Simon was on the ground floor of the barn practicing his sword strokes. Despite the coolness of the day, he had taken off his shirt; sweat gleamed on his pale skin. She watched him as he measured a distance before him, then lifted his sword with both hands, holding it perpendicular to the floor before gradually lowering its point. His freckled shoulders tensed. Thump—he took a step forward. Thump, thump—he pivoted to the side, moving around the almost stationary sword as though he held someone else’s blade trapped against it. His face was earnest as a child‘s, and the tip of his tongue protruded pinkly from his mouth as he gripped it between his teeth in solemn concentration. Miriamele suppressed a giggle, but she could not help noticing how his skin slid over his lean muscles, how the fanlike shapes of his shoulder blades and the knobs of his backbone pushed against the milky skin. He stopped, the sword again held motionless before him. A drop of sweat slid from his nose and disappeared into his reddish beard. She suddenly wanted very much for him to hold her again, but despite her desire, the thought of it made her stomach clench in pain. There was so much that he did not know.
She pushed herself back from the edge of the loft as quietly as she could, retreating to her hollow in the straw. She tried to fall into sleep once more, but could not. For a long time she lay on her back, staring up at the shadows between the rafters as she listened to the tread of his feet, the hiss of the blade sliding through the air, and the muffled percussion of his breath.
Just before sunset Simon went down to look at the house again. He came back and reported that it was indeed empty, although he had seen what looked like fresh bootprints in the mud. But there was no other sign of anyone about, and Simon decided that the tracks most likely belonged to another harmless wanderer like the old drunkard Heanwig, so they gathered up their belongings and moved down. At first Miriamele was so light-headed that she had to lean on Simon to keep from falling, but after a few dozen steps she felt strong enough to walk unaided, although she was careful to keep a good grip on his arm. He went very slowly, showing her where the track was slippery with mud.
The cottage appeared to have been deserted for some time, and there were, as Simon had pointed out, some holes in the thatching, but the barn had been even draftier, and the cottage at least had a fireplace. As Simon carried in some split timbers he had found stacked against the wall outside and struggled to get a fire started, Miriamele huddled in her cloak and looked around at their home for the night.
Whoever had lived here had left few reminders of their residence, so she guessed that the circumstances which had driven the owners away had not come on suddenly. The only piece of furniture that remained was a stool with a splintered leg squatting off-kilter beside the hearth. A single bowl lay shattered on the stone beside it, every piece still in the spot where it had tumbled to a halt, as if the bowl had fallen only moments before. The hard clay of the floor was covered with rushes which had gone damp and brown. The only signs of recent life in the room were the innumerable cobwebs hanging in the thatches or stretching in the corners, but even these looked threadbare and forlorn, as if it had not been a good season even for spiders.
“There.” Simon stood up. “That’s got it. I’m going to fetch down the horses.”
While he was gone, Miriamele sat before the fire and hunted through the saddlebags for food. For the first time in two days, she was hungry. She wished the house’s owners had left their stew pot—the hook hung naked over the growing fire—but since it was gone she would make do with what she had. She pushed a couple of stones into the fire to heat, then rooted out the few remaining carrots and an onion. When the stones were hot enough, she would make some soup.
Miriamele scanned the ceiling critically, then unrolled her bedroll in a spot that looked like it was far enough from the nearest hole to stay dry in case the rains returned. After a moment’s thought she unrolled Simon’s nearby. She left what she considered to be a safe distance between them, but his bedroll was still closer than she would have preferred had there not been a leaky roof to deal with. When all was arranged, she found her knife in the saddlebag and got to work on the vegetables.
“It’s blowing hard now,” Simon said as he came back in. His hair was disarranged, standing out in strange tufts, but his cheeks were red and his smile was wide. “It will be a good night to be near a fire.”
“I’m glad we moved down here,” she said. “I feel much better tonight. I think I’ll be able to ride tomorrow.”
“If you’re ready.” As he walked past her to the fireplace, he put his hand on her shoulder for a moment, then trailed it gently across her hair. Miriamele said nothing, but went on chopping the carrots into a clay bowl.
The meal had not been anything either of them would remember fondly, but Miriamele felt better for having something hot in her stomach. When she had rinsed the bowls and scoured them with a dry twig, she put them away, then crawled onto her bedroll. Simon fussed with the fire for a bit, then laid himself down as well. They spent a silent interval staring at the flames.
“There was a fireplace in my bedroom at Meremund,” Miriamele said quietly. “I used to watch the flames dancing at night when I couldn’t sleep. I saw pictures in them. When I was very little, I thought I saw the face of Usires smiling at me once.”
“Mmmm,” Simon said. Then: “You had your own room to sleep in?”
“I was the only child of the prince and heir,” she said a little crisply. “It is not unheard of.”
Simon snorted. “It’s unheard of by me. I slept with a dozen other scullions. One of them, Fat Zebediah, used to snore like a cooper cutting slats with a handsaw.”
Miriamele giggled. “Later on, in the last twelvemonth when I lived in the Hayholt, Leleth used to sleep in my room. That was nice. But when I was in Meremund, I slept by myself, with a maid just on the other side of the door.”
