Memory Sorrow & Thorn
Book 4
To Green Angel Tower, part 2
Tad Williams




PART ONE
A

The
Turning WfteeC

End of PART ONE




Tears and Smoke

Ttona^- fowvt the empty treelessness of the High
Thrithing oppressive- Kwanitupul was strange, too, but he
had been visiting that place since childhood, and its tum-
bledown buildings and ubiquitous waterways at least re-
minded him a little of his marshy home. Even Perdruin,
where he had spent time in lonely exile, was so filled
with close-leaning walls and narrow pathways, so riddled
with shadowy hiding places and blanketed in the salt
smell of the sea, that Tiamak had been able to live with
his homesickness. But here on (jhe grasslands he felt tre-
mendously exposed and utterly out of place. It was not a
comforting feeling.

They Who Watch and Shape have indeed made a
strange life for me, he often reflected. The strangest, per-
haps, of any they have made for my people since Nuobdig
married the Fire Sister.

Sometimes there was solace in this thought. To have
been marked out for such unusual events was, after all, a
sort of repayment for the years of misunderstanding that
his own people and the drylanders on Perdruin had shown
him. Of course he was not understood-he was special:

what other Wrannaman could speak and read the dryland-
er tongues as he could? But lately, surrounded again by
strangers, and with no knowledge of what had happened
to his own folk, it filled him with loneliness. At such
times, disturbed by the emptiness of these queer northern
surroundings, he would walk down to the river that ran

34

Tad Williams

through the middle of the camp to sit and listen to the
calming, familiar sounds of the water-world.
He had been doing just that, dangling his brown feet in
the Stefflod despite the chill of water and wind, and was
returning to camp a little heartened, when a shape flashed
past him. It was someone running, pale hair streaming,
but whoever it was seemed to move as swiftly as a drag-
onfly, far faster than anyone human should travel. Tiamak
had only a moment to stare after the fleeing form before
another dark shape swept past. It was a bird, a large one,
flying low to the ground as though the first figure was its
prey.

As both shapes vanished up the slope toward the heart
of the prince's encampment, Tiamak stood in stunned
amazement. It took some moments for him to realize who
the first shape had been.

The Sitha-woman! he thought. Chased by a hawk or an
owl?

It made no sense, but then she-Aditu was her name-
made little sense to Tiamak either. She was like nothing
he had ever seen and, in fact, frightened him a little- But
what could be chasing her? From the look on her face she
had been running from something dreadful.

Or to something dreadful, he realized, and felt his
stomach clench. She had been heading toward the camp'.

He Who Always Steps on Sand, Tiamak prayed as he
set out, protect me-protect us all from evil. His heart was
beating swiftly now, faster than the pace of his running
feet. This is an ill-omened year!

For a moment, as he reached the nearest edge of the
vast field of tents, he was reassured. It was quiet, and few
campfires burned. But there was too much quiet, he de-
cided a moment later. It was not early, but still well be-
fore midnight. People should be about, or at least there
should be some noise from those not yet asleep. What
could be wrong?

It had been long moments since he had caught his most
recent glimpse of the swooping bird-he was certain now
it was an owl-and he hobbled on in the direction he had

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER           35

last seen it, his breath now coming in harsh gasps. His in-
jured leg was not used to running, and it bumed him,
throbbed. He did his best to ignore it.

Quiet, quiet-it was still as a stagnant pond here. The
tents stood, dark and lifeless as the stones drylanders set
in fields where they buried their dead.

But there' Tiamak felt his stomach turn again. There
was movement! One of the tents not far away shook as
though in a wind, and some light inside it threw strange
moving shadows onto the walls.
Even as he saw it he felt a tickling in his nostrils, a sort
of burning, and with it came a sweet, musky scent. He
sneezed convulsively and almost tripped, but caught him-
self before falling to the ground. He limped toward the
tent, which pulsed with light and shadow as though some
monstrous thing was being born inside. He tried to raise
his voice to cry out that he was coming and to raise an
, alarm, for his fear was rising higher and higher-but he
could not make a sound. Even the painful rasp of his
breathing had become faint and whispery.

The tent, too, was strangely silent. Pushing down his
fright, he caught at the flap and- threw it back.

At first he could see nothing more than dark shapes and
bright light, almost an exact reflection of the shadow pup-
pets on the outside walls of the tent. Within a few in-
stants, the moving images began to come clear.

At the tent's far wall stood Camaris. He seemed to have
been struck, for blood rilled from some cut on his head,
staining his cheek and hair black, and he reeled as though
his wits had been addled. Still, bowed and leaning against
the fabric for support, he was yet fierce, like a bear beset
by hounds. He had no blade, but held a piece of firewood
clenched in one fist and waved it back and forth, holding
off a menacing shape that was almost all black but for a
flash of white hands and something that glinted in one of
those hands.

Kicking near Camaris' feet was an even less decipher-
able muddle, although Tiamak thought he saw more
black-clothed limbs, as well as the pale nimbus of Aditu's

Tad Williams

hair. A third dark-clad attacker huddled in the corner,
warding off a swooping, fluttering shadow.

Terrified, Tiamak tried to raise his voice to call for
help, but could make no sound. Indeed, despite what
seemed to be life-or-death struggles, the entire tent was
silent but for the muffled sounds of the two combatants
on the floor and the hectic flapping of wings.

Why can't I hear? Tiamak thought desperately. Why
can't I make a sound?

Frantic, he searched the floor for something to use as a
weapon, cursing himself that he had carelessly left his
knife behind in the sleeping-place he shared with
Strangyeard. No knife, no sling-stones, no blow-darts-
nothing! She Who Waits to Take All Back had surely
sung his song tonight.

Something vast and soft   seemed to strike him in the
head, sending Tiamak to   his knees, but when he looked
up, the several battles   still raged, none of them near him.
His skull was throbbing   even more painfully than his leg
and the sweet smell was   chokingly strong- Dizzy, Tiamak
crawled forward and his hand encountered something
hard. It was the knight's sword, black Thorn, still
sheathed. Tiamak knew it was far too heavy for him to
use, but he dragged it out from beneath the tangle of bed-
ding and stood, as unsteady now on his feet as Camaris.
What was in the air?

The sword, unexpectedly, seemed light in his hands,
despite the heavy scabbard and dangling belt. He raised it
high and took a few steps forward, then swung it as hard
as he could at what he thought was the head of Camaris'
attacker. The impact shivered up his arm, but the thing
did not fall. Instead, the head turned slowly. Two eyes,
shining black, stared out of the corpse-white face.
Tiamak's throat moved convulsively. Even had his voice
remained, he could not have made a sound. He lifted his
shaking arms, holding the sword up to strike again, but
the thing's white hand flashed out and Tiamak was
knocked backward. The room whirled away from him; the
sword flew from his nerveless fingers and tumbled to the
grass that was the tent's only floor.

TO GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

37

Tiamak's head was as heavy as stone, but he could not
otherwise feel the pain of the blow. What he could feel
were his wits slipping away. He tried to lift himself to his
feet once more but only got as far as his knees. He
crouched, shaking like a sick dog.

He could not speak but, cursedly, could still see.
Camaris was stumbling, wagging his head-as damaged,
seemingly, as Tiamak. The old man was trying to hold off
his attacker long enough to reach something on the
ground-the sword, the Wrannaman realized groggily, the
black sword. Camaris was prevented from reaching it as
much by the dark, contorted forms of Aditu and her en-
emy rolling on the ground beneath him as by the foe he
was trying to keep at bay with his firelog club.

In the other corner, something glittered in the hand of
one of the pale-faced things, a shining something red as
a crescent of firelight. The scarlet gleam moved, swift as
a striking snake, and a tiny cloud of dark shapes exploded
outward, then drifted to the ground, slower than snow-
flakes. Tiamak squinted helplessly as one settled on his
hand. It was a feather. An owl's feather.

Help. Tiamak's skull felt as though it had been staved
in. We need help. We will die if no one helps us.

Camaris at last bent and caught up the sword, almost
over-balancing, then managed to lift Thorn in time to
hold off a strike by his enemy. The two of them circled
each other, Camaris stumbling, the black-clad attacker
moving with cautious grace. They fell together once
more, and one of the old knight's hands shot out and
pushed away a dagger blow, but the blade left a trail of
blood down his arm. Camaris fell back clumsily, trying to
find room to swing his sword. His eyes were half-closed
with pain or fatigue.

He is hurt, Tiamak thought desperately. The throbbing
in his head grew stronger. Maybe dying. Why does no one
come?

The Wrannaman dragged himself toward the wide bra-
zier of coals that provided the only light. His dimming
senses were beginning to wink out like the lamps of
Kwanitupul at dawn. Only a dim fragment of an idea was

38

Tad Williams

in his mind, but it was enough to lift his hand toward the
iron brazier- When he felt-as dimly as a distant echo-
the heat of the thing against his fingers, he pushed. The
brazier tumbled over, scattering coals like a waterfall of
rubies.

As Tiamak collapsed, choking, the last things he saw
were his own soot-blackened hand curled like a spider
and, beyond it, an army of tiny flames licking at the bot-
tom of the tent wall.

A

"We don't need any more damnable questions,"
Isgrimnur grumbled- "We have enough to last three life-
times. What we need are answers."

Binabik made an uncomfortable gesture. "I am agree-
ing with you. Duke Isgrimnur. But answers are not like a
sheep that is coming when a person calls."

Josua sighed and leaned back against the wall of
Isgrimnur's tent. Outside, the wind rose for a moment,
moaning faintly as it vibrated the tent ropes. "I know how
difficult it is, Binabik. But Isgrimnur is right-we need
answers- The things you told us about this Conqueror Star
have only added to the confusion. What we need to know
is how to use the three Great Swords. All that the star
tells us-if you are right-is that our time to wield them
is running out."

"That is what we are giving the largest attention to,
Prince Josua," said the troll. "And we think we may per-
haps be learning something soon, for Strangyeard has
found something that is of importantness."

"What is that?" Josua asked, leaning forward. "Any-
thing, man, anything would be heartening."

Father Strangyeard, who had been sitting quietly,
squirmed a little. "I am not as sure as Binabik, Highness,
that it is of any use. I found the first of it some time
ago, while we were still traveling to Sesuad'ra."
"Strangyeard was finding a passage that is written in
Morgenes' book," Binabik amplified, "something about
the three swords that are so much concerning us."

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER           39

"And?" Isgrimnur tapped his fingers on his muddy
knee. He had spent a long time trying to secure his
tentstakes in the loose, damp ground.

"What Morgenes seems to suggest," the archivist said,
"is that what makes the three swords special-no, more
than special, powerful-is that they are not of Osten Ard.
Each of them, in some way, goes against the laws of God
and Nature."

"How so?" The prince was listening intently. Isgrimnur
saw a little ruefully that these sorts of inquiries would al-
ways interest Josua more than the less exotic business of
being a ruler, such as grain prices and taxes and the laws
of fireeholding.

Strangyeard was hesitant. "Geloe could explain better
than I. She knows more of these things."

"She should have been coming here by now," Binabik
said. "I wonder if we should be waiting for her."

"Tell me what you can," said Josua. "It has been a very
long day and I am growing weary. Also, my wife is ill
and I do not like being away from her."

"Of course. Prince Josua. I'm sorry. Of course."
Strangyeard gathered himself. "Morgenes tells that there
is something in each sword that is not of Osten Ard-not
of our earth. Thom is made from a stone that fell from the
sky. Bright-Nail, which was once Minneyar, was forged
from the iron keel of Elvrit's ship that came over the sea
from the West. Those are lands that our ships can no
longer find." He cleared his throat. "And Sorrow is of
both iron and the Sithi witchwood, two things that are in-
imical. The witchwood itself, Aditu tells me, came over
as seedlings from the place that her people call the Gar-
den. None of these things should be here, and also, none
of them should be workable .. - except perhaps the pure
iron of Elvrit's keel."

"So how were these swords made, then?" asked Josua.
"Or is that the answer you still seek?"

"There is something that Morgenes is mentioning,"
Binabik offered. "It is also written in one of Ookekuq's
scrolls. It is called a Word of Making-a magic spell is

40 Tad Williams

what we might be naming it, although those who are
knowing the Art do not use those words,"
"A Word of Making?" Isgrimnur frowned. "Just a
word?"

"Yes .. . and no," Strangyeard said unhappily. "In
truth, we are not sure. But Minneyar we know was made
by the dwarrows-the dvemings as you would call them
in your own tongue. Duke Isgrimnur-and Sorrow was
made by Ineluki in the dwarrow forges beneath Asu'a.
The dwarrows alone had the lore to make such mighty
things, although Ineluki learned it. Perhaps they had a
hand in Thorn's forging as well, or their lore was used
somehow. In any case, it is possible that if we knew the
way in which the swords were created, how the binding
of forces was accomplished, it might teach us something
about how we can use them against the Storm King."

"I wish I had thought to question Count Eolair more
carefully when he was here," said Josua, frowning. "He
had met the dwarrows."

"Yes, and they told him of their part in the history of
Bright-Nail," Father Strangyeard added. "It is also possi-
ble, however, that it is not the making of them that is im-
portant for our purpose, but just the fact that they exist.
Still, if we have some chance in the future to send word
to the dwarrows, and if they will speak with us, I for one
would have many questions."

Josua looked at the archivist speculatively. "This chore
suits you, Strangyeard. I always thought you were wasted
dusting books and searching out the most obscure points
of canon law."

The priest reddened. "Thank you. Prince Josua. What-
ever I can do is because of your kindness."

The prince waved his hand, dismissing the compliment.
"Still, as much as you and Binabik and the rest have ac-
complished, there is still far more to do. We remain afloat
in deep waters, praying for a sight of land . . ." He
paused. "What is that noise?"

Isgrimnur had noticed it, too, a rising murmur that had
slowly grown louder than the wind. "It sounds like an ar-
gument," he said, then waited for a moment, listening.

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                               4!

"No, it is more than that-there are too many voices." He
stood. "Dror's Hammer, I hope that someone has not
started a rebellion." He reached for Kvalnir and was
calmed by its reassuring heft. "I had hoped for a quiet
day tomorrow before we are to ride again."

Josua clambered to his feet. "Let us not sit here and
wonder,"

As Isgrimnur stepped out of the door flap, his eyes
were abruptly drawn across the vast camp. It was plain in
an instant what was happening.
"Fire!" he called to the others as they spilled out after
him. "At least one tent burning badly, but it looks like a
few more have caught, too." People were now rushing
about between the tents, shadowy figures that shouted
and gesticulated. Men dragged on their sword belts, curs-
ing in confusion. Mothers dragged screaming children out
of their blankets and carried them into the open air. All
the pathways were full of terrified, milling campfolk.
Isgrimnur saw one old woman fall to her knees, crying, al-
though she was only a few paces from where he stood, a
long distance from the nearest flames.

"Aedon save us!" said Josua. "Binabik, Strangyeard,
call for buckets and waterskins, then take some of these
mad-wandering folk and head for the river-we need wa-
ter! Better yet, pull down some of the oiled tents and see
how much water you can carry in them!" He sprang away
toward the conflagration; Isgrimnur hastened after him.

The flames were leaping high now, filling the night sky
with a hellish orange light. As he and Josua approached
the fire, a flurry of dancing sparks sailed out, hissing as
they caught in Isgrimnur's beard. He beat them out, curs-
ing.

*

Tiamak awakened and promptly threw up, then strug-
gled to catch his breath. His head was hammering like a
Perdruinese church bell.

There were flames all around him, beating hot against
his skin, sucking away the air. In a blind panic, he

42

Tad Williams

dragged himself across the crisping grass of the tent floor
toward what looked like a patch of cool darkness, only to
find his face pushed up against some black, slippery fab-
ric. He struggled with it for a moment, dimly noting its
strange resistance; then it flopped aside, exposing a white
face buried in the black hood. The eyes were turned up,
and blood slicked the lips. Tiamak tried to scream, but his
mouth was full of burning smoke and his own bile. He
rolled away, choking.

Suddenly, something grabbed at his arm and he was
yanked forward violently, dragged across the pale-skinned
corpse and through a wall of flame. For a moment he
thought he was dead. Something was thrown over him,
and he was rolled and pummeled with the same swift vi-
olence that had carried him away, then whatever covered
him was lifted and he found himself lying on wet grass.
Flames licked at the sky close beside him, but he was
safe. Safe!

"The Wrannaman is alive," someone said near him. He
thought he recognized the Sitha-woman's lilting tones, al-
though her voice was now almost sharp with fear and
worry. "Camaris dragged him out. How the knight man-
aged to stay awake after he had been poisoned I will
never know, but he killed two of the Hikeda'ya." There
was an unintelligible response.

After he had lain in place for a few long moments, just
breathing the clean air into his painful lungs, •Tiamak
rolled over. Aditu stood a few paces away, her white hair
blackened and her golden face streaked with grime. Be-
neath her on the ground lay the forest woman Geloe, par-
tially wrapped in a cloak, but obviously naked beneath it,
her muscular legs shiny with dew or sweat. As Tiamak
watched, she struggled to sit up.

"No, you must not," Aditu said to her, then took a step
backward. "By the Grove, Geloe, you are wounded."

With a trembling effort, Geloe lifted her head. "No,"
she said. Tiamak could barely hear her voice, a throaty
whisper. "I am dying."

Aditu leaned forward, reaching out to her. "Let me help
you...."

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER           43

"No!" Geloe's voice grew stronger. "No, Aditu, it is
... too late. I have been stabbed ... a dozen times." She
coughed and a thin trickle of something dark ran down
her chin, glinting in the light of the burning tents. Tiamak
stared. He saw what he took to be Camaris' feet and legs
behind her, the rest of the knight's long form stretched out
in the grass hidden by her shadow. "I must go." Geloe
tried to clamber to her feet but could not do so-

"There might be something ..." Aditu began.

Geloe laughed weakly, then coughed again and spat out
a gobbet of blood. 'Do you think I... do not... know?"
she said. "I have been a healer for ... a long time." She
held out a shaking hand. "Help me. Help me up."

Aditu's face, which for a moment had seemed as
stricken as any mortal's, grew solemn. She took Geloe's
hand, then leaned forward and clasped her other arm as
well. The wise woman slowly rose to her feet; she
swayed, but Aditu supported her,

"I must ... go. I do not wish to die here." Geloe
pushed away from Aditu and took a few staggering steps.
The cloak fell away, exposing her nakedness to the leap-
ing firelight. Her skin was slick with sweat and great
smears of blood. "I will go baclrto my forest. Let me go
while I still can."

Aditu hesitated a moment longer, then stepped back
and lowered her head. "As you wish, Valada Geloe. Fare-
well, Ruyan's Own. Farewell .,. my friend. Sinya'a du-
n'sha e-d'treyesa inro."

Trembling, Geloe raised her arms, then took another
step. The heat from the flames seemed to grow more in-
tense, for Tiamak, where he lay, saw Geloe begin to shim-
mer. Her outline grew insubstantial, then a cloud of
shadow or smoke seemed to appear where she stood. For
a moment, the very night seemed to surge inward toward
the spot, as though a stitch had been taken in the fabric of
the Wrannaman's vision. Then the night was whole again.

The owl circled slowly for a moment where Geloe had
been, then flew off, close above the wind-tossed grasses.
Its movements were stiff and awkward, and several times
it seemed that it must lose the wind and fall tumbling to

44

Tad Williams

the earth, but its lurching flight continued until the night
sky had swallowed it.

His head still full of murk and painful clangor, Tiamak
slumped back. He was not sure what he had seen, but he
knew that something terrible had happened. A great sad-
ness lurked just out of his reach. He was in no hurry to
bring it closer.

What had been the thin sound of voices in the distance
became a raucous shouting. Legs moved past him; the
night seemed suddenly full of movement. There was a
rush and sizzle of steam as someone threw a pail of water
into the flames of what had been Camaris' tent.

A few moments later he felt Aditu's strong hands under
his arms. "You will be trampled, brave marsh man," she
said into his ear, then pulled him farther away from the
conflagration, into the cool darkness beside some tents
untouched by the blaze. She left him there, then returned
shortly with a water skin. The Sitha pressed it against his
cracked lips until he understood what it was, then left him
to drink-which he did, greedily.

A dark shadow loomed, then abruptly sank down be-
side him. It was Camaris. His silvery hair, like Aditu's,
was scorched and blackened. Haunted eyes stared from
his ash-smeared face. Tiamak handed him the water skin,
then prodded him until he lifted it to his lips.

"God have mercy on us .. ." Camaris croaked. He
stared dazedly at the spreading fires and the shouting mob
that was trying to douse them.

Aditu returned and sat down beside them. When
Camaris offered her the water skin, she took it from him
and downed a single swallow before handing it back.

"Geloe. - - ?" Tiamak asked.
Aditu shook her head. "Dying. She has gone away."

"Who ..." It was still hard to speak. Tiamak almost
did not want to, but he suddenly felt a desire to know, to
have some reasons with which to balance off the terrible
events. He also needed something-words if nothing
else-to fill the emptiness inside of him. He took the skin
bag from Camaris and moistened his throat. "Who was
it... ?"

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER            45

"The Hikeda'ya," she said, watching the efforts to
quell the flames. "The Noms. That was Utuk'ku's long
arm that reached out tonight."

"I ... I tried to ... to call for help. But I couldn't."

Aditu nodded. "Kei-vishaa. It is a sort of poison that
floats on the wind. It kills the voice for a time, and also
brings sleep." She looked at Camaris, who had leaned
back against the tent wall that sheltered them. His head
was thrown back, his eyes closed. "I do not know how he
stood against it for the time he did. If he had not, we
would have been too late. Geloe's sacrifice would have
been for nothing." She turned to the Wrannaman. "You,
too, Tiamak. Things would have been different without
your aid: you found Camaris' sword. Also, the fire fright-
ened them. They knew they did not have much time, and
that made them careless. Otherwise, I think we would all
be there still." She indicated the burning tent.

Geloe's sacrifice. Tiamak found his eyes filling with
tears. They stung.

She Who Waits to Take All Back, he prayed desperately,
do not let her drift by!

He covered his face with his hands. He did not want to
think any more-

A

Josua ran faster. When Isgrimnur caught him at last, the
prince had already stopped to make sure that the fires
were being mastered. The original blaze had spread only
a little way, catching perhaps a half-dozen other tents at
most, and all but some in the first tent had escaped.
Sangfugol was one of them. He stood, clothed only in a
long shirt, and blearily watched the proceedings.

After assuring himself that everything possible was be-
ing done, Isgrimnur followed Josua to Camaris and the
other two survivors, the Sitha-woman and little Tiamak,
who were resting nearby. They were all bloodied and
singed, but Isgrimnur felt sure after looking them over
quickly that they would all live.

"Ah, praise merciful Aedon that you escaped. Sir
46 Tad miiams

Camaris," said Josua, kneeling at the side of the old
knight. "I feared rightly that it might be your tent when
we first saw the blaze." He turned to Aditu, who seemed
to have her wits about her, which could not quite be said
of Camaris and the marsh man. "Who have we lost? I am
told there are bodies inside the tent still."

Aditu looked up. "Geloe, I fear. She was badly
wounded. Dying."

"God curse it!" Josua's voice cracked. "Cursed day!"
He pulled a handful of grass and flung it down angrily.
With an effort, he calmed himself. "Is she still in there?
And who are the others?"

"They are none of them Geloe," she said. "The three
inside the tent are those you call Noms. Geloe has gone
to the forest."

"What!" Josua sat back, stunned. "What do you mean,
gone to the forest? You said she was dead."

"Dying." Aditu spread her fingers- "She did not want
us to see her last moments, I think. She was strange,
Josua-stranger than you know. She went away."

"Gone?"

The Sitha nodded slowly. "Gone."

The prince made the sign of the Tree and bowed his
head. When he looked up, there were tears running on his
cheek; Isgrimnur did not think they were caused by the
smoke. He, too, felt a shadow move over him as he
thought of the loss of Geloe. With so many pressing tasks
he could not dwell on it now, but the duke knew from
long experience in battle that it would strike him hard
later.

"We have been attacked in our very heart," the prince
said bitterly. "How did they get past the sentries?"

"The one I fought was dripping wet," said Aditu.
"They may have come down the river."

Josua swore. "We have been dangerously lax, and I am
the worst miscreant. I had thought it strange we had es-
caped the Noms* attentions so long, but my precautions
were inadequate. Were there more than those three?"

"I think there were no more," Aditu replied. "And they
would have been more than enough, but that we were

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER               47

lucky. If Geloe and I had not guessed something was
amiss, and if Tiamak had not somehow known and ar-
rived when he did, this tale would have had a different
ending. I think they meant to lull Camaris, or at least to
take him."

"But why?" Josua looked at the old knight, then back
to Aditu.

"I do not know. But let us carry him, and Tiamak, too,
to some warm place. Prince Josua. Camaris has at least
one wound, perhaps more, and Tiamak is burned, I
think."

"Aedon's mercy, you are right," said Josua. "Thought-
less. thoughtless. One moment." He turned and called
some of his soldiers together, then sent them off with or-
ders for the sentries to search the camp. "We cannot be
sure there were not more Noms or other attackers," Josua
said. "At the very least, we may find something to tell us
how these came into our camp without being seen."

"None of the Gardenborn are easily seen by
mortals-if they do not wish to be seen," said Aditu.
"May we take Camaris and Tiamak away now?"

"Of course." Josua called two of the bucket car-
riers. "You men! Come and help us!" He turned to Is-
grimnur. "Four should be enough to carry them, even
though Camaris is large." He shook his head. "Aditu is
right-we have made these brave ones wait too long."

The duke had been in such situations before, and knew
that too much haste was as-bad as too little- "I think we
would be better to find something to carry them on," he
said. "If one of those outer tents has been saved from the
fire, we might use it to make a litter or two."

"Good." Josua stood. "Aditu, I did not ask if you had
wounds that needed tending."

"Nothing I cannot care for myself. Prince Josua. When
these two have been seen to, we should gather those that
you trust and talk."

"I agree. There is much to talk about. We will meet at
Isgrimnur's tent within the hour. Does that suit you,
Isgrimnur?" The prince turned aside for a moment, then
turned back. His face was haggard with grief. "I was

48

Tad Williams

thinking that we should find Geloe to come nurse them
... then I remembered."

Aditu made a gesture, fingers touching fingers before
her. 'This is not the last time we shall miss her, 1 think."

*

"It is Josua," the prince called from outside the tent.
When he stepped inside, Gutrun still had the knife held
before her. The duchess looked fierce as an undenned
badger, ready to protect herself and Vorzheva from what-
ever danger might show itself. She lowered the dagger as
Josua entered, relieved but still full of worry.

"What is it? We heard the shouting. Is my husband
with you?"

"He is safe, Gutrun." Josua walked to the bed, then
leaned forward and pulled Vorzheva to him in a swift em-
brace. He kissed her brow as he released her. "But we
have been attacked by the Storm King's minions. We
have lost only one, but that is a great loss."

"Who?" Vorzheva caught his arm as he tried to
straighten.

"Geloe,"

She cried out in grief.

"Three Norns attacked Camaris," Josua explained.
"Aditu, Geloe, and the Wrannaman Tiamak came to his
aid. The Noms were killed, but Aditu says that Geloe
took a fatal wound." He shook his head. "I think she was
the wisest of us all. Now she is gone and we cannot re-
place her."

Vorzheva fell back. "But she was just here, Josua. She
came with Aditu to see me. Now she is dead?" Tears
filled her eyes.

Josua nodded sadly. "I came to see that you were safe.
Now I must go meet with Isgrimnur and the others to de-
cide what this means, what we will do." He stood, then
bent and kissed his wife again. "Do not sleep-and keep
your knife, Gutrun-until I can send someone here to
guard you."

"No one else was hurt? Gutrun said that she saw fires."

TO GREFN ANGEL TOWFR

49

"Camaris' tent. He seems to have been the only one at-
tacked." He began to move toward the door.

"But Josua," Vorzheva said, "are you sure? Our camp
is so big."

The prince shook his head. "I am sure of nothing, but
we have not heard of any other attacks. I will have some-
one here to guard you soon. Now I must hurry,
Vorzheva."

"Let him go, Lady," Gutrun told her. "Lie back and try
to sleep. Think of your child."
Vorzheva sighed. Josua squeezed her hand, then turned
and hastened from the tent.

A

Isgrimnur looked up as the prince strode into the light
of the campfire. The cluster of men waiting for the prince
stepped back respectfully, letting him pass. "Josua ..."
the duke began, but the prince did not let him finish.

"I have been foolish, Isgrimnur. It is not enough to
have sentries running through the camp looking for signs
of invading Norns. Aedon's Blood, it took me long
enough to realize it-Sludig!"'-he shouted. "Is Sludig
somewhere nearby?"

The Rimmersman stepped forward. "Here, Prince
Josua."

"Send soldiers through the camp to see if everyone is
accounted for, especially those of our party who might be
at risk. Binabik and Strangyeard were with me until the
fire started, but that does not mean they are safe still. It
is late in the day for me to realize this might have been
a diversion. And my niece, Miriamele-send someone to
her tent immediately. And Simon, too, although he may
be with Binabik." Josua frowned. "If they wanted
Camaris, it seems likely it was about the sword. Simon
carried it for a while, so perhaps there is some danger to
him as well. Damn me for my slow wits."

Isgrimnur made a throat-clearing noise. "I already sent
Freosel to look after Miriamele, Josua. I knew you would

50

Tad Williams

want to see Lady Vorzheva as soon as you could and I
thought it should not wait."

"Thank you, Isgrimnur. I did go to her. She and Outrun
are fine." Josua scowled. "But I am shamed you have had
to do my thinking."

Isgrimnur shook his head. "Let's just hope the princess
is safe."

"Freosel has been sent after Miriamele," Josua told
Sludig. "That is one less to hunt for. Go and see to the
rest now. And post two guards at my tent, if you would.
I will think better knowing that someone is watching over
Vorzheva."

The Rimmersman nodded. He commandeered a large
portion of the soldiers who were milling aimlessly around
Isgrimnur's camp and went off to do as he had been bid.

"And now," Josua said to Isgrimnur, "we wait. And
think."
Before the hour was too much older, Aditu reappeared;

Father Strangyeard and Binabik were with her. They had
gone with the Sitha to make sure Camaris and Tiamak
were resting comfortably in the care of one of New
Gadrinsett's healing-women-and also, apparently, to
talk, for they were all three deep in conversation when
they reached Isgrimnur's tent.

Aditu told Josua and the rest all the details of the
night's events. She spoke calmly, but Isgrimnur could not
help noticing that, although she chose her words with as
much care as ever, the Sitha seemed profoundly troubled.
She and Geloe had been friends, he knew: apparently the
Sithi felt grief just as mortals did. He liked her better for
it, then dismissed the thought as unworthy. Why should
immortals not take hurt like humans? From what
Isgrimnur knew, they had certainly suffered at least as
much.

"So." Josua sat back and looked around the circle. "We
have found no trace of anyone else being attacked. The
question is, why did they single out Camaris?"

"There must be something to this Three Swords rhyme
after all," said Isgrimnur. He didn't like such things: they

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                                51

made him. feel as though the ground beneath his feet was
unsolid, but that seemed to be the kind of world he found
himself in. It was hard not to yearn for the clean edge that
things had when he was younger. Even the worst of mat-
ters, like war, terrible as it was, had not been so shot
through with strange sorceries and mysterious enemies-
'They must have been after Camaris because of Thorn."

"Or perhaps it was Thorn alone they were seeking for,"
Binabik said soberly. "And Camaris was not of the most
importance."

"I still do not understand how they were able almost to
overcome him," Strangyeard said. "What is that poison
you spoke of, Aditu?"

"Kei-vishaa. In truth, it is not just a poison: we
Gardenbom use it in the Grove when it is time to dance
the year's end. But it can also be wielded to bring a long,
heavy sleep. It was brought from Venyha Do'sae; my peo-
ple used it when they first came here, to remove danger-
ous animals-some of them huge creature*.. whose like
have long passed from Osten Ard-from the places where
we wished to build our cities. When I smelted it, I knew
that something was wrong. We Zida'ya have never used it
for anything except the year-dancing ceremonies."

"How is it used there?" the archivist asked, fascinated.

Aditu only lowered her eyes. "I am sorry, good
Strangyeard, but that is not for me to say. I perhaps
should not have mentioned it at all. I am tired."

"We have no need to pry into your people's rituals,"
said Josua. "And we have more important things to
speak of, in any case." He turned an irritated look on
Strangyeard, who hung his head. "It is enough that we
know how they were able to attack Camaris without his
raising an alarm. We are lucky that Tiamak had the pres-
ence of mind to set the lent ablaze. From now on, we will
be absolutely rigid in the arrangement of our camp. All
who are in any way at risk will set their tents close to-
gether in the very center, so we all sleep within sight of
each other. I blame myself for indulging Camaris' wish
for solitude. I have taken my responsibilities too lightly."

Isgrimnur frowned. "We must all be more careful."

52 Tad Williams

As the council turned to talk of what other precautions
should be taken, Freosel appeared at the fireside- "Sorry,
Highness, but the princess be not anywhere 'round her
tent, nor did anyone see her since early."

Josua was clearly upset. "Not there? Aedon preserve
us, was Vorzheva right? Did they come for the princess
after all?" He stood up. "I cannot sit here while she may
be in danger. We must search the entire camp."

"Sludig is doing that already," said Isgrimnur gently.
"We will only confuse things."

The prince slumped down again. "You are right. But it
will be hard to wait."

They had barely resumed the discussion when Sludig
returned, his face grim. He handed Josua a piece of
parchment. "This was in young Simon's tent."

The prince read it quickly, then flung it down on the
ground in disgust. A moment later he stooped for it, then
handed it to the troll, his face stiff and angry. "I am sorry,
Binabik, I should not have done that. It seems to be for
you." He stood. "Hotvig?"

"Yes, Prince Josua." The Thrithings-man also stood.

"Miriamele has gone. Take as many of your riders as
you can quickly find. The chances are good that she has
headed toward Erkynland, so do most of your searching
west of the camp. But do not ignore the possibility that
she might go some other way to throw us off before she
turns back to the west."

"What?" Isgrimnur looked up in surprise. "What do
you mean, gone?"

Binabik looked up from the parchment. 'This was writ-
ten by Simon. It is seeming that he has gone with her, but
he also says he will try to bring her back." The troll's
smile was thin and obviously forced. "There is some
question in my head about who is leading who. I am
doubting Simon will convince her for coming back very
soon."

Josua gestured impatiently. "Go, Hotvig. God only
knows how long they have been gone. As a matter of fact,
since you and your riders are the fastest horsemen we
have here, go west; leave the other part of the search to

TO   GRfcEN   ANGEL   TOWER                                53

the rest of us." He turned to Sludig. "We will ride around
the camp, making our circle wider each time. I will saddle
Vinyafod. Meet me there." He turned to the duke. "Are
you coming?"

"Of course." Silently, Isgrimnur cursed himself. /
should have known something was coming, he thought.
She has been so quiet, so sad, so distant since we came
here. Josua hasn't seen the change as I have. But even if
she thinks we should have marched on Erkynland, why
would she go on her own? Fool of a headstrong child.
And Simon. I thought better of that boy.

Already unhappy at the thought of a night in the saddle
and what it would do to his sore back, Isgrimnur grunted
and rose to his feet.

A

"Why won't she wake up!?" Jeremias demanded.
"Can't you do something?"

"Hush, boy, I'm doing what I can." Duchess Gutrun
bent and felt Leieth's face again. "She is cool, not fever-
ish."

"Then what's wrong with her?" Jeremias seemed al-
most frantic. "I tried to wake her for a long time, but she
just lay there."

"Let me give another cover for her," Vorzheva said.
She had made room in the bed for the girl to lie beside
her, but Gutrun had disallowed it, frightened that Leieth
had some sickness which Vorzheva might catch. Instead,
Jeremias had carefully set the girl's limp form on a blan-
ket upon the ground.

"You just lie still and I'll worry about the child," the
duchess told her. "This is altogether too much noise and
fretting."

Prince Josua stepped through the door, unhappiness
etched on his face. "Is there not enough gone wrong? The
guard said someone was sick. Vorzheva? Are you well?"

"It is not me, Josua. The little girl Leieth, sh° cannot
be wakened."
Duke Isgrimnur stumped in. "A damned long ride and

54

Tad Williams

no sign of Miriamele," he growled. "We can only hope
that Hotvig and his Thrithings-men have better luck than
we did."

"Miriamele?" Vorzheva asked. "Has something hap-
pened to her, also?"

"She has ridden off with young Simon," Josua said
grimly,

"This is a cursed night," Vorzheva groaned. "Why does
this all happen?"

"To be fair, I don't think it was the lad's idea."
Isgrimnur bent and put his arm about his wife's shoulders,
then kissed her neck. "He left a letter which said he
would try to bring her back." The duke's eyes narrowed.
"Why is the girl here? Was she hurt in the fire?"

"I brought her," Jeremias said miserably. "Duchess
Gutrun asked me to look after her tonight."

"I didn't want her underfoot with Vorzheva so sick."
Outrun could not entirely hide her own discomfort. "And
it was just for a while, when Geloe was going to meet
with you men."

"I was with her all evening," Jeremias explained. "Af-
ter she was asleep, I fell asleep, too. I didn't mean to. I
was just tired."

Josua turned and looked at the young man kindly. "You
did nothing wrong to fall asleep. Go on."

"I woke up when everyone was shouting about the fire.
I thought Leieth would be frightened, so I went over to let
her know I was still there. She was sitting up with her
eyes open, but I don't think she heard a word I said. Then
she fell back and her eyes closed, like she was sleeping.
But I couldn't wake her up! I tried for a long time. Then
I brought her here to see if Duchess Gutrun could help."
As Jeremias finished, he was on the verge of tears.

"You did nothing wrong, Jeremias," the prince re-
peated. "Now, I need you to do something for me."

The young man caught, his breath on the verge of a sob.
"W-What, your Highness?"

"Go to Isgrimnur's tent and see if Binabik has re-
turned. The troll knows something of healing. We will
have him look at young Leieth."
I

TO   GREEN     ANGEL   TOWER                              55

Jeremias, only too glad to have something useful to do,
hurried out.

"In truth," Josua said, "I no longer know what to think
of all that has happened tonight-but I must admit that I
am very fearful for Miriamele. Damn her frowardness."
He clutched Vorzheva's blanket in his fingers and twisted
it in frustration.

There had been no change in Leieth's condition when
Jeremias returned with Binabik and Aditu. The little man
inspected the girl closely.

"I have seen her being like this before," he said. "She
is gone away somewhere, to the Road of Dreams or some
other place."

"But surely she has never been tike this for so long,"
Josua said. "I cannot help but think it has something to do
with the night's happenings. Could the Norn poison have
made her this way, Aditu?"

The Sitha kneeled beside Binabik and lifted the little
girl's eyelids, then laid her slim fingers below Leieth's
ear to feel how swiftly her heart beat. "I do not think so.
Surely this one," she indicated Jeremias, "would also
have been struck if the Kei-vishaa had spread so far."

"Her lips are moving!" Jeremias said excitedly.
"Look!"

Although she stilt lay as if deeply asleep, Leieth's
mouth was indeed opening and closing as though she
would speak.

"Silence." Josua leaned closer, as did most of the oth-
ers in the room.

Leieth's lips worked. A whisper of sound crept out.
". . . hear me ..."

"She said something!" Jeremias exulted, but was stilled
by a look from the prince.

"... I will speak anyway. I am fading. I have only a
short time left." The voice that issued from the little girl's
mouth, though thin and breathy, had a familiar cadence.

"... There is more to the Noms than we suspect, I
think. They play some double game ... Tonight was not a
feint, but something even more subtle ..."

56

Tad Williams
"What's wrong with the child?" Outrun said nervously.
"She's never spoken before-and she sounds wrong."

"That is Geloe speaking." Aditu spoke calmly, as
though she identified a familiar figure coming up the
road.

"What?" The duchess made the Tree sign, her eyes
wide with fear. "What witchcraft is this?"

The Sitha leaned close to Leieth's ear. "Geloe?'' she
said. "Can you hear me?"

If it was the wise woman, she did not seem to hear her
friend's voice. "... Remember what Simon dreamed ...
the false messenger." There was a pause. When the voice
resumed it was quieter, so that all in the room held their
breath in an effort not to obscure a word. "... / am dying.
Leieth is here with me somehow, in this ... dark place. I
have never understood her completely, and this is strang-
est of all. I think I can speak through her mouth, but I do
not know if anyone is listening. My time is short. Remem-
ber: beware a false messenger....."

There was another long, silent interval. When everyone
was certain that they had heard the last, Leieth's lips
moved again, '7 am going now. Do not mourn me. I have
had a long life and did what I wished to do. If you would
remember me, remember that the forest was my home. See
that it is respected. I will try to send Leieth back, al-
though she does not want to leave me. Farewell.
Remember ..."

The voice faded. The little girl again lay like one dead.

Josua looked up- His eyes were bright with tears. "To
the last," he said, almost in anger, "she tried to help us-
Oh, God the Merciful, she was a brave soul."

"An old soul," Aditu said quietly, but did not elaborate.
She seemed shaken.

Though they sat around the bedside in heavy, mournful
silence for some time, Leieth did not stir any more.
Geloe's absence seemed even more powerful, more dev-
astating than it had earlier in the evening. Other eyes be-
sides Josua's filled with tears of sorrow and fear as the
realization of the company's loss settled in. The prince
began to speak quietly of the forest woman, praising her

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

57

bravery, wit, and kindness, but no one else seemed to
have the heart to join in. At last he sent them all off to
rest. Aditu, saying that she felt no need to sleep, stayed
to watch over the child in case she awakened in the night.
Josua lay down fully dressed beside his wife, ready for
whatever calamity might befall next. Within moments, he
had fallen into a deep, exhausted slumber.

In the morning, the prince awakened to discover Aditu
still watching over Leieth. Wherever the child's spirit had
journeyed with Geloe, it had not yet returned.

Not long afterward, Hotvig and his men rode into
camp, weary and empty-handed.

•<•

2

Ghost Moon
A

Simon W\d. Minamefe rode in near-silence, the prin-
cess leading as they made their way down into the valley
on the far side of the hills. After they had gone a league
or more, Miriamele turned them north so that they were
riding back along the same track the company had taken
on its way to Gadrinsett.

Simon asked her why.

"Because there are already a thousand fresh hoofprints
here," Miriamele explained. "And because Josua knows
where I'm going, so it would be stupid to head straight
that way in case they find out we've left tonight."

"Josua knows where we're going?" Simon was dis-
gruntled. "That's more than I do."

"I'll tell you about it when we're far enough that you
can't ride back in one night," she said coolly. "When I'm
too far away for them to catch me and bring me back."

She would not answer any more questions.

Simon squinted at the bits of refuse that lined the wide,
muddy track. A great army of people had crossed this
way twice now, along with several other smaller parties
that had made their way to Sesuad'ra and New
Gadrinsett; Simon thought it would be a long time before
the grass grew on this desolated swath again.

/ suppose that's where roads come from, he thought,
and grinned despite his weariness. / never thought about
it before. Maybe someday it will be a real king's road,
with set stones and inns and way stations ... and I saw
it when it was nothing but a hoof-gouged track.

TO    GREEN   ANGEL    TOWER                              59

Of course, that was presuming that whatever happened
in the days to come, there would be a king who cared
about roads. From what Jeremias and others had told him
about the state of affairs at the Hayholt, it didn't seem
very likely that Elias was worrying about such things.
They rode on beside the Stefflod, which glowed silver
in the moon's ghostly light. Miriamele remained uncom-
municative, and it seemed to Simon that they rode for
days on end, although the moon had not yet moved
much past the midpoint of the sky. Bored, he watched
Miriamele, admiring how her fair skin took the moon-
light, until she, irritated, told him to stop staring at her.
Desperate for diversion, he then considered the Canon of
Knighthood and Camaris' teachings; when that failed to
hold his interest for more than half a league, he quietly
sang all the Jack Mundwode songs he knew. Later, after
Miriamele had rebuffed several more attempts at conver-
sation, Simon began counting the stars that dotted the sky,
numerous as grains of salt spilled on an ebony tabletop.

At last, when Simon was certain that he would soon go
mad-and equally certain that a full week must have
passed during this one long night-Miriamele reined up
and pointed to a copse of trees standing on a low hill
some three or four furlongs from the wide rut of the in-
fant road.

There," she said. "We'll stop there and sleep."

"I don't need to sleep yet," Simon lied. "We can ride
longer if you want to."

'There's no point. I don't want to be out in the open in
daylight tomorrow. Later, when we're farther away, we
can ride when it's light."

Simon shrugged. "If you say so." He had wanted this
adventure, if that was what it was, so he might as well
endure it as cheerfully as possible. In the first moments
of their escape he had imagined-during those few brief
instants in which he had allowed himself to think at
all-that Miriamele would be more pleasant once the
immediate worry of discovery had lessened- Instead,
she had seemed to grow even more morose as the night
wore on.

6o Tad Williams

The trees at the top of the hill grew close together,
making an almost seamless wall between their makeshift
camp and the road. They did not light a fire-Simon had
to admit he could see the wisdom of that-but instead
shared some water and a little wine by moonlight, and
gnawed on a bit of Miriamele's bread.

When they had wrapped themselves in their cloaks and
were lying side by side on their bedrolls, Simon suddenly
found that his weariness had fled-in fact, he did not feel
the least bit sleepy. He listened, but although Miriamele's
breathing was quiet and regular, she did not sound like
she was sleeping either. Somewhere in the trees, a lone
cricket was gently sawing away.

"Miriamele?"
"What?"

"You really should tell me where we're going. I would
do better as your protector. I could think about it and
make plans."

She laughed quietly. "I'm certain that's true. 1 will tell
you, Simon. But not tonight."

He frowned as he stared up at the stars peeping through
the branches. "Very well."

"You should go to sleep now. It will be harder to do
once the sun is up."

Did all women have a little Rachel the Dragon in
them? They certainly seemed to enjoy telling him what he
should do. He opened his mouth to tell her he didn't need
any rest just yet, but yawned instead.

He was trying to remember what he had meant to say
even as he passed over into sleep.

In the dream Simon stood on the edge of a great sea.
Extending from the beach before him was a thin cause-
way of land that extended out right through the teeth of
the waves, leading to an island some long distance off-
shore. The island was bare except for three tall white tow-
ers which shimmered in the late afternoon sun, but the
towers were not what interested Simon. Walking on the
island before them, passing in and out of their threefold

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                                6l

shadow, was a tiny figure with white hair and a blue robe.
Simon was certain it was Doctor Morgenes.

He was considering the causeway-it would be easy
enough to walk across, but the tide was growing higher,
and soon might cover the thin spit of land entirely-when
he heard a distant voice. Out on the ocean, midway be-
tween the island and the rocky shoal where Simon stood,
a small boat was rocking and bobbing in the grip of
strong waves. Two figures stood in the boat, one tall and
solid, the other small and slender. It took a few moments
to recognize Geloe and Leieth. The woman was calling
something to him, but her voice was lost in the roar of the
sea.

What are they doing out in a boat? Simon thought. It
will be night soon.

He moved a few steps out onto the slender causeway.
Geloe's voice wafted to him across the waves, barely au-
dible.

"... False!" she cried. "It's false .. f"

What is false? he wondered. The spit of land? It
seemed solid enough. The island itself? He squinted, but
although the sun had now dropped low on the horizon,
turning the towers into black fingers and the shape of
Morgenes into something small and dark as an ant, the is-
land seemed indisputably substantial. He took another
few steps forward.

"False!" Geloe cried again.

The sky abruptly turned dark, and the roar of the waves
was overwhelmed by the cry of rising wind. In an instant
the ocean turned blue and then blue-white; suddenly, all
the waves stiffened, freezing into hard, sharp points of
It ice. Ge!oe waved her arms desperately, but the sea around
€' her boat surged and cracked. Then with a roar and an out-
IL- wash of black water as alive as blood, Geloe, Leieth, and
the boat disappeared beneath the frozen waves, sucked
down into darkness.

Ice was creeping up over the causeway. Simon turned,
but it was now as far back to the beach as it was toward
the island, and both points seemed to be receding from
him, leaving him stranded in the middle of an ever-

62 Tad Williams

lengthening spit of rock. The ice mounted higher, crawl-
ing up to his boots.. ..

Simon Jerked awake, shivering. Thin dawn light filled
the copse and the trees swayed to a chill breeze. His cloak
was curled in a hopeless tangle around his knees, leaving
the rest of him uncovered.

He straightened the cloak and lay back. Miriamete was
still asleep beside him, her mouth partially open, her
golden hair pushed out of shape. He felt a wave of long-
ing pass over and through him, and at the same time a
sense of shame. She was so defenseless, lying here in the
wilderness, and he was her protector-what sort of knight
was he, to have such feelings? But he longed to pull her
close to him, to warm her, to kiss her on that open mouth
and feet her breath on his cheek. Uncomfortable, he
rolled over and faced the other direction.

The horses stood quietly where they had been tied,
their harnesses wrapped around a low-hanging tree
branch. The sight of the saddlebags in the flat morning
light suddenly filled him with a hollow kind of sadness.
Last night this had seemed a wild adventure. Now, it
seemed foolish. Whatever Miriamele's reasons might be,
they were not his own. He owed many, many debts-to
Prince Josua, who had lifted him up and knighted him; to
Aditu, who had saved him; to Binabik, who had been a
better friend than he deserved. And there were also those
who looked up to Simon as well, like Jeremias- But he
had deserted them all on a moment's whim. And for
what? To force himself on Miriamele, who had some sad
purpose of her own in leaving her uncle's camp. He had
left the few people who wanted him to tag along after
someone who did not.
He squinted at his horse and felt his sadness deepen.
Homefinder. That was a pretty name, wasn't it? Simon
had just run away from another home, and this time there
was no good reason for it.

He sighed and sat up. He was here and there was little
to be done about it, at least right now. He would try again
to talk Miriamele into going back when she woke up-

r
f

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

63

Simon pulled his cloak about him and got to his feet.
He untied the horses, then stood at the edge of the copse
and peered cautiously around before leading them down
the hill to the river to drink. When he brought them back,
he tied them to a different tree where they could easily
reach the long shoots of new-grown grass. As he watched
Homefinder and Miriamele's unnamed steed contentedly
break their fast, he felt his mood lighten for the first time
since awakening from his frightening dream.

He gathered up deadwood from around the copse, tak-
ing only what seemed dry enough to burn with little
smoke, and set about making a small fire. He was pleased
to see that he had brought his flint and striking-steel, but
wondered how long it would be until he discovered some-
thing he needed just as much but had forgotten in the
hurry to leave camp. He sat before the fire for a while,
wanning his hands and watching Miriamele sleep.

A bit later, as he was looking through the saddlebags to
see what there might be to eat, Miriamele began to toss in
her sleep and cry out.

"No!" she mumbled. "No, I won't..." She half-raised
her arms, as though to fight something off. After watch-
ing in consternation for a moment, Simon went and
kneeled beside her, taking her hand.

"Miriamele. Princess. Wake up. You're having a bad
dream."

She tugged against his grip, but strengthlessly. At last
her eyes opened. She stared at him, and briefly seemed to
see someone else, for she brought her free hand up as
though to protect herself. Then she recognized him and
let the hand fall. Her other hand remained clutched in his.

"It was just a bad dream." He squeezed her fingers
gently, surprised and gratified by how much larger his
hand was than hers.

"I'm well," she muttered at last, and drew herself up
into a sitting position, pulling the cloak tightly about her
shoulders. She glared around at the clearing as though the
presence of daylight was some silly prank of Simon's.
"What time of day is it?"

64

Tad Williams

'The sun's not over the treetops yet. Down there, I
mean. I walked down to the river."

She didn't reply, but clambered to her feet and walked
unsteadily out of the copse. Simon shrugged and went
back to his search for something on which they could
break their fast.

When Miriamele returned a short time later, he bad
turned up a lump of soft cheese and round loaf of bread;

he had split the latter open and was toasting it on a stick
over the small fire. "Good morning," she said. She looked
tousled, but she had washed the dirt from her face and her
expression was almost cheerful. "I'm sorry I was so
cross. I had a ... a terrible dream."

He looked at her with interest, but she did not elabo-
rate. "There's food here," he said.

"A fire, too." She came and sat near, holding out her
hands. "I hope the smoke doesn't show."

"It doesn't. I went out a little way and looked."

Simon gave Miriamele half the bread and a hunk of the
cheese. She ate greedily, then smiled with her mouth full.
After swallowing, she said: "I was hungry. I was so wor-
ried last night that I didn't eat."

"There's more if you want it."

She shook her head. "We have to save it. I don't know
how long we'll be traveling and we may have trouble get-
ting more." Miriamele looked up. "Can you shoot? I
brought a bow and a quiver of arrows." She pointed to the
unstrung bow hanging beside her saddle.

Simon shrugged. "I've shot one, but I'm no
Mundwode. I could probably hit a cow from a dozen
paces or so."

Minamele giggled. "I was thinking of rabbits or squir-
rels or birds, Simon. I don't think there will be many
cows standing around."

He nodded sagely. "Then we'd better do as you say and
save our food."

Miriamele sat back and placed her hands on her stom-
ach. "As long as the fire's going ..." She stood and went
to her saddlebags. She brought out a pair of bowls and a
small drawstring sack and returned to the fire, then placed

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

65

two small stones in the embers to heat. "I brought some
calami nt tea."

"You don't put salt and butter in it, do you?" Simon
asked, remembering the Qanuc and their odd additions.

"Elysia's mercy, no!" she said, laughing. "But I wish
we had some honey."

While they drank the tea-Simon thought it a great im-
provement on Mintahoq aka-Miriamele talked about
what they would do that day. She did not want to resume
riding until sundown, but there were other things to be ac-
complished.

"You can teach me something about swordplay, for one
thing."

"What?" Simon stared at her as though she had asked
him to show her how to fly.

Miriamele gave him a scornful glance, then got up and
walked to her saddlebag. From the bottom she drew out a
short sword in a tooled scabbard. "I had Freosel make it
for me before we left. He cut it down from a man's
sword." Her disdainful look gave way to a wry, strangely
self-mocking grin. "I said I wanted it to protect my virtue
when we marched on Nabban." She looked hard at Si-
mon. "So teach me."

"You want me to show you'how to use a sword," he
said slowly.

"Of course. And in turn, I will show you how to use a
bow." She raised her chin slightly. "I can hit a cow at a
great deal more than a few paces-not that I have," she
said hurriedly. "But old Sir Fluiren taught me how to
shoot a bow when I was a little girl. He thought it was
amusing."

Simon was nonplussed. "So you are going to shoot
squirrels for the dinner pot?"

Her expression turned cool again. "I didn't bring the
bow for hunting, Simon-the sword, either. We are going
somewhere dangerous- A young woman traveling these
days would be a fool to go unarmed."

Her calm explanation made him suddenly cold. "But
you won't tell me where."

"Tomorrow morning. Now come-we're wasting

66 Tad Williams
time." She picked up the sword and drew it from the
scabbard, letting the leather slide to the wet ground. Her
eyes were bright, challenging.

Simon stared. "First, you don't treat your scabbard that
way." He picked it up and handed it to her. "Put the blade
away, then buckle on the sword belt."

Miriamele scowled. "I already know how to buckle a
belt."

"First things first," Simon said calmly. "Do you want
to leam or not?"

The morning passed, and Simon's irritation at having to
teach swordsmanship to a girl passed with it. Miriamele
was fiercely eager to learn. She asked question after ques-
tion, many of which Simon had no answer to, no matter
how much he wracked his memory for all the things
Haestan, Siudig, and Camaris had tried to teach him. It
was hard to admit to her that he, a knight, did not know
something, but after a few short but unpleasant exchanges
he swallowed his pride and said frankly that he did not
know why a sword's hilt only stuck out on two sides and
not all around, it just did. Miriamele seemed happier with
that answer than she had been with his previous attempts
at mystification, and the rest of the lesson passed more
swiftly and pleasantly.

Miriamele was surprisingly strong for her size, al-
though when Simon thought about what she had been
through his surprise was less. She was quick as well, with
good balance, although she tended to lean too far for-
ward, a habit that could quickly prove fatal in an actual
fight, since almost any opponent would be larger than she
was and have a longer reach. All in all, he was impressed.
He sensed that he would quickly run out of new things to
tell her, and then it would just be practice and more prac-
tice. He was more than a little glad they were sparring
with long sticks instead of blades; she had managed dur-
ing the course of the morning to give him a few nasty
swipes.

After they took a long pause for water and a rest, they
changed places: Miriamele instructed Simon in the care

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                                67

of the bow, paying special attention to keeping the bow-
string warm and dry. He smiled at his own impatience. As
Miriamele had been unwilling to sit through his explana-
tions of swordsmanship-much of it taken in whole cloth
from Camaris' teachings to him-he himself was itching
to show her what he could do with a bow in his hand. But
she was having none of it, and so the remainder 'of the af-
ternoon was spent learning the proper draw. By the time
shadows grew long, Simon's fingers were red and raw. He
would have to think of some way to acquire finger-
leathers like Miriamele's if he was going to be shooting
in earnest.

They made a meal for themselves with bread and an
onion and a little jerked meat, then saddled the horses.

"Your horse needs a name," Simon told her as he fas-
tened Homefmder's belly strap. "Camaris says your horse
is part of you, but it's also one of God's creatures."

"I'll think about it," she said.

They looked one last time around the camp to make
sure they had left no trace of their presence-they had
buried the fire ashes and raked the bent grass with a long
branch-then rode out into the disappearing day.

"There's the old forest," Simon said, pleased. He
squinted against the first dawn light. "That dark line,
there."

"I see it." She headed her horse off the road, aiming
due north. "We will go as far toward it as we can today
instead of stopping-I am going to break my own rule
and ride in daylight. I'll feel safer when we're there."

"We aren't going back to Sesuad'ra?" Simon asked.

"No. We're going to Aidheorte-for a while."

"We're going to the forest? Why?"

Miriamele was looking straight ahead. She had thrown
her hood back, and the sun was in her hair. "Because my
uncle may send people after me. They won't be able to
find us if we're in the woods."

Simon remembered all too well his experiences in the
great forest. Very few of them had been pleasant. "But it
takes forever to travel through there."

68 Tad Williams

"We won't be in the woods long. Just enough to be
sure that no one finds us."

Simon shrugged. He had no idea where exactly she
wanted to go, or why, but she had obviously been plan-
ning.

They rode on toward the distant line of the forest.

They reached the outskirts of the Aldheorte late in the
afternoon. The sun had sunk toward the horizon; the
grassy hills were painted with slanting light.

Simon supposed they would stop and make camp in
the thin vegetation of the forest's outer edge-after all,
they had now been riding steadily since the evening be-
fore, almost a day straight, with only a few short naps
stolen along the way-but Miriamele was determined to
get well in, safe from accidental discovery. They rode
through the increasingly close-leaning trees until riding
was no longer practical, then led the horses another quar-
ter of a league. When the princess at last found a site that
was to her liking, the forest was in the last glow of twi-
light; beneath the thick tree canopy the world was all
muted shades of blue.

Simon dismounted and hurriedly started a fire. When
that was crackling healthily, they made camp. Miriamele
had picked the site in part because of a small streamlet
that trickled nearby. As she searched for the makings of a
meal, he walked the horses over to the water to drink.

Simon, after a full day spent almost entirely in the sad-
dle, found himself strangely wakeful, as though he had
forgotten what sleep was. After he and Miriamele had fed
themselves, they sat beside the fire and talked about ev-
eryday matters, although more by Miriamele's choice
than Simon's. He had other things on his mind, and
thought it strange that she should so earnestly discuss
Josua and Vorzheva's coming child and ask for more sto-
ries about the battle with Fengbald when there were so
many questions still unanswered about their present jour-
ney. At last, frustrated, he held up his hand.

"Enough of this. You said you would tell me where we
are going, Miriamele."

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              69

She looked into the flames for a while before speaking,
"That's true, Simon. I have not been fair, I suppose, to
bring you so far on trust alone. But I didn't ask you to
come with me."

He was hurt, but tried not to show it. "I'm here,
though. So tell me-where are we going?"

She took a deep breath, then let it out. "To Erkynland."

He nodded. 'T guessed that- It wasn't hard, listening to
you at the Raed. But where in Erkynland? And what are
we going to do there?"

"We're going to the Hayholt." She looked at him in-
tently, as if daring him to disagree.

Aedon have mercy on us, Simon thought. Out loud, he
said: "To get Bright-Nail?" Although it was madness
even to consider it, there was a certain excitement to the
thought. He-with help, admittedly-had found and se-
cured Thorn, hadn't he? Perhaps if he brought back
Bright-Nail as well, he would be ... He didn't even dare
to think the words, but a sudden picture came to him-he.
Simon, a sort of knight-of-knights, one who could even
court princesses....

He pushed the picture back into the depths. There was
no such thing, not really. And he and Miriamele would
never come back from such a foolhardy venture in any
case. 'To try to save Bright-Nail?" he asked again.

Miriamele was still looking at him intently. "Perhaps."

"Perhaps?" He scowled. "What does that mean?"

"I said I would tell you where we were going," she re-
sponded- "I didn't say I would tell you everything in my
head."

Simon irritatedly picked up a stick and broke it in half,
then dumped the pieces into the firepit. " 'S Bloody Tree,
Miriamele," he growled, "why are you doing this? You
said I was your friend, but then you treat me like a child."

"I am not treating you like a child," she said hotly.
"You insisted on coming with me. Good. But my errand
is my own, whether I am going to get the sword or head-
ing back to the castle to get a pair of shoes that I left be-
hind by mistake."

Simon was still angry, but he couldn't suppress a bark

70 Tad Williams

of laughter. "You probably are going back for shoes or a
dress or something. That would be just my luck-to get
killed by the Erkynguard in the middle of a war for trying
to steal shoes."

A little of Miriamele's annoyance had dissipated. "You
probably stole enough things and got away with it when
you were living at the Hayholt. It will only be fair."'

"Stole? Me?"

"From the kitchens, constantly. You told me yourself,
although I knew it already. And who was it who stole the
sexton's shovel and put it in the gauntlet of that armor in
the Lesser Hall, so that it looked like Sir Whoever was
going out to dig a privy pit?"

Surprised she had remembered, Simon let out a quiet,
pleased chortle. "Jeremias did that with me."

"You dragged him into it, you mean. Jeremias would
never have done something like that without you."

"How did you know about that?"

Miriamele gave him a disgusted look. "I told you, you
idiot, I followed you around for weeks."

"You did, didn't you." Simon was impressed. "What
else did you see me do?"

"Mostly sneak off and sit around mooning when you
were supposed to be working," she snapped. "No wonder
Rachel had to pinch your ears blue."
Offended, Simon straightened his back. "I only
sneaked off to have some time to myself. You don't know
what it's tike living in the servants' quarters."

Miriamele looked at him. Her expression was suddenly
serious, even sad. "You're right. But you don't know
what it was like being me, either. There certainly wasn't
much chance to be off by myself."

"Maybe," Simon said stubbornly. "But I'll bet the food
was better in your part of the Hayholt."

"It was the same food," she shot back. "We just ate it
with clean hands." She looked pointedly at his ash-
blackened fingers.

Simon laughed aloud. "Ah! So the difference between
a scullion and a princess is clean hands. I hate to disap-

TO   GREEN   ANCEL   TOWER                                fl

point you, Miriamele, but after spending a day up to my
elbows in the washing tub, my hands were very clean."

She looked at him mockingly- "So then I suppose there
is no difference between the two at all."

"I don't know." Simon grew suddenly uncomfortable
with the discussion; it was moving into painful territory.
"I don't know, Miriamele."

Sensing that something had changed, she fell silent.

Insects were creaking musically all around, and the
shadowy trees loomed like eavesdroppers. It was strange
to be in the forest again, Simon thought. He had grown
used to the vast distances to be seen from atop Sesuad'ra
and the unending openness of the High Thrithing. After
that, Aldheorte seemed confining. Still, a castle was con-
fining, too, but it was the best defense against enemies.
Perhaps Miriamele was right: for a while, anyway, the
forest might be the best place for them.

"I'm going to sleep," she said suddenly. She stood up
and walked to the spot where she had unrolled her bed.
Simon noted that she had placed his bedroll on the far
side of the campfire from her own.

"If you wish." He couldn't tell if she was mad at him
again. Perhaps she'd just run short of things to say. He
felt like that around her sometimes, once all the talk of
small things was finished. The big things were too hard to
speak of, too embarrassing ... and too frightening. "I
think I'll sit here for a while."

Miriamele rolled herself in her cloak and lay back. Si-
mon watched her through the shimmer of the fire. One of
the horses made a soft, contented-sounding noise.
"Miriamele?"

"Yes?"

"I meant what I said the night we left. I will be your
protector, even if you don't tell me exactly what I'm pro-
tecting you from."

"I know, Simon. Thank you."

There was another gap of silence. After a while, Simon
heard a thin sound, quietly melodious. He had a moment
of apprehension before he realized it was Miriamele hum-
ming softly to herself.

72 Tad Williams

TO   GREEN     ANGEL   TOWER

"What song is that?"

She stirred and turned toward him. "What?"

"What song is that you were humming?"

She smiled. "I didn't know I was humming. It's   been
running through my head all this evening. It's   one my
mother used to sing to me when I was little. I   think it's a
Hernystiri song that came from my grandmother,   but the
words are Westerling."

Simon stood and walked to his bedroll. "Would you
sing it?"

Miriamele hesitated. "I don't know. I'm tired, and I'm
not sure I can remember the words. Anyway, it's a sad
song."

He lay down and pulled his cloak over him, abruptly
shivering. The night was growing cold. The wind lightly
rattled the leaves. "I don't care if you get the words right.
It would just be nice to have a song."

"Very well. I'll try." She thought for a moment, then
began to sing. Her voice was husky but sweet.

"In Cathyn Dair there lived a maid,"

she began. Although she sang quietly, the slow melody
ran all through the darkened forest clearing.

"/" Cathyn Dair, by Siiversea,
The fairest girl was ever born
And I loved her and she loved me.

"By Siiversea the wind is cold
The grass is long, the stones are old
And hearts are bought, and love is sold
And time and time the same tale told
In cruel Cathyn Dair.
"We met when autumn moon was high
In Cathyn Dair, by Siiversea,
In silver dress and golden shoon
She danced and gave her smile to me.

"When winter's ice was on the roof
In Cathyn Dair. by Siiversea,
We sang beside the fiery hearth
She smiled and gave her lips to me.

"By Siiversea the wind is cold
The grass is long, the stones are old
And hearts are bought, and love is sold
And time and time the same tale told
In cruel Cathyn Dair.

"When spring was dreaming in the fields
In Cathyn Dair, by Siiversea,
In Mircha's shrine where candles burned
She stood and pledged her troth to me.

"When summer burned upon the hills
In Cathyn Dair, by Siiversea,
The banns were posted in the town
But she came not to marry me.

"By Siiversea the wind is cold
The grass is long, the stones are old
And hearts are bought, and love is sold
And time and time the same tale told
In cruel Cathyn Dair.

"When Autumn's moon had come again

In Cathyn Dair, by Siiversea,

I saw her dance in silver dress

The man she danced for was not me.

"When winter showed its cruel claws
In Cathyn Dair, by Siiversea,
I walked out from the city walls
No more will that place torment me.

74                    Tad Williams

"By Silversea the wind is cold
The grass is long, the stones are old
And hearts are bought, and love is sold
And time and time the same tale told
In cruel Cathyn Dair ..."

'That's a pretty song," Simon said when she had fin-
ished. "A sad song." The haunting tune still floated
through his head; he understood why Miriamele had been
humming it all unawares.

"My mother used to sing it to me in the garden at
Meremund. She always sang. Everyone said she had the
prettiest voice they'd ever heard."

There was silence for a while. Both Simon and
Miriamele lay wrapped in their cloaks, nursing their se-
cret thoughts.

"I never knew my mother," Simon said at last. "She
died when I was bom, I never knew either of my par-
ents."

"Neither did I."

By the time the oddness of this remark sifted down
through Simon's own distracted thoughts, Miriamele had
rolled over, placing her back toward the fire-and toward
Simon. He wanted to ask her what she meant, but sensed
that she did not want to talk anymore.

Instead, he watched the fire burning low and the last
few sparks fluttering upward into the darkness.

Wimfows Lifce Eyes

The TO-ms stood so close together that there was
scarcely room to move between them. Binabik sang a
quiet sheep-soothing song as he threaded his way in and
out among the woolly obstacles.

"Sisqi," he called. "I need to speak to you."
She was sitting cross-legged, retying the knots of her
ram's harness. Around her several of the other troll men
and women were seeing to final tasks before the prince's
company resumed its march into Nabban. "I am here,"

she said.

Binabik looked around. "Would you come with me

somewhere more quiet?"

She nodded and set the harness down on the ground. "I

will."

They snaked their way back out through the herd of
jostling rams and climbed up the knoll. When they sat
down in the grass the milling camp lay spread below
them. The tents had been dismantled early that morning,
and all that remained of what had been a small city for
three days was a formless, moving mass of people and

animals.

"You are fretful," Sisqi said abruptly. 'Tell me what is
wrong, beloved-although we have certainly seen enough
bad fortune in the last few days to make anyone sad for
a long time."

Binabik sighed and nodded. "That is true. The loss of
Geloe is a hard one, and not only because of her wisdom.

76 Tad Williams

I miss her, too, Sisqi- We will not see anyone like her
again."

"But there is more," Sisqi prompted him gently. "I
know you well, Binbiniqegabenik. Is it Simon and the
princess?"

"That is the root of it. Look-I will show you some-
thing." He pulled apart the sections of his walking stick,
A long white shaft tipped with blue-gray stone slid out.

"That is Simon's arrow." Sisqi's eyes were wide. "The
gift of the Sithi. Did he leave it behind?"

"Not on purpose, I think. I found it tangled in one of
the shirts Outrun made for him. He took with him little
but the clothes he wore on his back, but he did take the
sack that held his most treasured possessions-Jiriki's
mirror, a piece of stone he brought from Haestan's cairn,
other things. I believe the White Arrow must have been
left by mistake. Perhaps he had taken it out for some
other purpose and forgot to return it to the sack." Binabik
lifted the arrow until it caught the morning sun and
gleamed. "It reminds me of things," he said slowly. "It is
the mark of Jiriki's debt to Simon. A debt which is no
less than the one / owe, on my master Ookequk's behalf,
to Doctor Morgenes."

A sudden look of fear came to Sisqi's face, although
she did her best to hide it. "What do you mean, Binabik?"

He stared at the arrow miserably. "Ookequk promised
help to Morgenes. I took on that oath. I swore to help pro-
tect young Simon, Sisqi."

She took his hand in hers. "You have done that and
more, Binabik. Surely you are not to guard him day and
night for the rest of your life."

"This is different." He carefully slid the arrow back
into his walking stick. "And there is more than my debt,
Sisqi. Both Simon and Miriamele are already in danger
traveling alone in the wilderness, even more so if they go
where I fear they do. But they are also a risk to the rest
of us."

"What do you mean?" She was having trouble keeping
the pain from her words.

"If they are caught, they will eventually be taken to

TO GRE-EN ANGEL TOWFR

77

Pryrates, King Ellas' advisor. You do not know him,
Sisqi, but 1 do, at least from tales. He is powerful, and
reckless in his use of that power. And he is cruel. He will
learn from them whatever they know about us, and Simon
and Miriamele both know a great deal-about our plans,
about the swords, everything. And Pryrates will kill them,
or at least Simon, in the getting of that knowledge."
"So you are going to find them?" she asked slowly.
He hung his head. "I feel I must."
"But why you? Josua has an entire army!"
"There are reasons, my beloved. Come with me when
I speak to Josua and you will hear the reasons. You
should be there, in any case."

She looked at him defiantly. "If you go after them, then
I will go with you."

"And who will keep our people safe in a strange land?"
He gestured at the trolls moving below. "You at least
speak some of the Westerling speech now. We cannot
both go and leave our fellow Qanuc altogether deaf and

mute."
Tears were forming in Sisqi's eyes. "Is there no other

way?"

"I cannot think of one," he said slowly. "I wish I
could." His own eyes were damp as well.

"Chukku's Stones!" she swore. "Are we to suffer ev-
erything we have suffered to be together, only to be sep-
arated again?" She squeezed his fingers tightly. "Why are
you so straight-backed and honorable, Binabik of
Mintahoq? I have cursed you for it before, but never so
bitterly."

"I will come back to you. I swear, Sisqinanamook. No
matter what befalls, I will come back to you."

She leaned forward, pushing her forehead against his
chest, and wept. Binabik wrapped his arms around her
and held tightly; tears rolled down his cheeks as well.

"If you do not come back," she moaned, "may you
never have a moment's peace until Time is gone."

"I will come back," he repeated, then fell silent. They
stayed that way for a long time, locked in a miserable em-
brace.

78 Tad Williams

"I cannot say I like this idea, Binabik," said Prince
Josua. "We can ill-afford to lose your wisdom-
especially now, after Geloe's death." The prince looked
morose. "Aedon knows what a blow that has been to us.
I feel sick inside. And we have not even a body to weep
over."

"And that is as she was wishing it," Binabik said
gently. "But, speaking about your first worry, it is my
thinking that we can even less be suffering the loss of
your niece and Simon. I have made you know my fears
about that."

"Perhaps. But what about discovering the use of the
swords? We still have much to leam."

"I have little help left for giving to Strangyeard and
Tiamak," said the little man. "Nearly all of Ookequk's
scrolls I have already made into Westerling. Those few of
them that are remaining still, Sisqi can be helping with
them." He indicated his betrothed, who sat silently beside
him, her eyes red. "And then, I must also be saying with
regret, when that task is being finished she will take the
remaining Qanuc and return to our people."

Josua looked at Sisqi. "This is another great loss."

She bowed her head.

"But you are many now," Binabik pointed out. "Our
people suffer, too, and these herdsmen and huntresses will
be needed at Blue Mud Lake."

"Of course," said the prince. "We will always be grate-
ful that your people came to our aid. We will never for-
get, Binabik." He frowned. "So you are determined to
go?"

The troll nodded. "There are many reasons it is seem-
ing the best course to me. It is also my fear that
Miriamele hopes to get the sword Bright-Nail-perhaps
with thinking she can hurry the end of this struggle. That
is frightening to me, since if Count Eolair's story was
true, the dwarrows have already confessed to the minions
of the Storm King that Minneyar is the sword that is rest-
ing now in your father's grave."

"Which is likely the end of our hopes, in any case,"

TO   C.REEN   ANGEL   TOWKR                             79

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 Outrun 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 hid-
ing 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.

8o Tad Williams

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 some-
thing 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 re-
member 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."

A

Eclair 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 Hemystir on the fringes of the
Frostmarch, and the fly also reminded him of something
he could not quite summon to mind, but which was nev-
ertheless bidding for his attention. The Count of Nad
Mullach watched the tiny black speck for some time be-
fore 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 won-
dered. 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 Hemystiri 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

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

8l

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 Hem'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 rid-
ing 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 com-
pany 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 Hemystir had not possessed that right
since King Tethtain's day.

Nad Mullach had been less harshly treated than
Hemysadharc, but it had still suffered during Skali's con-
quest. 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 some-
how 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 por-
tion 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 stern,
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 Eri-king
were destroyed or stolen, and so were many objects that
Eolair himself had brought back from his travels through-

82 Tad Williams

out 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 outland-
ers 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 Hemystir. They had treated their conquered pris-
oners 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.

/ 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 peo-
ple. Even should both war and spirit-winter end tomor-
row, 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

TO   GREEN     ANGEL   TOWFR                              83

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 sud-
denly, 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 non-
sense. 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 re-
turned 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?"

Tad Williams

She nodded, a half-smile tilting her lips. "Certainly,
Count Eclair."

He bowed his head and left her.
The Sithi were seated upon the ground around
Likimeya's fire. Eolair stopped some distance away, mar-
veling 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 be-
cause hriki had told him that Eolair knew that this stem
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 any-
one else in the entire company, Sithi or Hemystin, and so
pale and cold-featured that but for his tar-black hair he
might have been a Nom. There were others, too, three fe-
males 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 low-
ered 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.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

85

"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 Is-
lands and the Lakeland wars, but not many. Hernystir it-
self has been peaceful during most of our lifetimes. As to
Naglimund ... I suppose that / know it best of any
Hemystirman 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
Noms will come out and fight us before the walls. He be-
lieves 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 Noms,"
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

86 Tad Williams

to leam," Likimeya said abruptly. "It is a different age. If
the rules of mortals now make the world spin, then we
must leam 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 ful-
fill 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 an-
other thing to go to war with other Gardenbom to aid
mortals to whom we owe no such debt-including those
who hunted us long after we lost Asu'a. This Josua's fa-
ther 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 dis-
passionately. "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
Yasira. It was truly Utuk'ku's hand-not that of the mor-
tal 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.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

87

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 Hemystiri somehow over-precise. " 'The en-
emy of my enemy is my friend ... for a little while.'
Silvermask 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 bro-
ken the Pact of Sesuad'ra. I find no shame in fighting be-
side 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 mor-
tal 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 mor-
tal or Gardenbom, 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 reso-
lution. 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 dis-
sension 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 de-
bate over Naglimund, although spirited, was calm and ap-
parently free of resentment.

88 Tad Williams

Perhaps when you live so long, Eolair thought, you
learn to exist by such rules-learn you must exist by such
rules. Forever is a long time to carry grudges, after all.

More at ease now, he entered the discussion-
hesitantly at first, but when he saw that his opinion was
to be given due weight he spoke openly and confidently
about Naglimund, a place he knew almost as well as he
knew the Taig in Hemysadharc. He had been there many
times: Eolair had often found that Josua's was a useful
ear for introducing things into the court of his father,
King John Presbyter. The prince was one of the few peo-
ple the Count of Nad Mullach knew who would listen to
an idea on its own merits, then support it if he found it
good, regardless of whether it benefited him.

They talked long; eventually the fire burned down to
glowing coals. Likimeya produced one of the crystal
globes from her cloak and set it on the ground before her
where it gradually grew bright; soon it cast its cool lunar
glow all around the circle.

Eolair met Isom on his way back from the council of
the Sithi.

"Ho, Count," the young Rimmersman said. "Out for a
stroll? I have a skin of wine here-from your own Nad
Mullach cellars, I think. Let's find Ule and share it."

"Gladly. 1 have had a strange evening. Our allies ...
Isom, they are like nothing and no one I have ever seen."

"They are the Old Ones, and heathen on top of it,"
Isom said blithely, then laughed. "Apologies, Count. I
sometimes forget that you Hemystiri are ..."

"Also heathens?" Eolair smiled faintly. "No offense
was taken. I have grown used to being the outsider, the
odd one, during my years in Aedonite courts. But I have
never felt so much the odd man as I did tonight."

"The Sithi may be different from us, Eolair, but they
are bold as thunder."
"Yes, and clever. I did'not understand all that was
spoken of tonight, but I think that we have neither of us
ever seen a battle like the one that will take place at
Naglimund."

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                               89

Isom lifted an eyebrow, intrigued. "That is something
to save and tell over that wine, but I am glad to hear it.
If we live, we will have stories to amaze our grandchil-
dren."

"If we live," Eolair said.

"Come, let us walk a little faster." Isorn's voice was
light. "I am getting thirsty."

