Even as he strained to make the image clearer, the shadowy vision began to coalesce, until he at last could see that it was a ship, as blurry and imprecise as had been the dream-Tiamak in his parchment tower. The tall masts were hung with lank sails and fluttering ropes, all made from cobwebs, gray and dusty and tattered. The ship rocked as though in a great wind. The black waters beneath were studded with glowing whitecaps, and the sky overhead was just as black. Some force pushed at Simon, holding him away from the vessel despite his desperation to approach. He fought hard against it. Miriamele might be there!
Exerting his will to the utmost, Simon tried to force himself nearer to the ghostly ship, but a great dark curtain swept before him, a storm of rain and mist so thick as to be almost solid. He stopped, lost and helpless. Leleth was suddenly beside him, her smile gone, her small face set in a grimace of effort.
Miriamele! Simon cried. His voice pealed out—not from his own, but from Leleth’s mouth. Miriamele! he shouted again. Leleth forced herself a little nearer to the phantom, as though carrying his words as close as she could before they spilled from her mouth. Miriamele, come to the Stone of Farewell!
The boat had now vanished entirely and the storm was spreading to cover all the black sea. At its heart, Simon thought he saw jumping arcs of red light like those that had pierced the great whirlpool. What did this mean? Was Miriamele somehow endangered? Were her dreams invaded? He forced himself to a final effort, pushing hard against the swirling dream-storm, but to no avail. The ship was gone. The storm itself had completely surrounded him. He could feel it humming through his very being like the tolling of huge brazen bells, shaking him so powerfully that he thought he could feel himself breaking apart. Now Leleth was gone, too. The spark-shot blackness held him like an inky fist, and he suddenly thought that he would die here, in this place that was no place.
A patch of light appeared in the distance, small and gray as a tarnished silver coin. He moved toward it as the blackness battered him and the red sparks sizzled through him like tiny lances of fire. He tried to feel his friends’ hands but could not. The gray seemed to be no closer. He was tiring, as would a swimmer far out at sea.
Binabik, help me! he thought, but his friends were lost beyond the unending blackness. Help me! Even the tiny spot of gray was fading. Miriamele, he thought, I wanted to see you again. …
He reached for the spot of light one last time and felt a touch, as of a fingertip pressing his, although he had no hands to touch or be touched. A little strength came, and he slipped closer to the gray … closer, with black all around … closer. …
Deornoth thought that in different circumstances, he would have laughed. To see Josua sitting, listening with such rapt and respectful attention to this unusual pair of counselors—a hawk-faced woman with mannish hair and man’s clothing, and a waist-high troll—was to see the upside-down world personified.
“So what do you hope that this Tiamak will bring, Valada Geloë?” the prince asked. He moved the lamp closer. “If he is another wise one like Morgenes and yourself, I am sure we will welcome him.”
The witch woman shook her head. “He is not a wielder of the Art, Josua, and he is certainly not a planner of wars. In truth, he is a shy little man from the swamp who knows much about herbs that grow in the Wran. No, I have tried to call him here only because he was close to the League, and because I fear for him. Dinivan had some plan to use him, but Dinivan is dead. Tiamak should not be abandoned. Before the storm arrives, we must save all we can.”
Josua nodded his head, but without much enthusiasm. Beside him, Vorzheva looked no happier. Deornoth thought that the prince’s wife might resent any more responsibilities being piled on her husband’s shoulders, even one very small responsibility from the marsh country.
“Thank you for that, Geloë,” he said. “And thank you for trying again to reach my niece Miriamele. I grow increasingly worried for her.”
“It is strange,” the witch woman replied. “There is something odd there, something I cannot make sense of. It is almost as though Miriamele has erected some barrier to us, but she has no such talents. I am puzzled.” She straightened, as if dismissing a useless thought. “But there is more to tell you.”
