“Mother of Mercy!” Miriamele said feelingly. “That unhappy man!”
It was hard for Simon to encompass the breadth of the old knight’s suffering. “Where is he now?”
Josua shook his head. “I do not know. Wandering once more, perhaps. I pray he did not try to drown himself again. My poor father! I hope that the demons that plague him are weaker now, although I doubt it. I will find him, and I will try to help him toward some kind of peace.”
“So that’s what you’re going to do?” Simon asked. “Look for Camaris?”
Miriamele looked at the prince sharply. “What about Vorzheva?”
Josua nodded and smiled. “I will search for my father, but only after my wife and children are safe. There is much to be done, and it will be almost impossible for me to do any of it here in Erkynland where I am known.” He laughed quietly. “You see, I am imitating Duke Isgrimnur and letting my beard grow to better my disguise.” The prince rubbed his chin. “So tonight I ride south. Soon old Count Streáwe will have a late-night visitor. He owes me a favor ... of which I will remind him. If anyone can spirit Vorzheva and the two children out of the Nabbanai court, it will be Perdruin’s devious master. And he will enjoy the sport of it more than any payment I could ever make him. He loves secrets.”
“The dead prince’s wife and heirs disappearing.” Simon could not resist a smile of his own. “That will make for a few stories and songs!”
“So it will. And I’m sure I will hear them and laugh.” He reached over and squeezed Simon’s arm, then leaned farther to embrace Miriamele, who clung to him for a long moment. “Now it is time for me to go. Vinyafod is waiting. It will be dawn soon.”
Dreamlike as the conversation was, as the whole night had been, Simon was suddenly unwilling to let Josua go. “But if you find Camaris, and if you have Vorzheva with you, what then?”
The prince paused. “The southland will need at least one more Scrollbearer besides Tiamak, I believe—if the League will have me. And I can think of nothing I would like better than to put all the cares of battle and judgment behind me to read and think. Perhaps Streáwe can help me purchase Pelippa’s Bowl, and I will be the landlord of a quiet inn at Kwanitupul. An inn where friends will always be welcome.”
“So you are truly going?” asked Miriamele.
“Truly. I have been given the gift of freedom—a gift I had never expected to receive. I would be ungrateful indeed to turn my back on it.” He stood up. “It was very strange to hear my funeral rites spoken at the Hayholt to day. Everyone should have such a chance while they still live—it gives one much to think about.” He smiled. “Let me have a few hours’ start at least, but then tell Isgrimnur, and whatever others can be trusted, that I live. They will be wondering about the disappearance of Vinyafod in any case. But do tell Isgrimnur soon. It pains me greatly to think of my old friend mourning for me: the loss of his son is burden enough. I hope he will understand what I do.”
Josua moved toward the tent flap. “And you two, your adventures are only beginning, I think—although I hope those to come are happier.” He blew out the candle and the tent was dark again. “Just as I would be a fool not to take what I have been given, Simon, you will be a fool indeed if you do not marry my niece—and Miriamele, you will be a fool if you do not take him. The two of you have much work to do, and many things to set right, but you are young and strong, and you have been given a schooling like none the world has ever seen. May God bless you both, and good luck. I will be watching you. You will both be in my prayers.”
The tent flap lifted. Stars glimmered above Josua’s shoulder, then all was dark again.
Simon settled back, his head whirling. Josua alive! Camaris the prince’s father! And he, Simon, with a princess lying beside him. The world was unimaginably strange.
“So?” Miriamele asked suddenly.
“What?” He held his breath, worried by the tone of her voice.
“You heard my uncle,” she said. “Are you going to marry me? And what’s this about the blood of Eahlstan? Have you been hiding something from me all this time to pay me back for my serving-girl disguise?”
He exhaled. “I only found out myself yesterday.”
After a long silence, she said: “You haven’t answered my other question.” She took his face and pulled it near hers, running her finger along the sensitive ridge of his scar. “You said you would never leave me, Simon. Now are you going to do what Josua told you to do?”
For answer, he laughed helplessly and kissed her. Her arms curled around his neck.
They had gathered on the grassy hillside beneath the Nearulagh Gate. The great portal lay in ruins; birds fluttered above the stones, quarreling shrilly. Beyond the rubble the setting sun glinted from the wet roofs of the Hayholt. The Conqueror Star made a faint red smear in the northernmost comer of the darkening heavens.
Simon and Miriamele stood arm in arm, surrounded by friends and allies. The Sithi had come to say farewell.
“Jiriki.” Simon gently disengaged himself from Miriamele and stepped forward. “I meant what I said before, although I said it in childish bad temper. Your arrow is gone, burned away when the Storm King vanished. Any debt between us is gone, too. You have saved my life enough times.”
The Sitha smiled. “We will start afresh, then.”
“I wish you didn’t have to go.”
“My mother and the others will recover more quickly in their homes.” Jiriki gazed at the banners of his people ranged along the hillside, their bright clothes. “Look on that. I hope you will remember. The Dawn Children may never be gathered again in one place.”