They rode across the Inniscrich the next day. The bat-
tlefield where Skali had triumphed and King Lluth had
received his death-wound was still partially blanketed in
snow, but that snow was full of irregular hummocks, and
here and there a bit of rusted metal or a weathered
spearhaft stuck up through the shrouding white. Although
many prayers and curses were quietly spoken, none of the
Hemystiri had any great interest in lingering at the site
where they had been so soundly defeated and so many of
their people had died, and for the Sithi it had no signifi-
cance at all, so the great company passed by swiftly as
they rode north along the river.

The Baraillean marked the boundary between Hemystir
and Erkynland: the people of Utanyeat on the river's east-
ern side called it the Greenwade. These days, there were
few living near either bank, although there were still fish
to catch. The weather might have grown warmer, but
Eolair could see that the land was almost lifeless. Those
few survivors of the various struggles who still scratched
out their lives here on the southern edge of the
Frostmarch now fled before the approaching army of
Sithi and men, unable to imagine any good that yet one
more troop of armored invaders might bring.

At last, a week's journeying north of Nad Mullach-
even when they were not in full charge the Sithi moved
swiftly-the host crossed the river and moved into
Utanyeat, the westernmost tip of Erkynland. Here the
land seemed to grow more gray. The thick morning mists
that had blanketed the ground during the ride across
Hernystir no longer dispersed with the sun's ascension, so
that the army rode from dawn to dusk in a cold, damp
haze, like souls in some cloudy afterlife- In fact, a deathly

90 Tad Williams

palt seemed to hang over all the plains. The air was cold
and seemed to reach directly into the bones of Eolair and
his fellows. But for the wind and the muffled hoofbeats of
their own horses, the wide countryside was silent, devoid
even of birdsong. At night, as the count huddied with
Maegwin and Isom before the fire, a heavy stillness lay
over everything. It felt, Isorn remarked one night, as
though they were passing through a vast graveyard.

As each day brought them deeper into this colorless,
cheerless country, Isom's Rimmersmen prayed and made
the Tree-sign frequently, and argued almost to bloodlet-
ting over insignificant things. Eotair's Hemystiri were no
less affected. Even the Sithi seemed more reserved than
usual. The ever-present mists and forbidding silence made
all endeavor seem shallow and pointless.

Eolair found himself hoping that there would be some
sign of their foes soon. The sense of foreboding that hung
over these empty lands was a more insidious enemy, the
count felt sure, than anything composed of flesh and
blood could ever be. Even the frighteningly alien Noms
were preferable to this journey through the netherworld.

"I feel something," said Isom. "Something pricks at
my neck."

Eolair nodded, then realized the duke's son probably
could not see him through the mist, although he rode only
a short distance away. "I feel it, too."

They were nine days out of Nad Mullach. Either the
weather had again gone bad, or in this small part of the
world the winter had never abated. The ground was car-
peted in snow, and great uneven drifts lay humped on ei-
ther side as they rode up the low hill. The failing sun was
somewhere out of sight, the afternoon so gray there might
never have been such a thing as a sun at all.

There was a clatter of armor and a flurry of words in
the liquid Sithi speech from up ahead. Eolair squinted
through the murk. "We are stopping." He spurred his
horse forward. Isom followed him, with Maegwin, who
had ridden silently all day, close behind.

The Sithi had indeed reined up, and now sat silently on

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

91

their horses as if waiting for something, their bright-
colored armor and proud banners dimmed by the mist.
Eolair rode through their ranks until he found Jiriki and
Likimeya. They were staring ahead, but he saw nothing in
the shifting fog that seemed worth their attention.

"We have halted," said the count.

Likimeya turned to him. "We have found what we
sought." Her features seemed stony, as though her whole
face had now become a mask.

"But I see nothing." Eolair turned to Isorn, who
shrugged to show that he was no different.
"You will," said Likimeya. "Wait."

Puzzled, Eolair patted his horse's neck and wondered.
There was a stirring as the wind rose again, fluttering his
cloak. The mists swirled, and suddenly something dark
appeared as the murk before them thinned.

The great curtain wall of Naglimund was ragged, many
of its stones tumbled out like the scales of a rotting fish.
In the midst of its great, gray length was a nibble-filled
gap where the gate had stood, a sagging, toothless mouth.
Beyond, showing even more faintly through the tendrils
of mist, Naglimund's square stone towers loomed up be-
yond the walls, the dark windows glaring like the empty,
bone-socket eyes of a skull.

"Brynioch," Eolair gasped.

"By the Ransomer," said Isom, just as chilled.

"You see?" Likimeya asked. Eolair thought he detected
a dreadful sort of humor in her voice. "We have arrived."

"It is Scadach." Maegwin sounded terrified. "The Hole
in Heaven. Now I have seen it."

"But where is Naglimund-town?" Eolair asked. "There
was a whole city at the castle's foot!"

"We have passed it, or at least its ruins," Jiriki said.
"What little remains of it is now beneath the snows."

"Brynioch!" Eolair felt quite stupefied as he stared first
at the insignificant-seeming lumps of earth and snow be-
hind them, then turned back to the huge pile of crumbling
stone just ahead. It seemed dead, yet as he gazed at it his
nerves felt tight as lute strings and his heart was pound-
ing. "Do we just ride in?" he asked no one in particular.

1ud Williams

Just thinking about it was like contemplating a headfirst
crawl into a dark tunnel full of spiders.

"I will not go in that place," Maegwin said harshly. She
was pale. For the first time since her madness had de-
scended, she looked truly and completely fearful. "If you
enter Scadach, you leave Heaven and its protection. It is
a place from which nothing returns."

Eolair did not even have the heart to say anything
soothing, but he reached out and took her gloved hand.
Their horses stood quietly side by side, vaporous breath
mingling.

"We will not ride into that place, no," Jiriki said sol-
emnly. "Not yet."

Even as he spoke, flickering yellow lights bloomed in
the depths of the black tower windows, as though what-
ever owned those empty eyes had just awakened.

A

Rachel the Dragon slept uneasily in her tiny room deep
in the Hayholt's underground warrens.

She dreamed that she was again in her old room, the
chambermaids' room that she knew so well. She was
alone, and in her dream she was angry: her foolish girls
were always so hard to find.

Something was scratching at the door; Rachel had a
sudden certainty that it was Simon. Even in the midst of
the dream, though, she remembered that she had been
fooled once before by such a noise. She went carefully
and quietly to the doorway and stood beside it for a mo-
ment, listening to the furtive noises outside.

"Simon?" she said. "Is that you?"

The voice that came back was indeed that of her long-
lost ward, but it seemed stretched and thin, as though it
traveled a long distance to reach her ear.

"Rachel, I want to come back. Please help me. I want
to come back." The scratching resumed, insistent,
strangely loud....

The onetime Mistress of Chambermaids jerked awake,

.f

;    E

TO       GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                            93

shivering with cold and fear. Her heart was beating very
fast.

There. There was that noise again, just as she had heard
it in the dream-but now she was awake. It was a strange
sound, not so much a scratching as a hollow scraping, dis-
tant but regular. Rachel sat up.

This was no dream, she knew. She thought she had
heard something like it as she was falling off to sleep, but
had dismissed it. Could it be rats in the walls? Or some-
thing worse? Rachel sat up on her straw pallet- The small
brazier with its few coals did no more than give the room
a faint red sheen.

Rats in stone walls as thick as these? It was possible,
but it didn't seem likely.

What else would it be. you old fool? Something is mak-
ing that noise.

Rachel sat up and moved stealthily toward the brazier.
She took a handful of rushes from her carefully collected
pile and dipped one end into the coals. After they had
caught, she lifted the makeshift torch high.

The room, so familiar after all these weeks, was empty
but for her stores. She bent low to look into the shadowy
comers, but saw nothing moving. The scraping noise was
a little fainter now but still unmistakable. It seemed to be
coming from the far wall. Rachel took a step toward it
and smacked her bare foot against her wooden keepsake
chest, which she had neglected to push back against the
wall after examining its sparse contents the night before.
She let out a muffled shriek of pain and dropped a few of
the flaming rushes, then quickly hobbled to her jug for a
handful of water to put them out. When this was done,
she stood on one foot while she rubbed her smarting toes.

When the pain subsided, she realized that (he noise had
also stopped. Either her surprised cry had frightened the
noise-maker away-likely if it were a rat or mouse-or
merely warned the thing that someone was listening. The
thought of something sitting quietly within the walls,
aware now that someone was on the other side of the
stone, was not one that Rachel wished to pursue.

94

Tad Williams

Rats, she told herself. Of course it's rats. They smell
the food I've got in here, little demon imps.

Whatever the cause had been, the noise was gone now.
Rachel sat down on her stool and began to pull on her
shoes. There was no point trying to sleep now.

What a strange dream about Simon, she thought. Could
it be his spirit is restless7 I know that monster murdered
him. There are tales that the dead can't rest till their mur-
derers are punished. But I already did my best to punish
Pryrates, and look where it got me. No good to anyone.

Thinking of Simon condemned to some lonely darkness
was both sad and frightening.

Get up, woman. Do something useful.

She decided that she would set out more food for poor
blind Guthwulf.

A brief sojourn to the room with a slit of window up-
stairs confirmed that it was almost dawn. Rachel stared at
the dark blue of the sky and the faded stars and felt a lit-
tle reassured.

I'm still waking up regular, even if I live in the dark
most days like a mole. That's something.

She descended to her hidden room, pausing in the door-
way to listen for the scraping noises. The room was si-
lent. After she had found suitable fare for both the earl
and his feline familiar, she donned her heavy cloak and
made her way down the stairwell to the secret passage-
way behind the tapestry on the landing.

When she arrived at the spot where she customarily left
Guthwulf's meal, she found to her distress that the previ-
ous morning's food had not been touched; neither man
nor cat had come.

He's never missed two days running since we started,
she thought worriedly. Blessed Rhiap, has the poor man
fallen down somewhere?

Rachel collected the untouched food and put out more,
as though somehow a slightly different arrangement of
what was really the same dried fruit and dried meat could
tempt back her wandering earl.

If he doesn't come today, she decided, /'// have to go

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

95

and look for him. He has no one else to see to him, after
all. It's the Aedonite thing to do.

Full of worry, Rachel made her way back to her room.

A

The sight of Binabik seated on a gray wolf as though it
were a war-horse, his walking-stick couched like a lance,
might have been comical in other circumstances, but
Isgrimnur felt no urge even to smile.

"Still I am not sure this is the best thing," Josua said.
"I fear we will miss your wisdom, Binabik of Yiqanuc."

'Then that is being all the larger reason for me to begin
my journey now, since it will be ended so much more
soon." The troll scratched behind Qantaqa's ears.

"Where is your lady?" Isgrimnur asked, looking
around. Dawn was creeping into the sky overhead, but the
hillside was deserted except for the three men and the
wolf. "I would think she'd want to come and say fare-
well."

Binabik did not meet his eye, but rather stared at
Qantaqa's shaggy neck. "We were saying our farewells in
the earliness of the morning, Sisqi and I," he said quietly.
"It is a hard thing for her to see me riding away."

Isgrimnur felt a great wash of regret for all the unwise,
unthinking remarks he had ever made about trolls. They
were small and strange, but they were certainly as bold-
hearted as bigger men. He extended his hand for Binabik
to clasp.
"Ride safely," the duke said. "Come back to us."

Josua did the same. "I hope you find Miriamele and Si-
mon. But if you do not, there is no shame in it. As
Isgrimnur said, come back to us as soon as you can,
Binabik."

"And I am hoping that things will be going well for
you in Nabban."

"But how will you find us?" Josua asked suddenly, his
long face worried.

Binabik stared at him for a moment, then, surprisingly,
let out a loud laugh. "How can I be finding an army of

96 Tad Williams

grasslanders and stone-dwellers mixed together, led by a
dead hero of great famousness and a one-handed prince?
I am thinking that it will not be difficult obtaining word
of you."

Josua's face relaxed into a smile. "I suppose you are
right. Farewell, Binabik." He raised his hand, exposing
for a moment the dulled manacle he wore as a reminder
of his imprisonment and the debt he owed his brother for
it.

"Farewell, Josua and Isgrimnur," said the troll. "Please
be saying that for me to the others as well. I could not
bear to be making good-byes to all at once." He leaned
forward to whisper something to the patiently waiting
wolf, then turned back toward them. "In the mountains,
we are saying this: 7ny koku na siqqasa min taq'-
'When we meet again, that will be a good day.' " He sunk
both his hands into the wolf's hackles. "Hinik, Qantaqa.
Find Simon. Hinik ummu!"

The wolf leaped forward up the wet hillside. Binahik
swayed on her broad back but kept his seat. Isgrimnur
and Josua watched until the strange rider and his stranger
mount topped the hilt's crest and vanished from sight.

"I fear I will never see them again," said Josua. "I am
cold, Isgrimnur."

The duke put his hand on the prince's shoulder. He was
not himself feeling either very warm or very happy.
"Let's go back. We have near a thousand people we need
to get moving by the time the sun is above the hilltops."

Josua nodded. "So we do. Come, then."

They turned and retraced their own footsteps in the
sodden grass.

4

A Thousand Leaves^
A Thousand Shadows

*

Miruunefe and Simon spent the first week of their

flight in the forest. The traveling was slow and painfully
laborious, but Miriamele had decided long before her es-
cape that it would be far better to lose time than to be
captured. The daylight hours were spent struggling
through the dense trees and matted, tangling undergrowth,
all to the tune of Simon's grumbling. They led their
horses more often than they rode them.

"Be happy," she told him once as they rested in a clear-
ing, leaning against the trunk of an old oak. "At least we
are getting to see the sun for a few days. When we leave
the forest again, we'll be riding by night."

"At least if we ride at night I won't have to look at the
things that are tearing all the skin off my body," Simon
said crossly, rubbing at his tattered breeches and the
bruised flesh underneath.

It was heartening, Miriamele discovered, to have some-
thing to do. The feeling of helpless dread that had gripped
her for weeks faded away, leaving her able to think
clearly, to see everything around her as if with new eyes
... and even to enjoy being with Simon.

She did enjoy his company. Sometimes she wished she
didn't enjoy it quite so much. It was hard not to feel as
though she were tricking him somehow. It was more than
just not telling him all her reasons for leaving Uncle
Josua and setting out for the Hayholt. She also felt as

98 Tad Williams

though she were not wholly clean, not wholly fit to be
with someone else.

/(is Aspitis. she thought. He did this to me. Before him,
I was as pure as anyone could want to he.

But was that really true? He had not forced himself
upon her. She had let him do what he wished-in some
ways she had welcomed it. In the end, Aspitis had proved
to be a monster, but the way in which he came to her bed
was no different than that in which most men came to
their sweethearts. He had not savaged her. If what they
had done was wrong and sinful, she bore equal blame.

And what, then, of Simon? She had very mixed feel-
ings. He was not a boy any more but a man, and a part of
her feared the man he had become, as it would fear any
man. But, she thought, there was also something about
him that had remained strangely innocent. In his earnest
attempts to do right, in the poorly-hidden hurt that he
showed when she was short with him, he was still almost
childlike- This made her feel even worse, that in his trans-
parent regard for her he had no clue as to what she was
truly like. It was precisely when he was kindest to her,
when he most admired and complimented her, that she
felt most angry with him. It seemed he was being will-
fully blind.

It was a dreadful way to feel. Luckily, Simon seemed
to understand that his sincere affection was somehow
painful to her, so he fell back on the jesting, mocking
friendship with which she was more comfortable. When
she could be around him without thinking about herself,
she found him good company.

Despite growing up in the courts of her grandfather and
father, Miriamele had found little opportunity to be with
boys. King John's knights were mostly dead or long since
retired to their estates scattered about Erkynland and else-
where, and in her grandfather's later years the king's
court had become empty of almost any but those who had
to live near the king for the sake of their day-to-day live-
lihoods. Later, when her mother had died, her father had
frowned on her spending time even with the few boys and
girls of her age. He had not filled the void with his own

TU   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                                99

presence, but had instead mewed her up with unpleasant
old men and women who lectured her about the rituals
and responsibilities of her position and found fault with
everything she did. By the time her father had become
king, Miriamele's solitary childhood was over.

Leieth, her handmaiden, had been almost her only
young companion. The little girl had idolized Miriamele,
hanging on the princess' every word. In turn, Leieth had
told long stories about growing up with brothers and
sisters-she was the youngest of a large baronial
family-while her mistress listened in fascination, trying
not to be jealous of the family she had never had.

That was why it had been so difficult to see Leieth
again upon reaching Sesuad'ra. The lively little girl she
remembered had vanished. Before they had fled the castle
together, Leieth had been quiet sometimes, and many
things frightened her, but it was as though some com-
pletely different creature now lived behind the little girl's
eyes. Miriamele had tried to remember if there had ever
been any sign of the sort of things that Geloe had discov-
ered in the child, but could think of little, except that
Leieth had been prone to vivid, intricate, and sometimes
frightening dreams. Some of them had seemed so detailed -
and unusual in Leieth's retelling that Miriamele had been
more than half certain the little girl had invented them.

When Miriamele's father had ascended to his own fa-
ther's throne, she found herself both surrounded by peo-
ple and yet terribly lonely. Everyone at the Hayholt had
seemed obsessed with the empty ritual of power, some-
thing Miriamele had lived with for so long that it held no
interest for her. It was like watching a confusing game
played by bad-tempered children. Even the few young
men who paid court to her-or rather to her father, for
most of them had been interested in little more than the
riches and power that would fall to the one who received
her marriage-pledge-had seemed to her like some other
type of animal than she, boring old men in the bodies of
youths, sullen boys masquerading as adults.

The only ones in all of Meremund or the Hayholt who
seemed to enjoy life for what it was rather than what gain

100

Tad Williams

could be coaxed from it were the servants. In the Hayholt
especially, with its army of maids and grooms and scul-
lions, it was as though an entirely different race of people
lived side by side with her own bleak peers. Once, in a
moment of terrible sadness, she had suddenly seen the
great castle as a kind of inverted lich-yard, with the
creaking dead walking around on top while the living
sang and laughed below.

Thus Simon and a few others had first come to her
attention-boys who seemed to want nothing much more
than to be boys. Unlike the children of her father's no-
bles, they were in no hurry to take on the clacking, dron-
ing, mannered speech of their elders. She watched them
dawdling through their chores, laughing behind their
hands at each others' foolish pranks, or.playing hoodman
blind on the commons grass, and she ached to be like
them. Their lives seemed so simple. Even when a more
mature wisdom taught her that the lives of the serving-
folk were hard and wearisome, she still dreamed some-
times that she could put off her royalty as easily as a
cloak and become one of their number. Hard work had
never frightened her, but she was terrified of solitude.

"No," Simon said firmly. "You should never let me get
this close to you."

He moved his foot slightly and twisted the hilt of his
sword so that its cloth-wrapped blade pushed hers away.
Suddenly, he was pressing against her. His smell, com-
pounded of sweat and leather jerkin and the sodden frag-
ments of a thousand leaves, was very strong. He was so
tall! She forgot that sometimes. The sudden impact of his
presence made it hard for Miriamele to think clearly.

"You've left yourself open now," he said. "If I used my
dagger, you wouldn't have a chance. Remember, you'll
almost always be fighting someone with more reach."

Instead of trying to bring her sword back where it
would do some good, she let it drop, then put both hands
against Simon's chest and pushed. He fell back, stum-
bling, before he regained his balance.

"Leave me alone." Miriamele turned and walked a few
TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER            101

I
^

steps away, then stooped to pick up a few branches for
the fire so her shaking hands would have something to
do.

"What's wrong?" Simon asked, taken aback. "Did I
hurt you?"

"No, you didn't hurt me." She took her armful of wood
and dumped it into the circle they had cleared on the for-
est floor. "I'm just done with that game for a while."

Simon shook his head, then sat to undo the rags wound
about his sword.

They had made camp early today, the sun still high
above the treetops- Miriamele had decided that tomor-
row they would follow the little streamlet that had long
been their companion down to the River Road; the course
of the stream had been bending in that direction for most
of this day's journey. The River Road wound beside the
Ymstrecca, past Stanshire and on to Hasu Vale. It would
be best, she had reasoned, for them to take to the road at
midnight and still have some walking time before dawn,
rather than spend all of this night in the forest and then
wait through daylight again so they could travel the road
in darkness.

This had been her first opportunity to use her sword in
several days, except for the inglorious purpose of clearing
brush. It had even been she who had suggested an hour of
practice before they ate their evening meal-which was
one of the reasons her abrupt change of heart obviously
puzzled Simon. Miriamele felt torn between a desire to
tell him it wasn't his fault, and an obscure feeling that
somehow it was his fault-his fault for being male, his
fault for liking her, his fault for coming with her when
she would have been happier being miserably alone.

"Don't mind me, Simon," she said at last, and felt
weak for doing so- "I'm just tired."

Mollified, he finished his careful rewinding of the
cloth, then dropped the ball of dusty fabric into his sad-
dlebag before coming to join her beside the unlit fire. "I
just wanted you to be careful. I told you that you lean too
far."

"I know, Simon. You did tell me."

102 Tad Williams

"You can*t let someone bigger than you get that close."

Miriamele found herself wishing silently that he would
stop talking about it. "I know, Simon. I'm just tired."

He seemed to sense that he had annoyed her again.
"But you're good, Miriamele. You're strong."

She nodded, absorbed now with the flint. A spark fell
into the curls of tinder, but failed to produce a flamfc.
Miriamele wrinkled her nose and tried again.

"Do you want me to try?"

"No, I don't want you to try." She struck again without
result. Her arms were getting weary,

Simon looked at the wood shavings, then up at
Miriamele's face, then quickly back down again. "Re-
member Binabik's yellow powder? He could start a fire in
a rainstorm with that. I saw him make one catch when we
were on Sikkihoq, and there was snow, and the wind was
blowing...."

"Here." Miriamele stood, letting the flint and the steel
bar tumble to the dirt beside the tinder. "You do it." She
walked to her horse and began hunting through the sad-
dlebags.

Simon seemed about to say something, but instead ap-
plied himself to the task of fire-lighting. He had no better
luck than Miriamele for a long time. At last, when she
had returned with a kerchief full of the things she had
found, he finally caught a small spark and provoked it
into flame. As she stood over him she saw that his hair
was getting quite long, hanging down onto his shoulders
in reddish curls.

He looked up at her shyly. His eyes were full of con-
cern for her- "What's wrong?"

She ignored his question. "Your hair wants cutting. I'll
do it after we eat." She undid the kerchief. "These are our
last two apples. They're getting a little old, in any case-I
don't know where Fengbald found them." She had been
told about the source of much of Josua's confiscated
foodstuffs. There was an obscure pleasure in eating what
had once been destined for that strutting braggart.
"There's still some dried mutton, too, but we're almost

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER 103

through with it. We may have to try out the bow some-
time soon."

Simon opened his mouth, then shut it. He took a breath.
"We'll wrap the apples in leaves and bury them in the
coals- Shem Horsegroom used to do that all the time.
Then it doesn't matter if they're a little old."

"If you say so," Miriamele replied,

Miriamele leaned back and licked her fingers. They
still smarted a little from the hot apple skin, but it had
been worth it. "Shem Horsegroom," she said, "is a man
of astonishing wisdom."

Simon smiled. His beard was sticky with juice. "It was
good. But now we don't have any more."

"I couldn't eat any more tonight, anyway. And tomor-
row we'll be on the road to Stanshire. I'm sure we can
find something almost as good along the way."

Simon shrugged. "I wonder where old Shem is," he
asked after a few moments had passed. The fire popped
and spat as the leaves in which the apples had cooked be-
gan to blacken. "And Ruben. And Rachel. Do you think
they're all still living at the Hayholt?"

"Why shouldn't they be? The king still needs grooms
and blacksmiths. And there must always be a Mistress of
Chambermaids," She offered a faint smile-
Simon chortled. "That's true. I can't imagine anyone
getting Rachel to leave unless she wanted to. You might
as well try to drag a porcupine out of a hollow stump.
Even the king-your father, I mean-couldn't make her
leave until she was ready."

"Sit up." Miriamele felt the sudden need to do some-
thing. "I said I was going to cut your hair."

Simon felt at the back of his head. "Do you think it
needs it?"

Miriamele's look was stem. "Even sheep get sheared
once a season."

She got out her whetstone and sharpened her knife. The
noise of the blade on the stone was like a louder echo of
the crickets that chirped beyond the light of the small fire.

104 Tad Williams

Simon peered over his shoulder. "I feel like I'm about
to be carved for the Aedonmansa feast."

"You never know what may happen when the dried
meat runs out. Now look straight ahead and be quiet."
She stood behind him, but there was not enough light to
see. When she sat, his head was too far above her. "Stay
there," she said-
She dragged over a large stone, digging a rut in the
moist earth; when she sat on it, she was just the right
height. Miriamele lifted Simon's hair in her hands and
stared at it judiciously. Just a little off the bottom ... No.
Quite a bit off the bottom.

His hair was finer than it looked. Although it was thick,
it was quite soft. Nevertheless, it was grimed with the
days of travel. She thought of how her own must look and
frowned. "When is the last time you bathed yourself?"
she asked.
"What?" He was surprised. "What do you mean?"

"What do you think I mean? Your hair is full of bits of
sticks and dirt."

Simon made a noise of disgust. "And what do you ex-
pect when I've been crawling through this stupid forest
for days and days?"

"Well, I can't cut it like this." She thought for a mo-
ment. "I'm going to wash it."

"Are you mad? What do I want it washed for?" He
drew up his shoulders protectively, as though she had
threatened to stick the knife into him.

"I told you. So I can cut it." She stood and went to
fetch the water skin.

"That's drinking water," Simon protested.

"I'll fill it again before we set out," she said calmly.
"Now lean your head back."

She had thought momentarily of trying to warm the
water, but she was just cross enough at his complaining to
enjoy the spluttering noises he made as she disgorged the
chilly contents of the water skin on his head. She then
took her sturdy bone comb, which Vorzheva had given
her back at Naglimund, and combed out the snarls as best
she could, ignoring Simon's indignant protests. Some of

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

105

the twigs were so entangled she had to unbind them with
her fingernails, difficult work which made her lean close.
The scent of wet hair added to his pungent Simon-smell
was somehow quite pleasant, and Miriamele found herself
humming quietly.

When she had done the best she could with the knots,
she took up her knife again and began to trim his hair. As
she had suspected, merely taking off the ragged ends was
not entirely satisfying. Moving quickly in case Simon
should begin to complain again, she began to cut in ear-
- nest. Soon the back of his neck came into view, pale from
the long months hidden from the sun.

As she stared at Simon's neck, at the way it broadened
at its base, at the line of red-gold hairs gradually thicken-
ing toward the hairline, she was suddenly moved.

There is something magical about everyone, she
thought dreamily. Everyone.

She ran her fingers lightly up his neck and Simon
jumped.
"Hoy! What are you doing? That tickles."

"Oh, shut your mouth." She smiled behind his back
where he could not see.

She trimmed the hair up over'his ears as well, leaving
just a little bit to hang down in front where the beard be-
gan. She lifted the front and shortened that as well, then
stepped to the side to make sure it would not fall down
into his eyes. The snowy streak was as vivid as lightning.

"This is where the dragon's blood splashed you." The
white hair felt no different than the red as it trailed across
her fingertips. "Tell me again what it was like."

Simon seemed about to make some flippant remark, but
' paused instead, then spoke softly. "It was ... it was not
like anything, Miriamele. It just happened. I was fright-
ened, and it was like someone was blowing a hom inside
my head. It burned when it touched me. I don't remember
much more until I woke up in the cave with Jiriki and
Haestan." He shook his head. "There was more to it than
that. Some things are hard to explain."

"I know." She let the strands of damp hair fall, then
took a breath. "I'm finished."

io6 Tad Williams

Simon raised his hands to pat at the back and sides. "It
feels short," he said. "I wish I could see it."

"Wait until morning, then have a look in the stream."
She felt herself smiling again, stupidly, for no reason. "If
I had known you were so vain, I would have brought one
of my mirrors."

He turned a look of mock contempt upon her, then' sat
up straight. "I do have a mirror," he crowed- "Jiriki's! It's
in my sack."

"But I thought that it was dangerous!"

"Not Just to look at." Simon rose and headed for his
saddlebags, in which he began to rummage energetically,
like a bear seeking honey in a hollow tree. "Found it," he
said. A frown crossed his face. He withdrew the hand that
held the mirror, then reached back into the saddlebags
with the other and continued to search.

"What is it?"

Simon withdrew his drawstring bag and brought it over
to the fire. He handed her the Sithi mirror, which she held
carefully, almost fearfully, while he scrabbled with in-
creasing desperation in the large sack. At last he stopped
and looked up at her, his eyes wide, his face a picture of
loss. "It's gone."
"What's gone?"

"The White Arrow. It's not in here." He took his hands
out of the sack. "Aedon's Blood! I must have left it in the
tent. I must have forgotten to put it back that time." His
face then registered a deeper shock. "I hope I didn't leave
it up on Sesuad'ra!"

"You took it back to your tent, didn't you? That day
you wanted to give it to me?"

He nodded slowly. "That's right. It must-have been in
there somewhere. At least that means it's probably not
lost." He looked down at his empty hands. "But I don't
have it." He laughed. "I tried to give it away. It didn't
like that, I guess. Sithi gifts, Binabik told me, don't take
them lightly. Remember on the river, when we were first
traveling together? I was showing off with it and 1 fell out
of the boat."

Miriamele smiled sadly. "I remember."

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

107

-4-
A

^

"I've done it this time, though, haven't I?" he said mo-
rosely, and sighed. "Still, it can't be helped. If Binabik
finds it, he'll take care of it. And it's not like I need to
have it to prove something to Jiriki. If I ever see him
again." He shrugged and tried to smile. "May I have the
mirror back?"

He held it up and carefully examined his hair. "It's
good," he said. "It's short in the back. Like Josua's or
someone like that." He looked up at her. "Like Camaris."

"Like a knight."

Simon looked down at his hand for a moment, then
reached out and took Miriamele's, enfolding her fingers
in his warm grasp. He did not quite meet her eyes.
"Thank you. You did it very handsomely."

She nodded, desperately wanting to pull her hand free,
to be not so close, but at the same time happy to feel his
touch. "You are welcome, Simon."

At last, almost reluctantly, he let her go. "I suppose we
should try to sleep if we're going to get up at midnight,"
he said.

"We should," she agreed.

They packed away their few goods' and unfurled their
bedrolls in friendly, if slightly uneasy, silence.

Miriamele was awakened in the middle of the night by
a hand over her mouth. She tried to scream, but the hand
clamped even more tightly.

"No! It's me!" The hand lifted.

"Simon?" she hissed. "You idiot! What are you
doing?"

"Quiet. There's someone out there."

"What?" Miriamele sat up, staring uselessly into the
darkness. "Are you sure?"

"I was just falling asleep when I heard it," he said into
her ear, "but it wasn't a dream. I listened after I was wide
awake and I heard it again."

"It's an animal-a deer."

Simon bared his teeth to the moonlight. "I don't know
any animals that talk to themselves, do you?"

"What?"

io8 Tad Williams

"Quiet!" he whispered. "Just listen."

They sat in silence. It was hard for Miriamele to hear
anything over the pounding of her own heart. She
sneaked a glance at the fire. A few embers still glowed:

if there was a person out there, they had demonstrated
their presence quite thoroughly. She wondered if it would
do any good now to throw dirt on the coals.

Then she heard it, a crackling noise that seemed a good
hundred paces away. Her skin tingled. Simon looked at
her significantly. The sound came again, a little more dis-
tant this time.

"Whatever it is," she said quietly, "it sounds like it's
leaving."

"We were going to try to make our way down to the
road in a few hours. I don't think we should risk it."

Miriamele wanted to argue-this was her Journey, after
all, her plan-but found that she could not. The idea of
trying to make their way along the tangled riverbank
by moonlight, while something followed along after
them ... "I agree," she said. "We'll wait until light."

"I'll stay up for a while and keep watch. Then I'll wake
you and you can let me sleep for a while." Simon sat him-
self cross-legged with his back against a stump. His
sword was across his knees. "Go on, sleep." He seemed
tense, almost angry.

Miriamele felt her heart slowing a little. "You said it
was talking to itself?"

"Well, it could be more than one person," he said, "but
it didn't seem to make enough noise for two. And I only
heard one voice."

"What was it saying?"

She could dimly see Simon shake his head. "I couldn't
tell. It was too quiet. Just ... words."

Miriamele settled back onto her bedroll. "It might just
be some cotsman. People do live in the forest."

"Might be." Simon's voice was flat. Miriamele sud-
denly realized that he sounded that way because he was
frightened. "There are all kinds of things in these woods,"
he added.

She let her head fall back until she could see a few

TO GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

109

stars peeping through holes in the forest roof. "If you
start to feel sleepy, don't be a hero, Simon. Wake me up."

"I will. But I don't think I'll be sleepy for a while."*

Neither will /. she thought.

The idea of being stalked was a dreadful one. But if
someone was following them, someone her uncle had
sent, why would the stalker go away again without doing
anything? Perhaps it had been forest outlaws who would
have slaughtered them in their sleep if Simon had not
awakened. Or perhaps it had only been an animal after
all, and Simon had imagined the words.

Miriamele at last drifted into an uneasy sleep, a sleep
haunted by dreams of antler-headed, two-legged figures
moving through the forest shadows.

It took them a good part of the morning to make their
way out of the forest. The reaching branches and foot-
snagging undergrowth almost seemed to be trying to hold
them back; the mist rising from the forest floor was so
treacherously dense that if they had not had the sound of
the stream to keep them on track, Miriamele felt sure they
might just as easily have gone in the wrong direction. At
last, sore and sweaty and even more tattered than they
had been at dawn, they emerged onto the sodden downs.

After a short ride across the uneven meadowland they
reached the River Road late in the morning. There was no
snow here, but the sky was dark and threatening, and the
thick forest mist seemed to have followed them-the land
was shrouded in fog as far as they could see.

The River Road itself was almost empty: as they rode
along they met only one wagon, which bore an entire
family and its belongings. The driver, a careworn man
who looked older than he probably was, seemed almost
overwhelmed by the effort of nodding to Simon and
Miriamele as they passed. She turned to watch the wagon
wheeling slowly eastward behind a thin-shanked ox, and
wondered if they were going to Sesuad'ra to cast their
fortunes with Josua. The man, his scrawny wife, and their
silent children had looked so sad, so tired, that it was
painful to think that they might be traveling toward a

tio Tad Williams

place she knew to be deserted. Miriamete was tempted to
warn them that the prince was already marching south,
but she hardened her heart and turned around. Such a fa-
vor would be dangerous foolishness: appearing in
Erkynland with knowledge of Josua would attract far
more attention than was healthy.

The few small settlements they passed as morning wore
into afternoon seemed almost deserted; only a few plumes
of gray wafting from the smoke holes of houses, a gray
just a little darker than the surrounding mist, suggested
that people still went about their lives in this depressing
place. If these had been fanning communities, there was
little sign of it now: the fields were full of dark weeds
and there were no animals to be seen. Miriamele guessed
that if the times were as bad here as she had heard re-
ported of other parts of Erkynland, the few cows and
sheep and pigs not yet eaten were being jealously
guarded-

"I'm not sure we should stay on this road too much
longer." Miriamele squinted up from the broad, muddy
causeway into the reddening western sky.

"We've barely seen a dozen people all day," Simon re-
plied. "And if we're being followed, we're best out in the
open, where we can see anyone behind us."

"But we'll be coming to the outskirts of Stanshire
soon." Miriamele had traveled in this area a few times
with her father, and had a fairly good idea of where they
were. "That's a much bigger town than any of these little
places we've passed. There'll be people on the road there,
that's certain. Maybe guardsmen, too."

Simon shrugged. "I suppose. What are we going to do,
ride through the fields?"

"I don't think anyone will notice or care. Haven't you
seen how all the houses are shuttered? It's too cold for
people to be looking out the windows."

In answer, Simon exhaled a puff of foggy breath and
smiled. "As you say. Just be careful we don't run the
horses into a bog or something. It'll be dark soon."

They turned their mounts off the road and through a

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          III

hedge of loose brush. The sun was almost gone now, a
thin slice of crimson on the horizon all that remained. The
wind increased, whipping through the long grass.

Evening had settled in across the hilly landscape by the
time they saw the first signs of Stanshire. The village lay
on both sides of the river, joined by a central bridge, and
on the northern bank the clutter of houses extended al-
most to the eaves of the forest. Simon and Miriamele
stopped on a hilltop and looked down on the twinkling
lights.

"It's smaller," Miriamele said. "It used to fill this en-
tire valley."

Simon squinted. "I think it still does-see, there are
houses all the way across. It's just that only half of them
have fires, or lamps burning, or whatever." He pulled off
his gloves to blow on his fingers. "So. Where shall we
stay tonight? Did you bring any money for an inn?"

"We are not going to sleep indoors."

Simon raised an eyebrow. "No? Well, at least we can
find a hot meal somewhere."

Miriamele turned to look at him. "You don't under-
stand, do you? This is my father's country. I have been
here before myself. And there are so few travelers on the
road that even if we weren't recognized by anyone, peo-
ple would want to ask us questions," She shook her head.
"I can't take the chance. We can probably send you in
somewhere to buy some food-I did bring some money-
but stay in a hostel? We might as well hire a trumpeter to
walk before us."

It was hard to tell in the dim light, but Simon seemed
to be flushing. There was certainly an angry edge to his
voice. "If you say so."

She calmed her own temper. "Please, Simon. Don't you
think that I would love a chance to wash my face and sit
down on a bench and eat a real supper? I'm trying to do
what's best."

Simon looked at her for a moment, then nodded. "I'm
sorry. That's good sense. I was just disappointed."

Miriamele felt a sudden gust of affection for him. "I
know. You're a good friend."

112
Tad Williams

He looked up sharply, but said nothing. They rode
down the hillside into the Stanshire valley.

There was something wrong with Stanshire. Miriamele
remembered it from her visit some half-dozen years be-
fore as a bustling, thriving town populated mostly by
miners and their families, a place where even at night the
narrow streets were full of lamplight-but now the few
passersby seemed in a hurry to be inside once more, and
even the town's inns were quiet as monasteries and nearly
empty.

Miriamele waited in the shadows outside The Wedge
and Beetle while Simon spent some of their cintis-pieces
on bread and milk and onions.

"I asked the owner about some mutton and he just
stared at me," Simon said. "I think it's been a very bad
year."

"Did he ask you any questions?"

"He wanted to know where I came from." Simon was
already nibbling on his bread. "I told him I was a chan-
dler from Hasu Vale, looking for some work. He looked
at me funny again, then said, 'Well, you've found there's
no work to be had here, haven't you?' It's just as well he
didn't need some work because I've forgotten everything
Jeremias ever told me about how to make candles. But he
asked me how long since I'd left Hasu Vale, and was it
true what everyone said, that there's hauntings in the hills
there."

"Hauntings?" Miriamele felt a thin line of ice along her
spine. "I don't like the sound of that. What did you tell
him?"

"That I'd been   gone a long time, of course. That I'd
been traveling   in the south looking for work. Then, before
he could start   asking me about that, I told him my wife
was waiting in   the wagon up on the River Road and that
I had to go."

"Your wife?"

Simon grinned. "Well, I had to tell him something,
didn't I? Why else would a man take his food and hurry
back out into the cold?"

TO   GREEN     ANGEL   TOWER                          113

Miriamele made a disgusted noise, then clambered up
into the saddle. "We should find a place to sleep, at least
for a while. I'm exhausted."

Simon looked around. "I don't know where we could
go here-it's hard to tell which houses are empty, even if
there's no smoke and no light. The people may have left,
or they just might not have any firewood."

As he spoke, a light rain began to fall.

"We should move farther out," she said. "On the west-
ern edge of town we can probably find an empty bam or
a shed. Also there's a quarry out there, a big one."

"Sounds splendid." Simon took a bite from one of the
rather shriveled-looking onions. "You lead."

"Just don't eat my supper by mistake," she said darkly.
"And don't spill any of that milk."

"No, my lady," he replied.

As they rode west on Soakwood Road, one of
Stanshire's main thoroughfares, Miriamele found herself
oddly disturbed by Simon's words. It was indeed impos-
sible to tell if any of the darkened houses and shops were
occupied, but she had a distinct sense of being watched,
as though hidden eyes peered-out through the cracks in
the window shutters.

Soon enough they reached the farmland outside town.
The rain had eased, and was now little more than a driz-
zle. Miriamele pointed out the quarry, which from their
vantage point on Soakwood Road was a great black noth-
ingness. When the road had climbed a little higher up the
hill, they could see a flickering of reddish light on the
lower walls of the quarry.

"Someone's got a fire there," said Simon. "A big one."

"Perhaps they're digging stone," Miriamele replied.
"Whatever they're doing, though, we don't need to know
about it. The fewer people who see us, the better." She
turned them off the wide road and down one of the small
lanes, away from the quarry and back toward the River
Road. The path was muddy, and finally Miriamele de-
cided that it would be better to light a torch than risk a
broken leg for one of the horses. They dismounted, and

ii4 Tad Williams

Simon did his best to hold off the misting rain with his
cloak while Miriamele stmggled with the flint. At last she
managed to strike a spark that set the oily rag burning.

After riding a little farther they found a likely shelter,
a large shed standing in a field that had gone mostly to
weeds and bramble- The house to which it apparently be-
longed, several hundred paces away down the glen,
looked deserted. Neither Miriamele nor Simon were cer-
tain that the house was truly empty, but the shed at least
seemed relatively safe, and they would certainly be drier
and happier than beneath open sky. They tethered their
horses to a gnarled-and sadly barren-apple tree behind
the shed, out of sight of the house below.
Inside, the torchlight revealed a heap of damp straw in
the middle of the dirt floor, as well as a few rusting tools
with splintered or missing handles leaned against the wall
in anticipation of repair. A corroded scythe was depress-
ing to Miriamele in its forgotten uselessness, but also
heartening in that it suggested no one had used this shed
for some time. Reassured, she and Simon went back out
and fetched their saddlebags.

Miriamele kicked the straw into two even piles, then
laid out her bedroll on one of them. She looked around
critically. "I wish we could risk a real fire," she said, "but
I do not even like the torch."

Simon had stuck the burning brand into the dirt of the
floor, away from the straw. *T need to be able to see to
eat," he said. "We'll put it out soon."

They devoured what remained of their meal hungrily,
washing the dry bread down with draughts of cool milk.
As they wiped fingers and lips clean on their sleeves, Si-
mon looked up.

"So what do we do tomorrow?" he asked.

"Ride. If the weather stays like this, we might as well
ride by day. In any case, we'll see no towns of any size
until we reach the walls of Falshire, so there shouldn't be
many people on the road."

"If the rest of the countryside around here is anything
like Stanshire," Simon said, "we won't see half a dozen
people all day."

115

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

"Perhaps. But if we hear anything greater than a few
riders coming toward us, we should get off the road, just
to be safe."

There was a silence as Miriamele took a last drink from
the water skin, then crawled onto her bedroll and pulled
her cloak over her.

"Are you going to tell me any more about where we're
going?" Simon asked at last. She could hear from his
voice that he was trying to be careful, that he didn't want
to make her angry. She was touched by his cautiousness,
but also felt more than a little cross at being treated like
a child susceptible to tantrums.

"I don't want to talk about it now, Simon." She turned
away, not liking herself, but unwilling to spill out her se-
cret heart. She could hear him clamber onto his own bed-
roll, then a quiet curse as he realized he had not snuffed
the torch. He crawled back across the shed-

"Don't soak it," she said. "It will make it easier to light
the next time we need it."

"Indeed, my lady." Simon's voice was sour. There was
a sizzle and the light was gone. After a few moments, she
heard him return to his sleeping^ spot.

"Good night, Simon."

"Good night." He sounded angry.

Miriamele lay in darkness and thought about what Si-
mon had asked. Could she even explain to him? It would
sound so foolish to someone else, wouldn't it? Her father
was the one who had started this war-or rather, she felt
sure, he had started it at Pryrates' urging-so how could
she explain to Simon that she needed to see him, to talk
to him? It wouldn't just sound foolish, she decided, it
would sound like the worst and most reckless sort of
madness.

And maybe that's true, she thought gloomily. What if I
am just fooling myself? I could be captured by Pryrates
and never see my father at all. Then what would happen?
That red-robed monster would have every secret of
Josua's that I know.

She shuddered. Why didn't she tell Simon what she
planned? And more importantly, why hadn't she told Un-

u6 Tad Williams

cle Josua instead of just running away? Just the little bit
she had told him had made him angry and suspicious ...
but maybe he was right. Who was she, one young woman,
to decide what was right and wrong for her uncle and all
his followers? And wasn't that what she was doing,
taking their lives into her hands to satisfy a whim?

But it's not a whim. She felt herself divided into war-
ring factions, like her father and uncle, two halves in con-
flict- She was coming apart. It's important. No one can
stop this but my father, and only I know what started it.
But I'm so frightened....

The magnitude of what she had done and what she
planned to do came rising up, until she suddenly felt she
might choke. And no one knew but her-no one!

Something inside her seemed about to break beyond
mending. She took in a great gulp of bream.

"Miriamele? Miriamele, what's wrong?"

Fighting to control herself, she did not reply- She could
hear Simon moving nearby, the straw rustling.

"Are you hurt? Are you having a bad dream?" His
voice was closer, almost beside her ear.

"No," she gasped, then sobbing took her voice away.
Simon's hand touched her shoulder, then tentatively
moved up to her face.

"You're crying!" he said, surprised.

"Oh ..." She struggled to speak. "I'm so ... I'm so
... lonely! I want t-to go h-h-home!" She sat up and
bent forward, pressing her face into the damp cloak over
her knees. Another great storm of weeping overtook her.
At the same time, a part of her stood as though separate,
watching her own performance with disgust.

Weak, it told her spitefully. No wonder you won't get
what you want. You 're weak.

"... Home?" Simon said, wondering. "Do you want to
go back to Josua and the others?"

"No, you idiot!" Anger at her own stupidity momentar-
ily cut through the sobs so that she could speak, "I want
to go home! I want things to be the way they used to be!"

In the dark, Simon reached for her and pulled her close.
Miriamele struggled for a moment, then let her head fall

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          117

against his chest. Everything hurt. "I'll protect you," he
said softly. There was a curious note in his voice, a sort
of quiet exultation. "I'll take care of you, Miriamele."

She pushed herself away from him. In the sliver of
moonlight that leaked through the shed's doorway, she
could'see his tousle-haired silhouette. "I don't want to be
protected! I'm not a child. I just want things to be right
again."

Simon sat unmoving for a long moment, then she felt
his arm again around her shoulder. His voice was gentle
when she expected to have her own anger returned.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm scared, too. I'm sorry."

And as he spoke, she realized suddenly that this was
Simon beside her, that he was not her enemy. She let her-
self sag back against his chest, craving for a moment the
warmth and solidity of him. A fresh torrent of tears came
rushing up and spilled out of her.

"Please, Miri," he said helplessly- "Don't cry." He put
his other arm around her and held her tightly.

After a while the storm of weeping subsided.
Miriamele could only lean against Simon, without
strength. She felt his fingers run along her jaw, tracing the
path of her tears. She pushed in closer, burrowing like a
frightened animal, until she felt her face rub against his
neck, his hidden blood pulsing against her cheek.
"Oh, Simon," she said, her voice ragged. "I'm so
sorry."

"Miriamele," he began, then fell silent. She felt his
hand on her chin, cupping it gently. He turned her face up
to his, to his warm breath. He seemed about to say some-
thing. She could feel the words suspended between them,
trembling, unspoken. Then she felt his lips upon hers, the
gentle scratch of his beard around her mouth.

For a moment, Miriamele felt herself floating in some
unfixed place, in some unrecorded time. She sought a
huddling place, somewhere to flee from the pain that
seemed all around her like a storm. His mouth was soft,
careful, but the hand that touched her face was shaking.
She was shaking, too. She wanted to fall into him, to dive
into him like a quiet pool.

n8 Tad Williams

Unbidden, a picture came to her like a shred of dream:

Earl Aspitis, his fine golden hair gleaming in lamplight,
bending above her. The arm around her was suddenly a
confining claw.

"No," she said, pulling away. "No, Simon, I can't."

He let go of her quickly, like someone caught pilfering.
"I didn't ..."

"Just leave me alone." She heard her own voice, flat
and cold. It did not match the swirl of violent feelings in-
side her. "I'm ... I just ..." She, too, was at a loss for
words.

In the silence, there was a sudden noise. A long mo-
ment passed before Miriamele realized that it came from
outside the shed. It was the horses, whinnying nervously.
An instant later, a twig crackled just beyond the door.

"There's someone out there!" she hissed. The confu-
sion of the moment before fell away, replaced by the ice
of fear.

Simon fumbled for his sword; finding it, he stood and
moved to the door. Miriamele followed.

"Should I open it?" he asked. '

"We don't want to be caught in here," she whispered
sharply. "We don't want to be trapped."

Simon hesitated, then pushed the door outward. There
was a flurry of movement outside. Someone was hurrying
away, a shadow lurching toward the road through the
misted moonlight.

Simon kicked free of the cloak tangled about his legs,
then sprang out the door after the fleeing shape.
Simon W05 fitted with anger, a high, wild fury that
pushed him on like a wind at his back. The figure running
before him faltered and he drew closer. He felt as he
thought Qantaqa must feel when she ran some small flee-
ing thing to ground.

Spy on me! Spy on me, will you?!

The shadowy form stumbled again. Simon lifted his
sword, ready to hew the sneaking creature down in its
tracks. Another few paces -..

"Simon!" Something caught at his shirt, tugging him
off stride. "Don't!"

He lowered his hand to regain his balance and his
sword caught in the weedy grass and sprang from his fin-
gers. He pawed at the ground, but could not find it in the
deep brush, in the dark. He hesitated for a moment, but
the dark shape before him had regained its stride and was
pulling away. With a curse, Simon abandoned the sword
and ran on. A dozen strong paces and he had caught up
again. He wrapped his arms around his quarry's midsec-
tion and tumbled them both to the ground.

"Oh, sweet Usires!" the thing beneath him shrieked.
"Don't bum me! Don't bum -me!" Simon grabbed the
thrashing arms and held on.

"What are you doing?!" Simon hissed. "Why have you
been following us?"

"Don't bum me!" the man quavered, struggling to keep
his face turned away. He flailed his spindly limbs in
seeming terror. "Weren't following no one!"

120                    Tad Williams

Miriamele arrived, Simon's sword clutched in both
hands. "Who is it?"

Still angry, although even he was not quite sure why,
Simon took the man's ear in his hand-as Rachel the
Dragon had oftentimes done with a certain recalcitrant
scullion-and twisted it until the face swung toward him.

His prisoner was an old man; Simon did not know him.
The man's eyes were wide and blinking rapidly. "Didn't
mean no harm, old Heanwig didn't'" he said. "Don't bum
me!"

"Bum you? What are you babbling about? Why were
you following us?"

Miriamele looked up suddenly. "Simon, we can't stay
here shouting. Let's take him back."

"Don't bum Heanwig!"
"Nobody's burning anybody," Simon grunted. He
dragged the old man onto his feet less gently than he
might have, then marched him toward the shed. The in-
truder sniffled and pleaded for his life.

Simon retained his hold on the old man while
Miriamele tried to relight the torch. She eventually gave
up and took another from her saddlebag. When it was
burning, Simon let go of the prisoner and then sat with
his back against the door so that the old man could not
make another bolt for freedom.

"He doesn't have any weapons," Simon said. "I felt his
pockets."

"No, masters, got no nothing." Heanwig seemed a little
less frightened, but still pathetically eager not to offend.
"Please, just let me go and I'll tell no one."

Simon looked him over. The old man had the reddened
cheeks and nose of a veteran tosspot, and his eyes were
bleary. He was staring worriedly at the torch, as though it
were now the greatest danger in the room. He certainly
didn't seem much of a threat, but Simon had learned long
ago from Doctor Morgenes' small-outside, large-inside
chambers that things could be other than they appeared.
"Why were you following us?" he demanded. "And why
do you think we'd burn you?"

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER 121

"Don't need to burn no one," the old man said. "Old
Heanwig means no harm. He won't tell nobody."

"Answer my question. What are you doing here?"

"Was just looking for place to sleep, masters." The old
man chanced a quick survey of the shed. "Slept here be-
fore once or twice. Didn't want to be outside tonight, no,
not tonight."

"Were you following us in the forest? Did you come to
our camp last night?"

The old man looked at him with what seemed genuine
surprise. "Forest? In Oldheart? Heanwig won't go there.
Things and beasties and such-that's a bad place, mas-
ters. Don't you go to that Oldheart."

"I think he's telling the truth," said Miriamele. "I think
he was just coming here to sleep," She fished the water
skin out of her saddlebag and gave it to the old man. He
'' S   looked at it for a moment with suspicion. Understanding,
Miriamele lifted it to her own mouth and drank, then
passed it to him. Reassured, the old man swallowed hun-
grily, then looked at her as accusingly as if his fear of
poison had been confirmed.

"Water," he murmured sullenly,
Miriamele stared at him, bufSimon slowly smiled. He
leaned across and fished out the other skin bag, the one
Miriamele had told him she was saving for cold nights or
painful injuries- Simon squirted a little bit of the red
Perdruin into a bowl and held it out whwe the old man
could see. Heanwig's trembling fingers reached for it, but
Simon pulled the bowl back.

"Answer our questions first. You swear you were not
searching for us?"

Heanwig shook his head emphatically. "Never seen you
before. Won't remember you when you're gone. That's a
promise." His thin hands snaked out again.

"Not yet. Why did you think we'd burn you?"

The old man looked at him, then at the wine, plainly
torn. "Thought you were those Fire Dancers," he said at
last, with obvious reluctance. "Thought you meant to
burn me like they burned old Wiclaf who used to be First
Hammerman up to quarry."

122 Tad Williams

Simon shook his head, puzzled, but Miriamele leaned
closer, fear and distaste in her expression. "Fire Dancers?
Are there Fire Dancers here?"

The old man looked at her as though she had asked
whether fish could swim. "Town be full of them. They
chased me, chased Heanwig. But I hid from them." He
smiled a weak smile, but his eyes remained wary and cal-i
culating. "They be in quarry tonight, dancing and praying
to their Storm Lord."

"The quarry!" Miriamele breathed. 'That's what the
lights were!"

Simon was still not sure he trusted the old man. Some-
thing was bothering him, like a fly buzzing beside his ear,
but he could not decide what it was. "// he's telling the
truth."

"I tell the truth," Heanwig said with sudden force. He
tried to draw himself up straight, fixing Simon with his
rheumy eyes. "I was coming here for a bit of sleep, then
I heard you. Thought the Fire Dancers were here-they
roam all through town at night. People with houses bar
their doors, do you see, but Heanwig's got no house no
more. So I ran."

"Give the wine to him, Simon," Miriamele said. "It's
cruel. He's just a frightened old man."

Simon made a face and handed Heanwig the bowl. The
old man sniffed it and a look of rapture crossed his age-
spotted features. He tilted the bowl and drank thirstily.

"The Fire Dancers!" Miriamele hugged herself.
"Mother of Mercy, Simon, we don't want to get caught by
them. They're all mad. Tiamak was attacked by some in
Kwanitupul, and I saw others light themselves on fire and
burn to death."

Simon looked from Miriamele to the old man, who was
licking his wrinkled lips with a tongue that looked like
something which made its home in a seashell. He felt an
unlikely urge to reach out and cuff the old tosspot, al-
though the man had done little enough, really- Simon sud-
denly remembered how he had raised the sword, that
moment of fury when he might have slain this poor
wretch, and was horribly ashamed.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER            123

What sort of knight would cut down a feeble drunkard?

But what dreadful fate had sent the old man to frighten
the horses and break twigs in the very moment when he
was finally holding Miriamele in his arms? They had
been kissing! She, the princess, the beautiful Miriamele,
had been kissing Simon!

He turned his gaze from the old man to Miriamele once
more. She, too, had been watching Heanwig drain his
bowl, but now her eyes flicked up to Simon's for a mo-
ment. Even in the torchlight, he could see her blush. Fate
was cruel ... but a little earlier, it had been kind as well-
Oh, sweet Fate, sweet Luck!

Simon abruptly laughed. The greater part of his anger
dissipated like chaff before the wind. The loveliest girl in
all of Aedondom, clever and quick-and she had kissed
him. Called him by his name! He could still feel the
shape of her face on his fingertips. What right had he to
complain?

"So what do we do?" he asked.

Miriamele avoided his eye. "We will stay the night.
Then in the morning we will get as far away from the Fire
Dancers as we can."

Simon darted a glance at Heanwig, who was looking
hopefully toward the saddlebags. "And him?"

"We will let him stay here for the night, too."

"And what if he drinks all the wine and takes it into his
head to strangle us in our sleep?" Simon protested. Even
he found it rather silly to say such things about the bony,
shivering old man, but he desperately wanted to be alone
with Miriamele once more.

As if she understood this and was equally determined
not to see it happen, Miriamele said: "He'll do nothing of
the sort. And we will take turns sleeping. Will that make
you feel better, Simon? You can guard the wine."
The old man looked from one to the other, evidently
trying to decide where the battle lines were drawn. "Old
Heanwig won't be no bother. You don't nead to stay up,
young masters. You be tired. Old fellow like me doesn't
need sleep. I'll stay up and watch for them Fire Dancers."

Simon snorted. "I'm certain you would. Let's toss him

124 Tad Williams

out, Miriamele. If he isn't the one who followed us,
there's no reason to keep him."

"There's a perfectly good reason. He's an old man and
he's frightened. You forget, Simon, I've seen the Fire
Dancers and you haven't. Don't be cruel just because
you're in a bad mood." She gave him a stem look, but Si-
mon thought he saw a tiny flash of knowing amusement
in it.

"No, don't send me out to those Fire Dancers,"
Heanwig begged. "They bumed Wiclaf, they did. I saw it.
And him not harming nobody. They lit him on fire down
Pulley Road, screaming 'Here's what's coming! Here's
what's coming!'" Heanwig trailed off, shuddering. What
had started out as a self-serving justification had become
real as the memory played out before his mind's eye.
"Don't send me away, masters. I'll never speak no word."
His abrupt sincerity was apparent.

Simon looked from Miriamele to the old man, then
back to the princess. He had been neatly outflanked. "Oh,
very well." he growled. "But I'm staying up on first
watch, old man, and if you do anything the least bit sus-
picious, you'll be out that door and into the cold so fast
your head will spin."

He gave Miriamele a last look compounded of annoy-
ance and longing, then settled back against the shed door.

Simon awoke in the early morning to discover
Miriamele and the old man both up and chatting amiably.
Simon thought that Heanwig looked even worse in day-
light, his seamed features smudged with dirt, his clothes
so tattered and soiled that even poverty could not excuse
it.

"You should come with us," Miriamele was saying.
"You'll be safer than by yourself. At least join us until
you're far away from the Fire Dancers."

The old man shook his head doubtfully. "Those mad
folk be most everywhere, these days."

Simon sat up. His mouth was dry and his head hurt, as
though he were the drunkard of the company. "What are
you saying? You can't bring him with us."

i
E-
'

I

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          125

"I certainly can," said Miriamele. "You may accom-
pany me, Simon, but you may not tell me where I can go
or who I can bring along."

Simon stared at her for a moment, sensing an argument
that he had no hope of winning, no matter what he did.
He was still weighing his next words when he was saved
from the useless engagement by Heanwig.

"Are you bound for Nabban?" the old man asked. "I
never have seen those parts."

"We're going to Falshire," Miriamele said. "Then on to
Hasu Vale."

Simon was just about to upbraid her for telling this
complete stranger their travel plans-what had happened
to the need for caution she had lectured him about?-
when the old man made a gasping noise. Simon turned,
angry already at the thought that the old tosspot was now
going to be sick right in front of them, but was startled by
the look of horror on Heanwig's mottled face.

"Going to Hasu Vale!?" His voice rose. "What, be ye
mad? That whole valley runs haunted." He scrambled a
cubit toward the door, grasping fruitlessly for a handhold
in the moldering straw beneath him, as though the two
travelers had threatened to drag him to the hated place by
force. "Sooner I'd crawl down into quarry with those Fire
Dancers."

"What do you mean, haunted?" Miriamele demanded.
"We've heard that before. What does it mean?"

The old man stared at her, eyes rolling to show the
whites. "Haunted! Bad 'uns, bogies from out the lien-
yard. Witches and suchlike!"

Miriamele stared at him hard. After a year like the last
one, she was not inclined to dismiss such talk as supersti-
tion. "We're going there," she said at last. "We have to.
But you don't have to travel any farther than you want
to."

Heanwig got shakily to his feet. "Don't want to go
west'ard. Heanwig'll stay here'bouts. There's folk in
Stanshire as still have a morsel to spare, or a drop, even
in bad times." He shook his head- "Don't go there, young

126 Tad Williams

mistress. You been kind." He looked pointedly at Simon
to make it clear who had not been.
The old sot, Simon thought grumpily. Who gave him
the wine, anyway? Who didn't break his head when he
could have?

"Go south-you'll be happy there," Heanwig contin-
ued, almost pleading. "Stay out the Vale."

"We must go," said Miriamele. "But we won't make
you come."

Heanwig had been sidling toward the door. Now he
stopped with his hand already on the wood and ducked
his head. "I thank you, young mistress. Aedon's Light be
on you." He paused, at a loss for words. "Hope you come
back again safe."

"Thank you, too, Heanwig," Miriamele replied sol-
emnly.

Simon suppressed a groan of irritation, reminding him-
self that a knight did not make faces and noises like a
scullion did-especially a knight who wished to stay on
the good side of his lady. And at least the old man appar-
ently would not be traveling with them. That was an ac-
ceptable reward for a little forbearance.

As they rode out of Stanshire into the countryside, the
rain began to fall once more. At first it was little more
than a flurry of drops, but by the time mid-moming came,
it was falling in great sheets. The wind rose, carrying the
rain toward them in cold, cascading slaps of water.

"This is as bad as being on a ship in storm," Miriamele
shouted.

"At least on a ship you have oars," Simon called back.
"We're going to need some soon."

Miriamele laughed, pulling her hood down low over
her eyes-
Simon felt warmer just knowing he had amused her. He
had been feeling a little ashamed of the way he had
treated the old man; almost as soon as Heanwig had gone
shuffling away down the lane, heading back toward the
center of Stanshire, Simon had felt his bad temper evap-
orate. It was hard to say now what it was about the old

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER 127

man that had so perturbed him-he hadn't really done
anything.

They headed back toward the River Road along a suc-
cession of wagon-rutted lanes that now were little more
than sluices of mud. The countryside began to look more
wild. The farmlands around Stanshire, although mostly
^   given over to weeds, still bore the mark of past human
|,   care in the fences and stone walls and an occasional cot-
it   tage, but as the town and its outlying settlements fell
1     away behind them, the wilderness reasserted itself-

H     It was a peculiarly bleak place. The nearly endless win-
^   ter had stripped all of the trees but the evergreens, and
I'   even the pines and firs seemed to have suffered unkind
^   handling. Simon thought the strange, twisted shape of the
[    trunks and branches resembled the writhing human bodies
in the mural of The Day of Weighing-Out which stretched
across the wall of the Hayholt's chapel. He had spent
J    many a boring hour in church staring in fascination at the
scenes of torment, marveling at the invention of the anon-
ymous artist. But here in the real, cold, wet world, the
gnarled shapes were mostly disheartening. Leafless oaks
and elms and ash trees loomed against the sky, skeletal
hands that clenched and unclenched as the wind bent
them. With the sky bruised almost black by clouds and
the rain flung slantwise across the muddied hillsides, it
made a much drearier picture than even the decorations in
the chapel-
Simon and Miriamele rode on through the storm,
mostly unspeaking. Simon was chagrined that the prin-
cess had not once mentioned, or even hinted at, their kiss
of the night before. It was not a day conducive to flirta-
tious conversation, he knew, but she seemed to be pre-
tending it had never even happened. Simon did not know
what to do about this: several times he was on the verge
of asking her, but he could not think of anything to say
about it that would not sound stupid in the light of day.
That kiss had been a bit like his arrival in Jao e-Tinukai'i,
a moment in which he had stepped out of time. Perhaps,
like a trip to a fairy-hill, what they had shared the night
before had been something magical, something destined

128

Tad Williams

to fade as quickly from memory as an icicle melting in
the sun.

No. I won't let it fade. I'll remember it always . .. even
if she doesn 't.

He stole a glance at Miriamele. Most of her face was
hidden by the hood, but he could see her nose and part of
her cheek and her sharp chin. She looked almost Silha-
like, he thought, graceful and beautiful, yet not quite
knowable. What was going on in her head? How could
she cling to him as she had, then say nothing about it af-
terward, until he wondered if he had dreamed the whole
thing or was going mad? Surely she had returned that kiss
as eagerly as he had given it? Little as he knew of women
and kissing, he could not believe that the way she had re-
sponded meant nothing.

Why don't I just ask her? I'll go mad if I don't find out.
But what if she laughs at me, or gets angry-or doesn't
remember?

The idea that Miriamele might have no strong emotions
corresponding to the feelings that churned within him was
chilling. His resolve to make her talk abruptly vanished.
He would think about it more.

But I want to kiss her again.

He sighed. The sound was lost in the hissing tumult of
the rain.

The River Road was muddy and almost entirely empty;

as Simon had predicted, they passed fewer than a dozen
other travelers all day. Only one man bothered to do more
than nod, a short, bandy-legged fellow whose knob-kneed
horse pulled a tented wagon full of tinker's goods. Hop-
ing for information about what might lie ahead, Simon
took courage at his pleasant greeting and asked the man
to stop. The tinker stood in the downpour, apparently glad
for someone to talk to, and told them that there was a way
station ahead that they should reach not long after sun-
down. He said he was on his way out from Falshire, and
described that city as quiet and the business he had done
there as poor. After quietly making sure that Miriamele
approved, Simon invited the man to come join them be-

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER            129

neath a stand of pines that kept out most of the rain. They
handed him the wineskin, and while their new acquaint-
ance took a few healthy swallows, Simon repeated his
story of being an itinerant chandler.

"Thank you kindly." The tinker handed back the wine-
skin. "Cuts the chill a bit, that does." He nodded. "You'll
be hoping to do some trade for Saint Tunath's and
Aedonmansa, then. Good luck to you. But if you'll par-
don advice not asked for, I think you'd best go no farther
west than Falshire."

Simon and Miriamele locked eyes briefly before turn-
ing back to the traveler.

"Why is that?" asked Simon.

"People just say it's bad there." The man's grin seemed
forced. "You know the sort of tales. Bandits, the like.
Some talk of odd happenings in the hills." He shrugged.

Simon pressed him for details, but the man did not
seem inclined to elaborate- Simon had never heard of a
traveling tinker who would not happily finish a proffered
wineskin while regaling his listeners with tales of his
journeying; whether this man was an exception to the
rule, or whether there was something that had disturbed
him enough to keep him quiet,'Simon could not tell. He
seemed a reasonable sort.

"We're looking for nothing but a roof over our heads
and a few timings worth of work here and there," said Si-
mon.
The tinker cocked an eyebrow at the sword on Simon's
belt and the metal hauberk protruding beyond his sleeves.
"You're tolerable well-armed for- candle-making, sirrah,"
he said gently. "But I suppose that shows what the roads
are like these days." He nodded with a sort of careful ap-
proval, as if to suggest that whatever he thought of a
chandler wearing the gear of a knight-albeit a tattered
knight who had seen better times-he saw no reason to
ask further questions.

Simon, catching the implicit message that he was ex-
pected to adopt the same courteous disinterest, offered the
tinker a handclasp as they all walked back to the road.

"Anything you need?" the man asked as he once more

130 Tad Williams

took the bridle of his horse, which had been standing pa-
tiently in the rain. "I get a few things in trade from them
as has not a cintis piece to pay-some vegetables, little
bits of metal clutter ... shoeing-nails, the like."

Simon said that they had everything they needed until
they reached Falshire: he was quite sure that the things
they most needed would not be in the back of a rain-
soaked wagon. But Miriamele asked to see the vegetables,
and picked out a few spindly carrots and four brown on-
ions, giving the tinker a coin in return- Afterward they
waved him farewell as he took his horse and went
squelching away east along the muddy road.

As the gray afternoon wore away, the rain continued to
spatter down. Simon was growing tired of it pounding on
his head.

Wish I'd remembered to bring my battle-helm, he
thought. But that'd probably be like sitting under a bucket
and having someone throw stones at you-rattle, rattle,
rattle till you go mad.

To entertain Miriamele, he tried to sing a song called
"Badulf and the Straying Heifer" that Shem Horsegroom
had taught him, which had a rainstorm in it and seemed
appropriate, but most of the words had slipped his mem-
ory, and when he sang the parts he remembered, the wind
flung rain down his gullet until he thought he would
strangle. He abandoned the experiment at last and they
continued in silence.

The sun which had been invisible all day at last sank
beneath the rim of the world, leaving behind a deeper
darkness. They rode on as the rain turned even colder, un-
til their teeth were chattering and their hands grew numb
on the reins. Simon had begun to doubt that the tinker had
spoken truly when at last they found the way station.

It was only a shed, four walls and a roof, with a smoke
hole and a circle of stones dug into the floor for a fire-
place. There was a covered spot outside at the back to tie
the horses, but Simon, after unsaddling them, tethered
them in a copse nearby where they would be almost as
dry, and would be able to crop at the thin grass.

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                             131

The last inhabitant of the station-Simon guessed it
was the tinker himself, who had seemed a decent and
conscientious fellow-had brought in fresh wood before
leaving. It had to be new-gathered, because it was still
wet and proved difficult to light: Simon had to restart it
three times after the smoldering tinder fizzled out against
the damp branches. He and the princess made themselves
a stew with some carrots and one of the onions and a bit
of flour and dried beef from Miriamele's stores.

"Hot food," proclaimed Simon, sucking his fingers, "is
a wonderful thing." He held the bowl up and licked the
last drops of gravy from the bottom.

"You're getting stew on your beard," Miriamele said
sternly.

Simon pushed open the door of the way station, then
leaned out and let his cupped palms fill with rainwater.
He drank some and used the rest to rub the grease from
his whiskers. "Better?"

"I suppose." Miriamele began arranging her bedroll.

Simon got up, patting his stomach contentedly. He
went and dragged his own bedroll loose from the saddle,
then came back and laid it out close to Miriamele's. She
stared at it silently for a moment; then, without looking
up, pulled hers around the fire, putting several cubits of
straw-matted floor between them.

Simon pursed his lips. "Should we keep watch?" he
said at last. "There's no bar on the door."

"That would be wise. Who first7"

"Me. I have a lot to think about."

His tone finally made Miriamele look up. She eyed him
warily, as though he might do something sudden and
frightening- "Very well. Wake me when you get tired."

"I'm tired now. But so are you. Sleep. I'll get you up
after you've had a little time to rest."

Miriamele settled back without protest, wrapping her
cloak tightly about her before she closed her eyes. The
way station was silent but for the patter of rain on the roof.
Simon sat motionless for a long time, watching the flick-
ering firelight play across her pale, composed features.

132
Tad Williams

Sometime in the earliest hours after midnight, Simon
caught himself nodding. He sat up, shaking his head, and
listened. The rain had stopped, but water was still drip-
ping from the way station roof and drizzling on the
ground outside.

He crawled over to wake Miriamele, but paused by the
bedroll to look at her in the red light of the dying embers.
She had twisted in her sleep, dislodging the cloak she
used as a blanket, and her shirt had pulled loose from the
top of the men's breeches she wore, exposing a measure
of white skin along her side and the shadowed curve of
her lowest ribs. Simon felt his heart turn over in his chest.
He longed to touch her.

His hand, seemingly of its own volition, stole out; his
fingers, gentle as butterflies, lit upon her skin. It was cool
and smooth. He could feel goosebumps rise beneath his
touch.

Miriamele made a groggy noise of irritation and
brushed at him, flicking as though the butterflies had be-
come less pleasant insects a-crawhng. Simon quickly
withdrew his hand.

He sat for a moment trying to catch his breath, feeling
like a thief who had been nearly surprised in his crime. At
last he reached out again, but this time only clasped her
shoulder and gave a careful shake.

"Miriamele. Wake up, Miriamele."

She grunted and rolled over, turning her back to him.
Simon shook her again, a little more strongly this time.
She made a sound of protest and her fingers groped for
her cloak without success, as though she sought protec-
tion from whatever cruel spirit plagued her.

"Come, Miriamele, it's your turn to keep watch."

The princess was sleeping soundly indeed. Simon
leaned closer and spoke into her ear. "Wake up. It's
time." Her hair was against his cheek.

Miriamele only half-smiled, as though someone had
made a small joke. Her eyes remained shut. Simon slid
down until he was lying next to her and stared for a few
long moments at the curve of her cheek glowing in the
emberlight. He slid his hand down from her shoulder and

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER           133

let it fall across her waist, then moved forward until his
chest touched her back. Now her hair was all along his
cheek and his body wrapped hers. She made a noise that
might have been contentment and pushed back against
him ever so slightly, then fell silent once more. Simon
held his breath, fearing she would wake, fearing that he
himself would cough or sneeze and somehow spoil this
achingly splendid moment. He felt her warmth all down
the length of his body. She was smaller than he, much
smaller: he could wrap around her and protect her like a
suit of armor. He thought he would like to lie this way
forever.

As the two lay like nestling kittens, Simon drifted into
sleep. The need to keep a watch was forgotten, eased
from his mind like a leaf carried away by a river current.

Simon woke up alone. Miriamele was outside the way
station, using a leafless branch to groom her horse. When
she came in, they broke their fast on bread and water- She
said nothing of the night before, but Simon thought he de-
tected a little less brittleness in her manner, as though
some of her chill had melted away while they lay huddled
in sleep.

They traveled six more days on me River Road, slowed
by the monotonous rains that had turned the broad track
into sloppy mud. The weather was so miserable and the
road generally so empty that Miriamele's fear of discov-
ery seemed to lessen, although she still kept her face cov-
ered when they passed through smallish towns like
Bregshame and Garwynswold. Nights they slept in way
stations or beneath the leaky roofs of roadside shrines. As
they sat together each night in the hour between eating
and sleeping, Miriamele told Simon stories of her child-
hood in Meremund. In return, he recounted his days
among the scullions and chambermaids; but as the nights
passed, he spoke more and more about his time with Doc-
tor Morgenes, of the old man's good humor and occasion-
ally fierce temper, of his contempt for those who did not
ask questions and his delight in life's unexpected com-
plexity.

'34 Tad Williams

The night after they passed through Garwynswold,
Simon abruptly found himself in tears as he related some-
thing Morgenes had once told him about the wonders of
beehives. Miriamele stared, surprised, as he struggled to
control himself; afterward she looked at him in a strange
way he had not seen before, but although his first impulse
was shame, he could not truthfully see anything contemp-
tuous in her expression.

"I wish he had been my father or my grandfather," he
said later. They had retired to their respective bedrolls.
Although Miriamele was, as usual, an arm's length away,
he felt that she was in some way nearer to him than she
had been any night since they had kissed. He had held her
since then, of course, but she had been asleep. Now she
lay nearby in the darkness, and he almost thought he felt
some unspoken agreement growing between them. "He
was that kind to me. I wish he was still alive."

"He was a good man."
"He was more than that. He was ... He was someone
who did things when they needed to be done." Simon felt
a tightening in his chest, "He died so that Josua and I
could escape. He treated me like ... like I was his own.
It's all wrong. He shouldn't have had to die."

"Nobody should die," Miriamele said slowly. "Especi-
ally while they're still alive."

Simon lay in silence for a moment, confused. Before he
could ask her what she meant, he felt her cool fingers
touch his hand, then nestle into his palm.

"Sleep well," she murmured.

When his heart had slowed, her hand was still there. He
fell asleep at last, still cupping it as gently as if it were a
baby bird.

More than the rains and gray mist plagued them. The
land itself, under the pall of bad weather, was almost
completely lifeless, dreary as a landscape of stones and
bones and spiderwebs- In the towns, the citizens appeared
tired and frightened, unwilling even to regard Simon and
Miriamele with the curiosity and suspicion that were usu-
ally a stranger's due. At night the windows were shut-

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER           135

tered, the mucky streets empty. Simon felt as though they
passed through ghost villages, as though the actual inhab-
itants had long departed, leaving only the insubstantial
shades of previous generations, all doomed to a weary,
pointless haunting of their ancestral homes.

In dim afternoon on their seventh day out of Stanshire,
Simon and Miriamele rounded a bend in the river road
and saw the squat bulk of Falshire Castle looming on the
western horizon before them. Green grazing land had
once covered the castled hill like a king's train, but now,
despite the heavy rains, the hillside fields were barren;

near the hillcrest some were even patched with snow. At
the base of the hill lay the walled city, bestriding the river
that was its lifeblood. From docks along the shore
Falshire's hides and wool were loaded on boats to travel
to the Kynslagh and beyond, returning with the gold and
other goods that had long made Falshire one of the richest
cities in Osten Ard, second in importance in Erkynland
only to Erchester.

"That castle used to be Fengbald's," said Miriamele.
"And to think my father would have had me marry him!
I wonder which of his family lords it there now." Her
mouth tightened. "If the new master is anything like the
old one, I hope the whole thing falls down on him."

Simon peered into the diffuse western light that made
the castle seem only an oddly-shaped black crag, then
pointed to the city below to distract her attention. "We
can be in Falshire-town before nightfall. We can have a
true meal tonight."

"Men always think of their stomachs."

Simon thought the assertion unfair, but was pleased
enough to be called a man that he smiled. "How about a
dry night in a warm inn, then?"

Miriamele shook her head. "We have been lucky, Si-
mon, but we are getting closer to the Hayholt every day.
I have been in Falshire many times. There is too good a
chance someone might recognize me."

Simon sighed. "Very well. But you don't mind if I go
in somewhere and get us something to eat like I did in
Stanshire, do you?"

136 Tad Williams

"As long as you don't leave me waiting all night. It's
bad enough being a poor traveling chandler's wife with-
out having to stand in the rain while the husband's inside
slurruping down ale by a hot fire."

Simon's smile became a grin. "Poor chandler's wife."
Miriamele looked at him dourly. "Poor chandler if he
makes her angry."

The inn called The Tarbox was brightly torchlit, as if
for some festive holiday, but as Simon peered in through
the doorway he thought the mood inside seemed far from
merry. It was crowded enough, with perhaps two or three
dozen people scattered around the wide common room,
but the talk among them was so quiet that Simon could
hear the rainwater dripping off the cloaks that hung be-
side the door.

Simon made his way between the crowded benches to
the far side of the common room. He was aware of many
heads turning to watch him pass, and a slight increase in
the buzz of conversation, but he kept his eyes to himself.
The landlord, a thin, tuft-haired fellow whose face spar-
kled with the sweat of the roasting oven, looked up as he
approached.

"Yes? D'you need a room?" He looked at Simon's tat-
tered clothes. 'Two quinis the night."

"Just a few slices of that mutton and some bread. And
perhaps some ale as well- My wife's waiting outside.
We've far to go."

The landlord shouted at someone across the room to
have patience, then glared at Simon suspiciously- "You'll
need your own jug, for none of mine's walking out the
door." Simon lifted his jug and the man nodded. "Six
cintis for all. Pay now."

