“Which is likely the end of our hopes, in any case,” Josua said gloomily. “For if he knows that, why would Elias leave it there?”
“The Storm King’s knowing and the knowing of your brother may not be the same thing,” Binabik observed. “It is not an unheard-of strangeness for allies to be hiding things from each other. The Storm King may not be knowing that we also have this knowledge.” He smiled a yellow smile. “It is a thing of great complication, is it not? Also, from the story that the old man Towser was so often telling—the story of how your brother acted when Towser was giving him the blade—it is possible that those who have the taint of Stormspike cannot bear its nearness.”
“It is a great deal to hope for,” Josua said. “Isgrimnur? What do you make of all this?”
The duke shifted on the low stool. “About which? The swords, or the troll’s going off after Miri and the boy?”
“Either. Both.” Josua waved his hand wearily.
“I can’t say much about the swords, but what Binabik has to say makes a kind of sense. As to the other ...” Isgrimnur shrugged. “Someone should go, that’s clear. I brought her back once, so I’ll go again if you want, Josua.”
“No.” The prince shook his head firmly. “I need you here. And I would not separate you from Gutrun yet again for the sake of my headstrong niece.” He turned to the troll. “How many men would you take, Binabik?”
“None, Prince Josua.”
“None?” The prince was astonished. “But what do you mean? Surely it would be safer to take at least a few good men, as you did on the journey to Urmsheim?”
Binabik shook his head. “I am thinking that Miriamele and Simon will not hide from me, but they would be hiding with certainness from mounted soldiers pursuing them. Also, there are places Qantaqa and I can go that even riders of great skill, like Hotvig’s Thrithings-men, cannot. I can be more silent, too. No, it is a better thing if I go by myself.”
“I do not like it,” Josua said, “and I can see that your Sisqi does not like it either. But I will consider it, at least. Perhaps it would be best—there is more of me than just an uncle’s love that fears what might happen if Miriamele and Simon fall into my brother’s hands. Certainly something must be done.” He lifted his hand and rubbed at his temples. “Let me think on it a while.”
“With certainty, Prince Josua.” Binabik stood. “But remember that even Qantaqa’s wonderful nose cannot be tracking a scent that has been too long on the ground.” He bowed, as did Sisqi, then they turned and went out.
“He is small—they both are,” Josua said reflectively. “But not only do I wish the trolls were not leaving, I wish I had a thousand more like them.”
“He’s a brave one, that Binabik, right enough,” said Isgrimnur. “Seems sometimes as if that’s all we have left.”
Eolair watched the fly buzzing near his horse’s head for some time. The horse, but for an occasional ear-flick, seemed little bothered, but Eolair continued to stare. There was not much else to look at while riding through this westernmost part of Hernystir on the fringes of the Frostmarch, and the fly also reminded him of something he could not quite summon to mind, but which was nevertheless bidding for his attention. The Count of Nad Mullach watched the tiny black speck for some time before he finally realized why it seemed significant.
This is the first fly I’ve seen in a while—the first since the winter came down, I think. It must be getting warmer.
This rather ordinary thought gave rise to a host of other, less usual speculations.
Could it be that somehow the tide has turned? he wondered. Could Josua and his people have accomplished something that has diminished the Storm King’s power and pushed back his magical winter? He looked around at the small, tattered troop of Hernystiri that rode behind him, and at the great company of Sithi who led them, their banners and armor ablaze with color. Could the fact that Jiriki’s folk have entered the battle somehow have tipped the scale in our favor? Or am I making too much out of the tiniest of signs?
He laughed to himself, but grimly. This last year and its attendant horrors seemed to have made him as omen-drunk as his ancestors of Hern’s day.
