothing
beneath his knee at all, nothing above it but the fiery pain of his bursting
lungs. Somewhere below him the crocodile was tying itself in dark knots
on the river bottom, swimming in ever-narrowing circles. Tiamak tried to
claw upward toward the remembered sun, even as he felt the spark within
him dying.
 He passed through many darknesses, coming at last into the light.
    The daystar was in the gray sky; the cattails stood windless and silent
along the edge of the water. He gasped in a lifetime's worth of hot marsh
air, opening his entire body to it, then almost sank beneath the water again
as it rushed into his lungs like a river shattering its dam and spilling clown
into a parched valley. Light of every hue gleamed before his eyes, until he
felt as though he had discovered some ultimate secret. A moment later, as
he saw his boat bobbing on the unsettled water a short distance away, the
sense of revelation evaporated. He felt a sick, debilitating blackness again
come crawling up his spine into his skull. He struggled toward the boat,
his body curiously painless, as though he were nothing but a head floating
upon the watercourse. He reached the side of the flatboat and clung,
breathing deeply as he summoned his strength. By sheer will he pulled
himself over into safety, scraping his cheek raw on the thwart, not
caring in the least. The blackness overcame him at last. He stopped
struggling and sank beneath its surface.


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                                        STONE OF FAREWELL                                                                227

    He awakened to a sky red as blood. A hot wind swept across the
marshland. The blazing sky seemed inside his head as well, for he burned
like a fired pot fresh from the kiln. With fingers that felt awkward as
pieces of wood, he scrabbled his spare breechclout from the bottom of the
boat and tied it tightly around the red ruin of his lower leg, unable to
think much about the bleeding runnels that had been gouged from knee to
heel. Struggling against the oblivion that was reaching out for him, he
wondered absently if he would be able to walk again, then dragged
himself to the edge of the boat and pulled at the fishing line which still
hung over the side, trailing into green depths. With his failing strength he
managed to wrestle the silver fish over the stern, letting it slide wriggling
down next to him in the boat's shallow belly. The fish's eye was open; its
mouth, too, as though it were trying to ask Death a question.
    He rolled onto his back, staring up into the violet sky. There was a
resounding crack and rumble from above. A flurry of raindrops danced on
his fevered skin. Tiamak smiled as he once more fell away into darkness.

    Isgrimnur got up from the bench and strode to the fireplace, turning to
present his rump to the blaze. He would be off to bed in a short while, so
he might as well soak up all the warmth he could before he had to return
to that be-damned, arse-freezing cell.
    He listened to the muted sounds of conversation that filled the common
room, marveling at the diversity of accents and languages. The Sancellan
Aedonitis was like a little world of its own, even more so than the
Hayholt, but varied as the talk had been all evening, he was not an inch
closer to solving any of his problems.
    The duke had paced the near-endless halls all morning and afternoon,
keeping an eye open for a suspicious pair of monks or anything else that
might ease his predicament. His search had been fruitless, except to
remind him of the size and power of Mother Church. He had become so
frustrated by his inability to discover whether Miriamele was here or not
that as the afternoon waned he had left the Sancellan Aedonitis entirely.
    He took his supper in an inn partway down the Sancelline Hill, then
walked quietly in the Hall of Fountains, something he had not done for
many years. He and Gutrun had visited the fountains shortly before their
marriage, when they had come to Nabban on a nuptial pilgrimage tradi-
tional in Isgrimnur's family. The glistening play of water and its continual
music had filled him with a kind of pleasant melancholy; although his
longing and worry for his wife were great, for the first time in weeks he
had been able to think of her without being overwhelmed by pain. She
must be safe---and Isorn, too. He would just believe it, for what else could


228                                    Tad Williams

he do? The rest of the family, his other son and two daughters, were in the
capable hands of old Thane Tonnrud in Skoggey. Sometimes, when all
was uncertain, a man just had to trust in the goodness of God.
    After his walk, Isgrimnur had returned to the Sancellan, his mind
calmed and ready to turn to his task once more. His companions from the
morning meal had come in for a while but had left early, old Septes
explaining that they kept "country hours." The duke had sat and listened
long to the talk of others, but to no avail.
    Much of the gossip, although couched in careful terms, seemed to be
about whether Lector Ranessin would legitimize Benigaris' succession to
Nabban's ducal seat. Not that anything Lector Ranessin might say would
actually lift Benigaris' hind end from the throne, but the Benidrivine
House and Mother Church had long ago reached a delicate balance con-
cerning Nabban's governance. There was much worry that the lector
would do something rash, like denounce Benigaris on the basis of the
rumors that the new duke had betrayed his father, or had not defended
him properly in the battle before Naglimund, but most of the Nabbanai
priests--the Sancellan's home-grown men--were quick to assure their
foreign brethren that Ranessin was an honorable and diplomatic man. The
lector, they promised, would certainly do the right thing.
    Duke Isgrimnur flapped the hem of his cassock, trying to force a little
warm air up beneath the garment. If only the lector's honor and diplo-
macy could solve everybody's problems . . .
    Of course! That's it! Damn my ignorant eyes for not seeing it before! Isgrimnur
smacked a broad hand on his thigh and chuckled fruitily. I'll talk to the
lector. Whatever he thinks, my secret will be sa~ with him. I'm sure Miriamele's
will, too. If anyone has the authority to find her here without raising a fuss, it's
His Sacredness.
    The duke felt much better after this solution had presented itself. He
turned and rubbed his hands before the flames a few more times, then set
out across the polished wooden floor of the common room.
    A small crowd at one of the arched doorways caught his attention.
Several monks were standing in the open door; several others stood on the
balcony outside, cold air bleeding in past them. Many of the common
room's other inhabitants were protesting, or had already given up and
moved nearer the fire. Isgrimnur wandered over, his hands tucked up in
his voluminous sleeves as he peered over the shoulder of the hindmost monk.
    "What is it?" he asked. He could see a couple of dozen men milling in
the courtyard below, half of them on horseback. It seemed nothing un-
usual: the figures moved calmly and unhurriedly, those on foot apparently
the Sancellan's guards, greeting new arrivals.
    "It's the High King's counselor," the monk standing before him said.
"That Pryrates fellow. He used to be here once---in the Sancellan Aedonitis,
I mean. They say he's a clever one."


STONE OF FAREWELL                                                                229

    Isgrimnur clenched his teeth, choking down a shout of anger and
surprise. He felt a hot breath of fury moving within him and stood up on
his toes to see. There indeed was the priest's tiny, hairless head bobbing
atop a scarlet cloak that looked orange in the gateyard torchlight. The
duke found himself wondering how he could get close enough to stick a
knife into the sneaking traitor. Ah, sweet God, but that would be satisfying!
    But what good would it do, fool, besides the admitted good of removing Pryrates
.~om this earth? It would not find Miriamele, and I would never escape to search
for her after the deed was done. Not to mention what would happen if Pryrates did
not die--p'raps he has some sorcerous shield.
    No, it would not do. But if he could get in to see the lector, he would
give Ranessin an earful about that devil's bastard of a red priest and his
hellish counseling of the High King. But what was Pryrates doing here of
all places?
    Isgrimnur tramped off to bed, thoughts of mayhem denied swim-
ming through his mind.
    Twenty cubits below, Pryrates looked up to the common room balcony
as though he had heard someone calling his name, his black eyes glitter-
ingly intent, his pale head gleaming like a toadstool in the shadows of the
gateyard. The spectators in the common room, separated by distance and
darkness, could not see the smile that curled across the priest's gaunt face,
but they could feel the sudden draught of chill air that swept down on the
Sancellan Aedonitis, setting the guards' cloaks to billowing. Goosefieshed,
the monks on the balcony quickly made their way inside, pushing the
door shut behind them before hastening back to the fire.




S~'I'I,~ and his companions left Binabik's people behind and rode
southeast along the base of the Trollfells, clinging to the foothills like a
nervous child unwilling to wade into deeper water. On their right, the
white emptiness of the Waste stretched away into the distance.
    In the middle of the gray afternoon, as they walked their horses across a
thin trail of stones that made an uncertain crossing over one of Blue Mud
Lake's inlet streams, a wedge of cranes flew overhead, gabbling and
honking until it seemed they would rattle the sky. The birds swerved
above the riders' heads, wings thrusting, then banked as one and flew
into the south.
    "Three months it is before they should be making that journey,"
Binabik said ruefully. "It is wrong, very wrong. Spring and summer have
been retreated like a beaten army."
    "It doesn't seem much colder than it did when we were on our way to
Urmsheim," Simon offered, clutching at Homefinder's reins.
      "That was in late spring," Sludig grunted, working to keep his footing
on the water-slicked stones. "Now we are in midsummer."  Simon thought about that. "Oh," he said.
    They stopped on the stream's far bank to share a few of the provisions
that Binabik's folk had sent with them. The sun was gray and remote.
Simon wondered where he would be when another summer came---if
another summer came.
  "Can the Storm King make it winter forever?" he asked.
    Binabik shrugged. "That is not in my knowledge. He has been making
winter very well during these Yuven- and Tiyagar-months. Let us not
think of it, Simon. It will not be making our task any easier to worry over
such things. Either the Master of Storms will triumph or he will not.
There is nothing else for doing with what we have been given."
    Simon swung himself clumsily into his saddle. He envied Sludig's
practiced grace. "I'm not talking about stopping it," he said testily. "I just
wondered what he was going to do."

230


STONE OF FAREWELL

231

    "If I could know,' Binabik sighed, "I would not be cursing myself for
an unfit student of my good master." He whistled for Qantaqa.
    They stopped again that afternoon while some daylight still remained
to scavenge for firewood and give Sludig some time to instruct Simon.
The Rimmersman found a long tree limb beneath the snow and broke it in
half, binding a strip of rag around one end of each piece for an easier grip.
    "Can't we use real swords?" Simon asked. "I'm not going to be fight-
ing anyone with wood."
    Sludig raised a skeptical eyebrow. "So? You would prefer slipping and
sliding on wet ground while fighting a trained swordsman with real
blades? Using this black sword, perhaps, that you cannot lift half the
time?" He indicated Thorn with a jerk of his head. "I know it is cold and
dreary on this journey, Simon, but are you really so anxious to die?"
    Simon stared hard. "I'm not so clumsy. You told me so yourself. And
Haestan taught me some things."
    "In a fortnight?" Sludig's look turned to amusement. "You are brave,
Simon, and lucky, too---a trait not to be overlooked--but I am trying to
make you a better fighter. The next thing you fight against may not be a
brutish Hun~ but an armored man. Now, take your new sword and hit
me."
    He kicked the branch to Simon and lifted his own weapon. Simon held
the tree limb before him and circled slowly. The Rimmersman was right:
the snowy ground was treacherous. Before he could even take a swing at
his instructor, his feet went out from under him and he toppled heavily
onto his rump. He remained there, scowling furiously.
    "Don't be embarrassed," Sludig said, taking a step forward and laying
the end of his cudgel against Simon's chest. "When you fall downwand
men do trip and stumble in battle---make sure and keep your blade up or
you may not live to resume the fight."
    Seeing the sense in this, Simon grunted and shoved the Rimmersman's
branch away with his hand before getting onto his knees. He then rose to
his feet once more and resumed his crablike circling.
    "Why are you doing that?" Sludig said. "Why do you not swing at
me?"
 "Because you're faster than I am."
    "Good. You are right." As he finished speaking, Sludig snapped his
cudgel out, landing a smarting blow below Simon's ribs. "But you must
stay balanced at all times. I caught you with your feet crossed one over the
other." He aimed another blow, but this time Simon was able to twist his
body out of the way, then return a swing of his own which Sludig
deflected toward the ground.
    "Now you are learning, Warrior Simon!" Binabik called. He sat beside
the young fire, scratching Qantaqa's neck as he watched the cudgel-play.
It was hard to tell whether it was due to the scratching or to the spectacle


232                                    Tad Williams

of Simon being thrashed, but the wolf seemed to be enjoying herself
immensely: her tongue hung from her grinning mouth and her brushy tail
twitched in pleasure.
    Simon and the Rimmersman worked for about an hour. Simon did not
land a single blow, but received quite a few in return. When he at last
flopped down to rest on a fiat stone by the fire-circle, he was more than
willing to take a swallow ofkangkang from Binabik's bag. He was willing
to take a second swallow as well, and would have taken a third, but
Binabik retrieved the skin bag.
    "I would be doing no friendliness if I let you drink yourself drunken,
Simon," the troll said firmly.
 "It's just because my ribs ache."
    "You have youth and will be fast healing," Binabik replied. "I am, in a
way, in responsibility for your care."
    Simon made a face but did not argue. It was nice that someone cared
about him, he supposed, even if he did not entirely agree with the form
that caring took.

    Two more days of cold riding along the skirts of the Trollfells--as well
as two more evenings of what the recipient began to think of as "scullion
smacking"--did not do much to brighten Simon's view of the world.
Many times during his instruction, as he sat on the soggy ground feeling
some new part of his body throb into painful prominence, he considered
telling Sludig he was no longer interested, but the memory of Haestan's
pale face inside his winding cloth forced him onto his feet once more. The
guardsman had wanted Simon to learn these things, to be able to defend
himself and also to help defend others. Haestan had never been able to
quite explain the way he felt--the Erkynlander had not been a man given
to aimless talking--but he had often said that "strong folk a-bullyin'
th'weak" was not right.
    Simon thought back on Fengbald, Elias' ally. He had taken a troop of
armored men and burned down a district of his own earldom, slaughter-
ing with a free hand because the guild of weavers had flouted his will. It
made Simon feel a little sick to remember how he had admired Fengbald
and his handsome armor. Bullies, that was the proper name for the Earl of
Falshire and his like--Pryrates, too, although the red priest was a bully of
a subtler and more frightening sort. Simon sensed that Pryrates did not so
much revel in his ability to crush those who opposed him, as Duke
Fengbald and others like him did; rather, the priest used his strength with
a kind of thoughtless cruelty, heeding no obstacles between himself and
his unknown goals. But whichever was true, it was bullying all the same.
    On more than one occasion the memory of the hairless priest was
enough to bring Simon back up from the ground, swinging fiercely.
Sludig would back off, eyes narrowed in concentration, until he could


STONE OF FAREWELL

233

control Simon's fury in a way that would force the youth back into the
lesson once more. The thought of Pryrates reminded Simon of why he must
learn to fight--not that sword skill would be of use against the alchemist,
but it might keep him alive long enough to get at Pryrates once more.
The priest had many crimes to answer for, but the death of Doctor Morgenes
and Simon's banishment from his own home were reasons enough
to keep Pryrates' face before Simon's eyes, even as he crossed staves
with Sludig in the snows of the White Waste.

    Shortly after the dawning of the fourth day since they had left Blue
Mud Lake, Simon awakened shivering beneath the flimsy shelter of lashed-
together branches in which the foursome had spent the night. Qantaqa,
who had been lying across his legs, had gone out to rejoin Binabik. The
loss of her furry warmth was enough to bring Simon out into the crystal-
line morning light, teeth chattering as he brushed pine needles from his
hair.
    Sludig was nowhere in sight, but Binabik sat on a snowy stone beside
the remains of the previous night's fire, staring into the eastern sky as
though contemplating the direct light of the sun. Simon turned to
follow the line of Binabik's gaze, but could see nothing but the pale sun
itself crawling up past the last peaks of the Trollfells.
    Qantaqa, lying at the troll's feet, raised her head briefly as Simon
approached crunchingly through the snow, then lay her shaggy head back
down on her paws once more.
 "Binabik? Are you well?" Simon asked.
    The troll seemed not to hear him for a moment, then turned slowly, a
slight smile creasing his face. "A good morning to you, Simon-friend," he
said. "I am feeling completely well."
 "Oh. I just.., you were staring."
    "Look." Binabik extended a stubby finger from the sleeve of his jacket,
pointing into the east.
Simon turned to look once more, shading his eyes. "I don't see anything."
"Be looking more closely. Look to the last peak, standing on your right
hand. There." He indicated an icy slope, thrown into shadow by the sun
behind it.
    Simon stared for some time, unwilling to admit failure. A moment
before he gave up in despair, he at last saw something: dark lines running
beneath the glassy face of the mountain like facets in a gemstone. He
squinted, trying to make out the details.
    "Do you mean those shadows?" he asked at last. Binabik nodded, a rapt
expression on his face. "Well," Simon demanded, "what are they?"
    "More than shadows," Binabik said quietly. "What you are there seeing
are the towers of lost Tumet'ai."
 "Towers inside the mountain? And what's 'Tooma-tie'?"