Binabik had been shifting from foot to foot. Before Geloë could continue, he touched her arm. “Forgive me, but I should be looking to Simon, to make sure the unpleasantness of the Dream Road has left him and that he is resting well.”
Geloë almost smiled. “You and I can speak later.”
“Go, Binabik,” urged Josua. “I will go to him later myself. He is a brave boy, although perhaps a bit over-eager.”
The troll bowed low and trotted out through the tent’s door flap.
“I wish my other news was good, Prince Josua,” Geloë said, “but the birds have brought me worrisome tidings. There is a large force of armored men coming toward us from the west.”
“What?” Josua sat up, startled. Beside him, Vorzheva draped her hands protectively across her belly. “I don’t understand. Who has sent you this message?”
The witch woman shook her head. “I do not mean birds like Jarnauga’s, who carry little scraps of parchment. I mean the birds of the sky. I can speak with them … somewhat. Enough to understand the sense of things. There is a small army on the march from the Hayholt. They have ridden through the valley towns of Hasu Vale and are now following the southern border of the great forest toward the grasslands.”
Deornoth stared at her. When he spoke, his voice sounded weak and querulous, even to his own ears. “You talk with birds?”
Geloë turned a sharp glance on him. “Your life may have been saved by it. How do you think I knew to come to you on the banks of the Stefflod, when you would have fought Hotvig’s men in the dark? And how do you think I found you in the first place in all the vastness of Aldheorte?”
Josua had laid his hand on Vorzheva’s shoulder as if to soothe her, although she looked quite calm. When he spoke, his voice was unusually harsh. “Why have you not told us of this before, Geloë? What other information could we have had?”
The forest woman seemed to suppress a sharp reply. “I have shared everything vital. There has been precious little to share during this yearlong winter. Most of the birds are dead, or hiding from the cold—certainly not flying. Also, do not misunderstand: I cannot talk to them as you and I are speaking now. Their thoughts are not people’s thoughts, and words do not always fit them, nor can I always understand. Weather they understand, and fear, but those signs have been clear enough for us to read ourselves. Beyond that, it is only something as plain as a large body of men on foot and horseback that can even catch their attention. Unless some man is hunting them, they think very little about us.”
Deornoth realized he was staring and looked away. He thought she did more than just talk with birds—he remembered the winged thing that had struck at him in the copse above the Stefflod—but he knew it was foolish to bring it up. It was more than foolish, he decided suddenly, it was rude. Geloë had been a loyal ally and helpful friend. Why did he begrudge her the secrets on which her life was plainly founded?
“I think Valada Geloë is correct, sire,” he said quietly. “She has proven time and again that she is a valuable ally. What is important now is the news she brings.”
Josua stared at him for a moment, then nodded once in assent. “Very well, Geloë, have your winged friends any idea how many men are coming, and how fast?”
She thought for a moment. “I would say the number is somewhere in the hundreds, Josua, although that is a guess. Birds do not count as we do, either. As for when they will be here, they seem to be traveling without hurry, but still, I should not be surprised to see them inside a month.”
“Aedon’s Blood,” Josua swore. “It is Guthwulf and the Erkynguard, that would be my wager. So little time. I had hoped we might have until the coming spring to prepare.” He looked up. “Are you sure they come here?”
“No,” said Geloë simply.
“But where else?”
For Deornoth, the fear this announcement brought was almost overwhelmed by a surprising sense of relief. It was not what they had wanted, not so soon, but the situation was by no means hopeless. Despite their own scant numbers, as long as they held this eminently defensible rock entirely surrounded by water, there was at least a small chance they could fight off a besieging force. And it would be the first chance to strike back at Elias since the destruction of Naglimund. Deornoth felt the knife-edge of violence pressing against him. It would not be entirely bad to simplify the world, since there seemed to be no other choice. What was it that Einskaldir used to say? “Fight and live, fight and die, God waits for all.” Yes, that was it. Simple.