A little nettled, Simon dropped the coins on the table.
The landlord picked them up and examined them, then
pocketed the lot and scurried off.

Simon turned to survey the room. Most of the denizens
seemed to be Falshire-folk, humble in garb and settled in
their residence: there were very few who looked as
though they might be travelers, despite the fact that this

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                            137

was one of the closest inns to the city gates and the River
Road. A few returned his gaze, but he saw little malice or
even curiosity- The people of Falshire, if this room was
any indication, seemed to have much in common with the
sheep they raised and sheared.

Simon had just turned back to look for the landlord
when he sensed a sudden stirring in the room. He won-
dered if the Falshire-folk had indeed had more of a reac-
tion to him than he'd realized. Then a chill breeze
touched the back of his neck.

The door of the inn was open again. Standing before a
curtain of water sluicing down from the roof outside, a
trio of white-robed figures calmly surveyed the room. It
was not Simon's imagination that all the other folk in the
common room shrank back a little into themselves. Fur-
tive glances were darted, conversations grew quieter or
louder, and some of the patrons nearest the door sidled
slowly away.

Simon felt a similar urge. Those must be Fire Dancers,
he thought. His heartbeat had grown swifter. Had they
seen Miriamele? But what would she have meant to them
in any case?

Slowly Simon leaned back-against the long table, put-
ting on an air of mild interest as he watched the newcom-
ers. Two of the three were large, as muscled as the
dockers who worked the Hayholt's sea gate, and carried
blunt-ended walking staves that looked more useful for
skull-cracking than hiking. The third, the leader by his
position in front, was small, thick, and bull-necked, and
also carried one of the long cudgels. As he lowered his
rain-soaked hood, his squarish, balding head glinted in
the lamplight. He was older than the other two and had
clever, piggy eyes.

The hum of conversation had now reached something
like its normal level once more, but as the three Fire
Dancers moved slowly into the common room they still
received many covert stares. The robed men seemed to be
openly searching the room for something or somebody;

Simon had a moment of helpless fear as the leader's dark
eyes lighted on him for a moment, but the man only lifted

138 Tad Williams

an amused eyebrow at Simon's sword, then shifted his at-
tention to someone else,

Relief swept over Simon. Whatever they wanted, it was
apparently not him. Sensing a presence at his shoulder, he
turned quickly and found the inn's proprietor standing be-
hind him with a pitted wooden platter. The man gave Si-
mon the mutton and bread, which Simon wrapped in his
kerchief, then poured an appropriate measure of ale into
the jug. Despite the attention these tasks required, the
landlord's eyes scarcely left the three newcomers, and his
reply to Simon's courteous thanks was distracted and in-
complete. Simon was glad to be going.

As he opened the door, he caught a quick glimpse of
Miriamele's pale, worried face in the shadows across the
street. A loud, mocking voice cut through the room be-
hind him.

"You didn't really think that you could leave without
our noticing, did you?"

Simon went rigid in the doorway, then slowly turned.
He had a parcel in one hand and a jug in the other, his
sword hand. Should he drop the ale and draw the blade,
or make the jug useful somehow-perhaps he could
throw it? Haestan had taught him a little about tavern
brawls, although the guardsman's main recommendation
had been to avoid them.

He completed his pivot, expecting to confront a sea of
faces and the threatening Fire Dancers, but found to his
astonishment that no one was even looking in his direc-
tion. Instead, the three robed men stood before a bench in
the comer farthest from the fire. The two seated there, a
man and woman of middle, years, looked up at them help-
lessly, faces slack with terror.

The leader of the Fire Dancers leaned forward, bring-
ing his catapult-stone of a head almost to the level of the
tabletop, but though his position suggested discretion, his
voice was pitched to carry through the room. "Come,
now. You didn't really think that you could just walk
away, did you?"

"M-Maefwaru," the man stuttered, "we, we could not
... we thought that ..."

TO    GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

139

The Fire Dancer laid a thick hand on the table, silenc-
ing him. "That is not the loyalty that the Storm King ex-
pects." He seemed to speak quietly, but Simon could hear
every word from the doorway. The rest of the room
watched in sickly fascinated silence. "We owe Him our
lives, because He has graced us with a vision of how
things will be and a chance to be part of it. You cannot
turn your back on Him."
The man's mouth moved, but no words came out. His
wife was equally silent, but tears ran down her face and
her shoulders twitched. This was obviously a meeting
much feared.

"Simon!"

He turned to look back out the inn's door. Miriamele
was only a few paces away in the middle of the muddy
road. "What are you doing?" she demanded in a loud
whisper.

"Wait."

"Simon, there are Fire Dancers in there! Didn't you see
them?!"

He raised his hand to stay her, then wheeled to face the
interior. The two large Fire Dancers were forcing the man
and woman up from their bench, dragging the woman
across the rough wood when her legs would not support
her. She was crying in earnest now; her companion, pin-
ioned, could only stare at the ground and murmur miser-
ably.

Simon felt anger flame within him. Why didn't anyone
in this place help them? There must be two dozen seated
here and only three Fire Dancers.

Miriamele tugged at his sleeve. "Is there trouble?
Come, Simon, let's go!"

"I can't," he said, quietly but urgently. "They're taking
those two people somewhere."

"We can't afford to be caught, Simon. This is not a
time for heroes."

"I can't just let them take those people, Miriamele." He
prayed that someone else in the crowded room would
stand up, that some general movement of resistance
would begin. Miriamele was right: they couldn*t afford to

140 Tad Wilbams

do anything foolish. But no one did more than whisper
and watch.

Cursing himself for his stupidity, and God or Fate for
putting him in this position, Simon pulled his sleeve from
Miriamele's grasp and took a step back into the common
room. He carefully set the supper parcel and jug down be-
side the wall, then curled his hand around the hilt of the
sword Josua had given him.

"Stop!" he said loudly.

"Simon!"

Now all heads did turn toward him- The last to swivel
around was that of the leader. Although he was only a lit-
tle shorter than an average man, there was something cu-
riously dwarflike in his large, cleft-chinned head. His tiny
eyes flicked Simon up and down. This time there was no
amusement.

"What? Stop, you say? Stop what?"

"I don't think those people want to go with you." Si-
mon addressed the male captive, who was struggling
weakly in the grip of one of the large Fire Dancers. "Do
you?"

The man's eyes flicked back and forth between Simon
and his chief captor. At last. miserably, he shook his head.
Simon knew then that what the man feared must be truly
terrible, that he would risk making this situation worse in
the desperate-and unlikely-hope that Simon could save
him from it.

"You see?" Simon tried, with mixed results, to keep his
voice firm and calm. "They do not wish to accompany
you. Set them free." His heart was pounding. His own
words sounded curiously formal, even deliberately high-
flown, as if this were a Tallistro story or some other
chronicle of imaginary heroism.

The bald man looked around the room as if to judge
how many might be prepared to join Simon in resistance.
No one else was moving; the entire room seemed to share
a single held breath. The Fire Dancer turned back to Si-
mon, a grin curling his thick lips. "These folk betrayed
their oath to the Master. This is no concern of yours."

Simon felt an immense fury wash over him. He had

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

141

seen all the bullying he had the stomach for, from the
countrywide misdeeds of the king to the precisely pointed
cruelties of Pryrates. He tightened his grip on the hilt. "I
am making it my concern. Take your hands from them
and get out."

Wthout further argument, the leader spat out a word
and the follower who held the woman let her go-she
slumped against the table, knocking a bowl onto the
floor-and leaped toward Simon, his blunt-headed staff
swinging in a wide arc. A few people shouted in fear or
excitement. Simon was frozen for an instant, his sword
only halfway out of his scabbard.

Idiot! Mooncalf!

He dropped to the floor and the staff whistled over his
head, knocking several cloaks from the wall and becom-
ing entangled in one of them. Simon seized the moment
and threw himself forward into the man's legs. They both
fell, tumbling, and Simon's sword came free of the scab-
bard and thumped into the floor rushes- He had hurt his
shoulder-his attacker was heavy and solidly-built-and
as he disentangled himself and pulled free, the Fire
Dancer managed to catch him with a cudgel blow to his
leg which stung cold as a knife wound. Simon rolled to-
ward his lost sword and was hugely grateful when he felt
it beneath his fingers. His attacker was up and moving to-
ward him, his cudgel darting out like a striking snake.
From the comer of his eye, Simon could see that the sec-
ond big man was coming toward him as well.

First things first, was the inane thought that ran
through his head, the same thing Rachel had always told
him about doing his chores when he wanted to go climb
or play a game- He rose to a standing crouch, his sword
held before him, and deflected a blow from his first at-
tacker. It was impossible to remember all the things he
had been taught in the muddle of noise and movement
and panic, but he was relieved to find that as long as he
could keep his sword between himself and the Fire
Dancer, he could keep the man at bay. But what would he
do when the second arrived?

He received an answer of sorts a moment later, when a

142 Tad Williams

blur of movement at the edge of his vision warned him to
duck. The second man's staff whickered past and clacked
against the first man's. Simon took a step backward with-
out turning and then whirled and swung his blade around
as hard as he could. He caught the man behind him across
the arm, drawing an angry shriek. The Fire Dancer
dropped his staff and stumbled back toward the doorway,
clutching his forearm. Simon returned his attention to the
man in front of him, hoping that the second man was, if
not defeated, at least out of the battle for a few
desperately-needed moments. The first attacker had
learned the lesson of not getting too close, and was now
using the length of his club to keep Simon on the defen-
sive.

There was a crash from behind; Simon, startled, almost
lost sight of the foe before him. Seeing this, the man
aimed another whirling blow at his head. Simon managed
to get his blade up in time to deflect it; then, as the Fire
Dancer raised the staff once more, Simon brought his
sword up, sweeping the cudgel even farther upward so
that it struck the low timbers of the roof and caught in the
netting below the thatch. The Fire Dancer stared up for a
moment in surprise; in that instant, Simon took a step for-
ward, lodged the sword against the man's midsection and
pushed it home. He struggled to pull the blade free, con-
scious that at any moment the other attacker, or even the
leader, might be upon him.

Something struck him from the side, flinging him
against a table. For a moment, he was staring into the
alarmed face of one of the common-room drinkers. He
whirled to see that the person who had shoved him,
the bald man Maefwaru, was pushing his way between
the tables, headed toward the door; he did not pause to
look down at either of his minions, the one Simon had
slain or the other, who lay in a curious position near the
doorway.

"It will not be so easy," Maefwaru shouted as he van-
ished through the door and into the rainy night.

A moment later Miriamele stepped back into the room.
She looked down at the Fire Dancer laying there, the one

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              143

Simon had wounded on the arm. "I've broken our jug on
his head," she said, excited and breathless. "But I think
the one who just ran out is going to come back with more
of his friends. Curse my luck! I couldn't find anything to
hit him with. We'll have to run."

"The horses," Simon panted- "Are they... ?"
"A few steps away," replied Miriamele. "Come."
Simon bent and snatched up the supper sack he had left
on the floor. The kerchief was wet, soaked by the ale that
had splashed from the jug which lay in pieces around the
limp Fire Dancer. He looked around the room. The man
and woman that Maefwaru and his henchmen had threat-
ened were cringing against the far wall, staring as bewil-
deredly as any of the inn's other customers,

"You had better get out of here, too," he called to them.
'That bald one will bring back more. Go on-run!"

Everyone was looking at him. Simon wanted to say
something clever or brave-heroes usually did-but he
couldn't think of anything. Also, there was real blood on
his sword and his stomach seemed to have crawled up
into his throat. He followed Miriamele out the door, leav-
ing behind two bodies and a room full of wide eyes and
open, speechless mouths.

6

The Circle Narrows

The SWirt of snow had lessened, but the wind still
moved angrily across the hillside beneath Naglimund,
fluting in the teeth of the broken wall. Count Eolair
nudged his horse toward Maegwin's mount, wishing he
could shield her somehow, not just from the cold but also
from the horror of the naked stone towers, the windows
now flickering with light.

Yizashi Grayspear rode forward from the ranks of the
Sithi, his lance couched beneath one arm. He lifted the
other and waved something that looked like a silver
baton. His hand flashed in a wide arc, making a loud mu-
sical noise which had something of the metallic in it; the
silver thing in his hand opened like a lady's fan, spread-
ing into a glittering, semicircular shield.

"A y'ei g'eisu!" he shouted up at the blankly staring
keep. " Yas 'a pripuma jo-shoi!"

The lights in Naglimund's windows seemed to waver
like wind-fluttered candles as shadows moved in their
depths. Eolair felt himself almost overwhelmed with the
urge to turn and ride away. This was no longer a human
place, and the poisonous terror he was feeling was noth-
ing like the anticipatory fear before any human battle. He
turned to Maegwin. Her eyes were closed and her mouth
moved in silent speech. Isom seemed similarly unnerved,
and when Eolair turned in his saddle and looked back, the
pale faces of his fellow Hemystiri were as gape-mouthed
and hollow-eyed as a row of corpses.

Brynioch preserve us, the count thought desperately, we

145

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

do not belong in this. They will bolt in a moment if I do
the wrong thing.

Deliberately, he tugged his sword from its scabbard and
showed it to his men, then held it high over his head for
a moment before dropping it to his side. It was only a
small show of bravery, but it was something.

Now Jiriki and his mother Likimeya rode forward, halt-
ing on either side of Yizashi. After a moment's whispered
conversation, Likimeya spurred her horse a few paces
ahead. Then, startlingly, she began to sing.

Her voice, thin at first against the rude piping of the
wind, grew slowly stronger. The impenetrable Sithi
tongue flowed out, slurring and clicking yet somehow as
smooth as warm oil poured from a jar. The song rose and
fell, pulsed, then rose again, each time growing more
powerful. Although Eolair understood nothing of the
words, there was something clearly denunciatory to the
roll and swoop of it, something challenging in the ca-
dence. Likimeya's voice chimed like a herald's brazen
horn, and as with the call of a hom, there was a ring of
cold metal beneath the music.

"What goes on here?" whispered Isom.

Eolair gestured for silence. -

The mist floating before the walls of Naglimund
seemed to thicken, as though one dream was ending and
another beginning. Something changed in Likimeya's
voice. It took a moment before Eolair recognized that the
mistress of the Sithi had not altered her song, but rather
that another voice had joined it. At first the new thread of
melody clung close to the challenge-song. The tone was
as strong as Likimeya's, but where hers was metal, this
new voice was stone and ice. After some long moments
the second voice began to sing around the original mel-
ody, weaving a strange pattern like a glass filigree over
Likimeya's belling tones. The sound of it made the Count
of Nad Mullach's skin stretch and tingle and his body hair
lift, even beneath the layers of clothing.

Eolair raised his eyes. His heart began to beat even
more swiftly.

Through the dimming fog, a thin black shadow ap-

146 Tad Williams

peared atop the castle wall, rising into view as smoothly
as though lifted by an unseen hand. It was man-sized,
Eolair decided, but the mist subtly distorted its shape, so
that one moment it seemed larger, the next smaller and
thinner than any living thing. It looked down on them,
black-cloaked, face invisible beneath a large hood-but
Eolair did not need to see its face to know that it was the
source of the high, stone-edged voice. For long moments
it only stood in the swirling mist atop the wall, embroid-
ering upon Likimeya's song. Finally, as if by some prior
agreement, they both fell still at the same moment.

Likimeya broke the silence, calling out something in
the Sithi tongue. The black apparition answered, its words
ringing like shards of jagged flint, and yet Eolair could
hear that the words they spoke were much the same, the
differences mainly in rhythm and the greater harshness of
the robed creature's speech. The conversation seemed in-
terminable.

There was a movement behind him. Eolair flinched; his
horse startled, kicking snow. Sky-haired Zinjadu, the lore-
mistress, had brought her own mount to where the mor-
tals stood,

"They speak of the Pact of Sesuad'ra." Her eyes were
fixed on Likimeya and her opposite, 'They speak of old
heartbreaks and the mourning songs yet to be sung."

"Why so much talk?" asked Isom raggedly. "The wait-
ing is dreadful."

"It is our way." Zinjadu's lips tightened; her thin face
seemed carved in pale golden stone. "Although it was not
respected when Amerasu was slain,*'

She offered nothing more. Eolair could only wait in un-
easy fear and, ultimately, a kind of horrible boredom as
challenge and response were offered.

Finally the thing on the wall turned its attention away
from Likimeya for a moment; its eyes lit on the count and
his few scores of Hemystinnen. With a movement almost
as broad as a traveling player's, the black-robed one flung
back its hood, revealing a sleet-white face and thin hair
just as colorless which rose in the wind, floating like the
strands of some sea-plant.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          147

"Shu'do-tkzayha!" the Nom said in a tone almost of
exultation. "Mortals! They will yet be the death of your
family, Likimeya Moon-Eyes!" He, if it was a he, spoke
the Westerling tongue with the harsh precision of a game-
keeper imitating a rabbit's death squeal. "Are you so
weak that you summoned this rabble to aid you? It is
hardly Sinnach's great army!"

"You have usurped a mortal's castle," said Likimeya
coldly. Beside her Jiriki still sat his horse stiffly, his
sharp-boned face empty of any recognizable emotion;

Eolair wondered again how anyone could ever feel they
knew the Sithi. "And your master and mistress have en-
tered into the disputes of mortals. You have little to crow
about."

The Nom laughed, a noise like fingernails on slate.
"We use them, yes. They are the rats that have dug into
the walls of our house-we might skin them for gloves,
but we do not invite them in to sup at our table! That is
your weakness, as it was Amerasu Ship-Born's."

"Do not speak other!" Jiriki cried. "Your mouth is too
foul to hold her name, Akhenabi!"

The thing on the wall smiled, a folding of white. "Ah,
little Jiriki. I have heard T:ales of you and your
adventuring-or should I say meddling. You should have
come to live in the north, in our cold land. Then you
would have grown strong. This tolerance for mortals is a
terrible weakness. It is one reason why your family has
grown dissolute while mine has grown-ever sterner, ever
more capable of doing what needs to be done." The Nom
turned and lifted his head, directing his words now to
Eolair and the nervously whispering Hemystiri. "Mortal
men! You risk more than your lives fighting beside these
immortals. You risk your souls as well!"

Eolair could hear the rustle of frightened speech behind
him. He spurred his horse forward a few paces and raised
his sword. "Your threats arc empty!" he shouted. "Do
your worst! Our souls are our own!"

"Count Eolair!" Maegwin called. "No! It is Scadach,
the Hole in Heaven! Go no closer!"

Akhenabi leaned down, fixing the count with black-

148 Tad Williams

bead eyes. "The captain of the mortals, are you? So, little
man, if you do not fear for your sake, or for your troop,
what of the mortals still prisoned within these walls?"

"What are you saying?!" Eolair shouted.
The creature in the black robe turned and lifted both
arms. A moment later two more figures clambered up into
view beside him. Although they also wore heavy cloaks,
their clumsy movements marked them as something other
than the spider-graceful Noms.

"Here are some of your brethren!" trumpeted
Akhenabi. "They are our guests. Would you see them die
for the sake of your immortal allies as well?" The two
figures stood silently, slumped and hopeless. The faces in
the wind-lashed hoods were clearly those of men, not
Gardenbom.

Eolair felt himself fill with helpless rage. "Let them
go!"

The Nom laughed again, pleased. "Oh, no, little mor-
tal. Our guests are enjoying themselves too much. Would
you like to see them show their joy? Perhaps they will
dance." He lifted his hand and made a florid gesture. The
two figures began slowly to revolve. Horribly, they lifted
their arms in a parody of a courtly dance, swaying from
side to side, stumbling together in front of the grinning
Nom. They locked arms for a moment, teetering precari-
ously along the edge of the high wall, then pulled apart
and resumed their solitary posturing.

Through the tears of fury that misted his eyes, Eolair
saw Jiriki spur his horse a few ells nearer the wall. The
Sitha lifted a bow; then, in a movement so swift as to be
almost invisible, he withdrew an arrow from the quiver
on his saddle, nocked it, and drew the bow until it trem-
bled in a wide arc. Atop the wall, the Nom Akhenabi's
grin widened. He made a wriggling movement, almost a
shiver; a moment later he had disappeared, leaving only
the two shambling shapes in hideous lockstep.

Jiriki let his arrow fly. It struck one of the two dancers
in the foot, jerking back the leg and overbalancing both
the one struck and the one to whom he clung. They
flailed briefly at the air, then toppled off the wall, drop-

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              149

ping twenty ells to hit with a terrible smacking noise on
the snow-covered rocks beneath. Several of the Hemystiri
shouted and groaned.

"Blood of Rhynn!" Eolair screamed. "What have you
done?!"

Jiriki rode forward, scanning the now empty wall cau-
tiously. When he reached the huddled bodies, he dis-
mounted and kneeled, then waved Eolair forward.

"Why did you do that, Jiriki?" the count demanded.
His throat felt as tight as if someone's fingers were curled
around it. 'The Nom was gone." He stared down at the
twisted, dark-robed figures. The hands and fingers pro-
truding from their robes were splayed as though they still
grabbed at a safety they would never find. "Did you think
to spare them torture? What if we drove out the
Noras-is there no chance we could rescue them?"

Jiriki said nothing, but reached down with surprising
gentleness and turned over the nearest of the bodies, tug-
ging a little to pull it free of the partner with which it was
entwined. He folded back the hood.

"Brynioch!" Eolair choked. "Brynioch of the Skies
preserve us!"

The face had no eyes, only llack holes. The skin was
waxy, and in places had burst from the force of the fall,
but it was clear that this corpse was not fresh.

"Whoever he was, he has been dead since Naglimund's
defeat," Jiriki said softly. "I do not think there are any
living prisoners within the walls."

Count Eolair felt his gorge rising and turned away "But
they ... moved... !"

"One of the Red Hand is lord here," Jiriki said. "That
is now confirmed, for no others have the strength to do
this. Their power is a part of their master's."

"But why?" Eolair said. He looked at the humped
corpses, then turned his gaze outward, toward the mass-
ing of men and Sithi in the snow. "Why would they do
this?"

Jiriki shook his head, his own hair as white and flutter-
ing as that of the creature that had mocked them from the

i50

Tad WUwms

wall. "I cannot say. But Naglimund will not fall without
a full tithing of horrors, that is certain."

Eolair looked at Maegwin and Isom waiting fearfully
for him to return. "And there is no turning back."

"No. I fear the final days have begun," said Jiriki. "For
good or ill."

"

Duke Isgrimnur knew that he should be paying close
attention to everything that was going on around him, to
the people of Metessa, to the arrangements and manpower
in the baronial hall. Metessa was the easternmost of
Nabban's major outer states, and might be the place
where Josua's challenge stood or fell. Success here could
hinge on the smallest detail, so Isgrimnur had plenty to
occupy him-but it was difficult to attend to his duties
while the little boy followed him around like a shadow.
"Here," the duke said after he had almost trod upon the
child for the dozenth time, "what are you up to? Don't
you have somewhere to be? Where's your mother?"

The pale-haired, thin-faced little boy looked up at him,
showing no fear of the large, bearded stranger. "My
mother told me to stay away from the prince and you
other knights. I did not agree."

The child was unnervingly well-spoken for his years,
the duke reflected, and his Westerling was almost as good
as Isgrimnur's own. It was odd to see how Prester John's
Warinsten language had spread so thoroughly in only a
couple of generations. But if things fell apart, as they
seemed to be doing, would not the common tongue, like
everything else, soon slip away? Empires were like sea-
walls, he thought sadly, even those which embodied the
best of hopes. The tide of chaos beat at them and beat at
them, and as soon as no one was shoring up the stones
any more ...

Isgrimnur shook his head, then growled at the young-
ling a little more sternly than he intended. "Well, if your
mother told you to stay away from the knights, what are
you doing here? This is men's business tonight."

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

151

The boy deliberately raised himself   until the top of his
head reached the duke's bottom rib.   "I will be a man
some day. I am tired of living with   the women. My
mother is afraid I will run away to   fight in war, but that
is just what I will do."

There was something so unintentionally comic in his
fierce determination that Isgrimnur smiled despite him-
self. "What's your name, lad?"

"Pasevalles, Sir Foreign Knight. My father is
Brindalles, Baron Seriddan's brother."

"A knight is not the only thing in the world to be. And
war is not a game. It is a terrible thing, little Pasevalles."

"I know that," said the boy readily. "But sometimes
there is no choice, my father says, and there must be men
who will fight."

The duke thought of Princess Miriamele in the ghant
nest, and of his own beloved wife standing with an ax be-
fore Elvritshalla, ready to defend it to her death before
Isom persuaded her at last to let it go and flee with the
rest of the family. "Women also fight."

"But women cannot be knights. And I am going to be
a knight."
"Well, I suppose since I am sot your father, I cannot
send you back to your chambers. And I certainly can't
seem to be rid of you. You might as well come with me
and tell me a little about the place."

Pleased, Pasevalles bounced up and down a few times
like a puppy. Then, just as suddenly, he stopped and fixed
Isgrimnur with a suspicious glance. "Are you an enemy?"
he asked sharply. "Because if you are. Sir Foreign Knight,
I cannot show you things that might hurt my uncle."

Isgrimnur's grin was sour. "In these days, young fel-
low, it's hard to say who is enemy to who. But I can
promise you that my liege-lord Prince Josua intends no
harm to any who live in Metessa."

Pasevalles considered this for a moment. "I will trust
you," he said at last. "I think you tell the truth. But if you
do not, then you are no knight, who would lie to a young
child."

Isgrimnur's grin widened. Young child! This nuumtkin

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could give Count Eolair lessons in politicking. 'Tell me
nothing that would help your uncle's enemies, and I will try
not to ask anything that would put your honor in danger."
"That is fair," said the boy gravely. "That is knightly."

Metessa was more than just another Nabbanai hedge-
barony. Situated beside the outermost edges of the
Thrithings, it was a wide and prosperous piece of country,
hilly and wide-meadowed. Even after the unseasonal
snows, the rolling terrain gleamed greenly. One of the
Stefflod's branches wound through the grasslands, a rib-
bon of silver foil bright even beneath the dull gray skies.
Sheep and a few cows dotted the hillsides.

Chasu Metessa, the baronial keep, had stood atop one
of the highest hills since the days of the later Imperators,
looking down on these valleys full of small farms and
freeholdings just as Isgrimnur did now.

He turned from the window to find Pasevalles pacing
impatiently. The boy said: "Come and see the armor."

"That sounds like the kind of thing I shouldn't see."

"No, it's old armor." He was disgusted by Isgrimnur's
obtuseness. "Very old."

The Rimmersman allowed himself to be tugged along.
The child's energy seemed without bound.

If Isorn had been this demanding, he thought wryly, /
would likely have taken him out to the Frostmarch and
left him, like they did in the old days when they had one
mouth too many to feed.

Pasevalles led him through a warren of hallways, past
more than a few of the keep's inhabitants, who looked at
Isgrimnur with alarm, to a comer tower that seemed a
fairly late addition to the ancient hill fortress. After they
had climbed far more stairs than were good for
Isgrimnur's aching back, they reached a cluttered room
near the top. The ceiling had not been recently swept-a
canopy of cobwebs hung down almost to head height-
and a heavy patina of dust covered the floor and all the
crude furnishings, but Isgrimnur was nevertheless im-
pressed with what he saw.

A series of wooden armor-stands ranged the room like

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          153

silent guardsmen. Unlike the rest of the objects in the cir-
cular chamber, they were comparatively clean. On every
stand hung a set of armor-but not modem armor, as
Pasevalles had so crossly pointed out: the helmets and
breastplates and curious metal-strip skirts were of a type
that Isgrimnur had seen before only in very old paintings
in the Sancellan Mahistrevis.

'This is armor from the Imperium!" he said, impressed.
"Or damn clever copies."

Pasevalles drew himself up to his full height. "They are
not copies! They are real. My father has been keeping
them for years- My grandfather bought them in the great
city."

"In Nabban," Isgrimnur mused. He walked along the
rows, examining the various costumes, his warrior's eye
seeing which were flawed in design, which simply miss-
ing pieces from the original arrangement. The metal the
old Imperatorial craftsmen had used was heavier than that
now used, but the armor was splendidly made. He leaned
close to examine a helm with a twining sea-dragon crest.
To get a better look, he puffed away a fine layer of dust.

"These have not been polished in some time," he said
absently.

"My father has been ill." Little Pasevalles' voice was
suddenly querulous. "I try to keep them clean, but they
are too tall for me to reach and too heavy for me to lift
down."

Isgrimnur looked around the room, thinking. The unin-
habited armor suits seemed like watchers at a Raed, wait-
ing for some decision. There were still many things for
him to do. Surely he had spent enough time with this
boy? He walked to the tower window and peered out into
the gray western sky.

"We will not eat for some hour or so yet," he said at
last, "and your uncle and Prince Josua will not be speak-
ing of the other important things that must be discussed
until afterward. Go and get your father's cleaning
things-at least a whisking broom to get the dust off. You
and I can make short work of this."

The boy looked up, eyes wide. "Truly?"

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'Truly. I am in no hurry to go back down all those
stairs, in any case." The boy was still staring. "Bless me,
child, go on. And bring a lamp or two. It'll be dark soon."

The boy sped out of the room and down the narrow
stairwell like a hare. Isgrimnur shook his head.

The banqueting hall of Chasu Metessa had a fireplace
along each wall, and was warm and bright despite the
chilliness of the season. The courtiers, landed folk from
all over the valley, seemed to be dressed in their finest:

many of the women wore long shimmery dresses and hats
almost as weirdly inventive as those to be seen at the
Sancellan Mahistrevis itself. Still, Isgrimnur noted the air
of worry that hung like a fog in the huge, high-raftered
chamber. The ladies talked swiftly and brightly and
laughed at tiny things. The men were mostly quiet; what
little they did say was spoken behind their hands.

A cask of Teligure wine had been breached at the start
of things and its contents shared out around the room.
Isgrimnur noticed that Josua, who was seated at the right
of their host Baron Seriddan, had raised his goblet to his
lips many times, but had not yet allowed the page beside
him to refill it. The duke approved ofJosua's forbearance.
The prince was not much of a drinker at the best of times,
but since the chance of dislodging Benigaris from the du-
cal throne might rest on the knife-edge of tonight's do-
ings, it was doubly important that Josua's wits be sharp
and his tongue cautious.

As he surveyed the room, the duke was stopped short
by a pale glimmer in the doorway, far across the room.
Squinting, Isgrimnur suddenly smiled deep in his beard. It
was the boy Pasevalles, who had doubtless once more es-
caped from his mother and her ladies- He had come,
Isgrimnur had no doubt, to watch Real Knights at table.

He may just get an eyeful.

Baron Seriddan Metessis rose from his seat at the head
of the table and lifted his goblet. Behind him a blue
crane, symbol of the Metessan House, spread its long
wings across a wall banner.

"Let us salute our visitors," the baron said. He smiled

TO    GREEN   ANGEL TOWER
155

ironically, his sun-browned, bearded face wrinkling. "I
am doubtless a traitor already, just for letting you inside
the gates. Prince Josua-so it does no further harm to
drink your health."

Isgrimnur found himself liking Seriddan, and respecting
him more than a bit. He little resembled the duke's fondly-
held image of an effete Nabbanai baron: his thick neck and
seamed peasant face made Seriddan look more a genial
rogue than the hereditary master of a great fiefdom, but his
eyes were shrewd and his manner deceptively self-
mocking, His command of Westerling was so good that lit-
tle Pasevalles' fluency no longer seemed surprising.

After the glasses were drained, Josua rose and lifted his
own cup to thank the folk of Chasu Metessa for their hos-
pitality. This was greeted by polite smiles and murmurs of
approval that seemed more than a little forced. When the
prince sat down, the whisper of table talk began to grow
once more, but Seriddan gestured for quiet.

"So," he said to Josua, loud enough for everyone at the
table to hear. "We have fulfilled the obligations that good
Aedonites owe to their fellows-and some would say we
have done far more than that, considering you appeared in
our lands unasked for, and with an army at your back."
Above the smiling mouth, Seriddan's stare was cool.
"Will we see your heels in the morning, Josua of
Erkynland?"

Isgrimnur suppressed a noise of surprise. He had as-
sumed that the baron would send the lesser folk of his
household away so that he could talk to the prince in pri-
vacy, but apparently Seriddan had other ideas.

Josua, too, was taken aback, but quickly said: "If you
hear me out and are unmoved. Baron, you will indeed see
our heels soon after sunrise. My people are not camped
outside your walls as a threat to you. You have done me
no wrong, and I will do you none either."

The baron stared at him for a long moment, then turned
to his brother. "Brindalles, what do you think? Does it not
seem odd that an Erkynlandish prince would wish to pass
through our lands? Where might he be. going?"

The brother's thin face bore many similarities to the

156 Tad Williams

baron's, but the features that looked roguishly dangerous
on Seriddan seemed merely tired and a trifle unsettled on
Brindalles.

"If he is not going to Nabban," came the mild reply,
"he must be planning to walk straight to the sea."
Brindalles' smile was wan. It was hard to think that such
a diffident man could be the father of bright-burning
Pasevalles,

"We are going on to Nabban," said Josua. "That is no
secret."

"And what purpose could you have that is not danger-
ous to me and dangerous to my liege-lord. Duke
Benigaris?" Seriddan demanded. "Why should I not make
you a prisoner?"

Josua looked around the now-silent room. Chasu
Metessa's most important residents all sat at the long ta-
ble, watching with rapt attention. "Are you certain you
wish me to speak so openly?*'

Seriddan gestured impatiently. "I will not have it said
that I misunderstood you, whether I let you pass through
my lands or hold you here for Benigaris. Speak, and my
people here will be my witnesses."

"Very well." Josua turned to Sludig, who despite hav-
ing drained his wine cup several times was watching the
proceedings with a wary eye. "May I have the scroll?"

As the yellow-bearded Rimmersman fumbled in the
pocket of his cloak, Josua told Seriddan; "As I said,
Baron: we go to Nabban. And we go in hopes of remov-
ing Benigaris from the Sancellan Mahistrevis. In part, that
is because he is an ally of my brother, and his fall would
weaken the High King's position. The fact that Elias and
I are at war with each other is no secret, but the reasons
why are less well-known."

"If you think they are important," Seriddan said equa-
bly, "tell them. We have plenty of wine, and we are at
home. It is your little army that may or may not be leav-
ing with the dawn."

"I will tell you, because I would not ask allies to fight
unknowing," said Josua.

"Hea! Allies? Fight!?" The baron scowled and sat

TO GREEN. ANGEL TOWER

157

straighten "You are walking a dangerous road, Josua
Lackhand. Benigaris is my liege-lord. It is mad even to
contemplate letting your people pass, knowing what I
know, but I show respect for your father by letting you
speak. But to hear you talk of me fighting beside you-
madness!" He waved his hand. Some two dozen armed
men, who had been standing back against the shadowed
walls all during the meal, came rustlingly to attention.

Josua did not flinch, but calmly held Seriddan's eye.
"As I said," he resumed, "I will give you the reasons that
Elias must be driven from the Dragonbone Chair. But not
now. There are other things to tell you first." He reached
and took the scroll from Sludig's hand. "My finest knight,
Sir Deomoth of Hewenshire, was at the battle of Bullback
Hill when Duke Leobardis, Benigaris' father, came to re-
lieve my castle at Naglimund."

"Leobardis chose your side," Seriddan said shortly.
"Benigaris has chosen your brother's. What the old duke
decided does not affect my loyalty to his son." Despite
his words, there was a certain veiled look in the baron's
eyes; watching him, Isgrimnur suspected Seriddan might
just wish that the old duke were still alive and that his
loyalty could be more comfortable. "And what does this
Sir What-may-be-his-name have to do with Metessa?"

"Perhaps more than you can know." For the first time
there was an edge of impatience in Josua's tone.

Careful, man. Isgrimnur tugged anxiously at his beard,
Don't let your sorrow over Deomoth betray you. We're
farther along than I had thought we 'd be. Seriddan's lis-
tening, anyway.

As if he heard his old friend's silent thought, Josua
paused and took a breath. "Forgive me. Baron Seriddan.
I understand your loyalty to the Kingfisher House. I only
wish to tell you things you deserve to know, not tell you
where your duties lie. I want to read you Deomoth's
words about what happened near Bullback Hill. They
were written down by Father Strangyeard ..." the prince
pointed to the archivist, who was trying to make himself
unobtrusive down near the long table's far end, "and
sworn to before that priest and God Himself."

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Tad Williams

"Why are you reading some piece of parchment?"
Seriddan asked impatiently. "If this man has a story to
tell, why does he not come here before us?"

"Because Sir Deomoth is dead," said Josua. "He died
at the hands of Thrithings mercenaries King Elias sent

against me."

At this there was a small stir in the room- The
Thrithings-folk were objects of both contempt and fear to
the outland baronies of Nabban-contempt because the
Nabbanai thought them little more than savages, fear be-
cause when the Thrithings-men went into one of their pe-
riodic raiding frenzies, outland fiefdoms such as Metessa
bore the greatest part of the suffering.

"Read." Seriddan was clearly angry. Isgrimnur thought
that the canny baron might already sense the snare into
which his own cleverness had delivered him. He had
hoped to deal with the odd and difficult situation of the
prince by forcing Josua to speak his treason in front of
many witnesses. Now the baron must sense that Josua's
words might not be so easily dismissed. It was an awk-
ward spot. But even now, Metessa's master did not dis-
perse the other folk sitting at table: he had made his
gambit and he would live with it. The Duke of
Elvritshalla found himself appreciating the man anew.

"I had Deomoth tell his story to our priest before the
battle for New Gadrinsett," Josua said. "What he saw was
important enough that I did not wish to chance it might
die with him, as there seemed little likelihood we would
survive that fight." He held up the scroll, unrolling it with
the stump of his right wrist. "I will read only the part that
I think you need to hear, but I will gladly give the whole
thing to you. Baron, so that you may read it at your ease."

He paused for a moment, then began. The listeners
along the table leaned forward, greedy for more strange-
ness on what was already a night that would be discussed
in Metessa for a long time.

". . . When we came upon the field, the
Nabbanai had ridden after Earl Guthwulf of
Utanyeat and his men of the Boar and Spears,

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER           159

who were falling back with great swiftness to the
slope of Bullback Hill. Duke Leobardis and three
hundred knights came at them in such a wise as to
pass between Utanyeat and the High King's army,
which was still some way distant, as we thought.

"Prince Josua, fearing that Leobardis would
be delayed too long and that thus the king could
come against him in the unprotected open lands
south of Naglimund, brought many knights out
of the castle to save Nabban from the king, and
also perhaps to capture Utanyeat, who was the
greatest of King Elias' generals. Josua himself
led us, and Isom Isgrimnurson and a score of
Rimmersmen were with us too.

"When we struck against the side of the Boar
and Spears, we at first did bring them great woe,
for they were outnumbered manyfold. But
Guthwulf and the king had prepared a trap, and
soon it was sprung. Earl Fengbald of Falshire
and several hundred knights came down a-horse
from the woods at the top of Bullback Hill.

"/ saw Duke Leobardis and his son Benigaris
at the outermost edge of the fighting, behind their
men-at-arms. As Fengbald's falcon-crest came
down the hill. I saw Benigaris draw his sword
and stab his father in the neck, slaying him in the
saddle so that Leobardis fell across his horse's
withers, bleeding most piteously ..."

At this last sentence, the silence abruptly dissolved into
shocked cries and rebukes. Several of Baron Seriddan's
liege-men stood, shaking their fists in fury as though they
would strike Josua down. The prince only looked at them,
still holding the parchment before him, then turned to Serid-
dan. The baron had retained his seat, but his brown face had
paled except for bright spots of color high on each cheek.

"Silence!" he shouted, and glared at his followers until
they sank back onto their benches, full of angry mutter-
ing. Several of the women had to be helped from the
room; they stumbled out as though they themselves had

l6o Tad Williams

been stabbed, their intricate hats and veils suddenly as
sad as the bright flags of a defeated army. 'This is an old
story," the baron said at last. His voice was tight, but
Isgrimnur thought there was more than rage there.

He feels the snare drawing closed.

Seriddan drained his goblet, then banged it down on the
tabletop, making more than a few people jump. "It is an
old tale," he said again. "Often repeated, never proved.
Why should I believe it now?"

"Because Sir Deomoth saw it happen," said Josua sim-
ply.

"He is not here. And I do not know that I would be-
lieve him if he were."

"Deomoth did not lie. He was a true knight."

Seriddan laughed harshly, "I have only your word on
that. Prince. Men will do strange things for king and
country." He turned to his brother. "Brindalles? Have you
heard any reason here tonight that I should not throw the
prince and his followers into one of the locked cells be-
neath Chasu Metessa to wait for Benigaris' mercy?"

The baron's brother sighed. He held his two hands
close together, touching at the fingertips. "I do not like
this story, Seriddan. It has an unpleasantly truthful ring,
since those who prepared Leobardis for burial spoke won-
deringly of the evenness of the wound- But the word of
any one man, even Prince Josua's knight, is not enough to
condemn the Lord of Nabban."

Wit is not lacking in the family blood! the Duke of
Elvritshalla noted. But on such hard-headed men must our
luck ride. Or fail.

"There are others who saw Benigaris* terrible deed,"
Josua said. "A few of them are still alive, although many
died when Naglimund was conquered."

"A thousand men would not be enough," Seriddan spat.
"Hea! What, should the flower of Nabbanai nobility fol-
low you-an Erkynlander and enemy of the High King-
against the rightful heir to the Kingfisher House, on the
strength of the writings of a dead man?" A murmur of
agreement rose from Chasu Metessa's other inhabitants.
The situation was growing ugly.

161

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

"Very well," said Josua. "I understand. Baron. Now I
will show you something that will convince you of the se-
riousness of my undertaking. And it may also answer
your fears about following an Erkynlander anywhere."
He turned and gestured. A hooded man seated near
Strangyeard at the shadowy end of the table abruptly rose.
He was very tall. Several of the men-at-arms drew their
swords; the hiss of emerging blades seemed to make the
room grow cold.

Do not fail us, Isgrimnur prayed.

"You said one thing that was not true. Baron," Josua
said gently.

"Do you call me a liar?"

"No. But these are strange days, and even a man as
learned and clever as you cannot know everything. Even
were Benigaris not a patricide, he is not first claimant on
his father's dukedom. Baron, people of Metessa, here is
the true master of the Kingfisher House . . . Camaris
Benidrivis."

The tall figure at the end of the table pushed back
his hood, revealing a snowfall of white hair and a face
full of sadness and grace.

"What... ?" The baron was utterly confused.

"Heresy!" shouted a confused landowner, stumbling to
his feet. "Camaris, he is dead!"

One of the remaining women screamed. The man beside
her slumped forward onto the table in a drunken faint.

Camaris touched his hand to his breast. "I am not
dead." He turned to Seriddan. "Grant me forgiveness,
Baron, for abusing your hospitality in this manner."

Seriddan stared at the apparition, then rounded on
Josua. "What madness is this?! Do you mock me, Erkyn-
lander?"

The prince shook his head. "It is no mockery, Seriddan.
This is indeed Camaris. I thought to reveal him to you in
private, but the chance did not come."

"No." Seriddan slapped his hand on the table. "I cannot
believe it. Camaris-sa-Vinitta is dead-lost years ago,
drowned in the Bay of Firannos."
"I lost only my wits, not my life," the old knight said

162

Tad Williams

gravely. "I lived for years with no memory of my name
or my past." He drew a hand across his brow- His voice
shook. "I sometimes wish I had never been given either
back again. But I have. I am Camaris of Vinitta, son of
Benidrivis. And if it is my last act, I will avenge my
brother's death and see my murdering nephew removed
from the throne in Nabban."

The baron was shaken, but still seemed unconvinced.
His brother Brindalles said: "Send for Eneppa."

Seriddan looked up, his eyes bright, as though he had
been reprieved from some awful sentence. "Yes." He
turned to one of his men-at-anns. "Fetch Eneppa from the
kitchen. And tell her nothing, on pain of your life."

The man went out. Watching his departure, Isgrimnur
saw that little Pasevalles had disappeared from the doorway.

The folk remaining at table whispered excitedly, but
Seriddan no longer seemed to care. While he waited for
his man to return, he downed another goblet of wine.
Even Josua, as if he had given something a starting push
and could no longer control it, allowed himself to finish
his own cup. Camaris remained standing at the foot of the
table, a figure of imposing stolidity. No one in the room
could keep their eyes off him for long.

The messenger   returned with an old woman in tow. She
was short and   plump, her hair cut short, her simple dark
dress stained   with flour and other things. She stood anx-
iously before   Seriddan, obviously fearing some punishment.

"Stand still, Eneppa," the baron said. "You have done
nothing wrong. Do you see that old man?" He pointed.
"Go and look at him and tell me if you know him."

The old woman sidled toward Camaris. She peered up
at him, starting a little when he looked down and met her
eyes. "No, my lord Baron," she said at last. Her Wester-
ling was awkward.

"So." Seriddan crossed his arms before his chest and
leaned back, an angry little smile on his face.

"Just a moment," Josua said. "Eneppa, if that is your
name, this is no one you have seen in recent days. If you
did know him, it was long ago."
She turned her frightened-rabbit face from the prince

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER             163

back to Camaris. She appeared ready to turn from him
just as quickly the second time, then something caught at
her. She stared. Her eyes widened. Abruptly, her knees
bent and she sagged. Swift as thought, Camaris caught
her and kept her from falling.

"Ulimor Camaris?" she asked in Nabbanai, weeping.
"Veveis?" There followed a torrent in the same language.
Seriddan's angry smile vanished, replaced by an expres-
sion that was almost comically astonished.

"She says that they told her I had drowned," Camaris
said. "Can you speak Westerling, good woman?" he
asked her quietly. "There are some here who do not un-
derstand you."

Eneppa looked at him as he steadied her, then let her
go. She was dazed, crumpling the skirt of her dress in her
gnarled fingers. "He ... he is Camaris. Duos preterate!
Have ... have the dead come back to us again?"

"Not the dead, Eneppa," said Josua. "Camaris lived,
but lost his wits for many years."

"But although I know your face, my good woman," the
old knight said wonderingly, "I do not recognize your
name. Forgive me. It has been a long, long time."

Eneppa began to cry again in earnest, but she was
laughing, too. "Because that is not my name in that time.
When I work in your father's great house, they call me
Fuiri- 'flower.' "

"Fuiri." Camaris nodded. "Of course. I remember you.
You were a lovely girl, with smiles in full measure for ev-
eryone." He lifted her wizened hand, then bent and kissed
it. She stared open-mouthed as though God Himself had
appeared in the room and offered her a chariot ride
through the heavens. "Thank you, Fuiri. You have given
me back a little of my past. Before I leave this place, you
and I will sit by the fire and talk."

The sniffling cook was helped from the room.

Seriddan and Brindalles both looked stunned. The rest
of the baron's followers were equally amazed, and for
some time no one said anything. Josua, perhaps sensing
the battering that the baron had taken this night, merely sat
and waited. Camaris, his identity now confirmed, allowed

164

Tad Williams

himself to sit down once more; he, too, fell into silence.
His half-lidded gaze seemed fixed on the leaping flames in
the fireplace at the table's far side, but it was clear to
Isgrimnur that he was looking at a time, not a place.

The stillness was interrupted by a sudden burst of
whispering. Heads turned. Isgrimnur looked up to see
Pasevalles walking straddle-legged into the room; some-
thing large and shiny was cradled against his small body.
He stopped just inside the doorway, hesitated as he
looked at Camaris, then moved awkwardly to stand be-
fore his uncle.

"I brought this for Sir Camaris," the boy said. His bold

words were belied by his shaky voice. Seriddan stared at
him for a moment, then his eyes widened.

'That is one of the helmets from your father's room!"
He nodded solemnly. "I want to give it to Sir Camaris."
Seriddan turned helplessly to his brother. Brindalles
looked at his son, then briefly at Camaris, who still was
lost in thought. At last, Brindalles shrugged. "He is who
he says he is. There is no honor he has not earned,
Seriddan." The thin-faced man told his son: "You were
right to ask first." His smile was almost ghostly. "I sup-
pose sometimes things must be taken down and dusted off
and put to use. Go ahead, boy. Give it to him."

Isgrimnur watched in fascination as Pasevalles walked
past clutching the heavy sea-dragon helm, his eyes as
fearfully fixed as though he walked into an ogre's den. He
stopped before the old knight and stood silently, although
he looked as though any moment he might collapse be-
neath the weight of the helmet.
At last, Camaris looked up. "Yes?"
"My father and my uncle said I may give you this."
Pasevalles struggled to lift the helm closer to Camaris,
who even sitting down still towered above him. "It is

very old."

A smile stretched across Camaris' face. "Like me, eh?"
He reached out his large hands. "Let me see it, young
sir." He turned the golden thing to the light. "This is a
helm of the Imperium," he said wonderingly. "It is old."

"It belonged to Imperator Anitulles, or so I believe,"

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

165

said Brindalles from across the room. "It is yours if you
wish it, my lord Camaris-"

The old man examined it a moment more, then care-
fully put it on. His eyes disappeared into the shadows of
the helm's depths, and the cheek-guards jutted past his
jaw like blades. "It fits tolerably well," he said.

Pasevalles stared up at the old man, at the coiling,
high-finned sea-worm molded along the helmet's crest.
His mouth was open.

"Thank you, lad." Camaris lifted the helmet off and
placed it on the table beside him. "What is your name?"
"P-Pasevalles."

"I will wear the helm, Pasevalles. It is an honor. My
own armor has gone to rust years ago."

The boy seemed transported to another realm, his eyes
bright as candleflame. Watching him, Isgrimnur felt a
twinge of sorrow. After this moment, after this experience
with knighthood, how could life hold much but disap-
pointment for this eager child?

Bless you, Pasevalles, the duke thought. / hope your life
is a happy one, but for some reason I fear it won't be so.

Prince Josua had been watching. Now, he spoke.

"There are other things you must know. Baron
Seriddan. Some of them are frightening, others infuriat-
ing. Some of the things I must tell you are even more
amazing than Camaris alive. Would you like to wait until
the morning? Or do you still wish us locked up?"

Seriddan frowned. "Enough. Do not mock me, Josua.
You will tell me what I need to know. I do not care if we
are awake until cockcrow." He clapped his hands for
more wine, then sent all but a few of his benumbed and
astonished followers home.

Ah, Baron, Isgrimnur thought, soon you'll find yourself
down in the pit with the rest of us. I could have wished
you better.

The Duke of Elvritshalla pulled his chair closer as
Josua began to speak.

Wftite Tree, Black Fruit

At first it seemed a tower or a mountain-surely noth-
ing so tall, so slender, so bleakly, flatly white could be
anything alive. But as she approached it, she saw that
what had seemed a vast cloud surrounding the central
shaft, a diffuse milky paleness, was instead an incredible
net of branches.

It was a tree that stood before her, a great, while tree
that stretched so high that she could not see the lop of it;

it seemed tall enough to pierce the sky. She stared, over-
whelmed by its fearsome majesty. Even though a part of
her knew that she was dreaming, Miriamele also knew
that this great stripe of white was a very important thing.

As she drew closer-she had no body: was she walk-
ing? Flying? It was impossible to tell-Miriamele saw
that the tree thrust up from the featureless ground in one
smooth shaft like a column of irregular but faultlessly
polished marble. If this ivory giant had roots, they were
set deep, deep underground, anchored in the very heart of
the earth. The branches that surrounded the tree like a
cloak of worn gossamer were already slender where they
sprouted from the trunk, but grew even more attenuated
as they reached outward. The tangled ends were so fine
that at their tips they vanished into invisibility.

Miriamele was close to the great tree now. She began
to rise, passing effortlessly upward. The trunk slipped
past her like a stream of milk.

She floated up through the great cloud of branches.
Out beyond the twining filaments of white, the sky was a

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

167

flat gray-blue. There was no horizon; there seemed noth-
ing else in the world but the tree.

The web of branches thickened. Scattered here and
there among the stems hung little kernels of darkness,
clots of black like reversed stars. Rising as slowly as
swansdown caught in a puff of wind, Miriamele reached
out-suddenly she had hands, although the rest of her
body still seemed curiously absent-and touched one of
the black things. It was shaped like a pear, but was
smooth and turgid as a ripe plum. She touched another
and found it much the same. The next one that passed be-
neath her fingers felt slightly different. Miriamele's fin-
gers tightened involuntarily and the thing came loose and
fell into her grasp.

She looked down at the thing she had captured. It was
as taut-skinned as the others, but for some reason it felt
different. It might have been a little warmer. She knew,
somehow, that it was ready-that it was ripe.

Even as she stared, and as the tendrils of the white tree
fell endlessly past her on either side, the black fruit in her
hands shuddered and split. Nestled in the heart of it,
where a peach would have hidden its stone, lay an infant
scarcely bigger than a finger. Eyelids tiny as snowflakes
were closed in sleep. It kicked and yawned, but the eyes
did not open.

So every one of these fruits is a soul, she thought. Ch-
are they just... possibilities? She didn't quite know what
these dream-thoughts meant, but a moment later she felt
a wash of fear. But I've pulled it loose' I've plucked it
too soon! I have to put it back!

Something was still drawing her upward, but now she
was terrified. She had done something very wrong. She
had to go back, to find that one branch in the net of
manyfold thousands. Maybe it was not too late to return
what she had unwittingly stolen.

Miriamele grabbed at the tangle of branches, trying to
slow her ascent. Some of them, narrow and brittle as ici-
cles, snapped in her hands; a few of the black fruits
worked loose and went tumbling down into the gray-white
distances below her.

168

Tad Williams

No! She was frantic. She hadn't meant to cause this
damage. She reached out her hand to catch one of the
falling fruits and lost her grip on the tiny infant. She
made a desperate grab, but it was out of her reach.

Miriamele let out a wail of despair and horror....

It was dark. Someone was holding her, clutching ^er

tightly.

"No'" she gasped- "I've dropped it!"

"You haven't dropped anything," the voice said.
"You're having a bad dream."

She stared, but could not make out the face. The voice
.. .'she knew the voice. "Simon... ?"

"I'm here." He moved his mouth very close to her ear.
"You're safe. But you probably shouldn't shout any

more."

"Sorry. I'm sorry." She shivered, then began to disen-
gage herself from his arms. There was a strong damp
smell to the air and something scratchy beneath her Fin-
gers. "Where are we?"

"In a barn. About two hours' ride outside the walls of

Falshire. Don't you remember?"

"A little. I don't feel very well." In fact, she felt dread-
ful. She was still shivering, yet at the same time she felt
hot and even more bleary than she usually did when she
woke up in the middle of the night. "How did we get

here?"

"We had a fight with the Fire Dancers."
"I remember that. And I remember riding."
Simon made a sound in the darkness that might have
been a laugh. "Well, after a while we stopped riding. You
were the one who decided to stop here."
She shook her head- "I don't remember."
Simon let go of her-a little reluctantly, it was clear
even to her dulled sensibilities. Now he crawled away
over the thin layer of straw. A moment later something
creaked and thumped and a little light leaked in. Simon's
dark form was silhouetted in the square of a window. He
was trying to find something to prop the shutter.
"It's stopped raining," he said.
TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          169

"I'm cold." She tried to dig her way down into the
straw.

"You kicked off your cloak." Simon crawled back
across the loft to her side. He found her cloak and tucked
it up beneath her chin. "You can have mine, too, if you
want."

"I think I'll be happy with this," Miriamele said, al-
though her teeth were still chattering.

"Do you want something to eat? I left your half of the
supper-but you broke the ale jug on that big fellow's
head."

"Just some water." The idea of putting food in her
stomach was not a pleasant one.

Simon fussed with the saddlebags while Miriamele sat
hugging her knees and staring out the open window at the
night sky. The stars were invisible behind a veil of
clouds. After Simon brought her the water skin and she
drank, she felt weariness sweep over her again.

"I feel -.. bad," she said. "I think I need to sleep some
more."

The disappointment was plain in Simon's voice. "Cer-
tainly, Miri."

"I'm sorry. I just feel so iH. -.." She lay back and
pulled the cloak tight beneath her chin. The darkness
seemed to spin slowly around her. She saw Simon's shad-
owed silhouette against the window once more, then
shadows came and took her back down.

By early morning Miriamele's fever was quite high. Si-
mon could do little for her but put a damp cloth on her
forehead and give her water to drink.

The dark day passed in a blur of images: gray clouds
sweeping past the window, the lonely sound of a solitary
dove, Simon's worried face rising above her as periodi-
cally as the moon. Miriamele discovered that she did not
much care what happened to her. All the fear and concern
that had driven her was leached away by the illness. If
she could have chosen to fall asleep for a year, she would
have; instead, she bobbed in and out of consciousness like
a shipwrecked sailor clinging to a spar. Her dreams were

170 Tad Williams

full of white trees and drowned cities with seaweed wav-
ing in their streets.

In the hour before dawn of their second day in the
barn, Miriamele awakened to find herself clear-headed
again, but terribly, terribly weak. She had a sudden fear
that she was alone, that her companion had left her be-
hind.

"Simon?" she asked. There was no answer. "Simon!?"

"Humf?"

"Is that you?"

"What? Miriamele? Of course it's me." She could hear
him roll over and crawl toward her. "Are you worse?"

"Better, I think." She stretched out a shaking hand until
she found his arm, then finger-walked down it until she
could clasp his hand- "But still not very well. Stay with
me for a little while."

"Of course. Are you cold?"

"A bit."

Simon caught up his cloak and laid it atop her own.
She felt so strengthless that the very gesture made her
want to cry-indeed, a cold tear formed and trickled
down her cheek.

"Thank you." She sat in silence for a while. Even this
short conversation had tired her. The night, which had
seemed so large and empty when she woke, now seemed
a little less daunting.

"I think I'm ready to go back to sleep now." Her voice
sounded fuzzy even in her own ears.

"Good night, then."

Miriamele felt herself slipping away. She wondered if
Simon had ever had a dream as strange as the one about
the white tree and the odd fruits it bore. It seemed un-
likely. ...

When she awoke to the uncertain light of a slate-gray
dawn, Simon's cloak was still covering her. He was sleep-
ing nearby, a few wisps of damp hay his only covering.

Miriamele slept a great deal during their second day in
the barn, but when she was not sunk in slumber, she felt
much healthier, almost her old self. By midday she was

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER            171

able to take some bread and a morsel of cheese. Simon
had been out exploring the local countryside; while she
ate he told her of his adventures.

"There are so few   people! I saw a couple on   the road
out of Falshire-I   didn't let them see me, I   promise
you-but almost no   one else. There's a house   down be-
low that's almost   falling apart. I think it   belongs to the
people who own this barn. There are holes in the roof in
a few places, but most of the thatching is good. I don't
think anyone's living there now. If we need to stay longer,
that might be a drier place than this."

"We'll see," said Miriamele. "I may be able to ride to-
morrow."

"Perhaps, but you'll have to be able to move around a
bit first. This is the first time you've sat up since the night
we left Falshire." He turned toward her suddenly- "And I
almost got killed!"

"What?" Miriamele had to grab for the waterskin to
keep herself from choking on the dry bread. "What do
you mean?" she demanded when she had recovered. "Was
it Fire Dancers?"

"No," Simon said, his eyes^wide, his expression sol-
emn. A moment later he grinned. "But it was a near thing,
even so. I was coming back uphill from the field next to
the house. I had been picking some ... some flowers
there."

Miriamele looked at him quizzically. "Flowers? What
did you want with flowers?"

Simon went on as though the question had not been
asked. "Something made a noise and I looked up- Stand-
ing there at the top of the rise behind me was a bull."

"Simon!"

"He didn't look very friendly, either. He was all bony,
and his eyes were red, and he had bloody scratches along
his sides." Simon dragged his fingers down his ribs, illus-
trating. "We stood there staring at each other for a mo-
ment, then he began to lower his head and make huffing
noises. I started walking backward toward where I'd
been. He came down the hill after me, making these little
dancing steps, but going faster and faster."

172 Tad Williams

"But Simon! What did you do?"

"Well, running downhill in front of a bull seemed fairly
stupid, so I dropped the flowers and climbed the first
good-sized tree that I reached. He stopped at the
bottom-I got my feet up out of the way Just as he got
there-then all of a sudden he lowered his head, and ...
thump!" Simon brought his fist into his open palm, "he
smacked up against the trunk. The whole tree shook and
it almost knocked me off the branch I was hanging on,
until I got my legs wrapped around good and tight. I
pulled myself up until I was sitting on the branch, which
was a good thing, because this idiot bull began butting his
head against the tree, over and over until the skin began
to peel off his head and there was blood running down his
face."
"That's terrible. He must have been mad, poor animal."

"Poor animal! 1 like that!" Simon's voice rose in mock-
despair. "He tries to kill your special protector and all
you can say about him is 'poor animal.* "

Miriamele smiled. "I'm glad he didn't kill you. What
happened?"

"Oh, he got tired at last and went away,"   Simon said
airily. "Walked on down the dell, so that   he wasn't be-
tween me and the fence anymore. Still, as   I was running
up the slope, I kept thinking I heard him   coming up be-
hind me."

"Well, you had a close call." Unable to help herself,
Miriamele yawned; Simon made a face. "But I'm glad
you didn't slay the monster," she continued, "even if you
are a knight. He can't help being mad."

"Slay the monster? What, with my bare hands?" Simon
laughed, but sounded pleased. "But maybe killing him
would have been the kindest thing to do- He certainly
seemed past saving. That's probably why whoever lived
there left him behind."

"Or he may have gone mad because they left him be-
hind," Miriamele said slowly. She looked at Simon and
saw that he had heard something odd in her voice. "I'm
tired, now. Thank you for the bread."

"There's one thing more." He reached into his cloak

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER           173

and produced a small green apple. "The only one within
walking distance."

Miriamele stared at it suspiciously for a moment, then
sniffed it before taking a tentative bite. It was not sweet,
but its tartness was very pleasant. She ate half, then
handed the rest to Simon.

"It was good," she said. "Very good. But I still can't
eat much."

Simon happily crunched up the rest. Miriamele found
the hollow she had made for herself in the straw and
stretched out. "I'm going to sleep a little more, Simon."

He nodded. He was looking at her so carefully, so thor-
oughly, that Miriamele had to turn away and pull her
cloak up over her face. She was not strong enough to sup-
port such attention, not just now.

She awakened late in the afternoon. Something was
making a strange noise-thump and swish, thump and
swish. A little frightened and still very weak, Miriamele
lay unmoving and tried to decide whether it might be
someone looking for them, or Simon's bull, or something
entirely different and possibly worse. At last she nerved
herself and crawled silently across the loft, trying not to
make any noise as she moved over the thin carpet of
straw. When she reached the edge, she peered over.

Simon was on the ground floor of the bam practicing
his sword strokes. Despite the coolness of the day, he had
taken off his shirt; sweat gleamed on his pale skin. She
watched him as he measured a distance before him, then
lifted his sword with both hands, holding it perpendicular
to the floor before gradually lowering its point. His freck-
led shoulders tensed. Thump-he took a step forward.
Thump, thump-he pivoted to the side, moving around
the almost stationary sword as though he held someone
else's blade trapped against it. His face was earnest as a
child's, and the tip of his tongue protruded pinkly from
his mouth as he gripped it between his teeth in solemn
concentration. Miriamele suppressed a giggle, but she
could not help noticing how his skin slid over his lean
muscles, how the fanlike shapes of his shoulder blades
and the knobs of his backbone pushed against the milky

174

Tad Williams

skin. He stopped, the sword again held motionless before
him. A drop of sweat slid from his nose and disappeared
into his reddish beard. She suddenly wanted very much
for him to hold her again, but despite her desire, the
thought of it made her stomach clench in pain. There was
so much that he did not know.

She pushed herself back from the edge of the loft as
quietly as she could, retreating to her hollow in the straw.
She tried to fall into sleep once more, but could not. For
a long time she lay on her back, staring up at the shadows
between the rafters as she listened to the tread of his feet,
the hiss of the blade sliding through the air, and the muf-
fled percussion of his breath.

Just before sunset Simon went down to look at the
house again. He came back and reported that it was in-
deed empty, although he had seen what looked like fresh
bootprints in the mud. But there was no other sign of any-
one about, and Simon decided that the tracks most likely
belonged to another harmless wanderer like the old
drunkard Heanwig, so they gathered up their belongings
and moved down. At first Miriamele was so light-headed
that she had to lean on Simon to keep from falling, but af-
ter a few dozen steps she felt strong enough to walk un-
aided, although she was careful to keep a good grip on his
arm. He went very slowly, showing her where the track
was slippery with mud.

The cottage appeared to have been deserted for some
time, and there were, as Simon had pointed out, some
holes in the thatching, but the bam had been even draftier,
and the cottage at least had a fireplace. As Simon carried
in some split timbers he had found stacked against the
wall outside and struggled to get a fire started, Miriamele
huddled in her cloak and looked around at their home for
the night.

Whoever had lived here had left few reminders of their
residence, so she guessed that the-circumstances which
had driven the owners away had not come on suddenly.
The only piece of furniture that remained was a stool with
a splintered leg squatting off-kilter beside the hearth. A

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              175

single bowl lay shattered on the stone beside it, every
piece still in the spot where it had tumbled to a halt, as if
the bowl had fallen only moments before. The hard clay
of the floor was covered with rushes which had gone
damp and brown. The only signs of recent life in the
room were the innumerable cobwebs hanging in the
thatches or stretching in the corners, but even these
looked threadbare and forlorn, as if it had not been a good
season even for spiders.

"There." Simon stood up. "That's got it. I'm going to
fetch down the horses."

While he was gone, Miriamele sat before the fire and
hunted through the saddlebags for food. For the first time
in two days, she was hungry. She wished the house's
owners had left their stew pot-the hook hung naked over
the growing fire-but since it was gone she would make
do with what she had. She pushed a couple of stones into
the fire to heat, then rooted out the few remaining carrots
and an onion. When the stones were hot enough, she
would make some soup.

Miriamele scanned the ceiling critically, then unrolled
her bedroll in a spot that looked like it was far enough
from the nearest hole to stay dry in case the rains re-
turned- After a moment's thought she unrolled Simon's
nearby. She left what she considered to be a safe distance
between them, but his bedroll was still closer than she
would have preferred had there not been a leaky roof to
deal with. When all was arranged, she found her knife in
the saddlebag and got to work on the vegetables.

"It's blowing hard now," Simon said as he came back
in. His hair was disarranged, standing out in strange tufts,
but his cheeks were red and his smile was wide. "It will
be a good night to be near a fire."

"I'm glad we moved down here," she said. "I feel
much better tonight. I think I'll be able to ride tomorrow."

"If you're ready." As he walked past her to the fire-
place, he put his hand on her shoulder for a moment, then
trailed it gently across her hair. Miriamele said nothing,
but went on chopping the carrots into a clay bowl.

176 Tad Williams
The meal had not been anything either of them would
remember fondly, but Miriamele felt better for having
something hot in her stomach. When she had rinsed the
bowls and scoured them with a dry twig, she put them
away, then crawled onto her bedroll. Simon fussed with
the fire for a bit, then laid himself down as well. They
spent a silent interval staring at the flames.

"There was a fireplace m my bedroom at Meremund,"
Miriamele said quietly. "I used to watch the flames danc-
ing at night when I couldn't sleep. I saw pictures in them.
When I was very little, I thought I saw the face of Usires
smiling at me once."

"Mmmm," Simon said. Then; "You had your own room
to sleep in?"

"I was the only child of the prince and heir," she said
a little crisply. "It is not unheard of."

Simon snorted. "It's unheard of by me. I slept with a
dozen other scullions. One of them. Fat Zebediah, used to
snore like a cooper cutting slats with a handsaw."

Miriamele giggled. "Later on, in the last twelvemonth
when I lived in the Hayholt, Leieth used to sleep in my
room. That was nice. But when I was in Meremund, I
slept by myself, with a maid just on the other side of the
door."

"That sounds ... lonely."
"I don't know. I suppose it was." She sighed and
laughed at the same time, a funny noise that made Simon
lift his head beside her. "Once I was having trouble sleep-
ing, so I went in to my father's room. I told him that there
was a cockindrill under my bed, so that he would let me
sleep with him. But that was after my mother died, so he
only gave me one of his dogs to take back with me. 'He's
a cockindrill-hound, Miri,' he said to me. 'By my faith,
he is. He'll keep you safe.' He was always a bad liar. The
dog just lay by the door and whimpered until I finally let
him out again."

Simon waited for a while before speaking. The flames
made jigging shadows in the thatching overhead. "How
did your mother die?" he asked at last. "No one ever told
me."

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

177

"She was shot by an arrow." Miriamele still hurt when
she thought of it, but not as badly as she once had. "Un-
cle Josua was taking her to my father, who was fighting
for Grandfather John along the edge of the Meadow
Thrithing during the uprising there. Josua's troop was sur-
prised in broad daylight by a much larger force of
Thrithings-men. He lost his hand defending her, and did
succeed in winning free, but she was struck down by a
stray arrow. She was dead before sunset."

"I'm sorry, Miriamele."

She shrugged, even though he could not see her. "It
was long ago- But losing her gave my father even more
misery than it gave me. He loved her so much! Oh, Si-
mon, you only know what my father has become, but he
was a good man once. He loved my mother more than he
loved anything else in the world."

And thinking other father's gray, grief-stricken face, of
the pall of anger that had descended on him and never
lifted, she began to cry.

"And that's why I have to see him," she said finally,
her voice unsteady. "That's why."

Simon rustled atop his bedroll. "What? What do you
mean? See who?"

Miriamele took a deep breath. "My father, of course.
That's why we're going to the Hayholt. Because I have to
speak to my father."

"What nonsense are you talking?" Simon sat up.
"We're going to the Hayholt to get your grandfather's
sword, Bright-Nail."

"I never said that- You did." Despite the tears, she felt
herself grow angry.

"I don't understand you, Miriamele. We are at war with
your father. Are you going to go see him and tell him
there's a cockindrill under your bed again? What are you
saying?"

"Don't be cruel, Simon. Don't you dare." She could
feel the tears threatening to become a torrent, but a small
ember of fury was burning inside her as well.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but I just don't understand."

Miriamele pressed her hands together as tightly as she

178 Tad Williams

could, and concentrated on that until she felt herself in
control again. "And I have not explained to you, Simon.
I'm sorry, too."

••Tell me. I'll listen."

Miriamele listened to the flames crackle and hiss for a
while. "Cadrach showed me the truth, although I don't
think he realized it. It was when we were traveling to-
gether, and he told me of Nisses' book. He had once
owned it, or a copy of it."
"The magical book that Morgenes talked about?"

"Yes. And it is a powerful thing. Powerful enough that
Pryrates learned that Cadrach had owned it and so
Pryrates ... sent for him." She fell silent momentarily, re-
membering Cadrach's description of the blood-red win-
dows and the iron devices with the skin and hair of the
tortured still on them. "He threatened him until Cadrach
told him all the things he remembered, Cadrach said that
Pryrates was particularly interested in talking with the
dead-'Speaking through the Veil,' he called it."

"From what I know of Pryrates, that doesn't surprise
me." Simon's voice was shaky, too. Obviously he had his
own memories of the red priest.

"But that was what showed me what I needed to
know," Miriamele said, unwilling to lose the thread of her
idea now that she was finally talking about it out loud.
"Oh, Simon, I had wondered so long why my father
changed the way he did, why Pryrates was able to turn
him to such evil tasks." She swallowed. There were still
tears standing wet on her cheeks, but for the moment she
had found a new strength. "My father loved my mother.
He was never the same after she died. He did not marry,
did not even consider it, despite all the wishes of my
grandfather. They used to have terrible arguments about
it. 'You need a son to be your heir,' Grandfather used to
say, but my father always told him he would never marry
again, that he had been given a wife and then God had
taken her back." She paused, remembering.

"I still don't understand," said Simon quietly.

"Don't you see? Pryrates must have told my father that
he could talk to the dead-that he could let my father

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER 179

speak with my mother again, perhaps even see her. You
don't know him, Simon. He was heartsick with losing her.
He would have done anything, I think, to have her back,
even for a little while."

Simon drew in a long breath. "But that's ... blas-
phemy. That's against God."

Miriamele laughed, a little shrilly. "As if that would
have stopped him. I told you, he would have done any-
thing to have her back. Pryrates must have lied to him
and told him that they could reach her . -. beyond the
Veil, or whatever that horrible book called it. Maybe the
priest even thought that he could. And he used that prom-
ise to make my father first his patron, then his partner ...
then his slave."

Simon pondered this. "Perhaps Pryrates did try," he
said finally. "Perhaps that is how they reached through to
... to the other side. To the Storm King."
The sound of this name, even as quietly it had been
spoken, was greeted with a skirl of wind in the thatches
above, a rush of sound so abrupt that Miriamele flinched.

"Perhaps." The thought made her cold. To think of her
father waiting eagerly to speak with his beloved wife and
finding that thing instead. It was a little like the terrifying
old story of what the fisherman Bulychlinn brought up in
his nets....

E'     "But I still don't understand, Miriamele." Simon was
gentle but stubborn. "Even if all that is true, what good
will it do to speak to your father?"

"I'm not sure it will do any good." And that was true:

it was hard to picture any happy result from their meeting
after so much time and so much anger and sorrow. "But
if there's even a small chance that I can show him sense,
that I can remind him that this began out of love, and so
convince him to stop ... then I have to take that chance."
She lifted a hand and wiped at her eyes: she was crying
again. "He just wanted to see her...." After a moment
she steadied herself. "But you do not have to go, Simon.
This is my burden."

He was silent. She could sense his discomfort.

"It is too great a risk," he said at last. "You might

i8o Tad Williams

never get to see your father, even if that would do any
good. Pryrates might catch you first, and then no one
would ever hear from you again." He said it with terrible
conviction.

"I know, Simon. I Just don't know what else to do. I
have to speak to my father. I have to show him what's
happened, and only I can do it."

"You're determined, then?"

"I am."

Simon sighed. "Aedon on the Tree, Miriamele, it's
madness. I hope you change your mind by the time we

get there."

Miriamele knew there would be no change. "I have
been thinking about it for a long time."

Simon slumped back onto his bedroll. "If Josua knew,
he'd tie you up and carry you a thousand leagues away."

"You're right. He would never allow it."

In the darkness, Simon sighed again. "I have to think,
Miriamele. I don't know what to do."
"You can do anything but stop me," she said evenly.
"Don't try to stop me, Simon."

But he did not reply. After a while, despite all me fear
and furor, Miriamele felt the heaviness of sleep pulling
her down.

She was startled awake by a loud roar. As she lay with
her heart pounding, something flashed up in the ceiling,
brighter than a torch. It took a moment for her to realize
that the source had been a sky-spanning sheet of lightning
glaring through the holes in the roof. There was another
crash of thunder-

The room smelled even damper and closer than it had
before. When the next lightning flash came, Miriamele
saw in its momentary brilliance a torrent of raindrops
pouring through the ragged thatching. She sat up and felt
along the floor. The rain was falling well short of her, but
it was splashing on Simon's boots and the bottoms of his
breeches. He was still asleep, snoring quietly.

"Simon!" She shook him. "Get up'"

He grunted, but showed no other signs of wakefulness.

TO   GREEN    ANOEL   TOWER                   l8l

"Simon, you have to move. You're being rained on."

After a few more shakes, he rolled over. Complaining
muzzily, he helped Miriamele pull his bedroll closer to
hers, then flopped onto it with every sign of going imme-
diately back to sleep.

As she lay listening to the rain patter on the straw, she
felt Simon move closer. His face was very close to hers in
the dark; she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. It
was oddly peaceful, despite all the danger they had seen
and still faced, to lie here and listen to the storm with this
young man close beside her.

Simon stirred. "Miriamele? Are you cold?*'

"A little."

He moved closer still, then reached out his arm and put
it under her neck, tipping her in toward his chest so that
she could feel him the whole length of her. She felt
trapped but not frightened. His mouth was now pressed
against her cheek.

"Miriamele ..." he said softly.

"Sssshhh." She stayed huddled against him. "Don't say
a word."

They remained that way for some time. Rain rattled in
the thatch. From time to time thunder sounded in the dis-
tance like giants' drums.

Simon kissed her cheek. Miriamele felt his beard tick-
ling along her jaw, but it seemed so strangely right that
she did not squirm. He turned her head slightly, then his
lips met hers. The thunder rumbled again from farther
away, something happening in another place, another
time.

Why does there have to be more than this? Miriamele
wondered sadly. Why should there be all the complica-
tions? Simon had put his other arm around her, gentle but
insistent, and now they were pressed together, body
against body. She could feel his lean, muscled arms and
his hard chest against her stomach, against her breasts. If
only time could stop!

Simon's kisses were stronger now. He lifted his face
and buried it in her hair.

"Miriamele," he whispered, hoarse-throated.

182 Tad Williams

"Oh. Oh, Simon," she murmured back. She was not
quite sure what she wanted, but she knew she would be
happy just kissing him, just holding him.

His face was against her neck now, sending chills all
through her. It felt wonderful, but also frightening. He
was a boy, but he was a man as well. She stiffened, but
he brought his face back to hers. Again he kissed her,
clumsy but ardent, pushing a little too hard. She lifted her
hand to his bearded face and gentled him, so that their
lips could meet and touch-oh, so softly!

Even as they shared breath, his hand was moving
across her face, across her neck. He touched her every-
where he could without losing the warmth pressed be-
tween mem, running his fingers across the swell of her
hip, letting his hand rest in the hollow beneath her arm.
She tingled, yearning to rub hard against him, but she felt
a strange softness, too, as though they were slowly
drowning together, sinking down into dark ocean depths.
She could hear her own heartbeat above the rustle of rain
in the straw.

Simon rolled farther, until he was half above her, then
drew back a little. He was only a shadow, which she
found somehow frightening. She reached up until she
could feel his cheek, the delicate rasp of his beard. His
mouth moved-

"I love you, Miriamele."

Her breath caught. Suddenly there was a knot of cold-
ness in her stomach. "No, Simon," she whispered. "Don't
say that."

"But it's true! I think I've loved you since I first saw
you, up in the tower with the sun in your hair."

"You can't love me." She wanted to push him off, but
she had no strength. "You don't understand."

"What do you mean?"

"You ... you can't love me. It's wrong."

"Wrong?" he said angrily. His body was now quivering
against her, but it was the trembling of suppressed fury.
"Because I'm a commoner. I'm not good enough for a
princess, is that it?" He twisted away, kneeling in the
straw beside her. "Damn your pride, Miriamele. I fought

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER            183

a dragon! A dragon, a real dragon! Isn't that enough for
you'? Do you prefer somebody like Fengbald-a m-m-
murderer, but a m-murderer with a t-title?" He fought
against tears.

The rawness in his voice tore at her heart. "No, Simon,
that's not it! You don't understand!"

"Tell me, then!" he snapped. 'Tell me what I don't un-
derstand!"

"It's not you. It's me."

There was a long silence. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing's wrong with you, Simon. I think you're
brave, and kind, and everything you should be. It's me,
Simon. I'm the one who doesn't deserve to be loved."

"What are you talking about?"

She gasped and shook her head violently. "I don't want
to talk any more. Leave me alone, Simon. Find someone
else to love. There will be plenty who would be happy to
have you." She rolled over, turning her back to him. Now,
when she most wanted the relief of tears, tears would not
come. She felt high and cold and strange.

His hand clutched her shoulder. "By the bloody Tree,
Miriamele, would you talk to me'? What are you say-
ing?"

"I'm not pure, Simon. I'm not a maiden." There. It was
out-
It took him several moments to respond. "What?"