234                                    Tad Williams

    Binabik frowned mockingly. "Simon. You have been hearing its name
several times. What kind of student did Doctor Morgenes take on? Are
you remembering when I spoke with Jiriki of the 'Ua'kiza Tumet'ai
nei-R'i' anis'?"
 "Sort of," Simon said uncomfortably. "What is it?"
    "The song of the fall of the city of Tumet'ai, one of the great Nine
Cities of the Sithi. That song is telling the tale of Tumet'ai's abandon-
ment. Those shadows you see are its towers, imprisoned in many thou-
sand years of ice."
    "Truly?" Simon stared at the dark vertical blurs that ran like stains
beneath the milky ice. He tried to see them as towers, but could not.
"Why did they abandon it?" he asked.
    Binabik ran his hand along the fur of Qantaqa's back. "A number of
reasons there are, Simon. If you like, I will tell you part of its story later,
when we are riding. It will be a help for passing the time."
    "Why did they build their city on an icy mountain in the first place?"
Simon asked. "That seems stupid."
    Binabik looked up peevishly. "You are speaking, Simon, to one raised
in the mountains, as you are no doubt able to recall. Part of manhood, I
am thinking, is to ponder one's words before opening one's mouth."
    "I'm sorry." Simon tried to suppress a mischievous smile. "I didn't
realize that trolls actually liked living where they do."
    "Simon," Binabik said sternly, "I think it would be a good thing if you
went to gather up the horses."

 "So, Binabik," Simon said at last, "what are the Nine Cities?"
    They had been riding for an hour, tilting away at last from the base of
the mountains and out onto the vast white sea of the Waste, following the
line of what Binabik called the Old Tumet'ai Road, a broad causeway that
had once linked the ice-bound city with its sisters to the south. There was
little to see of any road now, only a few large stones still standing on
either side of the trail and an occasional patch of cobbles still in place
beneath the covering snow.
    Simon had not asked the question out of any real eagerness to learn
more history--his head was already crammed so full of strange names and
places he could scarcely hold a thought--but the featureless terrain, the
endless field of snow dotted with forlorn stands of trees, made him
hungry for a story.
    Binabik, who had ridden slightly ahead, whispered something to Qantaqa.
Leaking plumes of vaporous breath, the wolf stopped in her wide tracks
until Simon had caught up. Simon's mare shied and pranced away. As
Qantaqa crunched inoffensively alongside, Simon patted the horse's neck,
speaking low words of encouragement. After a few head-swinging paces,
she was able to continue her progress with nothing more than an occa-


STONE OF FAREWELL

235

sional nervous snort. For her part, the wolf paid no attention to the horse
at all, her head held low as she sniffed at the snow.
    "Good, Homefinder, good." Simon ran his hand down her shoulder,
feeling the tremendous muscles moving beneath his fingers. He had named
her and now she obeyed him! He felt himself filled with quiet joy. She was
his horse now.
    Binabik smiled at Simon's prideful expression. "You show her respect.
That is a good thing," he said. "Too often it is that men think those who
serve are doing it from inferiorness or weakness." He chuckled. "Folk
who have those beliefs should ride a mount like Qantaqa, who could eat
them if she chose. They would then be learning humbleness." He scratched
the ridge of fur between Qantaqa's shoulders; the wolf stopped pacing for
a moment to appreciate the attention, then dug forward through the snow
once more.
    Sludig, riding just ahead, turned to look back. "Hah! You will be a
horseman as well as a fighter, is that right? Our friend Snowlock is the
boldest kitchen boy in the world!"
    Simon scowled, embarrassed, and felt his skin wrinkling around his
cheek-scar. "That's not my name."
    Sludig laughed at his discomfiture. "And what is wrong with 'Simon
Snowlock' for a name? It is a true name, honorably won."
    "If it is displeasing, Simon-friend," Binabik said kindly, "we will call
you some other thing. But Sludig speaks rightly: your name was gained
with honor, given to you by Jiriki of the highest Sithi house. The Sithi are
seeing more clearly than mortals--at least in some ways. Like any of their
other gifts, a name is not to be discarded with easiness. Do you remember
when you held the White Arrow above the river?"
    Simon did not have to think hard. The moment when he had fallen into
the turbulent Aelfwent, despite all the strange adventures he had suffered
since, remained a black spot in his memory. It had been his idiot pride, of
course--the other side of his mooncalf nature--that had sent him down
into the swirling depths. He had been trying to show Miriamele how
lightly he regarded even the gifts of the Sithi. The very thought of his
foolishness made him feel ill. What an ass he was! How could he ever hope
Miriamele could care about him?
    "I remember," was all he said, but the joy of his moment was gone.
Anyone could ride a horse, even a mooncalf. Why should he grow so
large in his own estimation just because he had kept an already battle-
hardened mare from balking? "You were going to tell me about the Nine
Cities, Binabik," he said heavily.
    The troll lifted an eyebrow at Simon's despairing tone, but did not
pursue the subject. Instead, he brought Qantaqa to a halt.
"Turn for a moment and be looking back," the troll said, gesturing to


236                                    Tad Williams

both Simon and Sludig. The Rimmersman made an impatient noise, but
did as Binabik asked.
    The sun had pulled free from the mountain's embrace. Its slanting rays
now blazed along the face of the easternmost peak, laying fire along its icy
cheek and throwing deep shadows in the crevices. The imprisoned towers,
dark streaks at dawn, now seemed to glow with warm reddish light, like
blood running through the mountain's cold arteries.
    "Look well," Binabik said. "We may none of us be ever seeing that
sight again. Tumet'ai was a place of highest magic, as were all the great
cities of the Sithi. Their like will never again come to the light." The troll
took a deep breath, then suddenly and startlingly burst out into song.

   "T'senef mezu y' eru,
    Iku'do saju-rhd,
    0 do'ini he-huru.
Tumet'ai! Zi'inu asundl
Shemisayu, nun'ai temuy'd. . ."

    Binabik's voice carried out through the windless morning, disappearing
with no answering echo. "That is the beginning of the song of Tumet'ai's
fall," he said solemnly. "A very old song, and one of which I am knowing
only a few verses. That one I have sung means this:

"Towers of scarlet and silver,
The daystar's herald,
You have slipped into cold shadows.
Tumet'ai! Hall of Dawn!
First mourned and last forgotten..."

    The troll shook his head. "It is so much difficulty for me to make things
of Sithi craft into proper words--especially in a tongue not of my birth-
place. You can be forgiving, I hope." He grinned sourly. "In any case,
most Sithi songs have as their root thoughts of loss and long memory, so
how is a person of my short years to make their words sing?"
    Simon was staring at the almost invisible towers, fading streaks in the
prisoning ice.
    "Where did the Sithi go who lived there?" he asked. The mournful
words of Binabik's songs echoed in his thoughts: You have slipped into cold
shadows. He could feel those shadows tightening around his heart like
bands of ice. You have slipped into cold shadows. His face throbbed where the
dragon's blood had marked him.
    "Where the Sithi always go," the troll replied. "Away. To lesser places.
They die, or pass into shade, or live and become less than they were." He
stopped, eyes downcast as he strove to find the proper words. "They were


STONE OF FAREWELL

237

bringing much that had beauty into the world, Simon, and much that was
beautiful in the world was admired by them. It has been many times said
that the world grows less fair because of their diminishing. I do not
have the knowledge to tell if that is so." He thrust his hands into
Qantaqa's thick pelt and urged her about once more, cantering away from
the mountains. "I wanted you to remember that place, Simon... but do
not grieve. Still there is being much of beauty in this world."
    Sludig made the sign of the Tree above his cloaked breast. "I cannot say
I share your love of these magical places, troll." He snapped his reins,
urging his horse into a walk. "The good Lord Usires came to free us from
paganism. It is no accident that the heathen demons who threaten our
world are cousins to these Sithi you mourn for."
    Simon felt a surge of anger. "That's stupid, Sludig. What about Jiriki? Is
he a demon?"
    The Rimmersman turned to him, an unhappy smile flashing in his
blond beard. "No, youngling, but neither is he a magical playmate and
protector, as you seem to think him. Jiriki is older and deeper than any of
us can know. Like many such things, he is also more dangerous than
mortals can know. God knew what He did when he aided mankind to
scourge the Sithi from this land. Jiriki has been fair, but his people and
ours can never live together. We are too different."
    Simon choked back a furious response, turning his eyes to the snowy
path before them. Sometimes he did not like Sludig very much at all.
    They rode on for a while, silent but for the chuffing of breath and the
scraping of their horses' hooves, before Binabik spoke again.
 "You have been having luck of great rarity, Simon," he said.
    "Being chased by demons, you mean?" Simon growled. "Or seeing my
friends killed?"
    "Please." The troll raised his small hand in a calming gesture. "1 do not
refer to luckiness of that sort. Clearly, it has been a terrible road we have
walked. No, I meant only that you have seen three of the nine great cities.
Few if any mortals can be making such a statement with truthfulness."
  "Which three?"
    "Tumet'ai, of which you have just seen all that is left to see, now that
ice has buried her." The troll spread his fingers, counting. "Da'ai Chikiza,
in Aldheorte Forest, where I received my unfortunate arrowing. And
Asu'a itself, whose bones are the underpinnings of the Hayholt where you
had your birth."
    "The Sithi built Green Angel Tower there, and it's still standing,"
Simon said, remembering its pale sweep, like a white finger pointing at
the sky. "l used to climb in it all the time." He thought for a moment.
"Was that other place.., the one called Enki... Enki... ?"
  "Enki~-Shao'saye?" Binabik prompted.
 "Yes. Was Enki-eoShao'saye one of the great dries?"


238                                    Tad Williams

    "It was. And we shall see its ruins, too, one day--if any remainmfor
is near to where we will be finding the Stone of Farewell." He leaned lox
as Qantaqa leaped up and over a small rise.
    "I've seen it already," Simon said. "Jiriki showed it to me in the mirro
It was beautifulmall green and gold. He called it the Summer City."
    Binabik smiled. "Then you have seen four, Simon. Few of even d
wisest ones can say as much after a whole length of life."
    Simon considered this. Who would ever have dreamed that Morgene
history lessons would be so important? Old cities and old stories wel
now part of his very life. It was strange how the future seemed tie
inseparably to the past, so that both revolved through the present, like
great wheel...
  The wheel. The shadow of the wheel . . .
    An image from a dream rose before him, a great black circle pushin
relentlessly downward, a huge wheel that drove everything before i
Somehow the past was forcing its way right into this very momen
casting a long shadow across the what-would-be . . .
    Something was there in his mind, but just beyond reach, some occu
shape that he could feel but not recognize. It was something about h
dreams, something about Past and Future...
    "I think I need to know more, Binabik," he said at last. "But there al
so many things to understand, I'll never remember them all. What we'
the other cities?" He was momentarily distracted by a movement in t]
sky before him, a scatter of dark, moving shapes like breeze-blown leave
He squinted, but saw that it was only a flock of high-soaring birds.
    "About the past is a good thing to know, Simon," said the little ma
"but it is deciding which things are important that separates a wise ol
from others. Still, although it is my guessing that the names of the Ni~
Cities will be little use, it is good to know of them. Once their nam
were known to every child in its cradle.
    "Asu'a, Da'ai Chikiza, Enki-e-Shao'saye, and Tumet'ai you are knowin
Jhind T'senef lies drowned beneath the southern seas. The ruins of Kement,
stand somewhere on Warinsten Island, birth-home of your king Prest
John, but no one, I think, has seen them for years and years. Also lm
unseen are Mezutu'a and Hikehikayo, both lost beneath Osten Arc
northwestern mountains. The last, Nakkiga, now that my thought is up(
it, you have already seen as well--or you have in a way . . ."  "What does that mean?"
    "Nakkiga was the city the Norns built long ago in the shadow
Stormspike, before they were retreating into the great ice mountain itsel
On the dream-road with Gelo~ and myself you visited it, but doubth
you overlooked its crumbling remains beside the mountain's immensil
So in a way, then, you have visited Nakkiga also."
  Simon shuddered, remembering a vision of the endless icy halls wit[


                                        STONE OF FAREWELL                                                                239

Stormspike, of the ghost-white faces and burning eyes that shone in its
depths. "That was as close as I ever want to be," he said. He squinted his
eyes, staring at the sky. The birds still circled lazily overhead. "Are those
ravens?" he asked Binabik, pointing. "They've been staying just above
our heads for some time."
    The troll looked upward. "Ravens, yes, and large ones they are as
well." He grinned wickedly. "Perhaps they are waiting for us to fall down
very dead, and so aid them in their searching for sustenance. A pity it is to
disappoint them, is it not?"
    Simon grunted. "Maybe they can tell I'm starving--that I won't last
much longer."
    Binabik nodded solemnly. "How thoughtless I am being. Of course,
Simon, it is indeed true that you have had no food since breaking your
fast, and--Chukku's Stones! You poor fellow! That has been an hour ago!
You must be fast approaching the awful moment of finalness." Finished
with this bit of sarcasm, he began to rummage in his pack, steadying
himself against Qantaqa's back with his other hand. "Perhaps I can dis-
cover for you some dried fish."
    "Thank you." Simon tried to sound enthusiasticmafter all, any food
was better than no food.
    As Binabik performed his laborious search, Simon looked up at the sky
once more. The swarm of black birds still hovered silently, wind-tossed
beneath the somber clouds like tattered rags.

    The raven strutted on the windowsill, feathers fluffed against the chill
air. Others of his kind, grown fat and insolent on gibbet-leavings, crowed
raucously in the leafless branches beyond the window. No other sounds
drifted up from the silent, deserted courtyard.
    Even as it preened its shiny black feathers, the raven kept a bright
yellow eye cocked; when the goblet came flying toward it like a sling-
stone, it had more than enough time to drop from the sill with a harsh
cry, spreading its wings to flutter up and join its kin in the barren treetop.
The dented goblet rolled in an uneven circle on the stone floor before
lurching to a halt. A thin wisp of steam rose from the dark liquor that had
splattered beneath the windowsill.
    "I hate their eyes," King Elias said. He reached for a fresh goblet, but
used this one for its proper and intended purpose. "Those damned sneak-
ing yellow eyes." He wiped his lip. "I think they're spying on me."
    "Spying, Majesty?" Guthwulf said slowly. He did not want to send
Ehas into one of his thunderstorm rages. "Why would birds spy?"
    The high king fixed him with a green stare, then a grin split his pale
face. "Oh, Guthwulf, you are so innocent, so undefiled!" He chuckled


240                                   Tad Williams

harshly. "Come, pull that chair closer. It is good to speak with an honest
man once more."
    The Earl of Utanyeat did as his king bade him, sliding forward until less
than an ell separated his stool from the yellowing mass of the Dragonbone
Chair. He kept his eyes averted from the black-scabbarded sword that
hung at the High King's side.
    "I do not know what you mean by 'innocent,' Elias," he said, inwardly
cursing the stiffness he heard in his own voice. "God knows, we have
both of us labored mightily in the Chapel of Sin in our time. However, if
you mean innocent of any treachery toward my king and friend, then I
accept the name gladly." He hoped he sounded more certain than he felt.
The very word "treachery" made his heart gallop these days, and the
rotting fruit hanging from the distant gibbet was only one reason.
    Elias seemed to sense none of Guthwulf's misgivings. "No, old friend,
no. I meant the word kindly." He took another swig of the dark liquid.
"There are so few I can trust these days. I have a thousand, thousand
enemies." The king's face took on a brooding cast which only accentuated
his pallor, the lines of weariness and strain. "Pryrates is gone to Nabban,
as you know," he said at last. "You may speak freely."
    Guthwulf felt a sudden spark of hope. "Do you suspect Pryrates of
treachery, sire?"
 The spark was quickly extinguished.
    "No, Guthwulf, you misunderstand me. I meant that I know you are
not comfortable around the priest. That is not surprising: I once found his
company difficult as well. But I am a different man, now. A different
man." The king laughed oddly, then raised his voice to a shout. "Hangfish!
Bring me more---and be swift, damn you!"
    The king's new cupbearer appeared from the next room, a sloshing
ewer in his pink hands. Guthwulf watched him sourly. Not only was he
positive that this pop-eyed Brother Hengfisk was a spy for Pryrates, but
there was something else gravely wrong with him as well. The monk's
face seemed forever fixed in an idiot grin, as though he were burning up
inside with some splendid joke he could not share. The Earl of Utanyeat
had tried to speak to him once in the hallway, but Hengfisk had only
stared at him unspeaking, his smile so wide it seemed his face might split
in half. With any other servitor but the king's cupbearer, Guthwulf would
have struck him for such insolence, but he was uneasy about what Elias
might take offense at these days. Also, there was an unpleasant look to the
half-witted monk, his skin slightly raw, as though the upper layer had
burned and peeled away. Guthwulf was in no hurry to touch him.
    As Hengfisk poured the dark liquid into the king's goblet, a few
smoking drops spattered onto the monk's hands, but the cupbearer did not
flinch. A moment later he scuttled out, still wearing his lunatic grin.
Guthwulf restrained a shudder. Insanity! What had the kingdom come to?