His ancestors had been on Eolair’s mind more than a little in the last few days. The army of Sithi and men riding toward Naglimund had recently stopped at Eolair’s castle at Nad Mullach on the River Baraillean. In the two days the army was quartered there, the count had found another three score men from the surrounding area who were willing to join the war party—most of them more for the wonder of riding with the fabled Peaceful Ones, Eolair suspected, than out of any sense of duty or thirst for revenge. The young men who agreed to join the company were mostly those whose families had been lost or scattered during the recent conflict. Those who still had land or loved ones to protect had no desire to ride off to another war, no matter how noble or all-encompassing the cause—nor could Eolair have commanded them to do so: the landholders of Hernystir had not possessed that right since King Tethtain’s day.
Nad Mullach had been less harshly treated than Hernysadharc, but it had still suffered during Skali’s conquest. In the short time he had, Eolair rounded up those few of his retainers who remained and did his best to set things on the right course again. If he did manage somehow to return from this mad war that was growing mad der by the day, he wanted nothing more than to put down the reins of responsibility as soon as possible and live once more in his beloved Nad Mullach.
His liege-folk had held out long against the small portion of Skali’s army that had been left to besiege them, but when those prisoned within the castle’s walls began to starve, Eolair’s cousin and castellaine Gwynna, a stem, capable woman, opened the gates to the Rimmersmen. Many of the fine things that had been in Eolair’s line since not long after Sinnach’s alliance with the Erl-king were destroyed or stolen, and so were many objects that Eolair himself had brought back from his travels throughout Osten Ard. Still, he had consoled himself, the walls still stood, the fields—under a blanket of snow—were still fertile, and the wide Baraillean, unhindered by war or winter, still rushed past Nad Mullach on its way to Abaingeat and the sea.
The count had commended Gwynna for her decision, telling her that had he been in residence he would have done the same. She, to whom the sight of Skali’s outlanders in her great house had been the most galling thing imaginable, was a little comforted, but not much.
Those outlanders, perhaps because their master was far away in Hernysadharc, or perhaps because they were not themselves of Skali’s savage Kaldskryke clan, had been less hateful in their occupation than the invaders in other parts of Hernystir. They had treated their conquered prisoners poorly, and had plundered and smashed to their hearts’ content, but had not indulged in the kind of rape, torture, and senseless killing that had marked Skali’s main army as it drove on Hernysadharc.
Still, despite the comparative lightness of the damage to his ancestral home, as he rode out of Nad Mullach Eolair was nevertheless filled with a sense of violation and shame. His forebears. had built the castle to watch over their bit of the river valley. Now it had been attacked and defeated, and the current count had not even been at home. His servants and kin had been forced to make their way alone.
I served my king, he told himself. What else could I do?
There was no answer, but that did not make it any easier to live with the memories of shattered stone, scorched tapestries, and frightened, hollow-eyed people. Even should both war and spirit-winter end tomorrow, that harm had already been done.
“Would you like something more to eat, my lady?” Eolair asked.
He could not help wondering what Maegwin in her madness made of the rather poor fare that had been their lot so far on the trip toward Naglimund. Nothing much could be expected of a war-ravaged countryside, of course, but the count was curious how hard bread and leathery onions could be considered food fit for gods.
“No, Eolair, thank you.” Maegwin shook her head and smiled gently. ?
??Even in a land of unending pleasure, we must rest from pleasure occasionally.”
Unending pleasure! The count smiled back despite himself. It might not be bad to be as touched as Maegwin, at least during meals.
A moment later he chided himself for the uncharitable thought. Look at her. She’s like a child. It’s not her fault—perhaps it was the blow Skali struck her. It may not have killed her, as she thinks, but it might have disordered her brains.
He stared at her. Maegwin was watching the sunset with evident pleasure. Her face seemed almost to glow.
What is that term they use in Nabban? “Holy fools.” That’s what she looks like—someone who is no longer of the earth.
“The sky of heaven is more beautiful than I would have imagined,” she said dreamily. “I wonder if perhaps it is our own sky, but we see it now from the other side.”