Miriamele stared down at the waiting Sithi and their bold, impatient horses. “It is beautiful,” she said. “Beautiful.”
Jiriki smiled at her, then turned back to Simon. “So it is time for my folk to go back to Jao é-Tinukai‘i, but you and I will see each other before long. Do you remember I told you once that it took no magical wisdom to say we would meet again? I will say it once more, Seoman Snowlock. The story is not ended.”
“All the same, I will miss you—we will miss you.”
“It may be that things will be better in days to come between my folk and yours, Seoman. But it will not happen swiftly. We are an old people, slow to change, and most mortals still fear us—not without reason after what the Hikeda‘ya have done. Still, I cannot but hope that something has indeed changed forever. We Dawn Children, our day is past, but perhaps now we will not simply disappear. Perhaps when we are gone there will be something of us left behind beside our ruins and a few old stories.” He clasped Simon’s hand and then drew him forward until they embraced.
Aditu followed her brother, light-footed and smiling. “Of course you will come to see us, Seoman. And we will come to you, too. You and I have many a game of shent yet to play. I fear to see what clever new strategies you will have learned.”
Simon laughed. “I’m sure you fear my shent-playing the way you fear deep snow and high walls—not at all.”
She kissed him, then went to Miriamele and kissed her too. “Be kind and patient with each other,” the Sitha said, eyes bright. “Your days will be long together. Remember these moments always, but do not ignore the sad times, either. Memory is the greatest of gifts.”
Many others, some who would stay to help in the rebuilding of Erchester and the Hayholt and remain for the coronation, others soon to return to their own cities and people, clustered around. The Sithi gravely and sweetly exchanged farewells with them all.
Duke Isgrimnur pulled himself away from the crowd surrounding the immortals. “I’ll be here yet a while, Simon, Miriamele—even after Gutrun’s ship comes from Nabban. But we’ll have to leave for Elvritshalla before summer begins.” He shook his head. “There will be an ungodly lot of work to do there. My people have suffered too much.”
“We couldn’t hope to begin here without you, Uncle Isgrimnur,” said Miriamele. “Stay as long as you can, and we will send with you whatever may help
you.”
The duke lifted her in his broad arms and hugged her. “I am so happy for you, Miriamele, my dear one. I felt like such a damnable traitor.”
She smacked at his arm until he put her down. “You were trying to do what was best for everyone—or what you thought was best. But you should have come to me in any case, you foolish man. I would happily have stepped aside for Simon, or you, or even Qantaqa.” She laughed and spun in a circle, dress flaring. “But now I am happy, Uncle. Now I can work. We will put things to rights.”
Isgrimnur nodded, a melancholy smile nestling in his beard. “I know you will, bless you,” he whispered.
There was a piercing shout of trumpets and a rumble from the crowd. The Sithi were mounting. Simon turned and lifted his hand. Miriamele pushed in beneath his arm, pressing against him. Jiriki, at the head of the company, stood in his stirrups and raised his arm, then the trumpets called again and the Sithi rode. Light from the dying sun gleaming on their armor, they picked up speed; within moments they were only a bright cloud moving along the hillside toward the east. Snatches of their song hung in the wind behind them. Simon felt his heart leap in his chest, full of joy and sadness both, and knew the sight would live with him forever.
After a long and reverent quiet, the gathering at last began splitting apart. Simon and his companions started to wander down toward Erchester. A great bonfire had been lit in Battle Square, and already the streets, so long deserted, were full of people. Miriamele dropped behind to walk with Isgrimnur, slowing her pace to his. Simon felt a touch on his hand and looked down. Binabik was there, Qantaqa moving beside him like a gray shadow.
“I wondered where you were,” said Simon.
“My farewells to the Sithi-folk were being said this morning, so Qantaqa and I were at walking along the Kynswood. Some squirrels that were living there have now come to a sad end, but Qantaqa is feeling very cheerful.” The troll grinned. “Ah, Simon-friend, I was thinking of old Doctor Morgenes, and of the prideful feeling that he would have if he saw what is happening here.”
“He saved us all, didn’t he?”
“Certain it is that his planning gave us the only chance we had. We were being tricked by Pryrates and the Storm King, but had we not been alerted, Elias’ ravagings would have been worse. Also, the swords would have been finding other bearers, and no fighting back would have happened in the tower. No, Morgenes could not be knowing all, but he did what no other could have done.”
“He tried to tell me. He tried to warn us all about false messengers.” Simon looked down Main Row at the hurrying figures and the flicker of firelight. “Do you remember the dream I had at Geloë’s house? I know that was him. That he was ... watching.”
“I do not know what happens after we are dying,” Binabik said. “But I am thinking you are right. Somehow, Morgenes was watching for you. You were being like a family for him, even more than his Scroll League.”
“I will always miss him.”
They walked along for a while without speaking. A trio of children ran past, one of them trailing a strip of colorful cloth which the others, laughing and shrieking, tried to catch.
“I must go soon myself,” said Binabik. “My people in Yiqanuc are waiting, wondering no doubt what has happened here. And, being most important, Sisqinanamook is there, also waiting. Like you and your Miriamele, she and I have a tale that is long. It is time that we were married before the Herder and Huntress and all the folk of Mintahoq.” He laughed. “Despite everything, I am thinking her parents will still have a small sadness when they see I have survived.”
