Simon squinted, too. The troll was correct. It was a tattered bit of clothing wrapped around a tree, the sleeves fluttering in the wind like pennants.
Miriamele made the sign of the Tree, relieved.
They rode on. The town vanished into the thick greenery behind them as quickly and completely as if the wet, silent woods had swallowed it.
They camped that evening in a sheltered gully at the base of the valley’s western slope. Binabik seemed preoccupied; Simon and Miriamele were both quiet. They ate an unsatisfying meal and made some small talk, then everyone took refuge in the darkness and the need to sleep.
Simon again felt the awkward distance that existed now between himself and Miriamele. He still did not quite know what to feel about the things she had told him. She was no maiden, and it was by her own choice. That was painful enough, but the way she had told him, the manner in which she had lashed out at him as though to punish, was even more infuriatingly confusing. Why was she so kind to him sometimes, so hateful at others? He would have liked to believe that she was playing the come-hither, go-away games that young court women were taught to play with men, but he knew her too well: Miriamele was not one for that kind of frippery. The only solution that he could find to this puzzle was that she truly wanted him for a friend, but was afraid that Simon wanted more.
I do want more, he thought miserably. Even if I won’t ever have it.
He did not fall asleep for a long time, but instead lay listening to the water pattering through the leaves to the forest floor. Huddled beneath his cloak, he probed at his unhappiness as he might at a wound, trying to find out how much pain came with it.
By the middle of the next afternoon they climbed out of the valley, leaving Hasu Vale behind. The forest still stretched out at their right hands like a great green blanket, vanishing only at the horizon. Before them was the hilly grass country that lay between the Old Forest Road and the headlands at Swertclif.
Simon could not help wishing that this journey with Binabik and Miriamele could be more like the first heady days they had traveled together after leaving Geloë’s lake house, so many months ago. The troll had been full of songs and silliness during that journey; even the princess—pretending then to be the servant girl Marya—had seemed excited and happy to be alive. Now the three of them went forward like soldiers marching toward a battle they did not expect to win, each immersed in private thoughts and fears.
The empty, rolling country north of the Kynslagh did not inspire much cheer in any case. It was fully as dreary and lifeless as Hasu Vale, equally as wet, but did not afford the hiding places, and security to be found in the densely forested valley. Simon felt that they were terribly exposed, and could not help marveling at the astonishing courage—or stupidity, or both—of walking virtually unarmed into the High King’s gateyard. If there were left any scrap of the companions or their tale when these dark times had someday passed, surely it would make a wonderful, unbelievable song! Some future Shem Horsegroom, perhaps, might tell some wide-eyed scullion: “Do ye listen, lad, whilst I tell ye of Brave Simon and his friends, them who rode open-eyed and empty-handed into the very Jaws of Darkness.... ”
Jaws of Darkness. Simon liked that. He had heard that in a song of Sangfugol’s.
He suddenly thought of what that darkness really meant—the things he had seen and felt, the dreadful, clutching shadows waiting beyond the light and warmth of life—and his skin went shudderingly cold from head to foot.
It took them two days to ride across the hilly meadow-lands, two days of mist and frequent cold rains. No matter which direction they traveled, the winds seemed always to be blowing into their faces. Simon sneezed the entirety of the first night and felt warm and unstable as melting candle wax. He was a bit recovered by morning.
In mid-afternoon of the second day, the headlands of Swertclif appeared before them, the raw edge of the high, rocky hill on whose summit the Hayholt perched. As he stared into the twilight, Simon thought he could see an impossibly slim white line looming beyond Swertclif’s naked face.
It was Green Angel Tower, visible even though it stood the better part of a league beyond the nearest side of the hill.