STONE OF FAREWELL

241

    Elias had ignored the whole episode, his eyes fixed on something
beyond the window. "Pryrates does have . . . secrets," he said at last,
slowly, as though carefully considering each word. The earl forced himself to pay attention.
    "But he has none from me," the king continued, "--whether he realizes
it or not. One thing he thinks I do not know is that my brother Josua
survived the fall of Naglimund." He raised a hand to still Guthwulfs
exclamation of surprise. "Another secret-that-is-no-secret: he plans to do
away with you."
    "Me?" Guthwulf was caught by surprise. "Pryrates plans to kill me?"
The anger that welled within him had a core of sudden fear.
    The king smiled, lips pulling back from his teeth like the grin of a
cornered dog. "I do not know if he plans to kill you, Wolf, but he wishes
you out of the way. Pryrates thinks I place too much trust in you when he
deserves all my attention." He laughed, a harsh bark.
    "But ... but Elias . . ." Guthwulf was caught offstride. "What will
you do?"
     "Me?" The king's gaze was unnervingly calm. "I will do nothing. And
neither will you." "What!?"
    Elias leaned back into his throne, so that for a moment his face vanished
in the shadow beneath the great dragon's skull. "You may protect your-
self, of course," he said cheerfully. "I merely mean I cannot allow you to
kill Pryratesmassuming you could, which isn't something I'm too certain
of. Quite frankly, old friend, at this moment he is more important to me
than you are."
    The king's words hung in the air, seeming so much the stuff of madness
that for a moment Guthwulf felt sure he was dreaming. As moments
passed and the chill room did not waver into some other shape, he had to
force himself to speak once more. "I don't understand."
    "Nor should you. Not yet." Elias leaned forward, his eyes bright as
lamps burning behind thin green glass. "But someday you will, Guthwulf.
I hope you live to understand everything. At this time, though, I cannot
let you interfere with Pryrates, so if you feel you must leave the castle, I
will understand. You are the only friend I have left. Your life is important
to me."
    The Earl of Utanyeat wanted to laugh at such a bizarre statement, but
the sense of sick unreality would not leave him. "But not as important to
you as Pryrates?"
    The king's hand leaped out like a striking serpent, fastening on Guthwulfs
sleeve. "Don't be a fool!" he rasped. "Pryrates is nothing! It is what
Pryrates is helping me to do that matters. I told you that there were great
things coming! But there will be a time first when things are.., changing."



242                                        Tad Williams

    Guthwulf stared at the king's feverish face and felt something die within
him. "I have sensed some of the changes, Elias," he said grimly. "I have
seen others."
    His old friend looked back at him, then smiled oddly. "Ah. The castle,
you mean. Yes, some of the changes are happening right here. But you
still do not understand."
    Guthwulf was not practiced in patience. He fought to hold down his
rage. "Help me to understand. Tell me what you do!"
    The king shook his head. "You could not possibly make sense of
it--not now, not this way." He sat back again, his face sliding into
shadow once more, so that it almost seemed as though the great fanged
and black-socketed head was his own. A stretching silence followed.
Guthwulf listened to the bleak voices of ravens in the courtyard.
    "Come here, old friend," Elias said at last, voice slow and measured. As
Guthwulf looked up, the king slid his double-hiked sword part way from
its scabbard. The metal gleamed darkly, black and crawling gray like the
mottled belly of some ancient reptile. The ravens abruptly fell silent.
"Come here," the king repeated.
    The Earl of Utanyeat could not tear his eyes from the sword. The rest of
the room became gray and insubstantial; the sword itself seemed to glow
without light, to make the very air heavy as stone. "Will you kill me now,
Elias?" Guthwulf felt his words grow weighty, each one an effort to use.
"Will you save Pryrates his trouble?"
    "Touch the sword, Guthwulf," Elias said. His eyes seemed to shine
more brightly as the room darkened. "Come and touch the sword. Then
you will understand."
    "No," Guthwulf said weakly, but watched with horror as his arm
moved forward as if by its own will. "I don't want to touch the damned
thing . . ." Now his hand hovered just above the ugly, slow-shimmering
blade.
    "Damned thing?" Elias laughed, his voice seeming far away. He reached
out and took his friend's hand, gentle as a lover. "You can't begin to
guess. Do you know what its name is?"
    Guthwulf watched his fingers slowly flatten against the bruised surface
of the sword. A deadening chill crept up his arm, countless icy needles
pricking his flesh. Close behind the cold came a fiery blackness. Elias'
voice seemed to be falling away into the distance.
  "... Jingizu is its name . . ." the king called. "Its name is Sorrow . . ."

    And in the midst of the dreadful fog that enwrapped his heart, through the
blanket of.~ost that covered and then entered his eyes and ears and mouth,
Guthwulf .~lt the sword' s dreadful song of triumph. It hummed right through him,
solily at first but growing ever stronger, a terrible, potent music that matched and
then devoured his rhythms, that drowned out his weak and artless notes, until


STONE OF FAREWELL

243

it had absorbed the entire song of his soul into its darkly triumphant tune.
    Sorrow sang inside him, filling him. He heard it cry out with his voice, as
though he had become the sword, or the sword had somehow become Guthwulf.
Sorrow was alive and looking for something. Guthwulf was looking, too: he had
now been subsumed in the alien melody. He and the blade were one.
  Sorrow reached for its brothers.
  He found them.
    Two shining Jbrms were there, just beyond his reach. Guthwulf longed to be
with them, to join his proud melody to theirs, so that together they would make a
music greater still. He yearned, a bloodless, warmthless desire, like a cracked bell
straining to toll, like a lodestone aching for true north. They were three of a kind,
he and these other two, three songs unlike any the world had heard--but each was
incomplete without its ~llows. He stretched toward his brothers as though to touch
them, but they were too ~r away. Mere distance still separated them. No matter
how he strained, Guthwulf could not bring them closer, could not join with them.
    At last the delicate balance collapsed, sending him plunging down into an
infinite nothingness, ~lling, j~lling, Jhlling . . .
    Slowly he came to himself again--Guthwulf, a man born of woman--but still
he.~ll through blackness. He was terrified.
    Time sped. He ~lt graveworms eating his flesh, ~lt himself coming apart deep
within the black earth, rendered into innumerable particles that ached to scream
without voices to do so; at the same moment, like a rushing wind, he flew laughing
past the stars and into the endless places between li~ and death. For a moment the
very door of Mystery swung open and a dark shadow stood beckoning in the
doorway . . .

    Long after Elias had sheathed the sword, Guthwulf still lay choking on
the steps before the Dragonbone Chair, his eyes burning with tears, his
fingers helplessly flexing.
    "Now can you understand?" The king said, beaming with pleasure as
though he had just given his friend a taste of a singularly splendid wine.
"Do you understand why I must not fail?"
    The Earl of Utanyeat got slowly to his feet. His clothes were soiled and
spattered. He turned wordlessly from his liege lord and staggered across
the throne room floor, pushing through the door and into the hallway
without looking back.
 "Do you see?" Elias shouted after him.
    A trio of ravens fluttered down to the windowsill. They stood close
together, their yellow eyes intent.
    "Guthwulf?" Elias was no longer shouting, but still his voice carried
through the silent room like a tolling bell. "Come back, old friend."


244                                    Tad Williams

 "Look, Binabik!" Simon cried. "What are those birds doing?!"
    The troll followed Simon's pointing finger. The ravens were wheeling
madly about the sky overhead, flying in long, looping circles.
    "They are upset, perhaps," Binabik shrugged. "I do not have much
knowledge of the ways of such things . . ."
    "No, they're looking for something!" Simon said, excited. "They're
looking for something! I know it! Just look at them!"
    "But they are not leaving the air above us." Binabik raised his voice as
the ravens began to call back and forth, their croaking voices sharp as
blades in the still air.
    Sludig had reined up his horse, too, and was staring up at the strange
exhibition. He narrowed his eyes. "If this is not some deviltry," he said,
"then I am not an Aedonite. The raven was Old One-Eye's bird, back in
the dark days . . ." He trailed off as he saw something new. "There!" he
said, pointing. "Is that not some other bird they are chasing?"
    Now Simon could see it too: a smaller gray shape that flitted among the
black ones, darting wildly, now this way, now that. At every turn it
seemed to find one of the larger birds already there. It was tiring, Simon
could see plainly, its loops becommg ever more ragged, its escapes narrower.
    "It's a sparrow!" Simon cried. "Like the ones Morgenes had! They're
going to kill it!"
    Even as he spoke, the swooping circle of ravens seemed to sense that the
quarry was nearing its limits. The whirling funnel contracted and the
croaking voices rose as if in triumph. Then, just when it seemed the hunt
was over, the sparrow found an open space and burst free of the black
ring, darting unevenly toward a stand of fir trees half a furlong away. The
ravens, shrieking, whirled in pursuit.
    "I do not think it chance that such a bird should be here," Binabik
said, unscrewing his walking stick to shake free his pouch of darts. "Or
that the ravens would be waiting with such patientness just where we
are." He grabbed Qantaqa's hackles. "Chok, Qantaqa.t'' he cried. "Ummu
chok! "
    The wolf sprang away, churning the snow beneath her broad paws.
Sludig dug in his heels and his mount leaped after her. Simon, cursing
beneath his breath, wrestled for a moment with Homefinder's reins. By
the time he had them sorted out, she had decided to follow Sludig's horse
anyway. Simon clung to her neck as they pounded over the uneven snow,
hoof-churned sleet burning his eyes.
     The ravens were circling the copse like a swarm of black bees. Binabik,
 in the lead, vanished among the close-standing trunks. Sludig went just
 after, his spear now in his hand. Simon had a moment to wonder how the
 Rimmersman would kill birds with a heavy spear, then the line of trees
 was looming before him as well. He pulled up on the reins, slowing his
 horse. He ducked his head beneath a low-hanging branch, but was not fast


STONE OF FAREWELL                                                                245

enough to avoid a clump of snow filling into the loose hood of his cloak
and slithering down his neck.
    Binabik stood beside Qantaqa at the center of the copse, the hollow tube
to his mouth. The troll's cheeks puffed; a moment later a large black
bundle fell down through the branches overhead, flapping in a slow circle
on the white ground before it died.
    "There!" Binabik said, gesturing. Sludig poked upward with his spear,
rattling its point among the tree limbs as Qantaqa gave vent to a sharp,
excited bark.
    A black wing skimmed by Simon's face. The raven struck at the back of
Sludig's head, its claws scrabbling impotently against the metal of his
helm. Another one swooped down from above, squawking, whirling
about the Rimmersman's arms as he plied the spear.
    Why aren't I wearing a helmet? Simon thought disgustedly as he raised his
hand before his suddenly vulnerable eyes.
    The little copse raged with the angry voices of birds. Qantaqa had her
front paws up on a tree trunk, shaking her head from side to side as if she
had already caught one of them.
    Something small and still as a tiny snowball dropped from the tree
overhead. Binabik fell to his knees at the Rimmersman's feet and cupped it
in his hands.
    "I have it!" he cried. "Let us be going into the open! Sosa, Qantaqa!" He
clambered onto the wolf's back, his hand now tucked inside his jacket. He
had to duck beneath the onslaught of one of the ravens; the haft of Sludig's
spear whistled through the space his head had just vacated, smacking the
bird like a club, shattering it into a puff of dark feathers. A moment later
the wolf had carried Binabik out from beneath the trees. Simon and Sludig
quickly followed.
    Despite the angry voices of the birds behind them, the open ground
outside seemed remarkably still to Simon. He turned to look back. Hard
yellow eyes stared from the uppermost branches, but the ravens did not
follow.
 "You saved the bird?" he asked.
    "Let us be riding farther away," Binabik said. "Then we will look to
what we have."
    When they stopped, the troll took his hand from beneath his skin jacket.
He opened it slowly, as though not sure what he might find there. The
bird nestled inside was dead, or nearly so. It lay on its side unstirring, its
ragged wounds striped with blood. There was a shred of parchment about
its leg.
    "I was thinking this could be," Binabik said, looking over his shoulder.
The dark silhouettes of a dozen ravens sat like hunch-shouldered inquisi-
tors in the nearest tree. "I am afraid that we are more late than we should
have been."


246                                    Tad Williams

    His small finger unfurled the parchment. It had been chewed or torn
until but a part of it remained. "A fragment, only," Binabik said sadly.
    Simon looked at the tiny runes dotting the ragged strip. "We could go
back to the trees and look for the rest," he said, disliking the idea mightily
even as he said it.
    The troll shook his head. "I have a sureness that the rest has found its
way down a raven gulletmas would this scrap, too, and the messenger, if
we had been later still." He squinted at it. "Few words am I making out,
but I feel no doubt it was meant for us. See?" He pointed at a minute
squiggle. "The circle and feather of the League of the Scroll. It was sent by
a Scrollbearer."
  "Who?" Simon asked.
    "Patience, Simon-friend. Perhaps the remaining message will tell." He
held the curling strip as flat as he could. "Two bits only can I read,"
he said. "This, saying: '... ry of~Ise messengers,' and this: 'Make haste. The
Storm is spr...' Then it is signed below with the League's mark."
    "False messenger," Simon breathed, dread creeping through him. "That
was the dream I had in Gelo~'s house. Doctor Morgenes told me to
beware the false messenger." He tried to push away the memory of that
dream. In it the doctor had been a charred corpse.
    "'Be wary of false messengers' is then what it is likely meaning,"
Binabik said, nodding his head. "'Make haste. The Storm is spr ...'
Spreading, I am supposing."
    The great fear Simon had kept suppressed for several days came crawl-
ing back. "False messenger," he repeated helplessly. "What can it mean?
Who wrote it, Binabik?"
    The troll shook his head. He tucked the sliver of parchment in his bag
and then kneeled, scraping a hole in the snow. "It is a Scrollbearer, and
there are not many now alive. It might be Jarnauga, if he still lives. There
is also Dinivan in Nabban." He laid the little gray bird in the hole and
tenderly covered it over.
  "Dinivan?" Simon asked.
    "He is the helper of the Lector Ranessin, the head of your Mother
Church," Binabik said. "A very good man."
    Sludig, who had stood silent, suddenly spoke. "The lector is part of
your heathen circle?" he said wonderingly. "With trolls and such?"
    Binabik smiled a tiny smile. "Not the lector. Father Dinivan, his helper.
And it is not a 'heathen circle,' Sludig, but a band of those who wished the
preserving of important knowledge--for just such times as these are." He
frowned. "I am thinking of who else it might be who was writing this
message to us--or to me, rather, for it is my master's arts that likely drew
the bird here to me. If not one of the two I mentioned, then I cannot be
saying, for Morgenes and my master Ookequk are dead. There are no
other Scrollbearers I know of, unless new ones have been chosen."


STONE OF FAREWELL

247

  "Could it be Gelo~?" Simon asked.
    Binabik thought for a moment, then shook his head. "She is one of the
wisest of the wise, but she has never been a true Scrollbearer, and I am
doubting she would use the League's rune in place of her own." He
mounted up onto Qantaqa's back. "We will think of the meaning of this
warning as we ride. There are many messengers who have led us to this
place, and many others we will doubtlessly be meeting in days and weeks
to come. Which are false? It is a puzzle of great difficulty."
    "Look, the ravens are flying!" Sludig cried. Simon and Binabik turned
to see the birds swarm up from the stand of trees like smoke, swirling in
the gray sky before wheeling away into the northwest, their disdainful
voices echoing.
    "They have done what they were sent for doing," Binabik said. "Now
they are headed back to Stormspike, do you suppose?"
    Simon's cold fear deepened. "You mean.., the Storm King sent them
after us?"
    "I have little doubt that they were meant to keep that message from our
eyes," Binabik said, leaning forward to pick his walking stick from the
ground.
    Simon turned to follow the flight of the vanishing ravens. He almost
expected to see a dark figure looming on the northern horizon, a burning
red gaze in a faceless black head.
    "Those storm clouds on the horizon look very dark," Simon said. "A
lot darker than they did before."
"The lad's right." Sludig glowered. "That's an ugly storm gathering."
Binabik sighed. His round face was grim, too. "The last part of the
message we all of us understand. The storm is spreading, in more than one
way only. We have a long journeying ahead over open and unprotected
country. We will need to go with all the speed that we can be making."
    Qantaqa started ahead. Simon and Sludig spurred their horses forward.
Prompted by something he did not understand, Simon looked back once
more, although he knew what he would see.
    The ravens, now little more than black specks on the wind, were fading
from sight into the dark swell of the gathering storm.


