Despite all the cleaning implements in the various storerooms, the large chamber did not seem to have benefited from their use: pale freckles of mold grew on the tapestries and the air was thick with the damp, close smell of a place long-untended.
The astonishment of being in daylight again, the glory of escape from the depths, was so strong that Simon did not realize for some time that he stood in a place he knew well. Something in the shape and arrangement of the windows or some dimly-perceptible detail in one of the fading tapestries finally pricked his memory.
Green Angel Tower. The awareness came over him like a dream, the familiar turned strange, the strange become familiar. I’m in the entry hall. Green Angel Tower!
That surprising recognition was followed by one much less pleasant.
I’m in the Hayholt. In the High King’s castle. With Elias and his soldiers. And Pryrates.
He stepped back into the shadows along the wall as though any moment the Erkynguard would crash through the tower’s main door to take him prisoner. What should he do?
It was tempting to consider climbing up the wide staircase to the bellchamber, the place that had been his childhood refuge. He could look down and see every comer of the Hayholt; he could rest and try to decide what to do next. But his swollen ankle was throbbing horridly, and the thought of all those steps made him feel weak.
First he would eat the onion he had saved, he decided. He deserved a small celebration. He would think later.
Simon slipped back into the closet, then considered that even that place might be a little too frequented. Perhaps the tower’s entry chamber only seemed unvisited. He clambered down the ladder into the storeroom beneath, grunting softly at the ache in his arms and ankle, then pulled the onion from his pocket and devoured it in a series of greedy bites. He squeezed the last of his water down his throat—whatever else might happen, rain was sluicing through all the castle gutters and drizzling down past the windows, so soon he would have all the water he wanted—and then lay back with his head resting against one of the sacks and began organizing his thoughts.
Within moments he fell asleep.
“We tell lies when we are afraid, ” said Morgenes.
The old man took a stone from his pocket and tossed it into the moat. There was a flirt of sunlight on the ripples as the stone disappeared. “Afraid of what we don’t know, afraid of what others will think, afraid of what will be found out about us. But every time we tell a lie, the thing that we fear grows stronger.”
Simon looked around. The sun was vanishing behind the castle’s western wall; Green Angel Tower was a black spike, boldly silhouetted. He knew this was a dream. Morgenes had said this to him long ago, but they had been in the doctor’s chambers standing over a dusty book at the time, not outside in the fading afternoon. And in any case, Morgenes was dead. This was a dream, nothing more.
“It is, in fact, a kind of magic—perhaps the strongest of all,” Morgenes continued. “Study that, if you wish to understand power, young Simon. Don’t fill your head with nattering about spells and incantations. Understand how lies shape us, shape kingdoms.”
“But that’s not magic, ” Simon protested, lured into the discussion despite himself. “That doesn’t do anything. Real magic lets you ... I don’t know. Fly. Make bags of gold out of a pile of turnips. Like in the stories. ”
“But the stories themselves are often lies, Simon. The bad ones are. ” The doctor cleaned his spectacles on the wide sleeve of his robe. “Good stories will tell you that facing the lie is the worst terror of all. And there is no talisman or magic sword that is half so potent a weapon as truth. ”
Simon turned to watch the ripples slowly dissipating. It was wonderful to stand and talk with Morgenes again, even if it was only a dream. “Do you mean that if I said to a great dragon like the one that King John killed: ‘You’re an ugly dragon,’ that would be better than cutting its head off with a sword?”
Morgenes’ voice was fainter. “If you had been pretending it wasn’t a dragon, then yes, that would be the best thing to do. But there is more, Simon. You have to go deeper still. ”
“Deeper?” Simon turned back, angry now. “I’ve been down in the earth, Doctor. I lived and I came up again. What do you mean?”