"I have been with a man." Now that she was talking, it
was easier than she had thought it would be. It was like
listening to someone else speak. "The nobleman from
Nabban I told you about, the one who took Cadrach and
me aboard his ship. Aspitis Preves."

"He raped you... ?" He sounded stunned, but anger
was growing. "That . - - that ..."

Miriamele's laugh was short and bitter. "No, Simon, he
did not rape me. He held me prisoner, yes, but that was
later. He was a monster-but I let him come to my bed
and I did not resist." Then, to bolt the door for good, so
that Simon would leave her alone, so that she would bring
him no further suffering after this night: "I wanted him
to. I thought he was beautiful. I wanted him to."

184

Tad Williams

Simon made an inarticulate noise, then stood up. His
breath sawed in and out, in and out. For all she could see
of him in the darkness, he could have been shape-
changing: he seemed wordless and bedeviled as a trapped
animal. He growled, then ran for the door of the cottage.
It crashed open as he fled out into the dying storm.

After a few moments Miriamele went and pulled the
door closed again. He would be back, she felt sure. Then
he would leave her, or they would go on together, but
things would be different. That was what she wanted.
That was what she needed.

Her head felt empty. Those few thoughts almost
seemed to echo, like stones rattled down a well.

She waited a long time for sleep. Just as she was begin-
ning to slip away, she heard Simon come back in. He
dragged his bedroll to the far corner and lay down. Nei-
ther of them spoke.

Outside, the storm had passed, but water still dripped
from the ceiling. Miriamele counted the drops.

By midday the next day, Miriamele felt herself recov-
ered enough to ride. They set out under dark clouds of
more than one kind.

After all the pain and emotion of the night before they
were both flat with each other, bruised and sullen like two
swordfighters waiting for their final bout. They spoke no
more than was necessary, but Miriamele saw signs of Si-
mon's anger all day, from the over-brisk way he saddled
and readied his horse to the way he rode ahead of her, just
close enough to stay in sight.

For her part, Miriamele felt a sort of relief. The worst
was out now and there was no turning back. Now Simon
would know her for what she was, which could only be
for the good, ultimately. It hurt to have him despise her,
as he so obviously did at present, but it was better than
leading him on falsely. Nevertheless, she could not shake
the feeling of loss. It had been so warm, so nice, to kiss
him and hold him without thinking. If only he had not
talked of love. If only he had not forced her to consider
her responsibilities. Deep down, she had known that any-
TO    QREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

185

thing more than friendship between them would mean liv-
ing in a lie, but there had been moments, sweet moments,
when she had allowed herself to pretend it could be dif-
ferent.

Making the best time they could on the terrible, muddy
roads, they rode well beyond the reach of Falshire by eve-
ning time, out into the wildlands west of the city. When
darkness came down-little more than a thickening of the
already murky day-they found a wayside shrine to Ely-
sia and made their beds on its floor. After a sparse meal
and even sparser conversation, they retired to their bed-
rolls. This time it did not seem to bother Simon when
Miriamele unfurled her pallet on me opposite side of the
fire from his.

After her first day in the saddle following several days
of illness, Miriamele felt ready to sink into sleep immedi-
ately, but sleep would not come. She moved several
times, trying to find a comfortable position, but nothing
seemed to help. She lay in darkness, staring up at nothing,
listening as a light rain pattered the roof of the shrine.

Would Simon leave her, she wondered? It was an unex-
pectedly frightening thought. She had said several times
that she was willing to make inis journey by herself, as
she had originally planned, but she realized now that she
did not want to travel alone. Perhaps she had been wrong
to tell him. Perhaps it would have been better to give him
some more face-saving lie: if she had disgusted him too
completely, he might simply go back to Josua.

And she did not want him to go, she realized. It was
more than the idea of traveling these gloomy lands by
herself that disturbed her. She would miss him.

It was odd to think about, now that she had probably
thrown up an unbreachable wall between them, but she
did not want to lose him. Simon had worked his way into
her heart in a way no other friend ever had. His boyish
silliness had always charmed her when it didn't irritate
her, but now it was counterbalanced by a serious air that
was very handsome. Several times she had caught herself
watching him in surprise, amazed he had become a man
in such a short time.

186 Tad Williams

And there were other qualities that had become dear
to her as well, his kindness, his loyalty, his open-
mindedness. She doubted that the most traveled of her fa-
ther's courtiers faced life with the same unprejudiced
interest as Simon did.

It was frightening even to contemplate losing all those
things if he left her.

But she had lost him now-or at least, there would al-
ways be a shadow over their friendship. He had seen the
stain that was at the core of her; she had made it as vis-
ible and unpleasant as she could. She was not willing to
suffer for lies any. more, and seeing the way he felt about
her was more suffering than she could stand. He was in
love with her.

And she had been falling in love with him.

The thought hit her with unexpected force. Was that
true? Wasn't love supposed to come like a bolt of sky-
fire, to blind and stun? Or at the least, like a sweet per-
fume that rose and filled the air until one could think of
nothing else? Surely her feelings for Simon had been dif-
ferent. She thought of him, of the laughable way his hair
looked in the morning, of his earnest glances when he
was worried for her.

Elysia, Mother of God, she prayed, take this pain away.
Did I love him? Do / love him?

It didn't matter now, in any case. She had taken steps
of her own to remove the hurt. Letting Simon continue to
think of her as a chaste maiden worthy of his youthful
ideals would be worse than anything-worse even than
losing him completely, if that was the result.

So why, then, was the pain still so very strong?

"Simon.. - ?" she whispered. "Are you awake?'*

If he was, he did not answer. She was alone with her
thoughts.

The next day seemed even darker. The wind was sharp
and biting. They rode swiftly, unspeaking, with Simon
again keeping Homefmder a short distance ahead of
Miriamele and her still-nameless steed.

By late morning they came to the fork where the River

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

187

Road joined the Old Forest Road. Two corpses hung in
iron cages at the crossing, and had clearly done so for
some time: It was impossible to tell from the wind-tossed
rags of clothing or the grinning bones who these unfortu-
nates had been. Miriamele and Simon both made the sign
of the Tree as they crossed, passing as far from the
clanking cages as they could. They took the Old Forest
Road turning, and soon the River Road vanished from
sight behind the low hills to the south.

The road began to dip downward. On the north side
they could now see the edge of Aldheorte Forest, which
flowed onto and over the foothills there. As they passed
down through the outskirts of Hasu Vale and into the
shelter of the hills the wind became less, but Miriamele
did not feel comforted. Even at midday the valley was
dark and almost silent except for the slow drip of the
morning's rains from the leafless branches of oak and ash.
Even the evergreens seemed full of shadow.

"I don't like this valley, Simon." She spurred forward.
He slowed to allow her to catch up. "It was always a
quiet, secretive place-but it feels different now."

He shrugged, looking away across the deep-shaded
hillside. It was only when he stared so long at the un-
changing landscape that she understood he did not want
to meet her eyes- "I have not liked most of the places
we've been." His voice was cold. "But we are not travel-
ing for pleasure."

She felt a flare of anger. "That's not what I meant and
you know it, Simon. I mean that this valley feels ... I
don't know, dangerous."

Now he did turn. His smile was a smirk that hurt her to
see. "Haunted, you mean? Like that old drunkard said?"

"I don't know exactly what I mean," she said furiously.
"But I can see it was a waste of time talking about it with
you."

"No doubt." He gently but deliberately touched his
spurs to Homefinder's side and sent her trotting forward.
Watching his straight back, Miriamele fought down the
urge to shout at him. What had she expected? No, more
to the point, what had she wanted, after all? Wasn't it best

188

Tad Williams

he had been told the truth? Perhaps things would be easier
when some time had passed, when he realized they could
still be friends.

The road descended deeper into the valley, so that the
thick-mantled hills seemed to be growing even higher on
either side. The road was deserted, and the few rough cot-
tages they saw perched on the hillsides seemed equaUy
uninhabited, but at least it seemed they would be able to
find shelter somewhere tonight-which was a reassuring
thought, since Miriamele did not in the least wish to
spend a night here out of doors. She had conceived a se-
rious dislike of Hasu Vale, although nothing had actually
happened to make her feel that way. Still, the smother-
ing quality of the stillness and the thick, overgrown
hillsides-and perhaps, just a little bit, her own sorrow-
conspired to make her look forward to the moment they
rode out of this valley again and saw the headlands of
Swertclif, even though that would mean that Asu'a and
her father were very, very close.
It was also disheartening to think of spending another
strained, silent night with Simon. Before their last un-
pleasant exchange, he had spoken to her only a few times
today, and then only about practical things. He had dis-
covered what he claimed were new footprints near the
shrine where they had spent the night and had told her
about them soon after they set out, but he had seemed
quite offhand and uncaring about it- Miriamele secretly
thought it likely that the muddy footmarks were their
own, since they had tramped about a great deal while
searching for firewood. Other than that. Simon had con-
versed with her only about whether it was time to stop
and eat and rest the horses, and to issue curt thanks when
she had given him food or shared the water skin. It would
not be a pleasant night, she felt sure.

They were in the deeps of the valley when Simon ab-
ruptly stopped, pulling back on Homefinder's reins so
that the mare paced nervously from side to side for a long
moment after she halted.

'There's somebody on the road ahead," he said quietly-
"There. Just through the trees." He pointed to a spot

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          189

where the path hooked to one side and passed out of
sight. "Do you see them?"

Miriamele squinted. The early twilight had turned the
road before them into a dim streak of gray. If something
was moving beyond the trees, she could not see it from
her angle, "We're getting near the town."

"Come,-then," he said. "It's probably just someone on
their way home, but we haven't seen anyone else all day."
He eased Homefinder ahead.

As they rounded the bend they came upon two figures
hunching along in the middle of the road, both of them
carrying buckets. When the noise of Simon and
Miriamele's horses reached the pair, they flinched and
looked over their shoulders as guiltily as thieves sur-
prised. Miriamele felt sure that they were just as startled
as Simon to find other travelers on the road.

The pair moved to the verge of the road as the riders
approached. From what Miriamele could see of their
dark, hooded cloaks, they were probably local people,
hill-folk. Simon lifted his hand to his brow in salute.

"God give you good day," he said.

The nearest of the pair looked up at him and cautiously
raised his own hand to return the greeting, but stopped
abruptly, staring.

"By the Tree'" Simon reined up. "You're the ones from
the tavern in Falshire."
What is he doing? Miriamele wondered fearfully. Are
they Fire Dancers? Ride on, Simon, you idiot!

He turned toward her. "Miriamele. Look here."

Unexpectedly, the two hooded folk dropped to their
knees. "You saved our lives," a woman's voice said-

^firiamele pulled up and stared. It was the woman and
man that the Fire Dancers had threatened.

"That's true," the man said. His voice was unsteady.
"May Usires bless you, good knight."

"Please, get up." Simon was clearly pleased yet embar-
rassed. "I'm sure someone else would have helped you if
we hadn't."

The woman stood, unmindful of the mud on the knees
of her long skirt. "None seemed in a hurry to help," she

190 Tad Williams

said. 'That's the way. Those who are good are given the
pain."

The man darted a glance at her. 'That's enough, wife.
These folk don't need your tellin' what's wrong with the
world."

She looked back at him with poorly-hidden defiance.
"It's a shame, that's all. A shame the world works thus."

The man turned his attention back to Simon and
Miriamele. He was middle-aged, with a face reddened
and wrinkled by years of harsh sun. "My wife has her
ideas, mind, but the bottom of it's true enough. You saved
our lives, that you did." He forced a smile. He seemed
nervous; having his life saved must have been almost as
frightening as not having it saved. "Have you a place to
stay for tonight? My wife's Gullaighri and I am Roelstan,
and we would be pleased to offer you what shelter we
have."

"We cannot stop yet," Miriamele said, unsettled by the
thought of staying with strangers.

Simon looked at her. "You have been ill," he said.
"I can ride farther."

"Yes, you probably can, but why turn down a roof over
our heads, even for one night?" He turned to look at the
man and woman, then moved his horse closer to
Miriamele. "It may be the last chance to get out of the
wind and rain," he murmured, "the last until - -." He
broke off, unwilling even to whisper any hint of their des-
tination.

Miriamele was certainly weary. She hesitated a mo-
ment longer, then nodded her head.

"Good," said Simon, then turned to the man and
woman. "We would be glad of shelter." He did not offer
their own names to these strangers; Miriamele silently ap-
proved of that at least.

"But we have nothing worthy of such good folk, hus-
band." Gullaighn had a face that might have been kindly,
but fear and hard times had made the skin slack, the eyes
sorrowful. "It is no favor to bring them to our rude
place."

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          191

"Be quiet, woman," her husband said. "We will do
what we can."

She appeared to have more to say, but instead closed
her mouth in a grim line.

"It's settled, then," he said. "Come. It is not much far-
ther."

After a moment's consideration, Simon and Miriamele
dismounted so that they could walk beside their hosts.
"Do you live here in Hasu Vale?" asked Simon.

Roelstan laughed shortly. "For a short time only. We
lived once in Falshire."

Miriamele hesitated before speaking. "And - .. and
were you Fire Dancers?"

'To our sorrow."

"They are a powerful evil." Gullaighn's voice was
thick with emotion. "You should have nothing to do with
them, my lady, nor anything they've touched."

"Why were those men after you?" Simon reflexively
fingered the hilt of his sword.

"Because we left," Roelstan said. "We could stand it
no longer. They are mad, but like dogs, even in their mad-
ness they can do harm."

"But it is not so easy to escape them," said Gullaighn.
"They are fierce and they do not let go. And they are ev-
erywhere." She lowered her voice- "Everywhere!"

"By the Ransomer, woman," Roelstan growled, "what
are you trying to do? You have seen this knight wield a
sword. He has naught to fear from them."

Simon walked a little straighten Miriamele smiled, but
a look at Gullaighn's anxious face made the smile fade.
Could she be right? Might there be more Fire Dancers
about? Perhaps by tomorrow it would be time to leave the
main road again and travel more secretively.
As if echoing her thoughts, Roelstan stopped and
waved at a track climbing up from the Old Forest Road,
winding away into the wooded hillside. "We have made
our place up there," he said. "It is no good to be too close
to the road, where the smoke of a fire might bring visitors
less welcome than you two."

They followed Roelstan and Gullaighn up the narrow

192 Tad Williams

path. After the first few turnings the road had disappeared
behind them, hidden beneath a blanket of treetops. It was
a long and steep climb through the close-leaning trees,
and the dark cloaks of their guides became harder and
harder to follow as twilight came on. Just as Miriamele
began to think that they would see the moon before they
saw a place to stop, Roelstan halted and pulled back the
thick branch of a pine tree that had hung across their path,

"Here it is," he said.

Miriamele led her horse through after Simon, and
found herself in a wide clearing on the hillside- In the
center was a house made of split timbers, plain but sur-
prisingly large. Smoke twined from a hole in the roof.

Miriamele was taken aback. She turned to Gullaighn,
suddenly full of misgivings. "Who else lives here?"

The woman gave no answer.

Miriamele saw movement in the doorway of the house.
A moment later, a man emerged onto the dark hard-
packed earth before the door. He was short and thick-
necked, clothed in a white robe.

"We meet again," said Maefwaru. "Our visit in the
tavern was too short."

Miriamele heard Simon curse, then the scrape of his
sword leaving the scabbard. He pulled at her bridle to
turn her horse around.

"Don't," Maefwaru said. He whistled. A half-dozen
more white-robed figures stepped from the shadows
around the edge of the clearing. In the twilight, they
seemed ghosts bom from the secretive trees. Several of
them had drawn their bows.

"Roelstan, you and your woman move away." The bald
man sounded almost pleasant. "You have done what you
were sent to do."

"Curse you, Maefwaru!" Gullaighn cried. "On the Day
of Weighing-Out, you will eat your own guts for sau-
sages!"

Maefwaru laughed, a deep nimble. "Is that so? Move,
woman, before I have someone put an arrow in you."

As her husband dragged her away, Gullaighn turned to

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

193

Miriamele with eyes full of tears. "Forgive us, my lady.
They caught us again. They made us!"

Miriamele's heart was cold as a stone.

"What do you want with us, you coward?" Simon de-
manded.

Maefwaru laughed again, wheezing a little. "It is not
what we want of you, young master. It is what the Storm
King wants of you. And we will find out tonight, when
we give you to Him." He waved to the other white-robed
figures. "Bind them. There is much to do before mid-
night."

As the first of the Fire Dancers seized his arms, Simon
turned to Miriamele, his face full of anger and despera-
tion. She knew that he wished to fight, to make them kill
him instead of simply surrendering, but was afraid to for
her sake.

Miriamele could give him nothing. She had nothing left
inside of her but stifling dread.

8

A Confession

*

"Unto her side he came, he came,"
sang Maegwin,

"A youth dressed all in sable black
With golden curls about his head
And silken cape upon his back.

'And what would you my lady fair?'
That golden youth did smile and say.
'What rare gift may I give to you,
So you will be my bride this day?

The maiden turned her face aside.
'There is no gift so rich, so fine,
That I would give you in return
That rare thing that is only mine.'

The youth he shook his golden head
And laughed and said, 'Oh, maiden sweet
You may turn me away today,
But soon find that you can't say no.
My name is Death, and all you have
Will come to me anyway ...' "

It was no use. Over the sound of her own melody, she
could still hear the odd wailing that seemed to portend so
much unhappiness.

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

195

Maegwin's song trailed off and she stared into the
flames of the campfire. Her cold-cracked lips made it
painful to sing. Her ears stung and her head hurt. Nothing
was as it should be-nothing was as she had expected.

It had seemed at first that things were going the way
they should. She had been a dutiful daughter to the gods:

it was no surprise that after her death she should be raised
up to live among them-not as an equal, of course, but as
a trusted subordinate, a beloved servant. And in their
strange way the gods had proved every bit as wondrous as
she had imagined they would, with their inhuman, flash-
ing eyes and their rainbow-hued armor and clothing. Even
the land of the gods had been much as she had expected,
like her own beloved Hernystir, but better, cleaner,
brighter. The sky in the godlands seemed higher and more
blue than a sky could be, the snow whiter, the grass so
green that its verdancy was almost painful. Even Count
Eolair, who had also died and come to this beautiful eter-
nity, seemed more open, more approachable; she had been
able to tell him without fear or shyness that she had al-
ways loved him. Eolair, relieved like her of the burden of
mortality, had listened with kind concern-almost like a
god himself!

But then things had begun to go wrong.

Maegwin had thought mat when she and the other liv-
ing Hemysdri had faced their enemies, and by doing so
brought the gods out into the world, they had somehow
tipped a balance. The gods themselves were at war, just
as the Hemystiri-but the gods' war had not been won.
The worst, it seemed, was yet to come.

And so the gods had ridden across the broad white
fields of Heaven, searching for Scadach, the hole into
outer darkness. And they had found it. Cold and black it
was, bounded in stone quarried from eternity's darkest re-
cesses, just as the lore-masters had taught her-and full
of the gods' direst enemies.

She had never believed that such things could exist,
creatures of pure evil, shining vessels of emptiness and
despair. But she had seen one stand on the ageless wall of
Scadach, heard its lifeless voice prophesy the destruction

196 Tad Williams

of gods and mortals alike. All that was wrong lay behind
that wall ... and now the gods were trying to bring the
wall tumbling down.

Maegwin would have guessed that the ways of gods
were mysterious. What she would not have guessed was
just how mysterious they could be.

She raised her voice in song again, still hoping that she
could blot out the disturbing noise, but gave it up after a
few moments. The gods themselves were singing, and
their voices were much stronger than hers.

Why don't they stop? she thought desperately. Why
don't they leave it alone?!

But it was useless to wonder. The gods had their rea-
sons. They always did.

Eolair had long since given up trying to understand the
Sithi. He knew they were not gods, whatever Maegwin's
poor, fevered mind might see, but neither were they a
great deal more comprehensible than the Lords of
Heaven.

The count turned away from the fire, turned his back
on Maegwin. She had been singing to herself, but had
fallen silent. She had a sweet voice, but set against the
chanting of the Peaceful Ones it sounded thin and discor-
dant. It was not her fault. No mortal voice would sound
like much when set against ... this.

The Count of Nad Mullach shivered. The chorus of
Sithi voices rose again. Their music was as impossible to
ignore as were their catlike eyes when they stared you in
the face. The rhythmic song gained in volume, pulsing
like the oar-master's call to his rowers.

The Sithi had been singing for three days, clustered be-
fore the bleak walls of Naglimund in the flurrying snow.
Whatever they were doing, the Noms within the castle
did not ignore them: several times the white-faced de-
fenders had mounted to the tops of the walls and let fly
a volley of arrows. A few of the Sithi had been killed in
these attacks, but they had their own archers. Each time,
the Noms were driven from the walls and the Sithi voices
would rise once more.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER           197

"I don't know that I can stand this much longer,
Eolair." Isom appeared out of the whirl of mist, his beard
Jeweled with frost. "I had to go hunting just to get away,
but the noise followed me as far as I went." He dropped
a hare onto the ground near the fire. Red dribbled from
the arrow-wound in its side, staining the snow. "Good
day. Lady," the duke's son said to Maegwin. She had
stopped singing, but did not look up at him. She seemed
incapable of seeing anything but the wavering fire.

Eolair received Isorn's curious look and shrugged. "It
is not really such a terrible sound."

The Rimmersman raised his eyebrows. "No, Eolair, it
is beautiful in its way. But it is too beautiful for me, too
strong, too strange. It is making me ill."

The count frowned. "I know. The rest of the men are
unsettled, too. More than unsettled-frightened."

"But why are the Sithi doing this? They are risking
their lives-two more were killed yesterday! If this is
some fairy ceremony they must perform, can they not
sing out of bowshot?"

Eolair shook his head helplessly. "I do not know.
Bagba bite me, I do not know anything, Isom."

As continual as the noise of the ocean, the voices of the
Sithi washed across the camp.'

Jiriki came in the dark before dawn. The slumbering
coals picked out his sharp features in scarlet light.

"This morning," he said, then squatted, staring at the
embers. "Before noon."

Eolair robbed his eyes, trying to bring himself fully
awake. He had been sleeping fitfully, but sleeping none-
theless. "This ... this morning? What do you mean?"

"The battle will begin." Jiriki turned and gave Eolair a
look that on a more familiar face might have betokened
pity. "It will be dreadful."

"How do you know that the battle will start then?"

"Because that is what we have been working toward.
We cannot fight a siege-we are too few. Those you call
Noms are fewer than we are, but they sit inside a great
shell of stone, and we do not have the engines mortals

198 Tad Williams

make for such battles nor the time to build them. So we
will do it our way."

"Does it have something to do with the singing?"

Jiriki nodded in his oddly avian way. "Yes. Make your
men ready. And tell them this: whatever they may think
or see, they are fighting against living creatures. The
Hikeda'ya are like you and like us-they bleed. They
die." He fixed Eclair with an even, golden stare. "You
will tell them that?"

"I will." Eolair shivered and leaned closer to the fire,
warming his hands before the dreaming coals. "Tomor-
row?"

Jiriki nodded again, then stood. "We will have our best
chance while the sun is high. If we are lucky, it will be
over before the darkness comes."

Eolair couldn't imagine rugged Naglimund being
brought down in so short a time. "And if it's not over?
What, then?"

"Things will be ... difficult." Jiriki took a step back-
ward and vanished into the mist.

Eolair sat before the coals for a little while, clenching
his teeth to keep them from chattering. When he was sure
he would not embarrass himself, he went to waken Isom.

A

Buffeted by brisk winds, the gray and red tent rode the
peak of the hill like a sailing ship breasting a high wave.
A few other tents shared the hilltop; many more were
scattered down the slope and clustered in the valley. Be-
yond them lay Lake Clodu, a vast blue-green mirror, still
as a contented beast.

Tiamak stood outside the tent, lingering despite the
chill breeze. So many people, so much movement, so
much life! It was disturbing to look down on that great
sea of people, frightening to know that he was so close to
the grinding stones of History, but still it was somehow
hard to turn away. His own little story had been quite
swallowed up by the great tales that stalked through
Osten Ard in these days. It sometimes seemed that a sack

TO GREEN ANOEL TOWER           199

full of the mightiest dreams and nightmares had been
emptied out. That Tiamak's own small accomplishments,
fears, and desires seemed likely to be ignored was the
best he could hope for. An equally strong possibility was
that they might be trampled entirely.

Shivering a little, he finally lifted the tent flap and
stepped through.

It was not, as he had feared when Jeremias brought him
the prince's summons, a council of war. Such things made
him feel completely useless. Only a few waited-Josua,
Sir Camaris, Duke Isgrimnur, all seated on stools,
Vorzheva propped up in her bed, and the Sitha-woman
Aditu, cross-legged on the floor at Vorzheva's side. The
only other person in the tent was young Jeremias, who
had apparently been very busy this afternoon. Just now,
he was standing before the prince, trying to look attentive
while gasping slightly for air.

"Thank you for your haste, Jeremias," said Josua. "I
understand completely. Please just go back and tell
Strangyeard to come when he can. After that, you are re-
leased."

"Yes, your Highness." Jeremias bowed, then headed for
the door.

Tiamak, who was still standing in the doorway, smiled
at the approaching youth. "I did not have a chance to ask
you before, Jeremias; how is Leieth? Is there any
change?"

The youth shook his head. He tried to keep his voice
even, but the pain was obvious. "Just the same.. She never
wakes up. She drinks a little water, but takes no food." He
rubbed fiercely at his eye. "No one can do anything."

"I am sorry," said Tiamak gently.

"It's not your fault." Jeremias moved uncomfortably
from one foot to the other. "I have to go take Josua's
message back to Father Strangyeard."

"Of course." Tiamak stepped out of the way. Jeremias
slipped past him and was gone.

Tiamak," the prince called, "please come and join us."
He pointed to an empty stool.

200

Tad Williams

When the Wrannaman was seated, Josua looked
around. "This is very difficult," he said at last. "I am go-
ing to do a terrible thing and I apologize for it now. Noth-
ing can excuse it but the strength of our need." He turned
to Camaris. "My friend, please forgive me. If I could do
this some other way, I would. Aditu feels that we should
know whether you went to the Sithi home of,Jao
e-Tinukai'i, and if you did, why."

Camaris raised his tired eyes to Josua's. "Is a man per-
mitted no secrets?" he asked heavily. "I promise you,
Prince Josua, that it is nothing to do with this struggle
against the Storm King. On the honor of my knighthood."

"But someone who does not know all the history of our
people-and Ineluki was one of us, once-may not know
all the ties of blood and fable." Aditu spoke without
Josua's reluctance, clearly and forcefully- "Everyone here
knows you are an honorable man, Camaris, but you may
not realize whether what you have seen or learned is use-
ful."

"Will you not tell just me, Camaris?" Josua asked.
"You know I hold your honor as high as my own. You
certainly need not spill all your secrets to a room full of
people, if that is what you fear, even though they are your
friends and allies."

Camaris looked at him for a moment. His gaze seemed
to soften; he struggled visibly with some impulse, but af-
ter a moment he shook his head violently. "No. A thou-
sand pardons. Prince Josua, but to my shame I cannot.
There are some things that even the Canon of Knighthood
cannot drive me to."

Isgrimnur was wringing his large hands together,
clearly pained by Camaris' discomfort. Tiamak had not
seen the Rimmersman so unhappy since they had left
Kwanitupul. "And me, Camaris?" the duke asked. "I have
known you longer by far than anyone here. We both
served the old king. If it is something to do with Prester
John, you can share it with me."

Camaris sat straighter, but it seemed to be weak oppo-
sition to something that was bending him down inside. "I

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          201

cannot, Isgrimnur. It would put too great a burden on our
friendship. Please, ask me not."

Tiamak felt the tension in the room. The old knight
seemed to be backed into a comer no one else could see.

"Can you not leave him alone?" Vorzheva's voice was
raw. She draped her hands over her round belly as though
to protect the child from so much unpleasantness and sor-
row.

Why am I here? Tiamak wondered- Because f traveled
with him when he was witless? Because I am a
Scrollbearer? With Geloe dead and Binabik gone, the
League is a sorry collection just now. And where is
Strangyeard?

A thought suddenly came to him. "Prince Josua?"

The prince looked up. "Yes, Tiamak?"

"Forgive me. This is not my place, and I do not know
all the customs ..'." he hesitated, "but you Aedonites
have a tradition of confession, do you not?"

Josua nodded. "Yes."

He Who Always Steps on,Sand, Tiamak prayed silently,
let me walk the right path now!

The Wrannaman turned to Camaris. The old knight, for
all his dignified bearing, looked back at him with the
eyes of a hunted animal. "Could you not tell your story
to a priest," Tiamak asked him, "-perhaps Father
Strangyeard, if he is the proper kind of holy man? That
way, if I understand things rightly, your story would be
between you and God. But also, Strangyeard knows as
much about the Great Swords and our struggle as any
man living. He could at least tell the rest of us whether
we should truly look elsewhere for answers."

Josua slapped his hand on his knee. "You are indeed a
Scrollbearer, Tiamak. You have a subtle mind."
Tiamak stored Josua's compliment away to be appreci-
ated later and kept his gaze on the old knight.

Camaris stared. "I do not know," he said slowly. His
chest rose and fell as he took a long breath. "I have not
told this story, even in the confessional. That is part of
my shame-but not the greatest part."

"Everyone has shame, everyone has done wrong."

202

Tad Williams

Isgrimnur was obviously growing a little impatient- "We
do not want to drag this out of you, Camaris. We only
wish to know whether any dealings you might have had
with the Sithi can answer some of our questions. Damn
it!" he added as an afterthought.

A wintry smile moved across Camaris' face. "You were
always admirably forward, Isgrimnur." The smile fell
away, revealing a terrible, trapped emptiness. "Very well.
Send for the priest."

"Thank you, Camaris-" Josua stood up. "Thank you.
He is praying at young Leieth's bedside. I will fetch him
myself."

Camaris and Strangyeard had walked far down the hill
together. Tiamak stood in the doorway of Josua's tent and
watched them, wondering despite the praise of his clever-
ness if he had done the right thing. Perhaps something he
had heard Miriamele say was correct: they might have
done Camaris no favor by waking him from his witless
state. And forcing him to dredge up such obviously pain-
ful memories seemed no kinder.

The pair, the tall knight and the priest, stood for a long
time on the windy hillside-long enough for a long bank
of clouds to roll past and finally reveal the pale afternoon
sun. At last Strangyeard turned and started back up the
hill; Camaris remained, staring out across the valley to
the gray mirror of Lake Clodu. The knight seemed carved
in stone, something that might wear away to a featureless
post but would still be standing in that spot a century
from now.

Tiamak leaned into the tent. "Father Strangyeard is
coming."

The priest struggled up the hill hunched over, whether
against the cold or because he now bore the burden of
Camaris' secrets, Tiamak could not guess. Certainly the
look on his face as he made his way up the last few ells
bespoke a man who had heard things he would have been
happier not knowing.

"Everyone is waiting for you. Father Strangyeard,"
Tiamak told him.
TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          203

The archivist nodded his head distractedly. His eye was
cast down, as though he could not walk without watching
where he set his feet. Tiamak let him pass, then followed
him into the comparative warmth of the tent.

"Welcome back, Strangyeard," said Josua. "Before you
begin, tell me: how is Camaris? Should we send someone
to him?"

The priest looked up in startlement, as though it was a
surprise to hear a human voice. The look he gave Josua
was curiously fearful, even for the timid archivist. "I ...
I do not know. Prince Josua. I do not know much ..,
much of anything at this moment."

"I'll go see to him," Isgrimnur grumbled, levering him-
self up off the stool.

Father Strangyeard raised his hand. "He ... wishes to
be alone, I think." He fidgeted with his eye-patch for a
moment, then ran his fingers through his sparse hair- "Oh,
merciful Usires. Poor souls."

"Poor souls?" said Josua- "What are you saying,
Strangyeard? Can you tell us anything?"

The archivist wrung his hands. "Camaris was in Jao
e-Tinukai'i. That much ... oh, my ... that much he told
me before he asked for the sea^of confession, knowing
that I would tell you. But the reason, and what happened
there, are locked behind the Door of the Ransomer." His
stare wandered around the room as if it hurt him to look
at anything too long. Then his eye fell on Vorzheva, and
for some reason lingered there as he talked. "But this
much I can say, I believe: I do not think that his experi-
ences have aught to do with the present situation, nor is
there anything to be learned from them about the Storm
King, or the Three Great Swords, or any of the other
things you need to know to fight this war. Oh, merciful
Usires. Oh, dear." He patted at his thin red hair again-
"Forgive me. Sometimes it is hard to remember that I am
merely the doorkeeper of the Ransomer, and that the bur-
den is not mine to bear, but God's. Ah, but it is hard right
now."

Tiamak stared. His fellow Scrollbearer looked as

204

Tad Williams

though he had been visited by vengeful spirits- The
Wrannaman moved closer to Strangyeard.

"Is that all?" Josua seemed disappointed. "Are you cer-
tain that the things he knows cannot help us?"
"I am not certain of anything but pain. Prince Josua,"
the archivist said quietly but with surprising firmness.
"But I truly think it unlikely, and I know for certain that
to force anything more from that man would be cruel'be-
yond belief, and not just to him."

"Not just to him?" Isgrimnur said. "What does that
mean?"

"Enough, please." Strangyeard seemed almost angry-
something Tiamak had not imagined possible. "I have
told you what you needed to know. Now I would like to
leave."

Josua was taken aback. "Of course. Father Strangyeard."

The priest nodded. "May God watch over us all."

Tiamak followed Strangyeard out through the tent door.
"Is there something I can do?" he asked. "Perhaps just
walk with you?"

The archivist hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. That would
be kind."

Camaris was gone from the spot where he had stood;

Tiamak looked for him, but saw no sign.

When they had traveled some way down the hill,
Strangyeard spoke in a musing voice- "I understand now
... why a man would wish to drink himself into oblivion.
I find it tempting myself at this moment."

Tiamak raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"Perhaps drunkenness and sleep are the only ways God
has given us to forget," Strangyeard continued. "And
sometimes forgetting is the only cure for pain."

Tiamak considered. "In a way, Camaris was as one
asleep for two score years."

"And   we awakened him." Strangyeard smiled sadly.
"Or,   I should say. God allowed us to awaken him. Per-
haps   there is a reason ^or all this. Perhaps there will be
some   result beside sorrow after all."

He did not, the Wrannaman thought, sound as though
he believed it.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER            205

Guthwulf paused and let the air wash over him, trying
to decide which of the passageways led upward-for it
was upward that the sword-song was leading him. His
nostrils twitched, sniffing for the faintest indication from
the damp tunnel air as to which way he should go. His
fingers traveled back and forth along the stone walls on
either side, questing like eyeless crabs.
Disembodied, alien speech washed over him once
more, words that he did not hear so much as feel. He
shook his head, trying to drive them from his brain. They
were ghosts, he knew, but he had learned that they could
not harm him, could not touch him. The cluttering voices
only interfered with what he truly wanted to hear. They
were not real. The sword was real, and it was calling.

He had first felt the pull return several days before.

As he awakened into the confusion of blind solitude, as
he had so many times, a thread of compelling melody had
followed him up out of sleep into his waking blackness.
It was more than Just another of his pitiful dreams: this
was a powerful feeling, frightful and yet comfortably fa-
miliar, a song without words or melody that rang in his
head and wrapped him with tendrils of longing. It tugged
at him so strongly that he scrambled clumsily to his feet,
eager as a young swain called by his beloved. The sword!
It was back, it was near!

Only as the last clinging remnants of his slumbers left
him did he remember that the sword was not alone.

It was never alone- It belonged to Elias, his once-
friend, now bitter enemy. Much as Guthwulf ached to be
near it, to bask in its song as he would the warmth of a
fire, he knew he would have to approach cautiously. Mis-
erable as his current life was, he preferred it to what Elias
would do to him if he was captured-or worse, what Elias
would let that serpent Pryrates do to him.

It never occurred to him that it would be even better
simply to leave the sword alone. The song of it was like

206 Tad Williams

the splash of a stream to a traveler dying of thirst. It drew
him, and he had no choice but to follow its call.

Still, some animal cunning remained. As he felt his
way through the well-learned tunnels, he knew he needed
not only to find Elias and the sword, but also to approach
them in such a way so as to avoid discovery and capture,
as he had managed once before to spy on the king from
a shelf of rock above the foundry floor. To this end, he
followed the sword's compelling summons but remained
at as great a distance as he could, like a hawk circling its
master on a long trace. But trying to resist the complete
pull was maddening. The first day he followed the sword,
Guthwulf forgot completely to go to the spot where the
woman regularly left food for him. By the second day-
which, to the blind Earl of Utanyeat, was whatever came
between one sleep and the next-the sword's call beating
within him like a second heartbeat had almost dissolved
the memory that such a spot even existed. He ate what
crawling things his groping hands encountered, and drank
from any moving trickle of water he could find. He had
learned in his first weeks in the tunnels what happened
when he drank from standing pools.

Now, after three sleeps full of sword-dreams, he had
wandered far beyond any of the passageways familiar to
him. The stones he felt beneath his hands had never met
his touch before; the tunnels themselves, but for the
always-present phantom voices and the equally constant
pull of the Great Sword, seemed completely alien.

He had some small idea of how long he had been
searching for the sword this time, and, in a rare moment
of clear thinking, he wondered what the king was doing
down in the hidden places beneath the castle for such a
long time.

A moment later, a wild, glorious thought came to him.

He's lost the sword. He's lost it down here somewhere,
and it's just sitting, waiting/or whoever finds it! Waiting
for me! Me!

He did not even realize that he was slavering in his
dusty beard. The thought of having the sword all to
himself-to touch, to listen to, to love and to worship-

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

207

was so horrifyingly pleasurable that he took a few steps
and then fell to the floor, where he lay quivering until
darkness took his remaining senses.

After he had regained his wits, Guthwulf rose and wan-
dered, then slept once more. Now he was awake again,
and standing before the branching of two tunnels, trying
to decide which one was most likely to lead him upward.
He knew, somehow, that the sword was above him, }ust as
a mole beneath the ground knows which way to dig to
reach the surface. In other lucid moments he had worried
that perhaps he was grown so sensitive to the sword's
song that it was leading him upward to the king's very
throne room, where he would be caught and slaughtered
just as a mole would be if it dug its way up into the ken-
nels.

But even though he had been moving steadily upward,
he had started very deep. He felt sure the rise had not
been anything so great as he feared. He was also certain
that in his roundabout way he was moving ever outward,
away from the core of the castle. No, the beautiful, terri-
fying thing that drew him, the living, singing blade, must
be somewhere here beneath the earth, coffined in rock
just as he was. And when he found it, he would not be
lonely any more. He only had to decide which of these
tunnels to follow....

Guthwulf raised his hands and reflexively rubbed at his
blind eyes. He felt very weak. When was the last time he
had eaten? What if the woman gave up on him and
stopped putting out food? It had been so nice to eat real
food....

But if I find the sword, if I have it all to myself, he
gloated, / won't care about any of that.

He cocked his head. There was a scratching noise just
beyond him somewhere, as though something were
trapped inside the stone- He had heard that noise
before-in fact, he heard it ever more frequently of late-
but it was nothing to do with what he sought.

The scratching ended, and still he stood in painful inde-
cision before the forking tunnels. Even when he put down

208 Tad Williams

stones for markers, it was so easy to become lost, but he
was certain that one of these passages led upward to the
heart of the song-the crooning, sucking, soul-drowning
melody of the Great Sword. He did not want to go the
wrong way and spend another endless time trying to find
his way back. He was weak with hunger, numb with wea-
riness.

He might have stood for an hour or a day. At last, be-
ginning as gently as a dust devil, a wind came tugging at
his hair, a puff of breeze from the right-hand turning.
Then, a moment later, a flurry of somethings welled up
out of the tunnel and floated past him-the spirits that
haunted the dark nether-roads. Their voices echoed in his
skull, dim and somehow hopeless.

... The Pool. We must seek him at the Pool. He will
know what to do ...

Sorrow. They have called down the final sorrow ...

As the twittering things blew past, blind Guthwulf
slowly smiled. Whatever they were, spirits of the dead or
bleak products of his own madness, they always came to
him out of the depths, from the deepest, oldest parts of
the labyrinth. They came from below ... and he wished
to climb.

He turned and shuffled into the left-hand tunnel-

A

The remains of Naglimund's massive gate had been
plugged with rubble, but since it was lower than the sur-
rounding wall and the piles of broken stone offered pur-
chase for climbing feet, it seemed to Count Eclair the
logical place for an assault to begin. He had been sur-
prised when the Sithi had concentrated themselves before
a blank and undamaged stretch of wall.

He left Maegwin and the contingent of anxious mortal
warriors under Isom's command, then crept up the snowy
hillside to join Jiriki and Likimeya in the shell of a bro-
ken building a few hundred ells from Naglimund's out-
wall. Likimeya gave him a cursory glance, but Jiriki
nodded.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER 209

"It is almost time," the Sitha said. "We have called for
the m'yon rashi-the strikers."

Eolair stared at the contingent of Sithi before the wall.
They had stopped singing, but had not moved away. He
wondered why they should risk the arrows of the Norns
when whatever their singing was intended for seemed fin-
ished. "Strikers? Do you mean battering rams?"

Jiriki shook his head, smiling faintly. "We have no his-
tory of such things. Count Eolair. I imagine we could
devise such an engine, but we decided to fall back on
what we know instead." His look darkened. "Or rather,
what we learned from the Tinukeda'ya." He gestured.
"Look, the m'yon rashi come."

A quartet of Sithi were approaching the wall. Although
he did not recognize them, Eolair thought they looked no
different than the hundreds of other Peaceful Ones
camped in Naglimund's shadow. All were slender and
golden-skinned. Like most of their fellows, no two
seemed quite alike in the color of either their armor or the
hair that streamed from beneath their helms; the m'yon
rashi gleamed against the snow like misplaced tropical
birds. The only difference the count could see between
these and any other of Jiriki's people was that each bore
a dark staff long as a walking-stick. These staffs were of
the same odd gray-black stuff as Jiriki's sword Indreju;

each was knobbed with a globe of some blue crystalline
stone.

Jiriki turned from the Hemystirman and called out an
order. His mother rose from her crouch and added words
of her own. A contingent of Sithi archers moved up until
they surrounded the group near the walls. The bowmen
nocked arrows and drew, then froze in place, eyes scan-
ning the empty walls.

The leader of the m'yon rashi, a female Sitha with
grass-green hair and armor of a slightly deeper green,
lifted her stick and slowly swung it toward the wall as if
she forced it against the flowing current of a river. When
the blue gem struck, all the m'yon rashf chanted a single
loud syllable. Eolair felt a tremor in his bones, as though

210                   Tad Williams

a tremendous weight had struck the ground nearby. For a
moment the earth seemed to shift beneath him.

"What... ?" he gasped, struggling to find his balance.
Before him, Jiriki raised a hand for silence.
The other three Sithi stepped forward to join the
woman in green. As they all chanted, each in turn brought
his staff forward to strike in a rough triangle around the
first; each syrup-slow impact reverberated through the
earth and up through the feet of Eolair and the other ob-
servers.

The Count of Nad Mullach stared. For a dozen ells up
and down the wall from where the m'yon rashi stood, the
snow slid off the stones. Around the jeweled heads of the
four staffs, Eolair saw that the stone had turned a lighter
shade of gray, as though it had sickened somehow-or as
though it were covered with a web of fine cracks.

Now the Sithi lifted their striking-rods away from the
wall. Their chanting grew louder. The leader struck again,
a little more swiftly this time. The silent thunder of her
blow rolled through the icy ground. The rest followed
suit, each strike emphasized by a loudly chanted word. As
they struck for the third time, bits of stone began to
shiver loose from the top of the high wall, falling down to
vanish into the high snow.

The count could not contain his astonishment. "I have
never seen the like!"

Jiriki turned, his high-boned face serene. "You should
go back to your folk. It will be only a moment more and
they should be ready."

Eolair could not take his eyes from the strange specta-
cle. He walked backward down the hill, steadying himself
with his arms outstretched whenever the shifting ground
threatened to topple him from his feet.

At the fourth impact, a great section of the wall crum-
bled and fell inward, leaving a hole at the top that looked
as though some huge creature had taken a bite from it.
Eolair at last realized the imminence of what Jiriki had
told him and hurried the rest of the way down to Isorn
and the waiting Hemystiri.

"Ready!" he cried. "Be ready!"

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER             211

There was a fifth shuddering, the strongest yet Eolair
lost his balance and fell forward, tumbling down the hill
until he rolled to a stop, his nose and mouth stinging and
cold from the snow. He half-expected his troop to laugh,
but they were staring wide-eyed up the hill past him.

Eolair looked back. Naglimund's great wall, as thick as
the height of two men, was dissolving like a wave-struck
sand castle. There was a loud rasping of stone on stone,
but that was all. The wall fell down into the banks of
white with an eerily muffled .sound. Great gouts of snow
were thrown up everywhere, so that a fog of white flakes
filled the air, obscuring all.
When it cleared, the m'yon rashf had retreated. A hole
a dozen ells across was opened into Naglimund and its
shadows. Slowly, a sea of dark figures was filling that
hole. Eyes gleamed. Spear-points glimmered.

Eolair struggled to his feet. "Men of Hernystir!" he
cried. 'To me! The hour has come!"

But the count's troops did not budge, and instead it was
the horde within Naglimund that came surging out
through the breach, swift and uncountable as termites
swarming from a shattered nest.

There was a great clang of l>lade on shield from the
Sithi ranks, then a flight of arrows hissed out, felling
many of the first Noras rushing down the hillside. Some
of the Noms carried bows as well, and clambered up onto
the castle wall to shoot, but for the most part neither side
seemed content to wait. Wth the eagerness of lovers, the
ancient kindred rushed forward to meet each other.

The battle before Naglimund quickly became a scene
of horrible confusion. Through the swirling snow, Eolair
saw that more than the slender Noms had issued from the
crack in the wall. There were giants, too, creatures tall as
two men and covered with gray-white fur, yet armored
like humans, each bearing a great club which crushed
bones like dry sticks.

Before the count could even retreat toward his men,
one of the Norns was upon him. Incredibly, though a
helm hid most of his pale face and armor covered his
torso, the black-eyed creature wore no shoes, his long feet

212                  Tad Williams

carrying him across the powdery snow as though it were
solid stone. He was swift as a lynx. As Eolair stared in
amazement, he almost lost his head to the Nom's first
sweeping blow.

Who could fathom such madness? Eolair pushed all
thoughts but survival from his mind.

The Norn bore only a small arm shield, and with his
light sword was far faster than the Count of Nad Mullach-
Eolair found himself instantly plunged into a defensive
struggle, wading backward down the hill, encumbered by
his heavy armor and shield, almost betrayed several times
by treacherous footing. He fended off several blows, but
the Nom's exultant grimace told Eolair that it was only a
matter of time before his sinewy opponent found a fatal
opening.

Abruptly, the Nom stood straight, his jet eyes puzzled.
A moment later he sagged forward and fell. A blue-
fletched arrow quivered in the back of his neck.

"Keep your men together. Count Eolair!" Jiriki waved
his bow as he shouted from up the slope. "If they are sep-
arated from each other, they will lose heart- And
remember-these foes can bleed and die!" The Sitha
turned his horse and spurred back into the thick of battle;

in a moment he was obscured by snow and the twisting
shapes of battle.

Eolair hurried downhill toward the Hemystiri. The hill-
side echoed with the shrieks of horses and men and even
stranger creatures.

The confusion was almost complete. Eolair and Isom
had only just managed to rally their men for a charge up
the hill when two of the white giants appeared at the top
of the rise, carrying between them the trunk of a tree.
With a choking roar, the giants came rushing down on
Eolair's men, using the tree like a scythe to crush all who
were caught between them. Bones shattered and red-
soaked forms vanished beneath the churned snow. A ter-
rified Hemystirman managed to put an arrow into one
giant's eye, then a few more feathered the second until it
was reeling. Still, two more men were smashed to death

TO    GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

213

by the flailing tree trunk before the remaining Hemystiri
dragged the giant down and killed him.

Eolair looked up to see that most of the Noms were en-
gaged with the Sithi. Horrible as was the chaos of battle,
the count was still compelled to stop and stare. Never
since the dawn of time had such a thing been seen, the
immortals at war. Those that were visible through the
snow seemed to move with a ghastly, serpentine swift-
ness, feinting, leaping, swinging their dark swords like
they were willow wands. Many contests seemed settled
before the first blow was struck; indeed, in many of the
single combats, after much dancelike movement, only one
blow was struck-the blow that ended the fight.

There was a sour skirling of pipes from atop the hill-
side. Eolair looked up to see what seemed to be a line of
trumpeters atop the stone, their long, tubelike instruments
lifted to the gray sky. But the piping noise came from
some musicians in the shadows of Naglimund below, for
when the Noms atop the wall puffed their cheeks and
blew, what came from their tubes was not sound but a
'cloud of dust as orange as sunset.

Eolair watched in sickened fascination. What could it
be? Poison? Or just some other incomprehensible ritual of
the immortals?

As the plume of orange floated down across the hill-
side, the tide of battle seemed to surge and writhe beneath
it-but no one fell. If poison, the count thought, it was of
a more subtle sort than he had heard of. Then Eolair felt
a burning in his own throat and nostrils- He gasped for
breath, and for a moment thought he would surely choke
and die. A moment later he could breathe again. Then the
sky dropped down upon him, the shadows began to
stretch, and the snow seemed to catch fire.

Eolair was filled with a fear that blossomed like a
great, black, ice-cold flower. Men were screaming all
around him. He was screaming, too. And the Norns that
now came surging forward out of the ruined shell of
Naglimund were demons that even the^riests had never
dreamed. The count and his men turned to run, but the

214

Tad Williams

Sithi behind them, merciless and golden-eyed, were just
as terrifying as their corpse-white cousins.

Trapped! Eolair thought, all else subsumed in panic.
Trapped! Trapped! Trapped!

Something grabbed him and he lashed out. scratching
with his nails to pull free of the horrible thing, a monster
with a great yellow-tendriled face and shrieking mouth.
He raised his sword to kill it, but something else struck
him from behind and he fell sideways into the cold white-
ness with the monstrous thing still clutching at him, still
clawing at his arms and face. He was pushed face forward
into the freezing snow, and though he struggled, he could
not get free.

What is happening? he suddenly thought. There were
monsters, yes, giants and Noms-but nothing so near.
And the Sithi-he remembered how ghastly they had
looked, how he had been certain that they intended to trap
Eolair and the other Hemysriri between themselves and
the Noms, then crush the mortals-the Sithi are not our
foes.. . !

The weight on his back had lessened. He slipped free
and sat up. There was no monster. Isom crouched in the
snow beside him, hanging his head like a sick calf. Al-
though the madness of battle still raged around him, and
his own men were snapping at each other and struggling
brother against brother like crazed dogs, Eolair felt the
terrible fear ebbing away. He reached up and pawed at his
chilled face, then held out his gloved hand and stared at
the orange-tinted snow.

"The snow washed it away," he said. "Isom! It is some
poison they have blown at us! The snow washes it away!"

Isom retched and nodded weakly. "Mine has come off,
too." He gasped and spat. "I tried ... to kill you."

"Quickly," Eolair said, struggling to his feet. "We must
try and get it off the others. Come!" He scooped up an
armful of snow, scraping off the thin sprinkling of orange
dust, and staggered to a small knot of squealing, strug-
gling men nearby. They were all bleeding, but most only
shallowly from wounds made by nails and teeth: although
the poison had maddened them, it had made them clumsy

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER             215

and ineffectual as well. Eolair smashed clean snow into
each face he could reach.

After he and Isom had managed to bring some sem-
blance of sanity back to the nearest men, they hurriedly
explained and sent those they had rescued off to help oth-
ers. One man did not get up. He had lost both eyes and
was bleeding to death, staining all the ground around him.
Eolair pulled the man's cloak over his ruined face and
then stooped to gather more snow.

The Sithi did not seem to be anywhere near as badly
stricken by the dusty poison as Eolair and his men. Some
of the immortals closest to the walls seemed dazed and
slowed, but none showed symptoms of the unrestrained
madness that had swept the Hemystiri. Still, the hillside
was full of dreadful sights.

Likimeya and a few Sithi were surrounded by a com-
pany of Nom foot soldiers, and though Jiriki's mother and
her companions were mounted and able to deal deadly
blows from above, one by one they were being pulled
down into a mass of white hands that waved and swayed
like some terrible plant.

Yizashi Grayspear faced a howling giant who already
held a crushed Sithi body in each hand. The Sitha horse-
man, his face as sternly impassive as a hawk's, spurred
forward.

Jiriki   and two others had knocked another of the   giants
to his   knees, and now hacked at the still-living   monster as
though   they butchered an ox. Great jets of blood   foun-
tained   up, covering Jiriki and his companions in   a sticky
mist.

The limp body of Zinjadu, her pale-blue hair clotted
with red, had been hoisted on the spears of a group of
Noms as they ran back toward Naglimund's walls in tri-
umph. Chekai'so and dark Kuroyi rode them down before
they could bear their prize to safety, and each killed three
of their white-skinned brethren, although both took many
wounds. When they had slaughtered the Noms, Chekai'so
Amber-Locks draped Zinjadu's corpse across his saddle.
His own streaming blood mixed with hers as he and
Kuroyi bore her back toward the Sithi camp.

2l6

Tad Williams
*    *    *

The day wore on, full of madness and misery. Behind
the mist and snow, the sun rose past noon and began to
fall. The broken west wall of Naglimund began to glow
with the light of a murky afternoon, and the snows grew
even more red.

Maegwin walked along the edge of the battle like a
ghost-as indeed she was. At first she had hidden behind
the trees, afraid to witness such horrible things, but even-
tually her better sense had led her out again.

If I am dead, then what do I fear?

But it was hard to look at the bloody forms that lay
scattered about the snowy hillside and not fear death.

Gods do not die, and mortals die but once, she reas-
sured herself. When this is settled, they will all rise again.

But if they should all rise again, then what was the
point of this battle? And if the gods could not die, then
what did they fear from the demon hordes out of
Scadach? It was puzzling.

Pondering, Maegwin walked slowly beside slayers and
slain. Her cloak fluttered behind her, and her feet left
small, even prints in the froth of white and scarlet.

9

The Tftird: House

Simon WOS furious. They had walked into a trap, as
sweetly and sfupidly as spring lambs led to the killing
block.

"Can you move your hands at all?" he whispered to
Miriamele. His own wrists were bound very securely: the
two Fire Dancers who had done the job had some experi-
ence with knots.

She shook her head. He could barely see her in the
deepening night.

They were kneeling side by side at the center of the
forest clearing. Their arms had been tied behind their
backs and their ankles roped. Seeing Miriamele trussed
and helpless, the idea of brute animals readied for slaugh-
ter returned and black anger rose inside Simon once
more.

I'm a knight! Doesn't that mean anything? How could
I let this happen?

He should have known. But he had been busy strutting
like a mooncalf over the man Roelstan's compliments.
"You have seen this knight wield a sword," the traitor had
said. "He has naught to fear from Fire Dancers."

And I believed him. I am not fit to be a knight. I am a
disgrace to Josua and Morgenes and Binabik and every-
one who's ever tried to teach me anything. .
Simon engaged in another futile struggle with his
bonds, but the ropes held him in an unbreakable grip.

"You know something of these Fire Dancers, don't
you?" he whispered to Miriamele. "What are they going

218 Tad Williams

to do with us? What do they mean when they say they're
going to give us to the Storm King? Bum us?"

He felt Miriamele shudder against him. "I don't know."
Her voice was flat, dead. "I suppose so."

Simon's terror and anger were for a moment overcome
by a stab of regret. "I let you down, didn't I?" he said
quietly, "Some protector."

"It's not your fault. We were tricked."

"I wish I could get my hands on that Roelstan's throat.
His wife was trying to tell us something was wrong, but
I was too stupid to listen. But he-he... '"

"He was frightened, too." Miriamele spoke as from a
great and lofty height, as though the things of which she
spoke were of little import. "I don't know if I could give
my own life up to save the lives of strangers. Why should
I hate those two for not being able to?"

" 'S Bloody Tree." Simon didn't have the strength to
waste pity on treacherous Roelstan and Gullaighn. He had
to save Miriamele somehow, had to burst these bonds and
fight his way free. But he didn't have the slightest idea
how to begin.

The business of the Fire Dancer camp went on around
them. Several white-robed folk were tending the fire and
preparing a meal; others were feeding the goats and
chickens, while still others sat and talked quietly. There
were even a few women and children among them. But
for the two bound prisoners and the omnipresent gleam of
white robes, it might have been the onset of evening in
any rural steading.

Maefwaru, the Fire Dancers' leader, had taken a trio of
his lieutenants into the large cottage. Simon did not much
wish to think about what they might be discussing.

The evening grew deeper. The white-clad Figures ate a
frugal meal, none of which they offered to share with the
prisoners. The fire danced and fluttered in the wind.

"Get them up." Maefwaru's eyes flicked across Simon
and Miriamele, then rolled up to the blue-black sky. "It is
nearing the time."

Two of his helpers dragged the prisoners to their feet.
TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER              219

Simon's feet were numb, and it was difficult to balance
with his ankles tied together; he swayed and would have
fallen if the Fire Dancer behind him had not grabbed his
arms and jerked him upright once more. Beside him,
Miriamele also teetered. Her captor wrapped an arm
around her, handling her as casually as if she had been a
log.

"Don't you touch her," Simon snarled.

Miriamele gave him a tired look. "It does no good, Si-
mon. Let it go."

The Fire Dancer at her side grinned and pawed at her
breasts for a moment, but a sharp sound from Maefwaru
sobered him fast. As the robed man turned to face his
chief, Miriamele hung in his grasp, her face devoid of
feeling.

"Idiot," Maefwaru said harshly. "These are not chil-
dren's toys. They are for Him-for the Master. Do you
understand?"

Miriamele's captor swallowed and nodded rapidly.

"It is time to go." Maefwaru turned and headed for the
edge of the clearing.

The Fire Dancer behind Simon gave him a rough
shove. Simon toppled like a felled tree- His breath flew
out in a great huff and the night swam with points of
light.

"Their legs are tied," the Fire Dancer said slowly.

Maefwaru whirled. "I know that' Take the ropes off
their legs."

"But ... but what if they run?"

'Tie a rope to their arms," said the leader. "Tie the
other end around your waist." He shook his bald head in
thinly-concealed disgust.

Simon felt a flash of hope as the robed man produced
a knife and bent to saw through the knots at his ankles. If
Maefwaru was the only clever one. as seemed to be the
case, perhaps there was some hope after all.

When   he and Miriamele were both able to walk, the
Fire   Dancers tied ropes around both of them, then pushed
them   ahead as though they were balky oxen, prodding
them   with spear-points if they stumbled or lagged. The

220

Tad Williams
spears were oddly formed, short and yet slim-hafted and
very sharp, not quite like anything Simon had seen be-
fore.

Maefwaru stepped through the vegetation at the edge of
the clearing and disappeared, evidently leading them
somewhere out of the clearing. Simon was a little re-
lieved. He had been watching the fire for a long time and
having very bad thoughts about it. At least they would be
taken to some other place; it might be that their chance of
escape would improve. Perhaps there would even be an
opportunity as they traveled- He looked back and was dis-
mayed to see that what seemed like the entire enclave of
Fire Dancers was following them, a line of white trailing
off into the gloom.

What had appeared to be solid forest was instead a
well-packed trail that switched back and forth as it wound
uphill. It was hard to see its progress more than a few ells
ahead: the ground was thick with mist, a grayish murk
that seemed to absorb sound as thoroughly as it masked
sight. But for the muffled tread of two-score feet, the
woods were silent. Not a nightbird sang. Even the wind
had quieted.

Simon's mind was racing, but as quickly as he thought
of plans for escape, he had to abandon each in turn as im-
possible. He and Miriamele were vastly outnumbered and
in an unfamiliar place- Even if they managed to jerk
themselves free from the Fire Dancers who held their
ropes, they would be unable to use their arms for balance
or clearing a path, and would be caught within moments.

He looked back at the princess plodding along behind
him. She looked cold and miserable and drearily resigned
to whatever might come. At least they had let her keep
her cloak. In her only moment of spirit, she had con-
vinced one of their captors to allow her to wear it against
the night breeze. Simon had not been so lucky. His cloak
had gone, along with his sword and Qanuc knife. The
horses and saddlebags had been taken somewhere, too.
The only things left to him now were the clothes he wore
and his life and soul.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          221

And Miriamele's life, too, he thought. / have sworn to
protect it. That is still my responsibility.

There was some comfort in that. While he had breath in
him, he had a purpose,

He was slapped in the face by a hanging branch. He
spat out wet fir needles. Maefwaru was a small ghostly
shape in the murk before him, leading them ever higher.

Where are we going ? Perhaps it would be better if we
never found out.

They stumbled on through the gray mist like damned
souls trying to walk out of Hell.

It seemed they had been walking for hours. The mists
had thinned a little, but me silence was still heavy, the air
thick and damp. Then, as swiftly as the passing of winter
twilight, they emerged from a tangle of trees and found
themselves on the hilltop.

While they had passed through the shadows of the
wooded hill a great wash of clouds had covered the sky
overhead, extinguishing the moon and stars, so that now
the only light came from a few torches and the leaping
flames of a huge bonfire. The summit's sloping ground
bulged with strange vast shapes^ forms limned with flick-
ering red light so that they seemed to move fitfully, like
sleeping giants. Once these might have been pieces of
some great wall or other large structure; now they lay
scattered and broken, smothered beneath a matted carpet
of vines and grass.

In the middle of the wide hilltop one piece of stone had
been cut free from vegetation-a huge pale rock, angular
as an ax head, that jutted to twice the height of a man.
Between the high bonfire and this naked stone stood three
motionless dark-robed shapes. They looked as though
they had been waiting for a long time-perhaps as long as
the rocks themselves had waited. As the Fire Dancers
pushed the prisoners toward the center of the hill, the
dark trio turned, almost in unison.

"Hail, Cloud Children'" Maefwaru shouted. "Hail to
the Master's first Chosen. We have come as He wished."

The black-robed things regarded him silently-

222 Tad Williams

"And we have brought more even than we promised,"
Maefwani continued. "Praise to the Master!" He turned
and waved to his underlings, who hurried Simon and
Miriamele forward; but as they approached the bonfire
and the silent watchers, the Fire Dancers slowed, then
stopped and looked helplessly back to their leader.

'Tie them to that tree, there." Maefwani gestured im-
patiently at the wind-gnarled corpse of a pine standing
some twenty paces from the fire. "Hurry-it is almost
midnight."

Simon grunted in pain as one of their captors pulled his
arms behind his back to secure them to the tree. As soon
as the Fire Dancers had finished and withdrawn, he edged
toward Miriamele until their shoulders touched, in part
because he was frightened, and hungry for a little of her
warmth, but also so that they might more easily whisper
without attracting attention.

"Who are those three dark ones?" he asked under his
breath.
Miriamele shook her head.

The nearest of the black-robed figures slowly turned
toward Maefwani. "And these are for the Master?" it
said. The words were as cold and sharp as the edge of a
knife. Simon felt his legs weaken. There was an unmis-
takable sound to the voice, a sour yet melodic accent he
had heard only in moments of terror ... the hiss of
Stormspike.

"They are," said Maefwani, nodding his blunt head ea-
gerly. "I dreamed of the red-haired one some moons ago.
I know that the Master gave me that dream. He wants this
one."

The robed thing seemed to regard Simon for a moment.
"Perhaps," it said slowly. "But did you bring another as
well, in case the Master has other plans for these? Did
you bring blood for the Binding?"

"I did, oh, yes!" In the presence of these strange be-
ings the cruel Fire Dancer chieftain had become as hum-
ble and ingratiating as an old courtier. "Two who tried to
flee the Master's great promise!" He turned and gestured
to the knot of other Fire Dancers still waiting nervously at

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          223

the edge of the hilltop. There was shouting and a convul-
sion of activity, then a handful of the white-robed figures
dragged two others forward. One of the captured pair had
lost his hood in the struggle.

"God curse you!" shouted Roelstan, sobbing. "You
promised that if we brought you those two we'd be for-
given!"

"You have been forgiven," Maefwani said cheerfully.
"I forgive you your foolishness. But you cannot escape
punishment. No one flees the Master."

Roelstan collapsed, sagging to his knees while the men
around him tried to tug him back onto his feet. His wife
Gullaighn might have fainted; she hung limply in the
arms of her captors.

Simon's heart seemed to rise into his throat; for a mo-
ment, he could not breathe. They were powerless, and
there was no help to be expected this time. They would
die here on this windswept hill-or the Storm King would
take them, as Maefwani had said, which would surely be
unimaginably worse. He turned to look at Miriamele.

The princess seemed half-asleep, her eyes lidded, her
lips moving. Was she praying?

"Miriamele! Those are NomsJ The Storm King's ser-
vants!"

She ignored him, absorbed in her own thoughts.
"Damn you, Miriamele, don't do this! We have to
think-we have to get free!"

"Shut your mouth, Simon!" she hissed.

He was thunderstruck. "What!?"

"I'm trying to get something." Miriamele pushed
against me dead tree, her shoulders moving up and down
as she fidgeted behind her back. "It's at the bottom of the
pocket of my cloak."

"What is it?" Simon strained closer, until his hands
could feel her fingers beneath the cloth. "A knife?"

"No, they took my knife. It's your mirror-the one
Jiriki gave you. I've had it since I cut your hair." Even as
she spoke, he felt the wooden frame slide free from the
pocket and touch his fingers. "Can you take it?"

"What good will it do?*' He gripped it as firmly as he

224 Tad Williams

could. "Don't let go yet, not until I've got it. There." He
tugged it loose, holding it tightly in his bound hands.

"You can call Jiriki!" she said triumphantly. "You said
that it was to be used in direst need."

Simon's momentary elation ebbed. "But it doesn't
work that way. He doesn't just appear. It's not that kind
of magic."

Miriamele was silent for a moment. When she spoke,
she, too, was more subdued. "But you said it brought
Aditu when you were lost in the forest."

"It took her days to find me. We don't have days,
Miri."

"Try it anyway," she said stubbornly. "It can't hurt.
Maybe Jiriki is somewhere close by. It can't hurt!"

"But I can't even see it," Simon protested. "How can I
make it work without being able to look into it?"

"Just try!"

Simon bit back further argument. He took a deep
breath, then forced himself to think of his own face as it
had looked the last time he had seen,it in the Sithi glass.
He could remember things generally, but suddenly could
not remember details-what color were his eyes, exactly?
And the scar on his cheek, the burning mark of dragon's
blood-how long was it? Past the bottom of his nose?

For a brief moment, as the memory of the searing pain
from Igjarjuk's black blood washed through him, he
thought he felt the frame of the looking glass warm be-
neath his ringers. A moment later, it was cold again. He
tried to summon the feeling back, but was unsuccessful.
He kept on fruitlessly for long moments.

"It's no use," he said wearily. "I can't do it."

"You're not trying hard enough," Miriamele snapped.

Simon looked up. The Fire Dancers were paying no at-
tention to Miriamele or him, their interest fixed instead
on the weird scene beside the bonfire. The two renegades,
Roelstan and Gullaighn, had been carried to the'top of the
large stone and forced onto their backs. Their four captors
stood atop the rock holding their ankles, so that the pris-
oners' heads hung down, arms dangling helplessly.
"Usires Aedon!" Simon swore. "Look at that!"

TO GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

225

"Don't look," said Miriamele. "Just use the mirror."

"I told you, I can't. And it wouldn't do any good any-
way." He paused for a moment, watching the contorted,
upside-down mouth of Roelstan, who was shouting inco-
herently. The three Noms stood before him, looking up as
if at some interesting bird sitting on a branch.

"Bloody Tree," Simon swore again, then dropped the
mirror to the ground.

"Simon!" Miriamele said, horrified. "Have you gone
mad? Pick it up!"

He lifted his foot and ground his heel into the looking
glass. It was very strong, but he hooked it over so that it
was tilted against the tree, then stepped down hard. The
frame did not give, but the crystalline surface broke with
a faint percussive sound; for a moment, the scent of vio-
lets rose around them. Simon kicked it again, scattering
transparent shards.

"You have gone mad!" The princess was in despair.

Simon closed his eyes. Forgive me, Jiriki, he thought.
But Morgenes told me any gift that cannot be thrown
away is not a gift but a trap. He crouched as deeply as he
could, but the rope that held him to the trunk would not
allow his fingers to reach the shattered mirror.

"Can you get to that?" he asked Miriamele.

She stared at him for a moment, then slid herself as
low as she could. She, too, was several handlengths short
of the goal. "No. Why did you do it?"

"It was no good to us," Simon said impatiently. "Not in
one piece, anyway." He caught at one of the larger shards
with his foot and dragged it closer. "Help me."

Arduously, Simon got his toe beneath the piece of crys-
tal and tried to lift it high enough for Miriamele's abbre-
viated reach, but the contortion was too difficult and it
slid away, tumbling to the ground once more. Simon bit
his lip and tried again.

Three times the shard fell free, forcing them to begin
over. Fortunately, the Fire Dancers and the black-robed
Noms seemed caught up in the preparations for their rit-
ual, whatever it might be. When Simon sneaked a glance
toward the center of the clearing, Maefwaru and his min-

226 Tad Williams

ions were on their knees before the stone. Roelstan had
stopped shouting; he made weak sounds and thrashed,
striking his head against the stone. Gullaighn hung mo-
tionless.

This time, as the jagged thing began to slide off his
boot again, Simon lurched to the side and managed to
trap it against the leg of Miriamele's breeches. He pushed
his own leg against it to keep it from falling, then lowered
his foot to the ground before he toppled.

"Now what?" he asked himself.

Miriamele pushed against him, then slowly moved up
onto her toes, lifting the shard higher along Simon's leg. It
sliced through the rough cloth with surprising ease, draw-
ing blood, but Simon remained as still as he could, unwill-
ing to let a little pain deter them. He was impressed by
Miriamele's cleverness.

When she had lifted herself as high as she could, they
moved again so that the crystal fragment rested primarily
on Simon, then Miriamele eased herself back down. Next
it was Simon's turn. The process was excruciatingly slow,
and the crystal itself seemed sharper than any normal
mirror-glass. By the time the shard was almost close
enough for Simon to grasp in his hand, both prisoners had
legs ribboned with blood.

As he strained his fingers toward it, and found it still
just beyond reach, Simon felt the hackles on his neck rise.
Across the hilltop, the Noms had begun to sing-

The melody rose like a serpent rearing above its coils.
Simon found himself starting to slide away into a sort of
dream. The voices were cold and fearsome, but also
strangely beautiful. He thought he heard the hollow echo
of measureless caverns, the musical drip of slow-melting
ice. He could not understand the words, but the ageless
magic of the song was unmistakable. It drew him along
like a subterranean stream, down, down into darkness-...

Simon shook his head, trying to drive the grogginess
away. Neither of the captives dangling across the top of
the rock was struggling now. Beneath them, the Noms
had spread out until they formed a rough triangle around
the jut of stone.

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

227

Simon strained against the rope as hard as he could,
wincing as the hemp bit into his wrists; it tormented his
flesh as though he were bound in smoldering metal.
Miriamele saw the tears form in his eyes and leaned
against him, pushing her head against his shoulder as
though she could somehow force the pain away. Simon
strained, gasping for air. At last, his fingers touched the
cold edge. Just the light contact sliced his skin, but the
thin bright line of pain signaled victory. Simon sighed in
relief.

The Noms' song ended. Maefwaru rose from his kneel-
ing position and made his way forward to the stone.
"Now is the time," he cried. "Now the Master shall see
our loyalty! It is time to call forth His Third House!"

He turned and said something to the Noms in a voice
too low for Simon to hear, but Simon was paying little at-
tention in any case. He grasped the shard of crystal in his
fingers, unmindful of shedding a little more of his own
blood as long as it did not make his hold too slippery,
then turned and began feeling blindly for Miriamele's
bound wrists.

"Don't move," he said.

Maefwaru had been given a long knife that glinted in
the wavering firelight like something from a nightmare-
He stepped to the rock, then reached up and grabbed
Roelstan's hair, pulling it so hard that the captive's ankles
were almost tugged loose from the grip of the Fire Danc-
ers atop the rock. Roelstan raised his hands as if to fight,
but his movements were horribly slow: he might have
been drowning in great depths. Maefwaru pulled the
blade across Roelstan's neck and stepped back, but could
not avoid all the blood that spurted free; darkness spat-
tered his face and white robe,

Roelstan thrashed. Simon stared, sickened but fasci-
nated, as streams of blood ran down the face of the pale
rock. Gullaighn, hanging upside down beside her dying
husband, began to shriek. Where the red liquid pooled at
the base of the stone, the ground-hugging mist turned
crimson, as though the blood itself had been rendered into
fog.

228 Tad Williams

"Simon!" Miriamele bumped against him. "Hurry!"
He reached out to find her fingers, then followed them
up to the knots around her wrists. He placed the slick
fragment of crystal against the bristling rope and began to
saw.

They still faced the bonfire and the bloody stone-
Miriamele's eyes were wide in her pale face. "Please
hurry!"

Simon grunted. It was difficult enough just keeping the
crystal in his lacerated, blood-dripping hand. And what
was happening in the center of the hilltop was making
him even more frightened than he had been.

The red mist had spread until it surrounded and par-
tially obscured the great stone. The Fire Dancers were
chanting now, cracked voices unpleasantly echoing the
poison-sweet song of the Norns.

There was a movement in the mist, a pale bulky some-
thing that Simon at first thought was the stone itself given
magical life. Then it strode forward out of the reddened
darkness on four huge legs and the earth seemed to shud-
der beneath its tread- It was a great white bull, bigger
than any Simon had ever seen, taller than a man at its
shoulders. Despite its solidity, it seemed oddly translu-
cent, as though it had been sculpted from fog. Its eyes
burned like coals, and its bone-hued horns seemed to cra-
dle the sky. On its back, riding like a knight on a horse,
sat a massive black-robed figure. Terror beat out from this
apparition like the heat of a summer sun. Simon felt first
his fingers, then his hands go nerveless, so that he could
not tell if he was still holding the precious shard. All he
could think of was escaping from that terrible, empty
black hood. He wanted only to throw himself against the
weight of his ropes until they burst, or gnaw them until he
was free to run and run and run....

The chanting of the Fire Dancers grew ragged, shouts
of awe and terror intermixed with the ritualistic words.
Maefwaru stood before his congregation, waving his thick
arms in horrified glee.

"Veng'a Sutekh!" he shouted. "Duke of the Black
Wind! He is come to make the Master's Third House!"

TO OREEN   ANGEL TOWER

229

The great figure atop the bull stared down at him, then
the hood turned slowly, surveying the hilltop. Its invisible
eyes passed across Simon like a freezing wind.

"Oh, Usires on the T-T-Tree!" Miriamele moaned.
"W-What is it?"

Strangely, for a moment Simon's madness lessened, as
though the fear had become too great to sustain any
longer. He had never heard Miriamele so frightened, and
her horrified voice pulled him back from the brink. He re-
alized that he still held the bit of crystal clutched between
his stiffened fingers.

"It is a bad ... a bad thing," he panted. "One of the
Storm King's ..." He caught at her wrist and began saw-
ing away once more. "Oh, Miri, hold still."

She was gulping air. "I'll ... try...."

The Noms had turned and were speaking to Maefwaru,
who alone of his congregation seemed able to stand the
sight of the bull and its rider: the rest of the Fire Dancers
groveled in the tangled undergrowth, their chanting now
entirely given way to sobs of almost ecstatic fear.
Maefwaru turned and gesticulated toward the tree where
Simon and Miriamele were tied.

"They're c-coming for us," Simon stuttered. As he
spoke, the shard sliced through the last strands of
Miriamele's ropes. "Cut mine, quick."

Miriamele half-turned, trying to use her fluttering cloak
to hide what they were doing from their captors. He could
feel her vigorous movements as she dragged the edge of
the crystal fragment back and forth across the thick hemp.
The Noms were making their way slowly across the hill-
top toward them.

"Oh, Aedon, they're coming!" Simon said.

"I'm almost through!" she whispered. He felt some-
thing gouge into his wrist, then Miriamele cursed. "I
dropped it!"

Simon hung his head. So it was hopeless, then. Beside
him, he felt Miriamele hastily winding her own severed
rope around her wrists once more so that it would appear
she was still bound.

The Noms came on, their graceful walk and billowing

230 Tad Williams

robes making them almost seem to float over the rough
ground. Their faces were expressionless, their eyes black
as the holes between stars. They converged around the
tree and Simon felt his arm caught in a cold, unbreakable
grip. One of the Noms severed the rope that had leashed
the prisoners, then Simon and Miriamele were drawn
stumbling across the hilltop toward the looming stone and
the terrifying shape that had appeared from the red mist:

He felt his'heart speeding as he neared the bull and its
rider, racing faster with each step until he thought it
would burst through the walls of his chest. The Noms
who held him were frighteningly alien, implacably hos-
tile, but the fear they inspired was as nothing before the
all-crushing terror of the Storm King's Red Hand.

The Noms flung him to the ground. The bull's hooves,
each wide as a barrel, were only a few cubits away. He
did not want to look, wanted only to keep his face pressed
against the shielding vegetation, but something drew his
head inexorably upward until he was staring at what
seemed a shimmer of flame in the depths of the black
hood.

"We have come to raise the Third House," the thing
said. Its stony voice rumbled both without and within Si-
mon, shaking the ground and his bones as well. "What is
... this?"

Maefwaru was so frightened and excited that his voice
was a squeal. "I had a dream! The Master wanted this
one, great Veng'a Sutekh-I know that he did'"

An invisible something abruptly grasped Simon's mind
as a falcon's claws might seize a rabbit. He felt his
thoughts shaken and flung about with brutal abandon, so
that he fell down onto his face, shrieking with pain and
horror. He only dimly heard the thing speak again.

"We remember this little fly-but it is no longer
wanted. The Red Hand has other business now ... and we
need more blood before we are ready. Add this one's life
to that of the others upon the Wailing Stone."

Simon rolled over onto his back and stared up at the
clouded, starless sky as the world reeled about him.

No longer wanted ... The words spun crazily in his

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

231

head. Someone somewhere was calling his name. No
longer wanted ...

"Simon! Get up!"

He dimly recognized Miriamele's voice, heard its shrill
terror. His head lolled. There was a form approaching
him, a pale smear in his blurry sight. For an appalling
moment he thought it might be the great bull, but his vi-
sion cleared. Maefwaru was stalking toward him, the long
knife held up so that it glinted in the bonfire's wavering
light.

"The Red Hand wants your blood," the Fire Dancer
chieftain said. His eyes were completely mad. "You will
help to build the Third House."

Simon struggled to free himself from the tangling
grasses and clamber up onto his knees. Miriamele had
thrown off her false bonds, and now flung herself toward
Maefwaru. One of the Norns caught at her arm and
tugged her to his black-cloaked breast, pulling her as
close as a lover would-but to Simon's surprise, the im-
mortal did no more than hold her helpless; the Norn's
black eyes were intent on Maefwaru, who had continued
toward Simon without sparing an instant's attention to the
girl.

Everything seemed to pause; even the fire seemed to
slow in its fluttering. The Red Hand, the Noms,
Maefwaru's cowering followers, all stood or lay still, as if
waiting. The blocky Fire Dancer chieftain raised his knife
higher.

