“Maegwin?” Eolair took the young man’s hand. “She is in the camp. You are inside Naglimund, and you’ve been hurt. I’ll go find some folk to help me with you ...” “No,” Isorn said, impatient despite his weakness. “She was here. I was chasing her when ... when the giant clubbed me. He did not strike me full.”
“Maegwin ... here?” For a moment it was as though the northerner had begun speaking another tongue. “What do you mean?”
“Just as I said. I saw her walk past the outskirts of the fighting, right through the courtyard, heading around the keep. I thought I was seeing things in the mist, but I know she’s been strange. I followed, and saw her just ... there ...” he winced at the pain as he pointed toward the far comer of the blocky keep, “and followed. Then that thing caught me from behind. Before I knew it, I was lying here. I don’t know why it didn’t kill me.” Despite the chill, sweat beaded on his pale forehead. “Perhaps some of the Sithi came up.”
Eolair stood. “I’ll get help for you. Don’t move any more than you have to.”
Isorn tried to smile. “But I wanted to take a walk in the castle gardens tonight.”
The count draped his cloak over his friend and sprinted back toward the front of the keep, skirting the siege of the keep’s great doors. He found his Hernystirmen huddled beside a gap in the outwall like sheep terrified of thunder, and took four of the healthiest back to carry Isorn to the camp. As soon as he saw they had him safe, he returned to his search for Maegwin; it had taken all the restraint he possessed to see his friend out of harm’s way first.
It did not take him long to find her. She was curled on the ground at the back of the keep. Although he could see no marks of violence on her anywhere, her skin felt deathly cold to his touch. If she breathed, he could find no sign of it.
When his wits returned sometime later, he was carrying Maegwin’s limp body in his arms, staggering across the camp at the base of the hill below Naglimund. He could not remember how he had gotten there. Men’s faces looked up as he approached, but at that moment their expressions had no more meaning for him than the bright eyes of animals.
“Kira‘athu says that she is alive, but very close to death,” said Jiriki. “I bring you my sorrow, Eolair of Nad Mullach.”
As the count looked up from Maegwin’s pale, slack face, the Sitha healer rose from the far side of the pallet and went quietly past Jiriki and out of the tent. Eolair almost called her back, but he knew that there were others who needed her help, his own men among them. It was clear that there was little more she could do here, although Eolair could not have said what exactly the silver-haired Sitha woman had done; he had been too busy willing Maegwin to live to pay attention, clutching the young woman’s cold hand as though to lend her some of his own feverish warmth.
Jiriki had blood on his face. “You’ve been hurt,” Eolair pointed out.
“A cut, no more.” Jiriki made a flicking movement with his hand. “Your men fought bravely.”
Eolair turned so he could speak without craning his neck, but he retained his grip on Maegwin’s fingers. “And the siege is over?”
Jiriki paused for a moment before replying. Eolair, even in the depth of his mourning, felt a sudden fear.
“We do not know,” the Sitha finally said.
“What does that mean?”
Jiriki and his kin had a quality of stillness in them at all times that marked them off from Eolair and his mortal fellows, but even so it was clear that the Sitha was disturbed. “They have sealed the keep with the Red Hand still inside. They have sung a great Word of Changing and there is no longer a way in.”
“No way in? How can that be?” Eolair pictured huge stones pushed against the inside of the entrance. “Is there no way to force the doors?”
The Sitha moved his head in a birdlike gesture of negation. “The doors are there, but the keep is not behind them.” He frowned. “No, that is misleading. You would think us mad if I told you that, since the building clearly still stands.” The Sitha smiled crookedly. “I do not know if I can explain to you, Count. There are not words in any mortal tongue that are quite right.” He paused. Eolair was astonished to see one of the Sithi looking so distraught, so ... human. “They cannot come out, but we cannot enter in. That is enough to know.”
“But you brought down the walls. Could you not knock down the stones of the keep as well?”
