Then, as if merely saying those two words had exhausted his last strength, the dying man collapsed to the churned earth. Porto shouted out for help, his voice cracking, but nobody came. In the gray before dawn, the mountainside looked like some mad artist’s depiction of Hell itself—a cold hell, not a lake of fire but a place of corpses and near-corpses slowly whitening beneath drifting snow. The man who had collapsed at his feet let out a last, rattling wheeze of breath, then lay still.
Porto crawled a little way off from the dead soldier and sank into a crouch, rocking himself back and forth. The rising sun was just beginning to warm the sky but the new light only made the charnel wreckage around him more horrible, the bodies more pitiful. At last, strengthless and exhausted, he fell back onto the cold ground and wept.
“Before discussing this fateful hour of the siege, when Akhenabi and his Singers raised the mortal dead and General Suno’ku led a sally out of the gates in an effort to destroy the Northmen’s great ram, your chronicler must speak with her own voice for a moment, to tell something of the difficulties our order faces when trying to relate the tales of such times.
“It is not for poetry alone that we name our queen’s restorative slumbers the keta-yi’indra—“dangerous sleep.” The word keta’s origins date back to the Garden itself, and it contains in its meaning not just the idea of “dangerous” but also “chaotic” and “unknowable.”
We Cloud Children do not use keta to describe other perils. A wounded giant or thousands of Northmen besieging Nakkiga are both dangerous to our folk, but they are not unknowable. But our queen’s sleep of recovery brings a special kind of threat to our race—chaos and the unknown—simply because she is not present to guide us. The order of things is compromised, as if the stars themselves left their celestial tracks and made for themselves new and random ways across the sky. When the queen sleeps, instead of her loved and trusted voice, many voices speak to us, and many hands strive for mastery of the People’s fate. Nothing is in its proper place.
“‘In the season of keta-yi’indra,’ Kusayu the Fourth Celebrant once declared, ‘the sky and earth change places and the mountain stands on its peak.’ It was in Kusayu’s day that Drukhi the Martyr, the queen’s son, was murdered by mortals. In her grief, Utuk’ku slept even longer than she has in our present time, and during that sleep many things changed in Nakkiga. The people were lost as though in a great darkness and all was uncertain.
“And so it was on that more recent day we speak of here, during the Northmen’s siege of Nakkiga, when sudden victory and sudden defeat were both in our reach at the same moment. But in the end, both possibilities vanished.
“The risk of opening the gates for General Suno’ku’s attack on the black iron ram did not end in disaster, as some feared, but neither was the weapon destroyed before the general and her surviving Sacrifices were forced to retreat.
“And Lord Akhenabi sang a song of such power that hundreds upon hundreds of mortal corpses rose from their burial places and walked beneath the sky, slaying many of our enemy and striking terror into them all. But it was not enough to drive the Northmen out of our lands again.
“The uncertainty of those days also spawned many tales and rumors that are still told, and which make the work of a humble chronicler much more difficult. In such times, truth is always elusive. Some might even say that when the queen sleeps there are suddenly many truths, precisely because it is our great queen herself in her wisdom, power, and ubiquity who determines the order of all things. In her absence, facts are no longer trustworthy. In her absence, authority is diffused or even lost entirely. How can we know what is real? And how can a mere chronicler discern the truth of such moments after the fact, even less than a Great Year later?
“All that seems to be certain about that night is that Lord Akhenabi raised the mortal dead and General Suno’ku did her best to cripple the mortals’ siege engine. One succeeded and one failed, but still the siege dragged on. Even today many tales are told about that hour of the open gates, of folk slipping out of Nakkiga in the confusion, or (as some claim) spies from outside sneaking into the city itself, but these are whispers from a time when what was real was not fixed, when our queen slept and nothing was certain except chaos and the unknown. No one can say precisely what happened, least of all a mere chronicler, because truth itself was sleeping.”
—Lady Miga seyt-Jinnata of the Order of Chroniclers
Isgrimnur was so tired he could barely put one foot in front of the other, but the long day was not quite over yet. He thanked almighty God that at least the risen dead seemed to be staying dead now that the sun had come up. Now the bodies that had risen would have to be burned after appropriate prayers. The duke decided on his way back to his tent that he would let the army’s chief priest lead the ritual this time. Wasn’t that the fellow’s calling, anyway? Isgrimnur had run out of things to say.
Someone was waiting for him inside his tent, silent and unmoving in the shadows. Isgrimnur snatched at his dagger, raging at himself for his inattention, but when he took a menacing step forward, the figure made no move to resist.
“Send your carls away, Duke Isgrimnur. I would speak for your ears only.”
“Ayaminu?” Isgrimnur’s heart was pounding. “By the Aedon, woman, what are you doing waiting in the dark like that? I might have killed you!”
The Sitha inclined her head. “You might.” She did not sound as if she thought it likely.
“Where have you been?” he demanded, the shock making him bluster louder than he might have otherwise. “I called for you many times during the rising of the dead, but you did not answer.”
“No,” she said. “I did not. And that is all I can safely tell you.”
