“Bloody Tree!” he screamed in rage. “Bloody, Bloody Tree!”
“... ree ...” the echo repeated. “... ee ...”
He waved the torch over his head in a furious challenge to the empty air; the flame billowed and streaked across the black. At last, defeated, he hobbled back down the wide stairs.
He remembered little of his first journey up the Tan‘ja Stairs almost a year before, a journey that had taken place through both outer and inner darknesses ... but surely there had not been so many of these damnable steps! It was almost impossible to believe that he could descend so far without finding himself in the pits of Hell.
His plodding descent seemed to take at least a day. There was no way off: the arches that led from the landings were blocked by rubble, and the only other escape would be over the baluster and a plummet down into ... who knew what? By the time he stopped at last to sleep on one of the dusty landings, he wished he had never stepped onto the stairs at all, but the thought of dragging himself all the way back up that near-infinitude of steps to the spot where he had entered was horrifying. No, down was the only direction left to him. Surely even these monstrous stairs must come to an end somewhere! Simon curled up and fell into a thick slumber.
His dreams were powerful but confusing. Three almost painfully vivid images haunted him—a young fair-haired man bearing a torch and a spear down a steeply-sloping tunnel; an older man, robed and crowned, with a sword lying across his knees and a heavy book opened on top of it; a tall figure, hidden in shadow, who stood straight-backed in the middle of a strangely mobile floor. Again and again the same three visions appeared, changing slightly, showing more while revealing nothing. The spearman cocked his head as though he heard voices. The gray-haired man looked up from his reading as though disturbed by a sudden noise, and a bloom of red light filled the darkness, painting the man’s strong features scarlet. The shadow-shape turned; a sword was in his hand, and something like antlers lifted from his brow....
Simon awakened with a gasp, sweat cooling on his forehead, limbs a-tremble. This had not been the stuff of ordinary sleep: he had fallen into some rushing river of dream and been carried along like a piece of bark, helplessly careening. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, but he was still on the broad landing, still adrift on the ocean of stairs.
Dreams and voices, he thought desperately. I need to get away from them. If they don’t leave me alone, I’ll die.
His second-to-last rag was now on the torch. Time was running out. If he did not find his way soon, if he did not find the air and the sun and moon once more, he would be alone in darkness with the shadows of dead time.
Simon hurried down the steps.
The Tan‘ja Stairs became a blur, and Simon himself was a cracked millwheel, his legs going up, down, up, down, every other step bringing a sharp pain as he forced his wounded ankle to bear the weight of his hurried descent. Shallow breaths fluted in and out of his dry mouth. If he had not been mad before, madness finally took him now. The stairs were the teeth of a mouth that wanted to swallow him, but as fast as he bounded downward, falling and not feeling the pain, clambering to his feet and plunging down to the next step, he could not escape. There were always more teeth. Always more white, even teeth....
The voices that had been silent so long rose up around him like the choir of monks in the Hayholt’s chapel. Simon paid them no heed. All he could do was fling himself down step after step after step. Something in the air was different, but he could not let himself pause to decide what it was: the voices were haunting him, the teeth taunting, waiting to snap closed.
Where there should have been a step, there was instead a flat white expanse of ... something. Simon, in mid-leap downward, was brought up short and sent tumbling forward. His elbows cracked painfully against stone. He lay for a moment, whimpering, clutching his torch so hard his knuckles throbbed. Slowly he lifted his head. The air was ... the air smelled ... damp.
The wide landing stretched before him, then ended in blackness. There were no more stairs, or at least none he could see.
Still making pained noises, Simon crawled forward until the blackness was just before him. As he leaned out, his arm swept a small scree of dust and gravel over the edge.
Plink. Plink, plink. The sound of small stones falling into water. And not falling very far.
Panting, he leaned out, holding his torch as far over the darkness as he could. He could see a reflection just a few ells below, a wavering smudge of fiery light. Hope welled up in him, and that was somehow worse than any of his pain.