Morgenes was ... changing. His skin had turned papery and his pale hair was full of leaves. Even as Simon watched, the old man’s fingers began to lengthen, changing into slender twigs, branching, branching. “Yes, you have learned,” the doctor said. As he spoke, his features began to disappear into the whorls on the white bark of the tree. “But you must go deeper still. There is much to understand. Watch for the angel—she will show you things, both in the ground and far above it. ”
“Morgenes!” Simon’s anger was all gone. His friend was changing so swiftly that there was almost nothing manlike left of him, only a faint suggestion in the shape of the trunk, an unnatural trembling in the tree’s limbs. “Don’t leave me!”
“But I have left you already,” the doctor’s voice murmured. “What you have of me is only what is in your head—I am part of you. The rest of me has become part of the earth again. ” The tree swayed slightly. “Remember, though—the sun and stars shine on the leaves, but the roots are deep in the earth, hidden ... hidden.... ”
Simon clutched at the tree’s pale trunk, his fingers scrabbling uselessly against the stiff bark. The doctor’s voice was silent.
Simon sat up, nightmare-sweat stinging his eyes, and was horrified to discover himself in darkness.
It was all a dream! I’m still lost in the tunnels, I’m lost....
A moment later he saw starlight through the storeroom’s high window.
Mooncalf. Fell asleep and it got dark outside.
He sat up, rubbing his sore limbs. What was he to do now? He was hungry and thirsty, and there seemed little chance that he would find anything to eat here in Green Angel Tower. Still, he was more than a little reluctant to leave this relatively safe place.
Have I climbed out of the dark ground only to starve to death in a closet? he chided himself. What kind of knight would do that?
He got to his feet and stretched, noting the dull ache in his ankle. Perhaps just a foray out to get some water and see the lay of the land. Certainly it would be best to do such things while it was still dark.
Simon stood uncertainly in the shadows outside Green Angel Tower. The Inner Bailey’s haphazard roofs made a familiar jumble against the night sky, but Simon did not feel at all comfortable. It was not just that he was an outlaw in his childhood home, although that was disconcerting enough: there was also something strange in the air that he could not name, but which he nevertheless could sense quite clearly. The maddening slipperiness of the world belowground had somehow seeped up into the everyday stones of the castle itself. When he tilted his head to one side, he could almost see the buildings ripple and change at the edge of his sight. Faint blurs of light, like phantom flames, seemed to flicker along the edges of walls, then quickly vanish.
The Hayholt, too? Had all the world broken loose from its moorings? What was happening?
With some difficulty, he nerved himself to go exploring.
Although it seemed the great castle was deserted, Simon soon discovered it was not. The Inner Bailey was dark and quiet, but voices whispered down corridors and behind closed doors, and there were lights in many of the higher windows. He also heard snatches of music, odd tunes and odder voices that made him want to arch like a cat and hiss. As he stood in the deep concealing shadows of the Hedge Garden, he decided that the Hayolt had somehow become spoiled, a fruit left to sit for too long now grown soft and rotten beneath the outer shell. He could not quite say what was wrong, but the whole of the Inner Bailey, the place that had been the center of Simon’s childhood world, seemed to have sickened.
He went stealthily to the kitchen, the lesser pantry, the chapel—even, in a moment of high daring, to the antechamber of the throne room, which opened onto the gardens. All the
outer doors were barred. He could find no entrance anywhere. Simon could not remember any time before when that had been so. Was the king frightened of spies, of a siege? Or were the barriers not to keep out intruders, but to make sure that those who were inside remained there? He breathed quietly and thought. There were windows that could not be closed, he knew, and other secret ways—but did he want to risk such difficult entrances? There might be fewer people about at night, but judging by the barred doors, those who were up, especially if they were sentries, would be even more alert to unexpected noises.
Simon returned to the kitchen and pulled himself up into the branches of a small, barren apple tree, then climbed from there onto the ledge of the high window. The thick glass was gone, but the window slot had been wedged full of stones; there would be no way to remove them without making a terrible clatter. He cursed silently and descended.
He was sore and still terribly hungry, despite the luxury of a whole onion. He decided that he had wasted his time on the doors of the Inner Bailey. On the far side of the moat, though, the Middle Bailey might prove less well-protected.
