Vigri clapped his hands together. “Aedon be praised—that is excellent news indeed!”
“I would rather it were ten times that many, but it will surely help.” The duke smiled again and raised his ale bowl in a toast. “By my beard, Helgrimnur is a good man, and I will not forget it!”
“Is there a chance that we may hear back from any others?” Vigri asked.
Isgrimnur shook his head. “Not before we cross into the Norn lands, I think. But Helgrimnur’s muster makes up for the numbers we have lost so far.”
“As long as these new folk don’t get between me and the creatures I’ll be killing, they are welcome,” said Brindur. “I have a mind to lay my hands on the queen of the fairies herself. Maybe she’ll grant me a wish before I strangle her.”
Isgrimnur hurriedly made the sign of the Tree. “Trust me, Brindur, you don’t know what you’re talking about. She would freeze the marrow in your bones if you met her.”
“We’ll see,” said Brindur. “In any case, my sword needs sharpening again. Fairy armor makes a blade dull, and fairy bones are worse.”
“Even with more fighters, the next part will not be easy,” Isgrimnur warned. “God save me, none of this has been easy.”
“You think too much, my lord,” said Brindur, and it was hard to tell whether he meant sarcasm or honest reproof. “See the enemy. Kill the enemy. That is the whole of our task.”
“Ah, such simple bloodlust reminds me of an old friend,” Isgrimnur said, half-amused, but a moment later the memory turned sour. “The White Foxes killed him in Aldheorte Forest.”
“I hate to disagree with you, Thane Brindur,” said Vigri. “But I would like to add another task to your list: Return alive.”
“I hold to an older tradition, my lord,” said Brindur. “I would like to live, but I would rather see our enemies dead. I will look down happily from the feasting halls of our ancestors if I take enough of the whiteskins with me.”
Isgrimnur had heard enough. He had men to bury, if the living had managed by now to make a big enough hole in such icy ground. He reached for the ale and took a long draught, then took another before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “God grant us victory,” was all he said.
Endri was not dead, but there were moments now that Porto could almost wish the Norn arrow had killed him outright.
One of the Rimmersgard surgeons had cut deep into the young man’s back to remove the black dart, and sluiced the wound with strong spirits. At first it seemed that Endri would recover, because the arrow itself had stuck in his shoulder blade instead of slicing through to his lungs and heart, but whether because of the foul airs of the Nornfells or some poison on the arrowhead, the wound did not heal. At first it was only obvious by the fevers that shook his body and the pains that made him cry out as he slipped in and out of restless sleep. But by the time a full day had passed Porto could see a black stain beneath the skin that had spread outward from the original arrow wound into a blotch bigger than his hand. It was hot to the touch, and the skin seemed almost lifeless beneath Porto’s fingers.
“Can you feel my touch here?” he asked as he probed at the lumpy area around the wound.
“Yes. But it’s no worse . . . than any other part of me. I hurt all over. God help me, Porto, it feels like my blood is on fire in my veins!”
“You should not have risked your life for me,” he said, then regretted it.
Endri tried to sit up but failed, slumping back. The light of the campfire made the whites of his eyes seem as yellow as a wolf’s. “No!” He struggled to take a deeper breath. “You are my only friend. Don’t . . . don’t be foolish. You would have done the same . . . the same for me.” The effort of speaking had exhausted him, and he closed his eyes again. His chest moved up and down in little jerks.
What are we doing here? Porto wondered. What are we doing in this cold, empty place, out at the arse-end of nowhere? It would be different if we were fighting for Ansis Pelippé, to protect our own folk.
As if he had heard Porto’s thoughts of home, Endri opened his eyes. For a moment he looked around wildly, as if he did not know where he was, but when he saw Porto’s face he calmed. “I want to go back,” was what he said. “Back to Harborside.”
“You will, I promise. Just rest. Here, drink a little of this.” He lifted the cup of melted snow to Endri’s lips and steadied it while the young man sipped. “You will be well again. We will go back to Perdruin together in triumph.” He looked at Endri’s dull, listless face and added, “And who knows what booty we will bring? Gold from out of Stormspike itself, maybe, or jewels from some fairy princess’s wardrobe. Even a Norn sword or battle helm will bring a pretty price in Ansis Pelippé, you can be sure of that. We will be rich men. Famous, too—the heroes who fought the Norns.”