13


,.,..,r_ _lr~e:~pn.nee~s company came out at last onto the pla,ns a~er
nearly a n~onth in the vast, ancient forest. As they broke through the last
line of trees the grasslands opened before them, a floor of uneven turf
shrouded by morning mist, merging seamlessly with the gray horizon.
    Father Strangyeard sped his pace to catch up with Gelo~. The witch
woman was striding purposefully out onto the fiatland, wet stems falling
before her approach.
    "Valada Gelo6," Strangyeard said breathlessly, "ah, this is a marvelous
book Morgenes has written. Marvelous! Valada Gelo~, have you read this
passage?" He tried to juggle the loose pages, stumbled over a tussock, and
only barely retained his balance. "I think there is something here of
importance. Ah, how silly of me, how foolish--there are many things of
importance. What a marvelous book!"
    Gelo6 put her hand on Leleth's shoulder, bringing the child to a halt.
The little girl did not look up, but stood where she had stopped, staring
out into the mists.
    "Strangyeard, you will do yourself an injury," Gelo~ said brusquely.
She looked at him expectantly. "Well?"
    "Oh, dear," the archivist said. He tugged at his eyepatch self-consciously,
almost losing his armful of pages in the process. "I didn't want you to
stop walking. I can read and still keep up."
  "I repeat: you will do yourself an injury. Read."
Before Strangyeard could do so, they were interrupted by new arrivals.
"Praise God," Isorn cried. He and Deornoth struggled out of the trees
upslope. "We are out of the cursed forest and on open ground!" The pair
carefully set down the litter they had been dragging, glad to rest Sangfugol's
weight for a moment. Under the witch woman's ministrations, the harper
was healing well and swiftly from what should have been a fatal corruption
of his blood, but he still could not walk more than a few hours at a time.
    Gelo~ turned to look back. "Praise God all you wish," she warned, "but
we may regret the loss of those sheltering trees before long."

248


STONE OF FAREWELL

249

    The rest of the party limped down out of the woods. Prince Josua was
helping Towser, who walked dazed and unspeaking; the old man's eyes
were rolled up, as though he contemplated a distant heaven hidden behind
the fog-blanketed sky. Vorzheva and Duchess Gutrun walked a littleway
behind them.
    "It has been many years since I have seen the Thrithings," Josua said,
"even this tamer part. I had almost forgotten its beauty." He closed his
eyes in thought for a moment, then opened them once more to gaze out
toward the indistinct horizon. "It is like no other land in all of Osten
Ard--some call it 'God's tabletop.'"
    "If this is indeed God's tabletop," Sangfugol said with a weak smile,
"my prince, He uses us for dice. Aedon save me, I am meant to sing of
Jack Mundwode and his naughty bandits, not ape their forest-traipsing."
He struggled out of the litter. "I need to get out of this thumping,
bouncing torture device and sit down--no, the grass is fine for me. I fear
my sore leg more than the wet."
    "Some gratitude," Isorn said, smiling. "I think I shall show you what
thumping really is, harper."
    "Very well," Josua said. "We shall rest. No one stray far, and if you go
more than a stone's throw, take someone with you."
    "So we have escaped the forest," Deornoth sighed. "If only Einskaldir
could have seen it." He thought of the Rimmersman's grave in one of the
quiet glades of Shisae'ron, a simple mound marked only by his helmet and
Strangyeard's wooden Tree. Even Gelo~'s healing skills had not been
enough to save him from the terrible wounds he had received leading their
escape from the Norns. Now, fierce Einskaldir would lie forever in a place
of timeless calm. "He was a stern bastard, bless him." Deornoth shook his
head. "He never gave up, either--but I don't think he believed we would
ever get away."
    "We wouldn't have, if not for him," Isorn said. "He's another mark on
the list."
  "List?"
     "The list of what is owed to our enemies--to Skali and Elias and all the
 rest." Isorn's broad face was grim. "We owe them a blood feud. Some-
 day, they will pay for what they did. And when it happens, Einskaldir
 will be watching in heaven. And laughing."
     Deornoth could think of nothing to say. If Einskaldir could watch
 battles from heaven, he would be laughing. For all his piety, it seemed a
 shame that Einskaldir had missed the old pagan days of Rimmersgard, and
 would instead be forced to spend his eternity in the quieter environs of
 Aedon's paradise.

    As the others milled about, Vorzheva said a quiet word to Duchess
Gutrun, then walked down the short slope and onto the damp meadow.


250                                    Tad Williams

She moved as if in a kind of dream, her eyes fixed on nothing, her track
aimless and elliptical as she made her way through the damp grasses.
    "Vorzheva," Josua called, his voice sharper than usual, "do not go
alone. The mist is very thick and you would soon be out of sight."
    "She would have to go very far before she would be out of earshot,
Prince Josua," said Duchess Gutrun, leading Towser with a gentle hand
on his elbow.
    "That may be," Josua said, "but I would prefer we were not stumbling
through the fog, shouting our presence to any listening ears. Surely you
have not so soon forgotten our escort from Naglimund."
    Gutrun shook her head in dismay, conceding the point. Vorzheva,
seemingly oblivious to the discussion, was now only a dim upright shape
slipping through the mists like a ghost.
  "Damn her frowardness," Josua said grimly, staring after her.
    "I will go with her." Gelo~ turned to Gutrun. "Keep the child close to
you, please." She pointed Leleth in the general direction of the duchess,
then strode off after the fast-fading Vorzheva.
    Josua watched her go, then laughed unhappily. "If this is the way I
command a kingdom of nine or ten," he told Deornoth, "then my brother
can rest easily on the Dragonbone Chair. People used to beg to do my
father John's bidding."
    Even his queen? Deornoth wondered, but he did not say it. He watched
the dark shape of Gelo~ catch up to the wraith that was Vorzheva. If you
have a proud and headstrong woman, you would be better off not to judge your
success by her obedience.
    "Please, my lord," he said instead, "do not speak ill of yourself. You
are hungry and tired and cold. Let me build a fire."
    "No, Deornoth." Josua rubbed the stump of his wrist as though it hurt.
"We will not stay so long." He turned to look back at the forest fringe and
the gaping shadows that lined it. "We must move farther before we do
more than pause to rest. We will stop somewhere that puts us in open
ground on all sides. At least then, even though we are exposed, anything
that stalks us will be exposed as well."
    "A happy thought," grunted Sangfugol from his seat on the turf.
"S'truth, but we are a merry band of pilgrims."
    "Pilgrims on the road through hell cannot afford too much merriment,"
Josua said. He strode a little way out onto the greensward to stand by
himself in thought.

    "Then why don't you tell him?" There was exasperation in Gelo~'s
voice, but her hawk-yellow eyes betrayed little emotion. "By bough and
branch, Vorzheva, you are not a young girl, you are a woman. Why do
you carry on so?"
 Vorzheva's eyes were moist. "I do not know. I cannot understand him."


STONE OF FAREWELL

251

    Gelo~ shook her head. "I cannot understand any of you. I have spent
little of my life with human folk, and it is because of this ridiculous
uncertainty--'I want this, I do not wang that . . .' The animals are more
sensible, it seems to me. They do what they must and do not fret over
what cannot be changed." The witch woman laid a callused hand on
Vorzheva's arm. "Why do you worry so about things that do not matter?
Prince Josua obviously cares for you. Why do you not tell him the truth?"
    Her companion sighed. "He thinks me a foolish wagon-girl. It makes
him cold to me. If I tell him, it will only be worse . . . I am sorry." She
angrily wiped at her face with her tattered sleeve. "It was seeing the
Feluwelt againmthat is what my people call this place, where the meadow
runs in the forest's shadow. It brought many memories to my mind, and
made me unhappy .... "
    "Valada Gelo~?" It was Father Strangyeard's voice, sourceless in the
mist, but quite near. "Are you there? Valada Gelo~?"
    A little frustration showed itself on Gelo~'s stern rice. "Here, Strangyeard.
Is anything wrong?"
    The archivist appeared, a lanky, flapping shape materializing from gray
obscurity. "No, no, l just wanted to..." He stopped, staring at Vorzheva's
tear-stained face. "Oh. Oh, I'm so terribly sorry. How rude of me. I will
leave you." He turned to lurch off into the mist once more.
    "Don't go!" Strangely, it was Vorzheva who spoke. "Do not leave us,
Father. Walk with us."
    Strangyeard looked at her, then to GeloE "I do not wish to intrude,
Lady. I fear I was thinking only of something I found in Morgenes'
book." Eyepatch askew, thin fringe of reddish hair curling in the damp,
he looked like a startled woodpecker. He seemed about to bolt once more,
but the witch woman raised a calming hand.
    "Walk with us, Strangyeard, as Vorzheva said. Perhaps your need is one
for which my talents are better suited." The priest looked at her ner-
vously. "Come. We will walk back toward the others as we talk."
    Strangyeard was still carrying the loose sheaves of Morgenes' book in
his hand; after a few silent paces he began to leaf through them. "I'm
afraid I've lost the section," he said, shuffling the parchments. "I thought
it might be significant--it was a bit about magicmThe Art, that's what
Morgenes called it. I'm amazed by the things he knew, quite amazed... I
would never have dreamt ..." A triumphant smile came to his face.
"Here it is." He squinted. "Wonderful way with words . . ."
    They walked several more paces in silence. "Will you read?" Gelo~
asked at last.
 "Oh! Of course." Strangyeard cleared his throat.

"... In truth, articles useful to The Art seem to J~ll into two broad
categories,"


252                                    Tad Williams

the priest began,

"those whose worth is bound in themselves, and those whose worth is bound
in their derivation. In contradiction to popular superstition, an herb gathered
in a graveyard is not generally useful because it came ~om such a place, but
rather because of the herb itself. Since a graveyard may be the only place that
herb is found, the connection becomes established and is then almost impossi-
ble to disentangle.
    "The other category of useful objects are usually 'made' objects, and their
virtue is in their shaping or their raw beginnings. The Sithi, who have long
possessed secrets of crafting hidden .~om mortals, made many things whose
creation itself was a practice of The Art--although the Sithi would not
exactly term it so. Thus, the virtue of these objects is in their making. The
j~mous arrows of Vindaomeyo are an example: carved.~om common wood
and fietched with the J~athers of ordinary birds, yet each one is a talisman of
great worth.
    "Other objects take their power ~om the stuff of their making. The great
swords alluded to in Nisses' lost book are examples here. All seem to derive
their worth .~om their materials, although the crafting of each was a mighty
task. Minneyar, King Fingil's sword, was made of the iron keel of his boat,
iron brought to Osten Ard by the Rimmersman sea-raiders out of the lost
west. Thorn, most recently the sword of Prester John's noblest knight, Sir
Camaris, was forged~om the glowing metals of a Jhllen star--like Minneyar's
iron, something Jbreign to Osten Ard. And Sorrow, the sword that Nisses
claims Ineluki of the Sithi used to slay his own father the Erl-king, was
made of Sithi witchwood and iron, two elements long thought to be
antithetical and unmixable. Thus, such objects derive their strength primar-
ily, it would seem, d~om the unearthly origins of their substance. Stories tell,
however, that powerful Spells of Making were also wound in the Jbrging of
all these three blades, so the power of the Great Swords may come,ore both
their substance and their making.
    "Ti-tuno, the hunting horn crafted in Jhbled Mezu'tua .~om the tooth of
the dragon Hidohehbi, is another clear example of how sometimes an object
of power may be made by both the crafting and the materials crafted . . ."

    Strangyeard broke off. "It goes on to talk of other things. It is all
fascinating, of course--what a scholar that man was!--but I thought the
section on the swords might be interesting."
    Gelo~ nodded her head slowly. "It is. I wondered about these three
swords that have become the object of our hopes. Morgenes seems to
make a good argument as to the reason for their value. Perhaps they will
indeed be useful against Ineluki. It is good that you found that, Strangyeard."
The priest's pink cheeks went a deeper red. "Too kind. You're too kind."
Geloi cocked her head. "I hear the others. Are you composed, Vorzheva?"


STONE OF FAREWELL

253

    Vorzheva nodded her head. "I am not such a fool as you think me," she
said quietly.
    The witch woman laughed. "I do not think you a fool, particularly. I
think most people are foolish--and I count myself as well, for here I am
without a roof, wandering over the grasslands like a stray heifer. Some-
times obvious foolishness is the only answer to grave problems."
 "Hmmm," said Strangyeard, baffled. "Hmmm."

    The ragged band continued out onto the fog-ridden meadowlands,
heading south toward the river Ymstrecca, which meandered along the
breadth of the High Thrithings. They made camp on the open plain,
shivering in the rain-sodden wind, huddling close to their small fire. Gelo~
made a soup of herbs and roots she had gathered. It was filling and
warmed the stomach, but Deornoth mourned the absence of something
more toothsome.
    "Tomorrow let me go farther afield, my lord," he implored Josua as
they sat by the fire. All the others but Gelo~ had wrapped themselves in
their cloaks to sleep, bundled close together like a family of sleeping
kittens. The witch woman had gone a-wandering. "I know I could find a
hare or two, and the underbrush must be full of grouse, even in this cold
summer. We have had no meat for several days!"
    Josua permitted himself a chilly smile. "I wish I could say yes, faithful
friend, but I need your strong arms and good wit close by. These people
can scarcely walk another step---those who can still walk, that is. No, a
brace of hares would be tasty indeed, but I must keep you here. Besides,
Valada Gelo~ tells me that one can live years without tasting meat."
    Deornoth grimaced. "But who would want to?" He studied his prince
carefully. Josua's already slender frame had grown even thinner; the play
of his bones was plain beneath the skin. With what little fat he had worn
long gone, the prince's high forehead and pale eyes made him seem a
statue of some ancient philosopher-monk, his gaze fixed always upon the
infinite while the busy world spun on before him, ignored.
    The fire hissed, working away at the damp wood. "One other question,
then, my lord," Deornoth said softly. "Are we so sure of this Stone of
Farewell that we should drag these sick, wounded people across the
Thrithings in search of it? I speak no ill of Gelo~, who is plainly a
good-hearted soul, but to go so far? The edge of Erkynland is only a few
leagues to the west. Surely we could find a loyal heart in one of the towns
of the Hasu Vale--even if they were too frightened of your brother the
king to give us shelter, we could find food and drink and warmer clothing
for our wounded, surely."
    Josua sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Perhaps, Deornoth, perhaps. Believe
me, the thought has occurred to me." He stretched his long legs before
him, nudging at the edge of the coals with his boot heel. "But we cannot


254                                    Tad Williams

risk it, nor can we spare the time. Every hour we walk in the open means
more time for one of Elias' patrols to find us, or something worse to catch
us unprotected. No, the only place that it seems we can go is Gelo~'s
Stone of Farewell, so the sooner we do, the better. Erkynland is lost to
us--at least for now, perhaps forever."
    The prince shook his head and fell into thought once more. Deornoth
sighed and poked at the fire.

    They reached the banks of the Ymstrecca in the morning of their third day
on the grasslands. The wide river shone faintly beneath the gray sky, a
dim streak of silver passing like a dream through the dark, damp mead-
ows. The water's voice was as muted as its sheen, a faint murmur like
distant conversation.
    Josua's people were content to pause and rest a while on the riverbanks,
enjoying the sound and sight of the first swiftly-moving waters they had
seen since deep in Aldheorte Forest. When Gutrun and Vorzheva made
known their plan to follow the river downstream a short distance to where
they could bathe their limbs in privacy, Josua was quick to object, worried
for their safety. When Gelo~ offered to go with them, the prince reluc-
tantly consented. It was difficult to think of a situation beyond the witch
woman's enormous competence.
    "Ah, it is somehow as if I never left," Vorzheva said, dangling her feet in
the current. They had chosen a sandy bank where a stand of birch trees in
midstream widened the rivercourse, shielding them from the view of their
distant fellow travelers. Her voice was careless, though her face belied her.
"It is like when I was a little girl." She frowned as she splashed water on
the numerous scratches covering her legs. "But it is so cold!"
    Duchess Gutrun had loosened the neck of her garment. She stood a little
way out from the bank, the river eddying around her plump calves as she
splashed water on her throat and scrubbed at her face. "It is not so bad,"
she laughed. "The river Gratuvask that runs by our home in Elvritshalla--
now that is cold water! Every year at spring the maidens of the town go
down to the river to bathe--I did when I was young." She straightened
up, staring at nothing. "The men must stay inside all morning, on penalty
of a beating, so the maidens can splash in the Gratuvask. And cold! The
river is born from the snows of the northern mountains! You have not
heard shrieking until you hear a hundred young girls plunge into a chilly
river on an Avrel morning!" She laughed again. "There is a story, you
know, about one young man who was determined to see the Gratuvask
maidensmit is a famous tale in Rimmersland, perhaps you have heard
it... ?" She broke off, water sluicing from her cupped hands. "Vorzheva?
Are you ill?"
    The Thrithings-woman was bent over, her face pale as milk. "Just a
pain," she said harshly, straightening up. "It will go away soon. See, I am
better now. Tell your story."