Simon tugged furiously at his restraints, straining until
he thought he could feel his muscles pulling free from his
bones. Miriamele had cut through part of the rope.

If only ... if only ...

The rope snapped. Simon's arms flew outward, and the
coil slithered down his arm and dropped to the ground.
Blood dribbled down his wrists and hands where the
shard had cut him, the ropes had scored him.

"Come, then," he gasped, and lifted his hands before
him. "Come and get me."

Maefwaru laughed. Beads of sweat stood out on his
brow and bald scalp. The thick muscles of his neck

Tad Williams

jumped as he pulled another knife from inside his robe-
For a moment Simon thought the Fire Dancer was going
to throw it to him, to make it a fair fight, but Maefwaru
had no such intentions. A blade in each hand, he took an-
other step toward Simon. He stumbled, caught himself,
then strode forward another pace.

A moment later Maefwaru straightened up, bringing his
hands to his neck so suddenly that he gashed himself with
his own knife. His furious joy turned to puzzlement, then
his legs folded beneath him and he toppled forward into
the undergrowth.

Before Simon could make sense of what was happen-
ing, a shadowy form flew past him and struck the Nom
who prisoned Miriamele, knocking the white-skinned
thing to the ground- The princess tumbled free.

"Simon!" someone shouted. "Take the knife!"

Dazed, Simon saw the long blade that still gleamed in
Maefwaru's fist. He dropped to a knee-the night air was
suddenly full of strange noises, growls and shouts and a
strange rumbling hum-and tugged it loose from the Fire
Dancer's death-grip, then stood up.

Even as his two fellows hurried to his aid, the Nom
who had held Miriamele was rolling on the ground with
a gray, snarling something. The princess had crawled
away; now, as she saw Simon, she scrambled to her feet
and ran toward him, tripping on clinging vines and leaf-
hidden stones.
"Here, come here!" someone shouted from the edge of
the hilltop. "This is the way!"

As Miriamele reached him, Simon grabbed her hand
and ran toward the voice. A pair of Fire Dancers leaped
up to stop them, but Simon slashed one with Maefwaru's
knife, opening a red wound through the white robe;

Miriamele escaped the other, scratching at the man's pan-
icky face as she pulled free of his grasp. The rumbling
roar of the thing atop the bull-it was speaking, Simon
realized, but now he could no longer understand it-grew
until Simon's head hammered.

"Over here!" A small figure had emerged from the

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

233

trees at the edge of the hilltop. The roiling bonfire painted
the little man in flame-colored light.

"Binabik!"

"Run to me," the troll cried. "With swiftness, now!"

Simon could not help taking a look back. By the sacri-
ficial stone, the great bull snorted and pawed at the
ground, tearing great furrows in the damp earth. Ineluki's
servitor was glowing, red light leaking through the black
robes, but it made no move to pursue Simon and
Miriamele, as though reluctant to leave the circle of
blood-drenched ground. One of the Noms lay with its
neck ragged and red; another was sprawled nearby, a vic-
tim of one of the troll's darts. The third black-robed fig-
ure was struggling with whatever had torn out its fellow's
throat. But the Fire Dancers were finally gathering their
wits, and as Simon watched, half a dozen of Maefwaru's
followers turned to follow the escaping prisoners. An ar-
row flew past Simon's ear and vanished into the trees-

"Down here," Binabik said, hopping nimbly ahead of
them down the hill. He gestured for Simon and Miriamele
to move past him, then stopped and raised his hands to
his mouth. "Qantaqa!" he shouted. "Qantaqa sosa!"

As they plunged down the hillside into the trees, the
confusing roar grew slightly less behind them. Before
they had taken a score of steps, two shapes loomed before
them in the mist-two horses.

"They are tied with looseness," the troll called down to
them. "Climb and ride!"

"Here, Binabik, ride with me," Simon panted.

"There is no need," he replied. Simon looked up to see
a large gray shape appear on the foggy rise just above
Binabik. "Brave Qantaqa!" Binabik grabbed the wolf's
hackles and pulled himself up onto her back-

The noise of pursuit was rising again. Simon fumbled
with the reins, pulling them free at last. Beside him,
Miriamele dragged herself up by her saddle hom. Simon
struggled onto his horse's back-it was Homefinder! Af-
ter all the other mad things that had happened, Simon was
so astonished to be reunited with his horse that he simply
stopped thinking. Qantaqa leaped past with Binabik on

234

Tad Williams

her back, loping rapidly down the hillside. Simon
clutched Homefinder's neck and dug in his heels, fol-
lowing the wolf's bobbing tail through the clutching
branches, down into darker shadows.

The night had become a sort of waking dream, a blur
of twisted trees and damp murk; when Binabik finally,
stopped, Simon was not sure how long they had been
traveling. They were still on the hill slope, but in deep
trees, cut off from even a sight of the cloudy sky. The
darkness had become so thick that they had been moving
at a walk for some time, Simon and Miriamele straining
to see Qantaqa's gray form though the wolf was only cu-
bits ahead of them.

"Here," Binabik said quietly. "Here is shelter."

Simon dismounted and followed the sound of his voice,
leading Homefinder by the reins.

"Be keeping your head low," the troll said. There was
an echo behind his words.

The damp, spongy ground gave way to something drier
and more firmly packed. The air was musty-

"Now, stop where you are standing." Binabik fell silent
but for some rustling noises. Long moments passed. Si-
mon stood and listened to his own heavy breathing. His
heart was still pounding, his skin still damp with cold
sweat. Could they really be safe? And Binabik! Where
had he come from? How had he arrived, so improbably,
so fortunately?

There was a hiss and a flicker, then a blossom of flame
rose at the end of a torch clutched in the troll's small
hand. The light revealed a long, low cavern, its farthest
end out of sight around a bend in the rock.

"Deeper in we are going," he said- "But it would not be
safe for traveling in here with no light."

"What is this place?" Miriamele asked. The sight of
her bloodied legs and pale, frightened face made Simon's
heart cinch in pain.
"A cave, only." Binabik smiled, a welcome and famil-
iar baring of yellow teeth. 'Trust it for a troll to be find-

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          235

ing a cave." He turned and gestured for them to follow.
"Soon you can rest."

The horses balked at first, but after a few moments'
soothing they allowed themselves to be led on. The cave
was strewn with dry branches and leaves. Here and there
the bones of small animals winked up from the litter on
the floor. Within a few hundred paces they had reached the
innermost end, a grotto that was a little loftier and a great
deal wider than the outer tunnel. At one end a sheet of wa-
ter ran down a flat stone and drizzled into a small pool; Si-
mon tethered Miriamele's steed and Homefinder to a stone
beside it.

"Here we will make our home for the evening," said
Binabik. "The wood I have left here is dry, and the smoke
it is making will not be great." He pointed up to a dark
crevice in the roof. "I was making a fire here last night.
The smoke is carried up there, so breathing is possible."

Simon sank down onto the floor. The dry brush crack-
led beneath him. "What about the Noms and the others?"
At this moment he didn't really much care. If they wanted
him, they could come and get him. Every inch of his body
seemed to throb painfully.

"I am doubting they will find this place, but I am
doubting even more they will be searching long." The
troll began piling wood atop the ashes in the circle of
stones he had made the night before. "The Noms were at
some great task, and seemed to need you only for your
blood. I am thinking that there will be blood enough
among those remaining mortals for the task to be com-
pleted."

"What did they want, Binabik?" Miriamele's eyes were
fever-bright. "What were they saying about the Third
House? And what was that ... that thing?"

"That fearsome thing was one of the Red Hand,"
Binabik said, his matter-of-fact tone betrayed by the wor-
ried look on his face. "I have never seen with my eyes
anything like it, although Simon was telling me stories."
He shook his head, then took his flint to put a spark to the
wood. "I do not know what its purpose was, although it
seems clear to me that it was doing the Storm King's bid-

236 Tad Williams

ding. I will think on that more." As the fire caught, he
lifted his pack and began to search in it. "Now, let me be
cleaning those cut places you both have."

Simon sat quietly as the troll dabbed at Miriamele's
various wounds with a damp rag and rubbed something
from a small pot on each. By the time it was his turn, Si-
mon felt his eyes drooping. He yawned.

"But how did you get here, Binabik?" He winced as the
little man probed a painful spot. "What ... what... ?"

The troll laughed. "There will be time enough for all
telling soon. First, though, food and sleeping are needed."
He eyed them both. "Perhaps first sleeping, then food?"
He rose to his feet and dusted his hands off on his wide
breeches. "There is something you will be pleased to
see." He pointed to something lying in the darkness near
where Homefinder and Miriamele's mount stood drinking
from the pool.

"What?" Simon stared. "Our saddlebags!"

"Yes, and with your sleeping-beds still upon them. A
luckiness it was for me that the Fire Dancers had not re-
moved them. I left them here when I followed you up the
hill. It was a risk, but I did not know what might be in
them that would be bad for losing." He laughed. "Neither
did I wish to make you ride laden horses in the dark."

Simon was already dragging loose his bedroll and ex-
amining the saddlebags. "My sword!" he said, delighted.
Then his face fell. "I had to break Jiriki's mirror,
Binabik."

The little man nodded. "That I was seeing. But I doubt
I could have helped your escaping if you had not freed
your hands. A sad but clever sacrifice, friend Simon."

"And my White Arrow," he mused. "I left that back at
Sesuad'ra." He tossed Miriamele her bedroll, then found
a relatively smooth place to unroll his own. "I have not
taken very good care of my gifts,..."

Binabik niled a tiny smile. "You are having too much
worry. Sleep for a while now. I will wake you later with
something warm to eat." He returned to the task of build-
ing the fire. The torchlight played on his round face.

Simon looked at Miriamele, who had already curled up

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                             237

and closed her eyes. She did not seem too badly hurt, al-
though she was clearly as exhausted as he. So they had
survived, somehow, after all. He had not failed his pledge.

He sat up suddenly. "The horses' I have to unsaddle
them!"

"I will be doing all," Binabik assured him. "It is time
for your resting."

Simon lay back on the bedroll and watched the shad-
ows playing along the cavern roof. Within moments he
was asleep.

10

A Wourut in tfte WorbC

Simon awakened, to the delicate patter of falling wa-
ter.

He had been dreaming about being caught in a ring of
fire, flames that seemed to grow closer and closer. Some-
where outside the fiery circle, Rachel the Dragon had
been calling him to come and do his chores. He had tried
to tell her that he was trapped, but smoke and ashes had
filled his mouth.

The water sounded as lovely as morningsong in the
Hayholt chapel- Simon crawled across the rustling cavern
floor and dipped his hands in the pool, then stared at his
palms for a moment, unable to tell by the light of the low
fire whether the water looked safe. He smelled it and
touched it briefly with his tongue, then drank. It was
sweet and cold. If it was poisonous, then he was willing
to die that way.

Mooncalf. The horses drank from it, and Binabik used
it to wash our cuts.

Besides, even poisoning would be preferable to the
doom that had almost been theirs ... last night?

The cold water made the wounds on his wrists and
hands sting. All his muscles ached, and his joints were
stiff and sore. Still, he did not feel quite as dreadful as he
might have expected to. Perhaps he had been asleep
longer than a few hours-it was impossible to tell what
time of day it might be. Simon looked around the cavern,
searching for clues. How long had he slept? The horses
still stood quietly nearby. On the far side of the campfire

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

239

he could see Miriamele's golden hair peeping out from
beneath her cloak.

"Ah, Simon-friend!"

He turned. Binabik was trotting up the tunnel toward
the central chamber, his hands cupped before him.
"Greetings," said Simon. "And good morning-if it is
morning."

The troll smiled. "It is indeed that time, although the
middle-day will be soon arriving. I have just been out in
the cold and misted woods, stalking a most elusive
game." He held up his hands. "Mushrooms." He walked
to the fire and spilled his treasures out on a flat stone,
then began sorting through them. "Gray-cap, here. And
this is being a rabbit-nose-and tasting far better than any
true rabbit's nose, I am thinking, as well as having much
less messiness to prepare." He chortled. "I will cook
these and we will break our fast with great enjoyment."

Simon grinned. "It's good to see you, Binabik. Even if
you hadn't rescued us, it would be very good to see you."

The troll cocked an eyebrow. "You both did much to
make your own rescuing, Simon-and that is a fortunate
thing, since you seem to be flinging yourself constantly
into odd troubles. You said once that your parents were
being common folk. It is my thought that at least one of
them was not a person at all, but a moth." He smiled
wryly and gestured toward the fire. "You are always
heading toward the nearest burning flame."

"It does seem that way." Simon found himself a seat on
an outcropping of stone, shifting gingerly to find the least
painful position. "So now what do we do? How did you
find us?"

"As to what thing we should be doing," Binabik wrin-
kled his brow in concentration as he cut up mushrooms
with his knife, " 'eat' is being my suggestion. I decided
that it would be more kindness to let you sleep than to
wake you. You must now be feeling great hungriness."

"Great hungriness," Simon affirmed.

"As to the other question, I think I will be waiting until
Miriamele is also awake. Much as I enjoy talking, I do
not want to be telling all my stories twice."

240 Tad Williams

"If you wanted me awake," Miriamele said crossly
from her bedroll, "then talking so loud is just the way to
go about it."

Binabik was unperturbed. "We have made a favor for
you, then, for I will soon have food for you both. There
is clean water here for washing, and if you wish to go           ^
outside, I have looked around with care and there does           j
not seem anyone about."                                     I

"Oh," Miriamele groaned. "I hurt." She dragged her-         j_
self off her bedroll, wrapped her cloak about her, then          ^
staggered out of the cavern,                                     j

"She isn't very cheerful in the mornings," Simon of-      j
fered with some satisfaction. "Not used to getting up      j
early, I suppose." He had never liked getting out of bed       ^,
much either, but a scullion was given little say over how       t
early he would rise or when he would work, and Rachel
had always made it quite clear that sloth was the greatest        ^
of all sins.                                                 t

"Who would be having much cheer after what you
went through last night?" said Binabik, frowning. He
tossed the mushroom bits into a pot of water, added some
powdery substance from a pouch, then set the pot on the
outermost edge of the coals. "I am surprised that the
things you have been seeing in this year gone past have
not made you mad, Simon, or at least trembling and fear-
ful always."

Simon thought about this for a moment. "I do get
frightened sometimes. Sometimes it all seems so big-the
Storm King, and the war with Elias. But all I can do is
what is in front of me." He shrugged. "I'll never under-
stand it all. And I can only die once."

Binabik looked at him shrewdly. "You have been talk-
ing to Camaris, my knightly friend. That sounds with
great similarity to his Canon of Knighthood-although
the words have true Simon-like humbleness." He peered
into his pot and agitated the contents with a stick. "Just a
few things to add, then I will be leaving it to itself for
a time." He tossed in a few strips of dried meat, chopped
a small and rather lopsided onion into pieces and added
those as well, then gave the mixture another stir.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

241

When he had finished this chore, the troll fumed and
pulled his hide bag close to him, rummaging through it
with an air of great concentration. "There is something in
here I thought might give you interest ..." he said ab-
sently. After a few moments, he pulled a long parcel
wrapped in leaves out of the sack. "Ah. Here."

Simon took it, knowing it by the feel even before it was
unwrapped. "The White Arrow!" he breathed. "Oh,
Binabik, thank you! I was sure I had lost it."

"You did lose it," said the troll dryly. "But since I was
coming for visiting you in any case, it seemed that I
might as well be carrying it along."

Miriamele reentered. Simon held up his prize. "Look,
Miri, my White Arrow! Binabik brought it!"

She gave it barely a glance. "That was kind, Simon.
I'm glad for you."

He stared at her as she made her way to her saddlebags
and began searching for something. What had he done to
make her mad now? The girl was more changeable than
weather! And wasn't he supposed to be upset with her?

Simon snorted quietly and turned back to Binabik.
"Are you going to tell us how you found us?"

"Patience!" Binabik waved a stubby paw. "Let us have
our food and a little peace, first. Princess Miriamele has
not even come for joining us yet. And there is other news
as well, some of it not happy." He bent over his sack and
rooted some more. "Ah. Here they are." The troll pro-
duced yet another parcel, a small drawstring bag. He up-
ended it and his knucklebones tumbled out onto a flat
rock. "While we are waiting, 1 will find what the bones
may be telling me." The bones made a soft clicking noise
as he gentled them in his hands then tipped them out onto
the stone. He squinted.

"The Shadowed Path." The troll grinned sourly. "That
is not the first time I have been seeing that." He rolled
them out again. "The Black Crevice." Binabik shook his
head. "Still we are having that, as well." He shook the
bones for a final time and spilled them before him.
"Chukku's Stones!" His voice was unsteady.

"Is Chukku's Stones a bad throw?" Simon asked.

242 Tad Williams

"It is a cursing word," Binabik informed him. "I was
using it because I have never been seeing this pattern of
bones." He leaned closer to the pile of yellowed objects.
"A little like Wingless Bird," he said. "But not." He lifted
one of the bones, which was delicately perched on two of
its fellows, then took a deep breath. "Could this be Moun-
tains Dancing?" He looked up at Simon, eyes bright, but
not in a way Simon liked. "I have never been seeing/it,
and have not known anyone who was seeing it. But I
think I was hearing of it once, when Ookekuk my master
talked to a wise old woman from Chugik Mountain."

Simon shrugged helplessly. "What does it mean?"

"Changing. Things changing. Large things." Binabik
sighed. "If it is indeed Mountains Dancing. If I had my
scrolls, I could perhaps be discovering with sureness." He
swept up the bones and dropped them back into their
pouch; he seemed more than a little frightened. "It is a
throw that has only been appearing a few times ever since
the Singing Men of Yiqanuc have written their lives and
learning on hides."

"And what happened?"

Binabik put the pouch away. "Let me wait before more
talking, Simon. I must be thinking on this."

Simon had never taken the troll's bone oracles too
seriously-they had always seemed as general and un-
helpful as a fortune-reader from a traveling fair-but he
was shaken now by Binabik's obvious uneasiness.

Before he could press the troll for more information,
Miriamele returned to the fire and sat down. "I'm not go-
ing back," she said without preamble. Binabik, like Si-
mon, was taken by surprise-

"I am not understanding your meaning. Princess
Miriamele."
"Yes, you do. My uncle sent you to bring me back. I'm
not going." Her face was as hard and determined as Si-
mon had ever seen it. Now he understood her preoccupa-
tion. He also felt more than a little anger. Why was she
always so stubborn, so cross? It almost seemed she en-
joyed pushing people away from her with words.

Binabik spread his palms in the air. "I could not make

TO    GREEN   ANOEL   TOWER

243

you do anything that was not your wanting, Miriamele-
and I would not try such doing." His brown eyes were
full of concern, "But, yes, your uncle and many others
worry for you. They worry about your safeness, and they
worry about what you plan. I will ask you to be coming
back ... but making I cannot do."

Miriamele looked slightly relieved, but her jaw was
still set. "I'm sorry, Binabik, if you have traveled so far
for nothing, but I am not returning. I have something to
do."

"She wants to tell her father that this whole war is a
mistake," Simon muttered sullenly.

Miriamele gave him a look of disgust. "That's not why
I'm going, Simon. I told you the reason." She haltingly
explained to Binabik her ideas about what might have led
Elias to the clutches of the Storm King.

"I am thinking you may indeed have discovered his
mistake," Binabik said when she had finished. "It is close
to some of my own supposing-but that does not mean
that there is any likeliness you will be succeeding." He
frowned. "If your father has been brought close to the
Storm King's power, whether by the trickiness of Pryrates
or something else, he may be like a man who drinks too
much kangkang-telling him that his family is starving
and his sheep are wandering away may not be heard." He
laid a hand on Miriamele's arm. She flinched, but did not
pull away. "Also-and this is a hard thing for my heart to
be saying-it is perhaps true that your father the king
cannot anymore survive without the Storm King. The
sword Sorrow is a thing of great power, a strong, strong
thing. Perhaps if it is taken from him, he will go sliding
into madness."

Miriamele's eyes welled with tears, but her expression
remained grim. "I am not trying to take the sword from
him, Binabik. Only to tell him that things have gone too
far. My father-my real father-would not have wanted
so much harm to come from his love for my mother. Ev-
erything that has happened since must be the work of oth-
ers."

Binabik raised his hands again, this time in resignation.
244 Tad Williams

"If you have guessed the reasons for his madness, for this
war, for his pact with the Storm King. And if he can be
hearing you. But as I told you, I cannot stop your journey.
I can only accompany you to help keep you from harm."

"You're going to come with us?" Simon asked. He was
very pleased and strangely relieved to think that someone
else would share what felt like a heavy burden.

The troll nodded, but his smile was long gone. "Unless'
you are to be returning with me to Josua, Simon? That
might be reason for not going on."

"I have to stay with Miriamele," he pronounced firmly.
"I gave my oath as a knight."

"Even though I didn't ask for it," said Miriamele-

Simon felt a moment's angry pain, but remembered the
Canon of Knighthood and mastered himself. "Even
though you didn't ask for it," he repeated, glowering at
her. Despite the terrible times they had shared, she
seemed determined to hurt him. "I still have my duty.
And," he said to Binabik, "if Miriamele is going to the
Hayholt, I'm going to Swertclif. Bright-Nail is there, and
Josua needs it. But I can't think of any way to get into the
castle to get Sorrow," he added reflectively.

Binabik sat back and let loose a weary sigh. "So
Miriamele is going to the Hayholt to plead with her father
for stopping the war, and you are going there to be rescu-
ing one of the Great Swords, just your single knightly
self?" He leaned forward suddenly and dragged the stir-
ring stick through me mixture simmering in the pot. "Are
you hearing how like younglings you sound? I was think-
ing you were both wiser after your many dangers and
almost-dyings than to take such things on yourselves."

"I'm a knight," said Simon. "I'm not a child any more,
Binabik."

"That is just meaning that the damage you can be
doing is greater," the troll said, but his tone was almost
conciliatory, as though he knew he could not win the ar-
gument. "Come, let us be eating. This is still a happy
meeting, even if the times are those of unhappiness."

Simon was relieved to have the argument end. "Yes,
let's eat. And you still haven't told us how you found us."

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

245

Binabik gave the stew another stir, "That and other
news when you have been eating your food," was all he
said.
When the sound of contented chewing had slowed a lit-
tle, Binabik licked his fingers and took a deep breath.
"Now that your stomachs at least are full, and we are
safe, there is grim news that needs telling."

As Simon and Miriamele sat in growing horror, the
troll described the Noms' attack on the camp and its af-
termath.

"Geloe dead?" Simon felt as though the earth was
eroding beneath him; soon there would be nowhere safe
left to stand. "Curse them! They are demons' I should
have been there! A knight of the prince.. - !"

"It is perhaps true you should both have been there,"
Binabik said gently, "or at least that you two should not
have left. But you could have done nothing, Simon. Ev-
erything was happening with great suddenness and si-
lence, and only one target there was."

Simon shook his head, furious with himself.

"And Leieth." Miriamele nibbed away tears. "That
poor child-she has had nothing but pain."

After they had sat in mournful silence for a while,
Binabik spoke again. "Let me now be speaking of a less
sad thing-how I was finding you. In truth, there is not a
great deal for telling. Qantaqa it was who did the most of
the tracking. She has a cunning nose. My only fear would
be that we would fall too far behind-horses are traveling
faster than wolves over long distances-and that the
smells would grow too old. But our luck held.

"I was following you into the edge of Aldheorte Forest,
and there things grew muddled for some time. I had the
most worry that we would lose you in that place, since it
was slow going, and then it was raining, too. But clever
Qantaqa managed to keep your trail,"

"Was it you, then?" Simon asked suddenly. *Wcre you
the one who was skulking around our camp in the for-
est?"

246 Tad Williams

The troll looked puzzled. "I am not thinking it was.
When did this thing happen?"

Simon described the mysterious lurker who had ap-
proached the camp and then retreated into darkness-

Binabik shook his head. "It was not me. I would not
have been talking to myself, although perhaps I might
have been saying words to Qantaqa. But I am promising
you," he drew himself up proudly, "Qanuc do not make
so much noise. Especially in the forest at night. Very con-
cerned with not becoming a meal for something large, we
Qanuc are." He paused, "And the time is wrong, also. We
would have been a day or two days at least behind you
then. No, it was doubtless one of the things you were
guessing, a bandit or a forest cotsman." Still, he consid-
ered for a few moments before continuing with his tale.

"In any manner, Qantaqa and I followed you. We were
forced to make our hunting secret-I had no wish for rid-
ing Qantaqa into a large town like Stanshire-so I could
only have hope that you were coming out of these places
again. We wandered about on the outskirts of the large
settlements trying to find your track. Several times I
thought that I had made it too difficult for Qantaqa's
scenting, but always she found you again." He scratched
his head, contemplating. "I suppose that if you had not
emerged, I would have then been forced to go searching
for you. I am glad I did not need to do that thing-I
would have had to leave Qantaqa out in the wildlands,
and I would have myself been an easy target for Fire
Dancers or frightened villagers who had never been see-
ing a troll." He smiled slyly. "The people of Stanshire and
Falshire have still not seen a troll."

"When did you find us?"

"If you think on it, Simon, you will be guessing very
easily. I had no reason to hide from you, so I would have
been greeting you as soon as I came upon you-unless
some reason there was not to."

Simon considered. "Because we were with someone
you didn't know?"

The troll nodded, satisfied. "Exactly. A young man and

?
i-

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                             247

woman may be traveling in Erkynland and speaking to
strangers without too much attention. A troll may not."

"So it must have been when we were with that man and
woman-the Fire Dancers. We met other people, but we
were alone each time afterward."

"Yes. I came upon you here in Hasu Vale-I had been
making camp in this very cave the night before-and fol-
lowed you and that pair up into the hills. Qantaqa and I
were watching all from the trees. We saw the Fire Danc-
ers." He frowned. "They have become numerous and
unafraid-by spying on other travelers along the road and
listening to their gossip I was learning that. So I saw what
these Fire Dancers did, and when they were taking you to
the hilltop, I freed your horses and followed." He grinned,
pleased with his own cleverness.

"Thank you, Binabik," Miriamele said. Some of her
earlier frosty manner had disappeared. "I haven't said that
yet."
He smiled and shrugged. "We all are doing what we
can when we are able. As I was once before telling Si-
mon, we three have saved each other's lives enough times
that the tallying is no longer important." As he picked up
a hank of moss and began to scrub his bowl, Qantaqa
strode silently into the cavern. Her fur was wet; she shook
herself, sending a fine spray of droplets everywhere.

"Ah." Binabik placed the bowl on the floor before the
wolf. "You may be performing this task, then." As
Qantaqa's pink tongue scoured out the last bits of stew,
the troll stood up. "So, that is the telling. Now, if we are
going carefully, I think we can leave this place today. We
will stay away from the road until Hasu Vale is being
safely behind."

"And the Fire Dancers won't find us?" Miriamele
asked.

"After the last night's doings, I am doubting that there
are many left, or that they are wishing to do much of any-
thing but hide. I am thinking that the Storm King's ser-
vant gave them as much fright as it gave to you." He bent
to begin picking up. "And now their chieftain is dead."

"That was one of your black-tipped darts," Simon said,

248 Tad Williams

remembering Maefwaru's puzzled expression as he
clutched at his throat.

"It was."

"I'm not sorry." Simon went to tie up his bedroll. "Not
sorry at all. So you're really going to come with us."

Binabik thumped his chest with the heel of his hand. "I
am not believing what you do is wise or good. But I,can-
not be letting you go off when I might be able to help you
survive." He frowned, pondering. "I wish there was some
way for sending a message back to the others."

Simon remembered the trolls in Josua's camp, and es-
pecially Sisqi, the loved one Binabik must have left be-
hind to come here. The magnitude of the little man's
sacrifice struck him and he was suddenly ashamed.
Binabik was right: Simon and Miriamele were behaving
like wayward children. But one look at the princess con-
vinced him that she could no more be talked out of this
than the waves could be argued out of crashing onto the
beach-and he could not imagine himself leaving her to
face her fate alone- Like Binabik, he was trapped. He
sighed and picked up the bedroll.

Either Binabik was a good guide or the Fire Dancers
had, in fact, given up looking for them. They saw nothing
living during their afternoon's Journey through the damp,
thick-forested hills of Hasu Vale except for a few jays and
a single black squirrel. The woods were densely crowded
with trees and ground plants, and every trunk was blan-
keted in spongy moss, but the land still seemed strangely
inactive, as though everything that lived there slept or
waited silently for the intruders to pass.

An hour after sunset they made camp beneath a rocky
overhang, but the accommodations were far less pleasant
than the dry and secret cave. When the rains came and
water ran streaming down the hillside, Simon and the oth-
ers were forced to huddle as far back under the overhang
as they could. The horses, appearing none too pleased,
were tethered at the front where they were intermittently
lashed by rain. Simon hoped that since horses often stood
in fields during bad weather, they would not suffer too

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

249

badly, but he felt obscurely guilty. Surely Homefinder, a
knight's companion, deserved better treatment?

After she hunted, Qantaqa came and curled herself
against all three of them as they huddled in a row, making
up with the warmth she provided for the strong smell of
damp wolf that filled the shelter. They fell asleep at last,
then awakened at dawn, stiff and sore. Binabik did not
want to light a fire in such an exposed place, so they ate
a little dried meat and some berries the troll gathered,
then set out again.

It was a difficult day's traveling, the hillsides and dales
slippery with mud and wet moss, the rain blowing up in
sudden squalls that lashed them with water and slapped
branches into their faces; when the rain ceased, the mist
crept back in, hiding treacherous pitfalls. Their progress
was achingly slow. Still, Simon was impressed that his
trollish friend could find a Way at all with no sun visible
and the road far away and out of sight.

Sometime after noon Binabik led them along the hill-
side past the outskirts of the town of Hasu Vale itself. It
was difficult to make out much more through the close-
knit trees than the shapes of some rough houses, and-
when the mist was momentarily cleared by a stiff
wind-the snaking course of the road, a dark streak some
furlongs away. But the town seemed just as muted and
lifeless as the forest: nothing but gray mists rose around
the smoke holes of the cottages, and there was no sign of
people or animals.

"Where has everyone gone?" Miriamele asked. "I have
been here. It was a lively place."

"Those Fire Dancers," Simon said grimly. "They've
scared everyone away."

"Or perhaps it is the things with which the Fire Danc-
ers have been making celebration on the hilltops at
night," Binabik pointed out. "It is not necessary, I am
thinking, to see those things, as you two were seeing, to
know that something is wrong. It is a feeling in the air."

Simon nodded. Binabik was right. This entire area felt
much like Thisterborg, the haunted hill between the forest
and Erchester, the place where the Anger Stones stood ...

250 Tad Williams

the place where the Norns had given Sorrow to King
Elias....

He did not like thinking about that horrible night, but
for some reason the memory suddenly seemed important-
Something was pulling at him, scattered thoughts that
wanted to be fit together. The Norns. The Red Hand.
Thisterborg....

"What's that?" Miriamele cried in alarm. Simon
jumped. Homefinder startled beneath him and slipped a
little in the mud before finding her footing.

A dark shape had appeared in the mist before them,
gesticulating wildly. Binabik leaned forward against
Qantaqa's neck and squinted. After a long, tense moment,
he smiled. "It is nothing. A rag caught by the wind.
Someone's lost shin, I am thinking."

Simon squinted, too. The troll was correct- It was a tat-
tered bit of clothing wrapped around a tree, the sleeves
fluttering in the wind like pennants.

Miriamele made the sign of the Tree, relieved.

They rode on. The town vanished into the thick green-
ery behind them as quickly and completely as if the wet,
silent woods had swallowed it.

They camped that evening in a sheltered gully at the
base of the valley's western slope. Binabik seemed preoc-
cupied; Simon and Miriamele were both quiet. They ate
an unsatisfying meal and made some small talk, then ev-
eryone took refuge in the darkness and the need to sleep.

Simon again felt the awkward distance that existed now
between himself and Miriamele. He still did not quite
know what to feel about the things she had told him. She
was no maiden, and it was by her own choice. That was
painful enough, but the way she had told him, the manner
in which she had lashed out at him as though to punish,
was even more infuriatingly confusing. Why was she so
kind to him sometimes, so hateful at others? He would
have liked to believe that she was playing the come-
hither, go-away games that young court women were
taught to play with men, but he knew her too well:

Miriamele was not one for that kind of frippery. The only

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          25!
solution that he could find to this puzzle was that she
truly wanted him for a friend, but was afraid that Simon
wanted more.

/ do want more, he thought miserably. Even if I won't
ever have it.

He did not fall asleep for a long time, but instead lay
listening to the water pattering through the leaves to the
forest floor. Huddled beneath his cloak, he probed at his
unhappiness as he might at a wound, trying to find out
how much pain came with it.

By the middle of the next afternoon they climbed out
of the valley, leaving Hasu Vale behind. The forest still
stretched out at their right hands like a great green blan-
ket, vanishing only at the horizon. Before them was the
hilly grass country that lay between the Old Forest Road
and the headlands at Swertclif.

Simon could not help wishing that this journey with
Binabik and Miriamele could be more like the first heady
days they had traveled together after leaving Geloe's
lake house, so many months ago. The troll had been full
of songs and silliness during that journey; even the
princess-pretending then to be the servant girl Marya-
had seemed excited and happy to be alive. Now the three
of them went forward like soldiers marching toward a
battle they did not expect to win, each immersed in pri-
vate thoughts and fears.

The empty, rolling country north of the Kynslagh did
not inspire much cheer in any case. It was fully as dreary
and lifeless as Hasu Vale, equally as wet, but did not af-
ford the hiding places and security to be found in the
densely forested valley. Simon felt that they were terribly
exposed, and could not help marveling at the astonishing
courage-or stupidity, or both-of walking virtually un-
armed into the High King's gateyard. If there were left
any scrap of the companions or their tale when these dark

- times had someday passed, surely it would make a won-
^ derful, unbelievable song! Some future Shem Horse-

•-i groom, perhaps, might tell some wide-eyed scullion: "Do
" ye listen, lad. whilst I tell ye of Brave Simon and his

252

Tad Williams

friends, them who rode open-eyed and empty-handed into
the very Jaws of Darkness...."

Jaws of Darkness. Simon liked that. He had heard that
in a song of Sangfugol's.

He suddenly thought of what that darkness really
meant-the things he had seen and felt, the dreadful,
clutching shadows waiting beyond the light and warmth
of life-and his skin went shudderingly cold from head to
foot.

It took them two days to ride across the hilly meadow-
lands, two days of mist and frequent cold rains. No matter
which direction they traveled, the winds seemed always
to be blowing into their faces. Simon sneezed the entirety
of the first night and felt warm and unstable as melting
candle wax- He was a bit recovered by morning.

In mid-aftemoon of the second day, the headlands of
Swertclif appeared before them, the raw edge of the high,
rocky hill on whose summit the Hayholt perched. As he
stared into the twilight, Simon thought he could see an
impossibly slim white line looming beyond Swertclif's
naked face.

It was Green Angel Tower, visible even though it stood
the better part of a league beyond the nearest side of the
hill.

Simon felt something tingle up his back, lifting the
hairs on the nape of his neck. The tower, the great shining
spike that the Sithi had built when the castle was theirs,
the tower where Ineluki had lost his earthly life-it was
waiting, still waiting. But it was also the site of Simon's
own boyhood wanderings and imaginings. He had seen it,
or something like it, in so many dreams since he had left
his home that now it almost seemed like just another
dream. And below it, out of sight beyond the cliff, lay the
Hayholt itself. Tears welled up in Simon, but only damp-
ened his eyes. How many times had he yearned for those
mazy halls, the gardens and scullion hiding-holes, the
warm comers and secret pleasures?

He turned to look at Miriamele. She, too, was staring
fixedly into the west, but if she thought of the pleasures

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          253

of home, her face did not show it. She looked like a
hunter who had finally run a dangerous but long-sought
quarry to ground. He blinked, ashamed that she might see
him tearful.

"I wondered if I'd ever see it again," he said quietly. A
flurry of rain struck his face and he wiped his eyes, grate-
ful for the excuse- "It looks like a dream, doesn't it? A
strange dream."

Miriamele nodded but said nothing.

Binabik did not hurry them away. He seemed content to
wait and let Qantaqa nose the ground while Simon and
Miriamele sat and silently gazed.

"Let us make camp," he said finally. "If we are riding
another short time, we can find shelter at the base of the
hills." He gestured toward Swertclif's massive face.
"Then in the morning we will have better light for ...
whatever we may be doing."

"We're going to John's barrow," Simon said, more
firmly than he felt. "At least that's what I'm doing."

Binabik shrugged- "Let us be riding. When we have a
fire and food will be time for making of plans."

The sun vanished behind Swertclif's broad hump long
before evening- They rode forward in cold shadow.
Even the horses seemed uneasy: .Simon could feel
Homefinder's unwillingness, and thought that if he al-
lowed her she would turn and race in the opposite direc-
tion.

Swertclif waited like an infinitely patient ogre. As they
drew closer, the great dark hill seemed to blot out the sky
as well as the sun, spreading and swelling until it seemed
they could not turn away from it even if they tried. From
the slope of its outermost foothills, they saw a flash of
gray-green to the south, just beyond the cliffs-the
Kynslagh, visible for the first time. Simon felt a pang of
joy and regret, as he remembered the familiar, soothing
song of the gulls and thought of the fisherman-father he
had never known.

At last, when the hill's almost perpendicular face stood
above them like a vast wall, they made camp in a ravine.

254

Tad Williams

The winds were less here, and Swertclif itself blocked
much of the rain. Simon smiled grimly at the thought that
the ogre's waiting was over: he and his companions were
going to sleep in its lap tonight.

No one wanted to be first to speak of what they would
do tomorrow. The making of the fire and the preparation
of a modest supper were undertaken with a minimum of
conversation and little of the fellowship that usually en-
livened the evenings. Tonight Miriamele did not seem an-
gry but preoccupied, and even Binabik was hesitant in his
actions, as though his thoughts were elsewhere.

Simon felt surprisingly calm, almost cheerful, and was
disappointed that his companions did not share his mood.
This was a dangerous place, of course, and the next day's
doings would be fearful-he was not letting himself think
too much about where the sword was and what needed to
be done to find it-but at least he was doing something.
At least he was performing the kind of task for which he
had been knighted. And if it worked-oh, glory! If it
worked, surely Miriamele would see that taking the sword
to Josua would be more important than trying to convince
her mad father to halt a war that was doubtless already
beyond his power to stop. Yes, surely when they had
Bright-Nail-think of it, Bright-Nail! Prester John's fa-
mous sword!-in hand, Miriamele would realize that they
had obtained the greatest prize they could hope for, and
he and Binabik could coax her back to the comparative
safety of her uncle's camp.

Simon was considering these ideas and letting his meal
settle when Binabik finally began to speak.

"Once we are climbing this hill," the troll said slowly,
"we will be having great difficulty to turn back. We are
having no knowledge whether there are soldiers above-
perhaps Elias has placed guards for protecting his father's
sword and tomb. If we are going any farther westward,
we will be coming to where people in that great castle can
be seeing us. Do you have certainness-real, real true
certainness!-that you both want this? Please think before
you are speaking."

Simon did as his friend asked. After a while, he knew

TO    GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

255

what he wished to say. "We are here. The next time we
are so close to Bright-Nail, there may be men fighting ev-
erywhere. We may never be able to get near it. So I think
it would be foolish not to try to take it now. I'm going."

Binabik looked at Simon, then slowly nodded. "So we
will go to take the sword." He turned to the princess.
"Miriamele?"

"I have little to say about it. If we need to use the
Three Swords, then that will mean I have failed." She
smiled, but it was a smile Simon did not like at all. "And
if I fail to convince my father, I doubt that whatever hap-
pens afterward will mean much to me."

The troll made a close-handed gesture. "There is never
sure knowledge. I will help you as I can, and Simon will
also, I am not doubting that-but you must not give up
any chance of coming out again. Thinking of this sort will
make you careless."

"I would be very happy to come out again," said
Miriamele- "I want to help my father understand so that
he will cease the killing, then I want to say farewell to
him. I could never live with him after what he has done."

"I am hoping that you get the thing you are wishing
for," Binabik replied. "So-first we are to go sword-
searching, then we will decide what can be done for help-
ing Miriamele- For such weighty efforts, I have need of
sleep."

He lay down, curling against Qantaqa, and pulled his
hood over his face. Miriamele continued to stare into the
campfire. Simon watched her awkwardly for a short
while, then pulled his own cloak tight around him and lay
back. "Good night, Miriamele," he said. "I hope ... I
hope...."

"So do I."

Simon threw his arm over his eyes and waited for
sleep.

He dreamed that he sat atop Green Angel Tower,
perched like a gargoyle. Someone was moving beside
him.

It was the angel herself, who had apparently left her

256 Tad Williams

spire and now seated herself beside him, laying a cool
hand on his wrist. She looked strangely like the little girl
Leieth, but made of rough bronze and green with verdi-
gris.

"It is a long way down." The angel's voice was beau-
tiful, soft but strong.

Simon stared at the tiny rooftops of the Hayholt below
him. "It is."

"That is not what 1 mean." The angel's tone was gently
chiding- "I mean down to where the Truth is- Down to the
bottom, where things begin."

"I don't understand." He felt curiously light, as though
the next puff of wind might send him sailing off the tower
roof, whirling like a leaf. It seemed that the angel's grip
on his arm was the only thing that held him where he sat.

"From up here, the matters of Earth look small," she
said. "That is one way to see, and a good one. But it is
not the only one. The farther down you go, the harder
things are to understand-but the more important they
are. You must go very deep,"

"I don't know how to do that." He stared at her face,
but despite its familiarity it was still lifeless, just a casting
of rough metal. There was no hint of friendship or kind-
ness in the stiff features. "Where should I go? Who will
help me?"

"Deep. You." The angel suddenly stood; as her hand
released him, Simon felt himself beginning to float free of
the tower. He clutched a curving bit of the roof and clung.
"It is hard for me to talk to you, Simon," she said. "I may
not be able to again."

"Why can't you just tell me?" he cried. His feet were
floating off the edge; his body fluttered like a sail, trying
to follow. "Just tell me!"

"It is not so easy." The angel turned and slowly rose
back to her plinth atop the tower roof. "If I can come
again, I will. But it is only possible to talk clearly about
less important things. The greatest truths lie within, al-
ways within. They cannot be given. They must be found.*'

Simon felt himself tugged free of his handhold. Slowly,
like a cartwheel spun loose from its axle, he began to re-

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                          257

volve as he floated out. Sky and earth moved alternately
past him, as though the world were a child's ball in which
he had been imprisoned, a ball now sent rolling by a
vengeful kick....

Simon awakened in faint moonlight, sweating despite
the chill night air. The dark bulk of Swertclif hung above
him like a warning.

The next day found Simon considerably less certain
about things than he had been the night before. As they
readied for the climb, he found himself worrying over the
dream. If Amerasu had been right, if Simon had truly be-
come more open to the Road of Dreams, could there be a
meaning to what he had been told by the dream angel?
How could he go deeper? He was about to climb a tall
hill. And what answer was within? Some secret that even
he didn't know? It just didn't make sense.

The company set out as the sun began to warm in the
sky- For the first part of the morning they rode up through
the foothills, mounting Swertclif's lower reaches. As the
lower, gentler slopes fell away behind them, they were
forced to dismount and lead the horses.

They stopped for a mid-moming meal-a little of the
dried fruit and bread that Binabik had brought with him
from Josua's camp stores.

"I am thinking it is time to leave the horses behind us,"
said the troll. "If Qantaqa is still wishing to come, she
will climb on her own instead of. carrying me upon her
back."

Simon had not thought about having to leave
Homefinder. He had hoped there would be a way to ride
to the summit, but the only level path was the one on the
far side of Swertclif, the funeral road that led across the
top of the headland from Erchester and the Hayholt.

Binabik had brought a good quantity of rope in his sad-
dlebag; he sacrificed enough of it for Simon and
Miriamele to leave their mounts tied on long tethers to a
low, wind-curled tree within reach of a natural rocky pool
full of rainwater. The two horses had ample room to graze
during the half a day or more they would be required to

258 Tad Williams

wait. Simon laid his face against Homefinder's neck and
quietly promised her he would be back as soon as he
could.
"Any other things there are that need doing?" asked
Binabik; Simon stared up at the pinnacle of Swertclif and
wished he could think of something that would forestall
the climb a little longer. "Then let us be going," the troU
said.

Swertclif's eastern face was not as sheerly vertical as it
seemed from a distance. By traversing diagonally, the
company, with Qantaqa trailing behind, were even able
occasionally to walk upright, although more often than
not they went crouching from handhold to cautious hand-
hold. In only one spot, a narrow chink between the cliff
face and a standing stone, did Simon feel any worry, but
he and his two companions inched through while
Qantaqa, who had found some private wolfish path, stood
on the far side with her tongue dangling pinkly, watching
their struggles with apparent amusement.

A few hours after noon the skies darkened and the air
grew heavy. A light rain swept across the cliff face, wet-
ting the climbers and worrying Simon. It was not so bad
where they were, but it looked to get more difficult very
soon, and there was nothing pleasant about the idea of
trying to cross some of the steeply angled stones if they
were slick with rain. But the small shower passed, and al-
though the clouds remained threatening, no larger storm
seemed imminent.

The climb did grow steeper, but it was better than Si-
mon had feared. Binabik was leading, and the little man
was as surefooted as one of his Qanuc sheep. They only
used the rope once, tying themselves for safety as they
leapt from one grassy shelf to another over a long, slant-
ing scree of naked stones. Everyone made the jump
safely, although Miriamele scratched her hands and Si-
mon banged his knee hard when he landed. Qantaqa
seemed to find this part laughably easy as well.

As they paused for breath on the far side of this cross-
ing, Simon found that he was standing just a few cubits
below a small patch of white flowers-starblooms-

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

259

whose petals gleamed like snowflakes in the dark green
grass that surrounded them. He was heartened by the dis-
covery: he'd seen very few flowers since he and
Miriamele had first left Josua's camp. Even the Wiotercap
or Frayja's Fire that one might expect to see at this cold
time of the year had been scarce.

The climb up Swertclif's face took longer than they
had anticipated: as they toiled up the last long rise, the
sun had sunk low in the sky, gleaming a handbreadth
above the horizon behind the pall of clouds. They were
all bent nearly double now and working hard for breath;
they had been using their hands for balance and leverage
so frequently in this last stage that Simon wondered what
Qantaqa must think to see all her companions turned as
four-footed as she. When they stepped up and could at
last stand Upright on the grassy verge of Swertclif's sum-
mit, a sliver of sun broke through, washing the rounded
hill with pale light.

The mounds of the Hayholt's kings lay before them,
some hundred ells from where they stood struggling to re-
gain breath. All except one of the barrows were nothing
more than grassy humps, so rounded by time as to seem
part of the hill; that one, which'was surely John's, was
still only a pile of naked stones. At the hill's distant west-
ern edge lay the dim bulk of the Hayholt; the needle-thin
spire of Green Angel Tower was brighter than anything
else in sight.

Binabik cocked an eye up at the weak sun. "We are be-
ing later than my hope. We will not be able to go down
again before we are in darkness," He shrugged. "There is
nothing that will help that. The horses will be able to feed
themselves until the morning when we can return to
them."

"But what about..." Simon looked at Qantaqa, embar-
rassed; he had been about to say "wolves," "-.. what
about wild animals? Are you sure they'll be all right?"

"Horses can be defending themselves very well. And I
have seen few animals of any kind or name in these
lands." Binabik patted Simon's arm. "And also there is
nothing we can be doing otherwise except risking a bro-

260

Tad Williams

ken neck or other unfortunate crunching or snapping of

bones."

Simon took a breath and started off toward the barrows.

"Come on, then."

The seven mounds were laid out in a partial circle.
Space had been left for others to share this place. Simon
felt a twinge of superstitious fear as he thought about
that. Who else would lie here someday? Elias? Josua?
Or neither? Perhaps the events that had been set in mo-
tion meant that nothing expected would ever happen

again.

They walked into the center of the incomplete circle

and stopped. The wind stirred and bent the grasses. The
hilltop was silent. Simon walked to the first barrow,
which had sunk into the waiting earth until it was scarcely
a man's height, though it stretched several times that in
length and was nearly equally wide. A verse floated into
Simon's head, a verse and a memory of black statues in
a dark, silent throne room.

"Fingil first, named the Bloody King."

he said quietly,

"Flying out of the North on war's red wing."

Now that he had spoken the initial verse, it seemed un-
lucky to stop. He moved to the next barrow, which was as
old and weatherworn as the first. A few stones glinted in
the grass, like teeth-

"Hjeldin his son, the Mad King dire
Leaped to his death from the haunted spire."

The third was set close to the second, as if the one
buried there still sought protection from his predeces-
sors.

"Ikferdig next, the Burned King hight
He met the fire-drake by dark of night."

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          26l

Simon paused. There was a gap between this trio of
mounds and the next, and there was also another verse
prodding his memory. After a moment, it came.

"Three northern kings, all dead and cold
The north rules no more in lofty Hayholt."

He moved to the second group of three, the song
swiftly coming back to him now, so that he did not have
to search for words. Miriamele and Binabik stood in si-
lence, watching and listening.

"The Heron King Sulis, called Apostate
Fled Nabban, but in Hayholt he met his fate

"The Hemystir Holly King, old Tethtain
Came in at the gate, but not out again

"Last, Eahlstan Fisher King, in lore most high
The dragon he woke, and in Hayholt he died."

Simon took a deep breath. It almost seemed that he was
saying a magical spell, that a few more words might bring
the barrows' inhabitants up from their centuried sleep,
grave ornaments clinking as they broke through the earth.

"Six kings have ruled in Hayholt's broad halls
Six masters have stridden her mighty stone walls
Six mounds on the cliff over deep Kynslagh-bay
Six kings will sleep there until Doom's final day ..."

When he finished, the wind grew stronger for a mo-
ment, flattening the grass and moaning as it whirled
across the hilltop . -. but nothing else happened. The
mounds remained silent and secretive. Their long shad-
ows lay on the sward, stretching toward the east.

"Of course, there are seven kings here now," he said,
^breaking the silence. Now that the moment had come, he
" was tremendously unsettled. His heart was rattling in his
| ribs and he suddenly found it hard to speak without the

262

Tad Williams

words catching in his throat. He turned to face the last
barrow. It was higher than the rest, and the grass had only
partly covered the pile of stones. It looked like the shell
of an immense sea-creature stranded by the waves of
some ancient flood.

"King John Presbyter," said Simon.

"My grandfather."

Struck by the sound of Miriamele's voice, Simon
turned. She appeared positively haunted, her face color-
less, her eyes hollow and frightened.

"I can't watch this," she said. "I'm going to wait over
there." She turned and made her way around Fingil's bar-
row, sinking down out of sight at last as she sat, presum-
ably to look out to the east and the hilly land they had just
crossed.

"Let us be working, then,'* said Binabik. "I will not be
enjoying this task, but you spoke rightly, Simon: we are
here, and it would be foolishness not to take the sword."

"Prester John would want us to," he said with more
confidence than he felt. "He would want us to do what we
can to save his kingdom, his people."

"Who knows what the dead are wishing?" Binabik said
darkly. "Come, let us work. Still we must be making at
least some shelter for ourselves before night comes, for
hiding the light of a fire if nothing else. Miriamele," he      ^^
called, "can you look to see if some of those shrubs there
along the hill could provide some wood for burning?"

She raised her hand in acknowledgment.

Simon bent to John's cairn and began tugging at one of
the stones. It clung to the giassy earth so tenaciously that
Simon had to put his boot on the stone beside it to help
him pull it free. He stood up and wiped sweat from his
face. His chain mail was too bulky and uncomfortable for
this sort of work. He unlaced it and removed it, then took
off the padded jerkin, too, and laid them both in the grass
beside the mound. The wind ^clawed at him through 'his
thin shirt.
"Halfway across Osten Ard we have been traveling,"
Binabik said as he dug his fingers into the earth, "and no
one was thinking to find a shovel."

263

TO    GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

"I have my sword," said Simon.

"Save it until there is real need." A little of the troll's
usual dryness had returned- "Gouging at stones has a
dulling effect on blades, I am told. And we may be need-
ing a sword with some sharpness. Especially if anyone
notices us at our work digging up the High King's father."

Simon shut his eyes for a moment and said a brief
prayer asking Aedon's forgiveness-and Prester John's,
too, for good measure-for what they were about to do.

The sun was gone. The gray sky was beginning to turn
pink at its western edge, a color that Simon usually found
pleasant, but which now looked like something beginning
to spoil- The last stone had been pulled out of the hole in
the side of Prester John's grass-fringed cairn. The black
nothingness that lay beyond looked like a wound in the
flesh of the world.

Binabik rumbled with his flints. When at last he struck
a spark, he lit the end of the torch and shielded it from the
brisk wind until it caught. Unwilling to stare at the wait-
ing blackness, Simon looked out instead across the dark
green of the hilltop. Miriamele .was a small figure in the
distance, bending and rising as she scavenged for the
makings of a campfire. Simon wished he could stop now,
just turn and go. He wished he had never thought of such
a foolish thing to do.

Binabik waved the flame inside the hole, pulled it out,
then pushed the torch back inside again. He got down on
his knees and took a cautious sniff. "The air, it is seem-
ing, is at least good." He pushed more clods of earth from
the edge of the hole before poking his head through. "I
can see the wooden sides of something. A boat?"

"Sea-Arrow." The gravity of what they were doing had
begun to settle on Simon like a great weight. "Yes, Pres-
ter John's boat. He was buried in it."

Binabik edged in a little farther. "There is plenty of room
for me to stand in here," he said. His voice was muffled.
"And the timbers above are seeming to me quite sturdy."

"Binabik," said Simon. "Come out."

264 Tad Williams

The little man backed up until he could turn to look.
"What is wrong, Simon?"
"It was my idea. I should be the one to go in."

Binabik raised an eyebrow. "No one is wishing to take
from you the glory of finding the sword. It is only that I
am being smallest and best suited for cave-wandering."

"It's not the glory-it's in case anything happens., I
don't want you hurt because of my stupid idea."

"Your idea? Simon, there is no blame here. I am doing
what I think is being best. And I am thinking there is
nothing inside here to hurt anyone." He paused. "But if
you wish ..." He stepped aside.

Simon lowered himself to his hands and knees, then
took the torch from the troll's small hand and pushed it
into the hole before him. In the flickering light he could
see the great muddy sweep of Sea-Arrow's hull; the boat
was curved like a huge dead leaf, like a cocoon ... as
though something within it was waiting to be reborn.

Simon sat up and shook his head. His heart was ham-
mering.

Mooncalf! What are you afraid of? Prester John was a
good man.

Yes, but what if his ghost was angry about what had
happened to his kingdom? And surely no spirit liked its
grave being robbed.

Simon took in a gulp of air, then slowly eased himself
through the hole in the side of the mound-
He slid down the crumbling slope of the pit until he
touched the boat's hull. The dome of spars and mud and
white root tendrils stretching overhead seemed a sky cre-
ated by a feeble, half-blind god. When he finally took an-
other breath, his nostrils filled with the smells of soil and
pine sap and mildew, as well as stranger scents he could
not identify, some of them as exotic as the contents of Ju-
dith me Kitchen Mistress' spice jars. The sweet strength
took him by surprise and set him choking. Binabik
popped his head through the hole.

"Are you well? Is there badness to the air?"

Simon regained his breath- "I'm well. I just ..." He
swallowed. "Don't worry."




TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              265

Binabik hesitated, then withdrew.

Simon looked at the side of the hull for what seemed a
very long time. Because of the way it was wedged in the
pit, the wales rose higher than his head. Simon could not
see a way to climb with one hand, and the torch was too
thick to be carried comfortably in his mouth. After a mo-
ment in which he was strongly tempted to turn and clam-
ber back out again and let Binabik solve the problem, he
wedged the butt of the torch in beside one of the mound
timbers, then threw his hands over the wale and pulled
himself up, kicking his feet in search of a toehold. The
wood of Sea-Arrow's hull felt slimy beneath his fingers
but held his weight.

Simon pulled the top half of his body over the wale and
hung there for a moment, balanced, the edge of the boat
pushing up against his stomach like a fist. The sweet,
musty odor was very strong. Looking down, he almost
cursed-biting back words that might be unlucky and were
certainly disrespectful-when he realized that he had
placed the torch too low for its light to reach into the boat's
hull. All he could see beneath him were ill-defined lumps
of shadow. Of course, he thought, it should be simple
enough to find a single body and the sword it held, even in
darkness: he could do it by touch alone. But there was not
a chance in the world that Simon was going to try that.

"Binabik!" he shouted. "Can you come help me?" He
was proud of how steady his voice sounded.

The troll clambered over the lip of the hole and slid
down the incline. "Are you trapped somehow?"

"No, but I can't see anything without the torch- Can
you get it for me?"

As Simon hung over the dark hull, the wooden wale
trembled. Simon had a moment's fear that it might col-
lapse beneath him, a fear that was not made less by a
quiet creaking that drifted through the underground cham-
ber. Simon was almost certain that the noise came from
the tormented wood-the king's boat had been two years
in the wet ground, after all-but it was hard not to imag-
ine a hand ... an ancient, withered hand ... reaching up
from the shadowed hull....

266 Tad Williams

"Binabik!?"

"I am bringing it, Simon. It was higher than I could be
reaching."

"Sorry. Just hurry, please."

The light on the roof of the barrow changed as the flame
was moved. Simon felt a tapping on his foot. Balancing as
carefully as he could, he swung his legs around, pivoting
until he was lying with his stomach along the length of the
wale and could reach down and take the torch from
Binabik's upstretched hand. With another silent prayer-
and his eyes half-shut for fear of what he might see-
Simon turned and leaned over the void of the inner hull.
At first it was hard to   see anything. He opened his eyes
wider. Small stones and   dirt had worked loose from the bar-
row ceiling and covered   much of Sea-Arrow's contents-
but the detritus of the   grave had not covered everything.

"Binabik!" Simon cried. "Look!"

"What!?" The troll, alarmed, rushed along the hull to a
spot where the boat touched the wall of the barrow, then
clambered up, nimble as on a high Mintahoq trail. Bal-
ancing lightly atop the wale, he worked his way over until
he was near Simon.

"Look." Simon gestured with the shaking torch.

King John Presbyter lay in the bosom of Sea-Arrow,
surrounded by his funeral gifts, clad still in the magnifi-
cent raiment in which he had been buried. On the High
King's brow was a golden circlet; his hands were folded
on his chest, resting on his long snowy beard. John's skin,
but for a certain waxy translucency, looked as firm as the
flesh of a living man. After several seasons in the corrupt-
ing earth, he seemed to be only sleeping.

But, terrifyingly strange as it was to see the king whole
and uncorrupted, that was not all that had made Simon
cry out.

"Kikkasut!" Binabik swore, no less surprised than Si-
mon. A moment later he had clambered down into the
hull of the boat.

A search of the grave and its effects confirmed it: Pres-
ter John still lay in his resting place on Swertclif-but
Bright-Nail was gone-

11

Heartbeats

"

''Just because Varellan is my brother does not mean I
will suffer stupidity," Duke Benigaris snarled at the
knight who kneeled before him. He smacked his open
palm on the arm of his throne. 'Tell him to hold firm un-
til I arrive with the Kingfishers- If he does not, I will
hang his head from the Sancellan's gate-wall!"

"Please, my lord," said his armorer, who was hovering
just to one side, "I beg you, do not thrash about so. I am
trying to measure."

"Yes, do sit still," added his mother. She occupied the
same low but ornate chair she had when her husband
ruled in Nabban. "If you had not been making such a pig
of yourself, your old armor would still fit."

Benigaris stared at her, mustache twitching with fury.
"Thank you, Mother."
"And do not be so cruel to Varellan. He is hardly more
than a child."

"He is a dawdling, simpering halfwit-and it is you
who spoiled him. Who talked me into letting him lead the
troops at the Onestrine Pass, in any case?"

Dowager Duchess Nessalanta waved her hand in airy
dismissal. "Anyone could hold that pass against a ragtag
mob like Josua's. / could. And the experience will do him
good."

The duke jerked his arm free of the armorer's grasp
and slammed it on the chair arm once more. "By the Tree,
Mother! He has given up two leagues in less than a fort-
night, despite having several thousand foot soldiers and

268 Tad Williams

half a thousand knights. He is falling back so fast that by
the time I ride out the front door, I will probably trip over
him."

"Xannasavin says there is nothing to fret about," she
replied, amused. "He has examined the skies carefully.
Benigaris, please calm yourself. Be a man."

The duke's stare was icy. His jaw worked for a momenf
before he spoke. "One of these days, Mother, you will
push me too far."

"And what will you do-throw me into the cells? Cut
off my head?" Her look become fierce. "You need me.
Not to mention the respect you owe the one who bore
you."

Benigaris scowled, took a deep breath, then turned his
attention back to the knight who had delivered young
Varellan's message. "What do you wait for?" he de-
manded. "You heard what I had to say. Now go and tell
him."

The knight rose and made an elaborate bow, then
turned and walked from the throne room. The ladies in
colorful dresses who were talking quietly near the door
watched him go, then huddled and began discussing
something that caused them to giggle loudly.

Benigaris again tugged his wrist free of the armorer's
clutch, this time so he could snap his lingers at one of the
pages, who trotted over with a cup of wine.

The duke took a draught and wiped his mouth. "There
is more to Josua's army than we first thought. People say
that the High King's brother has found a mighty knight
who fights at the head of his army. They are claiming it
is Camaris. Seriddan of Metessa believes it, or at least he
has joined them." He grimaced. "Traitorous dog."
Nessalanta laughed sourly. "I didn't give Josua as
much credit as he deserved, I admit. It is a clever ploy.
Nothing arouses the common folk like the mention of
your uncle's name. But Seriddan? You ask me to worry
about him and a few other puny barons from the wilder-
ness? The Metessan Crane hasn't flown from the palace
towers in five hundred years. They are nobodies."

"So you are quite sure that this talk of Sir Camaris is

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                           269

just a ploy?" Benigaris' words, intended to be mocking,
came out a little hollow.

"Of course it is! How could it be him? Camaris is forty
years dead."

"But his body was never found. Father always ago-
nized because he couldn't give his brother an Aedonite
burial."

The duchess made a noise of dismissal but kept her
eyes on her needlework. "I knew Camaris, my brave son.
You did not. Even if he had Joined a monastery or gone
into hiding, word would have leaked out: he was so
madly honest he could never have lied to anyone who
asked him who he was. And he was so self-satisfied, such
a meddler, that it is not possible he would have stood by
while Prester John fought the second Thrithings War
without leaping in to be Camaris the Magnificent,
Camaris the Holy, Camaris the Great." Nessalanta pricked
her finger and cursed under her breath- "No, this is no liv-
ing Camaris that Josua has found-and it is certainly no
ghost. It is some tall imposter, some oversized grassland
mercenary with his hair whitened with powder. A trick.
But it makes no difference in any case." She examined
her stitchery for a moment, then put the hoop down with
an air of satisfaction. "Even the real Camaris could not
unseat us. We are too strong ... and his age is gone,
gone, gone."

Benigaris looked at her appraisingly. "Unseat us... ?"
he began, but was interrupted by a movement at the
room's far end. A herald with the golden kingfisher sigil
on his tabard had appeared in die throne room doorway.

"Your Highness," the man said in loud ceremonial
tones. "Count Streawe of Ansis Pellip6 arrives at your
summons."

The duke settled back, a smile tightening his lips. "Ah,
yes- Send the count in."

Streawe's litter was carried through the doors and set
near the great high-arched windows that overlooked the
sea, windows covered today in heavy draperies to keep
out the cold air. The count's minions lifted out his chair
and put it down before the dais that bore the ducal throne-
270 Tad Williams

The count coughed, then caught his breath. "Greetings,
Duke," he wheezed- "And Duchess Nessalanta, what a
pleasure to see you! As usual, please forgive my sitting
without your leave."

"Of course, of course," Benigaris said cheerfully. "And
how is your catarrh, Streawe? I cannot think that it is
helped by our cold sea air- I know how warm you keep
your house on Sta Mirore."

"As a matter of fact, Benigaris, I had wished to speak
to you of just that ..." the old man began, but the duke
cut him short.

"First things first, I regret to say. Forgive me my impa-
tience, but we are at war as you know. I am a blunt man."

Streawe nodded. "Your straightforwardness is well-
known, my friend."

"Yes. So, to the point, then. Where are my riverboats?
Where are my Perdruinese troops?"

The count raised a white eyebrow ever so slightly, but
his voice and manner remained unperturbed. "Oh, all are
coming. Highness. Never fear. When has Perdruin not
honored a debt to her elder sister Nabban?"

"But it has been two months," Benigaris said with
mock sternness. "Streawe, Streawe, my old friend ... I
might almost think that you were putting me off-that for
some reason you were trying to stall me."

This time the count's eyebrows betrayed no surprise,
but nevertheless a subtle, indefinable change ran across
his face. His eyes glittered in their net of wrinkled flesh.
"I am disappointed that Nabban could think such a thing
of Perdruin after our long and honorable partnership."
Streawe dipped his head. "But it is true that the boats you
wish for river transport have been slow in coming-and
for that I apologize most abjectly. You see, even with the
many messages I have sent back home to Ansis Pellipe,
detailing your needs with great care, there is no one who
can get things accomplished in the way that I can when I
take them in hand personally. I do not wish to malign my
servitors, but, as we Perdruinese say, 'when the captain is
below decks, there are many places to stretch a ham-
mock.' " The count brought his long, gnarled fingers up

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

to brush something from his upper lip. "I should go back
to Ansis Pellipe, Benigaris- As sad as I should be to lose
the company of you and your beloved mother-" he
smiled at Nessalanta, "-I feel confident that I could send
your riverboats and the troop of soldiers we agree on
within a week after returning." He coughed again, a
wracking spasm that went on for some moments before
he regained his wind. "And for all the beauty of your pal-
ace, it is, as you said, a trifle airier than my own house.
My health has worsened here, I fear."

"Just so," said Benigaris. "Just so. We all fear for your
health, Count. It has been much on my mind of late. And
the men and boats, too." He paused, regarding Streawe
with a smile that seemed increasingly smug. 'That is why
I could not allow you to leave Just now. A sea voyage at
this moment-why, your catarrh would certainly worsen.
And let me be brutally honest, dear Count ... but only
because Nabban loves you so. If you were to grow more
ill, not only would I hold myself responsible, but cer-
tainly it would also slow the arrival of boats and men
even more. For if they are haphazard now, with your care-
ful instructions, imagine how laggard they would become
with you ill and unable to oversee them at all. There
would be many hammocks stretched then, I'm sure!"

Streawe's eyes narrowed. "Ah. So you are saying that
you think it best I do not leave just now?"

"Oh, dear Count, I am insisting you remain."
Benigaris, tiring at last of the ministrations of his ar-
morer, waved the man away. "I could not forgive myself
if I did anything less. Surely after the boats and your
troop of soldiers arrive to help us defend against this
madman Josua, the weather will have turned warm
enough that you can safely travel again."

The count considered this for a moment, giving every
impression of weighing Benigaris' arguments. "By
Pellipa and her bowl," he said at last, "I can see the sense
of what you are saying, Benigaris." His tight grin dis-
played surprisingly good teeth. "And I am touched at the
concern you show for an old friend of your father's."

"I honor you just as I honored him."

272 Tad Williams

"Indeed." Streawe's smile now became almost gentle.
"How lovely that is. Honor is in such short supply in
these grim days." He waved a knobby hand, summoning
his bearers. "I suspect that I should send another letter to
Ansis Pellipe, urging my castellain and boatwrights to
hasten their efforts even more."

"That sounds like a very good idea. Count. A very
good idea." Benigaris sat back against the throne and
finger-brushed his mustache- "Will we see you at table to-
night?"

"Oh, I think you will. Where else would I find such
kind and considerate friends?" He leaned forward on his
chair, sketching a bow. "Duchess Nessalanta-a pleasure
as always, gracious lady."

Nessalanta smiled and nodded. "Count Streawe."
The old man was lifted back into his litter. After the
curtain was drawn, his four servitors carried him from the
throne room.

"I do not think you   needed to be so ham-fisted," said
Nessalanta when the   count had gone. "He is no danger to
us. Since when have   sticky-fingered Perdruinese ever
wanted more than to   earn a little gold?"

"They have been known to accept coins from more
than one pocket." Benigaris lifted his cup. "This way,
Streawe will have a much stronger wish to see us victori-
ous. He is not a stupid man."

"No, he certainly is not. That is why I don't understand
the need to use such a heavy hand."

"Everything I know. Mother," said Benigaris heartily,
"I learned from you."

"

Isgrimnur was growing annoyed.

Josua could not seem to keep his attention on the mat-
ters at hand; instead, every few moments he went to the
door of the tent and stared back up the valley at the mon-
astery standing on the hillside, a humble collection of
stone buildings that glowed golden-brown in the slanting
sunlight.

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                      273

"She is not dying, Josua," the duke finally growled.
"She is only expecting a child."

The prince looked up guiltily. "What?"

"You have been staring at that place all afternoon." He
levered his bulk off the stool and walked to Josua's side,
then placed a hand on the prince's shoulder. "If you are
so consumed, Josua, then go to her. But I assure you she
is in good hands. What my wife doesn't know about ba-
bies isn't worth knowing."

"I know, I know." The prince returned to the map
spread out on the tabletop. "I cannot stop my mind chum-
ing, old friend. Tell me what we were talking about."

Isgrimnur sighed. "Very well." He bent to the map.
"Camaris says there is a shepherd's trail that runs above
the valley...."

Someone made a discreet noise in the doorway of the
tent. Josua looked up. "Ah, Baron. Welcome back. Please
come in."

Seriddan was accompanied by Sludig and Freosel. All
exchanged greetings as Josua brought out a jug of
Teligure wine. The baron and Josua's lieutenants bore the
marks of a day's muddy riding-

"Young Varellan has dug in his heels just before Chasu
Yarinna," the baron said, grinning. "He has more grit than
I thought. I had expected him to fall back all the way to
the Onestrine Pass."

"And why hasn't he?" Isgrimnur asked.

Seriddan shook his head. "Perhaps because he feels
that once the battle for the pass begins, there is no turning
back."

"That might mean that he is not so sure of our weak-
ness as his brother Benigaris is," Josua mused. "Perhaps
he may prove willing to talk."

"What is just as likely," said Sludig, "is that he is try-
ing to keep us out of the pass until Duke Benigaris comes
up with reinforcements. Whatever they might have
thought of our strength to start with. Sir Camaris has
changed their minds, I promise you."

"Where is Camaris?" Josua asked.

"With Hotvig and the rest up at the front." Sludig

274

Tad Williams

shook his head in wonderment. "Merciful Aedon, I heard
all the stories, but I thought they were just cradle songs.
Prince Josua, I have never seen anything like him! When
he and Hotvig's horsemen were caught between two
wings of Varellan's knights two days ago, we were all
sure that he was as good as dead or captured. But he
broke the Nabbanai knights like they were kindling woocM
One he cut nearly in half with a single stroke. Sheared
right through him, armor and all! Surely that sword is
magical!"

"Thorn is a powerful weapon," said Josua. "But with it
or without it, there has never been a knight like Camaris."

"His horn Cellian has become a terror to the
Nabbanmen," Sludig continued. "When it echoes down
the valley, some of them turn and ride away. And out of
every troop Camaris defeats, he takes one of the prisoners
and sends him back to say: 'Prince Josua and the others
wish to talk with your lord.* He has beaten down so many
that he must have sent two dozen Nabbanai prisoners
back by now, each one carrying the same message."

Seriddan raised his wine cup. "Here's to him. If he is
a terror now, what must he have been like in the height of
his powers? I was a boy when Camaris ..." he laughed
shortly, "-I almost said 'died.' When he disappeared. I
never saw him."
"He was little different," Isgrimnur said thoughtfully.
"That is what surprises me. His body has aged, but his
skills and fighting heart have not. As though his powers
have been preserved."

"As though for one final test," Josua said, measuring
out the words. "God grant that it is so-and that he suc-
ceeds, for all our sakes."

"But I am puzzled." Seriddan took another sip. "You
have told me that Camaris hates war, that he would rather
do anything than fight- Yet I have never seen such a kill-
ing engine."

Josua's smile was sad, his look troubled. "Camaris at
war is like a lady's maid swatting spiders."

"What?" Seriddan lowered his eyebrows and squinted,
wondering if he was being mocked.

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              275

"If you tell a maid to go and kill the spiders in her la-
dy's chamber," the prince explained, "she will think of a
hundred excuses not to do anything. But when she is fi-
nally convinced that it must be done, no matter the horror
she feels, she will dispatch every single spider with great
thoroughness, just to make sure she does not have to take
up the task again." His faint smile disappeared. "And that
is Camaris. The only thing he hates worse than warfare is
unnecessary warfare-especially killings which could
have been avoided by making a clean ending the first
time. So once he is committed, Camaris makes sure that
he does not have to do the same thing twice." He raised
his glass in salute to the absent knight- "Imagine how'it
must feel to do best in all the world what you least wish
to do."

After that, they drank their wine in silence for a time.

A

Tiamak limped out across the terrace. He found a place
on the low wall and hoisted himself up, then sat with his
legs dangling and basked in the late afternoon light. The
Frasilis Valley stretched before"him, two rippling banks
of dark soil and gray-green treetops with the Anitullean
Road snaking between them. If he narrowed his eyes,
Tiamak could make out the shapes of Josua's tents nestled
in the purple shadows of the hillside to the southwest.

My companions may think we Wrannamen live like sav-
ages. he thought to himself, but I am as happy as anyone
to be in one place for a few days and to have a solid roof
over my head.

One of the monks walked by, hands folded in his
sleeve. He gave Tiamak a look that lasted the length of
several steps, but only nodded his head in formal greet-
ing.
The monks do not seem happy to have us here. He felt
himself smiling. Unwilling as they are to be caught up in
a war, how much more dubious must they be about having
women and marsh men'within the cloisters, too?

Still, Tiamak was glad that Josua had chosen this spot

276 Tad Willwms

as a temporary refuge, and that he had allowed his wife
and many others to remain here as the army moved far-
ther down the gorge. The Wrannaman sighed as he felt
the cool, dry breeze, the sunshine on his face. It was good
to have shelter, even for just a little while. It was good
that the rains had let up, that the sun had returned.

But as Josua said. he reminded himself, it means noth-
ing. A respite is all-the Storm King has not been slowed
by anything we have done so far. If we cannot solve the
riddles before us, if we cannot gain the swords and leam
how to use them, this moment of peace will mean nothing.
The deadly winter will return-and there will be no sun-
shine then. He Who Always Steps on Sand, let me not fail!
Let Strangyeard and me find the answers we seek!

But answers were becoming fewer and farther between.
The search was a responsibility that had begun to feel
more and more burdensome. Binabik was gone, Geloe
was dead, and now only Tiamak and the diffident priest
remained of all the Scrollbearers and other wise ones. To-
gether they had pored over Morgenes' manuscript,
searching it minutely from one end to the other in hope of
finding some clues they had missed, some help with the
riddle of me Great Swords. They had also scrutinized the
translated scrolls of Binabik's master Ookequk, but so far
these had provided nothing but a great deal of trollish
wisdom, most of which seemed to concern predicting av-
alanches and singing away the spirits of frostbite.

But if Strangyeard and I do not find more success soon,
Tiamak thought grimly, we may have more need of
Ookequk's wisdom than we will like.

In the past few days, Tiamak had set Strangyeard to re-
late every bit of information that the archivist possessed
about the Great Swords and their undead enemy-his
own book-learning, the things old Jamauga had taught
him, the experiences of the youth Simon and his compan-
ions, everything that had happened in the last year that
might contain some clue to their dilemma. Tiamak prayed
that a pattern might show somewhere, as the ripples in a
river demonstrated the presence of a rock beneath the sur-
face. In all the lore of these wise men and women, these

TO GREBN ANGEL TOWER          277

adventurers and accidental witnesses, someone must
know something of how to use the Great Swords.
Tiamak sighed again and wiggled his toes. He longed
to be just a little man with little problems again. How im-
portant those problems had seemed! And how he longed
to have only those problems now. He held up his hand
and looked at the play of light across his knuckles, a gnat
that crept across the thin dark hairs on his wrist. The day
was deceptively pleasant, just like the surface of a stream.
But there was no question that rocks or worse lay hidden
beneath.

A

"Please lie back, Vorzheva," said Aditu.

The Thrithings-woman made a face. "Now you talk
like Josua. It is only a little pain."

"You see what she's like." Gutrun wore an air of grim
satisfaction. "If I could tie her to that bed, I would."

"I do not think that she needs to be tied to anything,"
the Sitha woman replied. "But Vorzheva, neither is there
any dishonor in lying down when you are in pain."

The prince's wife reluctantly slumped back against the
cushions and allowed Gutrun to pull the blanket-up. "1
was not raised to be weak." In the light filtering down
from the high small window she was very pale.

"You are not weak. But both your life and the child's
life are precious," Aditu said gently. "When you feel well
and strong, move around as you like. When you are hurt-
ing or weak, lie down and let Duchess Gutrun or me help
you." She stood and took a few steps toward the door.

"You are not going to leave?" Vorzheva asked in dis-
may. "Stay and talk to me. Tell me what is happening
outside. Gutrun and I have been in this room all day-
Even the monks do not speak to us. I think they bate
women.'*

Aditu smiled. "Very well. My other tasks can wait in
such a good cause." The Sitha seated herself upon the bed
once more, folding her legs beneath her. "Duchess

278

Tad Williams

Gutrun. if you wish to stretch your legs, I will be here to
sit with Vorzheva for a little while longer."

Gutrun sniffed dismissively. "I'm Just where I should
be." She turned back to her sewing.

Vorzheva reached out her hand and clasped Aditu's fin-
gers. "Tell me what you have seen today. Did you go to

Leieth?"
The Sitha nodded, her silver-white hair swinging. "Yes.
She is just a few rooms away-but there is no change.
And she is growing very thin. I mix nurturing herbs with
the small draughts of water she will swallow, but even
that is not enough, I fear. Something still tethers her to
her body-to look at her she seems only to be sleeping-
but I wonder how much longer that tie will hold." A trou-
bled look seemed to pass over Aditu's alien face. "This is
another way that Geloe's passing has lessened us. Surely
the forest woman would know some root, some leafy
thing that might draw Leieth's spirit back."

"I'm not sure," Gutrun said without looking up. "That
child was never more than half here-I know, and I cared
for her and held her as much as anyone. Whatever hap-
pened to her in the forest when she traveled with
Miriamele, those dogs and merciful Usires only knows
what else, it took a part of her away." She paused. "It's
not your fault, Aditu. You've done all that anyone could,
I'm sure."

Aditu turned to look at Gutrun, but betrayed no change
of expression at the duchess' conciliatory tone. "But it is
sad," was all she said.

"Sad, yes," Gutrun replied. "God's wishes often make
His children sad. We just don't understand, I suppose,
what He plans. Surely after all she suffered. He has some-
thing better in mind for little Leieth."

Aditu spoke carefully. "I hope that is so."

"And what else do you have to tell me?" Vorzheva
asked. "I guessed about Leieth. You would have told me
first if there was any new thing."