Endri shook his head, eyes closed again, but this time he smiled. “That is why you are my friend, Porto. You tell such pretty lies. And the Geysers and the Dogfish will celebrate together too, and no one will fight.”
“Quiet now. Sleep is the best cure.”
Endri’s smile shrank but did not entirely disappear. When he spoke again, he seemed to be a long distance away. “Don’t worry about me, my friend. I will have plenty of time to sleep soon.”
Porto pulled the youth’s cloak up beneath his chin to keep out the chill. Now that they were on the far side of the pass, there was nothing to block the icy wind that knifed down from the heights. Finished, he turned away from Endri and pretended to stoke the fire, because it was becoming obvious that the freezing drops that stung Porto’s cheeks were nothing to do with the fluttering snow.
Part
Three
The Nakkiga Gate
It was hard to see anything except the great cone of Nakkiga; it dominated the center of the uneven plateau like a brooding, robed figure.
To Viyeki, their sacred peak had always meant many things—a refuge, a parent, a stern and disappointed teacher. Now, as it grew larger before them, hour by hour, he felt his sense of shame grow as well, knowing that he and the other children of the Garden were returning to the mountain in such disarray, not as saviors and barely as survivors; drowning men washed up on a beach only after they had given up hope.
General Suno’ku led the procession, riding ahead of the catafalque bearing the makeshift wooden coffin of her foreparent, Ekisuno the Great, hero of a dozen battles but now only one more corpse, another victim of the mortals’ hatred. Viyeki could not help thinking of The Heart of What Was Lost, the ancient jewel that hung around his master Yaarike’s neck, hidden inside the magister’s garments.
Is that all our people have to show in the end? Viyeki wondered. More losses? Is this tattered army we bring back, a few hundred out of all the thousands who went south, just another display of our ultimate fate, as pointless as a gem commemorating the vanished Garden? Is all we have—all we are—only a memorial of what we failed to save?
Viyeki could see nothing else ahead for his people, even if they survived this terrible failure. We retreat. We hide. We diminish. Eventually we will disappear except in old stories. And they will not be our stories. Alone among her peers, only General Suno’ku seemed to believe differently. Only Suno’ku had given him anything like hope. But now they were home again, and the only real truths were failure, regret, and loss.
He looked to his master, wondering if Yaarike was thinking similar thoughts, but as usual the magister’s face was as enigmatic as a stone weathered smooth by centuries of wind and rain. Viyeki could only wonder how he could hope, one day, to replace a leader of such depth and subtlety.
I am not enough, my great queen, he thought. You need heroes not mere Builders. I am not enough.
The small procession wound through the ruins of the abandoned city of Nakkiga-That-Was, picking its way across the pocked and uneven surfaces of a road that had once been the Royal Way. Only a few stones remaine
d from a thoroughfare so wide that a dozen riders could make their way along it side by side without touching. The rest of the paving had been plundered long ago for the city inside the mountain when the Hikeda’ya had turned inward, withdrawing from the hostile world the mortals had created.
But the old city still remained in the tumbled ruins and rings of stones that showed where the great buildings had once stood. The high Gyrfalcon Castles that had once clung to the side of the mountain itself were gone, but their telltales remained, at least to Viyeki’s practiced eye. The Sky Palace was only a field of rubble and dead frozen grass, but once, its open dome had framed the night sky in glory for the observers below. Here the Moon Festival Canal and its tributaries had wound through the city like rivers of quicksilver. Delicate boats had carried soldiers, courtiers, spies, and lovers to their various destinies.