“That sounds ... lonely.”
“I don’t know. I suppose it was.” She sighed and laughed at the same time, a funny noise that made Simon lift his head beside her. “Once I was having trouble sleeping, so I went in to my father’s room. I told him that there was a cockindrill under my bed, so that he would let me sleep with him. But that was after my mother died, so he only gave me one of his dogs to take back with me. ‘He’s a cockindrill-hound, Miri,’ he said to me. ‘By my faith, he is. He’ll keep you safe.’ He was always a bad liar. The dog just lay by the door and whimpered until I finally let him out again.”
Simon waited for a while before speaking. The flames made jigging shadows in the thatching overhead. “How did your mother die?” he asked at last. “No one ever told me.”
“She was shot by an arrow.” Miriamele still hurt when she thought of it, but not as badly as she once had. “Uncle Josua was taking her to my father, who was fighting for Grandfather John along the edge of the Meadow Thrithing during the uprising there. Josua’s troop was surprised in broad daylight by a much larger force of Thrithings-men. He lost his hand defending her, and did succeed in winning free, but she was struck down by a stray arrow. She was dead before sunset.”
“I’m sorry, Miriamele.”
She shrugged, even though he could not see her. “It was long ago. But losing her gave my father even more misery than it gave me. He loved her so much! Oh, Simon, you only know what my father has become, but he was a good man once. He loved my mother more than he loved anything else in the world.”
And thinking of her father’s gray, grief-stricken face, of the pall of anger that had descended on him and never lifted, she began to cry.
“And that’s why I have to see him,” she said finally, her voice unsteady. “That’s why.”
Simon rustled atop his bedroll. “What? What do you mean? See who?”
Miriamele took a deep breath. “My father, of course. That’s why we’re going to the Hayholt. Because I have to speak to my father.”
“What nonsense are you talking?” Simon sat up. “We’re going to the Hayholt to get your grandfather’s sword, Br
ight-Nail.”
“I never said that. You did.” Despite the tears, she felt herself grow angry.
“I don’t understand you, Miriamele. We are at war with your father. Are you going to go see him and tell him there’s a cockindrill under your bed again? What are you saying?”
“Don’t be cruel, Simon. Don’t you dare.” She could feel the tears threatening to become a torrent, but a small ember of fury was burning inside her as well.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I just don’t understand.”
Miriamele pressed her hands together as tightly as she could, and concentrated on that until she felt herself in control again. “And I have not explained to you, Simon. I’m sorry, too.”
“Tell me. I’ll listen.”
Miriamele listened to the flames crackle and hiss for a while. “Cadrach showed me the truth, although I don’t think he realized it. It was when we were traveling together, and he told me of Nisses’ book. He had once owned it, or a copy of it.”
“The magical book that Morgenes talked about?”
“Yes. And it is a powerful thing. Powerful enough that Pryrates learned that Cadrach had owned it and so Pryrates ... sent for him.” She fell silent momentarily, remembering Cadrach’s description of the blood-red windows and the iron devices with the skin and hair of the tortured still on them. “He threatened him until Cadrach told him all the things he remembered. Cadrach said that Pryrates was particularly interested in talking with the dead—‘Speaking through the Veil,’ he called it.”
“From what I know of Pryrates, that doesn’t surprise me.” Simon’s voice was shaky, too. Obviously he had his own memories of the red priest.
“But that was what showed me what I needed to know,” Miriamele said, unwilling to lose the thread of her idea now that she was finally talking about it out loud. “Oh, Simon, I had wondered so long why my father changed the way he did, why Pryrates was able to turn him to such evil tasks.” She swallowed. There were still tears standing wet on her cheeks, but for the moment she had found a new strength. “My father loved my mother. He was never the same after she died. He did not marry, did not even consider it, despite all the wishes of my grandfather. They used to have terrible arguments about it. ‘You need a son to be your heir,’ Grandfather used to say, but my father always told him he would never marry again, that he had been given a wife and then God had taken her back.” She paused, remembering.
“I still don’t understand,” said Simon quietly.
“Don’t you see? Pryrates must have told my father that he could talk to the dead—that he could let my father speak with my mother again, perhaps even see her. You don’t know him, Simon. He was heartsick with losing her. He would have done anything, I think, to have her back, even for a little while.”
Simon drew in a long breath. “But that’s ... blasphemy. That’s against God.”
Miriamele laughed, a little shrilly. “As if that would have stopped him. I told you, he would have done anything to have her back. Pryrates must have lied to him and told him that they could reach her ... beyond the Veil, or whatever that horrible book called it. Maybe the priest even thought that he could. And he used that promise to make my father first his patron, then his partner ... then his slave.”
Simon pondered this. “Perhaps Pryrates did try,” he said finally. “Perhaps that is how they reached through to ... to the other side. To the Storm King.”
The sound of this name, even as quietly it had been spoken, was greeted with a skirl of wind in the thatches above, a rush of sound so abrupt that Miriamele flinched.