It’s a trick, he mourned. It’s another trick. It’s dust ... dust ... dust ...
Still, he crawled around the edge of the landing, looking for a way down. When he discovered a small and elegantly carved staircase, he crab-climbed down the steps on his hands and knees. The stairwell ended in a circular landing and a small spit of pale stone that stretched out over the blackness. The torch light did not reveal how far it extended, but he could see the sweep of the pool’s sides as they vanished away into the shadows in either direction. It was huge—almost a small lake.
Simon dropped onto his stomach and extended his hand, then stopped, sniffing. If this great pond were full of Perdruinese Fire and he brought his torch close, there would be nothing of Simon left but a scrap of cinder. But there was no oily smell. He dipped his hand in and felt the water close over it, cold and just as wet as wet should be. He sucked his fingers. There was a faint metallic tang—but it was water.
Water!
He scooped it up in a double handful and lifted it to his mouth, more dribbling on his chin and neck than went down his throat. It seemed to tingle and sparkle on his tongue and fill his veins with warmth. It was glorious—better than any liquor, more wonderful than any drink he had ever tasted. It was water. He was alive.
Simon was light-headed with joy. He drank until he was uncomfortably full, until his stomach pressed against the wasteband of his breeches; the cool, slightly tangy water felt so splendidly wet that it was difficult to stop. He poured it over his head and face, splashing so vigorously that he almost doused the torch, which made him laugh until the echoes crisscrossed. When he had moved his light up the stairwell to safety, he went back and drank more, then took off his ragged shirt and breeches and scrubbed himself all over, letting the water run off him in wonderfully wasteful excess. At last his fatigue overcame him. He lay singing happily until he fell asleep on the wet stone.
Simon awakened slowly, as if swimming upward from a great depth. For long moments he did not know where he was or what had happened. The powerful rush of dream-pictures had come to him again, whirling through his sleeping head like leaves in a great windstorm. The sword-bearing men were part of it, but there had also been a flash of shields as an armored host rode out through a tall silver gate, a splintery array of towers in rainbow hues, a glint of yellow as a raven cocked its head to reveal a bright eye, a circle that flashed gold, a tree with bark pale as snow, a dark wheel turning....
Simon rubbed his temples, trying to clear away the clinging images. His head, which had felt hollow and airy when he was bathing himself, now throbbed and pounded. He groaned and sat up. He would be plagued by dreams, it seemed, no matter what happened. But there were other things to think about, things about which he could do something—or at least try. Food. Escape.
He looked up to where his torch lay on one of the steps of the narrow staircase. He had been foolish, risking his light with all that splashing. And it would not burn much longer. He had found water, but his predicament was still deathly grim.
The light of the torch suddenly seemed to grow. Simon squinted, then realized it was not the torch, but that rather the whole great chamber was filling with smoky light. And there was ... something ... very near. Something strong. He could feel it like hot breath on his neck.
Simon rolled over, conscious of his nakedness, his helplessness. He could see the great pool more clearly, could make out the fantastically elaborate carvings
that covered the near walls and ceiling far overhead, but even with the spreading light he still could not see the pool’s far side: a sort of mist seemed to hang over the water, obscuring his view.
As he gaped, a shadowy figure appeared in the the mist at the pool’s center, a shape exaggerated by the gray fog and directionless light. It was tall and billow-cloaked, with horns ... antlers ... growing from its head.
The figure bowed—not in reverence, it seemed, but in despair.
Jingizu.
The voice rolled through Simon’s mind, mournful yet angry, powerful and cold as ice that cracked and split stone. The mist swirled and eddied. Simon felt his own thoughts swept away before it.
Jingizu. So much sorrow.
For a moment, Simon’s spirit flickered like a candle in a storm wind. He was being extinguished by the force of the thing that hovered in the mists. He tried to scream, but could not; he was being eaten by its terrible emptiness. He felt himself dwindling, fading, vanishing....