Simon felt something tingle up his back, lifting the hairs on the nape of his neck. The tower, the great shining spike that the Sithi had built when the castle was theirs, the tower where Ineluki had lost his earthly life—it was waiting, still waiting. But it was also the site of Simon’s own boyhood wanderings and imaginings. He had seen it, or something like it, in so many dreams since he had left his home that now it almost seemed like just another dream. And below it, out of sight beyond the cliff, lay the Hayholt itself. Tears welled up in Simon, but only dampened his eyes. How many times had he yearned for those mazy halls, the gardens and scullion hiding-holes, the warm corners and secret pleasures?
He turned to look at Miriamele. She, too, was staring fixedly into the west, but if she thought of the pleasures of home, her face did not show it. She looked like a hunter who had finally run a dangerous but long-sought quarry to ground. He blinked, ashamed that she might see him tearful.
“I wondered if I’d ever see it again,” he said quietly. A flurry of rain struck his face and he wiped his eyes, grateful for the excuse. “It looks like a dream, doesn’t it? A strange dream.”
Miriamele nodded but said nothing.
Binabik did not hurry them away. He seemed content to wait and let Qantaqa nose the ground while Simon and Miriamele sat and silently gazed.
“Let us make camp,” he said finally. “If we are riding another short time, we can find shelter at the base of the hills.” He gestured toward Swertclif’s massive face. “Then in the morning we will have better light for ... whatever we may be doing.”
“We’re going to John’s barrow,” Simon said, more firmly than he felt. “At least that’s what I’m doing.”
Binabik shrugged. “Let us be riding. When we have a fire and food will be time for making of plans.”
The sun vanished behind Swertclif’s broad hump long before evening. They rode forward in cold shadow. Even the horses seemed uneasy: Simon could feel Homefinder’s unwillingness, and thought that if he allowed her she would turn and race in the opposite direction.
Swertclif waited like an infinitely patient ogre. As they drew closer, the great dark hill seemed to blot out the sky as well as the sun, spreading and swelling until it seemed they could not turn away from it even if they tried. From the slope of its outermost foothills, they saw a flash of gray-green to the south, just beyond the cliffs—the Kynslagh, visible for the first time. Simon felt a pang of joy and regret, as he remembered the familiar, soothing song of the gulls and thought of the fisherman-father he had never known.
At last, when the hill’s almost perpendicular face stood above them like a vast wall, they made camp in a ravine. The winds were less here, and Swertclif itself blocked much of the rain. Simon smiled grimly at the thought that the ogre’s waiting was over: he and his companions were going to sleep in its lap tonight.
No one wanted to be first to speak of what they would do tomorrow. The making of the fire and the preparation of a modest supper were undertaken with a minimum of conversation and little of the fellowship that usually enlivened the evenings. Tonight Miriamele did not seem angry but preoccupied, and even Binabik was hesitant in his actions, as though his thoughts were elsewhere.
Simon felt surprisingly calm, almost cheerful, and was disappointed that his companions did not share his mood. This was a dangerous place, of course, and the next day’s doings would be fearful—he was not letting himself think too much about where the sword was and what needed to be done to find it—but at least he was doing something. At least he was performing the kind of task for which he had been knighted. And if it worked—oh, glory! If it worked, surely Miriamele would see that taking the sword to Josua would be more important than trying to convince her mad father to halt a war that was doubtless already beyond his power to stop. Yes, surely w
hen they had Bright-Nail—think of it, Bright-Nail! Prester John’s famous sword!—in hand, Miriamele would realize that they had obtained the greatest prize they could hope for, and he and Binabik could coax her back to the comparative safety of her uncle’s camp.
Simon was considering these ideas and letting his meal settle when Binabik finally began to speak.
“Once we are climbing this hill,” the troll said slowly, “we will be having great difficulty to turn back. We are having no knowledge whether there are soldiers above—perhaps Elias has placed guards for protecting his father’s sword and tomb. If we are going any farther westward, we will be coming to where people in that great castle can be seeing us. Do you have certainness—real, real true certainness!—that you both want this? Please think before you are speaking.”
Simon did as his friend asked. After a while, he knew what he wished to say. “We are here. The next time we are so close to Bright-Nail, there may be men fighting everywhere. We may never be able to get near it. So I think it would be foolish not to try to take it now. I’m going.”