For a moment it seemed as though Viyeki could see these pathetic remnants and also the glorious city that had rivaled Asu’a itself—both the arches of the solemn Queen’s Gallery as it once stood and the long-collapsed pillars of today; the graceful curves of the Bridge of Exodus and the trample of icy mud that marked all that was left. Where the delicate, high houses of lords and ladies had stood, poems in stone and sky, only a few protruding rocks still remained, broken teeth in a skeletal jaw, the mansions’ owners long gone into the Elder Halls in the Silent Palace beneath Nakkiga. The only thing that remained of all that glory was the mountain itself, and the tall gates that offered darkness and safety to those they welcomed.
We come out into the sun only to fight now, Viyeki suddenly realized. It was an idea that, once it entered his mind, would not go away. We call darkness our friend, but when the elders tell us stories of the Garden, they talk of the holy, unending light that was there. How did shadows become our only dwelling?
As they crossed the rocky, frozen mire at the mountain’s foot that had once been the Field of Banners, the great marshaling ground of the Sacrifice order, Viyeki saw that Nakkiga’s tall gates stood open. For an instant, all his thoughts fled away in fear that they had come home too late—that the mortals had somehow beat them here, that nothing would be left to greet them but blood and death. Then he saw the thin line of armored Sacrifices drawn up on either side of the massive witchwood doors and his heart slowed. The mortals had not yet come. The people of Nakkiga were waiting to welcome them home.
As they rode up the slope between the waiting Sacrifices, Viyeki could not help noticing that most of these warriors were too young or too old for proper service. Mortals might not be able to tell the difference between one Hikeda’ya and another, but Viyeki saw the tight-stretched skin of the old and weary and the over-straight backs and gleaming eyes of the young, who did not understand yet how many defeated armies had returned through these gates over the years, each time in smaller and smaller numbers.
As General Suno’ku steered her mount between the honor guard, a crowd of Singers stepped out of the great gate, led by a rider on a great black horse. The rider raised his palm in salute, and even from a distance Viyeki could see that his face was covered with a mask of translucent dried flesh.
Viyeki felt his heart grow cold. It was Akhenabi, the Lord of Song. He had returned from the south before them. Viyeki knew he should have been overjoyed that such a powerful figure still lived, but instead he remembered the possession of Tzayin-Kha at Three Ravens Tower and felt instead a choking fear. General Suno’ku had ignored Akhenabi’s orders and then killed the Lord of Song’s minion, Tzayin-Kha. What would come from that—and would it come only to Suno’ku, or were the rest of them tainted by her disobedience, too? Viyeki had heard enough stories of the Cold, Slow Halls to know that he would rather face the executioner’s cord and rod a hundred times than be handed over to the pain-masters of Akhenabi’s order.
Although his voice was as harsh and commanding as ever, the Lord of Song offered only pleasantries: “You return to us, General Suno’ku. I see you bring back the remains of your glorious ancestor Marshal Ekisuno as well. He will lie in state in Black Water Field before he goes to the Silent Palace, so that the people may thank him for his sacrifice.”
But to Viyeki’s astonishment, Suno’ku said, “No. You are kind, High Magister Akhenabi, but my foreparent’s body will lie in the dooryard of the Iyora clan-house instead, as is our custom.”
Akhenabi was surprised by this refusal, as evidenced by a moment of stillness before he spoke again. “Ah, but such things should not be discussed here, as if you were strangers on the doorstep. I come on the queen’s behalf to welcome you home. There is much to discuss.”
“Is the queen awake?” asked Suno’ku. “After her valiant efforts were undone by the mortals, I thought she would still be deep in the keta-yi’indra.”
“Yes, of course,” said Akhenabi with just the faintest trace of stiffness; nobody any farther from the conversation than Viyeki and the other surviving nobles would have recognized it. “The mother of us all still sleeps the yi’indra, regaining her strength. I speak on her behalf, only. We have suffered a great catastrophe and Nakkiga was in disarray. Someone had to take the reins of governance.” He stopped abruptly, aware that he had been connived into defending himself. Viyeki thought that even where he stood, several paces away, he could feel the Lord of Song’s cold rage.
“And, as always, Nakkiga is grateful to you, Magister Akhenabi.” Suno’ku turned to the Sacrifice soldiers still waiting in their silent lines. “And to you, true Sacrifices all. We have fought the more bravely because we knew you were here, protecting those we hold dearest.” She turned back to Akhenabi and his crimson-robed flock of Singers. “Let us enter now, my lord. We fly just before the storm, and there is little time to waste.”