“We brought down the walls, yes, but if the Hikeda‘ya had been given time earlier to do what they have now accomplished, those walls would still be standing. Only some all-important task could have kept them from doing that before we laid siege. However, even if we now took down every stone of the keep and carried it a thousand leagues away, we still could not reach them—but they would still be there.”
Eolair shook his head in weary confusion. “I do not understand, Jiriki. If they cannot come out and the rest of Naglimund is ours, then there is no worry, is there?” He had reached his limit with the vague explanations of the Peaceful Ones. He wanted only to be left in peace with Lluth’s dying daughter.
“I wish it were so. But whatever purpose brought them here is still not understood—and it is likely that as long as they can stay in this place, close to the A-Genay‘asu, they can still do what they came to do.”
“So this whole struggle has been for nothing?” Eolair let go of Maegwin’s hand and rose to his feet. Rage flared within him. “For nothing? Three score or more brave Hernystirmen slaughtered—not to mention your own people—and Maegwin ...” he waved helplessly, “... like this! For nothing?!” He lurched forward a few steps, arm raised as though to strike at the silent immortal. Jiriki reacted so swiftly that Eolair felt his wrists caught and held in a gentle yet unbreakable grip before he saw the Sitha move. Even in his fury, he marveled at Jiriki’s hidden strength.
“Your sorrow is real. So is mine, Eolair. And we should not assume that all has been for naught: we may have hindered the Hikeda‘ya in ways we do not yet realize. Certainly we are alerted now, and will be on our guard for whatever the Cloud Children may do. We will leave some of our wisest and oldest singers here.”
Eolair felt his anger subside into hopelessness. He slumped, and Jiriki released his arms. “Leave them here?” he asked dully. “Where are you going? Back to your home?” A part of him hoped that it was true. Let the Sithi and their strange magics return to the secret places of the world. Once Eolair had wondered if the immortals still existed. Now he had lived and fought with them, and doing so had experienced more horror and more pain than he had ever thought possible.
“Not to our home. Here, do you see?” Jiriki lifted the tent flap. The night sky had cleared; beyond the campfires hung a canopy of stars. “There. Beyond what we call the Night Heart, which is the bright star above the comer of Naglimund’s outwall.”
Puzzled and irritated, Eolair squinted. Above the star, high in the sable sky, was another point of light, red as a dying ember.
“That one?” he asked.
Jiriki stared at it. “Yes. It is an omen of terrible power and significance. Among mortal peoples, it is called the Conqueror Star.”
The name had a disturbingly familiar sound, but in his grief and emptiness Eolair could summon no memories. “I see it. What does it mean?”
Jiriki turned. His eyes were cold and distant. “It means the Zida‘ya must return to Asu’a.”
For a moment the count did not understand what he was being told. “You are going to the Hayholt?” he said finally. “To fight Elias?”
“It is time.”
The count turned back to Maegwin. Her lips were bloodless. A thin line of white showed between her eyelids. “Then you will go without me and my men. I have had enough of killing. I will take Maegwin back so she may die in Henystir. I will take her home.”
Jiriki lifted a long-fingered hand as though he would reach out to his mortal ally. Instead, he turned and pulled the tent flap open once more. Eolair expected some dramatic gesture, but the Sitha only said: “Yo
u must do what you think best, Eolair. You have given much already.” He slid out, a dark shadow against the starlit sky, then the flap fell back into place.
Eolair slid down beside Maegwin’s pallet, his mind full of despair and confusion. He could not think any more. He laid his cheek against her unmoving arm and let sleep take him.
“How are you, old friend?”
Isgrimnur groaned and opened his eyes. His head pounded and ached, but that was as nothing to the pain below his neck. “Dead. Why don’t you bury me?”
“You will outlive us all.”
“If it feels like this, that is no gift.” Isgrimnur sat a little straighter. “What are you doing here? Strangyeard told me that Varellan was to surrender today.”
“He did. I had business here at the monastery.”
The duke stared at Josua suspiciously. “Why are you smiling? It doesn’t look a thing like you.”
The prince chuckled. “I am a father, Isgrimnur.”
“Vorzheva has given birth?” The Rimmersman shot out his furry paw and clasped Josua’s hand. “Wonderful, man, wonderful! Boy or girl?”