              STONE OF FAREWELL                                             255

     Gutrun looked at her suspiciously. Before the duchess could say any-
 thing, Gelo~ spoke up from her seat on the bank nearby, where she had
 been tidying Leleth's hair with a comb made from fishbone.
     "The story must wait." The witch woman's tone was sharp. "See--we
 are not alone."
    Vorzheva and the duchess turned to follow Gelo~'s pointing finger.
Across the meadows, some three or four furlongs away to the south, a
mounted rider stood poised on a hillock. He was much too far away for
his face to be discernible, but there was little doubt he was looking in their
direction. All the women stared back, even Leleth, her strange eyes wide.
After several silent moments in which it seemed that no hearts beat, the
solitary figure turned his horse and rode down the hillock, vanishing from
sight.
    "How . .. how frightening," the duchess said, clutching the neck of
her dress closed with a damp hand. "Who is it? Those horrible Norns?"
    "I cannot say," Gelo~ rasped. "But we should return to tell the others,
in case Josua did not see. We must be concerned with any strangers now,
be they friend or foe."
    Vorzheva shuddered. Her face was still pale. "There are no friendly
strangers on these grasslands," she said.
    The women's news was enough to convince Josua that they could dally
no longer. Unhappily, the company shouldered their few possessions and
set off again, following the course of the Ymstrecca east alongside the
border of the now-distant forest, a thin dark strip on the misty northern
horizon.
 They saw no one else all afternoon.
    "These seem like fertile lands," Deornoth said as they searched for a
spot to camp. "Isn't it strange that we have seen no people beside that lone
rider?"
 "One rider is enough." Josua was grim.
    "My people have never liked it here, so near to the old forest," Vorzheva
said, and shivered. "There are spirits of the dead beneath the trees."
    Josua sighed. "These are things I would have laughed at a year ago.
Now I have seen them, or things even worse. God save me, what a world
this has become!"
    Gelo~ looked up from where she was making a bed of grass for young
Leleth. "It has always been the same world, Prince Josua," she said. "It is
only that in these troubled hours things are seen more clearly. The lamps
of cities blur many shadows that are plain beneath the moon."

    Deornoth awoke in the deeps of night, his heart beating swiftly. He had
been dreaming. King Elias had become a spindly thing of grasping claws
and red eyes clinging to Prince Josua's back. Josua could not see him and
did not even seem to know that his brother was there. In the dream


256                                    Tad Williams

Deomoth tried to tell him, but Josua did not listen, only smiled as he
walked through the streets of Erchester with the terrible Elias-thing riding
his back like a deformed baby. Every time Josua bent to pat the head of a
child or give a coin to a beggar, Elias reached out to undo the good work
when Josua had passed, snatching the coin back or scratching the child's
face with dirty nails. Soon an angry crowd followed behind Josua, shouting
for his punishment, but the prince went blithely on, unknowing, even as
Deornoth screamed and pointed at the evil thing riding the prince's shoulders.
    Awake on the benighted grasslands, Deornoth shook his head, trying to
pull free from the clinging sense of disquiet. Elias' dream-face, wizened
and spiteful, would not leave his mind. He sat up and looked around. All
the camp was sleeping but for Valada Gelo~, who sat dreaming or ponder-
ing over the last coals of the dying fire.
    He lay back and tried to sleep, but could not for fear the dream would
return. At last disgusted by his own weak-heartedness, he got up and
quietly shook out his cloak, then walked to the fire and sat down near Gelo&
    The witch woman did not look up at his approach. Her face was
red-splashed by firelight, eyes staring unblinkingly into the embers as
though nothing else existed. Her lips were moving but no sound came
forth; Deornoth felt a chill creep up the back of his neck. What was she
doing? Should he wake her?
    Gelo~'s mouth continued to work. Her voice rose to a whisper.
"... Amerasu, where are you? Your spirit is dim . . . and I am weak . . ."
Deornoth's hand stopped an inch from the witch woman's rough sleeve.
"... If ever you share, let it be now . . ." Gelo~'s voice hissed like the
wind. "Oh, please . . ." A tear, scarlet-shot, trickled down her weathered
cheek.
    Her despairing whisper drove Deornoth back to his makeshift bed. He
did not fall back into sleep for some time, but lay staring up at the
blue-white stars.

    He was awakened once more before dawn--this time by Josua. The
prince shook Deornoth's arm, then lifted his handless right wrist to his
lips, gesturing for silence. The knight looked up to see a clot of darkness
to the west, thicker even than the general obscurity of night, approaching
along the line of the river. The muffled sound of hoofbeats rolled toward
them over the grass. Deornoth's heart raced. He felt on the ground for his
scabbard, and was soothed only a little %y the feeling of his sword hilt
beneath his fingers. Josua crawled away to wake the others.
    "Where is the witch woman?" Deornoth whispered urgently, but the
prince was too far away to hear, so he crawled over to where Strangyeard
lay. The older man, sleeping lightly, was awake in a moment.
 "Be still," the knight murmured. "There are riders coming."
 "Who?" Strangyeard asked. Deornoth shook his head.


STONE OF FAREWELL

257

    The oncoming riders, still little more than shadows, split almost noise-
lessly into several groups, sweeping wide around the encampment. Deornoth
had to marvel at their silent horsemanship even as he cursed his party's
lack of bows and arrows. A folly, to fight with swords against mounted
men--if men they were. He thought he could count count two dozen
attackers, although any estimate was dubious in this half-light.
    Deornoth got to his feet, even as a few shadowy figures around him did
the same. Josua, nearby, drew Naidel from its sheath; the sudden hiss of
metal against leather seemed as loud as a shout. The surrounding figures
reined up, and for a moment utter silence fell once more. Someone passing
a stone's throw away would never have suspected the presence of a single
soul, let alone two forces at battle--ready. A voice broke the stillness.
    "Trespassers! You walk on the land of Clan Mehrdon! Lay down your
arms."
    Flint rang on steel, then a torch blossomed behind the nearest figures,
throwing long shadows across the campsite. Mounted men, hooded and
cloaked, surrounded Josua's band with a ring of spears.
    "Lay down your weapons!" the voice said again in thickly-accented
Westerling. "You are prisoners of the randwarders. We will kill you if you
resist." Several more torches flared alight. The night was suddenly full of
armed shadows.
    "Merciful Aedon!" Duchess Gutrun said from somewhere nearby. "Sweet
Elysia, what now?"
A large shape pushed toward her--Isorn, going to comfort his mother.
"Do not move!" the disembodied voice barked out; a moment later one
of the riders walked his horse forward, his spear point lowering, catching
a glint of torchlight. "I hear women," the rider said. "Do nothing foolish
and they will be spared. We ,are not beasts."
    "And what abofit the rest?" Josua said, stepping forward into the light.
"We have many here wounded and sick. What will you do with us?"
    The rider leaned down to stare at Josua, momentarily exposing his
hooded features. He had a rough face, with a shaggy, braided beard and
scarred cheeks. Heavy bracelets clinked on his wrists. Deornoth felt his
tension ease somewhat. At least their enemies were mortal men.
    The rider spat into the dark grass. "You are prisoners. You ask no
questions. The March-thane will decide." He turned to his fellows.
"Ozhbern! Kunret! Round them, in a circle to march!" He wheeled his
horse to supervise as Josua, Deornoth, and the others were herded at
spearpoint into the ring of torchlight.
 "Your March-thane will be unhappy if you mistreat us," Josua said.
    The leader laughed. "He will be more unhappy with me if you are not
at the wagons by sun-high." He turned to one of the other riders. "All?"
    "All, Hotvig. Six men, two women, one child. Only one cannot walk."
He indicated Sangfugol with the butt of his spear.


258                                   Tad Williams

    "Put him on a horse," Hotvig said. "Over the saddle, no matter. We
must ride fast."
    Even as they were prodded into movement, Deornoth sidled closer to
Josua. "It could be worse," he whispered to the prince. "It could have
been the Norns who caught us instead of Thrithings-men."
    The prince did not reply. Deornoth touched his arm, feeling the muscles
tense as barrel staves beneath his fingers. "What's wrong, Prince Josua?
Have the Thrithings-men thrown in with Elias? My lord?"
    One of the riders looked down, mouth set in a humorless, gap-toothed
grin. "Quiet, stone-dwellers," he snarled. "Save your breath for walking."
     Josua turned a haunted face toward Deornoth. "Didn't you hear him?"
the prince whispered. "Didn't you hear him?"  Deornoth was alarmed. "What?"
    "Six men, two women, and a child," Josua hissed, looking from side to
side. "Two women! Where is Vorzheva?"
    The rider slapped a spear butt against his shoulder and the prince lapsed
into anguished silence. They trudged on between the horsemen as dawn
began to smolder in the eastern sky.

    As she lay on her hard bed in the darkened servant's quarters, Rachel the
Dragon imagined she could hear the gibbet creaking, even above the
howling wind that skirled through the battlements. Nine more bodies, the
chancellor Helfcene's among them, were swaying above the Nearulagh
Gate tonight, dancing helplessly to the wind's fierce music.
  Nearer at hand, somebody was crying.
  "Sarrah? Is that you?" Rachel hissed. "Sarrah?"
    The moaning of the gale died down. "Y-yes, mistress," came the
muffled reply.
    "Blessed Rhiap, what are you sobbing about? You'll wake the others!"
Beside Sarrah and Rachel, there were only three other women now sleep-
ing in the maid's quarters, but all five cots were huddled together to
conserve heat in the large, chilly room.
    Sarrah seemed to struggle to compose herself, but when she answered
her voice was still shaken by sobs. "I'm ... I'm afraid, M-mistress
Rachel."
    "Of what, fool girl, the wind?" Rachel sat up, holding the thin blanket
closely around her. "It's blowing up a storm, but you've heard wind
before." Torchlight bleeding beneath the doorway revealed the faint shape
of Sarrah's pale face.
    "It's ... my gammer used to say ..." The maid coughed wetly.
"Gammer said that nights like this . . . are when dead spirits walk. Thai
you . . . you can hear the voices in the w-wind."


STONE OF FAREWELL

259

    Rachel was grateful for the darkness that hid her own discomforted
shiver. If there ever would be such a night, tonight seemed a likely choice.
The wind had been raging like a wounded animal sblce sundown, wailing
among the Hayholt's chimneys and scratching at the doors and windows
with insistent, twiggy fingers.
    She made her voice firm. "The dead don't walk in my castle, idiot girl.
Now go back to sleep before you give the others nightmares." Rachel
lowered herself back down onto her pallet, trying to find a position that
would ease her knotted back. "Go to sleep, Sarrah," she said. "The wind
can't hurt you, and there'll be work in plenty tomorrow, the Good Lord
knows, just a-picking up what the wind's blown down."
    "I'm sorry." The pale face sank. After a few sniffling minutes, Sarrah
was silent once more. Rachel stared upward into the blackness and listened
to the night's restless voices.


    She might have slept--it was hard to tell when all was in darkness--but
Rachel knew that she had been listening to a sound beneath the windsong
for some time. It was a quiet, stealthy scratching, a dry sound like bird
claws on a slate roof.
 Something was at the door.
    She might have been sleeping, but now, suddenly, she was terribly
awake. When she turned her head to the side she could see a shadow
slipping along the strip of light below the door. The scratching became
louder, and with it came the sound of someone crying.
    "Sarrah?" Rachel whispered, thinking that the noise had awakened the
maid, but there was no response. As she listened wide-eyed in the dark she
knew that the strange, thin sound was coming from the hallway--from
whatever stood outside her locked door.
 "Please," someone whispered there, "please . . ."
    Blood pounding in her head, Rachel sat up, then silently placed her bare
feet on the cold stone floor. Could she be dreaming? She seemed so very
wide awake, but it sounded like a boy's voice, like . . .
    The scratching took on an impatient quality which quickly began to
sound like fearfulness--whatever it was, she thought, it must be fright-
ened, to scratch so... A wandering spirit, a homeless thing walking lone
and lorn on this blustery night, looking for its long-vanished bed?
    Rachel crept closer to the door, silent as snow. Her heart labored. The
wind in the batdements stilled. She was alone in the dark with the
breathing of the slumbering maids and the pitiful scraping of what stood
beyond the door.
 "Please," the voice said again, softly, weakly. "I'm scared . . ."
    She traced the sign of the Tree on her breast, then grasped the bolt and
drew it back. Though the moment of choosing was past, she drew the door
open slowly: even with the choice made, she feared what she would see.


260                                    Tad Williams

    The solitary torch against the far corridor outlined the faint figure, its
thatch of hair, its scarecrow-thin limbs. The face that turned to her,
startled eyes showing their whites, was blackened as though burnt.
 "Help me," it said, staggering through the doorway into her arms.
    "Simon!" Rachel cried, and beyond all sense felt her heart overflowing.
He had come back, through fire, through death ....
    "Si . . . Simon?" the boy said, his eyes sagging closed from exhaustion
and pain. "Simon's dead. He . . . he died . . . in the fire. Pryrates killed
him .... "
    He went limp in her arms. Head whirling, she pulled his sagging form
through the doorway, letting him slide to the floor, then shot the bolt
firmly home and went iooking for a candle. The wind cried mockingly; if
other voices cried within it, there were none that Rachel recognized.

    "It's Jeremias, the chandler's boy," Sarrah said wonderingly as Rachel
washed the dried blood from his face. In the candlelight, Jeremias' dark-
socketed eyes and scratched cheeks made him seem almost a wizened old man.
    "But he was a chubby thing," Rachel said. Her mind was boiling with
the boy's words, but things must be done one at a time. What would these
useless girls think if she let herself go all to pieces? "What's happened to
him?" she growled. "He's thin as a stave."
    The maids had all gathered around, blankets wrapped as cloaks around
their nightdresses. Jael, no longer as stout as she had once been, owing to
the greater burden of work all the remaining girls shared, stared at the
senseless youth.
    "I thought someone said Jeremias ran away?" she said, frowning. "Why
did he come back?"
    "Don't be foolish," Rachel said, trying to tug Jeremias' tattered shirt
over his head without waking him. "If he had run away, how would he
have gotten back into Hayholt at the middle of night? Flown?"
    "Then tell us where he has been," one of the other girls said. It was a
measure of Rachel's shock at Jeremias' entrance that this near-impertinence
went completely unremarked-upon by the Mistress of Chambermaids.
    "Help me turn him over," she said, working the shirt free. "We'll put
him to sleep in . . . Oh! Elysia, Mother of God!" She fell into astonished
silence. Sarrah burst into tears beside her.
 The youth's back was crisscrossed with deep, bloody weals.
  "I feel . . . I feel sick!" Jael mumbled, then lurched away.
    "Don't be a fool," Rachel said, regaining her composure once more.
"Splash some water on your face, then bring me the rest of the basin. This
wet cloth alone won't do. And take that sheet from the bed Hepizibah
used to sleep in and tear strips for bandages. Rhiap's Pain, do I have to do
everything myself?."
    It took the whole sheet and part of another one. His legs had been
scourged, too.