“So,” Josua said finally. “Caught between a bitter new storm and my brother’s army.” He shook his head. “We must defend ourselves, that is all. So soon after we have found this place of refuge, we must fight and die again.” He stood up, then turned and bent to kiss his wife.
“Where are you going?” Vorzheva raised a hand to touch his cheek, but did not meet his eyes. “Why do you leave?”
Josua sighed. “I should go and speak to the lad Simon. Then I will walk for a while and think.”
He strode out into the night and the swift wind.
In the dream, Simon was seated upon a massive throne made of smooth white stone. His throne room was not a room at all, but a great sward of stiff green grass. The sky overhead was as unnaturally blue and depthless as a painted bowl. A vast circle of courtiers stood before him; like the sky, their smiles seemed fixed and false.
“The king brings rebirth!” someone cried. The nearest of the courtiers stepped up to the throne. It was a dark-eyed woman dressed in gray with long straight hair; there was something terribly familiar about her face. She set before him a doll woven of leaves and reeds, then stepped away again and, despite the absence of hiding places on all sides, disappeared. The next person moved into place. “Rebirth!” someone shouted; “Save us!” cried another. Simon tried to tell them that he had no such power, but the desperate faces continued to circle past, continuous and indistinguishable as the spokes of a turning wheel. The pile of offerings grew larger. There were other dolls, and sheaves of summer-yellow wheat, as well as bunches of flowers whose brightly colored petals seemed as artificial as the paint-blue sky. Baskets of fruit and cheeses were placed before him, even farm animals, goats and calves whose bleating rose above the importuning voices.
“I can’t help you!” Simon cried. “There’s nothing to be done!”
The endless parade of faces continued. The cries and moans began to swell, an ocean of pleading that made his ears ache. At last he looked back down and saw that a child had been placed on the spreading mass of offerings, as though atop a funeral bier. The infant’s face was somber, the eyes wide.
Even as Simon reached out to the child, his eye was caught by the doll that had been the first gift. It was rotting before his eyes, blackening and sagging until it became little more than a smear upon the obscenely bright grass. The other offerings were changing, too, decaying at a horrible rate—the fruits first bruising and dimpling, then seeming almost to froth as a blanket of mold swept over them. The flowers dried to ashy flakes, the wheat diminished to gray dust. As Simon watched in horror, even the tethered animals sagged, bloated, then were skeletonized in heartbeats by a pulsing mass of squirming white grubs.
Simon tried to clamber down off his throne, but the unlikely seat had begun buckling and sliding beneath him, pitching as though in an earth tremor. He tumbled to his knees in the muck. Where was the baby? Where? It would be consumed like the rest, crumbled into putrefaction unless he rescued it! He dove forward, shoveling through the rotting, stinking humus that had been the pile of offerings, but there was no sign of the child—unless that was a wink of gold, down there in the heap. … Simon scraped down into the dark mass until it was all around him, clogging his nose and filling his eyes like graveyard earth. Was that gold, there, beaming through the shadows? He must go deeper. Hadn’t the child worn a golden bracelet? Or had it been a ring, a golden band …? Deeper. It was so hard to breathe. …
He awoke in the dark. After a moment of panic, he fought free of his cloak and rolled toward the doorway, then fumbled open the flap so he could see the few stars not smothered by clouds. His heart slowed its pounding. He was in the tent he and Binabik shared. Geloë and Strangyeard and the troll had helped him stumble here from the Observatory. Once they had laid him down on his pallet, he had fallen into sleep and dreamed a strange dream. But there had been another dream as well, hadn’t there—the journey on the Dream Road, a shadow house and then a haunted ship? It was hard now to remember which had been which, and where the separation was. His head felt heavy and cobwebbed.