And even were there some cure, Eolair wondered suddenly, what right have I to take this away from her? The thought was shocking, like cold water dashed in his face. She is happy—happy for the first time since her father went off to war and his death. She eats, she sleeps, she talks to me and others ... even if most of it is arrant nonsense. How would she be better off if she came back to her senses in this dreadful time?
There was no answer to that, of course. Eolair took a deep breath, fighting off the weariness that assailed him when he was with Maegwin. He stood and walked to a patch of melting snow nearby, washed his bowl, then returned to the tree where Maegwin sat, staring out across the rolling fields of grass and gray snow toward the ruddy western sky.
“I am going to talk to Jiriki,” he told her. “Will you be well here?”
She nodded, a half-smile tilting her lips. “Certainly, Count Eolair.”
He bowed his head and left her.
The Sithi were seated upon the ground around Likimeya’s fire. Eolair stopped some distance away, marveling at the strangeness of the sight. Although close to a dozen of them sat in a wide circle, no one spoke: they merely looked at each other as though they carried on some wordless conversation. Not for the first time, the Count of Nad Mullach felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise in superstitious wonder. What strange allies!
Likimeya still wore her mask of ashes. Heavy rains had swept down on the traveling army the day before, but her strange face-painting seemed just as it had been, which made the count suspect that she renewed it each day. Seated across from her was a tall, narrow-featured Sitha-woman, thin as a priest’s staff, with pale sky-blue hair drawn up atop her head in a birdlike crest. It was only because Jiriki had told him that Eolair knew that this stern woman, Zinjadu, was even older than Likimeya.
Also seated at the fire was Jiriki’s red-haired, green-garbed uncle Khendraja‘aro, and Chekai’so Amber-Locks, whose shaggy hair and surprisingly open face—Eolair had even seen this Sitha smile and laugh—made him seem almost human. On either side of Jiriki sat Yizashi, whose long gray witchwood spear was twined about with sun-golden ribbons, and Kuroyi, who was taller than anyone else in the entire company, Sithi or Hernystiri, and so pale and cold-featured that but for his tar-black hair he might have been a Norn. There were others, too, three females and a pair of males that Eolair had seen before, but whose names he did not know.
He stood uncomfortably for some time, uncertain of whether to stay or go. At last, Jiriki looked up. “Count Eolair,” he said. “We are just thinking about Naglimund.”
Eolair nodded, then bowed toward Likimeya, who lowered her chin briefly in acknowledgment. None of the other Sithi gave him much more attention than a flick of feline eyes. “We will be there soon,” he said.
“A few days,” agreed Jiriki. “We Zida‘ya are not used to fighting against a castle held by enemies—I do not think we, have done it since the last evil days back in Venyha Do’sae. Are there any among your folk who know Josua’s stronghold well, or about such fighting? We have many questions.”
“Siege warfare... ?” said Eolair uncertainly. He had thought that the frighteningly competent Sithi would have prepared for this long before. “There are a few of my men who have fought as mercenaries in the Southern Islands and the Lakeland wars, but not many. Hernystir itself has been peaceful during most of our lifetimes. As to Naglimund ... I suppose that I know it best of any Hernystirman still living. I have spent much time there.”
“Come and sit with us.” Jiriki gestured to an open place near Chekai‘so.
Black-haired Kuroyi said something in the liquid Sithi tongue as Eolair seated himself on the ground. Jiriki showed a hint of a smile. “Kuroyi says that surely the Norns will come out and fight us before the walls. He believes that the Hikeda‘ya would never hide behind stone laid by mortals when the Zida’ya have come to resolve things at last.”
“I know nothing of the ... of those we call Norns,” Eolair said carefully. “But I cannot imagine that if their purpose is as deadly earnest as it seems, they will give up the advantage of a stronghold like Naglimund.”
“I believe you are correct,” said Jiriki. “But it is hard to convince many of my people that. It is hard enough for most of us to believe that we go to war with the Hikeda‘ya, let alone that they might hide within a fortress and drop stones on us as mortal armies do.” He said something in the Sithi speech to Kuroyi, who replied briefly, then fell silent, his eyes cold as bronze plates. Jiriki next turned to the others.