                                 STONE OF FAREWELL                                                 261

    Jeremias awoke just before dawn. His eyes at first roamed the room
without seeing anything, but after a time he seemed to regain his wits.
Sarrah, sadness and pity shining through her homely face as though it
were glass, gave him some water to drink.  "Where am I?" he asked at last.
    "You're in the servant's quarters, boy," Rachel said briskly. "As you
should know. Now, what sort of mischief have you been up to?"
    He stared at her groggily for a moment. "You're Rachel the Dragon,"
he said at last. Despite their weariness and fright, and the lateness of the
hour, the chambermaids were hard put to suppress their smiles. Rachel,
strangely, did not seem angered in the slightest.
    "I'm Rachel," she agreed. "Now, where have you been, boy? We heard
that you ran away."
    "You thought I was Simon," Jeremias said, wonderingly, staring around
the chamber. "He was my friend--but he's dead, isn't he? Am I dead?"
    "You're not dead. What happened to you?" Rachel leaned forward to
brush Jeremias' tangled hair out of his eyes; her hand lingered for an
instant on his cheek. "You're safe now. Talk to us."
    He seemed about to slide back into sleep, but after a moment he opened
his eyes again. When he spoke it was more plainly than before. "I did try
to run away," he said. "When the king's soldiers beat my master Jakob and
drove him out the gate. I tried to run away that night, but the guards
caught me. They gave me to Inch."  Rachel frowned. "That animal."
    Jeremias' eyes widened. "He's worse than any animal. He's a devil. He
said I would be his ~pprentice, down in the furnaces . . . in the forges. He
thinks he's a king down there . .." The boy's face screwed up, and he
suddenly burst into tears. "He says he's . . . he's Doctor Inch, now. He
beat me and . . . he used me."
    Rachel leaned forward to blot his cheeks with her kerchief. The girls
made the sign of the Tree.
    Jeremias' sobbing diminished. "It's worse than anything ... down
there."
    "You said something, boy," Rachel said briskly. "Something about the
king's counselor. About Simon. Say it again."
    The boy opened his brimming eyes wide. "Pryrates killed him. Simon
and Morgenes. The priest went there with troops. Morgenes fought with
him, but the chamber burned down and Simon and the doctor died."
    "And how could you know that?" she snapped, a little harshly. "How
could such as you know that?"
    "Pryrates said so himsel~ He comes down to see Inch. Sometimes he
just brags, like about killing Morgenes. Other times he helps Inch . . .
h-hurt people." Jeremias was having trouble. "Sometimes . . . sometimes


262                                    Tad Williams

the priest takes people away with him.., takes them when he goes. They
don't come b--back." He fought to catch his breath. "And there's ...
other things. Other things down there. Terrible things. Oh, God, please
don't send me back." He grasped Rachel's wrist with his hand. "Please
hide me!"
    Rachel tried to mask her shock. She deliberately closed off her thoughts
about Simon and this new revelation until she could consider it all in
privacy. But despite her firm self-control, Rachel felt a cold hatred run-
ning through her, a hatred unlike anything she had ever felt.
    "We won't let them have you," she said. Her straightforward tone
made it clear that any gainsaying of her will would bring great risk to the
gainsayer. "We'll ... we'll ..." She broke off for a moment, non-
plussed. What would they do? They could not hide the boy for long here in
the servant's quarters, especially if he had run away from the king's forges
below the Hayholt.
    "What 'other things' were there?" Jael asked. Her brown, calfiike eyes
were puzzled.
"Hush, now," Rachel said sharply, but Jeremias was already answering.
"I d-don't know," he said. "There are.., shadows that move. Shadows
without people. And things that are there--and then they aren't. And
voices . . ." he shivered, and his eyes stared past the candlefiame to the
darkness in the room's corner. "Voices that cry, and sing, and ...
and . . ." Tears formed in his eyes once more.
    "That's enough," Rachel said sternly, displeased with herself for letting
the boy talk so long. Her charges darted glances among themselves,
nervous as startled sheep.
    Elysia! she thought, that's all I need--to have the last of my girls d~ightened
out of the castle.
    "Too much talking," she said aloud. "The boy needs rest. He's so worn
and beaten he has the vapors. Let him sleep."
    Jeremias shook his head weakly. "I'm telling the truth," he said. "Don't
let them have me!"
    "We won't," Rachel said. "Go to sleep. If we can't hide you, we'll
think of some way to get you out of the Hayholt. You can go to your kin,
wherever they may be. We'll keep you away from that one-eyed devil
Inch."
    "... And Pryrates," Jeremias said slurredly, succumbing to drowsi-
ness. "He... talks.., to the Voices..."
    A moment later the boy was slumbering. A little of the fear seemed to lift
from his hunger-thinned features. Rachel looked down at him and felt her
heart grown hard as a stone in her breast. That devil-priest, Pryrates! That
murderer! What kind of plague had he brought down on their house, what
foulness to her beloved Hayholt?
  And what had he done to her Simon?


STONE OF FAREWELL

263

    She turned to look sternly at her wide-eyed maids. "You had all better
get what sleep you can," she growled. "A little excitement doesn't mean
the floors won't need scrubbing when the sun is up."
    As they crawled into their beds, Rachel snuffed the candle, then lay
down with her cold thoughts. Outside, the wind was still searching for a
way in.

    The morning sun rose above the gray blanket of clouds. It brought a
diffuse light to the rolling grasslands of the High Thrithings, but could not
lift the damp from the endless leagues of prairie grass and heather. Deornoth
was soaked to the thighs and tired of marching.
    The Thrithings-men did not stop for a meal, instead eating dried meat
and fruits from their saddlebags as they rode. The prisoners were not
offered any food, and were only allowed to pause for a short rest at
mid-morning, during which time Deornoth and Josua quietly questioned
the rest of their party about Vorzheva's whereabouts. No one had seen her
leave, although Gelo~ said she had awakened Vorzheva at the first sound
of the approaching riders.
    "She was born on this land," the witch woman told the prince. "I
would not worry for her too much." GeloE's own face, however, showed
more than a trace of concern.
    Hotvig and his men roused Josua's band after a too-short rest and the
march began anew. A wind sprang up from the northwest, soft at first,
then blowing stronger, until the ribbons on the Thrithings-men's saddles
whipped like tournament pennants and the long grasses bent double. The
prisoners labored on, shivering in their wet clothing.
    Soon they began to see signs of habitation: small herds of cattle grazing
on the low hills, watched over by solitary horsemen. As the sun rose
closer to its noon apogee, the cattle herds they passed grew larger and
closer together, until at last the prisoners found themselves following the
snaking course of one of the Ymstrecca's tributaries through the very
midst of an immense throng of animals. The vast herd seemed to run from
horizon to horizon and contained mostly cattle of the ordinary sort, but
shaggy bison and bulls with long, curving horns also grazed among them,
lifting their heads to stare blearily at the passing prisoners, mouths sol-
emnly chewing.
    "It is obvious that these folk do not follow Gelo~'s advice on vegetable-
eating," Deornoth said. "There is enough meat on the hoof here to feed
all Osten Ard." He looked hopefully to his prince, but Josua's smile was a
weary one.
    "Many of them are sickly," Gutrun pronounced. In her husband's
frequent absences, she ran the duke's household at Elvritshalla with a firm


264                                    Tad Williams

hand, and rightly considered herself a good judge of livestock. "See, and
there are not many calves for such a huge herd."
    One of the riders who had been listening made a noise of disgust, as if
to show his disdain for the opinions of prisoners, but one of his mounted
companions nodded his head and said: "It is a bad year. Many cows die
birthing. Others eat but do not grow fat." The Thrithings-man's beard
fluttered in the wind. "It is a bad year," he repeated.
    Here and there among the great herd were circles of wagons, each circle
surrounded with fences of hastily-driven posts. The wagons themselves
were all wooden, with large, high wheels, but otherwise were quite
different from each other. Some were tall as two or three men, wheeled
cottages with wooden roofs and shuttered windows. Others were little
more than a wagon-bed topped with a cloth-covered shelter, the fabric
rippling and snapping in the stiff breeze. Children played in many of the
enclosures or darted in and out among the milling, amiable cattle. Horses
grazed in some of the paddlocks--and not just dray horses and wagon-
pullers. Many were slender-limbed and wild-maned, with something
light and strong as forged steel to be seen in their step even from a
distance.
    "Ah, God, if only we had a few beasts like those," Deornoth said
wistfully. "But we have nothing to trade. I am mightily tired of walking."
    Josua looked at him with a trace of sour humor. "We will be lucky if we
walk away from here with our lives, Deornoth, and you are hoping for a
brace of battle steeds? I would rather I had your optimism than their
horses."
    As the prisoners and their captors continued south, the sprawl of sepa-
rate wagon-camps began to come together, clumped like mushrooms after
an autumn rain. Other groups of mounted men rode in and out among the
settlements; Josua's escorts exchanged shouted remarks with some of
them. Soon the wagons stood so near each other that it began to seem that
the prisoners traversed a city without roads.
    At last they reached a large stockade, its fence posts hung with orna-
ments of bright metal and polished wood that clattered in the wind. Most
of the riders sheared off, but Hotvig the leader and six or seven others
ushered the prince's party through a swinging gate. There were several
compounds within the stockade, one of them containing a score of fine
horses, another a half-dozen fat and glossy heifers. In an enclosure by
himself stood a huge stallion, his shaggy mane twined with red and gold
ribbons. The great horse nosed the ground as they passed and did not look
up---he was a monarch more used to being stared at than staring. The men
escorting Josua's party touched their hands to their eyes reverently as they
passed.
  "It is their clan beast," Gelo~ said to no one in particular.
  At the far end of the encampment stood a great wagon with wide,


STONE OF FAREWELL

265

heavy-spoked wheels and a banner bearing a golden horse billowing from
the roof-peak. Before it were two figures, a large man and a young girl.
The girl was knotting the man's long beard into two thick braids that
hung down onto his chest. Despite his age--he looked to have passed
some sixty summers on the grasslands--his black hair was only faintly
striped with silver and his wide frame was still knotted with muscle. He
held a bowl upon his lap in his huge beringed and braceleted hands.
    The riders stopped and dismounted. Hotvig strode forward to stand
before him.
    "We have captured several trespassers who walked the Feluwelt without
your leave, March-thane: six men, two women, and a child."
    The March-thane stared the prisoners up and down. His face split in a
wide, crooked-toothed grin. "Prince Josua Lackhand," he said, without
the least trace of surprise in his voice. "Now that your stone house is
fallen, have you come to live beneath the sky like men do?" He took a
long swallow from his bowl, draining it dry, then handed it to the girl and
waved her away.
"Fikolmij," Josua said, bleakly amused. "So you are March-thane now."
"When the Choosing came, of all the chieftains there was only Blehmunt
who would stand against me. I broke his head like an egg." Fikolmij
laughed, patting at his new-braided beard, then stopped, lowering his
eyebrows like a nettled bull. "Where is my daughter?"
  "If that young one was yours, you just sent her away," Josua said.
    Fikolmij clenched a fist in anger, then laughed again. "Stupid tricks,
Josua. You know who I mean. Where is she?"
"I will tell you the truth," Josua said. "I do not know where Vorzheva is."
The March-thane looked him over speculatively. "So," he said at last.
"You are not so high in the world today, stone-dweller. You are a
trespasser in the Free Thrithings now, as well as a daughter-stealer. Per-
haps you will seem better to me with your other hand cut off, too. I will
think on it." He lifted his hairy paw and gestured carelessly to Hotvig.
"Put them in one of the bull runs until I decide which ones to cut up and
which to keep."
  "Merciful Aedon preserve us," Father Strangyard murmured.
    The March-thane chuckled, flicking a wind-blown curl of hair from his
eye. "And give these city-rats a blanket or two and some food, Hotvig.
Otherwise, the night air may kill them and rob my sport."
    As Josua and the others were led away at spearpoint, Fikolmij turned
and shouted for the girl to bring him more wine.


14

A Crow~ of Fire

It was a dream, Simon knew even as he dreamed it. It started in an
ordinary enough fashion: he was lying in the Hayholt's great loft, hidden
in tickling hay, watching the familiar figures of Shem Horsegroom and
castle smith Ruben the Bear talking quietly below. Ruben, his broad arms
glimmering with sweat, was hammering clankingly away at a scarlet-hot
horseshoe.
    Suddenly the dream took on a strange cast. Ruben's and Shem's voices
changed, until they sounded nothing like their real selves. Simon could
now hear the conversation perfectly well, but the smith's hammer was
silent as it struck the gleaming iron.
    "... But I have done all you asked for," Shem abruptly said in a queer,
rasping tone. "I brought King Elias to you."
    "You presume too much," Ruben replied. His voice was like nothing
Simon had ever heard, cold and remote as the wind in a high mountain
pass. "You know nothing of what we want.., of what He wants." There was
more wrong with the blacksmith than just his voice: a feeling of wrong-
ness emanated from him, a black and bottomless lake hidden beneath a
crust of thin ice. How could Ruben seem so evil, even in a dream--kind,
slow-talking Ruben?
    Shem's lined face smiled cheerfully, but his words sounded strained. "I
do not care. I will do anything He wishes. I ask little in return."
    "You ask a great deal more than any other mortal would," Reuben replied.
"Not only do you dare to call on the Red Hand, you have the temerity to demand
J~vors." He was chill and uncaring as graveyard dirt. "You do not even know
what you ask. You are a child, priest, and you grasp at gleaming things because
they seem pretty. You may cut yourself on something jagged and find that you
bleed to death."
     "I don't care." Shem spoke with a lunatic firmness. "I don't care. Teach me the
 Words of Changing. The Dark One owes me . . . he is obligated . . ."
 Ruben threw back his head in wild laughter. A crown of flames seemed to

266


STONE OF FAREWELL

267

blaze about his head. "Obligated?" he gasped. The sound of his amuse-
ment was terrifying. "Our master? To you?" He laughed again, and sud-
denly the blacksmith's skin began blistering. Little gouts of smoke jetted
into the air as Ruben's flesh burned away, peeling back to reveal a shifting
kernel of flame beneath, pulsating with reddish light like a coal fanned by
wind. "You will live to see His final triumph. That is more reward than most
mortals can expect!"
    "Please!" Even as Ruben flared, Shem had begun to shrink, becoming
small and gray as a charred parchment. His tiny arm waved, crumbling.
"Please, undying one, please." His voice was oddly light, fraught with a
kind of slyness. "I will ask nothing further--I will not speak of the Dark One
again. Forgive a mortal fool. Teach me the Word!"
    Where Ruben had stood, a living flame glowed. "Very well, priest. There
is, perhaps, little risk in giving you this dangerous but final toy. The Lord of All
will be taking this world back soon enough--there is nothing you can do that He
cannot make undone. Very well. I will teach you the Word, but the pain will be
great. No Change is without some cost." Laughter bubbled again in the
unearthly voice. "You will scream . . ."
    "I don't care?' Shem said, his ashy form swirling away now into dark-
ness, as did the shadowed smithy and then the hayloft itself. "I don't care! I
must know... !" Finally, even the glowing thing that had been Ruben
became only a bright point in the blackness.., a star ....

    Simon awakened, breathless as a drowning man, his heart thudding in
his chest. There was a single star overhead, peeping through the hole in the
top of their sleeping shelter like a blue-white eye. He gasped.
    Binabik lifted his head from Qantaqa's shaggy neck. The troll was
half-asleep, but struggling toward full wakefulness. "What is wrong,
Simon?" he asked. "Were you having a dream that frightened?"
    Simon shook his head. The tide of fear was ebbing a little, but he was
sure it had been more than just a night fantasy. It had seemed that an
actual conversation was taking place nearby, a conversation that his sleep-
ing mind had woven neatly into the stuff of his dream--a mundane
happening that he had experienced many times. What was strange and
frightening was that there were no other speakers anywhere about: Sludig
was snoring, Binabik obviously new-wakened.
    "It's nothing," Simon said, struggling to speak evenly. He crawled to
the front of their lean-to, mindful of the bruises from the evening's
stave=practice, and pushed his head out to look around. The first star he
had seen had a great deal of company--a spatter of tiny white lights across
the night sky. The clouds had been driven away by the brisk wind, the
night was clear and cold, and the unrelieved monotony of the White Waste
stretched away on every side. There was not another living thing to be
seen anywhere beneath the ivory moon.


268                                    Tad Williams

    So it had only been a dream, a dream of how old Shem Horsegroom
might speak with Pryrates' croaking tongue, and how Ruben the Bear
might speak with the sepulchral tones of nothing on God's hying earth ....
  "Simon?" Binabik asked sleepily. "Are you... ?"
    He was frightened, but if he was to be a man he could not run to cry on
someone's shoulder every time he had a bad dream. "It's nothing." He
crawled shivering back to his cloak. "I'm well."
    But it seemed so real. The branches of their flimsy shelter creaked,
wind-handled. So real. Like they were talking in my head . . .