Binabik looked at Simon, then slowly nodded. “So we will go to take the sword.” He turned to the princess. “Miriamele?”
“I have little to say about it. If we need to use the Three Swords, then that will mean I have failed.” She smiled, but it was a smile Simon did not like at all. “And if I fail to convince my father, I doubt that whatever happens afterward will mean much to me.”
The troll made a close-handed gesture. “There is never sure knowledge. I will help you as I can, and Simon will also, I am not doubting that—but you must not give up any chance of coming out again. Thinking of this sort will make you careless.”
“I would be very happy to come out again,” said Miriamele. “I want to help my father understand so that he will cease the killing, then I want to say farewell to him. I could never live with him after what he has done.”
“I am hoping that you get the thing you are wishing for,” Binabik replied. “So—first we are to go sword-searching, then we will decide what can be done for helping Miriamele. For such weighty efforts, I have need of sleep.”
He lay down, curling against Qantaqa, and pulled his hood over his face. Miriamele continued to stare into the campfire. Simon watched her awkwardly for a short while, then pulled his own cloak tight around him and lay back. “Good night, Miriamele,” he said. “I hope ... I hope....”
“So do I.”
Simon threw his arm over his eyes and waited for sleep.
He dreamed that he sat atop Green Angel Tower, perched like a gargoyle. Someone was moving beside him.
It was the angel herself, who had apparently left her spire and now seated herself beside him, laying a cool hand on his wrist. She looked strangely like the little girl Leleth, but made of rough bronze and green with verdigris.
“It is a long way down.” The angel’s voice was beautiful, soft but strong.
Simon stared at the tiny rooftops of the Hayholt below him. “It is.”
“That is not what I mean.” The angel’s tone was gently chiding. “I mean down to where the Truth is. Down to the bottom, where things begin.”
“I don’t understand.” He felt curiously light, as though the next puff of wind might send him sailing off the tower roof, whirling like a leaf. It seemed that the angel’s grip on his arm was the only thing that held him where he sat.
“From up here, the matters of Earth look small,” she said. “That is one way to see, and a good one. But it is not the only one. The farther down you go, the harder things are to understand—but the more important they are. You must go very deep.”
“I don’t know how to do that.” He stared at her face, but despite its familiarity it was still lifeless, just a casting of rough metal. There was no hint of friendship or kindness in the stiff features. “Where should I go? Who will help me?”
“Deep. You.” The angel suddenly stood; as her hand released him, Simon felt himself beginning to float free of the tower. He clutched a curving bit of the roof and clung. “It is hard for me to talk to you, Simon,” she said. “I may not be able to again.”
“Why can’t you just tell me?” he cried. His feet were floating off the edge; his body fluttered like a sail, trying to follow. “Just tell me!”
“It is not so easy.” The angel turned and slowly rose back to her plinth atop the tower roof. “If I can come again, I will. But it is only possible to talk clearly about less important things. The greatest truths lie within, always within. They cannot be given. They must be found.”
Simon felt himself tugged free of his handhold. Slowly, like a cartwheel spun loose from its axle, he began to revolve as he floated out. Sky and earth moved alternately past him, as though the world were a child’s ball in which he had been imprisoned, a ball now sent rolling by a vengeful kick....
Simon awakened in faint moonlight, sweating despite the chill night air. The dark bulk of Swertclif hung above him like a warning.
The next day found Simon considerably less certain about things than he had been the night before. As they readied for the climb, he found himself worrying over the dream. If Amerasu had been right, if Simon had truly become more open to the Road of Dreams, could there be a meaning to what he had been told by the dream angel? How could he go deeper? He was about to climb a tall hill. And what answer was within? Some secret that even he didn’t know? It just didn’t make sense.