“It is impolite for us to speak in a language Count Eolair does not know. If anyone does not feel comfortable speaking Hernystiri or Westerling, I will be happy to render your words for the count’s understanding.”
“Mortal tongues and mortal strategies. We will all have to learn,” Likimeya said abruptly. “It is a different age. If the rules of mortals now make the world spin, then we must learn those rules.”
“Or decide whether it is possible to live in such a world.” Zinjadu’s voice was deep yet strangely uninflec ted, as though she had learned Westerling without ever having heard it spoken. “Perhaps we should let the Hikeda‘ya have this world of mortals that they seem to desire.”
“The Hikeda‘ya would destroy the mortals even more readily than they would destroy us,” Jiriki said calmly.
“It is one thing,” spoke up Yizashi Grayspear, “to fulfill an ancient debt, as we have just done at M‘yin Azoshai. Besides, those were mortals we routed, and the descendants of bloody Fingil’s ship-men besides. It is another thing to go to war with other Gardenborn to aid mortals to whom we owe no such debt—including those who hunted us long after we lost Asu’a. This Josua’s father was our enemy!”
“Then does the hatred never end?” Jiriki replied with surprising heat. “Mortals have short lives. These are not the ones who warred on our scattered folk.”
“Yes, the lives of mortals are short,” said Yizashi dispassionately. “But their hatreds run deep, and are passed from parents to children.”
Eolair was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable but did not think the time was right for him to speak up.
“It is possible that you forget, noble Yizashi,” said Jiriki, “that it was the Hikeda‘ya themselves who brought this war to us. It was they who invaded the sanctity of the Yásira. It was truly Utuk’ku’s hand—not that of the mortal catspaw who wielded the dagger—which slew First Grandmother.”
Yizashi did not reply.
“There is little point in this,” Likimeya said. Eolair could not help noticing how the depths of Likimeya’s eyes cast the light back, glowing orange as the stare of a torchlit wolf. “Yizashi, I asked you and these others, the House of Contemplation, the House of Gathering, all the houses, to honor your debts to the Grove. You agreed. And we are set upon our course because we need to thwart Utuk‘ku Seyt-Hamakha’s plans, not just repay an old debt or avenge Amerasu’s murder.”
Black-browed Kuroyi spoke up. “The mortals have a saying, I am told.” His voice was measured and eerily musical, his Hernystiri somehow over-precise. “ ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend ... for a little while.’ Silv
ermask and her kin have chosen one set of mortals to be their allies, so we will choose those mortals’ enemies to be our allies. Utuk‘ku and her minions have also broken the Pact of Sesuad’ra. I find no shame in fighting beside Sudhoda‘ya until the issue is settled.” He raised his hand as though to ward off questions, but the circle was completely still. “No one has said I must love these mortal allies: I do not, and feel sure that I will not, whatever happens. And if I live until these days end, I will return to my high house in hidden Anvi’janya, for I have long been surfeited with the company of others, whether mortal or Gardenborn. But until then, I will do as I have promised to Likimeya.”
There was a long pause after Kuroyi had finished. The Sithi again sat in silence, but Eolair had the feeling that some issue was in the air, some tension that sought resolution. When the quiet had gone on so long that he was beginning to wonder again whether he should leave, Likimeya lifted her hands and spread them flat in the air before her.
“So,” she said. “Now we must think about this Naglimund. We must consider what we will do if the Hikeda‘ya do not come out to fight.”
The Sithi began to discuss the upcoming siege as though there had been no dispute over the honorability of fighting beside mortals. Eolair was puzzled but impressed by their civility. Each person was allowed to speak as long as he wished and no one interrupted. Whatever dissension there had been—and although Eolair found the immortals difficult to fathom, he had no doubt there had been true disagreement—now seemed vanished: the debate over Naglimund, although spirited, was calm and apparently free of resentment.