    Taking the silver sparrow's fragmentary message to heart, they rode
from first light to last every day, trying to outpace the coming storm.
Simon's mock-combats with Sludig now took place by firelight, so that he
had scarcely a moment to spend alone from the moment he rose until he
tumbled into exhausted sleep at the end of each day. The days of riding
passed m a procession of sameness: the endless, humped fields of white, the
dark tangles of stunted trees, the numbing insistence of the wind. Simon
was grateful for his thickening beard: without it, he often thought, the
relentless wind might rub away his face, down to the very bones.
    It seemed that the wind had already worn away the face of the land,
leaving behind little that was remarkable or distinct. Had it not been for
the widening line of forest on the horizon, he could have supposed that
every morning found them back at the same cold, bleak starting place.
Thinking morosely about his own warm bed in the Hayholt, he decided
that even if the Storm King himself were to move into the castle, his
minions numerous as snowflakes, Simon could still live happily in the
servant's quarters. He wanted a home desperately. He was close to the
point where he would take a mattress in Hell if the Devil would lend him
a pillow.
    As days wore by, the storm continued to grow behind them, a black
pillar rising ominously in the northwestern sky. Great cloudy arms clutched
at the firmament like the branches of a heaven-spanning tree. Lightning
flickered between them.
    "It's not moving very fast," Simon said one day as they ate a sparse
noontime meal. There was more nervousness in his voice than he would
have liked.
    Binabik nodded. "It grows, but its spreading is slow. That is something
for being thankful about." He wore an unusually dispirited expression.
"The slower it is moving, the longer we are not beneath itmfor I am
thinking that when it comes, it will bring a darkness with it that will not
be passing away, as with storms of the ordinary type."
 "What do you mean?" Now the tremor was plain to hear.
    "It is not a storm with just snow and rain," Binabik said carefully. "My
thought is that it is exactly meant to bring fear where it goes. It rises from


STONE OF FAREWELL

269

Stormspike. It has the look of something full of unnaturalness." He raised
his palms apologetically. "It is spreading, but as you said, not with great
swiftness."
    I know about such things," Sludig said, "but I must admit I'm
happy we will be off the Waste soon. I wouldn't want to get caught in the
open in any storm, and that one looks truly nasty." He turned toward the
south and squinted. "Two days until we reach Aldheorte," he said.
"That will be some protection."
    Binabik sighed. "I hope you are right, but I am fearing that there will be
no protection against this storm--or that the protection must be some-
thing other than forest trees or roofs."
 "Do you mean the swords?" Simon asked quietly.
    The little man shrugged. "Perhaps. If we are finding all three, perhaps
winter can be kept at spear-length--or even pushed back. But first we
must go to where Gelo~ tells us. Otherwise, it is only worrying about
things we cannot be changing; that is foolishness." He mustered a smile.
"'When your teeth are gone,' we Qanuc say, 'learn to like mush.'"

    The next morning, their seventh on the Waste, came laden with foul
weather. Although the storm in the north was still only an inky blotch
defacing the far horizon, steely gray clouds had gathered overhead, their
edges stripped into sooty tatters by the rising wind. By noon, when the
sun had vanished from view entirely behind the dismal pall, the snow
began to fly.
    "This is terrible," Simon shouted, eyes narrowed against the stinging
sleet. Despite his heavy leather gloves, his fingers were swiftly growing
numb. "We're blinded! Shouldn't we stop and make shelter?"
    Binabik, a small, snow-covered shadow atop Qantaqa's back, turned
and called back to him: "If we go a little farther, we will reach the
crossroads!"
 "Crossroads!" Sludig bellowed. "In this wilderness?!"
 "Ride nearer," Binabik cried. "I will be explaining."
    Simon and the Rimmersman brought their mounts closer to the striding
wolf. Binabik lifted his hand to his mouth, but still the wind's roar
threatened to carry off his words. "Not far beyond here, I am thinking,
this Old Tumet'ai Road meets the White Way, that is running along the
northern edge of the forest. At the crossroad may be shelter, or at least the
trees should be of more thickness there, closer to the woods. Let us go
riding on a while longer. If there is nothing in that spot, we will make our
camp there despite it."
    "As long as we stop well before dark, troll," Sludig bellowed. "You are
clever, but your cleverness may not be enough to make a decent camp in
darkness in this blizzard. Having lived through all the madness I have
seen, I do not want to die in the snow like a lost cow!"


270                                   Tad Williams

    Simon said nothing, saving his strength so he could more fully appreci-
ate his misery. Aedon, it was cold! Would there never be an end to snow?
    They rode on through the bleak, icy afternoon. Simon's mare plodded
slowly, ankling through the new drifts. Simon leaned his head close to her
mane, trying to stay out of the wind. The world seemed as formless and
white as the inside of a flour cask, and only slightly more habitable.
    The sun was quite invisible, but a dimming of the already scarce light
suggested that the afternoon was fading fast. Binabik, however, did not
seem inclined to stop. As they passed yet one more unprepossessing stand
of evergreens, Simon could stand it no longer.
    "I'm freezing, Binabik!" he shouted angrily above the wind. "And it's
getting dark! There's another bunch of trees gone and we're still riding.
Well, it's almost night! By God's bloody Tree, I'm not going to go any
farther!"
    "Simon . . ." Binabik began, striving to assume a placating tone while
yelling at the top of his lungs.
    "There's something in the road!" Sludig cried hoarsely. "Vaer.t Some-
thing ahead! A troll!"
    Binabik squinted. "It is being no such thing," he shouted indignantly.
"No Qanuc would be foolish enough to go wandering alone in such
weather!"
    Simon stared into the swirling gray dimness before them. "I don't see
anything."
 "As neither do I." Binabik brushed snow from his hood lining.
    "I saw something," Sludig growled. "I may be snow-blinded, but I am
not mad."
    "An animal, that is most likely," the troll said. "Or, if we are unlucky,
one of the diggers as a scout. Perhaps it is time to make shelter and fire, as
you said, Simon. There is a stand of trees that looks to make better
sheltering just ahead. There, over the rise."
    The companions chose the most protected spot they could find. Simon
and Sludig wove branches among the tree trunks for a windbreak while
Binabik, with the help of his yellow fire-powder, set flame to damp wood
and began to boil water for broth. The weather was so unremittingly foul
and cold that after sharing the thin soup, they all curled up in their cloaks
and lay shivering. The wind was too loud for any but shouted conversa-
tion. Despite the proximity of his friends, Simon was alone with his
cheerless thoughts until sleep came.

    Simon woke with Qantaqa's steaming breath on his face. The wolf
whined and nudged him with her great head, rolling him halfway over.
He sat up, blinking in the weak rays of morning sun filtering into the
copse. Snow drifts had piled against the woven branches, making a wall
that kept the wind at bay, so the smoke from Binabik's campfire rose
almost undisturbed.


STONE OF FAREWELL

271

    "Good morning, Simon-friend," Binabik said. "We have survived through
the storm."
    Simon gently pushed Qantaqa's head out of his side. She made a noise
of frustration, then backed away. Her muzzle was red-daubed.
    "She has been unsettled all the morning," Binabik laughed. "I am
thinking that the many frozen squirrels and birds and such who have
tumbled from the trees have fed her well, however."  "Where's Sludig?"
    "He is seeing to the horses." Binabik poked at the fire. "I convinced
him to take them downslope in the open, so the horses would not be
stepping on my morning meal or your face." He lifted a bowl. "This is
the last of the broth. Since our dried meat is now almost finished, I
suggest you enjoy it. Meals may be scarce if our own hunting must be
relied on."
    Simon shivered as he wiped a handful of snow on his face. "But won't
we reach the forest soon?"
    Binabik patiently offered the bowl again. "Just so, but we will be
traveling along it rather than through. It is a route more circuitous but less
time-consuming, since we will not be cutting through underbrush. Also,
in this frozen summer there may be few animals who are not sleeping in
their dens and nests. Thus, if you are not soon taking this soup from my
hands, I will drink it myself. I am no more interested in starving than you,
as well as a great deal more sensible."
    "Sorry. Thank you." Simon hunched over the bowl, enjoying a deep
breath of the rising scent before he drank.
    "You may be washing the bowl when you have finished," the troll
sniffed. "A nice bowl is a luxurious thing to have on a journey of such
dangerousness."
 Simon smiled. "You sound like Rachel the Dragon."
    "I have not met this Dragon-Rachel," Binabik said as he stood up,
brushing snow from his breeches, "but if she was given charge of you, she
must have been a person of great patientness and kindness."
 Simon chortled.

They reached the crossroads in late morning. The meeting of the two
roads was marked only by a gaunt finger of stone set upright in the frozen
ground. Gray-green lichen, seemingly impervious to frost, clung to it grimly.
"The Old Tumet'ai Road runs through the forest." Binabik gestured to
the barely distinguishable path of the south road, which coiled away
through a stand of firs. "Since I am thinking it is nevermore used and
likely quite overgrown, we should instead follow the White Way. Perhaps
we will find some deserted habitations where we may be finding supplies."
The White Way proved a slightly newer road than the one leading
from the ancient site of Tumet'ai. There were a few marks of recent


272                                   Tad Williams

human visitation--a rusted and broken iron wheel-rim dangling from a
roadside branch, where it had doubtless been thrown by an irate wagon
owner; a sharpened spoke perhaps used as a tent-spike, discarded by the
shoulder; a circle of charred stones half-covered in snow.
"Who lives out here?" Simon asked. "Why is there a road at all?"
"There were once several small settlements east of St. Skendi's monas-
tery,'' Sludig said. "You remember Skendi's--the snow-buried place we
passed on our way to the dragon-mountain. There were even a few towns
here--Sovebek, Grinsaby, some others, as I remember. I think also that a
century or so ago, people traveled this way around the great forest when
they came north from the Thrithings, so there may have been a few inns."
    "In days more than a century gone," Binabik intoned, "this part of the
world was being much traveled. We Qanuc--some of us, that is to
say--traveled farther south in summer, sometimes to the edges of the
lowlander countries. Also, the Sithi themselves were everywhere in their
wandering. It is only in these late and sad days that all this land has
become empty of voices."
    "It does seem empty now," Simon said. "It seems like no one could live
here anymore."
    They followed the winding course of the road through the short after-
noon. The trees were gradually becoming thicker here at the forest's edge,
in spots growing so closely about the road that it seemed as if the
companions had already entered Aldheorte, whether they wished to or
not. At last they came to another standing stone, this one leaning for-
lornly by the roadside, with no crossing or other possible landmark in
sight. Sludig dismounted to take a closer look.
    "There are runes on it, but faint and weathered." He peeled back some
of the frozen moss. "I think they say that Grinsaby is nearby." He looked
up, smiling in his frosty beard. "Someplace with a roof or two, perhaps,
even if nothing else. That would be a nice change." His step a little
springier, the Rimmersman vaulted back into his saddle. Simon, too, was
heartened. Even a deserted town would be a vast improvement over the
comfortless waste.
     The words of Binabik's song came back to him. You have slipped into
 cold shadows . . . He felt a moment's pang of loneliness. Perhaps the town
 would not be deserted, after all. Maybe there would be an inn with a fire,
 and food . . .
     As Simon yearned for the comforts of civilization, the sun vanished for
 good behind the forest. The wind rose and the early northern twilight
 came down upon them.

    There was still light in the sky, but the snowy landscape had turned blue
and gray, soaking up shadow like a rag dipped in ink. Simon and his
companions were nearly ready to stop and make camp, and were discuss-


STONE OF FAREWELL

273

ing the subject in loud voices over the monotonous wind when they came
upon the first outbuildings of Grinsaby,
    As if to disappoint even Sludig's modest hopes, the roofs of these
abandoned cottages had collapsed under the weight of snow. The pad-
docks and gardens were also long untended, knee-deep in swirling white.
Simon had seen so many emptied towns in his northern sojourn that it
was hard to believe that the Frostmarch and the Waste had once been
inhabited, that people had led their lives here just as they did in the green
fields of Erkynland. He ached for his own home, for familiar places and
familiar weather. Or had winter already crawled over the entire land?
    They roue on. Soon Grinsaby's deserted houses began to appear in
greater profusion on either side of the road Binabik had named the White
Way. Some still bore traces of their once-residents--a rusted axe with a
rotted handle standing in a chopping block before a snow-buried front
door; an upright broom sticking out of the roadside drifts like a flag or
the tail of a frozen animalmbut most of the dwellings were as empty and
desolate as skulls.
    "Where do we stop?" Sludig called. "I think we may not find a roof after
all."
    "We may not, so let us be looking for good walls," Binabik replied. He
was about to say more when Simon tugged at his arm.
    "Look! It is a troll! Sludig was right!" Simon pointed off to the side of
the road, where a short figure stood motionless but for its wind-flung
cloak. The last rays of sunlight had found a thin spot in the forest fringe
behind Grinsaby, throwing the stranger into relief.
    "Be looking yourself," Binabik said grumpily, but his eyes were fixed
warily on the stranger. "It is no troll." The figure beside the road was
very small, wearing a thin hooded cloak. Bare, bluish skin showed where
the breeches-legs failed to meet the top of his boots.
    "It's a little boy." After amending his earlier identification, Simon
steered Homefinder toward the edge of the road. His two companions
followed. "He must be freezing to death!"
    As they rode toward him, the child looked up, snow flecking his dark
brows and lashes. He stared at the approaching trio, then turned and
began to run.
 "Stop," Simon called, "we won't hurt you!"
    "Halad, kiinde!" Sludig shouted. The retreating form stopped and turned,
staring. Sludig rode a few ells closer, then climbed down from his horse
and walked forward slowly. "Vjer sommen marroven, kiinde," he said,
extending a hand. The boy stared at him suspiciously, but made no further
move toward flight. The child seemed to be no more than seven or eight
years old and thin as the handle of a butter churn, judging by the bits of
him showing. His hands were full of acorns.
 "I'm cold," the boy said in fair Westerling.


274                                    Tad Williams

    Sludig looked surprised, but smiled and nodded. "Come on, then, lad.
He gently took the acorns and poured them into his cloak pocket, the
gathered up the unresisting child in his strong arms. "It's all right, the
We'll help you." The Rimmersman placed the dark-haired stranger on t:
front of his saddle, wrapping his cloak around him so that the boy's he;
seemed to grow from Sludig's now-broad belly. "Can we find a place
make camp now, troll?" he growled. Binabik nodded. "Of course."
    He urged Qantaqa ahead. The boy watched the wolf with wide b
unworried eyes as Simon and Sludig spurred after. Snow was rapid
filling in the hollow where the boy had stood.
    As they rode on through the empty town, Sludig brought out his skin
kangkang and let the newcomer have a short drink. The boy coughed, b
otherwise seemed unsurprised by the bitter Qanuc liquor. Simon decid,
he might be older than first appearance made him seem: there was
precision to his movements that made him seem less like a child. Some
his apparent youth, Simon guessed, might be due to his large eyes al
slender frame;
 "What's your name, lad?" Sludig asked at last.
    The boy looked him over calmly. "Vren," he said at last, the wc
fluidly and oddly accented. He tugged at the drinking skin, but Sluc
shook his head and put it back in his saddle bag. "'Friend'?" Simon asked, puzzled.
    "'Vren,' I am thinking he said," Binabik replied. "It is a Hyrkam
name, and I am thinking he might be a Hyrka."
    "Look at that black hair," Sludig said. "The color of his skin, too. He
a Hyrka, or I am no Rimmersman. But what is he doing alone in the snow
    The Hyrkas, Simon knew, were a footloose people accounted go
with horses and skilled in games at which other people lost money, l
had seen many at the great market in Erchester. "Do the Hyrkas live c
here, in the White Waste?"
    Sludig frowned. "I've never heard of such--but I have seen many thin
of late I would have have believed in Elvritshalla. I thought they liv
mainly in the cities and on the grasslands with the Thrithings-folk."
    Binabik reached up and patted the boy with a small hand. "So haw
been taught, although there are some who also are living beyond
Waste, in the empty steppe-lands to the east."
    After they had ridden farther, Sludig dismounted again to search
signs of habitation. He returned, shaking his head, and went to Vren.
child's brown eyes gazed unflinchingly back at him. "Where do you live
the Rimmersman asked.
 "With Skodi," was the reply.
    "Is that near?" Binabik asked. The boy shrugged. "Where are y~
parents?" The gesture was repeated.