Simon pushed his head out and breathed the cold air, drinking it in as though it were wine. Gradually his thoughts became clearer. They had all gone to the Observatory to walk the Dream Road, but they had not found Miriamele. That was the important thing, far more important than some nightmare about dolls and babies and golden rings. They had tried to reach Miriamele, but something had prevented it, as Geloë had warned might happen. Simon had refused to give up. Pushing on when the others did not, he had almost lost himself in something bad—something very bad indeed.
I almost reached her! Almost! I know I could do it if I tried again!
But they had used the last of Geloë’s herbs, and in any case, the time when the Dream Road could be walked had almost ended. He would never have another chance … unless …
The idea—a frightening, clever idea—had just begun make its presence felt when he was startled from his distracted thoughts.
“I am surprised to find you awake.” The lamp Josua held limned his thin face in yellow light. “Binabik said he had left you sleeping.”
“I just woke up, your Highness.” Simon tried to stand, but tangled himself in the tent flap and nearly fell down again.
“You should not be up. The troll said you had a difficult time. I do not quite understand all that you four were doing, but I know enough to think you should be abed.”
“I’m well.” If the prince thought him sickly, he would never let him go anywhere. Simon did not want to be left out of any further expeditions. “Truly. It was only a sort of bad dream. I’m well.”
“Hmm.” Josua stared at him skeptically. “If you say it is so. Come, then—walk with me for a little while. Perhaps afterward you will be able to go back to sleep.”
“Walk …?” Inwardly, Simon cursed himself. Just at a time when he truly wanted to be alone, his stupid pride had tricked him again. Still, it was a chance to talk to Josua.
“Yes, just a short way across the hilltop. Get something to wrap yourself in. Binabik will never forgive me if you catch some ague under my care.”
Simon ducked back into the tent and found his cloak.
They walked for a while in silence. The light of Josua’s lamp reflected eerily from the broken stones of Sesuad’ra.
“I want to be a help to you, Prince Josua,” he said at last. “I want to get your father’s sword back.”
Josua did not reply.
“If you let Binabik go with me, we will never be noticed. We are too small to attract the king’s attention. We brought you Thorn, we can bring you Bright-Nail as well.”
“There is an army coming,” said the prince. “It seems my brother has learned of our escape and seeks to remedy his earlier laxness.”
As Josua related Geloë’s news, Simon felt a surprising sense of satisfaction growing within him. So he would not be denied his chance to do something after all! A moment later he remembered the women and children and old folk who now made New Gadrinsett their home and was ashamed at his pleasure. “What can we do?” he asked.
“We wait.” Josua stopped before the shadowy bulk of the House of Waters. A dark rivulet ran down the crumbling stone sluice at their feet. “All other roads are closed to us, now. We wait, and we pre
pare. When Guthwulf or whoever leads this troop arrives—it could even be my brother himself—we will fight to defend our new home. If we lose … well, then all is finished.” The hilltop wind lifted their cloaks and tugged at their clothing. “If somehow God grants that we win, we will try to move forward and make some use of our victory.”
The prince sat down on a fallen block of masonry, then gestured for Simon to sit beside him. He set the lamp down; their shadows were cast giant-sized on the walls of the House of Waters. “We must live our lives day to day, now. We must not think too far ahead or we will lose what little we have.”
Simon stared at the dancing flame. “What about the Storm King?”
Josua drew his cloak tighter. “I do not know—it is too vast a matter. We must stick to the things we can understand.” He lifted his hand toward the slumbering tent city. “There are innocents to be protected. You are a knight now, Simon. That is your sworn task.”
“I know, Prince Josua.”
The older man was silent for a while. “And I have my own child to think of, as well.” His grim smile was a small movement in the lampglow. “I hope it is a girl.”
“You do?”
“Once, when I was a younger man, I hoped my firstborn would be a son.” Josua lifted his face to the stars. “I dreamed of a son who would love learning and justice, but have none of my failings.” He shook his head. “But now, I hope our child is a girl. If we lost and he survived, a son of mine would be hunted forever. Elias could not let him live. And if we were to win somehow …” He trailed off.