There were several distressingly naked patches of ground between the two baileys. Despite not having seen a single guard or, in fact, a single other person, Simon had to force himself to cross these open stretches; each time he dashed for the safety of shadows as soon as he was clear. The bridge across the moat was the most unnerving part. He began to cross it and then changed his mind twice. It was at least thirty ells long, and if someone appeared while he was in the middle, he would be as obvious as a fly walking on a white wall.
At last he blew out a shaky breath, drew in a deep gasp of air, and sprinted across. His steps sounded as loud to him as thunder. He forced himself to slow down and cross at a silent walk, despite the thumping of his heart. When he reached the far side he ducked into a shed where he sat until he felt steady again.
You’re doing well, he told himself. No one’s around. Nothing to fear.
He knew that was a lie.
Plenty to fear, he amended. But no one’s caught you yet. Not in a while, anyway.
As he got to his feet, he could not help wondering why the bridge over the moat had been down in the first place if all the doors were barred and windows blocked against some feared attack.
And why wasn’t Green Angel Tower locked up? He could think of no answer.
Before he had taken a hundred paces across the muddy thoroughfare in the center of Middle Bailey, he saw something that made him shrink back into the darkness again, his terrors suddenly returned—this time with reason.
An army was camped in the bailey.
It had taken him some long moments to realize it, since so few fires burned, and since the tents were made of dark cloth that was almost invisible in the night, but the entire bailey seemed to be full of armed men. He could see perhaps a half dozen on the nearer outskirts, sentries by the look of them, cloaked and helmeted and carrying long pikes. In the dim light he could not see much of their faces. Even as he stood hidden in a crack between two of the bailey’s buildings, wondering what to do next, another pair of cloaked and hooded figures passed him. They also carried long spears, but he could see immediately that they were different. Something in the way they carried themselves, something in their graceful, deceptively swift strides, told him beyond doubt that these were Norns.
Simon sank farther back into the concealing darkness, trembling. Would they know he was here? Could they... smell him?
Even as he wondered, the black-robed creatures paused only a short way from his hiding place, alert as hunting dogs. Simon held his breath and willed himself to total stillness. After a long wait, the Norns abruptly turned in unison, as though some wordless communication had passed between them, and continued on their way. Simon waited a few shaky moments, then cautiously poked his head around the wall. He could not see them against the darkness, but he could see the human soldiers move out of their way, quick as men avoiding a snake. For an instant the Norns were silhouetted against one of the watchfires, twin hooded shapes that seemed oblivious to the humans around them. They slipped from the light of the fire and vanished once more.
This was something unexpected. Norns! The White Foxes, here in the Hayholt itself! Things were worse even than he had imagined. But hadn’t Geloe and the others said that the immortals couldn’t come back here? Perhaps they had meant that Ineluki and his undead servitors couldn’t return. But even if that last was true, it seemed little solace just now.
So the Middle Bailey was full of soldiers, and there were Norns moving freely around the keep, silent as hunting owls. Simon’s skin prickled. He had no doubt that the Outer Bailey was also full of Black Rimmersmen, or Thrithings mercenaries, or whatever cutthroats Elias had bought with Erkynland’s gold and the Storm King’s magic. It was hard to believe that many of the king’s own Erkynguard, even the most ruthless, would remain in this haunted place with the corpse-faced Norns: the immortals were too frighteningly different. It had been easy to see in just a brief instant that the soldiers in the Middle Bailey were frightened of them.
Now I have a reason to escape besides just my own skin. Josua and the others need to know what is going on in here. He felt a momentary surge of hope. Maybe knowing the Norns are here with Elias will bring Jiriki and the rest of the Sithi. Jiriki’s kin would have to help the mortals then, wouldn’t they? Simon tried to think carefully. In fact, I should try to escape now—if I can. What good will I do Josua or anyone else if I don’t get out?