STONE OF FAREWELL

275

    The troll turned to his companions. "Perhaps Skodi is the name of his
mother, Or it might be a name of some other town name near to
Grinsaby-village. It is also being possible he has strayed from a caravan of
wagons--although these roads, I have sureness, are not much used at the
best of times. How could he survive long in fearful winter days like
these... ?" He shrugged, a movement oddly similar to the child's.
    "Will he stay with us?" Simon asked. Sludig made an exasperated noise
but said nothing. Simon turned on the Rimmersman angrily. "We can't
leave him here to die!"
    Binabik waved a placating finger. "No, do not fear that we would. In
any case, I suspect that there must be more people than Vren who are
living here."
    Sludig stood up. "The troll is right: there must be folk here. Anyway,
the idea of taking a child with us is foolish."
    "That is what some were saying of Simon," Binabik responded quietly.
"But I am having agreement with your first statement. Let us fred his home."
    "He can ride with me for a while," Simon said. The Rimmersman made
a wry face, but handed over the unresisting child. Simon wrapped the boy
in his cloak as Sludig had done.
    "Sleep now, Vren," he whispered. The wind moaned through the
ruined houses. "You're with friends, now. We'll take you home."
    The boy stared back at him, solemn as a petty cleric at a public
ceremony. A small hand snaked out from beneath the jacket to pat
Homefinder's back. With Vren's slender form resting against his chest,
Simon took his reins in one hand so he could drape an arm around the
boy's midsection. He felt very old and very responsible.
    Will I ever be a father? he wondered as they tramped on through the
gathering dark. Have sons? He thought about it for a moment. Daughters?
    All the people he knew, it seemed, had lost their fathers--Binabik's in a
snowslide, Prince Josua's to old age. Jeremias the chandler's boy, Simon
remembered, had lost his to the chest-fever; Princess Miriamele's sire
might as well be dead. He thought about his own father, drowned before
he was born. Were fathers just that way, like cats and dogs, making
children and then going away?
 "Sludig!" he called, "do you have a father?"
     The Rimmersman turned, an irritated expression on his face. "What do
you mean by that, boy?" "I mean is he alive?"
    "For all I know," the Rimmersman snorted. "And little I care, either.
The old devil could be in Hell and it would not bother me." He turned
back to the snow-shrouded road.
    I will not be a father like that, Simon decided, clutching the child a little
closer. Vren moved uneasily beneath Simon's cloak. I'll stay with my son.
We'll have a home, and I won't go away.


276                                   Tad Williams

    But who would be the mother? A series of confusing images, random as
snowflakes, flurried before his mind's eye: Miriamele distant on her tower
balcony at the Hayholt, the maid Hepzibah, cross old Rachel, and angry-
eyed Lady Vorzheva. And where would his home be? He looked around
at the vast whiteness of the Waste and the approaching shadow of Aldheorte.
How could anyone hope to stay in one place in this mad world? To
promise that to a child would be a lie. Home? He would be lucky to find a
place to get out of the wind for a night.
    His unhappy laugh set Vren to squirming; Simon pulled the cloak
tighter around them both.

    As they approached the eastern outskirts of Grinsaby they still had not
seen a living soul. Neither had there been any evidence of recent habita-
tion. They had questioned Vren closely, but had been unable to elicit any
information other than the name "Skodi."  "Is Skodi your father?" Simon asked.
 "It is a woman's name," Sludig offered. "A Rimmerswoman's name."
 Simon tried again. "Is Skodi your mother?"
    The boy shook his head. "I live with Skodi," he said, his words so clear
despite the accent that Simon wondered again if the boy was not older
than they had guessed.
    There were still a few desolate settlements perched among the low hills
along the White Way, but they were appearing more and more infre-
quently. Night had come on, filling the spaces between trees with inky
shadows. The company had ridden too long--and too far past eating-time
by Simon's reckoning. Darkness now made their search impractical. Binabik
was just setting a pitchy pine limb alight to use as a torch when Simon
saw a gleam of light through the forest, some distance from the road.
    "Look there!" he cried. "I think it's a fire!" The distant white-blanketed
trees seemed to glow redly.
    "Skodi's house! Skodi's house!" the boy said, bouncing so that Simon
had to restrain him. "She'll be happy!"
 The company sat for a moment, eyeing the flickering light.
    "We go carefully," Sludig said, flexing the fingers that clutched his
Qanuc spear. "It is a damned odd place to live. We have no assurance
these folks will be friendly."
    Simon felt a sudden inner chili at Sludig's words. If only Thorn were
reliable enough for him to carry at his side! He felt his bone knife in its
scabbard and was reassured.
    "I will ride ahead," Binabik said. "I am smaller and Qantaqa is more
quiet. We will go to have a look." He murmured a word; the wolf slid off
the road through the long shadows, her tail waving like a puff of smoke.
    A few minutes passed. Simon and Sludig rode slowly along the snowy
downs, not talking. Staring at the warm light that shimmered in the




STONE OF FAREWELL

277

treetops, Simon had fallen into a sort of shallow dream when he was
startled by the troll's abrupt reappearance. Qantaqa grinned hugely, her red
tongue hanging from her mouth.
    "It is an old abbey, I am thinking," Binabik said, his face almost hidden
in the darkness of his hood. "There is a bonfire in the dooryard and
several people who are around it, but they look to be children. I was
seeing no horses, no sign of anyone waiting to ambush."
    They rode quietly forward to the crest of a low hill. The fire burned
before them at the bottom of a tree-lined clearing, surrounded by small,
dancing silhouettes. Behind them loomed the red-tinted stone walls and
cracked mortar of the abbey. It was an old building that had suffered
beneath the weather's rough handling: the long roof had collapsed in
several places, the holes gaping at the stars like mouths. Many of the
surrounding trees also seemed to have pushed their limbs right through
the small windows, as though trying to escape the cold.
    As they sat looking, Vren slithered free beneath Simon's arm and
hopped down from the saddle, tumbling into the show. He stood, shaking
like a dog, then pelted down :he hill toward the bonfire. Some of the
small shapes turned at his approach with glad cries. Vren stood among
them for a moment, waving his arms excitedly, then pushed through the
abbey's front door and disappeared into the warm glow.
    When long moments had passed and no one came back out again,
Simon looked inquiringly at Binabik and Sludig.
 "It is certainly seeming to be his home," Binabik said.
    "Should we go on our way?" Simon asked, hoping they would say no.
Sludig looked him over, then grunted in exasperation.
    "It would be foolish to pass the chance of a warm night," the
Rimmersman said grudgingly. "And we are ready to make camp. But no
word of who we are or what we do. We are soldiers run away from the
garrison at Skoggey, should any ask."
    Binabik smiled. "I approve of your logic, although I am doubting I can
be mistaken for a Rimmserman warrior. Let us go and see Vren's home."
    They cantered down into the dell. The small figures, perhaps half a
dozen in all, had resumed their dancing game, but as Simon and the others
approached they paused and fell silent. They were only raggedly-dressed
children, as Binabik had suggested.
    All eyes now turned to the new arrivals. Simon felt himself subjected to
a thorough scrutiny. The children seemed to range in age from three or
four up to Vren's age or a little older, and seemed to be of no one type.
There was a little girl who shared Vren's black hair and dark eyes, but also
two or three others so fair they could be nothing but Rimmersgarders. All
wore expressions of wide-eyed caution. As Simon and his friends dis-
mounted, heads turned almost in unison to watch. No one spoke.
    "Hello," Simon said. The boy nearest him stared sullenly, his face lapped
in firelight. "Is your mother here?" The boy continued to stare.


278                                   Tad Williams

    "The child we brought went inside," Sludig said. "That is undoubtedly
where the grown folk are." He hefted his spear thoughtfully and a half-
dozen pairs of eyes warily followed his movement. The Rimmersman
took the spear with him toward the abbey door which Vren had swung
shut behind him, then propped it against the pitted mortar of the wall.
    He gave his silent audience a meaningful look. "No one may touch
this," he said. "Understood? Gjal es, kiinden,t'' He patted his scabbarded
sword, then lifted a fist and thumped on the door. Simon looked back at
Thorn, a hide-wrapped bundle on one of the packhorses. He wondered
whether he should bring it with him, but decided that would draw more
attention than was best. Still, it rankled. So many sacrifices to get the black
sword, just to leave it strapped to the saddle like an old broomstick.
    "Binabik," he said quietly, pointing at the concealed sword. "Do you
think... ?"
    The troll shook his head. "Little need for concern, I am certain," the
troll whispered. "In any case, even if these children were to steal it, I am
guessing they would have a difficult time carrying it away."
The heavy door swung slowly open. Little Vren stood in the doorway.
"Come in, you men. Skodi says come in."
Binabik dismounted. Qantaqa sniffed the air for a moment, then bounded
away in the direction they had come. The children by the fire watched her
departure raptly.
    "Let her hunt," Binabik said. "She is not happy walking inside a
people-house. Come, Simon, we have been offered some hospitality." He
stepped past Sludig and followed Vren inside.
    A fire nearly as large as the bonfire in the dooryard was roaring and
crackling in the grate, throwing wild, flickering shadows on the cob-
webbed plaster. Simon's first impression of the room was of some kind of
animal nest. Great piles of clothes and straw and other more unusual
articles were piled haphazardly on every dirty surface.
    "Welcome, strangers," someone said. "I'm Skodi. Do you have any
food? The children are very hungry."
    She was sitting in a chair close to the fire, with several children younger
than those in the yard clambering over her lap or sitting at her feet.
Simon's first thought was that she was another child herself--albeit a very
large one--but after a moment's inspection he could see that she was his
own age or even a little older. Her white-blonde hair, colorless as spider
silk, fra~ned a round face that might have been quite pretty, despite a few
blemishes, if she had not been so fat. Her pale blue eyes stared avidly at
the new arrivals.
     Sludig looked at her suspiciously, uncomfortable in such close sur-
 roundings. "Food? We have little, mistress ..." he considered for a
 moment, "... but you are welcome to share."
  She waved her hand airily. Her chubby pink arm nearly dislodged a


d
~r

a
e

f
1

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STONE OF FAREWELL

279

sleeping toddler. "It's not important. We always get by." As Sludig had
predicted, she spoke Westerling with a heavy Rimmersgard accent. "Sit
down and tell me the news of the world." She frowned, pursing her red
lips. "There may be some beer somewhere. You men like beer, don't
you? Vren, go find some beer. And where are those oak-nuts I sent you
for?"
    Sludig looked up suddenly. "Oh." Sheepishly, he produced Vren's acorns
from his cloak pocket.
  "Good," Skodi said. "Now beer."
    "Yes, Skodi." Vren scuttled off down an aisle of stacked stools, vanish-
ing into the shadows.
    "How is it, if we may be asking, that you can live out here?" Binabik
said. "It seems a place of great isolation."
    Skodi had been staring at him avidly. Now her eyebrows lifted in
surprise. "I thought you were a child!" She sounded disappointed. "But
you are a little man."
    "Qanuc, my lady." Binabik sketched a bow. "What your people call
'trolls.'"
    "A troll!" She clapped her hands in excitement. This time, one of the
children did slither off her rounded lap into the blankets coiled at her feet.
The little one did not wake, and another quickly crawled up to take the
spot the first had vacated. "So wonderful! We have never had a troll here!"
She turned and called into the darkness. 'Wren! Where is the beer for these
men?"
    "Where did all these children come from?" Simon asked wonderingly.
"Are they all yours?"
    A defensive look came to the girl's face. "Yes. They are now. Their
parents did not want them, so Skodi keeps them instead."
    "Well...' Simon was nonplussed. "Well, that's very kind of you. But
how do you feed them? You said they were hungry."
     "Yes, it is kind," Skodi said, smiling now. "It is kind of me, but that is
how I was taught. Lord Usires said to shelter the children." "Aye," Sludig grumbled. 'That's so."
    Vren came back into the firelight balancing a jar of beer and several
cracked bowls. The pile swayed dangerously, but with help he was able to
set them down and pour beer for all three travelers. The wind had risen,
making the flames billow in the grate.
    "This is a very good fire," Sludig said as he wiped froth from his
mustache. "You must have had a difficult time finding dry wood in
yesterday's storm."
    'Oh, Vren chopped for me early in the spring." She reached out and
patted the boy's head with her plump hand. "He butchers and cooks, too.
He is my good boy, Vren is."
 "Is there no one here who is older?" Binabik asked. "I am meaning


280                                   Tad Williams

nothing discourteous, but you seem young to raise these children in
solitude."
    Skodi looked at him carefully before answering. "I told you. Their
mothers and fathers have gone away. There is no one here but us. But we
do very well, don't we, Vren?"
    "Yes, Skodi." The little boy's eyes were growing heavy. He snuggled
himself against her leg, basking in the warmth of the fire.
    "So," she said at last, "you said that you had some food. Why do you
not get it, then we can share. We can find the makings of a meal
somewhere here. Wake up, Vren, you lazy thing!" She cuffed him lightly
on the side of the head. "Wake up! It's time to make supper!"
    "Don't wake him," Simon said, feeling sorry for the little black-haired
boy. "We'll take care of the meal."
    "Nonsense," Skodi said. She gave the protesting Vren a gentle shake.
"He loves to make supper. You go and get what you have. You will stay
the night, yes? Then you should stable your horses. I think the stable is
around the side of the courtyard. Vren, get up, you lazy lump! Where is
the stable?"

    The forest had grown close around the back of the abbey where the stables
were located. The old trees, dusted with snow, swayed mournfully as
Simon and his companions threw dry straw onto the floor of one of the
stalls and dumped snow into the trough to melt. The stable seemed to
have been used occasionally--there were blackened torches in the cres-
sets, and the crumbling walls had been haphazardly patched--but it was
hard to guess when the most recent occasion might have been. "Shall we bring all our things inside?" Simon asked.
    "I am thinking so," Binabik replied, loosening the belly-strap on one of
the packhorses. "I doubt the children would steal anything that was not
food, but who can say what might become mislaid?"
    The smell of wet horses was strong. Simon rubbed Homefinder's hard
flank. "Don't you think it's strange that no one lives here but children?"
    Sludig laughed shortly. "The young woman is older than you,
Snowlock--and quite a lot of woman at that. Girls her age often have
children of their own."
    Simon blushed, but his irritated reply was forestalled by Binabik. "I am
thinking," the troll said, "that Simon speaks with good sense. There are
things unclear about this place. It will do no harm to ask more questions
of our hostess."
    Simon wrapped Thorn in his cloak before carrying it back through the
snow to the abbey. The changeable sword was at this moment quite light.
It also seemed to throb slightly, although Simon knew that might be no more
than his chilled, trembling hands. When little Vren let them back inside,
Simon placed Thorn near the hearth where they would sleep and piled


                                 STONE OF FAREWELL                                                 281

 several of their saddlebags atop it, as though to immobilize a sleeping
 beast that might wake and flail about.
    Supper was an odd mixture of unusual food and strange conversation.
Beside the remains of dried fruit and meat provided by the three travelers,
Skodi and her young charges put out bowls of bitter acorns and sour
berries. Scavenging, Vren found a molding but edible cheese somewhere in
the abbey's ruined larder, along with several more jars of musky Rimmersgard
beer. With this they managed to make a meal that served the whole
company, albeit meagerly: the children all assembled numbered a dozen or
more.
    Binabik found little time to ask questions during the meal. Those of
Skodi's charges who were old enough to go outside stood up to relate
fanciful stories of various adventures they had encountered that day,
stories so exaggerated as to be obviously untrue. One little girl told of
flying to the top of a mighty pine tree to steal a feather from a magical
jaybird. Another, one of the older boys, swore that he had found a chest
of ogre's gold in a cave in the forest. Vren, when his turn came, calmly
informed his listeners that while gathering acorns he had been pursued by
an icy demon with glinting blue eyes, and that Simon and his two
companions had saved him from the frosty menace's clutches, smiting it
with their swords until it shattered into icicles.
    Skodi held the smaller children on her lap as she ate, each in its turn,
and listened to each story with an expression of envious fascination. She
rewarded those she enjoyed most by giving the teller an extra morsel of
food, which was eagerly accepted--indeed, Simon decided, the reward
was probably the main reason for the fabulous nature of the stories.
    There was something about Skodi's face that Simon found captivating.
Despite her great size, there was a delicacy to her girlish features and a
brightness to her eyes and smile that transfixed him. At certain moments,
as she laughed breathlessly at one of the children's inventions, or turned so
that the firelight played glinting in her flaxen hair, she seemed quite
beautiful; at others, when she greedily snatched a handful of berries from
one of the smaller the children and stuffed her wide mouth, or when her
spellbound appreciation of the story-telling for a moment resembled mere
idiocy, he found her repellent.'
    A few times she caught Simon staring. The glances she returned to him
frightened him a little, even as they made him blush. Skodi, for all her
bulk, wore a hungering look that would not have been out of place on a
starveling beggar.
    "So," she said when Vren had finished his wild tale, "you are even
braver men than I guessed." She smiled hugely at Simon. "We will sleep
well tonight, knowing you are under our roof. You do not think Vren's
ice-demon has brothers, do you?"
 'I am thinking it is not likely," Binabik said with a gentle smile. "You