The prince sat down on the bed so that Isgrimnur would not have to stretch so far. “Both.”
“Both?” Isgrimnur’s look turned to suspicion again. “What nonsense is that?” Realization came, if slowly. “Twins?”
“Twins.” Josua seemed on the verge of laughing aloud with pleasure. “They are fine, Isgrimnur—they are fat and healthy. Vorzheva was right, Thrithings-women are strong. She hardly made a noise, though it took forever for them both to come.”
“Praise Aedon,” the Rimmersman said; he made the sign of the Tree. “Both babies and their mother, all safe. Praise be.” Moisture appeared in the comer of his eye. He wiped it away brusquely. “And you, Josua, look at you. You are practically dancing. Who would have thought fatherhood would suit you so?”
The prince still smiled, but something more serious was beneath. “I have something to live for, now, Isgrimnur. I did not understand it would be like this. They must come to no harm. You should see them—perfect, perfect.”
“I will see them.” Isgrimnur began struggling with his covers.
“You will not!” Josua was shocked. “You will not get out of that bed. Your ribs ...”
“Are still where they’re supposed to be. They’ve just been dented by a tipped-over horse. I’ve felt worse. Most of the punishment was taken by my head, and that is all bone, anyway.”
Josua had grasped Isgrimnur’s broad shoulders, and for a moment it seemed that he would actually try to wrestle the duke back into bed. Reluctantly, he let go. “You’re being foolish,” he said. “They are not going anywhere.”
“Nor will I be either if I never move around.” Grunting with pain, Isgrimnur put his bare feet down on the cold stone floor. “I saw what happened to my father Isbeorn. When he was thrown from his horse, he stayed in bed the whole winter. After that he could never walk again.”
“Oh, goodness. What is he ... what is he doing?” Father Strangyeard had appeared in the doorway, and was staring at the duke with profound unhappiness.
“He is getting up to see the children,” said Josua in a tone of resignation.
“But ... but ...”
“Blast you, Strangyeard, you sound like a chicken,” Isgrimnur growled. “Make yourself useful. Get me something to sit on. I am not such a fool that I am going to stand up in there while I make faces at Josua’s heirs.”
The priest, alarmed, hurried back out again.
“Now come and help me, Josua. It’s too bad we don’t have one of those Nabbanai harnesses for lifting an armored man onto a horse.”
The prince braced himself against the edge of the bed. Isgrimnur grabbed Josua’s belt and pulled himself upright. By the time he was standing, the duke was breathing heavily.
“Are you well?” Josua asked worriedly.
“No. I hurt damnably. But I’m on my feet, and that’s something.” He seemed reluctant to move further. “How far is it?”
“Just down the hall a short way.” Josua slid his shoulder under the older man’s arm. “We will go slowly.”
They moved carefully out into the long, cool hallway. After a couple of dozen paces, Isgrimnur stopped to rest. “I will not be able to sit a horse for a few days, Josua,” he said apologetically.
“A few days!” Josua laughed. “You brave old fool. I will not let you on a horse for a month at least.”
“I won’t be left behind, damn you!”
“No one is going to leave you behind, Isgrimnur. I am going to need you more than ever in the days ahead, whether you can fight or not. My wife is not going to ride, either. We will find a way to get you to Nabban, and to wherever we go from there.”
“Traveling with the women and children.” The disgust in his voice did not mask the fear.
“Only until you are healed,” Josua soothed him. “But don’t lie to me, Isgrimnur. Don’t tell me that you are ready when you are not. I mean it when I say that I need. you, and I will not have you making yourself so weak that your wounds don’t heal.” He shook his head. “I should be hanged for letting you get out of bed.”
The duke was a little cheerier. “A new father cannot refuse a request. Didn’t you know that? An old Rimmersgard custom.”
“I’m sure,” said Josua sourly.
“And besides, even with smashed ribs, I could beat you the best day of your life.”
“Come on, then, old war-horse,” the prince sighed. “You can tell me about it when we get you to a bench.”