But he had barely learned anything. He was exactly what any war leader most valued—an experienced eye in the middle of the enemy camp. Simon knew the Hayholt like a farmer knew his fields, like a blacksmith knew his tools. He owed it to his good fortune in surviving this far—good fortune, yes, he reminded himself, but his wits and resourcefulness had helped him, too—to take all he could from the situation.
So. Back to the Inner Bailey. He could last a day or two without food if necessary, since water seemed to be abundantly available. Plenty of time to spy out what useful things he could, then find a way out past the soldiers to freedom. If he had to, he could even make his way back under the castle and through the dark tunnels again. That would be the surest way to escape undetected.
No. Not the tunnels.
It was no use pretending. Even for Josua and the others, that was something he could not do.
He was approaching the bridge to the Inner Bailey when a loud clatter made Simon pull back into the shadows once more. When he saw the group of mounted shapes riding out onto the span, he silently thanked Usires for not bringing him to the bridge a few moments earlier.
The company seemed made up of armored Erkynguardsmen, strangely dispirited-looking for all their martial finery. Simon had only a moment to wonder what their errand might be when he saw a chillingly familiar bald head in their midst.
Pryrates! Simon pushed back against the wall, staring. A choking hatred rose up inside of him. There the monster was, not three score paces away, his hairless features limned by faint moonlight.
I could be on him in a moment, he thought wildly. If I walked up slowly, the soldiers wouldn’t worry—they’d just think I was one of the mercenaries who’d drunk too much wine. I could crush his skull with a rock....
But what if he failed? Then he would easily be captured, any use he might be to Josua finished before it had begun. And worse, he would be the red priest’s prisoner. It was just as Binabik had said: how long would it be until he told Pryrates every secret about Josua, about the Sithi and the swords—until he begged to tell the alchemist anything he wanted to hear?
Simon could not help shuddering like a taunted dog at the end of a rope. The monster was so close... !
The company of horsemen stopped. The priest was berating one of the Erkynguards, his raspy voice faint but unmistakable. Simon leaned as far forward as he could without losing the shadow of the wall, cupping his hand behind his ear so that he could hear better.
“... or I will ride you!” the priest spat.
The soldier said something in a muffled voice. Despite his height and the sword he wore sheathed on his hip, the man cowered like a terrified child. No one dared speak sharply to Pryrates. That had been true even before Simon had fled the castle.
“Are you mad or just stupid?” Pryrates’ voice rose. “I cannot ride a lame horse for days, all the way to Wentmouth. Give me yours.”
The soldier got down, then handed the reins of his mount to the alchemist. He said something else. Pryrates laughed.
“Then you will lead mine. It will not hurt you to walk, I think, since it was your idiocy that ...” The rest of his mocking remark was too soft to hear, but Simon thought he heard another reference to Wentmouth, the rocky height in the south where the Gleniwent River met the sea. Pryrates pulled himself up into the guardsman’s saddle, his scarlet robe appearing for a moment from beneath his dark cloak like a bloody wound. The priest spurred down off the bridge and onto the mud of the Middle Bailey. The rest of the company followed after him, trailed on foot by the soldier leading Pryrates’ horse.
As they passed by his hiding spot, Simon found that he was clutching a stone in his hand; he could not remember picking it up. He stared at the alchemist’s head, round and bare as an eggshell, and thought about what pleasure he would feel to see it cracked open. That evil creature had killed Morgenes, and God Himself alone knew how many others. His fear mysteriously fled, Simon struggled against the almost overwhelming urge to shout his fury and attack. How could the good ones like the doctor and Geloë and Deornoth die when such a beast was allowed to live? Killing Pryrates would be worth the loss of his own life. An unimaginable vileness would be gone from the world. Doing the necessary, Rachel would have called it. A dirty job, but one as needs doing. But it seemed his life was not his to give.
He watched the company troop past. They circled around the tents and vanished, moving toward the Lesser Gate that led to the outermost bailey. Simon dropped the rock he had been clutching into the mud and stood, trembling.