Akhenabi waved his hand and the Singers cleared the doorway; but as Suno’ku rode through, the Lord of Song tugged on the black horse’s reins and turned so that he rode beside her. Viyeki felt a moment of helpless envy: Like the Lord of Song and the general, High Magister Yaarike was entering Nakkiga mounted on a fine horse, the property of a Sacrifice who had died at Three Ravens Tower. He and Yaarike had been almost equals while they were on the run in mortal lands, but Viyeki was still on foot, and it would be a long, weary walk to the center of the city for him and the rest of the returning Hikeda’ya.
Did I put too much stock in the favor Yaarike showed me while we were in danger together? He did say I would be his successor. He said it so clearly I could not be mistaken.
As they moved into Nakkiga, Viyeki discovered to his surprise that the city’s broad Glinting Passage was lined with hundreds of their people, mostly ordinary Hikeda’ya from the lowest castes. Like the guard of Sacrifices, they seemed mostly very young or very old. All were ragged and hunger-thin, but when they saw Suno’ku they cheered as though she were the queen herself. Nor was it only the lower castes that had come to see the spectacle of their return: other Nakkigai were watching the procession from the balconies of noble dwellings far above them, and many of these were also cheering Suno’ku and her Sacrifices.
Viyeki hurried forward until he caught up to Yaarike, who rode last in the line of returning nobles. “Lord Akhenabi looks unhappy, Master,” he said quietly. “He has never been celebrated this way.”
“Nor does he wish to be.” Yaarike sounded out of sorts. “The Lord of Song works best in darkness and quiet. It is not the trappings of power he desires, but power itself.”
“But he cannot be happy with how the people cheer for Suno’ku.”
“Neither am I.” Yaarike made a gesture to forestall his underling’s question. “Remember what I tell you now, Host Foreman Viyeki—the enemy of your enemy is not always your friend.” He said no more, but spurred his horse ahead. Viyeki was left to wonder at his master’s words.
At last they reached Black Water Field, the vast common square at the foot of the cascading Tearfall, where the great stairs led from the main part of the city up to the dwellings o
f the nobility on the second tier and beyond that to the houses of the dead and the queen’s palace on the third tier. The crowds had followed them but the cheering quieted as they moved deeper into the city, where the gaunt faces of the citizens watched as though waiting for some revelation. Suno’ku directed the bearers to carry General Ekisuno’s body up onto the great stone platform, a monument commonly known as Drukhi’s Altar in honor of the queen’s dead son, although in truth it had been built as a memorial to all the martyrs of Nakkiga’s wars.
When the catafalque was set down, Suno’ku stood over the simple coffin for a moment, as if in silent conversation with her foreparent, then turned and walked to the front of the platform to face the gathered throng, her silver owl helmet under her arm, her pale hair shining in the torchlight. When she stopped at the edge of the platform it was impossible to miss that she had placed herself between Lord Akhenabi and the people gathered below.
“Hikeda’yei!” she said, her voice loud and clear and tuneful as a battle-trumpet. “Go to your orders now, all you of noble castes—there is much to do to prepare for this coming siege. The rest of you, fear not! You will have work to do as well in the days to come, and your share of the glory will be no less. We will triumph together, first against the army that comes to destroy us, later against a mortal world that no longer fears us. Because we will change that. We will triumph. For the Garden!”
The general did not wait for the cheers to die down this time but signaled for the bearers to lift her foreparent’s catafalque and follow her back down into the square. Viyeki, like many of the other nobles, could only watch in amazement as she and her guards made their way through the throng, so close to the people that many on either side reached out, trying to touch her as she passed. Some even threw flowers, and not just onto Ekisuno’s coffin but onto Suno’ku herself, pale blooms of snowsun and everwhite stolen from the offering-vases of long-dead heroes. Others called out her name and begged her to save them. Viyeki had never seen the lower castes so moved by anyone but the queen herself.