Isgrimnur could not help wondering whether she had done something to betray him but could not imagine a reason why she would. “What is it you want, fairy woman?” he asked at last. “I have dead men to burn and a siege to finish.”
Ayaminu nodded. “I told you before, that you could not understand the deeps inside the mountain and the veins of what you might call madness among the Hikeda’ya. Before you plan the rest of your battle, I believe there are other deeps you must plumb. One of them is the history of our folk, which extends far beyond the arrival of mortal men in these lands.”
Isgrimnur poured himself a bowl of ale from a pitcher. It was colder than he liked, but he had cursed the weather enough already. He offered some to the Sitha-woman but she shook her head. “So speak,” he told her.
“I think you know a little of what is called The Parting, when the Hikeda’ya and my clan, the Zida’ya, went their separate ways,” Ayaminu told him. “The Hikeda’ya—the Norns or White Foxes, as you call them—have long declared that it was you mortals who drove our two tribes apart, the Hikeda’ya wanting revenge for the death of Queen Utuk’ku’s son but the Zida’ya unwilling to join them in destroying another race.”
Isgrimnur had heard something of this from young Simon, but he could remember very little of what their young king had told him of fairy history. Isgrimnur’s father had converted from the old faith to the Church of Usires Aedon when Isgrimnur was young, and it had been hard enough to learn all the new Usirean lore. He still swore by the wrong gods sometimes: he had scant room to carry around Sithi stories as well. “Treat me like an ignorant mortal,” he suggested.
Ayaminu actually smiled, a sight so rare Isgrimnur was a little startled. He generally thought of her as old, in part because of her snowy white hair and her slow, cautious speech, but by any mortal standard she was quite beautiful, and at this moment he felt almost captivated by her. Fairy glamours, he told himself. Don’t ever tell Gutrun or she’ll make you regret it.
“I am not the oldest of my people,” Ayaminu said, “but I am by no means the youngest. I was born well before the Parting, and lived the first part of my life in Hikehikayo, in the snowy Whitefells far to the west of here. I see the lo
ok in your eyes, Duke—do not be impatient. I have been patient with you, and even though my work here is finished, I have remained to tell you things you need to know.”
“What do you mean, your work is finished?”
“What I say. I never claimed my people wanted the same thing yours do. I have done all that was asked of me.”
“And what was that work?”
She gave him a solemn stare. “It is possible you will never know—these are strange times, and they have spawned many strange enmities and alliances which cannot yet be divulged. And it may come to nothing in any case—only the Dance of Years will tell. But I have done what I came to do, and I promise I have not interfered in your war.”
“Our war?” He felt a rising surge of anger. “You call it ours?”
She raised a hand. “Peace, Duke Isgrimnur. I have things to tell you, and we are wasting time. War is like a skein of wool. Does the wool begin with the skein, or the sheep from which it came, or even from the person who first conceived of weaving with it? Does it end when the skein is finished, or when the garment is woven, or does it exist until the garment itself finally falls to tatters? What about those who remember that garment? It is still alive in their memory.”
“I don’t understand you. This seems like scholar-talk to little point!”
“Perhaps. But whoever’s war this is, I have done what was asked of me, and now it is finished. It is time for me to return to my people. If a day comes when I am allowed to speak of my part in things, I promise I will tell you. But before I go, I will speak to you from my own heart and tell you something that I think you should know, so heed me, Duke. There are some inside the mountain—some Norns, as you call them—who wish to end the fighting.”
Isgrimnur felt himself turning red. “Are you mad? Did you see what they did? Did your work, as you call it, whatever it was, prevent you from seeing how our own dead were summoned out of their graves and set against us?”
“That was by the hand of Akhenabi, Lord of Song. But he is not the only one defending the mountain, and while the queen of the Hikeda’ya sleeps, he is not the only voice and hand that matters.”
The duke shook his head in angry confusion. “What are you suggesting? That we bargain to lift the siege? Even if I believed you, why would I do such a thing? My men want blood for blood and death for death.”
“Of course they do. That is the nature of anger, of pain. But both your people and mine choose the most clear-headed among them to consider all possibilities when the rest are mad for destruction. Your people have chosen you, Duke Isgrimnur.”
“Tell me straightly what you’re saying, Ayaminu. I am tired, and my heart is cursed heavy with all that’s happened.” He poured himself more ale, drank it off this time in a swallow. “What are you telling me?”
“I did not finish my own history, Duke Isgrimnur,” she said, still standing in shadow. “Be patient with me yet a while. As I said, I was born in Hikehikayo before the Parting. In that city in those days there was no great separation between the Norns and the Sithi. All lived together and were much alike, and all gave their loyalty to the whole people. But that changed, and not just because of the death of the queen’s son. Long before Prince Drukhi’s death, a certain envy had already crept into Utuk’ku’s heart. I will not muddle you with the tangled details, but when Utuk’ku and her husband left my folk to lead their loyal clans on a different road, it was more to do with past grievances and perceived slights than anything else. The death of Drukhi was only the excuse.”
“I am already muddled.”