The light shifted again, then abruptly died. The pool became a wide black oval once more, and the only light was the dim yellow glow of his guttering torch.
For some moments, Simon lay gasping for air like a fish dragged into a boat. He was afraid to move, to make a sound, terrified the shadowy thing would return.
Merciful Aedon, give me rest. The words of the old prayer came up unbidden. In Your Arms will I sleep, upon Your bosom ...
He no longer had the slightest urge to cross over to the dream-side, to join the ghosts of this place. Of all the things he had seen and felt since tumbling down into the ground, this place seemed the strangest, the most terrifyingly powerful. Water or no water, he could not stay. And soon his light would be gone, and the darkness would swallow him.
Quivering, he kneeled at the bottom of the stairwell and drank his fill once more. Cursing the lack of a water skin, he dragged on his breeches and boots, then dunked his shirt into the pool. It would stay wet for a while and he could squeeze out water when he needed it. He picked up the torch and began searching for a way out. His ankle had stiffened, but for the moment the pain was unimportant. He had to leave this place.
The pool, which a moment before had been a fount of terrifying visions, was now only a silent circle of black.
15
A Meandering of Ink
Miriamele Was as gentle with the bandages as she could be, and Binabik said not a word, but she could tell that the pain of his blistered hands was fierce.
“There.” She tied a careful knot. “Now just let them alone for a while. I’ll get us something to eat.”
“All that digging, and with nothing for result,” the troll said mournfully. He examined his cloth-wrapped paws. “Dirt and more dirt and more dirt.”
“At least those ... things didn’t come back.” The sun had dropped behind the western horizon; Miriamele was finding it difficult to see into the depths of the pack. She sat down and smoothed her cloak across her lap, then dumped out the contents. “Those diggers.”
“I am almost wishing that they had, Miriamele. I would have been getting some pleasure in killing more of them. Like Qantaqa, I would be growling as their blood came out.”
Miriamele shook her head, disturbed by Binabik’s uncharacteristic savagery, but also worried by her own hollowness. She felt no such anger—there was almost nothing inside her at all. “If he ... survived, then he will find a way to come back to us again.” The ghost of a smile crept across her face. “He’s stronger than I ever thought he might be, Binabik.”
“I remember when I was first meeting him in the forest,” the little man said. “Like a hatchling, like the young of a bird, he looked to me, his hair pointing up and every other way. I was thinking then, ‘Here is one who would be quickly dying if I had not found him.’ He seemed to me as helpless as the most wobbling-legged of lambs gone stray from the herd. But he has surprised me many times since then, many times.” The troll fluted a sigh. “If there was something beneath his falling beside more dirt and boghanik, then I am thinking he will find a way out.”
“Of course he will.” Miriamele stared at the array of wrapped bundles in her lap. Her eyes were misty, and she had forgotten what she was looking for. “Of course he will.”
“So we will go on, and trust in the luck that has kept him well for so long a time in all the moments of terrible peril.” Binabik spoke as though afraid he would be contradicted.
“Yes. Certainly.” Miriamele brought her hands to her face, kneading her temples as though that might make her scattered thoughts more manageable. “And I will say a prayer for Elysia the Mother of God to look after him.”
But many prayers are said every day, she thought. And only a few are answered. Curse you, Simon, why did you go away?
Simon was almost a stronger presence lost than he had been while still with them. Miriamele, despite the deep affection she felt for Binabik, found it difficult to sit with him over the thin stew she had made for their supper: that they should be alive and eating seemed an insult to their absent friend. Still, they were both grateful for the bit of meat—a squirrel that Qantaqa had brought back. Miriamele wondered whether the wolf had done her own hunting first or felt she should bring a prize to her master before pursuing her own needs, but Binabik professed not to know.
“She only brings me such things on occasion, and usually when I am sad or hurt.” He showed a tiny flash of teeth. “This time I am both things, I suppose.”