“Perhaps.” The thought made her cold. To think of her father waiting eagerly to speak with his beloved wife and finding that thing instead. It was a little like the terrifying old story of what the fisherman Bulychlinn brought up in his nets....
“But I still don’t understand, Miriamele.” Simon was gentle but stubborn. “Even if all that is true, what good will it do to speak to your father?”
“I’m not sure it will do any good.” And that was true: it was hard to picture any happy result from their meeting after so much time and so much anger and sorrow. “But if there’s even a small chance that I can show him sense, that I can remind him that this began out of love, and so convince him to stop ... then I have to take that chance.” She lifted a hand and wiped at her eyes: she was crying again. “He just wanted to see her....” After a moment she steadied herself. “But you do not have to go, Simon. This is my burden.”
He was silent. She could sense his discomfort.
“It is too great a risk,” he said at last. “You might never get to see your father, even if that would do any good. Pryrates might catch you first, and then no one would ever hear from you again.” He said it with terrible conviction.
“I know, Simon. I just don’t know what else to do. I have to speak to my father. I have to show him what’s happened, and only I can do it.”
“You’re determined, then?”
“I am.”
Simon sighed. “Aedon on the Tree, Miriamele, it’s madness. I hope you change your mind by the time we get there.”
Miriamele knew there would be no change. “I have been thinking about it for a long time.”
Simon slumped back onto his bedroll. “If Josua knew, he’d tie you up and carry you a thousand leagues away.”
“You’re right. He would never allow it.”
In the darkness, Simon sighed again. “I have to think, Miriamele. I don’t know what to do.”
“You can do anything but stop me,” she said evenly. “Don’t try to stop me, Simon.”
But he did not reply. After a while, despite all the fear and furor, Miriamele felt the heaviness of sleep pulling her down.
She was startled awake by a loud roar. As she lay with her heart pounding, something flashed up in the ceiling, brighter than a torch. It took a moment for her to realize that the source had been a sky-spanning sheet of lightning glaring through the holes in the roof. There was another crash of thunder.
The room smelled even damper and closer than it had before. When the next lightning flash came, Miriamele saw in its momentary brilliance a torrent of raindrops pouring through the ragged thatching. She sat up and felt along the floor. The rain was falling well short of her, but it was splashing on Simon’s boots and the bottoms of his breeches. He was still asleep, snoring quietly.
“Simon!” She shook him. “Get up!”
He grunted, but showed no other signs of wakefulness.
“Simon, you have to move. You’re being rained on.”
After a few more shakes, he rolled over. Complaining muzzily, he helped Miriamele pull his bedroll closer to hers, then flopped onto it with every sign of going immediately back to sleep.
As she lay listening to the rain patter on the straw, she felt Simon move closer. His face was very close to hers in the dark; she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. It was oddly peaceful, despite all the danger they had seen and still faced, to lie here and listen to the storm with this young man close beside her.
Simon stirred. “Miriamele? Are you cold?”
“A little.”
He moved closer still, then reached out his arm and put it under her neck, tipping her in toward his chest so that she could feel him the whole length of her. She felt trapped but not frightened. His mouth was now pressed against her cheek.
“Miriamele ...” he said softly.
“Sssshhh.” She stayed huddled against him. “Don’t say a word.”
They remained that way for some time. Rain rattled in the thatch. From time to time thunder sounded in the distance like giants’ drums.
Simon kissed her cheek. Miriamele felt his beard tickling along her jaw, but it seemed so strangely right that she did not squirm. He turned her head slightly, then his lips met hers. The thunder rumbled again from farther away, something happening in another place, another time.
Why does there have to be more than this? Miriamele wondered sadly. Why should
there be all the complications? Simon had put his other arm around her, gentle but insistent, and now they were pressed together, body against body. She could feel his lean, muscled arms and his hard chest against her stomach, against her breasts. If only time could stop!
Simon’s kisses were stronger now. He lifted his face and buried it in her hair.
“Miriamele,” he whispered, hoarse-throated.
“Oh. Oh, Simon,” she murmured back. She was not quite sure what she wanted, but she knew she would be happy just kissing him, just holding him.
His face was against her neck now, sending chills all through her. It felt wonderful, but also frightening. He was a boy, but he was a man as well. She stiffened, but he brought his face back to hers. Again he kissed her, clumsy but ardent, pushing a little too hard. She lifted her hand to his bearded face and gentled him, so that their lips could meet and touch—oh, so softly!
Even as they shared breath, his hand was moving across her face, across her neck. He touched her everywhere he could without losing the warmth pressed between them, running his fingers across the swell of her hip, letting his hand rest in the hollow beneath her arm. She tingled, yearning to rub hard against him, but she felt a strange softness, too, as though they were slowly drowning together, sinking down into dark ocean depths. She could hear her own heartbeat above the rustle of rain in the straw.
Simon rolled farther, until he was half above her, then drew back a little. He was only a shadow, which she found somehow frightening. She reached up until she could feel his cheek, the delicate rasp of his beard. His mouth moved.
“I love you, Miriamele.”
Her breath caught. Suddenly there was a knot of coldness in her stomach. “No, Simon,” she whispered. “Don’t say that.”