The company set out as the sun began to warm in the sky. For the first part of the morning they rode up through the foothills, mounting Swertclif’s lower reaches. As the lower, gentler slopes fell away behind them, they were forced to dismount and lead the horses.
They stopped for a mid-morning meal—a little of the dried fruit and bread that Binabik had brought with him from Josua’s camp stores.
“I am thinking it is time to leave the horses behind us,” said the troll. “If Qantaqa is still wishing to come, she will climb on her own instead of carrying me upon her back.”
Simon had not thought about having to leave Homefinder. He had hoped there would be a way to ride to the summit, but the only level path was the one on the far side of Swertclif, the funeral road that led across the top of the headland from Erchester and the Hayholt.
Binabik had brought a good quantity of rope in his saddlebag; he sacrificed enough of it for Simon and Miriamele to leave their mounts tied on long tethers to a low, wind-curled tree within reach of a natural rocky pool full of rainwater. The two horses had ample room to graze during the half a day or more they would be required to wait. Simon laid his face against Homefinder’s neck and quietly promised her he would be back as soon as he could.
“Any other things there are that need doing?” asked Binabik; Simon stared up at the pinnacle of Swertclif and wished he could think of something that would forestall the climb a little longer. “Then let us be going,” the troll said.
Swertclif’s eastern face was not as sheerly vertical as it seemed from a distance. By traversing diagonally, the company, with Qantaqa trailing behind, were even able occasionally to walk upright, although more often than not they went crouching from handhold to cautious handhold. In only one spot, a narrow chink between the cliff face and a standing stone, did Simon feel any worry, but he and his two companions inched through while Qantaqa, who had found some private wolfish path, stood on the far side with her tongue dangling pinkly, watching their struggles with apparent amusement.
A few hours after noon the skies darkened and the air grew heavy. A light rain swept across the cliff face, wetting the climbers and worrying Simon. It was not so bad where they were, but it looked to get more difficult very soon, and there was nothing pleasant about the idea of trying to cross some of the steeply angled stones if they were slick with rain. But the small shower passed, and although the clouds remained threatening, no larger storm seemed imminent.
The climb did grow steeper, but it was better than Simon had feared. Binabik was leading, and the little man w
as as surefooted as one of his Qanuc sheep. They only used the rope once, tying themselves for safety as they leapt from one grassy shelf to another over a long, slanting scree of naked stones. Everyone made the jump safely, although Miriamele scratched her hands and Simon banged his knee hard when he landed. Qantaqa seemed to find this part laughably easy as well.
As they paused for breath on the far side of this crossing, Simon found that he was standing just a few cubits below a small patch of white flowers—starblooms— whose petals gleamed like snowflakes in the dark green grass that surrounded them. He was heartened by the discovery: he’d seen very few flowers since he and Miriamele had first left Josua’s camp. Even the Wintercap or Frayja’s Fire that one might expect to see at this cold time of the year had been scarce.
The climb up Swertclif’s face took longer than they had anticipated: as they toiled up the last long rise, the sun had sunk low in the sky, gleaming a handbreadth above the horizon behind the pall of clouds. They were all bent nearly double now and working hard for breath; they had been using their hands for balance and leverage so frequently in this last stage that Simon wondered what Qantaqa must think to see all her companions turned as four-footed as she. When they stepped up and could at last stand upright on the grassy verge of Swertclif’s summit, a sliver of sun broke through, washing the rounded hill with pale light.
The mounds of the Hayholt’s kings lay before them, some hundred ells from where they stood struggling to regain breath. All except one of the barrows were nothing more than grassy humps, so rounded by time as to seem part of the hill: that one, which was surely John‘s, was still only a pile of naked stones. At the hill’s distant western edge lay the dim bulk of the Hayholt; the needle-thin spire of Green Angel Tower was brighter than anything else in sight.
Binabik cocked an eye up at the weak sun. “We are being later than my hope. We will not be able to go down again before we are in darkness.” He shrugged. “There is nothing that will help that. The horses will be able to feed themselves until the morning when we can return to them.”