“Bless her for it anyway,” Miriamele said, and meant it. “Our larder is nearly bare.”
“I am hoping ...” the troll began, then abruptly fell silent. Miriamele was quite sure that he was thinking about Simon, who even if he survived would be somewhere beneath the ground without food. Neither of them spoke more until the meal was finished.
“So now what is the thing to be doing?” Binabik asked gently. “I do not wish to seem ...”
“I am still going to find my father. Nothing has changed that.”
Binabik looked at her but did not speak.
“But you do not have to come with me.” Disliking the sound of her voice, she added: “It might be better if you don’t. Maybe if Simon finds his way out he will come to this place. Someone should wait for him. And anyway, this is not your duty, Binabik. He’s my father, but he’s your enemy.”
The troll shook his head. “When we come to the place at which no back-turning can happen, then I will decide. This is not seeming a safe spot to me for waiting.” He looked briefly over to the distant Hayholt; in the evening light the castle was only a blackness that contained no stars. “But perhaps I could stay hidden somewhere with Qantaqa and come at certain times to look.” He made an open-handed gesture. “Still, it is too soon for such thinking. I do not even know what plan you have made for your castle entrance.” He turned and waved toward the invisible keep. “You may have some way for persuading your father the king, but you would not be taken to him if you present yourself at the gate, I am thinking. And if Pryrates is receiving you, he may decide it is of more convenience for you to be dead and not interfere with his plans for your father. You would become vanished.”
Miriamele twitched involuntarily. “I am not stupid, Binabik, no matter what my uncle and others may think. I have some ideas of my own.”
Binabik spread his palms. “I do not think you are anything like being stupid, Miriamele. I am not knowing anyone who thinks that.”
“Perhaps.” She got to her feet and walked across the damp grass toward her pack. Rain was coming down in a light mist. After rummaging in the bag, she found the bundle she had sought and carried it back to the small fire. “I spent a long time on Sesuad‘ra making these.”
Binabik unrolled the bundle, then slowly smiled. “Ah.”
“And I copied them onto hides as well,” she said with more than a little pride, “because I knew they would last that way. I saw those scrolls you and Sis ... Sis ...”
“Sisqinanamook,” Binabik said, frowning over the skin
s. “Or ‘Sisqi’ is easier for lowlander tongues.” His face went blank for a moment, then his features resumed life and he looked up at Miriamele. “So you copied the maps that Count Eolair was bringing.”
“I did. He said that they were of the old dwarrow tunnels. Simon came out of the castle through them, so I thought that might be a way to get back in without being caught.”
“It is not all being tunnels.” Binabik stared at the meandering lines drawn on the skins. “The old Sithi castle is beneath the Hayholt, and it was of great largeness.” He squinted. “These are not easy for reading, these maps.”
“I wasn’t sure what any of it meant, so I copied it all, even the little drawings and marks on the side,” Miriamele said humbly. “I only know that these are the right maps because I asked Father Strangyeard.” She felt a sudden bite of fear. “They are the right maps, aren’t they?”
Binabik nodded slowly, black hair bouncing against his forehead. “They are looking like maps of this place, indeed—see, there is what you call the Kynslagh.” He pointed to a large curving crescent at the edge of the topmost map. “And this must be Swertclif which lies beneath us even now.”
Miriamele leaned forward to look, following Binabik’s small finger with eager attention. A moment later, she felt a wash of intense sadness. “If that’s where we are, the spot where Simon fell through has no tunnels.”
“Perhaps.” Binabik sounded genuinely unsure. “But maps and charts are being made at particular times, Miriamele. Just as likely it is that other tunnels have been made since the drawing of this thing.”
“Elysia, Mother of Mercy, I hope that’s true.”
“So where was Simon emerging from his tunnels?” Binabik asked. “I seem to have a memory that it was ...”
“In the lich-yard, just on the other side of the wall from Erchester,” Miriamele finished for him. “I saw him there, but he ran away when I called to him. He thought I was a ghost.”