“Soon? You’re going soon?”
The troll nodded. “I must. But as Jiriki said to you, we will have many more meetings, you and I.”
Qantaqa looked at them for a moment, then trotted ahead, sniffing the ground. Simon kept his eyes forward, staring toward the bonfire as though he had never seen such a thing. “I don’t want to lose you, Binabik. You’re my best friend in the world.”
The troll reached up and took his hand. “All the more reason that we should not be long parted. You will come to Yiqanuc when you can—surely there is being a need for the first Utku embassy ever to the trolls!—and Sisqi and I will come to see you.” He nodded his head solemnly. “You are my dearest friend also, Simon. Always we will be in each others’ hearts”
They walked on toward the bonfire, hand in hand.
Rachel the Dragon wandered through Erchester, her hair bedraggled, her clothes tattered and soiled. All around, people ran laughing through the streets, singing, cheering, playing frivolous games as though the city were not falling apart around them. Rachel could not understand it.
For days she had hidden in her underground sanctuary, even after the terrible tremblings and shiftings had stopped. She had been convinced that the world had ended over her head, and felt no urge to leave her well-stocked cell to see demons and sorcerous spirits celebrating in the ruins of her beloved Hayholt. But at last curiosity and a certain resolve had gotten the better of her. Rachel was not the kind of woman to take even the end of the world without fighting back. Let them put her to their fiendish tortures. Blessed Rhiap had suffered, hadn’t she? Who was Rachel to hesitate before the example of the saints?
Her first blinking, molelike view of the castle seemed to confirm her worst fears. As she made her way through the hallways, through the ruins of what had been her home and her greatest pride, her heart withered in her breast. She cursed the people or creatures who had done this, cursed them in a way that would have made Father Dreosan turn pale and hurry away. Wrath moved through her like a tide of fire.
But when she had finally emerged into the almost-deserted Inner Bailey, it was to discover one puzzlement after another. Green Angel Tower lay in a shambles of stone, and the destruction and fire-scorchings of recent battle were everywhere, but the few folk she encountered wandering through the desolation claimed that Elias was dead and that everything was to be made right again.
On the tongues of these, and of many others she met as she went down into Erchester, were the names of Miriamele, the king’s daughter, and someone called Snowlock. These two, it was said—he a great hero of battles in the east, a dragon-slayer and warrior—had thrown down the High King. Soon they would be married. All would soon be made right. That was the refrain on every tongue: all would be made right.
Rachel had snorted to herself—only those who had never had the responsibilities she had would think this a task that could take less than years—but she could not help feeling curiosity and a faint flickering of hope. Perhaps better days were coming. The folk she met said Pryrates had died, too, burned to death somehow in the great tower. So a measure of justice had been done at least. Rachel’s losses had finally been avenged, however tardily.
And perhaps, she had thought, Guthwulf could be saved and brought up again from darkness. He deserved a happier fate than to wander forever while the world aboveground returned to something like order.
Kind folk in Erchester had fed her from their own meager stores and given her a place to sleep. And all evening she had heard the stories of Princess Miriamele and the hero Snowlock, the warrior princeling with the dragon-scar. Perhaps, she had considered, when things were calm again she would offer her services to the new rulers. Surely a young woman like Miriamele, if she had been brought up at all well, would understand the need for order. Rachel did not think that her heart would ever entirely be in her work again, but felt sure she had something to offer. She was old, but there might still be use for her.
Rachel the Dragon looked up. While her thoughts had been meandering, her feet had led her down to the fringes of Battle Square, where a bonfire had been lit. As much as possible had been made of scant provisions, and a feast of sorts had been laid in the middle of the square. The remnants of Erchester’s citizenry milled about, shouting, singing, dancing around the fire. The clamor was almost deafening. Rachel accepted a piece of dried fruit from a young woman, then wandered over to a shadowy corn
er to eat it. She sat down against the wall of a shop and watched the carryings-on.
A young man passed her, and his eye caught hers for a moment. He was thin and his face was sad. Rachel squinted. Something about him was familiar.
He seemed to have the same thought, for he wheeled and walked back toward her. “Rachel?” he asked. “Aren’t you Rachel, the Mistress of Chambermaids?”
She looked at him, but could summon no name. Her head was full of the noise of people on the roofs shouting down to friends in the square. “I am,” she said. “I was.”
He stepped forward suddenly, frightening her a little, and put his arms around her. “Don’t you remember me?” he asked. “I’m Jeremias! The chandler’s boy! You helped me escape from the castle.”
“Jeremias,” she said, patting his back softly. So he had lived. That was a good thing. She was happy. “Of course.”
He stepped back and looked at her. “Have you been here all along? No one has seen you in Erchester.”
She shook her head, a little surprised. Why should anyone have been looking for her? “I had a room ... a place I found. Under the castle.” She raised her hands, unable to explain everything that had happened. “I hid. Then I came out.”