"There is not much else to relate. The Duke of
Nabban's forces have fallen back a little farther, but soon
they will stop and fight again. Josua and the others are

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER            279

trying to arrange a truce so that they can stop the fighting
and talk."

"Will these Nabbanai talk to us?"

Aditu shrugged sinuously. "I sometimes wonder if I un-
derstand even the mortals I know best. As to those who
arc completely strange to me ... I certainly cannot offer
any firm idea as to what these men may do. But the
Nabbanai general is a brother of the ruling duke, I am
told, so I doubt that he will be very sympathetic to any-
thing your husband has to say."

Vorzheva's face contorted. She gasped, but then waved
the solicitous Aditu back. "No, I am well. It was just a
squeezing." After a moment she took a deep breath. "And
Josua? How is he?"
The Sitha looked to Gutrun, who raised her eyebrows
in a gesture of amused helplessness. "He was just here
this morning, Vorzheva," the duchess said. "He is not in
the fighting."

"He is well," Aditu added. "He asked me to send his
regards."

"Regards?" Vorzheva sat up. "What sort of word is that
from a man, from a husband?-Regards?"

"Oh, Elysia, Mother of Mercy," Gutrun said in disgust.
"You know that he cares for you, Vorzheva. Let it go."

The Thrithings-woman sank back, her hair spreading
against the pillow like a shining dark cloth. "It is only be-
cause I cannot do anything. Tomorrow I will be stronger.
Tomorrow I will walk to where I can see the battle."

"Only if you can drag me that far," said the duchess.
"You should have seen her, Aditu-she couldn't stand
this morning, the pains were so dreadful. If I had not
caught her, she would have fallen down right on the stone
floor."

"If she is strong enough," Aditu said, "then for her to
walk is certainly good-but carefully, and not too great a
distance." She paused, looking at the Thrithings-woman
carefully. "I think perhaps you are too excitable to look at
the battle, Vorzheva."

"Hah." Vorzheva's disgust was plain. "You said your

280

Tad Williams

people hardly ever have children. Why are you now so
wise about what I should do?"

"Since our birthings are so infrequent, we take them all
the more seriously." Aditu smiled regretfully. "I would
greatly love to bear a child one day. It has been a privi-
lege to be with you while you cany yours." She leaned
forward and pulled back the coverlet. "Let me listen." /

"You will only say that the baby is too unhappy to go
walking tomorrow," Vorzheva complained, but she did
not prevent Aditu from laying a golden cheek against her
tautly rounded stomach.

Aditu shut her upturned eyes as though she were falling
asleep. For a long moment, her thin face seemed set in al-
most perfect repose. Then her eyes opened wide, a flash-
ing of brilliant amber. "Venyha s'ahn!" she hissed in
surprise. She lifted her head for a moment, then placed
her ear back against Vorzheva's belly.

"What?" Outrun was -out of her chair in a heartbeat,
stitchery tumbling to the floor. "The child! Is the child
... is something wrong?"

'Tell me, Aditu." Vorzheya was lying perfectly still,
but her voice cracked at the edges. "Do not spare me."

The Sitha began to laugh.

"Are you mad?" Gutrun demanded. "What is it?"

Aditu sat up. "I am sorry. I was marveling at the con-
tinuing astonishment I feel around you mortals. And
when I think that my own people count themselves lucky
if we birth a handful of children in a hundred years!"

"What are you talking about?" Outrun snapped.
Vorzheva looked too frightened to ask any more ques-
tions.

"I am talking about mortals, about the gifts you have
that you do not know." She laughed again, but more qui-
etly. 'There are two heartbeats."

The duchess stared. "What... ?"

"Two heartbeats," Aditu said evenly. 'Two children are
growing inside of Vorzheva."

12

Sleepless in Darkness

*

Simon's disappointment was an emptiness deep and
hollow as the barrow in which they stood. "It's gone," he
whispered. "Bright-Nail isn't here."

"Of that there is being little doubt." In the torchlight,
Binabik's face was grim- "Qinkipa of the Snows! I almost
am wishing we did not find out until we had come here
with Prince Josua's army. I do not wish to take him such
news."

"But what could have happened to ft?" Simon stared
down at the waxen face of Prester John as though the
king might wake from his deathly sleep to give an an-
swer.

"It seems plain to me that Elias knew its value and
took it away. I am not doubting it is sitting in the Hayholt
now." The troll shrugged; his voice was heavy. "Well, we
knew always that we must be taking Sorrow from him.
Two swords or one seems to me a small difference only."

"But Elias couldn't have taken it! There was no hole
until we dug one!"

"Perhaps he was taking it out shortly after John was
buried. The marks would be gone after such a time pass-
ing."
"That doesn't make any sense," Simon stubbornly in-
sisted. "He could have kept it in the first place if he
wanted it. Towser said that Elias hated it-that he
couldn't wait to get rid of it."

"I have no certain answers, Simon. It is being possible
that King Elias did not know its value then, but heard of

282 Tad Williams

it later. Perhaps Pryrates was discovering its power and so
had it removed. There are many things possible." The
troll passed his torch to Simon, then crawled off the wale
of Prester John's boat and began to clamber back up to-
ward the hole they had made. The twilit sky shone
through, blue-gray and muddy with clouds.

"I don't believe it." Simon's hands, weary with dig-
ging, painfully sore still from the ordeal in Hasu Vale,
hung limply in his lap. "I don't want to believe it."

"The second, I am afraid, is the truer thing," Binabik
said kindly. "Come, friend Simon, we will see if
Miriamele has made a fire. Some hot soup will be making
the situation a little easier for thinking about." He
climbed to the lip of the hole and wriggled out, then
turned. "Hand the torches to me, then I will be helping
you out."

Simon barely heard the troll's words. His attention
abruptly caught by something, he held both torches
higher, leaning out over the boat once more to stare at the
base of the barrow's far wall.

"Simon, what are you seeking still?" Binabik called.
"We have already nearly turned the poor king's body
overside-up in searching."

"There's something on the other side of the mound-
Something dark."

"Oh?" A trace of alarm crept into Binabik's tone.
"What dark something are you seeing?" He leaned farther
in through the entrance they had dug, blocking the view
of the sky.

Simon took both torches in one hand, then slid along
the wale of Sea-Arrow until he could get close enough to
confirm his suspicions. "It's a hole!"

"That does not seem to me surprising," the troll said.

"But it's a big one-right into the side of the mound.
Maybe it's the one they used to get in."

Binabik stared at the spot where he pointed, then sud-
denly vanished from the opening. Simon inched closer.
The ragged hole in the side of the barrow was as wide as
an ale cask.
The troll reappeared. "I see nothing on the outer side

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          283

that matches," he called. "If they were making their hole
there they covered it with great care, or they were doing
it long ago; the grass is untouched."

Simon made his way carefully around to the narrow
stem. He let himself down from the wale into Sea-Arrow
and moved as carefully as he could to the other railing,
then clambered up. There was a space little more than a
cubit wide between the outside of the hull and the bar-
row's wall of mud and timber. He slid down to the floor
so that he could examine the hole more closely, bringing
the torch close to the shadowed gap. Surprise set his neck
tingling. "Aedon," he said quietly. "It goes down."

"What?" Binabik's voice reflected some impatience.
"Simon, there are things to do before the darkness is be-
coming full."

"It goes down, Binabik! The tunnel beyond this hole
goes down!" He thrust his torches into the opening and
leaned as close as he dared. There was nothing to see but
a few gleaming, hair-thin roots; beyond them the torch-
light faded as the tunnel wound down and away into
blackness.

After a moment, the troll said: "Then we will be exam-
ining it more tomorrow, after we have had a chance for
thinking and sleeping. Come up, Simon."

"I will," said Simon. "Go ahead." He moved closer. He
knew he should be more frightened than he was-
anything that made a hole this large, animal or human,
was nothing to sneer at-but he felt an unmistakable cer-
tainty that this gaping rent in the earth had something to
do with Bright-Nail's disappearance. He stared into the
empty hole, then lifted the torch out of the way and
squinted.

There was a gleam down in the darkness-some object
that reflected the torchlight.

"Something's in there," he called.

"Something of what sort?" Binabik said worriedly.
"Some animal?"

"No, something like metal." He leaned into the hole.
He smelled no animal spoor, only a faint acridity like
sweat. The gleaming thing seemed to lie a short way

284

Tad Williams

down the tunnel, just where it bent out of sight. "I can't
reach it without going in."

"We will be looking for it in the morning, then,"
Binabik said firmly. "Come now."

Simon edged a little way into the hole. Maybe it was
closer than it looked-it was hard to tell by torchlight. He
held the burning brands before him and moved forward
on his elbows and knees until he was entirely into the tun-
nel. If he could just extend himself to full length, it
should be almost within his grasp....

The soil beneath him abruptly gave way and Simon
was flailing in loose dirt. He grabbed at the tunnel wall,
which crumbled but held for a moment as he braced him-
self with arms outstretched. His legs continued to slip
downward through the oddly soft earth until he was
buried waist-deep in the tunnel floor. One of the torches
had fallen from his grip and lay sizzling against the damp
soil Just a few handbreadths from his ribs. The other was
pinioned by his palm, rammed against the tunnel wall; he
could not have dropped it even if he wished. He felt
strangely empty, unafraid.

"Binabik!" he shouted. "I've fallen through!"

Even as he struggled to work himself free, he felt the
soil shifting beneath him in a very strange way, unstable
as sand beneath a retreating wave-

The troll stared, eyes so wide the whites gleamed.
"Kikkasut!" he swore, then shouted: "Miriamele! Come
here quickly!" Binabik scrambled down the incline into
the barrow, working his way around the broad hull of
the boat.

"Don't come too close," Simon cautioned him. "The
dirt feels strange. You might fall through, too."

"Then do not be moving." The little man gripped the
protruding edge of the boat's buried keel and stretched his
arm toward Simon, but his reach was short by more than
a cubit. "Miriamele will bring our rope." The troll's voice
was quiet and calm, but Simon knew that Binabik was
frightened-

"And there's something ... something moving down
there," Simon said anxiously. It was a dreadful sensation,

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER           285

a compression and relaxation of the soil that held him, as
though some great serpent twisted its coils in the depths.
Simon's dreamlike sense of calm evaporated, replaced by
mounting horror. "B-Bin ... Binabik!" He could not get
his breath.

"Do not be moving!" his friend said urgently. "If you
. can but ..."
Simon never heard the rest of what the troll meant to
say. There was a sharp stinging around his ankles as
though they had been suddenly wrapped in nettles, then
the earth twitched again beneath him and he was swal-
lowed. He barely had time to close his mouth before the
clotted soil rose up and closed over his head like an angry
sea.

"

Miriamele saw Binabik emerge from the hole. As she
stacked the brambles and twigs she had gathered, she
watched him hover beside the entrance they had dug into
the mound, talking to Simon, who was still inside the bar-
row. She wondered dully what they had found. It seemed
so pointless, somehow. How could all the swords in the
world, magical or not, put a stop to the runaway wagon
that her father's maddened grief had set in motion? Only
Elias himself could cry halt, and no threat of magical
weapons would make him do that. Miriamele knew her
father only too well, knew the stubbornness that ran
through him Just as his blood did. And the Storm King,
the shuddersome demon glimpsed in dreams, the master
of the Noms? Well, her father had invited the undead
thing into the land of mortals. Miriamele knew enough
old stories to feel sure that only Elias could send Ineluki
away again and bar the door behind him.

But she knew that her friends were set on their plan,
just as she was on hers, and she would not stand in their
way. Still, she had not for a moment wished to descend
with them into the grave- These were strange days, yes,
but not strange enough that she wished to discover what

286 Tad Williams

two years iri the disrespectful earth had done to her
grandfather John.

It had been difficult enough to go to the burial and
watch his body lowered into the ground. She had never
been close to him, but in his distant way, he had loved her
and been kind to her. She had never been able to imagine
him young, since he had already been ancient when she
was a small girl, but she had once or twice seen a glint in
his eye or a hint in his stooped posture that suggested the
bold, world-conquering man he must have been. She did
not want even those few memories to be sullied by ...

"Miriamele! Come here quickly!"

She looked up, startled by the fearful urgency in
Binabik's tone. Despite his call the little man did not look
back to her, but slid into the gouge in the barrow's side
and vanished, quick as a mole. Miriamele leaped to her
feet, knocking over her pile of gathered brush, and hur-
ried across the hilltop. The sun had died in the west; the
sky was turning plum-red.

Simon. Something has happened to Simon.
It seemed to take forever to cross the intervening dis-
tance. She was out of breath when she reached the grave,
and as she dropped to her knees dizziness swept over her.
When she leaned into the hole, she could see nothing-

"Simoh has ..." Binabik shouted, "Simon has ... NoF

"What is it? I can't see you!"

"Qantaqaf" the troll shrieked. "Qantaqa sosa!"

"What's wrong!?" Miriamele was frantic. "What is it!"

Binabik's words came in ragged bursts. "Get ... torch!
Rope! Sosa, QantaqaF The troll suddenly let out a cry of
pain. Miriamele kneeled in the opening, terrified and con-
fused. Something dreadful was happening-Binabik
clearly needed her. But he had told her to get the torch
and the rope, and every instant she delayed might help
doom the troll and Simon both-

Something huge pushed her aside, bowling her over as
though she were an infant. Qantaqa's gray hindquarters
disappeared down the incline and into the shadows; a mo-
ment later the wolf's furious snarl rumbled up from the
depths. Miriamele turned and ran back toward the place

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

287

where she had begun her fire, then stopped, remembering
that the rest of their belongings were somewhere closer to
Prester John's mound. She looked around in desperation
until she saw them lying on the far side of the half-circle
of graves.

Panting, her hands shaking so badly that it was difficult
even to hold the flint and steel in her hands, Miriamele
worked frantically until the torch caught. She grabbed a
second brand; as she searched in desperation for rope, she
set this torch alight with the first.

The rope was not among their belongings. She let out
a string of Meremund river-rider curses as she hurried
back to the mound.

The coil of rope lay half-buried in the dirt Simon and
the troll had excavated. Miriamele wrapped it loosely
about her so she could keep her hands free, then scram-
bled down into the barrow.

The inside of the grave was as strange as a dream.
Qantaqa's low growling filled the space like the hum of
an angry beehive, but there was another sound, too-a
strange, insistent piping. At first, as her eyes became used
to the darkness, the flickering torchlight showed her only
the long, broad curve of Sea-Arrow and the sagging tim-
bers jutting through the barrow's earthen roof like ribs.
Then she saw movement-Qantaqa's agitated tail and
back legs, all that was visible of her past the stern of the
boat. The earth around the wolf was aboil with small dark
shapes-rats?

"Binabik!" she screamed. "Simon!"

The troll's voice, when it came, was hoarse and tattered
with fright, "No, run away! This place is being ... full of
boghanik! Run!"

Terrified for her companions, Miriamele scrambled
around the side of the boat. Something small and chit-
tering leaped down from the wale above her head, raking
her face with its claws. She shrieked and knocked it away,
then pinned it to the ground with the torch. For a horrify-
ing instant she saw a wizened little manlike thing writh-
ing beneath the burning brand, matted hair sizzling,
sharp-toothed mouth stretched in a shrill of agony.

288 Tad Williams

Miriamele screamed again, pulling the torch away as she
kicked the dying thing into the shadows.

Her pulse beating in her temples until she felt her head
would burst, she forced her way forward. Several more of
the spidery things swarmed toward her, but she swiped at
them with the twin torches and they danced back. She
was close enough now to touch Qantaqa, but felt no urge
to do so: the wolf was hard at work, moving swiftly in the
confined space, breaking necks and tearing small bodies.

"Binabik!" she cried. "Simon! I'm here! Come toward
the light!"

Her call brought another cluster of the cluttering terrors
toward her. She hit two with her torch, but the second al-
most pulled the brand from her grasp before it fell to the
earth, squealing. A moment later she saw a shadow above
her and jumped back, raising the torch again.

"It is me. Princess," Binabik gasped. He had climbed
up onto Sea-Arrow's railing. He stooped for a moment
and vanished, then reemerged, only his eyes clearly visi-
ble in the blood and earth that smeared his face. He thrust
the butt of a long spear down for her to grasp. 'Take this.
Do not let them become close!"

She grasped the spear, then was forced to turn and
sweep a half dozen of the things against the barrow wall.
She dropped one of the torches. As she bent, another of
the shriveled creatures pranced toward her; she speared it
as a fisherman might. It wriggled on the spearhead, slow
to die.

"Simon!" she shouted. "Where is he?" She picked up
the second torch and held it toward Binabik, who had
ducked down into the boat once more, and now stood
with an ax clutched in his hands, a weapon nearly as long
as the troll was tall.

"I cannot be holding the torch," Binabik said breath-
lessly. "Push it into the wall." He raised the ax over his
head and then jumped down beside her.

Miriamele did as he said, jamming the butt of the torch
into the crumbling earth.

"HinikAia!" Binabik shouted. Qantaqa backed up, but
the wolf seemed reluctant to disengage; she made several

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                             289

snarling rushes back toward the chirping creatures. While
she was engaged on one such sortie, another swarm of the
things scurried around her. Binabik swept several into
bloody ruin with the ax and Miriamele fended off others
with jabs of the spear. Qantaqa finished her engagement
and swept in to finish off the raiding party. The rest of the
crowding creatures sputtered angrily, their white eyes
gleaming like a hundred tiny moons, but they did not
seem anxious to follow Miriamele and her companions as
they backed toward the hole.

"Where is Simon?" she asked again. Even as she
spoke, she knew she did not want to hear the answer.
There was a kind of cold nothingness inside her. Binabik
would not leave Simon behind if he still lived.

"I am not knowing," Binabik said harshly. "But he is
beyond our power for helping. Lead us into the air."

Miriamele pulled herself up and through the hole in the
mound. She emerged from the darkness into the violet of
evening and a chilly wind. When she turned to extend the
spear's haft down into the .barrow for Binabik to clasp,
she saw the creatures capering in impotent anger around
the base of Sea-Arrow, their shadows made long and even
more grotesque by torchlight. Just before Binabik's shoul-
ders rose to block the hole, she caught a momentary
glimpse of her grandfather's pale, serene face.

The troll huddled before the paltry fire, his face a
soiled mask of loss. Miriamele tried to find her own pain
and could not. She felt empty, scoured of feeling.
Qantaqa, reclining nearby, cocked her head to one side as
if puzzled by the silence. Her chops were sticky with
gore.

"He was falling through," Binabik said slowly. "One
moment he was before me, then he was gone. I was dig-
ging and digging, but there was only dirt." He shook his
head. "Digging and digging. Then the boghanik came."
He coughed and spat a glob of mud onto the fire. "So
many they were, up from the dirt like worms. And more
were coming always. More and more."

"You said it was a tunnel. Maybe there were other tun-
290 Tad Williams

nels." Miriamele heard the unreal calmness of her voice
with wonder. "Maybe he just fell through into another
tunnel. When those things, those -.. diggers ... go away,
we can search."

"Yes, with certainty." Binabik's voice was flat-

"We'll find him. You'll see."

The troll ran his hand across his face and brought/it
away smeared with dirt and blood. He stared at it ab-
sently.

"There's water in the skin bag," she said. "Let me
clean those cuts."

"You are also bleeding." Binabik pointed a stubby
black finger at her face.

"I'll get the water." She stood on shaky legs, "We'll
find Simon. You'll see."

Binabik did not reply. As Miriamele walked unsteadily
toward their packs, she reached up to dab at her jaw, at
the spot where the digger's claws had raked her. The
blood was almost dry, but when she touched her cheeks,
they were wet with tears-tears that she had not even
known she was crying.

He's gone, she thought. Gone.

Her eyes blurred so that she almost stumbled.

^

Elias, High King of Osten Ard, stood at the window
and stared up at the pale, looming finger of Green Angel
Tower, silvered by moonlight. Wrapped in silence and se-
crecy, it seemed a specter sent from another world, a
bearer of strange tidings. Elias watched it as a man who
knows he will live and die a sailor watches the sea.

The king's chamber was as disorderly as an animal
nest. The bed in the middle of me room was naked but for
the sweat-stained pallet; the few blankets that remained
lay tangled on the floor, unused, home now to whatever
small creatures could bear the chilly air that Elias found
more a necessity than a comfort.

The window at which the king stood, like all the other
windows of the long chamber, was flung wide. Rainwater

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

was puddled on the stone tiles beneath the casements; on
some particularly cold nights it froze, making streaks of
white across the floor. The wind had also carried in leaves
and stems and even the stiffened corpse of a sparrow.
Elias watched the tower until the moon haloed the an-
gel's silhouette atop the spire. At last he turned, pulling
his tattered robe about him, his white skin showing
through the gaps where the threads had rotted in their
seams.

"Hengfisk," he whispered. "My cup."

What had seemed another clump of bedding wadded in
the comer of the room now unfurled itself and stood. The
silent monk scurried to a table Just inside the chamber
door and uncapped a stone ewer. He filled a goblet with
dark, steaming liquid, then brought it to the king. The
monk's ever-present smile, perhaps a little less wide than
usual, glimmered faintly in the dark room.

"I shall not sleep again tonight," the king said. "It is
the dreams, you know."

Hengfisk stood silently, but his bulging eyes offered
complete attention.

"And there is something else. Something I can feel but
cannot understand." He took hts goblet and returned to
the window. The hilt of the gray sword Sorrow scraped
against the stone sill. Elias had not taken it off in a long
time, even to sleep; the blade had pressed its own shape
into the pallet beside the indentation of the king's form.

Elias raised his cup to his lips, swallowed, then sighed.
"There is a change in the music," he said quietly. "The
great music of the dark. Pryrates has said nothing, but I
know. I do not need that eunuch to tell me everything. I
can see things now, hear things .. . smell things." He
wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his robe, leaving a
new smear of black among the countless others already
dried on the cloth. "Somebody has changed things." He
paused for a long moment. "But perhaps Pryrates isn't
merely hiding it from me." The king turned to regard his
cupbearer with an expression that was almost sane. "Per-
haps Pryrates himself doesn't know. It wouldn't be the
only thing he doesn't know. I still have a few secrets of

Tad Williams

my own." Elias brooded. "But if   Pryrates doesn't realize
how ... how things have changed   ... now what might
that mean, I wonder?" He turned   back to the window,
watching the tower. "What might   that mean?"

Hengfisk waited patiently. Finally, Elias finished his
draught and held out the cup. The monk took it from
the king's hand and returned it to the table beside the
door, then moved back to his comer. He curled himself
against the wall, but his head stayed up, as though he
waited further instruction.

"The tower is waiting," Elias said quietly. "It has been
waiting a long time."
As he leaned against the sill a wind arose and set his
dark hair fluttering, then lifted some of the leaves from
the floor and sent them whispering and rattling around the
chamber.

"Oh, Father ..." the king said softly. "God of Mercy,
I wish I could sleep."

*

For a horrifying time, Simon felt himself drowning in
cold, damp earth. Every nightmare he had ever had of
death and burial flooded through him as dirt filled his
eyes, his nose, pinioned his arms and legs. He clawed un-
til he could not feel his hands at the ends of his arms, but
still the choking earth surrounded him.

Then, just as abruptly as the earth had swallowed him,
it seemed to vomit him out once more. His legs, kicking
like a drowning man's, were suddenly thrashing without
resistance; an instant later he felt himself tumbling down-
ward in a great avalanche of loose soil. He landed heav-
ily, the breath he had held so long pushed out of him in
a painful hiss. He gasped and swallowed dirt.

He was on his knees for long moments, choking and
retching. When the flashes of light swarming before his
eyes began to disperse, he lifted his head. There was light
somewhere-not much, but enough to show him the
vague outlines of a rounded space only a little wider than
he was. Another tunnel? Or just a pit down in the depths,

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          293

a grave of his very own where the air would soon give
out?

A small flame seemed to have sprouted from the loose
mound of soil upon which he crouched. That was the
source of light. When he could force his trembling limbs
to move, he crawled toward it and discovered that it was
the tip of one of his torches, the only part of the burning
brand that had not been buried in the great fall of earth.
As carefully as he could, he worked his hand into the
loamy earth and freed the torch, then flicked off the cling-
ing dirt, cursing distractedly when he scorched his fin-
gers. When it was as clean as he could get it, he turned
it upside down so that the small flame could spread; soon
the glow widened.

The first thing Simon saw was that he was indeed in
another tunnel. In one direction it led downward. Just like
the one he had entered from the barrow, but this tunnel
had no opening to the world above: the end was just be-
side him, a featureless spill of dirt, a great blunt nothing-
ness of damp clods and loose soil. He could see no light
or anything else beyond it; whatever gap he had fallen
through was now choked with earth.
The second thing he saw was" a dull glint of metal in
the pile of dirt before him. He reached to pick it up, and
was distractedly disappointed at how easily it came loose,
how small an object it was. It was not Bright-Nail. It was
a silver belt buckle.

Simon lifted the mud-smeared buckle up to catch the
torchlight. When he wiped the dirt away with his fingers,
he laughed, a harshly painful sound that died quickly in
the narrow confines. So this was what he had risked his
life for-this was the lure that had dropped him into the
prisoning depths. The buckle was so scratched and worn
that the markings were only faintly recognizable. Some
kind of animal head was at the center of it, something
square-snouted like a bear or pig; around it were a few
slender things that might be sticks or arrows. It was old
and meaningless. It was worthless.

Simon plunged his torch handle into the ground, then
abruptly scrambled up the mound of soil. The sky must be

294

Tad Williams

somewhere above. His terror was growing strong. Surely
Binabik was digging for him! But how would the troll
find him if Simon did not help!? He slid back a cubit for
every cubit he scrambled at first, until he found a way to
move without dislodging so much soil. At last he climbed
far enough that he could lay his hands against the loose
earth at the tunnel's end. He dug there frantically, freeing
a shower of dirt, but more dirt kept appearing to take its
place. As long moments passed his movements became
even more uncontrolled. He tore at the unresisting earth,
gouged it away in great handfuls, bringing down ava-
lanches of soil from above, but all to no effect. Tears
streamed down his face, mixing with the beads of sweat
until his eyes stung- There was no end to it, no matter
how he dug.

He stopped at last, shuddering, covered in settling dirt
almost to his waist. His heart was racing so swiftly that it
took him a moment to realize that the tunnel had grown
darker. He turned to see that his heedless digging had al-
most buried the torch once more. Simon stared, suddenly
afraid that if he crawled back down the slope, down the
pile of loose earth, sliding soil would cover the flame
completely. Once extinguished, there would be no re-
lighting it. He would be in complete and utter blackness.

He carefully freed himself from the small landslide that
prisoned his legs, moving as delicately as he once had
while stalking frogs across the Hayholt's moat.

Gently, gently, he told himself. Not the dark, no- Need
the light. There won't be anything left for them to find if
I lose the light.

A tiny avalanche was stirred. Clods of dirt went tum-
bling down the pile and a small slide stopped Just short of
the flame, which wavered. Simon's heart nearly stopped.

Gently. Gently. Very gently.

When his hands pushed into the crumbly soil beneath
the torch, he held his breath; when he had lifted it free, he
let the breath out again. There was such a narrow line-
really only a fraying edge of shadow-between the dark-
ness and the light.

Simon went through the process of cleaning the torch

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

295

all over again, singeing the same fingers, cursing the
same curses, until he discovered that his sheathed Qanuc
knife was still strapped to his leg. After saying a prayer
in gratitude for this, what seemed his first piece of luck in
some time, he used the bone blade to finish the task. He
wondered briefly how long the torch would continue to
bum, but pushed the thought away. There was no chance
of clawing his way out, that seemed clear. So he would
move a little farther down the tunnel and wait for Binabik
and Miriamele to dig down from above. Surely they
would be doing so soon. And there was plenty of air,
when he stopped to think of it....

As he tipped the torch over so that the whole head
caught fire once more, another patter of dirt came tum-
bling down the slope- Simon was so intent on what he
was doing that he did not look up until a second fall of
earth caught his attention. He held up the torch and
squinted at the plugged end of the tunnel- The dirt was
... moving.

Something like a tiny black tree pushed up from the
soil, flexing flat, slender branches. An instant later an-
other sprouted next to it, then a small lump forced its way
up between them. It was a head. Blind white eyes turned
toward him and nostrils twitched. A mouth, opened in a
terrible semblance of a human grin.

More hands and heads were pushing up through the
: dirt. Simon, who had been staring in shocked terror,
; lurched up onto his knees, holding his torch and knife be-
| fore him.
x    Bukken! Diggers! His throat clenched.

There were perhaps half a dozen in all. As they freed
themselves from the loose earth they bunched together,
twittering quietly among themselves, their spindly, hairy
limbs so intertwined and their movements so twitchingly
sudden that he could not count them accurately. He
waved the torch at them and they shrank back, but not far.
They were being cautious, but they were certainly not
frightened.
Usires Aedon, he prayed silently- / am in the earth with
? the diggers. Save me now. Somebody please save me.

296 Tad Williams

They advanced in a clump, but then suddenly separated,
skittering toward the walls. Simon shouted in fear and
smacked the nearest with his torch. It shrilled in agony but
leaped and wrapped its legs and arms about his wrist;

sharp teeth sank into his hand so that he almost dropped
the torch. His shout turning to a wordless rasp of pain, he
smashed his arm against the wall of the tunnel, trying to
dislodge the thing. Several more, heartened by the removal
of the flame, pranced forward, piping eagerly.

Simon slashed at one and caught it with his knife, tear-
ing at the moldy bits of rags the diggers wore like gar-
ments, cutting deeply into the meat beneath. He drove his
other hand against the wall again, as hard as he could,
and felt small bones break. The thing that had clutched
his wrist dropped free, but Simon's hand was throbbing as
though bitten by a venomous serpent.

He moved back, sliding awkwardly down the slope on
his knees, struggling to keep his balance on the loosely-
packed earth as the diggers ran at him. He swung his torch
back and forth in a wide arc; the three creatures still stand-
ing stared back at him, shriveled little faces drawn tight,
mouths open in hatred and fear. Three. And two small
crumpled forms lying in the dirt where he had kneeled a
moment before. So had there been only five... ?

Something dropped from the tunnel roof onto the top of
his head. Ragged claws scraped at his face and a hand
grabbed his upper lip. Simon shrieked and reached up,
grabbed the squirming body as hard as he could, then
pulled. After a moment's struggle it came free with sev-
eral tufts of his hair clutched in its fists. Still screaming
in disgust and terror, he smashed it down against the
ground, then flung the broken body toward the others- He
saw the remaining three tumble back into the shadows be-
fore he turned and crawled away down the tunnel as fast
as he could, cursing and spluttering, spitting to rid his
mouth of the vile taste of the digger's oily skin.

Simon expected any moment to feel something clutch
at his legs; when he had crawled for some time he turned
and raised the torch. He thought he saw a faint, pale
gleam of eyes, but couldn't be sure. He turned and contin-

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

297

ued scrambling downward. Twice he dropped the torch,
snatching it up as swiftly and fearfully as if it were his
own heart tumbled from his breast.

The diggers did not seem to have pursued him. Simon
felt some of the fear dropping away, but his heart still
pounded. Beneath his hands and knees, the soil of the tun-
nel had become firmer.

After a while he stopped and sat back. The torchlight
showed nothing following in the featureless tunnel behind
him, but something was different. He looked up. The roof
was much farther away-too far to touch while sitting
down.

Simon took a deep breath, then another. He stayed
where he was until he felt as though the air in his lungs
was beginning to do him some good once more, then held
up the torch and repeated his inspection. The tunnel had
indeed grown wider, higher. He reached out to touch the
wall and found that it was almost as solid as mud brick.

With a last look behind him, Simon struggled up onto
his feet. The roof of the tunnel was a handsbreadth above
his head.

Weary beyond belief, he raised the torch before him
and began to walk. He knew now why Binabik and
Miriamele had not been able to dig down to him. He
hoped the diggers had not caught Binabik in the barrow.
It was something he could not think about for more than
a moment-his poor friend! The brave little man! But Si-
mon had his own very immediate problems.

The tunnel was featureless as a rabbit warren, and led
downward, ever deeper into the earth's black places. Si-
mon desperately wanted to return to the light, to feel the
wind-the last thing he wanted was to be in this place,
this long, slender tomb. But there was nowhere else to go.
He was alone again. He was utterly, utterly alone.

Aching in every Joint, struggling to push away each
dreadful thought before it could find a resting place in a
mind which felt no less pained than his body, Simon
plodded down into shadow.

13

Tfte Fatten Sun

EoCtrir Stared, at the remnants of his Hemystiri troop.
Of the hundred or so who had left their western land to
accompany him, only a little more than two score re-
mained. These survivors sat huddled around their fires at
the base of the hillside below Naglimund, their faces
gaunt, their eyes empty as dry wells.

Look at these poor, brave men, Eolair thought. Who
would ever know that we were winning? The count felt as
drained of blood and courage as any of them; he felt in-
substantial as a ghost.

As Eolair walked from one fire to the next, a whisper
of strange music came wafting down the hill. The count
saw the men stiffen, then whisper unhappily among them-
selves. It was only the singing of the Sithi, who were
walking sentry outside Naglimund's broken walls ... but
even the Hemystirmen's Sithi allies were alien enough to
make mortals anxious. And the Noms, the Sithi's immor-
tal cousins, sang, too.

A fortnight of siege had razed Naglimund's walls, but
the white-skinned defenders had only retreated to the in-
ner castle, which had proved surprisingly resistant to de-
feat. There were forces at play that Eolair could not
understand, things that even the mind of the shrewdest
mortal general could not grasp-and Count Eolair, as he
often reminded himself, was no general. He was a land-
owner, a somewhat unwilling courtier, and a skilled dip-
lomat. Small surprise that he, like his men, felt that he

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          299

was swimming in currents too powerful for his weak
skills.

The Noms had established their defenses by the means
Of what sounded, when Jiriki described it to him, like
pure magic. They had "sung a Hesitancy," Jiriki ex-
plained. There was "Shadow-mastery" at work. Until the
music was understood and the shadows untangled, me
castle would not fall. In the interim, clouds gathered over-
head, stormed briefly, then retreated. At other times,
when the skies were clear, lightning flashed and thunder
boomed. The mists around Naglimund's keep sometimes
seemed to become diamond hard, sparkling like glass; at
other moments they turned blood red or ink black, and
sent tendrils swirling high above the walls to claw at the
sky. Eolair begged for explanation, but to Jiriki, what the
Noms were doing-and what his own people were trying
to do in retaliation-was no stranger than wooden hoard-
ings or siege engines or any of the other machinery of hu-
mankind's wars: the Sitha terms meant little or nothing to
Eolair, who could only shake his head in fearful wonder.
He and his men were caught up in a battle of monsters
and wizards out of bardic songs. This was no place for
mortals-and the mortals knew it.*

Pondering, walking in circles, the count had returned to
his own fire.

"Eolair," Isorn greeted him, "I have saved the last
swallows for you." He motioned the count toward the fire
and held up a wineskin.

Eolair took a swallow, more out of comradeship than
anything else. He had never been much of a drinker, es-
pecially when there was work to do: it was too hard to
keep a cool head at a foreign court when one washed
large dinners down with commensurate amounts of spir-
its. "Thank you." He brushed a thin skin of snow from
the log and sat down, pushing his bootsoles near to the
fire. "I am tired," he said quietly. "Where is Maegwin?"

"She was out walking earlier. But I am certain she has
^gone to sleep by now." He gestured to a tent a short dis-
tance away.

"She should not walk by herself," Eolair said.

300 Tad Williams

"One of the men went with her. And she stays close by.
You know I would not let her go far away, even under
guard."

"I know." Eolair shook his head. "But she is so sick-
spirited-it seems a criminal thing to bring her to a bat-
tlefield. Especially a battlefield like this." His hand swept
out and gestured to the hillside and the snow, but Isom
certainly knew that it was not the terrain or weather that
he meant.

The young Rimmersman shrugged. "She is mad, yes,
but she seems to be more at ease than the men."

"Don't say that!" Eolair snapped. "She is not mad!" He
took a shaky breath.

Isom looked at him kindly. "If this is not madness,
Eolair, what is? She speaks as though she is in the land of
your gods."

"I sometimes wonder if she is not right."

Isom lifted his arm, letting the firelight play across the
jagged weal that ran from wrist to elbow. "If this is
Heaven, then the priests at Elvritshalla misled me." He
grinned. "But if we are dead already, then I suppose we
have nothing left to fear."

Eolair shuddered. "That is just what worries me. She
does think that she is dead, Isorn! At any moment she
may walk out into the middle of the fighting again, as
she did the first time she slipped away...."

Isorn put a wide hand on his shoulder. "Her madness
seems more clever to me than that. And she may not be
as terrified as the men, but she is not unafraid. She
doesn't like that damned windy castle or those damned,
filthy white things any more than we do. She has been
safe so far and we will keep her that way. Surely you do
not need more things to worry about?"

The count smiled wearily. "So, Isom Isgrimnurson, you
are going to take up your father's Job, I see."

"What do you mean?"

"I have seen what your father does for Josua. Picks the
prince up when he wants to lie down, pokes his ribs and
sings him songs when the prince wants to weep. So you
will be my Isgrimnur?"

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER           301
The Rimmersman's grin was wide. "My father and I
are simple men. We do not have the brains to worry like
you and Josua."

Eolair snorted and reached out for the wineskin-

For the third night running, the count dreamed of the
most recent skirmish inside Naglimund's walls, a night-
mare more vivid and terrifying than anything mere imag-
ination could contrive.

It had been a particularly dreadful battle. The
Hemystirmen, now wearing masks of cloth rubbed with
fat or tree sap to keep off the Norn's madness-dust, had
become as frightening to look at as the rest of the com-
batants; those mortals who had survived the first days of
the siege now fought with terrified determination, know-
ing that nothing else would give them a chance of leaving
this haunted place alive. The greatest part of the struggle
had taken place in the narrow spaces between scorched,
crumbling buildings and through winter-blasted
gardens-places where Eolair had once walked on warm
evenings with ladies of Josua's court.

The dwindling army of Noms defended the stolen cita-
del with a kind of heedless madness: Count Eolair had
seen one of them shove forward against a sword rammed
through his chest, working his way up the blade to kill the
mortal that clutched the hilt before dying in a coughing
spray of red.

Most of the giants had also died, but each one exacted
a horrible toll of men and Sithi before it fell. Dreaming,
remembering, Eolair was again forced to watch one of the
huge brutes grab Ule Frekkeson, one of the few
Rimmersmen who had accompanied the war party out of
Hemysadharc, then swing him around and dash his brains
out against a wall as easily as a man might kill a cat. As
a trio of Sithi surrounded him, the Hune contemptuously
shook the almost headless corpse at them, showering
them with gore. The hairy giant then used Ule's body as
a club, killing one of the Sithi with it before the spears of
the other two punched into the monster's heart.

Squirming in the dream's unshakable grasp, Eolair

302

Tad Williams

helplessly watched dead Ule used as a weapon, smashed
left and right until his body began to come apart....

He woke quivering, head throbbing as though it might
burst. He pressed his hands against his temples and
squeezed, trying to relieve the pressure. How could a man
see such things and keep his reason?

A hand touched his wrist.
Terrified, Eolair gasped and flung himself to one side,
scrabbling for his sword. A tall shadow loomed in the
doorway of his tent.

"Peace, Count Eolair," said Jiriki- "I am sorry I startled
you. 1 called from outside the door. but I thought you
must be asleep since you did not reply. Please forgive my
intrusion."

Eolair was relieved, but angry and embarrassed. "What
do you want?"

"Forgive me, please. I came because it is important and
time is short."

The count shook his head and took a slow breath.
"What is it? Is something wrong?"

"Likimeya asks that you come. All will be explained."
He lifted the tent flap and stepped back outside. "Will
you come? I will wait for you to dress."

"Yes ... yes, certainly I will."

The count felt a sort of muted pride. Likimeya had sent
her son for him, and since these days Jiriki seemed in-
volved only in things of the first and most crucial or-
der, the Sithi must indeed think it important that Eolair
come. A moment later bis pride turned to a gnawing of
disquiet: could circumstances be so bad that they were
searching for ideas or leadership from me master of two
score terrified mortal warriors? He had been sure they
were winning the siege.

It took only a few moments to secure his sword belt
and pull on his boots and fur-lined cloak. He followed
Jiriki across the foggy hillside, marveling that the foot-
falls of the Sitha, who was as tall as Eolair and almost as
broad, should only dimple the snow while his own boots
dug deep gouges in the white crust.

Eolair looked up to where Naglimund crouched on the

TO    GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

303

hilltop like a huddled, wounded beast. It was almost im-
possible to believe that it had once been a place where
people danced and talked and loved. Prince Josua's court
had been thought by some rather grim-but, oh, how
those who had mocked the prince would feel their mouths
dry and their hearts flutter if they saw what grim truly
meant.

Jiriki led the count among the gossamer-thin tents of
the Sithi, tents that gleamed against the snow as though
they were half-soaked in moonlight. Despite the hour,
halfway between midnight and dawn, many of the Fair
Folk were out; they stood in solemn clusters and stared at
the sky or sat on the ground singing quietly. None of
them seemed at all bothered by the freezing wind that had
Eolair clutching his hood close beneath his chin. He
hoped that Likimeya had a fire burning, if only out of
consideration for the frailties of a mortal visitor.

"We have questions to ask you about this place you
call Naglimund, Count Eolair." There was more than a
hint of command in Likimeya's voice.

Eolair turned from the blaze to face Jiriki, his mother,
and tall, black-haired Kuroyi. "What can I tell you that I
have not told you already?" The count felt a mild anger
at the Sithi's confusing habits, but found it hard to hold
that emotion in the presence of Likimeya's powerful,
even gaze. "And is it not a little late to be asking, since
the siege began a fortnight ago?"

"It is not such things as the height of walls and the
depth of wells that we need to know." Jiriki sat down be-
side the count, the cloth of his thin shirt glinting. "You
have already told us much that has helped us."

"You spent time in Naglimund when the mortal prince
Josua ruled here." Likimeya spoke briskly, as though im-
patient with her son's attempts at diplomacy. "Does it
have secrets?"

"Secrets?" Eolair shook his head- "Now I am com-
pletely confounded. What do you mean?"

"This is not fair to the mortal." Kuroyi spoke with an
emotionless reserve that was extreme even for the Sithi.

304

Tad Williams

"He deserves to know more. If Zinjadu had lived, she
could tell him. Since I failed my old friend and she is
now voyaging with the Ancestors, I will take her place as
the lore-giver." He turned to Likimeya. "If Year-Dancing
House approves, of course."

Likimeya made a wordless musical noise, then flicked
her hand in permission.

"Jiriki i-Sa'onserei has told you something of the Road
of Dreams, Count Eclair?" Kuroyi asked.

"Yes, he has told me a little. Also, we Hemystiri still
have many stories of the past and of your people. There
are those living among us who claim they can walk the
Dream Road, just as you taught our ancestors to do." He
thought sourly of Maegwin's would-be mentor, the scryer
Diawen: if some Hemystiri did still have that power, it
had little to do with good sense or responsibility.

"Then 1 am sure he has spoken of the Witnesses, too-
those objects that we use to make the journeying easier."
Kuroyi hesitated, then reached into his milk-white shirt
and produced a round, translucent yellow object that
caught the firelight like a globule of amber or a ball of
melted glass. "This is one such-my own." He let Eolair
look for a moment, then tucked the thing away again.
"Like most others, it is of no use in these strange times-
the Dream Road is as impassable as a road of this world
might be in a terrible blizzard.

"But there are other Witnesses, too: larger, more pow-
erful objects that are not moveable, and are linked to the
place where they are found. Master Witnesses, they are
called, for they can look upon many things and places.
You have seen one such,"

"The Shard?"

Kuroyi nodded his head once. "In Mezutu'a, yes. There
were others, although most are now lost to time and
earth-changes. One lies beneath the castle of your enemy
King Elias."

"Beneath the Hayholt?"

"Yes. The Pool of Three Depths is its name. But it has
been dry and voiceless for centuries."

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

305

"And this has something to do with Naglimund? Is
there something of that sort here?"

Kuroyi smiled, a narrow, wintery smile, "We are not
sure."

"I don't understand," the count said. "How can you not
be sure?"

The Sitha lifted his long-fingered hand. "Peace, Eolair
of Nad Mullach. Let me finish my tale. By the standards
of the Gardenbom it is quite short."

Eolair shifted slightly; he was glad for the firelight,
which disguised his flush of embarrassment. How was it
that among these folk he was as easily cowed as a
child-as if all his years of statecraft had been forgotten?
"My apologies."

"There have always been in Osten Ard certain places,"
Kuroyi resumed, "which act much like Master Witnesses
... but in which no Master Witness seems to be present.
That is, many of the effects are there-in fact, sometimes
these places exhibit more powerful results than any
Witness-but no object can be found which is responsi-
ble. Since we first came to this land long ago, we have
studied such places, thinking that they might answer
questions we have about the Witnesses and why they do
what they do, about Death itself, even about the Unbeing
that made us flee our native land and come here."

"Forgive me for interrupting again," said Eolair, "but
how many of these places exist? And where are they?"

"We know of only a handful between far Nascadu and
the wastelands of the white north. A-Genay'asu'e, we call
them-"Houses of Traveling Beyond" would be a crude
rendering in your tongue. And we Gardenbom are not the
only ones to sense the power of these places: they often
draw mortals as well, some merely seekers-after-
knowledge, some god-maddened and dangerous. What
mortals call Thisterborg, the hill near Asu'a, is one such
spot."

"I know it." Remembering a black sled and a team of
misshapen white goats, Eolair felt his flesh tighten. "Your
cousins the Norns also know about Thisterborg. I saw
them there."

306 Tad Williams

Kuroyi did not seem surprised. "We Gardenbom have
been interested in these sites since long before the fami-
lies parted. The Hikeda'ya, like us, have made many at-
tempts to harness the might of such places. But their
power is as wild and unpredictable as the wind."

Eolair pondered. "So there is not a Master Witness here
at Naglimund, but rather one of these things, a ... Be-
yonding House? I cannot remember the words in your
tongue."

Jiriki looked toward his mother, smiling and nodding
with what almost looked like pride. Eolair felt a flash of
annoyance; was a mortal who could listen and reason
such a surprise to them?

"An A-Genay'asu. Yes, that is what we believe," said
Kuroyi. "But it came to our attention late, and there was
never a chance to find out before the mortals came."

"Before the mortals came with their iron spikes."
Likimeya's soft voice was like the hiss that preceded a
whip-crack. Surprised by her vehemence, Eolair looked
up, then just as quickly turned his gaze back to Kuroyi's
more placid face.

"Both Zida'ya and Hikeda'ya continued to come to this
place after men built their castle here at Naglimund," the
black-haired Sitha explained. "Our presence frightened
the mortals, though they saw us only by moonlight, and
even then only rarely. The man the Imperators had given
to rule over the locality filled the fields all around with
the iron that gave the place its name: Nail Fort."

"I knew that the nails were there to keep out the Peace-
ful Ones-what we Hemystiri call your folk," said Eolair,
"but since it was built in the era when your people and
ours were at peace, I could not understand why the place
should have needed such defenses."

"The mortal named Aeswides who had it done may
have felt a certain shame that he had trespassed on our
lands in building this keep so close to our city Da'ai
Chikiza, on me far side of those hills," Kuroyi gestured
toward the east. "He may have feared that we would
some day come and take the place back; he may also have
thought that those of our folk who still made pilgrimage

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          307

to this place were spies. Who knows? In fact, he traveled
less and less out of the gates, and died at last a recluse-
afraid, it was said, even to leave his own well-guarded
chamber for terror of what the dreaded immortals might
do." Kuroyi's cool smile returned. "Strangely, although
the world is already full of fearful things, mortals seem
always to hunt for new worries."

"Nor do we relinquish the old ones." Eolair returned
the tall Sitha's smile. "For, like the cut of a man's cloak,
we know that the tried and true is best in the long run.
But I doubt you have brought me here only to tell about
what some long-dead mortal did."

"No, we have not," Kuroyi agreed. "Since we were
driven from the land at a time when we considered it bet-
ter policy not to interfere, and to let the mortals build
where they wished, we have unanswered questions still
about this place."

"And we need those questions answered now, Count
Eolair," Likimeya broke in. "So tell us: this place you call
Naglimund-is it known among mortals for strangeness
of any kind? Apparitions? Odd happenings? Is it reputed
a haunt of spirits of the dead?",

The count frowned as he considered. "I must say that
I have never heard anything like that. There are other
places, many others, some within a league of my birth-
place, of which I could tell you a whole night's worth of
tales. But not Naglimund. And Prince Josua was always a
lover of odd lore-I feel sure that if there were such sto-
ries, it would have been his pleasure to relate them." He
shook his head. "I am sorry to force you to tell such a
long tale yourself for so little result."

"We still think it likely that this place is an
A-Genay'asu," Jiriki said. "We have thought so since
long before Asu'a fell. Here, Count Eolair, you look
thirsty. Let me pour for you."

The Hemystirman gratefully accepted another cup of
mulled ... something; whatever it was, it tasted of flow-
ers and wanned him very nicely. "In any case," he said
after he had taken a few sips, "what does it mean if
Naglimund is such a place?"
308 Tad Williams

"We are not certain. That is one of the things that wor-
ries us." Jiriki sat down across from Eolair and raised a
slim hand. "We had hoped that the Hikeda'ya came here
only to pay their part of the bargain with Elias, and that
they had remained here because it was a way station be-
tween Stormspike and the castle that stands on Asu'a's
bones."

"But you do not think that any longer." It was a state-
ment, not a question.

"No. Our cousins have fought too hard, long past the
time when they could have gained anything from resist-
ing. This is not the final confrontation. However much
Utuk'ku has reason to hate us, it is not a blind anger: she
would not throw away the lives of so many Cloud Chil-
dren to hold a useless ruin."

Eolair had not heard much about the Norn Queen,
Utuk'ku, but what he had was shuddersome. "So what
does she want? What do they want?"

Jiriki shook his head. "They want to remain in
Naglimund. That is all we know for certain. And it will
be dreadful work to drive them out. I fear for you and
your remaining soldiers. Count Eolair. I fear for all of

us."

A horrible thought occurred to the Hernystirman. "For-
give me, since I know little of these things-although
perhaps more now than I would have wished-but you
said that these Beyonding places had something to do
with the secrets of ... of death?"

"All mysteries are one mystery until they are solved,"
said Kuroyi. "We have tried to leam more about Death
and Unbeing from the A-Genay'asu'e, yes."

'These Noms we are fighting are living creatures-but
their master is not. Could they be trying to bring the
Storm King ... back to life?"

Eolair's question brought neither derisive laughter nor       ^
shocked silence.

"We have thought on this." Likimeya was blunt. "It
cannot happen."

"Ineluki is dead." Kuroyi spoke more softly, but with
equal firmness- "There are some things we know about

TO     GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                            309

only little, but death we know very well." His lips
twitched in a tiny, dry smile. "Very well, indeed. Ineluki
is dead. He cannot return to this world."
"But you told me he was in Stormspike," Eolair said to
Jiriki. "You said that the Noms do as he bids. Are we at
war against something imaginary?"

"It is indeed confusing. Count Eolair," Jiriki replied.
"Ineluki-although he is not truly Ineluki any more-has
no more existence than a sort of dream. He is an evil and
vengeful dream, one that possesses all the craftiness that
the Storm King had in life, as well as knowledge of the
ultimate darknesses no living thing has ever had ... but
he is only a dream, for all of that. Trust that I speak truly.
As we can travel on the Road of Dreams, and see and feel
things there, so Ineluki can speak to his followers in
Nakkiga through the Breathing Harp, which is one of the
greatest of the Master Witnesses-although I would guess
that Utuk'ku alone has the skill even to understand him.
So he is not a thing, Eolair, with an existence in this
world." He gestured to the walls of the tent. "He is not
real, like this cloth is real, like the ground is real beneath
our feet. But that does not mean he cannot do great evil
... and Utuk'ku and her servitors are more than real
enough."

"Forgive me if I seem stubborn," Eolair said, "but I
have heard much tonight that is still confused in my head.
If Ineluki cannot return, then why are the Noms so eager
to hold Naglimund?"

"That is the question we must answer," said Jiriki.
"Perhaps they hope to use the A-Genay'asu to make their
master's voice clearer. Perhaps they intend to tap its force
in some other way. But it is clear that they want this place
very much. One of the Red Hand is here."

•The Red Hand? The Storm King's servants?"

"His greatest servants, since like him they have passed
through death and into the outer realms. But they cannot
exist in this world without an immense expenditure of
power by him every moment they are embodied, for they
are almost as much of a deadly contradiction as he is.
That is why when one of them attacked us in our fastness

3io Tad Williams

at Jao e-Tinukai'i, we knew that the time had come to
take up arms. Ineluki and Utuk'ku must have been des-
perate to expend so much force to silence Amerasu." He
paused. Eolair stared, bewildered by the unfamiliar
names. "I will explain this to you at a later time. Count
Eolair." Jiriki stood. "I am sure you are weary, and we
have talked much of your sleeping time away."

"But this Red Hand creature is here? Have you seen
it?"

Jiriki pointed at the campfire. "Do you have to touch
the flames to know that the fire is hot? He is here, and
that is why we have not been able to overcome their most
important defenses, why we must instead knock down
stone walls and struggle with sword and spear. A large
portion of Ineluki's power is burning down in the heart of
Naglimund's keep. But for all his might, the Storm King
has limits. He is spread thin ... so there must be some
reason he wishes this place to remain in the hands of the
Hikeda'ya."

Eolair stood, too. The blur of strange ideas and names
had begun to tell on him: he was indeed feeling the need
for sleep. "Perhaps the Noms' task is something to do
with the Red Hand, then," the count said. "Perhaps ..."

Jiriki's smile was sad. "We have cursed you with our
own plague of 'perhaps,' Count Eolair. We had hoped you
would give us answers, but instead we have weighed you
down with questions."

"I have not been free of them since old King John
died." He stifled a yawn. "So this is nothing strange." He
laughed. "What a thing to say! It is maddeningly strange.
But not unusual. Not in these times."

"Not in these times," agreed Jiriki.

Eolair bowed to Likimeya, then nodded a farewell to
stone-faced Kuroyi before walking out into the cold wind.
Thoughts were buzzing in his head like flies, but he knew
that nothing useful could be done about any of them.
Sleep was what he needed. Perhaps, if he was lucky, he
would sleep right through the remainder of this gods-
cursed siege.

3"

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

Maegwin had quietly left her tent while the weary
guard-he seemed a sad and ragged sort to have received
Heaven's favor, but who was she to question the gods?-
gossiped by the fire with one of his fellows. Now she
stood in the deep shadows of a copse of trees, not a hun-
dred cubits downslope from the tumbled walls of
Naglimund. Above her loomed the silhouette of the
blocky stone keep. As she stared at it, wind sifted snow
across her boots.

Scadach. she thought. It is the Hole in Heaven. But
what lies beyond?

She had seen the demons that had come swarming
through from the Outer Darkness-horrible corpse-white
things and shaggy, monstrous ogres-and had watched
the gods and a few dead mortal heroes fight with them. It
was clear that the gods wished this wound in heaven's
flesh healed so that no more evil could creep in. For a
while it had seemed that the gods would win easily. Now
she was not so sure.

There was ... something inside Scadach. Something
dark and hideously strong, something that was empty as
a flame is empty, but that nevertheless had a kind of
brooding life. She could feel it, could almost hear its
dreadful ruminations; even the faint part of its brooding
that licked against her mind cast her into despair. But at
the same time, there was something oddly familiar about
the thoughts of whatever lurked in Scadach, whatever
godsbane burned so angrily in the deeps. She felt
strangely drawn, as to a darkly fascinating sibling: that
horrid something ... was much like her.

But what could that mean? What a mad thought! What
could there be in that gnawing, spiteful heat that was any-
thing like her, a mortal woman, king's daughter, slain be-
loved of the gods now privileged to ride with them across
the fields of heaven?

Maegwin stood in the snow, silent, motionless, and let
the incomprehensible thoughts of the thing within
Scadach wash over her. She felt its turmoil- Hatred, that

3*2 Tad Williams

was what it felt ... and something more. A hatred of the
living coupled with an agonized longing for quietude and
death.

She shivered. How could heaven be so cold, even in
this black outer fringe?

But I don't long for death! Perhaps I did when I was
alive, for a time. But now that is behind me. Because I
died-I died-and the gods lifted me up to their country.
Why should f still feel that so strongly? I am dead. I am
no longer afraid, as I once was. I did my duty and
brought the gods to save my people-no one can say I did
not. I no longer mourn for my brother and father. I am
dead, and nothing can harm me. I have nothing in com-
mon with that ... thing out there in the darkness, beyond
those walls of heaven-stone.

A sudden thought came to her- But where is my father?
And where is Gwythinn? Didn't they both die heroes?
Surely the gods have lifted them up and carried them
away after their deaths, just as they did me. And surely
they would have demanded to be allowed to fight here, at
the side of the Masters of Heaven. Where are they?

Maegwin stood, dumbfounded. She shivered again. It
was wretchedly cold here. Were the gods playing some
trick on her? Was there still some test she had yet to pass
before she could be reunited with her father and brother,
with her long-dead mother Penemhwye? How could that
be?

Troubled, Maegwin turned and hurried back down the
slope toward the lights of the other homeless souls.

"

More than five hundred pikemen of Metessa stood
shoulder to shoulder in the neck of the Onestrine Pass,
shields lifted above their heads so that it seemed some
great centipede had lodged in the narrows between the
cliffs. The baron's men wore boiled leather cuirasses and
iron helms, armor that was nicked and abraded from long
use. The Crane banner of their House waved above the
serried pikes.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          313

Nabbanai bowmen along the canyon walls filled the
sky with a swarm of arrows. Most bounced harmlessly
from the shield roof, but some found their way through
the locked shields. Wherever a Metessan fell, though, his
fellows drew together.

'The bowmen cannot move them!" Sludig enthused.
"Varellan must charge! By the Aedon, the baron's men
are proud bastards!" He turned to Isgrimnur with a look
of glee on his face. "Josua has chosen his allies well!"

The duke nodded, but could not match Sludig's excite-
ment. As he stood with the elite of Josua's forces, what
was now being called the prince's household guard-a
curious phrase Isgrimnur thought, considering the prince
had no house-the duke only wanted the fighting to end.
He was tired of war.

As he stared out across the narrowing valley, he was
struck by how the ridged hills on both sides resembled a
cage of ribs, the Anitullean Road its breastbone. When
Prester John had fought his way through to victory in this
same Frasilis Valley more than fifty years before, it was
said that so many had died that the bodies were not all
buried for months. The pass and the open land to the
north of the valley had been littered with bones, the sky
black with carrion birds for days.

And to what purpose? Isgrimnur wondered. Less than a
man's lifetime has passed and here we are again, making
more feasts for the vultures. Over and over and over. f am
sick with it.

He sat uncomfortably in the saddle, looking down the
length of the pass. Below him stood the waiting ranks of
the prince's newest allies, their house banners bright in
the noon sun, an aviary of Goose, Pheasant, Tem, and
Grouse. Seriddan's neighboring barons had not been slow
to follow his lead: none seemed happy with Duke
Benigaris, and the) resurrected Camaris was difficult to ig-
nore.

Isgrimnur was struck by the circularity of the situation.
Josua's forces were led by a man thought long-dead, and
they were fighting a crucial battle in the very place where
Prester John, Josua's father and Camaris' closest friend,

Tad Williams

had won his greatest triumph. It should have been a good
omen, Isgrimnur thought ... but instead he felt the past
reaching up to squeeze the life out of the present, as
though History was some great and Jealous monster thai
wished to force all that followed after into unhappy mim-
icry.

This is no life for an old man. The duke sighed. Sludig,
watching raptly as the battle developed, was oblivious. To
fight a war, you must believe it can accomplish some-
thing. We fight this one to save John's kingdom, or per-
haps even to save all of mankind ... but isn 't that what
we always think? That all wars are useless-except the
one we're fighting now?

He fingered his reins. His back was stiff, sore already,
and he had not even put it to any hard work. Kvalnir hung
sheathed at his side, untouched since he had sharpened it
and polished it in the sleepless hours last night.

I'm just tired, he thought. / want Elvritshalla back. I
want to see my grandchildren. I want to walk with my
wife by the Gratuvask when the ice is breaking up. But I
can have none of those things until this damnable fighting
is over.

And that is why we do it, he decided. Because we hope
it will bring us peace. But it never, never does....

Sludig cried out. Isgrimnur looked up, startled, but his
earl's shout had been one of glee.

"Look! Camaris and the horsemen are coming down on
them!"

When it had become clear that bowshot would not dis-
lodge Seriddan's Metessan shield wall from the center of
the pass, Varellan of Nabban had ordered another charge
by his knights. Now that Varellan's forces had committed
themselves to pushing the prince's troops back down the
valley, Camaris and Hotvig's Thrithings-men had come
down from the hillroads and thrown themselves into the
side of Varellan's larger force.

"Where is Camaris?" Sludig said. "Ah! There! I see his
helm!"

Isgrimnur could see it, too. The sea-dragon was little
more than a flaming smear of gold from this distance, but

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

315

its wearer stood tall in his stirrups, a visible circle of dis-
may spreading around him as the Nabbanai knights strug-
gled to stay out of Thorn's black reach.

Prince Josua, who had been watching the battle from a
point about a hundred cubits downslope from Isgrimnur
and Sludig, now turned Vinyafod toward them. "Sludig!"
he called- 'Tell Freosel I want his troop to wait until he
counts his fingers ten times after I give the sign for the
rest of us to charge."

"Yes, Highness." Sludig wheeled his steed around and
jogged toward where Freosel and the rest of Josua's
household troop stood in fretting anticipation.

The prince continued upslope until he was at
Isgrimnur's side. "Varellan's youth is finally beginning to
show. He has proved himself overeager."

"There are worse faults in a commander," Isgrimnur re-
plied, "but you're right. He should have been content to
hold the mouth of the pass."

"But he thought he saw a weakness when he threw us
back yesterday." Josua squinted up at the sky. "Now he is
committed to pushing us back. We are lucky. Benigaris,
for all his rashness in other matters, would never have
taken such a risk."

"Then why did he take the chance of sending little
brother in the first place?"

Josua shrugged. "Who knows? Perhaps he underesti-
mated us. Remember also that Benigaris does not rule
alone in Nabban."

Isgrimnur grunted. "Poor Leobardis. What did he do to
deserve such a wife and son?"

"Again, who knows? But perhaps there is some end
that we cannot see to all this."

The duke shrugged-

The prince was watching the flow of the battle criti-
cally, eyes shadowed in the depths of his helm. He had
drawn Naidel, which lay across his saddle and knee. "Al-
most time," he said. "Almost time."

"They are still many more than us, Josua." Isgrimnur
pulled Kvalnir from its sheath. There remained a momen-
tary pleasure in this: the blade had stood him well in

3i6 Tad Williams

many a contest, witnessed by the fact that he was still
here, still alive, with aching back and chafing armor and
doubts and all.

"But we have Camaris-and you, old friend." Josua
grinned tightly. "We can ask for no better odds." His gaze
had not left the neck of the pass. "May Usires the Ran-
somer preserve us." The prince solemnly made the sign of
the Tree on his breast, then lifted his hand. Naidel caught
the sunlight, and for a moment Isgrimnur found it hard to
breathe. "To me, men!" Josua cried.
A hom sounded on the slopes above him. From the nar-
rows of the pass, Cellian blared back an answer.

As the prince's troops and the rebel barons and their
men charged up the road, Isgrimnur could not help mar-
veling. They had become a real army at last, several thou-
sand strong. When he remembered how it had begun,
Josua and a dozen other bedraggled survivors slipping out
of Naglimund through a back door, he felt heartened.
Surely God the Merciful could not bring them so far only
to dash their hopes!

The Metessans had held firm. Josua and his army
swirled around and past them; the pikemen, freed from
their deadly chore, dragged their wounded back down the
road. The prince's forces flung themselves on Varellan's
knights, whose superior numbers and heavy armor had
been overwhelming even the ferocity of Camaris and the
Thrithings-men.

Isgrimnur held back at first, lending aid where he
could, but unwilling to throw himself into the thick,
where lives seemed to be measured in instants. He spotted
one of Hotvig's men unhorsed, standing over his dying
steed and warding off the pike of a mounted knight.
Isgrimnur rode forward, bellowing a challenge; when the
Nabbanai knight heard him and turned, me Thrithings-
man leapt forward and shoved his sword in beneath the
man's arm where there was no shielding metal on his
leather coat. As the knight toppled, bleeding, Isgrimnur
felt a twitch of fury at his ally's dishonorable tactic, but
when the rescued man shouted his thanks and legged

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          317

down the slope, back into the heart of the struggle, the
duke did not know any longer what to think. Should the
Thrithings-man have died to preserve the lie that war
could be honorable? But did another man deserve death
because he believed that lie?

Slowly, as the afternoon turned, Isgrimnur found him-
self drawn deeper into the bloody conflict, slaying one
man and driving several others back, bloodily wounded.
He sustained only minor hurts himself, but only because
luck was with him. He had stumbled once, and his oppo-
nent's swinging two-handed sword blow had glanced off
the top of his helm; had he not fallen, it would likely have
separated head from neck. Isgrimnur fought with none of
his old battle rage, but fear brought out a strength he had
forgotten he had. It was like the ghant nest all over again:

everywhere he turned there were hard-shelled things that
wanted to kill him.

Upslope, Josua and his knights had pushed Varellan's
force back almost to the outer lip of the pass. Surely,
thought Isgrimnur, some of those who fought in the front
line must be able to see the broad valley below, green in
the sunlight-except that to look at anything except the
man in front of you and his weapon was to court swift
death.

The knights of Nabban bent, but did not give. If they
had made a mistake in trying to push their earlier advan-
tage, they would make no mistake now. Whatever Prince
Josua wanted, it was clear that he and his army would
have to take it with their own hands.

As the sun began to dip down toward the horizon,
Isgrimnur momentarily found himself in a backwater of
the fighting, a spot in which the struggle had ended for a
time; all around the bodies of murdered men lay sprawled
like the leavings of a receding tide.

Just down the hill Isgrimnur saw a gleam of gold: it
was Camaris. The duke watched him in amazement.
Hours since the battle had begun, and although his move-
ments seemed a little slower, still the old knight fought on
with undiminished purpose. Camaris sat upright in his
saddle, his movements as regular and unexcited as those

318

Tad Williams

of a fanner at work in his field. The battle horn swung at
his side. Thorn whistled through the air like a black
scythe, and where it touched, headless bodies fell like
harvested wheat.

He's not as fierce as he ever was, Isgrimnur marveled,
he's fiercer. He fights like a damned soul. What is in that
man's head? What gnaws at his heart?

Isgrimnur suddenly felt shame that he stood watching
as Camaris, twenty years his senior, fought and bled. The
most important battle, perhaps, that had ever been fought,
and it still hung in the balance, unclaimed. He was
needed. Old and tired of war he might be, but he was still
an experienced blade.

He lightly dug his spurs into his mount's side, heading
toward the place where Sir Camaris now kept three foot
soldiers at bay. It was a spot blocked from view by a web
of low trees. Even though he had little doubt that Camaris
could hold out until others reached him, it might be some
while before they spotted him .. . and in any case,
Camaris in the saddle was an inspiration to the rest of
Josua's troops that would be a shame to waste behind
concealing shrubbery.

Before he had gone more than a dozen cubits,
Isgrimnur saw an arrow suddenly sprout from his horse's
chest, just before his leg; the horse reared, shrilling with
agony. Isgrimnur felt a burning pain in his own side, then
a moment later he was tumbling free of his saddle. The
ground rose up and hit him like a club. His horse, strug-
gling for balance on the rocky slope, wavered above him
with front legs flailing, then its shadow descended.
The last thing Isgrimnur saw and felt was a tremendous
concussion of light, as though the sun had dropped from
the sky to land on top of him.

14

Empires of Dust

A

It was THodHeninfl. Simon was parched, his mouth
dry as bone dust, and all around him echoed the sound of
dripping water ,.. but there was no water to be found. It
was as though some demon had looked into his thoughts,
then plucked out his fondest desire and turned it into a
cruel trick-
He stopped, peering into the darkness. The tunnel had
widened, but still led downward, and there had been no
place to turn, no crossing corridors. Whatever made that
dripping was now behind him, as though he had passed it
somehow in the featureless shadows.

But that can't be! The sound was before me, and now
it's behind me-but it was never beside me. Simon fought
to keep down his fear, which felt like a living thing inside
him, all tiny clicking scales and scrabbling claws.

He might be lost beneath the ground, he told himself,
but he was not dead. He had been trapped in tunnels like
these before and had come out into the sun again. And
now he was older; he had seen things that few others had
seen. Somehow, he would survive. And if he didn't? Then
he would face the end without shame.

Brave words, mooncalf, an inner voice mocked him-
Brave words now. But when a sunless day and a moonless
night pass with no water? When the torch bums out?

Be quiet, he told the inner voice.

^

320                  Tad Williams

"King John went down the darksome hole,"

Simon sang quietly- His throat hurt, but he was grow-
ing tired of the monotony of his bootheels clumping
against the stone. Not to mention the miserable, lonely
way the sound made him feel.

"To seek the fiery beast below,
Through caveish haunt of toad and troll,
Where none but he had dared to go ..."

Simon frowned. If only this were the haunt of trolls.
He would have given anything for Binabik's companion-
ship-not to mention a skin full of water followed by a
healthy swallow of kangkang. And if Prester John had
brought nothing but a sword down into the earth-which
he hadn't, come to think of it: wasn't that what the
Hemystirman Eolair had come to Sesuad'ra to tell them?
That John had found Minneyar somewhere down in the
ground?-then what had he done for light? Simon had
one torch, and its flame was beginning to look a little thin
around the edges. It was all very well to go thumping and
bumping about looking for dragons, but the songs never
said much about food and water and trying to make fires.

Old cradle songs and missing swords and tunnels in the
dark, fetid earth. How had his life ever come to revolve
around such things? When Simon had prayed for knightly
adventures, he had hoped for more noble things-battle-
fields and gleamingly polished armor, deeds of bravery,
the love of the multitudes. He had found those, more or
less, but they had not been what he had expected. And
time and time again he was drawn back into this madness
of swords and tunnels, as though he were being forced to
play some childhood game long past the point where he
had tired of it....

His shoulder bumped against the wall and he almost
fell. The torch dropped from his grasp and lay on the tun-
nel floor. Simon stared at it stupidly for a moment before
suddenly regaining his senses. He snatched it up and held
it tightly, as though the torch itself had tried to escape.

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                    321

Mooncalf.

He sat down heavily. He was tired of walking, tired of
empty nothingness and solitude. The tunnel had become a
winding hole through irregular slabs of rock, which likely
meant he was now deep among the bones of Swertclif; he
seemed to be bound for the center of the earth-

Something in his pocket chafed against his leg, catch-
ing his attention. What was he carrying? He had been
stumbling down these passageways for what seemed like
hours, and he had not even bothered to see what odd-
ments he had brought with him when he fell through the
crumbling earth.

Emptying out the pockets stitched on his breeches,
wincing and making soft sounds at the stinging of his
abraded fingers, he discovered that he had not missed
much by postponing his inventory. There was a stone, a
round smooth one that he had picked up because he liked
the heft of it, and the almost featureless belt buckle,
which he had thought he discarded. He decided to keep it,
thinking vaguely that it could be used for scratching or
digging.

The only significant find was a bit of dried meat from
yesterday's mid-aftemoon mealF He looked longingly at
the wrinkled strip, which was about the length and width
of his finger, then put it aside. He had a feeling that he
would want it more later than he did even now.
That accounted for his pockets. The gold ring Mor-
genes had sent to him was still on his finger, almost invis-
ible under a layer of dirt, but whatever use or significance
it might have in the world of sunlight was meaningless
here: he could not eat it, and it would not frighten an en-
emy. His Qanuc knife was still in the sheath tied to his
leg. Other than that and the torch, he was truly defense-
less. His sword was somewhere above the ground-with
Binabik and Miriamele, if they had escaped the diggers-
along with his White Arrow, his cloak, his armor, and the
rest of his meager possessions. He was nearly as empty-
handed as when he had fled the castle almost a year be-
fore. And he was back in the black earth again. In the
smothering earth ...

322 Tad Williams

Stop it, he ordered himself. What was it Morgenes
said? "Not what's in your hands, but what's in your
head." That's something, anyway. I have a lot more in my
head than I did then.

But what good will it do me if I die of thirst?
He struggled to his feet and began walking again. He
had no idea where the tunnel might lead, but it must lead
somewhere. It must. The possibility that this direction
might finish as the other end had, in an impenetrable wall
of fallen dirt or stone, was not something he could afford
to consider.

"Down pitch-black pit went young King John."
Simon sang again, quieter than before,

"Where Fire-Drake lurked on hoard of gold,
And no one knew that he had gone,
For not a person had he told ..."

It was strange. Simon did not feel mad, but he was
hearing things that were not truly there. The sound of
splashing water had returned, louder and more forceful
than before, but now it seemed to come from all sides, as
though he walked through the curtain of a waterfall.
Mixed with it, just barely separable from the hiss and
spatter, was the murmur of speech.

Voices! Perhaps there are cross-tunnels somewhere
nearby. Perhaps they lead to people. To real, living
people ...

The voices and the water-sounds stayed with him for a
time without revealing their source, then faded away,
leaving him again with the noise of his footsteps as his
only company.

Confused and weary, frightened by what the phantom
sounds might mean, he almost stepped into a hole in the
tunnel floor. He tripped and then caught himself, braced
his hand against the wall, and stared down. The light of
another torch seemed to gleam in the depths below, and
for a moment he thought his heart would stop.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          323

"Who .,. Who's th ..." As he leaned down, the light
below him seemed to rise.

A reflection. Water.

Simon dropped to his knees and pushed his face toward
the tiny pool, then stopped as its smell came up to him,
oily and unpleasant. He dipped his fingers in and brought
them out. The water seemed oddly slippery on his skin.
He brought the torch forward for a better look. A sheet of
flame leapt up and slapped hotly against his face; he
shouted in pain and surprise as he tumbled backward. For
a moment it seemed the whole world had caught fire.

Sitting splay-legged on the ground, he lifted his hand to
his cheek and felt gingerly across his features. The skin
was as tender as if he had been too long in the sun, and
he could feel the hairs of his beard turned crisp and
curled, but everything seemed to be in its proper place.
He looked down to see a flame dancing in the hole in the
tunnel floor.

Usires Aedon! he cursed silently. Mooncalf's luck. /
find water and it's the kind that bums-whatever that is.

A tear coursed down his hot cheek.

Whatever was in the pool was burning merrily. Simon
stared at it, so disappointed to find his drinking water un-
drinkable that he could not for a long time make sense of
what he was seeing. At last, something Morgenes had
once said came back to him.

Perdruinese Fire-that's what it is. The doctor said it's
found in caves. The Perdruin-folk used to make catapult
balls of it and throw it at their enemies and bum them to
cracklings. That was the kind of history lesson that Simon
had paid close attention to-the sort where interesting
things happened. If I had more sticks and more rags, I
could use it to make torches.

Shaking his head, he clambered to his feet and started
down the tunnel once more. After a few paces he stopped
and shook his head again.

Mooncalf. Stupid mooncalf.

He returned to the burning pool and sat down, then
took off his shirt and began to tear strips of cloth from the
hem. The Perdruinese Fire was pleasantly warm.

324

Tad Williams

Rachel would skin me if she saw me ruining a perfectly
good shirt. He giggled too loudly. The echoes rolled
down the corridor into empty darkness. It would be good
to see Rachel again, he realized. The idea seemed strange
but indisputable.

When he had a dozen strips-his shirt now ended not
far beneath his armpits-he sat and stared at the flames
for a moment, trying to decide how to dip the cloth with-
out burning the skin off his hands. He considered using
the torch but decided against it. He had no idea how deep
this hole in the tunnel ran and he was afraid he might
drop the brand- Then the only light he possessed would
be one he could not move.

At last, after long moments of thought, he set the torch
to one side, then began shoveling loose dirt from the
cracks between slabs of stone into the hole. After he had
poured in a score of handfuls, the flame flickered and
died. He waited a little longer, having no idea of how
long it might take to cool, then shoveled the sticky din
away until there was an open space into which he could
dip the rags. When he had soaked all the strips of cloth,
he put one aside and then rolled each of the others tightly
and set them all side by side on the last and largest piece
he had torn from his shirt. He bundled up this makeshift
sack and hung it on his belt. The remaining strip he care-
fully wrapped around the torch just below the flame, then
turned the brand until the cloth soaked in Perdruinese Fire
caught. It burned brightly, and Simon nodded. He still
needed food and water, but if he managed carefully, he
would not have to worry about losing his light for some
while yet. Lost and alone he might be, but he was not just
Simon Mooncalf-he was the fabled Seoman Snowlock
as well.

But he would much rather have been just Simon, and
free to walk upon the green world with his friends.

Choices, he thought unhappily, could be both a blessing
and a curse.

Simon had already slept once, curled in a ball on the
hard tunnel floor with a fresh rag of Perdruinese Fire

TO    GREEN    ANGEL   TOWER

325

wrapped   around his torch. When he awakened from a
panicky   dream in which all light was gone and he crawled
through   muddy blackness, the torch's flame was still
burning   steadily.

Since then, he had walked for what seemed like several
more hours. His thirst had grown greater and greater until
every step seemed to leach moisture from his body, until
he could think of almost nothing but finding water. The
strip of meat was still in his pocket-just the thought of
eating the dry, salty thing made his head ache, despite a
hunger almost as great as his thirst.
Now, suddenly, the monotonous stone and earth walls
of the tunnel had been breached. A cross tunnel, a ragged
but substantial hole that was clearly not natural, opened
out on either side. After a near-infinity of choiceless plod-
ding, he had a decision to make: should he go forward,
right, or left?

What he wanted, of course, was a path leading upward,
but neither of the two branches seemed anything but
level. He walked a little way down each in turn, sniffing
the air, looking and listening for anything that might be a
sign of open air or water, but to no avail: the cross tunnel
seemed as devoid of interest as the one through which he
had been trudging since Aedon only knew when.

He moved back to the main tunnel and stood for a mo-
ment, trying to decide where he might be. Surely he was
somewhere far beneath Swertclif itself-he could not
have walked downward at such a steady angle for so long
without having descended to beneath the hill itself. But
his way had wound so many times he could not possibly
guess where he might stand in relation to the world
above. He would just have to make a choice and see what
happened.

/// only ever turn one direction, I can at least find my
way back to where I've been.

Based on nothing definite, he resolved to take the left-
hand tunnel, and to always take the left-hand turning from
here on. Then, if he decided he had made a bad decision,
he would just turn around and take all the turns back to
the right.

326 Tad Williams

He turned to the left and stumbled on.

At first the tunnel seemed no different than the one he
had left, a tube of uneven stone and earth without any
sign of use or purpose. Who had made these grim holes?
It must have been men, or manlike beings, for in places
he felt sure he could see spots where rock been chipped
or broken away to open the meandering course.

His thirst and dreary loneliness were such that he did
not notice the soft voices again until they were all about
him once more. This time, though, there was a sensation
of movement as well-a plucking at his clothes like the
touch of the wind, a hurrying of shadows that made the
light in. the tunnel seem to flicker. The voices were wail-
ing softly in a language he could not understand. As they
passed around him or through him he felt a sad coldness.
These were memories ... of a sort. These were lost
things, shapes and feelings that had come unstuck from
their own time. He was nothing to them, and they, dis-
turbing as they might be, were really nothing to him.