“Then I will make it simpler, Duke Isgrimnur. Just as there are Sithi who do not love mortals, there are a few Norns who do not entirely hate mortals. I grew up in Hikehikayo when those you call Norns and those you call Sithi, like me, still lived together in peace. And despite all the seasons that have swirled by since that time, I still know some among the Hikeda’ya, and know their hearts.”
“Are you saying you could convince them to surrender?”
She made a noise he couldn’t unpuzzle, a little burst of breath. “Me? No. As long as the queen lives, they will not surrender, especially the Order of Sacrifice. But that does not mean that the end of this struggle cannot be made less bloody, less vicious.”
Isgrimnur groaned. “For the love of the Lord God, no more clans, orders, or history, I beg you! Just tell me what you mean!”
“Only this. Speak to them, as you would any besieged mortal enemy. Give them your terms and let the less bloody-minded of Nakkiga hope for something other than complete destruction. It could be that the results will be better than you can now foresee.”
“How do you know? Perhaps like Brindur I have come to feel that only destroying every last one of those murdering creatures will satisfy me.”
“I know little of mortals, although I have long studied them, Isgrimnur—but I think I know something about you. I will say no more. I cannot say more. And this suggestion of mine may come to nothing, but I would not rest easily when my own song finally ends if I had not made the attempt.”
He did not like the implication that this strange, ageless female creature might know him better than he did himself. “A parley, then? All of this is to get me to parley with our enemies? The same white-skinned beasts who butchered my son Isorn and thousands upon thousands more?”
“To consider it, Duke, yes. To consider what such a parley might bring. To think about other ways of solving this problem. And it is a problem, Isgrimnur—mark me well. Even when you knock down the ancient gates, your work will only have begun. Do you think Akhenabi’s tricks were the worst thing you will ever see? I promise you, there are things waiting for you in the darkness of Ur-Nakkiga that will make you wish yourself deaf and blind from birth.” Her voice had risen a little, and although it was still not loud, it was all he could do not to step away from her. “Utuk’ku did not conquer an empty mountain. And the Norns have not stayed free for so long without learning something of their conquest and its secrets.”
“Is that a warning or a threat?”
“What warning does not contain some threat in it? But I promise I do not threaten you on the Hikeda’ya’s behalf. I say these things because, though I still find your people as dangerous as wild animals—but, sadly, without the innocence of beasts—I think there is more to you. The end of every battle is the beginning of something else, often something too large to understand at that moment, inside the Dance of Time.” Ayaminu now did something even more surprising than her smile: she bowed. “I must take my leave. I doubt we will see each other again, Isgrimnur, or that I will ever have the chance to explain more of what I have done here, and why. The world does not spin that way yet, and may never do so. But I wish you well.”
She slipped out of the tent while the duke was still trying to make sense of her last words, and by the time he pushed out through the door a few moments later he saw no sign of her, but only the frozen, muddy camp and the soldiers dragging bodies in the flurrying snow.
Part
Four
The Fatal Mountain
After long hours studying old charts and making his own painful and occasionally dangerous explorations, Viyeki had found a course for his men that would allow them to skirt the Forbidden Deeps in their continued excavation of a refuge. Still, solving that problem did not much improve his mood: even the most blinkered foreman in the order would have recognized the doom that hung over them, which might render even a completed refuge pointless. And that grim knowledge was not limited to the nobility. Every Hikeda’ya in Nakkiga knew what was coming, although some, by reason of their responsibilities or simple stubbornness, would not admit it.
Viyeki had long ago given up his family litter so that its parts could be used in repairs to the gate and other important things. Thus, on this day of the council meeting that might determine the fate of his entire race, the host foreman walked to the great Council
Palace. His sacrifice was a minor one, he knew, compared to most—the sight of so many starving folk in the streets made that clear. Many of the slaves and lower-caste Hikeda’ya seemed to have simply run out of strength even to finish their errands or return home, and sat slumped in the streets wherever they had stopped. But although Viyeki’s household still had food enough to maintain life, they did not have enough to share, especially with so many sufferers. More than half of the houses in Nakkiga’s lowest tier were now shuttered and dark, some because the residents had not returned from the war in the south, or had died from illness or starvation, but in many others the occupants were alive but staying almost motionless, hour after hour, to preserve their dying strength.
In the low-caste district close to the foot of the thundering Tearfall something had corrupted a warehouse full of black rye, sickening many of the already hungry residents and driving them to acts of madness so disturbing that the Queen’s Teeth, Utuk’ku’s private guard, had been dispatched by the War Council to close off the entire neighborhood. The queen’s elite guard sealed many houses with the howling tenants still inside; even after the noises finally ceased, nobody went near them. Viyeki had passed through the district once after the madness struck. Now he went no small distance out of his way to avoid it.
But even on the second tier, site of Viyeki’s own house and the mansions of other noble families, the distress of his people had become all too evident. Even the privileged clerics and Celebrant officials employed in the queen’s palace were growing emaciated, the skin of their faces almost transparent over the bones. Fear was everywhere, hanging over the city like smoke. Akhenabi’s great casting and Suno’ku’s raid had failed. The Northmen had not fled, the queen slept on, and the Order of Sacrifice had dwindled to a few hundred. And hour after hour, the pounding of the great ram thundered through Nakkiga’s silent streets.