Duchess Gutrun left the protective circle around Vorzheva’s bed to give Isgrimnur a furious scolding for leaving his bed. She had been running back and forth between the two rooms for days, and was plainly exhausted. The duke did not argue, but sank onto the bench Strangyeard had dragged in with the air of an unrecalci trant child.
Vorzheva was propped against a mound of blankets with an infant in each arm. Like Gutrun, she was pale and obviously tired, but this did not diminish the proud serenity that shone from her like a lantern’s hooded glow. Both babies were swaddled so that only their black-haired heads peeped out. Aditu squatted near Vorzheva’s right shoulder, staring at the nearest child with rapt interest.
When he had caught his breath, Isgrimnur leaned forward, stealing a glance at the Sitha woman. There seemed a strange hunger in her eyes, and for a moment the duke was reminded of old stories about the Sithi stealing mortal children. He pushed away the disconcerting thought.
“They look fine,” he said. “Which is which?”
“The boy is in my right arm. And this is the girl.”
“And what will they be called?”
Josua took a step closer, staring down at his wife and children with unalloyed pride. “We will name the boy Deornoth, in memory of my friend. If he grows up half so noble a man, I will be proud.” He shifted his gaze to the other small, sleeping face. “The girl is Derra.”
“It is the Thrithings word for star.” Vorzheva smiled. “She will burn bright. She will not be like my mother and sisters, a prisoner of the wagons.”
“Those are good names,” Isgrimnur said, nodding. “When is the First Blessing to be?”
“We leave here in three days’ time,” Josua replied, still staring at his family. “We will have the ceremony before we ride.” He turned. “If Strangyeard can do it then, that is.”
“Me?” The archivist looked around as though there might be someone else of that name in the room. “But we are in Nabban, now, Josua. There is a church on every hillside. And I have never performed a First Blessing.”
“You married Vorzheva and me, so of course we would have no one else,” Josua said firmly. “Unless you do not want to.”
“Want to? I shall be honored, of course. Of course! Thank you, Prince Josua, Lady Vorzheva.” He began to edge toward the door. “I had better find a copy of the ceremony and learn it.”
“We’re in a monastery, man,” Isgrimnur said. “You should
n’t have to look far.”
But Strangyeard had already slipped out. The duke felt sure that the attention had been too much for him.
Gutrun made a brisk throat-clearing noise. “Yes. Well, if all of you are quite finished with your talking, I think it’s time for Vorzheva and the little ones to get some rest.” She turned on her husband. “And you are going back to bed, you stubborn old bear. It nearly stopped my heart when I saw you carried back here on a sling, and it was just as bad when I saw you staggering in today. Have you no sense, Isgrimnur?”
“I’m going, Gutrun,” he mumbled, embarrassed. “Don’t bully me.”
Aditu’s voice was quiet, but her melodious tones carried surprisingly well. “Vorzheva, may I hold them for a moment?”
“She needs to rest.” Gutrun was sharp; Isgrimnur thought he saw something beyond her usual firmness in her eyes—a touch of fear, perhaps. Had she had the same thought he had? “The babies, too.”
“Just for a moment.”
“Of course,” said Vorzheva, although she, too, looked a little startled. “You had only to ask.”
Aditu leaned down and carefully took the children, first the girl, then the boy, and balanced them in her arms with great care. For a long moment she looked at both of them in turn, then she closed her eyes. Isgrimnur felt an inexplicable touch of panic, as though something fearful had been set into motion.
“They will be as close as brorher and sister can be, ” Aditu intoned, her voice suddenly solemn and powerful, “although they will live many years apart. She will travel in lands that have never known a mortal woman’s step, and will lose what she loves best, but find happiness with what she once despised. He will be given another name. He will never have a throne, but kingdoms will rise and fall by his hand.” The Sitha’s eyes opened wide, but seemed to gaze far beyond the confines of the room. “Their steps will carry them into mystery.” After a moment her eyes closed; when they opened once more, she seemed as natural as it was possible for a Sitha to seem to mortals.