Unless I become one of these myself. He felt bubbles of
fear rising within him. Unless someday some other wan-
dering mooncalf feels a Simon-shadow brushing past him
saying "Lost, lost, lost ..."

It was a horrible thought. Long after the flurry of
almost-shapes was gone and the voices were silent, it
stayed with him.

He had turned three more times, on each occasion
choosing the left-hand direction, when at last things be-
gan to change.

Simon was considering going back-his last turning
had led him into a tunnel that now sloped sharply
downward-when his eye was caught by a blotchiness
along the walls. He brought his torch close and saw that
the cracks of the stone were full of moss. Moss, he felt
sure, meant water somewhere nearby. He was so parched
that he pulled loose a matted handful and put it in his
mouth- After a few tentative chews he managed to swal-
low it. Bile rose in his throat, and for a moment he
thought he might be ill. It was dreadfully bitter, but there

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER           327

was moisture in it. If he had to, he could eat it and prob-
ably stay alive for a while-but he prayed he could find
some other alternative.

He was staring at the tiny fronds, trying to decide
whether he could stomach a second helping, when he no-
ticed pale marks in the gap where he had pulled loose the
first handful. He squinted and held the torch closer. It was
the remains of some kind of design, that was clear-great
curving parallels and eroded shapes that might have been
leaves or petals. Time had worn them away almost com-
pletely, but they seemed to have some of the looping
grace of carvings he had seen in Da'ai Chikiza and
Sesuad'ra. Sithi work? Had he gone so deep so quickly?

Simon looked around at the tunnel itself, at   the crude,
jagged-faced stones. He couldn't imagine the   Sithi mak-
ing such a place, even for the most basic of   purposes. But
if they had not dug these tunnels, why would   there be
Sithi carving on the walls?

He shook his head. Too many questions when the only
ones that mattered were, where could he find some
water-and which way was out?

Although he began to examine the walls carefully as he
walked, his discovery of the moss was not immediately
followed by anything more useful. The tunnel now began
to widen, and the next two passageways he chose seemed
more artfully constructed, the walls symmetrical, the floor
even. Then, as he explored yet another branching, he put
his foot down on nothing.

With a shout of horrified surprise, Simon caught at the
entrance of the tunnel. His torch flew from his hand and
tumbled down into the darkness where he had nearly gone
himself. As he watched in fearful anticipation, it struck
and then rolled; it stopped at last, flickering ... but did
not go out.

Stairs. His torch was lying on a flight of rough stairs
leading downward. The first half-dozen steps had crum-
bled or been broken away, leaving nothing behind but a
few rough edges.

He did not want to go down. He wanted to go up.

But stairs! Maybe there's something real down there-

328 Tad Williams

some place that makes sense. What could be worse than
what's already happening?

Nothing. Everything.

It was a left-hand turning, so he would not be com-
pletely lost if it proved a bad choice. But it would be
much easier to drop down the gap comprised by the miss-
ing steps-a distance almost twice his height-than to
climb back up again if he changed his mind. Perhaps he
should take one of the other paths....

What nonsense are you thinking? he berated himself.
He would have to go down just to retrieve his torch.

Simon sat, dangling his legs over the stairiess gap, and
pulled the strip of dried meat from his pocket. He broke
off a small piece and sucked on it meditatively as he
looked down. The torchlight showed the steps had been
chiseled square, but left unfinished: they were made to be
useful, nothing else. Looking at them, there was no way
to tell whether they led anywhere.

He chewed and stared. His mouth filled with saliva as
he savored the salty, smoky taste. It was wonderful to
have something solid between his teeth again!

Simon rose, then turned and went back up the corridor,
feeling with his hand when the light grew dim, until he
found more moss clinging to the wall. He pulled loose
several handfuls, then shoved the sticky mass into his
pocket. He returned to the stairwell and peered down until
he felt he had located the best spot to land. He slid his
legs over, then rolled onto his front and let himself down
as carefully as he could, gritting his teeth as the stone
scraped against his stomach and chest. When he was al-
most hanging full length, he let go.

A piece of loose stone, perhaps a fragment of the miss-
ing -steps, was lying in wait for him like a viper. He felt
one foot touch before the other, then the first foot rolled
over at the ankle. A flash of pain shot through his leg.

Tears in his eyes, Simon lay on the topmost step for a
moment, cursing his luck. He sat up, slid forward until he
could reach the fallen torch, then set it down beside him
and took off his boot to examine his injured ankle.

He could bend it reasonably well, although each

TO    GREEN    ANGEL   TOWER                            329

change of position was painful. He decided that it was not
broken-but what could he have done about it if it were?
He pulled off his shirt and tore loose yet another strip,
then pulled the ever-shrinking garment back on. When he
had bound the cloth around his ankle and foot as snugly
as he could, he pulled the boot back on and tested him-
self. He could walk, he decided, but it would hurt.

Walk, then. What else can you do?

He began his limping descent.

Simon had hoped that the stairs would lead him down
to some place more real than the endless, pointless tun-
nels. But the more real his surroundings became, the
more they also became unreal.

After several score small but painful descents, the stairs
ended and Simon hobbled out through a jagged hole into
another corridor, a passage quite unlike the tunnels
through which he had been traveling. Moss-festooned and
almost black with the dirt of ages, it was nevertheless
made of carefully-cut dressed stone; its walls were thick
with carvings. But when he stared at these carvings for
more than an instant, those that were just at the comers of
his vision seemed to shimmer and move, as though they
were not marks in stone at all, but rather some kind of
parchment-thin creatures, slender as thread. The walls and
floor seemed somehow unstable, too: when Simon looked
away for a moment in his plodding progress, lured by yet
another smear of movement at the edge of his eye, or was
distracted by the flickering of the torch flame, they ap-
peared to change. The long straight corridor suddenly had
an upward slant, or seemed abruptly narrower. If he
turned away and then looked back, everything was as it
had been before.

Nor were these the only tricks this place played on
him. The noises that he had heard before returned, voices
and rushing water now joined by a strange, abstract mu-
sic, all sourceless and ghostly. Unexpected scents washed
over him, too, rushes of sweet flowery air one moment
that quickly gave way to dank emptiness once more, only

33"

Tad Williams

to be supplanted a moment later by the harsh smell of
something burning.

It was too much. Simon wanted to lie down, to go to
sleep and wake up with everything stable and unchang-
ing. Even the monotony of the tunnels above was prefer-
able to this. He might have been trudging at the bottom of
the sea, where the currents and uneven light made every-
thing sway and dance and shimmer.

How long did you think you could walk in the empty
earth before you went mad. Mooncalf?

f'm not going mad, he told himself. I'm just tired. Tired
and thirsty. If only there weren't all these water-noises.
They just make things worse.

He pulled some of the moss from his pocket and
chewed as he walked, forcing himself to swallow the
hateful stuff.

There was no question that he was walking in a place
in which people ... in which someone ... had once lived,
The ceiling rose higher above him, the floor was level be-
neath the rubble and dust, and the crossing passages, al-
most all of them choked with stone and soil, were faced
with carved arches, soiled and worn to pebble-smoothness
but clearly the work of careful craft.

Simon paused for a moment before one of these en-
tranceways. As he stood resting his throbbing ankle, star-
ing at the jumble of rocks and dirt that plugged it, the
mound of dirt seemed to darken, then turn black. A small
light bloomed in that blackness, and Simon suddenly felt
he was looking through the doorway. He took a step
closer. In the darkness beyond he saw a single spot of lu-
minance, an orb of light dimly glowing. Near it, bathed in
faint radiance, was ... a face.

Simon gasped. The face lifted, as though the person sit-
ting in near-darkness had heard him, but the high-slanted
eyes did not meet his, staring instead out past him. It was
a Sitha face, or seemed so in the moment he could ob-
serve it, a world of pain and concern in the shining eyes.
He saw the lips move in speech, the eyebrows rise in sad
inquiry. Then the darkness blurred, the light vanished, and

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

331

Simon was standing with his nose a finger's breadth away
from a doorway choked with rubble.

Dry. Dry. Dead. Dead.

A sob hitched in his throat. He turned back to the long
corridor.

Simon didn't know how long he had been staring at the
flame of his torch. It wavered before him, a universe of
yellow light. It was a terrible effort to wrench his gaze
away.
The walls on both sides had turned to water.

He stopped, staring in awe. Somehow the tunnel floor
had become a narrow walkway over a great darkness and
the walls had retreated: they no longer touched the floor
on which he stood, and their stone facing was completely
covered by flowing sheets of water. He could hear it rush-
ing down into the emptiness below, see the uneven reflec-
tion of the torch as it played across the liquid expanse.

Simon moved to the edge of the walkway and stretched
out his hand, but his fingers did not reach. He could feel
a faint dew of mist on his fingertips, and when he drew
the hand back and touched it to his mouth, there was a
faint taste of wet sweetness. He'leaned out again, swaying
perilously over the darkness, but still could not touch
even a fingertip to the sheeting water. He cursed in fury.
If he only had a bowl, a cup, a spoon'

Think, Mooncalf! Use your head!

After a moment's consideration, he put his torch down
on the walkway and shucked his tattered shirt over his
head. He got down on his knees; then, clutching one
sleeve, he flung the rest of it out as far as he could. It
touched lightly against the cascade and was pulled down-
ward. He yanked it back, his heart beating faster as he felt
me shirt's new heaviness. He threw back his head, then
pushed the sodden cloth against his mouth. The first
drops were like honey on his tongue....

The light flickered. Everything in the long chamber
seemed to lurch to one side. The rush of the water grew
louder, then hissed away into silence.

Simon's mouth was full of dust.

332

Tad Williams

He gagged and spat, spat again, then fell to the floor in
a panicked fury, growling and thrashing like a beast with
a thorn in its side. When he looked up, he could still see
the walls and the gap that stretched between them and the
walkway on which he crouched-that much was real-
but there was no sheeting water, only a lighter-colored
smear on the stone wall where his shirt had flicked loose
a few centuries' worth of grime.

Simon shook with tearless sobbing as he wiped the dirt
from his face and rubbed the last of crumbs of soil from
his swollen tongue. He tried to eat a little of the moss to
take the taste of the dust away, but it was so foul he was
almost sick again. He spat the leafy wad down into the
abyss.

What kind of cursed, haunted place is this? Where am

I?
I'm alone, alone.

Still shaking, he dragged himself to his feet, looking
for a safer place to lie down for a while and sleep. He
needed to get away. There was no water. There was no
water anywhere. And no safety either.

Faint voices up in the shadows of the high ceiling sang
words he could not understand. A wind he could not feel
fluttered' the torch flame.

Am / alive?

Yes, I am. I am Simon, and 1 am alive, and 1 will not
give up. I am not a ghost.

He had slept twice more, and had chewed enough of
the bitter moss to keep himself moving in between rests.
He had used more than half of his treated rags to keep the
torch burning. It was difficult to remember a time when
he had not seen the world by wavering torchlight, or
when the world itself had not consisted of unpeopled
stone corridors and whispering, bodiless voices. He felt as
though his own essence had begun to melt away, as
though he were becoming a chittering shade.

/ am Simon, he reminded himself. / met the dragon and
I won the White Arrow. I am real.

As in a dream, he moved through the halls and corri-

TO GREEN      ANGEL TOWER

333

dors of a great castle. For illuminated moments swift as
the whiteflash of lightning, he could see it in full life, the
halls full of faint golden faces, the walls pale, shining
stone that reflected the colors of the sky. It was a place
unlike anything he had ever seen, with streams prisoned
in stone banks that ran from room to room, and waterfalls
that frothed down the walls of chambers. But for all the
splashing, it was still dream-water. Each time he reached,
the promise turned to grit in his hands; the walls darkened
and slouched, the light dimmed, the beautiful fretwork
withered away, and Simon found himself walking in
ruined stone halls again, a homeless spirit in a vast tomb.

The Sithi lived here. he told himself. This was Asu 'a,
shining Asu 'a. And somehow they are still here ... as
though the stones themselves are dreaming of the old
days.

A poisonously seductive idea began to make itself felt.
Amerasu Ship-Bom had said that somehow Simon lived
closer to the Dream Road than others-he had seen the
Parting of the Families during his vigil atop Sesuad'ra,
hadn't he? Perhaps, then, if he could discover some way
to do it, he could ... step across. He would go into the
dream, he would live in beautiful Asu'a and plunge his
face into the living streams that meandered through the
palace-and this time they would not turn to dust. He
would live in Asu'a, and never come back again to this
dark, haunted world of crumbling shadows....

Never come back to your friends? Never come back to
your duty?

But the dream-Asu'a was so beautiful. In the instants
of its flickering existence, he could see roses and other
startlingly bright flowers climbing up the walls to bask in
the sun from the high windows. He could see the Sithi,
the dream-people who lived here, graceful and strange as
bright-plumed birds. The dream showed a time before Si-
mon's kind had destroyed the Sithi's greatest house.
Surely the immortals would welcome a lost traveler ...
Oh, Mother of Mercy, might they welcome him in from
the darkness... ?

Weak and weary, Simon stumbled on a loose paving

334

Tad Williams

stone and fell to his hands and knees. His heart felt like
an anvil in his chest. He could not move, could not go an-
other step. Anything was better than this mad loneliness!

The wide room before him pulsed, but did not disap-
pear. Out of the nebulous cloud of moving forms, one of
the figures became clearer. It was a Sitha woman, skin
golden as sunlight, hair a cloud of nightblack. She stood
between two twining trees laden with silvery fruit, and
her eyes slowly turned to Simon. She paused. A strange
look came over her face, as though she had heard a voice
calling her name in a lonely place.

"Can ... can you see me?" Simon gasped. He scrab-
bled toward her across the floor. She continued to stare at
the spot where he had been.

Terror rushed through him. He had lost her! His limbs
turned boneless and he slumped forward onto his belly.
Behind the black-haired woman a fountain of water spar-
kled, the drops that flew through the slanting light of the
windows glowing like gems. She closed her eyes, and Si-
mon felt a questing touch at the farthest edge of his mind.
She seemed only a few short steps away, but at the same
moment as distant as a star in the sky. "Can't you see
me!?" he howled."! want to come inside! Let me in!"

She stood as immobile as a statue, her hands folded be-
fore her. The high-windowed chamber grew dark, until
she alone stood in a column of radiance. Something
brushed against Simon's thoughts, light as a spider's step,
soft as a butterfly's breath.

Go back, little one. Go back and live.
Then   she opened her eyes and looked at him again. Her
eyes   were full of a wisdom so vast and kind mat Simon
felt   himself lifted and held and known. But her words
were   bitter for him.

This is not for you.

She began to fade. For a moment, she was only another
shadowy figure in the ancient parade of shapes. Then the
beautiful airy room itself flickered and vanished. Simon
was sprawled in the dirt. His torch burned fitfully on the
ground, half a pace from his outstretched fingers.

Gone. Left me behind.

TO     GREEN   ANGEL    TOWER

335

Simon cried until he could not cry any more, until he
was hoarse with weeping and his face hurt. He dragged
himself to his feet and went on.

He had almost forgotten his name-he had certainly
forgotten how many times he had slept, and how many
times he had sucked at the diminishing wad of moss
crammed in his pocket-when he found the great stairs.

There were only a few rags left to replace the one that
burned on his torch. Simon was thinking about what that
meant, and realizing that he had gone too far to find his
way back to the pool of Perdruinese Fire before he was
plunged into darkness, when he walked through one of
the sweeping portals of the labyrinthine castle and found
himself on a vast landing. Above and below this open
place stretched a flight of wide stairs circling around
emptiness, an uncountable sweep of steps that curled up
into shadow and down into darkness.

The stairs! A memory, dim as a fish in a muddy pond,
came floating up. The ... Tan'ja Stairs? Doctor Mor-
genes said ... said ...

Long ago, in another life, another Simon had been told
to look for stairs like these-anti they had led him upward
to night air and moonlight and damp green grass.

Then that means ... if I go up ...

A shockingly ragged laugh burst out and echoed in the
stairwell. Something, bats or sad little memories, fluttered
away into the darkness above, rustling like a handful of
parchments. Simon began climbi-ng the stairs, his throb-
bing ankle, his terrible thirst, his utter, utter loneliness al-
most forgotten.

/';/ breathe the air. I'll see the sky. I'm ... I'm... I'm
Simon. I won't be a ghost.
Before he had gone half a hundred steps upward, he
found that a section of the wall had tumbled down,
smashing the outermost edge of the steps so that a ragged
gap faced out into the empty darkness. The rest of the
staircase was blocked by fallen stone.

"Bloody Tree!" he screamed in rage. "Bloody, Bloody
Tree!"

336

Tad Williams

"... 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 land-
ings 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

TO    GREEN    ANGEL   TOWER                          337

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, help-
lessly 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. / 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 de-
scent. 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 plung-
ing 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. Si-
mon 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 for-
ward. 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

338

Tad Williams

blackness. There were no more stairs, or at least none he
could see.

Still making pained noises, Simon crawled forward un-
til the blackness was just before him. As he leaned out,
his arm swept a small scree of dust and gravel over the
edge.

Plink. PUnk, pUnk. 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, look-
ing for a way down. When he discovered a small and el-
egantly 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 direc-
tion. 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

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                           339

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 vigor-
ously 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 bum 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.

340 Tad Williams

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, ob-
scuring his view.

As he gaped, a shadowy figure appeared m 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 homs ... 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.

Jingiw- 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 empti-
ness. 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 terrify-
ingly powerful. Water or no water, he could not stay. And

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

341

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 unimport-

^ ant. He had to leave this place.

t.    The pool, which a moment before had been a fount of

H terrifying visions, was now only a silent circle of black.

15

A Meandering of Ink

"

Miriamete was as ^entte 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 un-
characteristic savagery, but also worried by her own hol-
lowness. 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 for-
est," 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

TO      GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                          343

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 con-
tradicted.

"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 usu-
ally 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 si-
lent. Miriamele was quite sure that he was thinking about

344

Tad Williams

Simon, who even if he survived would be somewhere be-
neath 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 think-
ing- 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 any-
thing like being stupid, Miriamele. I am not knowing any-
one 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

TO    GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

345

i  •&.
ri

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
skins. "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 tun-
nels. 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 me-
andering 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 top-
most map. "And this must be Swertclif which lies be-
neath 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
I maps and charts are being made at particular times,
| Miriamele. Just as likely it is that other tunnels have been
Tmade since the drawing of this thing."

"Elysia, Mother of Mercy, I hope that's true."

346

Tad Wiams

"So where was Simon emerging from his tunnels?"
Binabik asked. "I seem to have a memory that it was..."

"In the lien-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."

"There are many tunnelings that seem to emerge
around that place. But these were made long before
Erchester and the rest were being built. I am doubting
these landmarks still remain." He looked up as Qantaqa
returned from her hunting, her shaggy pelt pearled with
rain.

"I think I know more or less where he must have come
up," Miriamele said. "We can look, anyway."

"That we will do." Binabik stretched. "Now, one more
night we will be sleeping in this place. Then down to the
horses."

"I hope they've had enough to eat. We didn't expect to
leave them this long."

"I can be promising you that if they were finishing the
grass, the next thing they chewed through would be the
leather traces that held them. The horses will not suffer
for want of finding food, but we may not be finding the
horses."

Miriamele shrugged. "As you are always saying,
there's nothing we can do about it until we get there."

"I say it because it has a great truthfulness," Binabik
replied gravely.

4fc

Rachel the Dragon knew what she would find, but her
resignation did not make it less of a blow. For the eighth
day in a row, the food and water she had put out were un-
touched.

Offering a sad prayer for patience to Saint Rhiappa,
Rachel gathered up those things that would not keep and
put them in her sack. She would eat the small apple and
the bit of hardening bread tonight. She replaced the ne-
glected offerings with fresh ones, then lifted the lid on the
TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          347

bowl of water to make sure it was still clean and drink-
able.

She frowned. Where was that poor man Guthwulf? She
hated to think of him wandering blind in the darkness, un-
able to find his way back to the regular meals that she had
been providing him. She was half-tempted to go and look
for him-had in fact roamed a little wider than normal in
me last few days-but knew that it would be inviting
trouble. The farther down into these tunnels she went, the
greater the chance that she would fall and hit her head, or
tumble into a hole. Then she would be helpless. She
might worry about blind Guthwulf, but no one at all was
worrying about old Rachel.

[, These thoughts made her frown deepen. Just as such
^ things might happen to her, so might they have happened
; to Guthwulf. He might be only a few furlongs away, lying
injured. The thought of someone needing her care when
I she could not give it was like an itch inside of her, a hot
i-frustration. Once she had been the mistress of all the cas-
I tie servants, a queen of sorts; now she could not even do
I what was necessary for one poor sightless madman.

| Rachel shouldered her bag and stumped back up the
|stairs, heading toward her hidden sanctuary.
I When she had pulled aside the tapestry and pushed the
|door inward on its well-oiled hinges, she lit one of her
[lanterns and looked around. In a way, it was almost rest-
|ful living in such a solitary fashion: the place was so
| small it was easy to keep clean, and since only she came
Uiere, she knew that everything was done in just the right
I: way.

Rachel set the lamp on the stool she used as a table and
pulled her chair next to it, wincing. The damp was in her
' ones tonight, and her extremities ached- She did not feel
(luch like sewing, but there was little else to do, and it
ras still at least an hour before the time she would go to
Rachel was determined not to lose her routine. She
always been one to wake up just moments before
tie hom blare of the night sentries giving over duty to the
loming watch, but these days only her morning trip up-
urs to get water from the room with an outside window

348

Tad Williams

helped her retain a connection with the   world beyond.
She did not want anything to strain the   tenuous contact
with her old life, so she would sew for   at least an hour
before she allowed herself to lie down,   no matter how her
fingers cramped.

She took out her knife and cut the apple into small sec-
tions. She ate it carefully, but when she was finished her
teeth and gums hurt, so she dipped the heel of bread into
her water cup to soften before she ate it. Rachel gri-
maced. Everything hurt tonight. There was a storm com-
ing, that seemed sure-her bones told her. It didn't seem
fair. There had only been a few days in the past week
when she had actually been able to see sunlight out of the
window upstairs, and now even that was to be snatched

away.

Rachel found her needlework hard going. Her mind
kept flittering away, something that normally would not
have affected her stitchery at all, but which tonight was
causing her to stop for long moments between every few

movements of the needle.

What would things have been like if Pryrates hadn 't

come? she wondered.

Elias might not have been a wonderful king like his
sainted father, but he was strong and shrewd and capable.
Perhaps he would have outgrown his churiishness and his
bad companions; the castle would have remained in her
control, the long tables snowy with their spotless cloths,
the flagstones swept and mopped to a high gleam. The
chambermaids would be working industriously-under
Rachel's stem gaze, everyone worked industriously. Well,

almost everyone ...

Yes, Simon. If the red priest hadn't come to blight their
lives, Simon would still be here. Perhaps he would have
found some work to suit him by now. He would be
bigger-oh, they grew so quickly at that age-maybe
even with a man's beard, although it was hard to imagine
anything manly about young Simon. He would come by
sometimes to visit her at the end of the day, maybe even
share a cup of cider and a little talk. She would keep a
careful eye that he wasn't getting too big for his breeches,

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          349

that he wasn't making a fool of himself over the wrong
sort of girls-it wouldn't do to let that boy get too far out
of hand....

Something wet fell onto her hand. Rachel started.

Crying? Crying, you old fool? After that mooncalf bay?
She shook herself angrily. Well, he's in better hands than
yours now. and tears won't bring him back.

Still, it would have been nice to see him grown, a man,
but still grinning that same impudent grin....

Rachel put down her needlework in disgust. If she was
not going to get any sewing done, it was a waste of time
to pretend. She would find something else to do, instead
of just sitting in her chair moping and dreaming like some
ancient crone beside the fireplace. She wasn't dead yet.
There was still work for her to do.

Someone did need her. Pacing slowly back and forth in
the tiny chamber, ignoring the dull throb of her Joints, Ra-
chel decided that she would indeed go and look for Earl
Guthwulf- She would be careful, and she would keep as
safe as she could, but it was her Aedonite duty to find out
whether the poor man was hurt somewhere, or sick.

Rachel the Dragon began making plans.

*

A great curtain of rain swept across the lich-yard,
bending the knee-high grass and splattering on the old
tumbled stones.

"Did you find anything?" Miriamele called.

"Nothing that is pleasant." She could barely hear the
troll for the hissing of the rain. She bent closer to the
crypt door- "I am finding no tunnel," he elaborated.

"Then come out. I'm soaking wet." She pulled her
cloak tight and looked up.

Beyond the lich-yard, the Hayholt loomed, its spires
dark and secretive against the muddy gray sky. She saw
light glimmering in the red windows of Hjeldin's Tower
and crouched lower in the grass, like a rabbit covered by
the shadow of a hawk. The castle seemed to be waiting,
quiet and almost lifeless. There were no soldiers on the

350

Tad Williams

battlements, no pennants fluttering atop the roofs. Only
Green Angel Tower with its sweep of pure white stone
seemed somehow alive. She thought of the days she had
hidden there, spying on Simon as he daydreamed through
idle afternoons in the bell chamber. As constricting and
smothering as the Hayholt had seemed to her then, it had
been a comparatively cheerful place. The castle that stoo^.
before her now waited like some ancient hard-shelled
creature, like an old spider brooding at the center of its
web.

Can I actually go there? she wondered. Maybe Binabik
is right. Maybe I am being stubborn and headstrong to
think I can do anything at all.

But the troll might be wrong. Could she afford to gam-
ble? And more importantly, could she walk away from
her father, knowing that the two of them might never
again meet on this earth?

"You were speaking the truth." Binabik slipped out
through the crypt door, shielding his eyes with his hand-
"The rain is falling down very strongly."

"Let's go back to where we left the horses," Miriamele
said. "We can shelter there. So you found nothing?"

"Another place with no tunnels." The troll wiped mud
from his hands onto his skin breeches. "But there were
quite a few dead people, none of them good to be spend-
ing time with."

Miriamele made a face, "But I'm sure that Simon came
up here. It has to be one of these."

Binabik shrugged and set out toward the clutch of
. wind-rattled elms along the lich-yard's south wall. As he
walked, he pulled up his hood. "Either you are remember-
ing it with some slight wrongness, or the tunnel is hidden
in a way I cannot discover. But I have scrabbled in all the
walls, and been lifting all the stones ..."

"I'm certain it's not you," she said. A flare of lightning
lit the sky; the thunder followed a few moments later.
Suddenly an image of Simon struggling in the dark earth
appeared before her mind's eyes. He was gone, lost for-
ever, despite all the brave things she and the troll had
said. She gasped and stumbled. Tears coursed down her

TO    GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

35i

rain-wet cheeks. She stopped, sobbing so hard she could
not see.

Binabik's small hand closed about hers. "I am here
with you." His own voice trembled.

They stood together in the rain for a long time. At last
Miriamele grew calmer. "I'm sorry, Binabik. I don't know
what to do. We have spent the whole day searching and it
hasn't done us any good." She swallowed and wiped wa-
ter from her face. She could not speak of Simon. "Per-
haps we should give up. You were right: I could never
walk up to that gate."

"Let us make ourselves dry, first." The little man
tugged her forward, hurrying them toward shelter. "Then
we will talk over what are the things we should do."

"We have looked, Miriamele," said Binabik. The
horses made anxious noises as the thunder caromed
across the sky once more. Qantaqa stared up at the clouds
as though the great sound were something she would like
to chase and catch. "But if you wish it, I will wait and
look again when the rain is gone-perhaps the searching
would be safer by night."

Miriamele shuddered at the Thought of exploring the
graves after dark. Besides, the diggers had proved that
there was far more to fear in these crypts than just the
restless spirits of the dead. "I don't want you to do that."

He shrugged. "Then what is your wishing?"

She looked at the map. The wandering lines of ink
were nearly invisible in the dark, storm-curtained after-
noon. 'There are other lines that must be other tunnels
going in. Here's one."

Binabik screwed up his eyes as he studied the map.
"That one is seeming to me to come out in the rock wall
over the Kynslagh. Very difficult it would be to find, I
think, and it would be even more beneath the nose of
your father and his soldiers."

Miriamele nodded sadly. "I think you're right. What
about this one?"

The troll considered. "It is seeming to be in the place
the town now stands."




352

Tad Williams

"Erchester?" Miriamele looked back, but could not see
over the tall lich-yard wall. "Somewhere in Erchester?"

"Yes, are you seeing?" He traced the line with his short
finger. "If this is the little forest called Kynswood, and
this is where we are- now standing ..."

"Yes. It must be almost in the middle of the town." She
paused to consider. "If I could disguise my face,
somehow ..."

"And I would be disguising my height and my troll-
ness?" Binabik asked wryly.

She shook her head, feeling me idea solidify. "No. You
wouldn't need to. If we took one horse, and you rode with
me, people would think you were a child."

"I am honored."

Miriamele laughed a little wildly. "No, it would work!
No one would look at you twice if you kept your hood
pulled low."

"And what would we do with Simon's horse, and with
Qantaqa?"

"Perhaps we could bring them with us." She didn't
want to give up. "Maybe they would think Qantaqa was

a dog."
Now Binabik laughed, too, a sudden huff of mirth. "It
is one thing to make people be thinking a small man like
me is a child, but unless you could find a cloak for her as
well, no one will ever have belief that my companion is
anything but a deadly wolf from the White Waste."

Minamele looked at Qantaqa's shaggy gray bulk and
nodded sadly. "I know. It was just a thought."

The troll smiled. "But the rest of your idea is good.
There are just a few things we must do, I am think-
ing. . -."

They finished their work in a grove of linden trees on
the edge of a fallow field Just west of the main road, a
few furlongs from Erchester's northernmost city gate.

"What did you put in this beeswax, Binabik?"
Miriamele scowled, probing with her tongue. "It tastes
terrible!"

"That is not for touching or tasting," he said. "It will

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              353

come loose. And the answer is being, just a little dark
mud for color."

"Does it really look like teeth are missing?"

Binabik cocked his head, eyeing the effect. "Yes. You
are appearing very scruffy and not-princess-like."

Miriamele ran her hand through her dirt-matted hair
and carefully stroked her muddy face. / must be a sight.
She could not help being pleased for some reason. It is
like a game, like a Usires Play. I can be anyone I want to.

But it was not a game, of course. Simon's face loomed
before her; she abruptly and painfully remembered what
she was doing, what dangers it would bring-and what
had already been lost so that she could get to this place.

It is to end the pain, the killing, she dutifully reminded
herself. And to bring my father back to his senses.

She looked up. "I'm ready, I suppose."

The troll nodded. He turned and patted Qantaqa's broad
head, then led the wolf a short distance away and
crouched beside her, burying his face in her neck fur to
whisper in her ear. It was a long message, of which
Miriamele could hear only the throaty clicking of trollish
consonants. Qantaqa twisted her head to the side and
whined softly but did not move. When Binabik had fin-
ished, he patted her again and touched his forehead to
hers-

"She will not let Simon's horse stray far away," he
said. "Now it is time for us to be going forward."
Miriamele swung up into the saddle, then leaned down
to extend a hand to the little man; he scrambled up and
seated himself before her. She tapped her heels against
the horse's side.

When she looked back, Simon's horse Homefinder was
cropping grass at the base of a rain-dripping tree. Qantaqa
sat erect, ears high, yellow eyes intent on her master's
small back.

The Erchester Road was a sea of mud. The horse
seemed to spend almost as much time unsticking itself as
it did walking.

The city gate proved to be unbolted. The delicately-

354

Tad Williams

weighted portal swung open with only a light push from
Miriamele, creaking gently. She waded back across the
muddy wagon ruts and remounted, then they rode in be-
tween the tall gate towers, rain drizzling down on them
from the clotted gray skies.

"There are no guards," she whispered.

"There is no one at all that I am seeing."

Just in'side the gate lay Battle Square, a vast expanse of
cobblestones with a green in the center, the site of count-
less parades and festivals. Now the square was empty but
for a few stark-ribbed dogs rooting in debris at the mouth
of one of the alleys. The square looked as though it had
been unused for some time, forgotten by all except the
scavengers- Wide puddles rippled beneath the rain. The
green had become a desolate patch of pockmarked mud.

The echo of the horse's hooves caught the dogs' atten-
tion. They stared, tongues lolling, dark eyes wary; a mo-
ment later the pack turned and fled splashing down the
alleyway.

"What has happened here?" Miriamele wondered.

"I think we can be guessing," said Binabik. "You saw
other nearby towns and villages, and I saw such empti-
ness all through the snowy lands of the north. And this
place, do you see, is closest of all to what has happened
at the Hayholt."

"But where have all the people gone? From Stanshire,
from Hasu Vale, from ... from here? They didn't just dis-
appear."

"No. Some may have been dying when the harvests
were not coming in, but others have just gone to the
south, I am thinking. This year has been a fearful enough
thing for those of us who are having some knowledge of
what is happening. For those who were living here, it
must have seemed that they were suddenly finding them-
selves under a curse."

"Oh, Merciful Elysia." Her unhappiness was strangely
mixed with anger and pity. "What has my father done?"

Binabik shook his head.

As they entered broad Main Row, there at last appeared
some signs of human life: from the cracks of a few shut-

TO    GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

355

tered windows firelight flickered, and somewhere farther
up the thoroughfare a door banged shut. Miriamele even
thought she could hear a faint voice raised in prayer, but
somehow she could not imagine a person from whom
such a ragged sound would come; rather, it seemed that
some wandering spirit had left behind its mournful cry.

As they turned the bend in Main Row, a figure in a
ragged cloak appeared from one of the narrow cross
streets in front of them and went shambling slowly away
up the road. Miriamele was so surprised to see an actual
person that she reined up and sat staring for long mo-
ments. As if sensing the presence of strangers, the figure
turned; for an instant a look of fear showed on the wrin-
kled face beneath the hood-it was difficult to tell if it
was a man or a woman-then the cloaked shape scuttled
rapidly forward and vanished down an alleyway. When
Miriamele and Binabik drew even with the place, there
was no sign of anyone. All the doors that faced the nar-
row byway looked as though they had been boarded up
for some time.

"Whoever that was, they were scared of us." Miriamele
could not keep the pained surprise out of her voice.

"Can you feel blame for them about that?" The little
man waved his hand at the haunted streets. "But it is no
matter. I am not doubting that many ghastly things have
been happening here-but it is not our task to be worry-
ing about such happenings. We are looking for some-
thing."

"Of course," Miriamele replied quickly, but her mind
did not fix easily on what the little man was saying. It
was hard to tear her eyes from the mud-spattered walls,
the gloomy, empty streets. It looked as though a great
flood had rushed through and swept all the people away.
"Of course," she said again. "But how will we find it?"

"On the map, the tunnel end looked as though it was
being in the center of the town. Are we going in that di-
rection?"
"Yes. Main Row goes through town all the way up to
the Nearulagh Gate."

"Then what is that thing being?" Binabik pointed. "It

356 Tad Williams

seems to block any going forward." A few furlongs
ahead, a huge dark mass straddled the road.

"That?" Miriamele was still so disoriented that it took
her a long moment to recognize it. "Oh. That's the back
of Saint Sutrin's-the cathedral."

Binabik was silent for some moments. "And it is at the
center of the town?"

"More or less." Something in the tone of the troll's
voice finally dragged her attention back from the
dreamlike emptiness of Main Row. "Binabik? What is it?
Is something wrong?"

"Let us just wait until we are seeing it from more
closely. Why is there no golden wall? I thought from the
traveler's tales told to me that such a wall was being a fa-
mous thing about this Saint Sutrin's."

"It's on the other side-the side that faces the castle."

They continued up Main Row- Miriamele wondered
whether there might be people here after all-if instead of
almost deserted, the city might actually be full-tenanted.
Perhaps if all the inhabitants were as fearful as the one
she had seen, they were even now watching quietly from
behind shuttered windows and through cracks in the
walls. Somehow that was just as bad as imagining the
people of Erchester all gone.

Or perhaps it was something stranger still. On either
side of the road, the stalls which had once housed the var-
ious small merchants were empty, but now she thought
she could feel a sort of anticipation, as though these hol-
low holes waited to be filled with some new kind of
life-something as unlike the farmers, peasants, and
townsfolk who had once bustled through their lives here
as mud was unlike dry, sunlit soil.

The golden facade of Saint Sutrin's had been peeled
away by scavengers; even the famous stone reliefs were
gouged almost into unrecognizability, as though the gold
that had covered them had been smashed loose with ham-
mers in the course of a single hasty hour.

"It was beautiful." Miriamele had not much room left

TO    GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

357

for sadness or surprise. "When the sun was on it, it
looked like the church was covered in holy flames."

"In times of badness, gold is being worth more than
beauty," Binabik mused, squinting up at the crushed faces
of the saints. "Let us go and try the door."

"Do you think it's here? The tunnel?"

"You saw from the map that it was coming up in the
center of this town of Erchester. I am guessing that this
place goes deeper than any other in the town."

The great wooden doors did not open easily, but
Miriamele and Binabik both lowered their shoulders; the
hinges groaned and the doors grated open almost a cubit,
allowing them to slip inside.

The forechamber had also lost much of its decoration.
The pedestals on either side of the door were empty, and
the huge tapestries that had once made the chamber walls
into windows that looked out on the days of Usires Aedon
now lay crumpled on the flagstones, crisscrossed with
muddy footprints- The room stank of damp and decay, as
though it had been long deserted, but light glowed from
the great chapel beyond the forechamber doors.

"Someone is here," Miriamelfc said quietly.

"Or at least they are still coming for lighting the can-
dles."

They had only taken a few steps when a figure ap-
peared in the inner doorway.

"Who are you? What do you seek in God's house?"

Miriamele was so surprised to hear another human
voice that for a moment she did not reply. Binabik took a
step forward, but she put her hand on his shoulder. "We
are travelers," she said. "We wanted to see Saint Sutrin's.
The doors were never closed in the past."

"Are you Aedonites?"

Miriamele thought there was something familiar about
the voice. "I am. My companion is from a foreign land,
but he has been of service to Mother Church."

There was a moment's hesitation before the man spoke
again. "Enter, then, if you swear you are not enemies."

Miriamele doubted from the tremulousness of his tone

358 Tad Williams

that the man speaking could have stopped them if they
were enemies, but she said: "We are not. Thank you."

The shadowy figure vanished from the doorway and
Miriamele led Binabik through. She was still wary. In this
haunted city, anyone could live in a cathedral- Why not
then use it as a trap spider used its burrow, as a lure to the
incautious?

It was not much warmer inside than out, and the great
chapel was thick with shadows. Only a dozen candles
burned in the huge room, and their light was scarcely
enough to illuminate the vaulting high overhead. Some-
thing was strange about the dome as well. After a few
moments' scrutiny, Miriamele realized that all of the glass
was gone but for a few splinters clinging to the lead
frame. A solitary star glimmered in the naked sky.

"Smashed by the storm," a voice said beside her. She
flinched, startled. "All our lovely windows, the work of
ages, shattered. It is a judgment on Mankind."

Standing beside her in the dim light was an old man in
a dirty gray robe, his face sagging into a thousand wrin-
kles, his white-wisped, balding head covered with a lop-
sided hat of strange shape. "You look so sad," he
murmured; his accent marked him as an Erkynlander.
"Did you ever see our Saint Sutrin's before .. -" he hes-
itated, as he tried to find a word, but could not. "Did you
ever see it ... before?"

"Yes." Miriamele knew it was better policy to profess
ignorance, but the old man seemed so pathetically proud
that she did not have the heart. "I saw it. It was very
beautiful."

"Only the great chapel in the Sancellan Aedonitis could
compare," he said wistfully. "I wonder if it still stands?
We hear little from the South these days."

"1 am sure it does."

"Ah, yes? Well, that is very good." Despite his words,
he sounded faintly disappointed that his cathedral's rival
had not suffered a similarly ignoble fate, "But, may our
Ransomer forgive us, we are poor hosts," he said sud-
denly, catching Miriamele's arm with a gently trembling
claw. "Come in and shelter from the storm. You and your

TO    GREEN   ANGEL    TOWER

359

son-" he gestured to Binabik, who looked up in surprise;

the old man had already forgotten what Miriamele had
told him, "-will be safe here. They have taken our beau-
tiful things, but they have not taken us from the watchful-
ness of God's eye."

He led them up the long aisle toward the altar, a block
of stone with a rag stretched over it, mumbling as he went
about the wonderful things that had once stood here or
there and the horrible things that had happened to them.
Miriamele was not listening to him closely: she was pre-
occupied by the scatter of shadowy human shapes which
leaned against the walls or lay in comers. One or two
were draped lengthwise across the benches as though in
sleep. All together, there seemed to be several dozen peo-
ple in the huge chapel, all silent and apparently unmov"
ing. Miriamele had a sudden, horrid thought. "Who are
all these folk?" she asked. "Are they ... dead?"

The old man looked up, surprised, then smiled and
shook his head. "No, no, they are pilgrims like yourself,
travelers who sought a safe haven. God led them here,
and so they shelter in His church."

As the old man recommenced his description of the
splendors of Saint Sutrin's as it-once had been, Miriamele
felt a tug at her sleeve.

"Ask him whether there is anything beneath this place
like that thing we are searching," the troll whispered.

When the man paused for a moment, Miriamele seized
her chance. "Are there tunnels beneath the cathedral?"

Tunnels?" The question set an odd light burning in the
old man's rheumy eye. "What do you mean? There are
the catacombs, where all the bishops of this place lie rest-
ing until the Day of Weighing-Out, but no one goes there.
• It is ... holy ground." He seemed disturbed, staring past
the altar at nothing Miriamele could see. "That is not a
place for any traveler. Why do you ask?"

Miriamele did not wish to upset him any further. "I was
told once that there was a ... a holy place here." She
bowed her head. "Someone dear to me is in danger. I had
thought that maybe there was a special shrine...." What
had seemed a lie had come to her quickly, but as she

360 Tad Williams

thought about it, she realized it was only truth: someone
dear to her was in peril. She should light a candle for Si-
mon before they left this place.

"Ah." The old man seemed mollified. "No, it is not
that sort of place, not at all. Now come, it is almost time
for the evening mansa."

Miriamele was surprised. So the rites were still cele-
brated here, even though the church seemed little more
than a shell. She wondered what had happened to fat,
blustering Bishop Domitis and all his priestly underlings.

The man led them to the first row of benches facing the
altar, then gestured for them to sit down. The irony did
not escape Miriamele: she had often sat there before at
her father's side, and at her grandfather's before that. The
old man walked to a place behind the stone and its ragged
covering, then lifted his arms in the air. "Come, my
friends," he said loudly. "You may return now."
Binabik looked at Miriamele. She shrugged, unsure of
what the man wanted them to do.

But they were not the ones who had been addressed. A
moment later, whirring and flapping, a host of black
shapes descended from the shadowy wreckage of the
dome. Miriamele gave out a little squeak of surprise as
the ravens settled upon the altar. Within moments almost
a score of them stood wing to wing on the altar cloth, oily
feathers gleaming in the candlelight.

The old man began to speak the Mansa Nictalis, and as
he did, the ravens preened and ruffled.

"What is this thing?" Binabik asked. "It is not a part of
your worship that I have heard of."

Miriamele shook her head. The old man was clearly
mad. He was addressing the Nabbanai words to the rav-
ens, who strutted back and forth along the altar giving
voice to harsh, grating cries. But there was something
else about the scene that was almost as strange as the ee-
rie ceremony, some elusive thing....

Abruptly, as the old man lifted his arms and made the
ritual sign of the Great Tree, she recognized him. This
was Bishop Domitis himself at the altar-or his wasted
remains, since he seemed shriveled to half his previous

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

361

weight. Even his voice was different: deprived of the
great bellows of flesh, it had become reedy and thin. But
as he rolled into the sonorous cadences of the mansa,
much of the old Domitis seemed to return; in her weary
mind she could see him again as he once had been,
swelled bullfrog-great with self-importance.

"Binabik," she whispered. "I know him! He is the
bishop of this place. But he looks so different!"

The troll was eyeing the capering ravens with a mixture
of amusement and uneasiness. "Can you then be persuad-
ing him to help us?"

Miriamele considered. "I don't think so. He seems very
protective of his church, and he certainly didn't seem to
want us wandering around down in the catacombs."

"Then I am thinking that is just the place we must go,"
Binabik said quietly. "We must be looking for the chance
to come to us." He looked up at Domitis, who stood with
head thrown back and eyes closed, his arms widespread
as if in imitation of his avian congregation. "I have some-
thing that I must be doing now. Wait for me here. It will
take me only a little time." He got up quietly from the
bench, then turned and moved quickly back down the
aisle toward the front of the cathedral.
"Binabik!" Miriamele called softly, but the troll only
raised his hand before disappearing into the forechamber.
Unsettled, she turned reluctantly to watch the rest of the
odd performance.

Domitis seemed to have completely forgotten the pres-
ence of anyone but himself and the ravens. A pair of
these had flown up from the altar to settle on his shoul-
ders. They clung there as he swayed; as he windmilled his
arms in the fervor of his speech, they flapped their great
black wings to maintain balance on their perches.

Finally, as the bishop began the last stages of the
mansa. the whole flock of birds rose up and began cir-
cling his head like a croaking thundercloud. Whatever hu-
mor the ritual had held was gone: Miriamele suddenly
found the whole thing frightening. Was there no corner of
the world left that had not succumbed to madness? Had
everything been corrupted?

362 Tad Williams

Domitis intoned the last Nabbanai phrases and fell si-
lent. The ravens circled a few moments more, then went
whirling up toward the ruptured dome like a whirlwind,
vanishing into the shadows with only the echoes of their
rasping cries left hanging in the air behind them. When
even those had died and the cathedral had fallen quiet,
Bishop Domitis, now almost gray with expended effort,
bent down behind the altar.

When some time had passed and he had not stood up
again, Miriamele began to wonder whether the old man
had fallen into some sort of fit, or had perhaps even
dropped dead. She got to her feet and moved cautiously
toward the altar, keeping an eye cocked toward the ceiling
as she went, half-fearing that at any moments the ravens
might descend again, talons and beaks flailing....

Domitis was curled on a ragged blanket behind the al-
tar, snoring softly. In repose, the loose skin of his face
seemed even more formless, sagging into long folds so
that he seemed to wear a mask of melted candlewax.
Miriamele shuddered and hurried back to her chair, but
after a few moments even that began to feel too exposed-
The room was still full of silent figures, but it was not
difficult to imagine that they were only feigning sleep,
waiting to be sure her companion was not returning be-
fore they rose and came toward her....

Miriamele waited for what seemed a long time. The
forechamber was colder even than the broken-domed
chapel, but escape was within reach at a moment's notice.
A little of the night wind slipped through the partially
open door, which made her feel closer to freedom and
hence a great deal safer, but she still jumped when the
door hinges screeched.

"Ah," said Binabik, slipping inside, "it is still raining
with great forcefulness." He shook water onto the stone
floor.

"Bishop Domitis has gone to sleep behind the altar.
Binabik, where did you go?"

'To take your horse back to where Homefmder and
Qantaqa wait. Even if we are not finding what we seek

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              363

here, we can easily travel through the town by walking.
But if we find a tunnel-entering-place, I am fearing that
we would come back at a later time to find your horse as
part of some hungry person's soup."

Miriamele had not thought of that, but she did not
doubt that he was right. "I'm glad you did it. Now what
should we do?"

"Go hunting for our tunnel," said Binabik.

"When Bishop Domitis was talking about the cata-
combs, he kept looking over to the back of the cathedral,
that wall behind the altar."

"Hmmrn." The troll nodded. "You are wise for noticing
and remembering. That is, I am thinking, the first place
we should search."

"We have to be quiet-we don't want to wake him up."

"Like snow-mice we will be, our pads whispering on
the white crust." Binabik squeezed her hand.

Her worries about the slumbering Domitis were un-
founded. The old man was snoring thinly but emphati-
cally, and did not even twitch as they padded by. The
great wall behind the altar, which had once been covered
in a tiled representation of Saint Sutrin's martyrdom, was
now only crumbling mortar witfi a few remaining spots of
ceramic color. At one end of the wall, tucked behind a
rotting velvet drapery, stood a low door. Binabik gave it
a tug and it opened easily, as though it had been used
with some frequency. The troll peered inside, then turned.
"Let us be taking some candles," he murmured. "That
way we can be saving the torches in our packs for a later
time."

Miriamele went back and plucked two of the candles
from the sconces. She felt a little shame, since Domitis
had been kind to them in his own strange way, but she
reasoned that their greater goal outweighed the sin of
theft, and would benefit the bishop as well-maybe one
day he would even see his beloved cathedral rebuilt. She
could not help wondering if the ravens would be welcome
then. She hoped not.

Each holding a candle, Miriamele and Binabik went
carefully down the narrow staircase. Centuries of human
364

Tad Williams

traffic had worn a groove like a dry river bed in the center
of the stone steps. They stepped off the stairs into the
low-ceilinged catacombs and stopped to look around. The
walls on either side were honeycombed with niches, each
containing a silent stone effigy of a figure in repose, most
wearing the robes and other symbols of church office. But
for these, the narrow halls seemed entirely empty.

Binabik pointed at one turning that seemed less trav-
eled. "This way, I am thinking."

Miriamele peered down the shadowy tunnel. The pale
plaster walls were unmarked; no would-be saints lay here,
it seemed. She took a deep breath. "Let's go."

In the cathedral above, a pair of ravens dropped down
from the ceiling and, after circling briefly, settled on the
altar. They stood side by side, bright eyes glaring at the
door to the catacombs. Nor were they the only observers.
A figure detached itself from the shadows along the wall
and crept silently across the cathedral. It moved past the
altar, stepping just as carefully as had Miriamele and the
troll, then paused for a while outside the vault door as
though listening. When a short time had passed, the dark
shape slipped through the doorway and went pattering
quietly down the stairs.

After that, nothing was heard in the dark cathedral but
the bishop's even snoring and the faint rustle of wings.

16

Roots of tfte Wftite Tree

*

Simon Stored' at the amazing thing for a long time. He
took a step closer, then danced back nervously. How
could it be? It must be a dream-picture, like so many
other illusions in these endless tunnels.

He rubbed his eyes and then opened them again: the
plate still stood in the niche by the stair landing, chest-
high. On it, arranged as prettily as at a royal banquet, was
a small green apple, an onion, and a heel of bread. An un-
adorned bowl with a cover stood beside it.

Simon shrank back, looking wildly from side to side.
Who would do such a thing? What would make someone
leave a perfectly good supper in the middle of an empty
stairwell in the depths of the earth? He raised his gutter-
ing torch to inspect the magical offering once more.

It was hard to believe-no, it was impossible. He had
been wandering for hours since leaving the great pool,
trying to stay on an upward course but not at all sure that
the curving bridges, downsloping corridors, and oddly-
constructed stairways were not taking him even further
into the earth, no matter how many steps he climbed. All
that time the flame of his torch had been growing fainter,
until it was little more than a wisp of blue and yellow
which might be blown out by any errant breeze. He had
all but convinced himself that he would be lost forever,
that he would starve and die in darkness-and then he
had found this ... this miracle.

It was not just the food itself, although the sight of it
filled his mouth with saliva and made his fingers twitch.

366 Tad Williams

No, it meant there must be people somewhere nearby, and
likely light and fresh air as well. Even the walls, which
were rough-cobbled human work, spoke of the surface, of
escape. He was as good as saved!

Hold a moment. He   caught himself with hand out-
stretched, almost   touching the skin of the apple. What if
it's a trap? What   if they know someone is down here, •and
they're trying to   lure him out?

But who would "they" be? No one could know he was
down here but his friends and the bestial diggers and the
shadowy ghosts of the Sithi in their dream-castle. No,
someone had brought supper down here, then for some
reason had walked away, forgetting it.

If it was even real.

Simon reached, ready for the food to vanish, to turn to
dust ... but it did not. His hand closed on the apple. It
was hard beneath his fingers. He snatched it up, sniffed it
briefly-what did poison smell like, anyway?-and then
took a bite.

Thank you, merciful Usires. Thank you.

It was ... wonderful- The fruit was far from ripe, the
juice tan, even sour, but it felt like he held the living
green earth in his hand again, that the life of the sun and
wind and rain was crisping between his teeth and tongue,
running down his throat. For a moment he forgot all else,
savoring the glory of it.

He lifted the cover from the bowl, sniffed to make sure
it was water, then drank it down in thirsty gulps. When
the bowl was empty, he grabbed the plate of food and
darted back down the corridor, searching for a place to
hide and eat in safety.

Simon fought with himself to make the apple last, even
though each bite seemed like a year of his life given back
to him. When he had finished it, and had licked every bit
of juice from his fingers, he stared longingly at the bread
and onion. With masterful self-control, he tucked them
both into the pockets of his breeches. Even if he found his
way back to the surface, even if he was near some place
where people were, there was no guarantee he would be

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

367

fed. If he came up within Erchester or one of the small
villages along the Kynslagh, he might find a place to hide
and even some allies; if he came up in the Hayholt, all
hands might be turned against him. And if he was wrong
about what the plate signified-well, he would be grateful
to have the rest of the meal when the thrilling effect of an
entire apple wore off.

He picked up the torch-it was even dimmer now, the
flames a transparent azure-and stepped back out into the
corridor, then paced forward until he reached the branch-
ing place. A chill passed through him. Which way had he
turned? He had been in such a hurry to put distance be-
tween himself and anyone who might return for the food
that he had acted without his normal care. Had he turned
^ left, as he should have? Somehow that did not seem cor-
^ rcct.

-^   Still, he could do nothing but trust to the way he had
done it so far. He took the rightward branching. Within
moments, he became convinced that he had chosen
wrongly: this way led down. He retraced his steps and
took another of the corridors, but this one also sloped
away downward. A few moments' examination proved
that all the branches went down.-He walked back toward
where he had eaten the apple and found the stem he had
dropped, but when he held the guttering torch close to the
ground he saw that the only footprints on the dusty floor
led back the way he had come.

Curse this place! Curse this mad maze of a place!

Simon trudged back to the branching. Something had
happened, it was clear-the tunnels had shifted again in
some strange way. Resigned, he chose the downward path
that seemed least steep and started on his way again.

The corridor twisted and turned, leading him back into
the depths. Soon the walls again showed signs of Sithi
work, hints of twining carvings beneath the centuries of
grime. The passageway widened, then widened again. He
stepped out into a vast open area and knew it only from
the far-ranging echoes of his bootheels: his torch was lit-
tle more now than a smoldering glow.

This cavernous place seemed as high-ceilinged as that

368 Tad Williams

which had held the great pool. As Simon moved forward
and his eyes adjusted to the greater dimensions, his heart
lifted. It was like the chamber of the pool in another way
as well: a great staircase ran upward into the darkness,
following the curve of the walls. Something else gleamed
faintly in the middle of the chamber. He moved closer,
and the dying light of his torch revealed a great circle of
stone that might have been the base of a fountain; at its
center, set in black earth but stretching up to many times
Simon's height, was a tree. Or at least it seemed to be a
tree-there was a suggestion of humped and knotted roots
at the bottom and amazingly tangled branches above-but
no matter how close he held the torch, he could see no de-
tail of it, as though it were draped in clinging shadow.

As he leaned nearer, the shadow-tree rattled in an
unfelt wind, a sound like a thousand dry hands rubbing
against each other. Simon leaped back. He had been about
to touch it, certain it was carved stone. Instead he turned
and hurried past it to the base of the winding stairway.

As he circled around the perimeter of the chamber,
picking his way up the steps by fading torchlight, he was
still intensely aware of the tree standing at the room's
center. He could hear the breathing sound of its leaves as
they moved, but he could feel its existence even more
strongly; it was as palpable in the darkness as someone
lying beside him in a bed. It was not like anything he had
felt before-less starkly powerful than the pool, perhaps,
but somehow more subtle, an intelligence vast, old, and
unhurried. The pool's magic was like a roaring bonfire-
something that could bum or illuminate, but would do
neither unless someone was present to use its power. Si-
mon could not imagine anyone or anything using the tree.
It stood and dreamed and waited for no one. It was not
good or evil, it simply was.

Long after he had left the base of the stairway behind
him, he could feel its living presence.

The light from his torch grew less and less. At last, af-
ter he had climbed some hundreds of steps, it finally died.
Having anticipated its passing for so long did not make
the moment any less dreadful: Simon slumped down and

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER             369

sat in complete darkness, too tired even to weep. He ate
a mouthful of bread and some onion, then squeezed some
of the last of the water from his drying shirt. When he
had finished, he took a deep breath and began to crawl up
the stairs on his hands and knees, feeling before him in
the blackness.

It was hard to tell whether the voices that followed him
were phantoms of the underground realm or the chattering
of his own drifting thoughts.

Climb up. All will be ready soon.

On your knees again, mooncalf?

Step after stone step passed beneath his hands. His fin-
gers were numb, his knees and shins aching dully.

The Conqueror is coming! Soon all will be ready.

But one is missing!

It does not matter. The trees are burning. All is dead,
gone. It does not matter.

Simon's mind wandered as he clambered up the wind-
ing track. It was not hard to imagine that he had been
swallowed whole, that he was in the belly of some great
beast. Perhaps it was the dragon-the dragon that was
spoken of in the inscription on his ring. He stopped and
felt his finger, reassured by the feel of the metal. What
had Binabik said the inscription meant? Dragon and
Death?

Killed by a dragon, maybe. I've been swallowed by
one, and I'm dead. I'll climb around and around inside it
forever, here in the dark. I wonder if anyone else has been
swallowed? It's so lonely....

The dragon is dead, the voices told him. No, the
dragon is death, others assured him.

He stopped and ate a little more of his food. His mourn
was dry, but he did not take more than a few drops of wa-
ter before resuming his four-legged climb.

Simon stopped to catch his breath and rest his aching
leg for perhaps the dozenth time since entering the stair-
well. As he crouched, panting, light suddenly flickered
around him. He thought wildly that his torch had blazed
again, until he remembered that the dead brand was stuck

370

Tad Williams

beneath his belt. For a startlingly beautiful moment the
whole stairwell seemed full of pale golden light, and he
looked up the shaft into infinite distance, up past a
shrinking spiral of stairs to a hole that led straight to
heaven. Then, with a silent concussion, a ball of angry
flame bloomed in the heights above him, turning the very
air red, and for a moment the stairwell became hot/as
forge fire. Simon shouted in fear.

No! the voices screamed- No! Speak not the word! You
will summon Unbeing.1

There was a crack louder than any thunder, then a blue-
white flash that dissolved everything in pure light. An in-
stant later everything was black once more.

Simon lay on the stairs, panting. Was it truly dark
again, or had the flare blinded him? How could he know?

What does it matter? asked a mocking voice.
He pressed his fingers against his closed eyelids until
faint sparkles of blue and red moved in the darkness, but
it proved nothing.

/ will not know unless I find something that I know I
should be able to see.

He had a hideous thought. What if, blinded, he crawled
past a way out, a lighted doorway, a portal open to the
sky?

Can't think. I'll climb. Can't think.

He struggled upward. After a while he seemed to lose
himself entirely, drifting away to other places, other
times. He saw Erchester and the countryside beyond as
they had looked from the bellchamber atop Green Angel
Tower-the rolling hills and fenced farms, the tiny houses
and people and animals laid out below him like wooden
toys on a green blanket. He wanted to warn them all, tell
them to run away, that a terrible winter was coming.

He saw Morgenes again. The lenses that the old man
wore glinted in a beam of afternoon light, making his
eyes flash as though some greater-than-ordinary fire
burned within him. Morgenes was trying to tell him
something, but Simon, young, stupid Simon, was watch-
ing a fly buzzing near the window. If only he had lis-
tened! If only he had known!

TO GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

371

And he saw the castle itself, a fantastic hodgepodge of
towers and roofs, its banners rippling in a spring wind.
The Hayholt-his home. His home as it had been, and
would never be again. But, oh, what he would give to turn
Time in its track and send it rolling backward! If he could
have bargained his soul for it ... what was a soul worth,
anyway, against the happiness of home restored?

The sky behind the Hayholt lightened as if the sun had
emerged from behind a cloud. Simon squinted. Perhaps it
was not spring after all-perhaps it was high summer... ?

The Hayholt's towers faded, but the light remained.

Light!

It was a faint, directionless sheen, no brighter than
moonglow through fog-but Simon could see the dim
form of the step before him, his dirt-crusted, scabby hand
flattened upon it. He could see!

He looked around, trying to determine the source of the
light. As far as he could see ahead of him, the steps
wound upward. The light, faint as swamp-fire, came from
somewhere above.
He got to his feet, swayed woozily for a moment, then
began to walk upright once more. At first the angle
seemed strange and he had to clutch the wall for support,
but soon he felt almost human. Each step, laborious as it
seemed, was taking him closer to the light. Each twinge
of his wounded ankle was taking him nearer to ... what?
Freedom, he hoped.

What had seemed an unlimited vista during the blind-
ing flash of light now abruptly closed off above him. The
stairs opened out onto a broad landing, but did not con-
tinue upward. Instead, the stairwell had been sealed off
with a low ceiling of crude brick, as though someone had
r tried to cork the stair-tower like the neck of a bottle-but
light leaked through at one side. Simon shuffled toward
the glow, crouching so that he would not bump his head,
and found a place where the bricks had fallen down, leav-
; ing a crevice that seemed just wide enough for a single
? person to climb. He jumped, but his hands could only
|touch the rough brick lining the hole; if there was an up-

372

Tad Williams

per side, it was out of his reach. He jumped again, but it
was useless.

Simon stared up at the opening. A heavy, defeated wea-
riness descended on him. He slumped down to the landing
and sat for a moment with his head in his hands. To have
climbed so far!

He finished off the heel of bread and weighed the onion
in his hand, wondering if he should just eat it; at last, he
put it away again. It wasn't time to give up yet. After a
few moments of thought, he crawled over to the scatter of
bricks that had crumbled loose from the ceiling and began
piling them one atop the other, trying to find an arrange-
ment that was stable. When he had made the sturdiest pile
he could, he clambered atop it. Now, as he reached up, his
hands stretched far into the crevice, but he still could not
feel any upper surface. He tensed his muscles, then
leaped. For a moment, he felt a lip at the upper part of the
hole; an instant later his hands failed their grip and he slid
back down, tumbling from the pile of bricks and twisting
his sore ankle. Biting his lip to keep from shouting at the
pain, he laboriously stacked the bricks again, climbed
atop them, crouched, and jumped-

This time he was prepared. He caught the top of the
hole and hung, wincing. After taking a few strong
breaths, he pulled upward, his whole body trembling with
the strain.

Farther, farther, just a little farther ...

The broken edges of brick passed before him. As he
pulled himself higher, his elbows pushed against the
brick, and for a moment it seemed that he would be
trapped, wedged and left hanging in the hole like a game
bird. He sucked in another breath, clenched his teeth
against the pain of his arms, and pulled. Quivering, he
inched higher; he braced himself for a short moment
against the back of the hole, then pulled again. His eyes
rose past the top of his hole, then his nose, then his chin.
When he could, he threw his arm out onto the surface and
clutched, pressing his back against the brick, then brought
the other arm out as well. Using his elbows as levers, he
worked his way up out of the crevice, ignoring the scrape

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER            373

of stone along his back and sides, then slid forward onto
his chest and kicked like a swimmer until the whole of
his length was lying on dank stone, safe.

Simon lay for a long time, sucking air, trying not to
think about how much his arms and shoulders hurt. He
rolled over on his back and stared up at another ceiling of
stone, this one only a little higher above him than the last
had been. Tears trickled down his cheeks. Was this to be
the next variation in his torments? Would he be forced to
pull himself up by sheer strength through hole after hole,
forever? Was he damned?

Simon pulled the wet shirt from his breeches and
squeezed it to get a few drops into his mouth, then sat up
and looked at what was around him.

His eyes widened; his heart seemed to expand inside
his chest. This was something different.

He was sitting on the floor of what was obviously a
storeroom. It was human-made, and full of human imple-
ments, although none seemed to have been touched for
some time. In one corner was a wagon wheel with two of
its spokes missing. Several casks stood against another
wall, and beside them were piled cloth sacks bulging with
mysterious contents. For a moment, all Simon could think
about was the possibility that they might contain food.
Then he saw the ladder beside the far wall, and realized
where the light was coming from.

The upper part of the ladder vanished through an open
hatch door in the ceiling, a square full of light. Simon
stared, gape-mouthed. Surely someone had heard his an-
guished prayers and had set it there to wait for him.

He roused himself and moved slowly across   the room,
then clutched the rungs of the ladder and   looked upward.
There was light above, and it seemed like   the clean light
of day. After all this time, could such a   thing be?

The room above was   another storeroom. It had a hatch
door and ladder as   well, but in the upper part of the wall
there was a small,   narrow window-through which Si-
mon could see gray   sky.
Skyf

He had thought that he had no more tears to cry, but as

374

Tad Williams

he stared at the rectangle of clouds, he began to weep,
sobs of relief like a lost child reunited with a parent. He
sank to his knees and offered a prayer of thanks. The
world had been given back to him. No, that was not true:

he had found the world once more.

After resting a few moments, he mounted the ladder.
On the upper side of the hatchway he found a small
chamber full of masonry tools and jars of paint and
whitewash. This room had an ordinary door and ordinary
rough plaster walls. Simon was delighted. Everything was
so blessedly ordinary! He opened the door carefully, sud-
denly aware that he was in a place where people lived,
that much as he wished to see another face and hear a
voice that did not issue from empty shadows, he had to be
cautious.

Outside the door lay a huge chamber with a floor of
polished stone, lit only by small high windows. The walls
were covered with heavy tapestries. On his right, a wide
staircase swept upward and out of sight; across the cham-
ber a smaller set of steps rose to a landing and a closed
door. Simon looked from side to side and listened, but
there seemed no one about but him. He stepped out.

Despite all the cleaning implements in the various
storerooms, the large chamber did not seem to have ben-
efited 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 win-
dows or some dimly-perceptible detail in one of the fad-
ing tapestries finally pricked his memory.

Green Angel Tower. The awareness came over him like
a dream, the familiar turned strange, me 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
Ellas and his soldiers. And Pryrates.

TO     GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

375
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 stair-
case to the bellchamber, the place that had been his child-
hood refuge. He could look down and see every corner 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 se-
ries 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.

A

"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. Mor-
genes had said this to him long ago, but they had been in
the doctor's chambers standing over a dusty book at the

376 Tad Williams

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 un-
derstand 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 stones."

"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 pre-
tending 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 f came up again.
What do you mean?"

Morgenes was ... changing. His skin had turned pa-
pery and his pale hair was full of leaves. Even as Simon
watched, the old man's fingers began to lengthen, chang-
ing 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

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                             377

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 mur-
mured. "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 store-
room'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 out-
law in his childhood home, although that was disconcert-
ing enough: there was also something strange in the air

378 Tad Williams

that he could not name, but which he nevertheless could
sense quite cle'arly. The maddening slipperiness of the
world belowground had somehow seeped up into the ev-
eryday 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 explor-
ing.

Although it seemed the great castle was deserted, Si-
mon 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 Si-
mon'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 ante-
chamber of the throne room, which opened onto the gar-
dens. 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 in-
truders, but to make sure that those who were inside re-
mained 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, espe-
cially if they were sentries, would be even more alert to
unexpected noises.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER           379

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 fall 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 un-
nerving 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 ob-
vious 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

38o Tad Williams

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 rea-
son.

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 Noms.

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 Noms 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 in-
stant the Noms 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. Noras! 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

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          381

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 Noms moving freely around the keep, silent as hunt-
ing 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 Noms: 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 know-
ing the Noms are here with Elias will bring Jiriki and the
rest of the Sithi. Jiriki's kin would have to help the mor-
tals 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 use-
ful 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.

382 Tad Williams

It was no use pretending. Even for Josua and the oth-
ers, 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 shad-
ows 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 Erkyn-
guardsmen, strangely dispirited-looking for all their mar-
tial 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 mon-
ster was,   not three score paces away, his hairless features
limned by   faint moonlight.

/ 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 cap-
tured, 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 un-
til he told Pryrates every secret about Josua, about the
Sithi and the swords-until he begged to tell the alche-
mist 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 be-
rating 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.

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

383

"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 sad-
dle, 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 Bai-
ley. 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
Geloe 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, trem-
bling.

A thought came to him suddenly, an idea so wild and
mad that he frightened himself. He looked up at the sky,
trying to guess how much time remained until dawn. By

3"4

Tad Williams

the chill, empty feel of the air, he felt sure the sun was at
least a few hours away.

Who was most likely to have taken Bright-Nail from
the mound? Pryrates, of course. He might not even have
told King Elias, if that suited his purposes. And where
would it be if that was true? Hidden in the priest's
stronghold-in Hjeldin's Tower.

Simon turned. The alchemist's tower, unpleasantly
squat beside the pure sweep of Green Angel, loomed over
the Inner Bailey wall. If there were lights inside, they
were hidden: the scarlet windows were dark. It looked
deserted-but so did everything else at the center of the
great keep. The whole of the Hayholt's interior might
have been a mausoleum, a city of the dead.

Did he dare to go inside-or at least try? He would
have to have light. Perhaps there were extra torches or a
hooded lantern he could use somewhere in Green Angel
Tower. It would be a fearful, terrible risk....

If he had not seen Pryrates leaving with his own eyes,
if he had not heard the red priest talk of riding to
Wentmouth, Simon would not even have thought of it:

just the idea of making his way into the-ill-omened tower
when hairless, black-eyed Pryrates might be sitting inside,
waiting like a spider at the center of his web, made his
stomach heave. But the priest was gone, that was undeni-
able, and Simon knew he might never have such a chance
again. What if he found Bright-Nail?! He could take it
and be gone from the Hayholt before Pryrates even re-
turned. That would be a satisfying trick to play on the
red-robed murderer. And wouldn't it be fine to ride into
Prince Josua's camp and show them Bright-Nail flashing
in the sun? Then he would truly be Simon, Master of the
Great Swords, wouldn't he?

As he moved quickly and quietly across the bridge, he
found himself staring at the bailey wall before him.
Something about it had changed. It had grown ... lighter.

The sun was coming up, or at least as much of the sun
as would appear on this gray day. Simon hurried a little.
He had been wrong.

A few more hours, eh? You've been lucky. What if you'd

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

385

been rattling around outside the door of Hjeldin's Tower,
•when the sun came up? Mooncalf, still a mooncalf.

Still, he was not entirely unrepentant. Knights and he-
roes had to be bold, and what he was considering now
was a bold plan indeed. He would simply have to wait un-
til tomorrow night's darkness to accomplish it. It would
be a marvelous, brave thing to do.

But even as he hurried back toward his hiding hole in
Green Angel Tower, he wished his friends were around to
talk him out of it.

The sun had set a few hours before. A fine drizzle was
descending from the night sky. Simon stood in Green An-
gel Tower's doorway and prepared himself to step out-
It was not easy. He was still feeling weak and hungry,
although after sleeping the day away he had found the re-
mains of someone's supper, a crust of bread and a scanty
rind of cheese, on a plate in an alcove off the tower's an-
techamber. Both bread and cheese were dry, but still
seemed only hours old, not days or weeks; even as he
gobbled them down he had wondered whose meal it had
been. Did Bamabas the sexton sdll care for the tower and
its great bells? If so, he was doing a poor job.

Thinking of Bamabas had made Simon realize that not
once in the time he had returned had he heard Green An-
gel's bells- Now, as he stood in the doorway of the tower,
waiting for darkness, the thought came to him again. The
great echoing cry of the bronze bells had been the heart-
beat of the Hayholt as he had known it, an hourly re-
minder that things went on, that time passed, that life
continued. But now they were silent.

Simon shrugged and stepped out. He paused to cup his
hands beneath a stream of rainwater running down from
the roof, then drank thirstily. He wiped his hands on his
breeches and stared at the shadow of Hjeldin's Tower
against the violet sky. There was nothing left to do. There
was no reason to wait any longer.

Simon made his way along the outer perimeter of the
bailey, using the cover of the buildings to keep himself
hidden from any eyes that might be watching. He had al-

Tad Williams

386

most walked into the arms of Pryrates and the soldiers the
night before; despite the seeming emptiness of the keep,
he would take nothing for granted. Once or twice he
heard wisps of conversation drift past, but he saw no
living people who might have been responsible. A long,
sobbing laugh floated by. Simon shivered.

As he moved out around the edge of one of the out-
buildings, he thought he saw a flicker of light in the tow-
er's upper windows, a momentary gleam of red like a
coal that still hid smoldering life. He stopped, cursing
quietly to himself. Why should he be so sure that just be-
cause Pryrates was gone, the tower would be empty? Per-
haps the Norns lived there.

But perhaps not. Surely even the priest needed servants
to look after him, to sweep the floors and light the lamps,
just as Simon had once done for Doctor Morgenes. If any-
one moved inside the tower, it was likely some terrified
castle-dweller forced to labor in the red priest's strong-
hold. Perhaps it was Rachel the Dragon. If so, Simon
would rescue her as well as Bright-Nail. Wouldn't she be
astonished-he would have to be careful not to frighten
her too badly. She must have wondered where in the
world her wayward scullion had gone.

Simon turned before he reached the tower doors and
clambered into a patch of ivy growing along the bailey
wall. Hero or not, he was no fool. He would wait to see
if there was any sign the tower was occupied.

He huddled, holding his knees. The bulk of the tower
overhead, its blunt dark stones, made him uncomfortable.
It was hard not to feel it waited for him like a giant
feigning sleep, anticipating the moment when Simon

would come within reach-...

Time seemed to pass very slowly. When he could stand
the waiting no longer, he dragged himself out of the ivy,
which seemed to cling more strongly than it should. No
one had come near the doorway; no one was moving any-
where about the Inner Bailey. He had seen no more lights
in the windows, nor had he heard anything but the moan-
ing of the wind in the towertops. It was time-
But how to get in? There was scarcely any chance he
TO     GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                           387

would be able to unlock the huge black doors-someone
as secretive as Pryrates must have bolts on his fortress
gateway that could keep out an army. No, it would un-
doubtedly take climbing. The gatehouse that stood around
and over the front door was probably his best chance.
From the top of it he could perhaps find a way up to one
of the upper windows. The stones of the walls were heavy
and crudely set: climbing holds should not be too difficult

to find.

He ducked into the shelter of the gatehouse and paused
for a moment to look at the black timbers of the front
doors. They were indeed massive-Simon guessed that
even men with axes would not penetrate them in anything
less than half a day. Testing, he grasped one of the mas-
sive door handles and pulled. The right side door swung
out silently, startling Simon so that he stumbled back-
ward, out into the thin rain.

The doors were open-unlocked! For a moment he
wanted only to run, certain it was a trap set just for him;

but as he stopped, hands raised as though to ward off a
blow, he realized that was unlikely. Or perhaps there were
more certain protections inside... ?

Simon hesitated a moment longer, his heart rattling.

Don't he a fool. Either go in or stay out. Don't stand
around in the middle of everything waiting to be noticed

by someone.

He clenched his fists and stepped through, then pulled
the door shut behind him.

There was no need yet for the torch in his belt, which
he had refurbished with oil from one of Green Angel
Tower's storage rooms; one already burned in a bracket
on the wall of the high antechamber, making shadows
shiver in the comers. Simon could not help wondering
who had lit it, but quickly dismissed the useless thought:

he could only begin looking, try to move quietly, and lis-
ten for anyone else who might be in Hjeldin's Tower with

him.

He walked across the antechamber, dismayed by the
loud hiss his boot soles made rubbing on the stone. Stairs

388 Tad Williams

led upward along one wall to the highest, darkest parts of
the tower. They would have to wait.

So many doors! Simon chose one and opened it gently.
The torchlight bleeding in from the antechamber revealed
a room filled entirely with furnishings made from bones
that had been tied and glued together, including one large
chair which had, as if in mockery of the High King's
throne, an awning made entirely from skulls-human
skulls. Many of the bones still had bits of dark dry flesh
stuck to them. From somewhere in the room came the
fizzing chirp of what sounded like a cricket. Simon felt
his stomach rising into his throat and hurriedly shut the
door.

When he had recovered a little he took his own brand
and lit it from the wall torch. If he was really going to
look for the sword, he would have to be able to see even
into the dark comers, no matter what he might find there.

He went back to the bone room, but further inspection
turned up nothing but the dreadful furnishings, an incred-
ible array of bones. Simon hoped some of them were an-
imal bones, but doubted it. The insistent buzz of the
cricket drove him out once more.

The next chamber was filled wall to wall with tubs
covered by stretched nets. Things Simon could not quite
make out slithered and splashed in dark fluid; from time
to time a slippery back or an oddly-terminated appendage
pushed against the netting until it bulged upward. In an-
other room Simon found thousands of tiny silvery figures
of men and women, each carved with amazing accuracy
and realism: each little statue was a perfect representation
of a person frozen in a position of fear or despair. When
Simon lifted one of them, the shiny metal felt slippery
and strangely warm against his skin. A moment later, he
dropped it and backed quickly out of the room. He was
sure he had felt it squirm in his grip.

Simon made his way from one room to the next, con-
tinuously disturbed by what he found, sometimes by the
sheer unpleasantness of the priest's possessions, some-
times by their incomprehensibility. The last room on the
ground floor contained a few bones as well, but they were

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                          389

far too large to belong to anything human. They were
boiling in a great vat that hung above an oil flame, filling
the damp room with a powerful but unrecognizable stink.
Viscous black fluid ran in oozing drops from a spigot on
the vat's side into a wide stone bowl. The fetid steam
swirling up made Simon's head reel and the scar on his
cheek sting. A quick search discovered no trace of the
sword, and he retreated gratefully to the relatively clean
air outside.

After hesitating a moment, he climbed the stairs to the
next level. There was undoubtedly more to be discovered
beneath the tower, down in its catacombs-but Simon
was in no hurry to do that. He would put such a search off
for last, and pray that he found the sword before then.
A room full of glass beakers and retorts much like
things Morgenes had possessed, a chamber whose walls
and ceiling were draped with inordinately thick
spiderwebs-his search of that one was brief and
perfunctory-another which seemed an indoor jungle full
of trailing vines and fat, rotting blossoms, Simon passed
through them all, feeling more and more like some peas-
ant boy from a story who had entered a witch's magical
castle. Some of the chambers had contents so dreadful he
could do no more than peer for a moment into the shad-
owed interior before shoving the door closed again. There
were some things he simply could not force himself to do:

if the sword was in one of these rooms, it would have to
remain unrescued.

One room that did not at first seem so dreadful held
only a single small cot, oddly woven from a mesh of
leather straps. At first he thought this might be the place
Pryrates slept ... until he saw the hole in the stone floor
and the stains beneath the cot. He left quickly, shud-
dering. He didn't think he could spend much longer in
this place and keep his sanity.

On the fifth floor of the priest's storehouse of night-
mares, Simon hesitated. This was the level at which the
great red windows were set: if he moved from room to
room with his torch, it was quite possible someone else-
where in the keep might notice the moving flicker of light

390

Tad Williams

in what should be an empty tower. After some consider-
ation, he set his torch in one of the high brackets on the
wall. He would have to search in near-darkness, Simon
realized, but he had spent enough time below ground that
he thought he might be better suited for that than almost
anyone except a Sitha ... or a Nom.

Only three chambers opened off the landing. The first
was another featureless room with a cot, although this one
had no drain in the floor. Simon had no problem believing
that this was indeed Pryrates' sleeping place: something
in the stark emptiness of the room seemed appropriate.
Simon could picture the black-eyed priest lying on his
back staring up into nothing, plotting. There was also a
privy, a strangely natural possession for someone so un-
natural.

The second chamber was some sort of reliquary. The
entire room was lined with shelves, and every inch of
shelf space was taken up by statues. These were not all of
a type, like the silver figurines on the first floor, but all
shapes and sizes, some that looked like saint's icons, oth-
ers lopsided wooden fetishes that might have been carved
by children or lunatics. It was fascinating, in a way. Had
Simon not felt the terror of this strange tower all around
him, the incredible risk he was taking just being here, he
might have liked to take some time to look at the bizarre
collection. Some were made from wax and had candle
wicks protruding from the heads, others were little more
than conglomerations of bones and mud-and feathers, but
each was recognizably a figure of some sort, although
many seemed more animal than human. But nowhere was
there anything like a sword. The eyes of some of the im-
ages seemed to follow Simon as he backed out again.

The last and largest room was perhaps the red priest's
study. Here the great scarlet windows were most visible,
since they covered a large part of the curved wall, al-
though with night sky outside they were dark. The room
itself was littered with scrolls and books and a collection
of other objects as haphazardly odd and dispiriting as
anything he had seen in any of the other chambers. If he
could not find the sword here, his only hope was the cat-

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                             391

acombs beneath the tower. The roof above was full of
star-gazing equipment and other strange machinery-he
had seen that late in the afternoon from one of Green An-
gel Tower's narrow windows; Simon doubted there would
be anything so valuable hidden out there, but he would
look anyway. No sense avoiding anything that might save
him a trip down below Hjeldin's monument- -..

The study was thick with shadows and extremely clut-
tered, almost the entire floor covered with objects, al-
though the walls were curiously empty of furnishings or
anything else. At the room's center a high-backed chair
faced away from the door toward the high windows. It
was surrounded by free-standing cabinets, each one over-
flowing with parchments and heavy bound books. The
wall beneath the windows, Simon saw by the faint torch-
light, was covered in pale, painted runes.

He took a few steps toward the wall, then stumbled
slightly. Something was wrong: he felt an odd tingling, a
faintly nauseating unsteadiness in his bones and his guts.
A moment later, a hand shot out from the darkness of the
chair and fastened onto his wrist. Simon screamed and
fell down, but the hand did not let go. The powerful grip
was. cold as frost.

"What have we here?" a voice said. "A trespasser?"

Simon could not yank himself free. His heart sped so
swiftly that he thought he would die of fear. He was
pulled slowly back onto his feet, then tugged around the
chair until he could look into the pale face that gazed at
him from its shadows. The eyes that met his were almost
invisible, faint smears of reflected light that nevertheless
seemed to hold him just as strongly as the bony hand on
his wrist.

"What have we here?" his captor repeated, and leaned
forward to stare at him.
It was King Elias.

17

An Em6er in tfte Nigftt Sfey

"

Desfrite tfte urqency of his errand and the dull ache
of his tailbone, Tiamak could not help pausing in wonder
to watch the proceedings on the broad hillside.

It occurred to him that he had spent so much of his life
reading scrolls and books that he had found very little
chance to experience the sort of things about which they
were written. Except for his brief stay in Ansis Pellipe
and his monthly forays to the Kwanitupul market, the
hurly-burly of life had not intruded much on his hut in the
banyan tree. Now, in this last year, Tiamak had been
caught up in the great movements of mortals and immor-
tals. He had fought monsters beside a princess and a
duke. He had met and spoken with one of the legendary
Sithi. He had seen the return of the greatest knight of the
Johannine Age. Now, as though the pages of one of Doc-
tor Morgenes' dusty volumes had taken on magical life,
he stood beneath cloudy skies watching the surrender of
an army after a life or death struggle in the famous
Onestrine Pass. Surely any scholar worth his quill pen
would give everything he had to be here.

Then why, Tiamak wondered, did he feel such intense
longing to see his banyan tree again?

/ am as They Who Watch and Shape have made me, he
decided. / am not a hero, like Camaris or Josua or even
poor Isgrimnur. No, 1 belong with Father Strangyeard
and the others like us-the small, the quiet. We do not
want the eyes of people on us all the time, wailing to see
what we do next.

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                            393

Still, when he considered some of the things he had
seen and even done, he was not quite sure that he would
have passed them up, even if given a choice.

As long as I can keep dodging She Who Waits to Take
All Back a while longer, that is. I would not mind having
a family some day. I would not mind a wife and children
who would fill the house with some laughter when I am
old.

But that would mean finding a Wran-bride, of course.
Even had he any taste for the tall, fish-skinned women of
the drylander cities, he doubted any of them would be
eager to live on crab soup in a tree house in the marsh.

Tiamak's thoughts were interrupted by Josua's voice.
He started to move toward the prince to deliver his mes-
sage, but found his way blocked by several large soldiers
who, caught up as they were with the spectacle before
them, seemed in no hurry to make room for the small
man.

"I see you are here already," the prince said to some-
one- The Wrannaman stood on his tiptoes, straining to
see.

"Where else would I go. Prince Josua?" Varellan rose
to greet the victor. Benigaris' younger brother, even with
cuts and bruises on his face and his arm in a sling, looked
strangely unsuited to his role as war-leader. He was tall,
and handsome enough in a thin, pale way, but his eyes
were watery and his posture apologetic. He looked,
Tiamak thought, like a sapling that had not received
enough sun.

Josua faced him. The prince wore still a torn surcoat
and battered boots, as though the battle had ended only
moments ago instead of two full days before. He had not
left camp in that time, engaged in so many duties that
Tiamak doubted he had slept more than an hour here or
there. 'There is no need for shame, Varellan," Josua said
firmly. "Your men fought well, and you did your duty."

Varellan shook his head furiously, looking for a mo-
ment like an unhappy child. "I failed. Benigaris will not
care that I did my duty."

"You failed in one thing," Josua told him, "but your

394

Tad Williams

failure may bring more good than you know-although
not much of it will come to your brother."

Camaris stepped up silently to stand beside the prince.
Varellan's eyes opened wider, as though his uncle were
some larger-than-life monster-as, Tiamak thought, in a
way he was. "I cannot be happy about what has hap-
pened, Prince Josua," said Varellan tightly.

"When we are finished with this, you will find out
things that may change your mind."

Varellan grimaced. "Have I not heard enough of such
things already? Very well, then let us be finished. You al-
ready took my war banner. I would have preferred to give
this to you on the battlefield as well."

"You were wounded." Josua spoke as though to a son.
"There is no shame in being carried off the field. I knew
your father well: he would have been proud of you."

"I wish I could believe that." Varellan, made awkward
by the arm sling, pulled a slender golden rod from his
belt; a carving of a high-crested bird's head sat atop it. He
winced as he kneeled. "Prince Josua, here is my commis-
sion, the warmaster's baton of the Benidrivine House. For
those men who are in my command, I give you our sur-
render. We are your prisoners."

"No." A stirring of surprise went through the watchers
at Josua's words. "You do not surrender to me."

Varellan looked up, puzzled and sullen. "My lord?"

"You have not surrendered your Nabbanai soldiers to a
foreign army. You have been defeated by the rightful heir
of your household. Despite your brother's patricide-
I know you do not believe me yet, Varellan-the
Benidrivine House still will rule, even when Benigaris is
in shackles." Josua stepped back. "It is to Camaris-sa-
Vinitta you surrender, not to me."

Camaris seemed more surprised than Varellan. The old
knight turned questioningly to Josua; then, after a mo-
ment's hesitation, he extended a long arm and gently took
the baton from the young man's hand.

"Rise, nephew," he said. "You have brought only honor
on our House."

Varellan's face was a confusion of emotions. "How can

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

395

that be?" he demanded. "Either you and Josua are lying
and I have lost our most important pass to a usurper, or
I have sent hundreds of brave soldiers to die in the cause
of the man who murdered my father!"

Camaris shook his head. "If your error was innocent,
then there is no blame." He spoke with a curious heavi-
ness, and his gaze seemed fixed on something other than
the suffering young man before him. "It is when evil is
done by choice, however small or foolish the undertaking
may seem, that God mourns." He looked to Josua, who
nodded. The old knight then turned to face the watching
soldiers and prisoners. "I declare that all who will fight
with us to free Nabban shall themselves be free men,"
Camaris cried, loud enough that even the most distant
parts of the gathering could hear him. He raised the
baton, and for a moment the battle-light seemed to be on
him again. "The Kingfisher House will restore its honor."

There was a loud shout from the men. Even Varellan's
defeated army seemed surprised and heartened by what
they had seen.

Tiamak took the onset of more general celebration to
elbow his way through the crowd of soldiers and sidle up
to Josua; the prince was having a few quiet words with
Varellan, who was still angry and bewildered.

"Your Majesty?" The Wrannaman stood by the prince's
elbow, uncomfortably conscious of his small stature in the
midst of all these armored giants. How could little
Binabik and his troll-kin-none of them much more than
two-thirds Tiamak's size-stand it?

Josua turned to see who had spoken. "A moment,
please, Tiamak. Varellan, this goes far deeper than even
what your brother did at Bullback Hill. There are things
that you must hear that will seem strange beyond belief-
but I am here to tell you that in these days, the impossible
has become the actual."

Tiamak did not want to stand waiting for Josua to tell
the whole story of the Storm King's war. "Please, your
Majesty. I have been sent to tell you that your wife, Lady
Vorzheva, is giving birth."

396

Tad Williams

"What?!" Josua's attention was now complete. "Is she
well? Is anything amiss?"

"I cannot say. Duchess Gutrun sent me as soon as the
time came. I rode all the way from the monastery. I am
not used to riding." Tiamak resisted the temptation to rub
his aching rump, deciding that as casual as his relations
with nobility had become, there were perhaps some
boundaries still. But he did ache. There was something
foolishly dangerous about riding around on an animal so
much bigger than he was. It was a drylander custom he
did not see himself adopting.

The prince looked helplessly at Varellan, then at
Camaris. The old knight's lips creased in a ghostly smile,
but even this seemed to have pain in it. "Go, Josua," he
said. "There is much I can tell Varellan without you." For
a moment he paused and his face seemed to crumple;

tears welled in his eyes. "May God give your wife a safe
birthing."

"Thank you, Camaris." Josua seemed too distracted to
take much note of the old man's reaction. He turned.
"Tiamak. I apologize for my bad manners. Will you ride
back with me?"

The Wrannaman shook his head. "No, thank you,
Prince Josua. I have other things I need to do."

And one of them is recover from the ride here, he added
silently.

The prince nodded and hurried away.

"Come," Camaris was saying as he laid his long arm
across Varellan's shoulder. "We need to talk."

"I'm not sure that I wish to hear what you will tell
me," the young man replied. He seemed only half-Joking.

"I am not the only one who should speak, nephew," the
old knight said. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
"There is much I would hear from you of my home and
of my family. Come."

He led Varellan off toward the row of tents pitched
along the ridge-line. Tiamak watched them go with a faint
sense of disappointment.

There it is. I may be in the thick of things, but I am still
an outsider. At least if this were written in a book, I would

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

397

know what they will say to each other. There is indeed
something to be said for a lonely banyan tree.

After a few moments watching the retreating figures,
Tiamak shivered and wrapped his cloak closer about him-
self. The weather had turned cold again; the wind seemed
to have knives in it. He decided it was time to go in
search of a little wine to relieve the aching of his back

•% and fundament.

^

i                     *

The mist that surrounded Naglimund was   poisonously
chill. Eolair would have given much to   be in front of the
fire in his great hall at Nad Mullach,   with war a distant
memory. But war was here, waiting just   a short distance
up the slope.

"Stand fast," he told the Hemystiri who huddled be-
hind him. "We will move soon. Remember-they all
bleed- They all die."

"But we die faster," one of the men said quietly.

Eolair did not have the heart to rebuke him. "It is the
waiting," he murmured to Isorn. The duke's son turned a
pale face toward him. 'These are brave men. It is the
waiting and the not-knowing that undoes them."

"It is not Just that." Isom gestured with his chin toward
the fortress, a craggy shadow in the mists. "It is this
place- It is the things we fight."

Eolair ground his teeth together. "What is keeping the
Sithi? It might be different if we could understand what
our allies are doing. I swear, it seems they are waiting for
the wind to change or some particular birds to fly over-
head. It is like fighting beside an army of scryers."
Isom, despite his own tension, turned a look of pity on
the count. Eolair felt it almost as a rebuke. "They know
best how to battle their kinfolk."

"I know, I know." Eolair slapped at his sword-hilt.
"But I would give much ..."

A high-pitched note sang along the hillside. Two more
homs joined in.

"Finally!" the Count of Nad Mullach breathed. He

398

Tad Williams

turned in the saddle. "We follow the Sithi," he called to
his men. "Stay together. Protect each other's hacks, and
do not lose yourselves in this gods-cursed murk."

If Eolair expected to hear an answering shout from the
men, he was disappointed. Still, they followed him as he
spurred up the slope. He looked back and saw them wad-
ing through the snow, grim and silent as prisoners, and he
wished again he had brought them to some better fate.

What should I expect? We are fighting an unnatural en-
emy, our allies are no less strange, and now the battle is
not even on our own soil. It is hard for the men to see this
is for the good ofHernystir, let alone for the good of their
villages and families. It is hard for me to see that, though
I believe it.

The mists swirled about them as they drove toward
Naglimund's shadowy wall. Beyond the gap he could see
only the faintest signs of moving shapes, although a trick
of hearing made the shrill cries of the Norns and the bird-
like war-songs of the Sithi seem to echo all around. Sud-
denly the great hole in the wall was before them, a mouth
opening to swallow the mortals whole.

As Eolair rode through, the air was torn by a flash of
light and a booming crash. For a moment all seemed to
go inside out; the mist turned black, the shadowy forms
before him white. His horse reared, screaming, and fought
the reins. A moment later another great smear of light
rubbed against his eyes, blinding him. When Eolair could
see again, his terrified horse was heading back toward the
breach in the wall, right into the reeling mass of the
count's own troop. Eolair yanked furiously at the reins, to
no effect. With a strangled curse, he pulled himself free
of the stirrups and rolled out of the saddle, then crashed
to the snowy ground as his mount ran wildly, scattering
the reeling soldiers before him and trampling several.

As he lay struggling to catch his breath, Eolair felt
rough hands close on him and drag him to his feet. Two
of his Hernystirmen were staring at him, eyes wide with

fear.
"That ... that light ..." one of them stammered.
"My horse ran mad," the count shouted above the din.

I

TO   GREBN   ANGEL   TOWER                             399

He smacked snow loose from his leggings and surcoat
and strode forward. The men fell in behind him. Isorn's
horse had not bolted; still mounted, the young
Rimmersman had vanished somewhere in the mists
ahead.

Naglimund's inner court looked like some kind of
nightmarish foundry. Mist hung everywhere like smoke,
and flames leaped periodically from the high windows
and traveled along the stone walls in great blazing cur-
tains. The Sithi were already at close quarters with the
Nom defenders; their shadows, magnified by flames and
fog, stretched out across the castle like warring gods- For
a moment Eolair thought he knew what Maegwin saw. He
wanted to fall down on his face until it all went away.

A horseman appeared out of the fog. "They are hard
pressed before the inner keep," Isorn called. He had a
bloody streak down his jaw. "That is where the giants
are."

"Oh, gods," Eolair said miserably. He waved his men
to follow, then set out at a lope after Isom. His boots sank
into the snow at each step, so that he felt as though he la-
bored up a steep hill. Eolair knew his mail-coat was too
heavy to let him run for very long. He was breathing hard
already, and not one blow struck.

The battle before the inner keep was a chaos of blades
and mist and near-invisible foes into which Eolair's men
quickly vanished. Isom stopped to pick up a fallen pike
and ride against a bloodied giant who held half a dozen
Sithi at bay with his club. Eolair sensed movement nearby
and turned find a dark-eyed Nom rushing toward him
waving a gray ax. The count traded strokes with his at-
tacker for a moment, then his foot slipped and he dropped
to a knee. Before his foe could take advantage, he
scooped a handful of snow and flung it up in a white
shower toward the Norn's face. Without waiting to see if
it had distracted his opponent, Eolair lunged forward,
sweeping his sword around at ankle-height. There was a
resounding crunch of steel against bone and his enemy
fell atop him.

The next moments passed in what seemed a profound

400 Tad Williams

stillness. The sounds of battle dropped away, as though he
had passed through into some other realm-a silent world
only a cubit wide and a few inches deep where nothing
existed but his own panicked struggle, his failing wind,
and the bony fingers clawing at his throat. The white face
hovered before him, grinning mirthlessly like some
Southern devil mask. The thing's eyes were flat dark peb-
bles; its breath smelled like a cold hole in the ground.

Eolair had a dagger at his belt, but he did not want to
let go even an instant to reach for it. Still, despite his ad-
vantage in size, he could feel his hands and arms losing
their strength. The Nom was gradually crushing the mus-
cles of Eolair's neck, closing his windpipe. He had no

choice.

He released his grip on the Nom's wrists and snatched

at his sheath. The Fingers on his throat tightened and the
silence began to hiss; blackness spread across the cubit-
wide world. Eolair hammered with the knife at the thing's
side until the pressure slackened, then he clutched his
dying enemy like a lover, trying to prevent the Norn from
reaching any weapon of its own. At last the body atop
him ceased struggling. He pushed and the Nom rolled off,
flopping into the snow.

As Eolair lay gasping for breath, the dark-haired head
of Kuroyi appeared at the edge of his cloudy vision. The
Sitha seemed to be deciding whether the count would live
or not; then, without saying a word, he vanished from

Eolair1 s view.

Eolair forced himself to sit up. His surcoat was sodden
with the Norn's fast-cooling blood. He glanced at the
sprawled corpse, then turned to stare, arrested even in the
midst of chaos. Something about the shape of his enemy's
face and slender torso was ... wrong,

It was a woman. He had been fighting a Norn woman.

Coughing, each breath still burning in his throat, Eolair
struggled to his feet. He should not feel ashamed-she
had almost killed him-but he did.

What kind of world... ?

As the silence in his head receded, the singing of Sithi
and Cloud Children pressed in on him anew, combining

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER 401

with the more mundane screams of anger and shrieks of
pain to fill the air with a complicated, frightening music.

Eolair was bleeding in a dozen places and his limbs felt
heavy as stone. The sun, which had been shrouded all
day, seemed to have gone down into the west, but it was
hard for him to tell whether it was sunset or the leaping
flames that stained the mists red. Most of the defenders of
Naglimund's inner keep had fallen; only a final knot of
Noms and the last and largest of the giants remained, all
backed into a covered passageway before the keep's tall
doors. They seemed determined to hold this ground. The
muddy earth before them was piled with bodies and
drenched with blood.

As the battle slackened, the count ordered his
Hemystirmen back. The dozen who still stood were dull-
eyed and sagging with weariness, but they demanded to
see the battle through to the end; Eolair felt a fierce love
for them even as he cursed their idiocy out loud. This was
the Sithi's fight now, he told them: long weapons and
swift reflexes were needed, and the staggering mortals
had nothing left to offer but theic failing bodies and brave
hearts- Eolair held to his call for retreat, sending his men
toward the relative safety of Naglimund's outwall. He
was desperate to bring some of them out of this nightmare
alive.

Eolair remained to hunt for Isom, who had not an-
swered the war horn's summons. He stumbled along the
outskirts of the struggle, ignored by the Sithi warriors try-
ing to force the giant out of the shelter of the arched door-
way, where he was inflicting terrible injuries even in his
dying moments. The Sithi seemed in a desperate hurry,
but Eolair could not understand why. All but a few of the
defenders were dead; those who remained were protecting
the doors to the inner keep, but whoever was still inside
seemed content to let them die doing so rather than try to
bring them inside. Eventually, the Sithi would pick them
off-Jiriki's folk had few arrows left, but several of the
Noms had lost their shields, and the giant, half-concealed

402

Tad Williams

behind one of the arch pillars, already had a half-score of
feathered shafts lodged in his shaggy hide.

Where Eolair walked, the bodies of mortals and immor-
tals alike lay scattered as if the gods had flung them down
from heaven. The count passed by many faces he recog-
nized, some of them young Hernystirmen with whom he
had sat at the campfire only the night before, some Sithi
whose golden eyes stared up into nothing.

He found Isom at last, on the far side of the keep. The
young Rimmersman was lying on the ground, limbs awk-
wardly splayed, his helmet tumbled beside him. His horse

was gone.

Brynioch of the Skies! Eolair had spent hours in the
freezing wind, but when he saw his friend's body, he went
colder still- The back of Isom's head was soaked with
blood. Oh. gods, how will I tell his father?

He hurried forward and grasped Isom's shoulder to turn
him over. The young Rimmersman *s face was a mask of
mud and fast-melting snow. As Eolair gently wiped some
of it away, Isom choked.

"You live!"

He opened his eyes. "Eolair?"

"Yes, it's me. What happened, man? Are you badly

wounded?**

Isom took in a great rasping wheeze of breath. "Ran-

somer preserve me, I don't know-it feels like my head
is split open." He lifted a shaking hand to his head, then
stared at his reddened fingers. "One of the Hunen struck
me- A great hairy thing." He sagged back and closed his
eyes, giving Eolair another fright before he opened them
again. He looked more alert, but what he said belied it.

"Where's Maegwin?"

"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," Isom 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

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

403

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 ly-
ing 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."

Isom 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 Hemystinnen huddled
beside a gap in the outwall like sheep terrified of thunder,
and took four of the healthiest back to carry Isom 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 ex-
pressions 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,"

404

Tad Williams

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 al-
most 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, al-
though 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 dis-
turbed. '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 nega-
tion. '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

TO    OREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

405

... 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 ac-
complished, 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 un-
derstand, 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 re-
acted 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 hin-
dered the Hikeda'ya in ways we do not yet realize. Cer-
tainly 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

406 Tad Williams

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 eye-
lids. "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 dra-
matic gesture, but the Sitha only said: "You must do what
you think best, Eolair. You have given much already." He

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

407

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.

A

"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 lit-
tle 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 corner of his eye. He
wiped it away brusquely. "And you, Josua, look at you.
You are practically dancing. Who would have thought fa-
therhood would suit you so?"

408 Tad Williams

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 Isbeom.
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?" Fa-
ther 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 some-
thing 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 up-
right. By the time he was standing, the duke was breath-
ing heavily.

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              409

"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 shoul-
der 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 arc 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 Rim-
mersgard 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 Outrun 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 be-
tween the two rooms for days, and was plainly exhausted.
The duke did not argue, but sank onto the bench

4io Tad Williams

Strangyeard had dragged in with the air of an unrecaici-
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 seren-
ity 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 for-
ward, 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 mor-
tal 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 bum 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

TO     GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

411

edge toward the door. "I had better find a copy of the cer-
emony and learn it."

"We're in a monastery, man," Isgrimnur said. "You
shouldn't have to look far."

But Strangyeard had already slipped out- The duke felt
sure that the attention had been too much for him.

Outrun 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. Outrun," he mumbled, embarrassed.
"Don't bully me."

Aditu's voice was quiet, but her melodious tones carr-
ied surprisingly well. "Vorzheva, may I hold them for a
moment?"

"She needs   to rest." Outrun 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 inex-
plicable touch of panic, as though something fearful had
been set into motion.

"They will be as close as brother 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

412

Tad Williams

seemed to gaze far beyond the confines of the room.
"Their steps will carry them into mystery." After a mo-
ment her eyes closed; when they opened once more, she
seemed as natural as it was possible for a Sitha to seem
to mortals.

"Is this some curse?" Gutrun was frightened but angry.
"What right have you to put Sithi magics on these
Aedonite children?"

"Peace, wife," Isgrimnur said, although he, too, was
shaken by what he had seen.

Aditu handed the children back to Vorzheva, who
stared at the Sitha in superstitious bafflement.

Josua also seemed unhappy, but he was clearly trying
to keep his voice even. "Perhaps it was meant as a gift.
Still, Aditu, our customs are not yours...."

"This is not something we Sithi do." Aditu seemed a
little surprised herself. "Oh, sometimes there are prophe-
sies that go with certain of our births, but it is not a reg-
ular custom. No, something ... came to me. I heard a
voice in my ear, as one sometimes does on the Road of
Dreams. For some reason I thought it was ... young
Leieth."

"But she is down the hall, next to my room," said
Isgrimnur. "She has been asleep for weeks-and she
never talked when she was awake. What nonsense is

this?"

"I do not know." Aditu's golden eyes were bright. Her
own surprise gone, she seemed to be enjoying the dis-
comfiture she had caused. "And I am sorry if I made any-
one frightened."

"That is enough," Gutrun said. "This is upsetting
Vorzheva."

"I am not upset," said the new mother mildly. She, too,
had recovered some of her good humor. Isgrimnur won-
dered if things like this happened among her wagon-folk.
"But I am now tired."

"Let us get you back to bed, Isgrimnur." Josua darted
a last worried glance at his wife. "We will think on this
later, I suppose Aditu's ... words ... should be written
down-although if they are true, I do not know that I

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          413

wish to know the future. Perhaps they are better forgot-
ten."

"Please forgive me," Aditu said to him. "Someone
wanted those words spoken. And I do not think they por-
tend ill. Your children seem fated for great things."

"I am not sure that any such portent could be good,"
Josua replied. "I, for one, have had quite enough of great
things." He moved to Isgrimnur's side and helped the
duke to rise.

When they were in the corridor again, Isgrimnur asked:

"Do you think that was a true prophesy?"

Josua shook his head. "I have been living with dreams
and omens too long to say it could not be, but as with all
such things, it no doubt has its tricks and twists." He
sighed. "Mother of Mercy, old friend, it seems that even
my children will not be free of the mysteries that plague
us."

Isgrimnur could think of nothing to say to comfort the
prince. Instead, he changed the subject. "So Varellan has
surrendered. I wish I had been there to see the end of the
battle. And is Camaris well? And Hotvig and the rest?"

"Both wounded, but not seriously. We are in surpris-
ingly good strength, thanks to-Seriddan and the other
Nabbanai barons."

"So we march on to the city itself. Where do you think
Benigaris will try to draw his line?"

Bent beneath Isgrimnur's broad arm, the prince
shrugged. "I do not know. But he will draw it, never
fear-and we may not come out of that battle so luckily,
I do not like to think about fighting house to house down
the peninsula."

"We will get the lay of the land, Josua, then decide."
As they reached his bedside, Isgrimnur found himself
looking forward to getting into bed as eagerly as a young
man might anticipate a day free from chores.

You're turning soft, he told himself. But at this mo-
ment, he did not care. It would be good to lay his aching
bones down.

'The children are splendid, Josua." He adjusted himself
on the pallet. "Do not fret on Aditu's words."

414

Tad Williams

"I always fret," the prince said, smiling weakly. "Just
as you always bluster."

"Are we really so set in our habits?" Isgrimnur yawned
to cover a grimace at the fierce aching of his ribs and
back. 'Then maybe it is time for the young ones to push

us aside."

"We must leave them a better world than this one if, we
can. We have made a terrible muck of the one we were
given." He took Isgrimnur's hand for a moment. "Sleep

now, old friend."

Isgrimnur watched the prince walk out, happy to see
that some of the bounce still remained in his step.

/ hope you get the chance to see those two children
grow. And that they get to do it in that better world you

spoke of.

He leaned back and closed his eyes, waiting for the
welcome embrace of sleep.

18

The Shadow King

*
Simon's entire Gfe had shrunk to me length of two

arms, his and the king's- The room was dark. Elias held
him in a cold-fingered grip as unbreakable as any mana-
cle.

"Speak." The voice was accompanied by a puff of va-
por like dragon-spume, although Simon's own breath was
^   invisible. "Who are you?"

i     Simon struggled for words, but could make no sound.
I   This was a nightmare, a terrible dream from which he
H   could not awaken.

^     "Speak, damn you. Who are'you?" The faint gleam of
4   the king's eyes narrowed, almost vanishing into the shad-
H   ows that hid his face.

"N-n-nobody," Simon stammered. "I ... I'm
n-nobody-..."

"Are you?" There was note of sour amusement. "And
what brings you here?"

Simon's head was empty of thoughts or excuses-
"Nothing."

"You are nobody ... and your business is nothing."
Elias laughed quietly, a sound like parchment being torn.
"Then you certainly belong in this place, with all the
other nameless ones." He tugged Simon a step closer.
"Let me look at you."

Simon was forced in turn to look directly at the king.
It was hard to see him clearly in the faint light, but Simon
thought he did not look quite human. There was a sheen
to his pale arm, faint as the glow of swamp water, and al-

4i6 Tad Williams

though the chamber was dank and very cold, all of Elias'
skin that Simon could see was beaded with moisture.
Still, for all his fevered look, the king's arm was knotted
with muscle and his grip was like stone.

A shadowy something lay against the king's leg, long
and black. A sheath. Simon could feel the thing that was
in it, the sensation as faint yet unmistakable as a voice
calling from far away. Its song reached deep into the se-
cret part of his thoughts ... but he knew he could not let
it fascinate him. His real danger was far more immediate.

"Young, I see," Elias said slowly. "And fair-skinned.
What are you, one of Pryrates' Black Rimmersmen? Or
Thrithings-folk?"

Simon shook his head but said nothing.

"It is all the same to me," Elias murmured. "Whatever
tools Pryrates chooses for his work, it is all the same to
me." He squinted at Simon's face. "Ah, I see you flinch.
Of course I know why you are here." He laughed harshly.
"That damned priest has his spies everywhere-why
would he not have one in his own tower, where he keeps
secrets that he will not show even to his master, the
king?"

Elias' clutch loosened for a moment. Simon's heart
sped again in anticipation that he might be able to make
a try for freedom, but the king was only settling himself
in a different position; before Simon could do more than
think about escape, the claw lightened again.

But it's something to watch for, Simon told himself,
struggling to keep hope from dying. Oh, if he does, I pray
I can get the door downstairs open again!

A sudden tug on his arm dragged Simon to his knees.

"Down, boy, where I can see you without stretching
my neck. Your king is tired and his bones ache." There
was a moment of silence. "Strange. You do not have the
face of a Rimmersman or Thrithings-rider. You look more
like one of my Erkynlandish peasants. That red hair! But
they say that the grasslanders were of Erkynland once,
long ago-..."

The sense of being in a dream returned- How could the
king see the color of his hair in this darkness? Simon

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

417

struggled to make his breathing even, to keep his fear
down. He had faced a dragon-a real dragon, not a hu-
man one like this-and he had also survived in the black
dreadfulness of the tunnels. He must keep his wits about
him and watch for any opportunity.

"Once all of Erkynland-all of the lands of Osten
Ard-were like the grasslands," Elias hissed. "Nothing
but petty tribes squabbling over pastureland, horse-
stealing savages." He took a deep breath and let it out
slowly; the odor was strangely like metal- "It took a
strong hand to change that. It takes a strong hand to build
a kingdom. Do you not think that the hill-folk of Nabban
cried and wailed when the Imperator's guardsmen first
came? But their children were thankful, and their chil-
dren's children would have had it no other way...."

Simon could make no sense of the king's rambling, but
felt a fluttering of hope as the deep voice trailed off and
silence fell. After waiting for a score of rapid heartbeats,
Simon pulled as gently as he could, but his arm was still
held. The king's eyes were hooded and his chin appeared
to have sunk onto his chest. But he was not sleeping.

"And look what my father built," Elias said abruptly.
His eyes opened wide, as though he could see beyond the
shadowed room and its disturbing furniture. "An empire
such as the old Nabbanai masters only dreamed about. He
carved it out with his sword, then protected it from jeal-
ous men and vengeful immortals. Aedon be praised, but
he was a man-a man!" The king's fingers tightened on
Simon's wrist until it felt as though the bones were grind-
ing together. Simon let out a gasp of pain. "And he gave
it to me to tend, just the way one of your peasant ances-
tors passed his son a small patch of land and a raddled
cow. My father gave me the world! But that was not
enough-no, it was not enough that I hold his kingdom,
that I keep its borders strong, that I protect it from those
who would take it away again. No, that is only part of rul-
ing. Only part. And it is not enough."

Elias seemed completely lost now, droning away as if
to an old friendi Simon wondered if he was drunk, but
there was no liquor on his breath, only that strange leaden

4i8 Tad Williams

smell. Simon's sense of being trapped rose again, choking
him. Would he be kept here by the mad king until
Pryrates returned? Or would Elias tire of talking and ad-
minister king's justice himself to the captured spy?

"This is what your master Pryrates will never under-
stand," Elias continued. "Loyalty. Loyalty to a person, or
loyalty to a cause. Do you think he cares what happens.to
you? Of course you don't-even a peasant lad like you is
not so thick- It would be hard to spend a moment in the
alchemist's company without knowing his only loyalty is
to himself. And that is where he does not understand me.
He only serves me because I have power: if he could
wield the power himself, he would happily slit my
throat." Elias laughed. "Or he would try, in any case. I
wish he would try. But I have a greater loyalty, to my fa-
ther and to the kingdom he built, and I would suffer any
pain for it." His voice broke suddenly; for a moment, Si-
mon felt sure the king would weep. "I have suffered. God
Himself knows that I have. Suffered like the damned
souls roasting in Hell. I have not slept .. . have not
slept ..."

Again the king fell silent. Made wary by the last such
pause, Simon did not move, despite the dull throbbing of
his knees pressed against the hard stone floor.

When he spoke again, Elias' voice had lost some of its
harshness; he sounded almost like an ordinary man.
"Look you, boy, how many years do you have? Fifteen?
Twenty? If Hylissa had lived, she might have borne me a
son like you. She was beautiful ... shy as a young colt,
but beautiful. We never had a son. That was the problem,
you know. He might have been your age now. Then none
of this would have happened." He pulled Simon closer;

then, horribly, he rested a cold hand atop Simon's head as
though performing some ritual blessing. Sorrow's double-
guarded hilt was only a few inches away from Simon's
arm. There was something dreadful about the sword, and
the idea that it might touch his flesh made Simon want to
pull away screaming, but he was even more terrified by
what might happen if he woke the king from this strange
speaking dream. He held his arm rigid, and did not move

TO    GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

419

even as Elias began slowly to stroke his hair, though it
sent chills down his neck-

"A son. That is what I needed. One that I could have
raised as my father raised me, a son that could understand
what was needed. Daughters ..." He paused and took
several rasping breaths. "I had a daughter. Once. But a
daughter is not the same. You must hope that the man she
marries will understand, will have the right blood, for he
will be the one who rules. And what man who is not his
own flesh and blood can a father trust to inherit the
world? Still, I would have tried. I would have tried ...
but she would not have it. Damned, insolent child!" His
voice rose. "I gave her everything-I gave her life, curse
her! But she ran away! And everything fell to ashes.
Where was my son? Where was he?"

The king's hand tightened in Simon's hair until it
seemed he must tear it loose from the scalp. Simon bit his
lip to keep silent, frightened again by the turn Elias' mad-
ness had taken. The voice from the shadows of the chair
was growing louder. "Where have you been? I waited un-
til I could not wait any longer. Then I had to make my
own arrangements. A king cannot wait, you see- Where
were you? A king cannot wait."Otherwise things begin to
fall apart. Things fall apart, and everything my father
gave me would be lost." His voice rose to a shout.
"Lost!" Elias leaned forward until his face was only a
handbreadth from Simon's- "Lost!" he hissed, staring. His
face was glossy with sweat. "Because you did not come!"

A rabbit in the fox's jaw, Simon waited, heart hammer-
ing. When the king's hand loosened in his hair he ducked
his head, waiting for the blow to fall.

"But Pryrates came to me," Elias whispered. "He had
failed me in his first task, but he came to me with words,
words like smoke. There was a way to make things right."
He snorted. "I knew that he only wanted power. Don't
you see, that is what a king does. my son. He uses those
who seek to use him. That is the way of it. That is what
my father taught me, so listen well. I have used him as he
has used me. But now his little plan is unraveling and he
thinks to hide it from me. But I have my own ways of

420 Tad Williams

knowing, do you see? And I need no spies, no peasant
boys skulking about. Even did I not hear the voices that
howl through the sleepless nights, still the king is no fool.
What is this trip to Wentmouth, that Pryrates should go
there yet again even as the red star is rising? What is at
Wentmouth but a hill and a harbor flame? What is to be
done there that has not been done already? He says it is
part of the great design, but I do not believe him. I do not
believe him."

Elias was panting now, hunched over with his shoul-
ders moving as though he tried to swallow and could not.
Simon leaned away, but his arm was still firmly prisoned.
He thought that if he flung himself backward as hard as
he could he might break free, but the idea of what would
happen if he failed-if he only brought the king's atten-
tion back to where he was and what he was doing-was
enough to make him stay shivering on his knees beside
the chair. Then the king's next words pushed thought of
escape from his mind.

"I should have known that there was something wrong
when he told me about the swords," the king grated. "I
am no fool, to be frightened with such kitchen tales, but
that sword of my father's-it burned me! Like it was
cursed. And then I was given ... the other one." Al-
though it hung at his hip only a few scant inches away,
the king did not look at Sorrow, but instead turned his
haunted stare up toward the ceiling. "It has ... changed
me. Pryrates says it is for the best. Said that I will not
gain what he promised me unless the bargain is kept. But
it is inside me like my own blood now, this sorcerous
thing. It sings to me all through the night hours. Even in
the daytime it is like a demon crouched beside me.
Cursed blade!"

Simon waited for the king to say more, but Elias had
fallen into another rough-breathing silence, his head still
tilted back. At last, when it seemed that the king had truly
fallen asleep, or had forgotten entirely what he had been
saying, Simon nerved himself to speak.

"A-and your f-f-father's sword? Where is it?"

Elias lowered his gaze. "It is in his grave." His eyes

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

421

held Simon's for a moment, then the muscles of his jaw
tightened and his teeth appeared in a mirthless grin. "And
what is it to you, spy? Why does Pryrates wish to know
about that sword? I have heard it spoken of in the night.
I have heard much." His hand reached up and the fingers
wrapped around Simon's face like bands of steel. Elias
coughed harshly and wheezed for breath, but his clutch
did not loosen. "Your master would have been proud of
you if you had escaped to tell him. The sword, is it? The
sword? Is that part of his plan, to use my father's sword
against me?" The king's face was streaming sweat. His
eyes seemed entirely black, holes into a skull full of twit-
tering darkness. "What does your master plan?" He
heaved in another difficult breath. "T-t-tell me!"

"I don't know anything!" cried Simon. "I swear!"

Elias was shaken by a wracking cough. He slid back in
the chair, letting go of his prisoner's face; Simon could
feel the icy bum where the fingers had been. The hand on
his wrist tightened as the king coughed again and gasped
for breath.

"God curse it," Elias panted, "Go find my cupbearer."

Simon froze like a startled mouse.

"Do you hear me?" The king" let go of Simon's wrist
and waved at him angrily. "Get the monk. Tell him to
bring my cup." He sucked in another draught of air. "Find
my cupbearer."

Simon pushed himself back along the stone until he
was out of the king's reach. Elias was sunken in shadow
once more, but his cold presence was still strong. Simon's
arm throbbed where the king had squeezed it, but the pain
was as nothing next to the heartbreaking possibility of es-
cape. He struggled to his feet, and doing so, knocked over
a stack of books; when they thumped to the floor Simon
cringed, but Elias did not move.

"Get him," the king growled.

Simon moved slowly toward the door, certain that at
any moment he would hear the king lurch to his feet be-
hind him. He reached the landing, out of sight of the
chair; then, within a moment, he was on the stairway. He
did not even grab for his torch, though it was within

422 Tad Williams

arm's reach, but hurried down the stairs in darkness, his
feet as surefooted as if he walked a meadow in sunlight.
He was free! Beyond all hope, he was free! Free!

On the stairs just above the first landing a small, dark-
haired woman stood. He had a momentary glimpse of her
yellowish eyes as she stepped out of his way. Silent, she
watched him pass.

He hit the tower's outside doors at a rush and burst
through into the foggy, moonlit Inner Bailey, feeling as
though he could suddenly sprout wings and mount up into
the clouded sky. He had only taken two steps before the
cat-silent, black-cloaked figures were upon him. They
caught him as firmly as the king had, holding both his
arms pinioned. The white faces stared at him dispassion-
ately. The Noms did not seem at all surprised to have
captured an unfamiliar mortal on the steps of Hjeldin's
Tower.

"
As Rachel shrank back in alarm, the bundle in her hand
fell to the rough stone floor. She flinched at the noise it
made.

The crunch of footsteps grew louder and a glow like
dawn crept up the tunnel: they would be upon her in a
moment. Backed into a crevice in the stone wall, Rachel
looked around for somewhere to hide her lamp. At last, in
desperation, she put the treacherously bright thing be-
tween her feet- and bent over it, draping her cloak around
her like a curtain so that its hem spread out onto the
ground. She could only hope that the torches they carried
blinded them to the light that must leak from beneath. Ra-
chel clenched her teeth and "silently prayed. The oily
smell of the lamp was already making her feel ill.

The men who were approaching moved at a leisurely
pace-far too leisurely to miss an old woman hiding be-
hind her cloak, she was fearfully certain. Rachel thought
she would die if they stopped.

",.. they like those white-skinned things so much, they
should put them to work," a voice said, becoming audible

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

423

above the noise of footfalls. "Alt the priest has us doing
is carrying away stones and dirt and running errands,
That's no job for guardsmen."

"And who are you to say?" another man asked-

"Just because the king gives Red-robe a free hand
doesn't mean that we ..." the first began, but was inter-
rupted.

"And I suppose you would tell him otherwise?" a third
cackled. "He would eat you for supper and toss the bones
away!"

"Shut your mouth," the first snapped, but there was not
much confidence in his tone. He resumed more quietly.
"All the same, there's something dead wrong down here,
dead wrong. I saw one of those corpse-faces waiting in
the shadows to talk to him...."

The scrape of boots on stone diminished. Within a few
moments, the corridor was silent again.

Gasping for air, Rachel flapped her cloak out of the
way and staggered from the alcove. The fumes of the
lamp seemed to have seeped right into her head; for a mo-
ment the walls tilted. She put a hand out to steady herself.

Blessed Saint Rhiap, she breathed voicelessly, thank
you for protecting your humble-servant from the unright-
eous. Thank you for making their eyes blind.
More soldiers! They were all over the tunnels beneath
the castle, filling the passageways like ants. This group
was the third that she had seen-or, in this instance,
heard-and Rachel did not doubt there were many more
that she had not. What could they want down here? This
part of the castle had lain unexplored for years, she
knew-that was what had given her the courage to search
here in the first place- But now something had caught the
attention of the king's soldiers. Pryrates had put them to
work digging, it seemed-but digging after what? Could
it be Guthwulf?

Rachel was full of frightened anger. That poor old
man! Hadn't he suffered enough, losing his sight, driven
out of the castle? What could they want with him? Of
course, he had been the High King's trusted counselor be-
fore he had fled: perhaps he knew some secrets that the

424 Tad Williams

king was desperate to have. [t must be terribly important
to set so many soldiers tracking around in this dreary
underworld.

It must be Guthwulf. Who else woutd there be to search
for down here? Certainly not Rachel herself: she knew
she counted for little in the games of powerful men. But
Guthwulf-well, he had fallen out with Pryrates, hadn't
he? Poor Guthwulf. She had been right to look for
him-he was in terrible danger! But how could she con-
tinue her search with the passageways crawling with the
king's men-and worse things, if what the guardsmen
seemed to be saying was true? She would be lucky if she
made her own way back to sanctuary undiscovered.

That's so, she told herself. They nearly had you that
time, old woman. It's a presumption to expect the saint to
save you again if you persist in foolishness. Remember
what Father Dreosan used to say: 'God can do anything.
but He does not protect the prideful from the doom they
summon.'

Rachel stood in the corridor while she waited for her
breathing to slow. She could hear nothing in the corridor
but her own swift-drumming heartbeat-

"Right," she said to herself. "Home. To think." She
turned back up the corridor, clutching her sack.

The stairs were hard going. Rachel had to stop fre-
quently to rest, leaning against the wall and thinking an-
gry thoughts about her increasing infirmity. In a better
world, she knew, a world not so smirched with sin, those
who walked the path of righteousness would not suffer
such twinges and spites. But in this world all souls were
suspect, and adversity, as Rachel the Dragon had learned
at her mother's knee, was the test by which God weighed
them. Surely the burdens she carried now would lighten
her in the Great Scales on that fated day.
Aedon Ransomer, I hope so, she thought sourly. If my
earthly burdens get any heavier, on the Day of Weighing-
Out I will float away like a dandelion seed. She grinned
wryly at her own impiety. Rachel, you old fool. listen to
you. It's not too late to endanger your soul!

TO    GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

425

There was something oddly reassuring in that thought.
Strengthened, she renewed her assault on the stairs.

She had passed the alcove and climbed a flight past it
before she remembered about the plate. Surely nothing
would be different than when she had looked on her way
down that morning ... but even so, it would be wrong to
shirk. Rachel, Mistress of Chambermaids, did not shirk,
Although her feet ached and her knees protested, although
she wanted nothing but to stagger to her little room and
lie down, she forced herself to turn and go back down the
stairs.

The plate was empty.

Rachel stared at it for long moments. The meaning of
its emptiness crept over her only gradually.

Guthwulf had come back.

She was astonished to find herself clutching the plate
and weeping. Doddering old woman, she berated herself.
What on God's earth are you crying for? Because a man
who has never spoken to you or known your name-who
likely doesn 't even know his own name any more-came
and took some bread and an onion from a plate?

But even as she scolded herself she felt the dandelion-
seed lightness that she had only imagined earlier. He was
not dead! If the soldiers were looking for him, they had
not yet found him-and he had come back. It was almost
as though Earl Guthwulf had known how worried she
was. That was an absurd thought, she knew, but she could
not help feeling that something very important had hap-
pened.

When she had recovered, she wiped her tears briskly
with her sleeve, then took cheese and dried fruit from her
sack and filled the plate again. She checked the covered
bowl; the water was gone too. She emptied her own water
skin into the bowl. The tunnels were a dry and dusty
place, and the poor man would certainly be thirsty again
soon.

The happy chore finished, Rachel resumed her ascent,
but this time the stairs seemed gentler. She had not found
him, but he was alive. He knew where to come, and

426 Tad Williams
would come again. Perhaps next time he would stay and
let her speak to him.

But what would she say?

Anything, anything. It will be someone to talk to. Some-
one to talk to.

Singing a hymn beneath her breath, Rachel made her
way back to her hidden room.

"

Simon's strength seemed to drain out. As the Noms
took him across the Inner Bailey courtyard his knees gave
way. The two immortals did not falter, but lifted him by
the arms until only his toes dragged along the ground.

By their silence and their frozen faces they might have
been statues of white marble magicked into movement;

only their black eyes, which flicked back and forth across
the shadowy courtyard, seemed to belong to living crea-
tures. When one of them spoke quietly in the hissing,
clicking tongue of Stormspike, it was as surprising as if
the castle walls had laughed.

Whatever the thing had said, its fellow seemed to
agree. They turned slightly and bore their prisoner toward
the great keep that contained the Hayholt's chief build-
ings.

Simon wondered dully where they were taking him. It
didn't seem to matter much. He had been small use as a
spy-first walking into the king's clutches, then practi-
cally throwing himself into the arms of these creatures-
and now he would be punished for his carelessness.

But what will they do? Exhaustion battled with fear. /
won't tell them anything. I won't betray my friends. I
won't!

Even in his numb state, Simon knew that there was lit-
tle chance that he would keep his silence when Pryrates
returned. Binabik was right. He had been a wretched,
damnable fool.

/ will find a way to kill myself if I have to.

But could he? The Book of Aedon said it was a sin ...
and he was afraid to die, afraid to set out on that dark

TO   GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

journey by his own choice. In any case, it seemed un-
likely that he would be given any chance for such an es-
cape. The Noras had taken his Qanuc bone knife, and
they seemed capable of effortlessly countering anything
he might try.
The walls of the inner keep, covered in carvings of
mythical beasts and only slightly better-known saints, ap-
peared through the gloom. The door was half-open; deep
shadow lay beyond. Simon struggled briefly, but he was
held far too firmly by unyielding white fingers. He
stretched his neck in desperation, trying to get a last view
of the sky.

Hanging in the murky northern night between Pryrates'
stronghold and Green Angel Tower was a spot of shim-
mering red light-an angry scarlet star.

The poorly lit corridors went on and on. The Hayholt
had always been called the greatest house of all, but Si-
mon was dully surprised at how large it truly was. It al-
most seemed that new passageways were being created
just on the far side of every door. Although the night out-
side had been calm, the corridors were full of chilly
breezes; Simon saw only a few, flitting shapes at the far
ends of passageways, but the shadows were lively with
voices and strange sounds.

Still clutching him firmly, the Noms dragged Simon
through a doorway that opened onto a steep, narrow stair-
well. After a long climb down, during which he was
wedged so close between the two silent immortals that he
thought he could feel their cold skin drawing the heat
from his body, they reached another empty corridor, then
quickly turned down into another stairwell.

They're taking me down to the tunnels, Simon thought
in despair. Down into the tunnels again. Oh, God, down
into the dark!

They stopped at last before a large door of iron-bound
oak. One of the Norns produced a great crude key from
its robe and pushed it into the lock, then tugged the door
open with a flick of its white wrist. A billow of hot,
smoky air pushed out, stinging Simon's nose and eyes.

428 Tad Williams

He wavered stupidly for a long moment, waiting for
whatever would happen next. At last he looked up. The
Noms' flat, expressionless black eyes stared back at him.
Was this the prison chamber, he wondered? Or was this
the place where they threw the bodies of their victims?

He found the strength to speak. "If you want me to go
in there, then you might as well make me go in." He stiff-
ened his muscles to resist.

One of the Norns gave him a push. Simon caught at the
door and teetered for a moment on the threshold, then
overbalanced and toppled through into emptiness,

There was no floor.

A moment later he discovered that there was a floor,
but that it was several cubits lower than the doorway. He
hit on broken stone and tumbled forward with a shout of
startlement and pain. He lay for a moment, panting, and
stared up at the play of firelight across the surprisingly
high ceiling. The air was full of strange hissing noises.
The lock clanked overhead as the key was turned.

Simon rolled over and found that he was not alone in
this place. A half-dozen strangely clad men-if they were
men: their faces were almost entirely covered by dirty
rags-stood a short distance away, staring at him. They
made no move toward him. If they were torturers, Simon
thought, they must be tired of their work.

Beyond them lay a large cavern that seemed to have
been fitted for animals rather than men. A few ragged
blankets were piled against the walls like empty nests; a
trough of water, reflecting the scarlet glow, seemed full of
molten metal. Instead of a solid stone wall, which Simon
would have expected to see at the back of a prison cham-
ber, the far side of the cavern was an opening into some
bigger place beyond, a great space full of flickering, fiery
light. Somewhere a pained voice cried out.

He stared, amazed. Had he been carried all the way
down to the flame pits of Hell? Or had the Noms built
their own version to torment their Aedonite prisoners?

The figures before him, which had been standing stol-
idly as grazing animals, suddenly dispersed and moved
quickly to the sides of the cavern. Simon saw a terrify-

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                           429

ingly familiar silhouette appear in the open space between
the two caverns. Without thinking, he scuttled to one side
and pushed himself back into a shadowed recess, then
pulled a stinking blanket up to his eyes.

Pryrates still had his back to the smaller cavern and to
Simon, shouting to someone out of sight; the alchemist's
head reflected an arc of fire. After a few last words, he
turned and came forward, bootheels crunching in shat-
tered stone. He crossed the cavern and climbed stone
stairs to the narrow ledge, then pushed the flat of his hand
against the door. It swung outward, then thumped shut
again behind him.

Simon had thought himself beyond any further fear or
surprise, but now he was slack-mouthed with astonish-
ment. What was Pryrates doing here when he had said he
was going to Wentmouth? Even the king thought he had
gone to Wentmouth, Why should the alchemist deceive
his master?

And where is "here" anyway?

Simon looked up quickly at a sound nearby. One of the
rag-masked figures was approaching him, moving with
the aching slowness of a very^old man. The man, for his
eyes above the cloth were clearly human, stopped before
Simon and stared at him for a moment. He said some-
thing, but it was too muffled for Simon to understand.

"What?"

The man reached up and slowly peeled the stiff cloth
away from his face. He was almost impossibly gaunt, and
his seamed face was covered with gray whiskers, but
there was something about him that suggested he might
be younger than he looked.

"Lucky this time, eh?" said the stranger.

"Lucky?" Simon was puzzled. Had the Noms put him
in with madmen?

"The priest. Lucky that'un had other business this time.
Lucky there be no more ... tasks he needs prisoners for."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Simon stood
up out of his crouch, feeling the bruises from his most re-
cent fall.

430

Tad Williams

"You . . . you be no forge man," said the stranger,
squinting. "Dirty you be, but there's no smoke on you."

"The Norns captured me," Simon said after a moment's
hesitation. He had no reason to trust this man-but he had
no reason not to. "The White Foxes," he amended when
he saw no recognition on the other's gaunt face.

"Ah, those devils." The man furtively made the sign of
the Tree. "We see 'em sometimes, but only at a ways off.
Godless, unnatural things they be." He looked Simon up
and down, then moved a little closer. "Don't tell no one
else that you be not a forge man," he whispered. "Here,

come here."

He led Simon a little to one side. The other masked

men looked up, but seemed little interested in the new-
comer. Their eyes were empty as the stares of landed fish.

The man reached down into a snarl of blankets and at
last clawed up a smoke-mask and a dirty, tattered shirt.
"Here, take this-was Old Bent Leg's, but won't miss it
where he be gone. Look like everyone else, you will."

"Is that good?" Simon was finding it hard to keep his
overstuffed head working. He was in the forge, it seemed.
But why? Was this his only punishment for spying, to
work in the castle's foundry? It seemed surprisingly mild.

"If you don't want to get worked to death," the man
said, then began coughing, long dry rasps that sounded as
though they came all the way up from his feet. It was
some time before he could talk again. "If Doctor sees you
be a new 'un," he wheezed, "he'll get his work out of
you, never fear. And more. A right bad 'un, he be." The
man said it very convincingly. "Don't want him noticing

you."

Simon looked down at the soiled scraps of cloth.

"Thank you. What's your name?"

"Stanhelm." The man coughed again, "And don't tell
others you be new either, or they'll run to Doctor so fast
your eyes'll pop out. Tell 'em you worked with ore buck-
ets. Those'uns sleep in 'nother hole on t'other side, but
White Foxes and soldiers dump all runaways back
through this door, 'matter which side 'uns ran from." He
reflected sadly. "Few of us left and work to do. That's

TO GREEN ANOEL TOWER

431

why 'uns brought you back and didn't kill you. What be
your name, lad?"

"Seoman." He looked around. The other forge men had
fallen back into unheeding silence. Most had curled them-
selves up on their thin blankets and closed their eyes.
"Who is this Doctor?" For a split instant the sound of the
name had filled him with wild hope, but Morgenes, even
if he had lived through the dreadful blaze, would never be
someone to occasion fear in men like these.

"You'll meet 'un soon enough," Stanhelm said. "Don't
be in no hurry."

Simon wrapped the strip of cloth about his face. It
smelled of smoke and dirt and other things, and did not
seem very easy to breathe through. He told Stanhelm so.

"You keep it wet. Thank Ransomer Himself you've got
it, you will. Otherwise, fire goes right down your throat
and bums innards." Stanhelm prodded the shirt with a
blackened finger. "Put that on, too." He looked nervously
over his shoulder at his fellow forge workers.

Simon understood. As soon as he pulled on the shirt, he
would no longer be different-he would not draw atten-
tion. These were bent, almost broken men, that was clear.
They did not want to be noticed if they could avoid it.

When his head poked free of the neck hole and   he
could see again, a looming shape was lurching   toward
him. For an instant, Simon thought one of the   snow-
giants had somehow found its way south to the   Hayholt.

The great head turned slowly from side to side. The
mask of ruined flesh wrinkled in anger.
'Too much sleeping, little rat-men," the thing rumbled.
"Work to do. The priest wants everything finished now."

Simon thanked Usires for the tattered fabric that made
him another faceless captive. He knew this one-eyed
monster.

Oh, Mother of Mercy. They've given me to Inch.

19

Cunning 05 Time

"

"DO you. thinfc Simon could be down here some-
where?^'

Binabik looked up from his dried mutton, which he had
been tearing into small pieces. It was the morning meal,
if morning could be said to exist in a sunless, skyless
place. "If he is," the little man said, "I am thinking there
is only a small chance we will find him. I am sorry,
Miriamele, but here there are many leagues of tunnels."

Simon wandering alone and in darkness. The thought
hurt too much-she had been so cruel to him'

Desperate to think of something else, she asked: "Did
the Sithi really build all this?" The walls stretched high
above, so that the torchlight failed before it found the up-
per reaches. They were roofed over by purest black; but
for the absence of stars and weather, she and the troll
might be sitting beneath the open night sky.

"With help they built it. The Sithi were having the as-
sisting of their cousins, I have read-in fact, they were
the people who were making the maps you copied. Other
immortals, masters of stone and earth. Eolair said some
still are living beneath Hemystir."

"But who could live down here?" she wondered.
"Never seeing the day ..."

"Ah, you are not understanding." The troll smiled.
"Asu'a was full of light. The castle you were living in
had its building on the top of the Sithi's great house.
Asu'a was buried so that the Hayholt could be born."

"But it won't stay buried," Miriamele said grimly.

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                           433

Binabik nodded. "We Qanuc have a believing that the
spirit of a murdered man cannot rest, and stays on in the
body of an animal. Sometimes it is following the one who
killed him, sometimes it is staying in the place he was
loving most. Either way, there is no rest for it until the
truth has been discovered and the crime has been given its
punishment."

Miriamele thought of the spirits of all the murdered
Sithi and shivered- She had heard more than a few strange
echoes since they had entered the tunnels beneath Saint
Sutrin's. "They can't rest."

Binabik cocked an eyebrow. 'There is more here than
just restless spirits, Miriamele-"

"Yes, but that's what the ..." she lowered her voice
"... that's what the Storm King is, isn't he? A murdered
soul looking for vengeance."

The troll looked troubled. "I am not happy to be talk-
ing of such things here. And he brought his own death
upon him, I am remembering."

"Because the Rimmersmen had surrounded this place
and were going to kill him anyway."

"There is truth in what you say," Binabik admitted.
"But please. Miriamele, no more. I do not know what
things are in this place, or what ears might be listening,
but I am thinking that the less we speak of such matters,
the happier we will be. In many ways."

Miriamele inclined her head, agreeing. In fact, she
wished now she had never mentioned it. After more than
a day wandering in these disturbing shadows, the thought
of the undead enemy was already close enough.

They had not penetrated far into the tunnels the first
night. The catacomb passages beneath Saint Sutrin's had
gradually become wider and wider, and soon had begun
to slant steadily downward into the earth; after the first
hour, Miriamele thought that they must have descended
beneath even the bed of the many-fathomed Kynslagh.
They had soon found a relatively comfortable spot to stop
and eat a meal. After sitting down for a short while, both
of them had realized just how weary they truly were, so

434

Tad Williams

they had spread their cloaks and slept. Upon awaking,
Binabik had relit their torches from his firepot-a tiny
earthenware jug in which a spark was somehow kept
smoldering-and after a few bites of bread and some
dried fruit washed down with warm water, they had set

out again.

The day's traveling had brought them down many
twisting paths. Miriamele and Binabik had done their best
to stay close to the general directions on the dwarrow
map, but the tunnels were snaky and confusing; it was
hard to feel very confident that they were following the
correct course. Wherever they were, though, it was clear
that they had left the realms of humankind. They had de-
scended into Asu'a-in a way, they had circled back into
the past. Trying to fall asleep, Miriamele had found her
thoughts reeling. Who could know the world had so many
secrets in it?

She was no less overwhelmed this morning. A well-
traveled child, even for a king's daughter, she had seen
many of the greatest monuments of Osten Ard, from the
Sancellan Aedonitis to the Floating Castle at Warinsten-
but the minds that had conceived this strange hidden cas-
tle made even the most innovative human builders seem

timid.

Time and falling debris had crushed much of Asu'a
into dust, but enough of it remained to show how match-
less it had been. Spectacular as the ruins of Da'ai Chikiza
had seemed, Miriamele quickly decided, these far sur-
passed them. Stairways, seemingly unsupported, rose and
twisted into darkness like cloth streamers bending in the
wind. Walls curved upward, then spread out overhead into
spectacular fan-shaped arrays of multicolored, attenuated
rock, or bent back on themselves in rippling folds; every
surface was alive with carvings of animals and plants.
The makers of this place seemed able to stretch stone like
hot sugar-candy and etch it like wax.

What had clearly been streambeds, although they now
held only sifting dust, ran in and out from one room to
the other along the broken floors, stitched by tiny, omate

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

435

bridges. Overhead, great sconces shaped like fantastically
unlikely flowers grew downward from the carved vines
and leaves that festooned the ceilings. Miriamele could
not help wishing she could have seen them when they had
bloomed full of light. Judging by the traces of color that
still remained in the grooves of the stone, the palace had
been a garden of colors and radiance almost beyond
imagining.

But although chamber after ruined chamber dazzled her
eyes, there was also something about these endless halls
that set her teeth on edge. For all their beauty, they had
clearly been made for inhabitants who saw things differ-
ently than a mortal could: the angles were strange, the ar-
rangements unsettling. Some high-arched chambers
seemed far too vast for their furnishings and decorations,
but other rooms were almost frightening in their close-
ness, so cramped and tangled with ornament that it was
hard to imagine more than one person occupying them at
any given time. Stranger still, the remnants of the Sithi
castle did not seem entirely dead. In addition to the faint
sounds which might be voices and the odd shifts of the air
in what should be a windless place, Miriamele saw an
elusive shimmer everywhere, a hint of unseen movement
at the comer of her eye, as though nothing was quite
real. She imagined she could blink and find Asu'a
restored-or, equally likely, find bare cavern walls and
dirt.

"God is not here."

"What is that you are saying?" asked Binabik.

Their meal finished, they were walking again, carrying
their packs down a long, high-walled gallery, across a
narrow bridge that stretched through emptiness like the
flight of an arrow. The torchlight did not reach past the
darkness below them.

She looked up, embarrassed. "I'm not sure. I said,
*God is not here.' "

"You are not liking this place?" Binabik showed a
small yellow smile. "I have fear of these shadows, too."

"No-I mean, yes, I'm afraid- But that's not what I

436 Tad Williams

meant." She held her torch higher, staring at a string of
carvings on the wall beyond the gap. "The people who
lived here weren't anything like us. They didn't think
about us. It's hard to believe it's the same world as the
one I know. I was taught to believe that God is every-
where, watching over everything." She shook her head.
"It's hard to explain. It seems like this place is out of
God's sight. Like the place itself doesn't see Him, so He
doesn't see it."

"Is that making you more afraid?"

"I suppose so. It just seems as though the things hap-
pening here don't have much to do with the things I was
taught."

Binabik nodded solemnly. In the yellow torchlight, he
looked less like a child than he sometimes did. Outlined
by shadow, his round face had an air of gravity. "But
some would be saying that the things happening are ex-
actly what your church is telling of-a battle between the
armies of goodness and badness."

"Yes, but it can't be that simple," she said emphati-
cally. "Ineluki-was he good? Bad? He tried to do what
was right for his people. I just don't know any more."

Binabik paused, then reached out a small hand to take
hers. "Your questions are sensible ones, and I am not
thinking that we should hate ... our enemy. But do not be
naming him, please!" He squeezed her fingers for empha-
sis. "And make yourself assured of one thing: whatever
he was being once, he has now become a dangerous
thing, more dangerous than anything you know or can be
thinking about. Do not be forgetting that! He wilt kill us
and all of the people we love if his wishes are done. Of
that I have certainty."

And my father? she wondered. Is he only an enemy
now, too? What if somehow I find my way to him. but
there is nothing left of what I loved? That will be like
dying. I won't care what happens to me then.

And then it came to her. It was not that God was not
watching, it was that no one was going to tell her right
from wrong; she had not even the solace of doing some-
thing just because someone else had ordered her not to.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          437

Whatever decisions she made, she would have to make
herself, then live by them.

She held Binabik's hand for a moment longer before
they resumed walking. At least she had the company of a
friend. What would it be like to be alone in such a place?

By the time they had slept three times in the ruins of
Asu'a, even its crumbling magnificence could no longer
hold Miriamele's attention. The dark halls seemed to
breed memories-unimportant pictures of her childhood
in Meremund, her days as a captive princess in the
Hayholt. She felt herself suspended between the Sithi's
past and her own.

They found a wide staircase leading upward, an ex-
panse of dusty steps with balusters carved into the form
of rose hedges. When Binabik's inspection of the map
suggested that this was part of their path, she felt a rush
of happiness. They would be going upward, after so long
in the depths!

But something more than an hour plodding up the ap-
parently endless stairs soon cooled even that excitement;

Miriamele's mind went wandering again.

Simon is gone, and I never had a chance to ... to re-
ally talk to him. Did I love him? It would never have
come to anything-how could he care for me after I told
him about Aspitis? But perhaps we could have been n
friends. But did I love him?                           \

She looked down at her booted feet, climbing, climb- H
ing, the stairs passing beneath her like a slow waterfall- ;

It's useless to wonder ... but I suppose I did. Thinking :

this, she felt something vast and unformed struggling in-
side her, a grief that threatened to turn into madness. She
fought it down, afraid of its strength- Oh, God, is this all
there is to life? To have something precious and to realize
it only after it's too late?

She almost stumbled over Binabik, who had stopped
abruptly on the step above her, his head nearly even with
hers. The troll lifted a hand to his mouth, warning her to
be silent-

They had just mounted past a landing where several

438

Tad Williams

archways led outward from the staircase, and at first
Miriamele thought the quiet noise must come from one of
them, but Binabik pointed up the stairwell. His meaning
was clear: someone else was on the stairs.

Miriamele's contemplative mood evaporated. Who
could be walking these dead halls? Simon? That seemed
too much to hope. But who else would be roaming the
shadow-world? The restless dead?

Even as they backed down toward the landing, Binabik
fumbled his walking-stick into two pieces, pulling free
the section that held a knife blade. Miriamele felt for her
own knife as the sound of footfalls grew louder. Binabik
shrugged off his pack and dropped it quietly to the stone
floor near Miriamele's feet

A shape came down the darkened stairwell, moving
slowly and confidently into the torchlight. Miriamele felt
her heart pressing against her ribs. It was a man, one she
had not seen before. In the depths of his hood, his eyes
bulged as though with surprise or fright, but his teeth
were bared in a bizarre grin.

A moment passed before Binabik gasped in recogni-
tion- "Hangfish!"

"You know him?" Her voice sounded shrill to her, the
quaver of a frightened little girl.

The troll held the knife before him as a priest might a
holy Tree. "What do you want, Rimmersman?" he de-
manded. "Are you lost?"

The smiling man did not reply, but stretched his arms
wide and took another step downward. There was some-
thing terribly but indefinably wrong about him.

"Get away, you!" she cried. Involuntarily, she took an-
other step backward toward one of the arched doorways.
"Binabik, who is he?"

"I know who he was," the troll said, still brandishing
the knife. "But I am thinking he has become something
else. -.."

Before Binabik had finished speaking, the pop-eyed
man moved, scuttling down the stairs with shocking
speed. In an eye-blink he had closed with the troll, grab-
bing the wrist of Binabik's knife hand and wrapping his
TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

other arm around the little man. After a moment's strug-
gle, the two tumbled to the floor and rolled off the land-
ing to the steps below. Binabik's torch flew free and
bounced down the stairs ahead of them. The troll gasped
and grunted with pain, but the other was silent.

Miriamele had scarcely an instant to stare open-
mouthed before several large hands snaked out of the
shadowy archway and folded around her, seizing her
wrists and clutching at her waist, the fingers rough but
somehow tentative where they touched her skin. Her own
torch was knocked to the ground. Before she had finished
drawing breath to shout her alarm, something was pulled
down over her head, shutting out the light. A sweet odor
filled her nose and she felt herself slipping away, half-
formed questions dissolving, everything fading.

A

"Why will you not come and sit beside me?" said
Nessalanta, like a spoiled child denied a treat. "I have not
spoken to you for days."

Benigaris turned from the_railing of the rooftop garden.
Below him, the first fires of evening had been lit. Great
Nabban twinkled in the lavender twilight. "I have been
occupied. Mother. Perhaps it has escaped your attention
that we are at war."

"We have been at war before," she said airily. "Merci-
ful God, such things never change, Benigaris. You wanted
to rule. You must grow up and accept the burdens that
come with it."

"Grow up, is it?" Benigaris turned from the railing
with his fists clenched tight. "It is you who are the child,
Mother. Do you not see what is happening? A week ago
we lost the Onestrine Pass. Today I have been told that
Aspilis Preves has taken to his heels and Eadne Province
has fallen! We are losing this war, damn you! If I had
gone myself instead of sending that idiot brother of
mine ..."

"You are not to say a. word against Varellan,"

,440

Tad Williams

Nessalanta snapped. "Is it his fault that your legion was
full of superstitious peasants who believe in ghosts?"

Benigaris stared at her for a long moment; there was no
love in his gaze. "It is Camaris," he said quietly.

"What?"
"It is Camaris out there. Mother. You can say anything
you wish, but I have heard the reports from the men who,
have been on the battlefield- If it is not him, then it is one
of our ancestors' old war gods returned to earth."

"Camaris is dead," she sniffed.

"Did he elude some trap you set for him?"   Benigaris
moved a few steps closer. "Is that how my   father became
duke of Nabban in the first place-because   you arranged
to have Camaris killed? If so, it appears   you failed. Per-
haps for once you chose the wrong tool."

Nessalanta's face contorted in fury. "There are no tools
in this country strong enough for my will. Don't I know
that!" She stared at her son. 'They are all weak, all dull-
edged. Blessed Ransomer, if only I had been born a
man-then none of this would have happened! We would
not be bowing to any northern king on a chair of bones."

"Spare me your dreams of glory. Mother. What did you
arrange for Camaris? Whatever it was, he seems to have

survived it."

"I did nothing to Camaris." The dowager duchess rear-
ranged her skirts, recovering a little of her calm. "I admit
that I was not unhappy when he fell into the ocean-for
a strong man, he was the weakest of all. Quite unsuitable
to rule. But I had nothing to do with it."

"I almost believe you. Mother. Almost." Benigaris
smiled thinly. He turned to find one of his courtiers stand-
ing in the doorway, looking out with poorly-hidden appre-
hension. "Yes? What do you want?"

"There ... there are many folk aslcing for you, my lord.
You said you wished to be told ..."

"Yes, yes. Who is waiting?"

"The Niskie, for one, my lord. He is still outside the

audience chamber."

"Have I not enough to occupy me? Why won't he take

t^

l     r.

IS

>

1-a

TO    GREEN     ANGEL   TOWER                         441

the hint and go? What does the damned sea-watcher want,
anyway?"

The courtier shook his head. The long feather in his
cap swayed before his face, fluttered by the evening
breeze. "He will not speak to any but you. Duke
Benigaris."

"Then he will sit there until he dries out and lies gasp-
ing on the floor. I have no time to listen to Niskie chat-
ter." He turned to look out over the lights of the city.
"And who else?"

"Another messenger from Count Streawe, Lord."

"Ah," Benigaris pulled at his mustache. "As expected.
I think we will let that wine sit in the cask a little longer.
Who else?"

"The astrologer Xannasavin, Lord."

"So he has arrived at last. Very grieved, I'm sure, to
keep his duke waiting." Benigaris nodded slowly. "Send
him up."

"Xannasavin is here?" Nessalanta smiled. "I'm sure he
has wonderful things to tell us. You'll see, Benigaris.
He'll bring us good news."

"No doubt."

Xannasavin appeared within moments. As though to
take attention away from his own lean height, the astrol-
oger carefully lowered himself to his knees.

"My lord. Duke Benigaris, and my lady. Duchess
Nessalanta. A thousand, thousand pardons. I came as
soon as I received your summons."

"Come and sit beside me, Xannasavin," said the duch-
ess. "We have seen too little of you lately."

Benigaris leaned against the railing. "My mother is
right-you have been much absent from the palace."

The astrologer rose and went to sit near Nessalanta.
"My apologies. I have found that sometimes it is best to
get away from the splendor of court life. Seclusion makes
it easier to hear what the stars tell me."

"Ah." The duke nodded as though some great riddle
had been solved. "That is why you were seen in the
marketplace dickering with a horse merchant."

Xannasavin flinched minutely. "Yes, my lord. In fact, I

442

Tad Williams

thought it might help me to ride beneath the night sky.
Your court is so full of pleasurable distractions, and these
are important times. I felt my mind should be clear so I
might better serve you."

"Come here," Benigaris said.

The astrologer rose from his seat, smoothing the folds
from his dark robe, then went to stand beside the duke at
the garden railing.

"What do you see in the sky?"

Xannasavin squinted. "Oh, many things, my lord. But
if you wish me to read the stars aright, I should go back
to my chamber and get my charts-..."

"But the last time you were here, the sky was so full of
good fortune! You needed no charts then!"

"I had studied them for long hours before coming up,

my ..."

Benigaris put his arm around the astrologer's shoulder.
"And what of the great victories for the House of the

Kingfisher?"

Xannasavin squirmed. "They are coming, my lord. See,
look there in the sky." He pointed toward the north. "Is
that not as I foretold to you? Look, the Conqueror Star'"

Benigaris fumed to follow Xannasavin's finger. "That

little red spot?"

"Soon it will fill the sky with flame, Duke Benigaris."
"He did predict that it would rise, Benigaris,"
Nessalanta called from her chair. She seemed disgruntled
at being left out. "I'm sure everything else he said will

come true as well."

"I'm certain it will." Benigaris stared at the crimson
pinhole in the evening sky. "The death of empires. Great
deeds for the Benidrivine House."

"You remember, my lord!" Xannasavin smiled. "These
things that worry you are only temporary. Beneath the
great wheel of heaven, they are only a moment of wind

across the grass."

"Perhaps." The duke's arm was still draped companion-
ably across the astrologer's shoulders. "But I worry for
you, Xannasavin."

TO    GREEN    ANGEL   TOWER

443
"My lord is too kind, to spare a thought for me in his
time of trial. What is your worry, Duke Benigaris?"

"I think you have spent too much time looking up at
the sky. You need to widen your view, look down at the
earth as well." The duke pointed to the lanterns burning
in the streets below. "When you stare at something too
long, you lose sight of other things that are just as impor-
tant. For instance, Xannasavin, the stars told you that
glory would come to the Benidrivine House-but you did
not listen closely enough to the marketplace gossip that
Lord Camaris himself, my father's brother, leads the ar-
mies against Nabban. Or perhaps you did listen to the
gossip, and it helped you make your sudden decision to
take up riding, hmm?"

"M--my lord wrongs me."

"Because, of course, Camaris is the oldest heir of the
Benidrivine House. So the glory for the house that you
spoke of might very well be his victory, might it not?"

"Oh, my lord, I do not think so... !"

"Stop it, Benigaris," Nessalanta said sharply. "Stop
bullying poor Xannasavin. Come sit by me and we will
have some wine."

"I am trying to help him. Mother." Benigaris turned
back to the astrologer. The duke was smiling, but his face
was flushed, his cheeks mottled. "As I said, I think you
have spent too much time staring at the sky, and not
enough paying attention to more lowly things."

"My lord .. -"

"I will remedy that." Benigaris abruptly stooped, drop-
ping his arm down to Xannasavin's hip and wrapping his
other arm around it. He straightened, grunting with the ef-
fort; the astrologer swayed, his feet a cubit off the
ground.

"No, Duke Benigaris, no... !"

"Stop that!" shrieked Nessalanta.

"Go to hell." Benigaris heaved. Xannasavin toppled
over the railing, his arms grabbing at nothing, and plum-
meted out of sight. A long moment later a wet smack
echoed up from the courtyard.

"How ... how dare you... ?!" Nessalanta stammered,

444

Tad Williams

her eyes wide with shock. Benigaris rounded on her, face
contorted with rage. A thin stream of blood trickled down
his forehead: the astrologer had pulled loose some of his
hair.

"Shut your mouth," he snarled. "I ought to throw you
over, too, you old she-wolf. We are losing this war-
losing! You may not care now, but you are not so safe as
you think. I doubt that whey-faced Josua will let his army
rape women and kill prisoners, but the people who whis-
per in the market about what happened to Father know
you are just as guilty as I am." He wiped blood from his
face. "No, I don't need to do you in myself. Likely there
are more than a few peasants sharpening their knives
right now, just waiting for Camaris and the rest to show
up at the gates before they start the festival." Benigaris
laughed angrily. "Do you think the palace guard is going
to throw their lives away protecting you when it's plain
that everything is lost? They're just like the peasants,
Mother. They have lives to lead, and they don't care who
sits on the throne here. You old fool." He stared at her, his
mouth working, fists trembling.

The dowager duchess shrank back in her chair. "What
are you going to do?" she moaned.

Benigaris threw out his arms. "I am going to fight,
damn you. I may be a murderer, but what I have I will
keep-until they take it from my dead hands." He stalked
to the doorway, then turned. "And I do not want to see
you again, Mother. I don't care where you go or what you
do ... but I do not want to see you."

He pushed through the door and disappeared.

"Benigaris!" Nessalanta's voice rose to a scream.
"Benigaris! Come back!"

^

The silent monk had wrapped the fingers of one hand
around Binabik's throat; even as he pressed down, his
other hand brought the troll's own knife-hand up, forcing
the blade closer and closer to Binabik's sweating face.

"Why ... are ... you-.. ?" The fingers cinched tighter,

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          445

cutting off the little man's air and his words. The monk's
pale, sweating face hung close; it gave off a feverish heat.
Binabik arched his back and heaved. For a moment he
partially broke the monk's hold, and he used that sliver of
freedom to kick himself off the edge of the stair, tumbling
them both over so that when they rolled to a halt, Binabik
was on top. The troll leaned forward, putting all his
^ weight behind his knife, but Hengfisk held it away with

•i^One hand- Although he was thin, the monk was nearly
.twice the troll's size; only the odd jerkiness of his move-

* ments seemed to be keeping him from a swift victory.
,^- Hengfisk's fingers slithered around the troll's neck
; once more. Frantic, Binabik tried to push the hand away
."-with his jaw, but the monk's grip was too strong.

,-i "Miriamele!" Binabik gasped. "Miriamele!" There was
•oo answering cry. The troll was choking now, fighting for
breath. He could not force his blade closer to Hengfisk's
elentlessly smiling face or dislodge the hand around his
tiroat. The monk's knees rose and squeezed Binabik's
ribs so that the little man could not wriggle free.

Binabik turned his head and bit Hengfisk's wrist. For a
loment the fingers at his neck clamped even more
tightly, then skin and muscle parted beneath the troll's
£ seth; hot blood welled in his mouth and spilled down his
tin.

Hengfisk did not cry out-his grin did not even
acken-but he abruptly twisted, using his legs to throw
linabik to one side- The troll's knife slipped from his
wd and skittered free, but he was too occupied trying
at to skid off the edge of the step and down into dark-
sss to do anything about it. He came to a halt, palms flat
the stone, feet dangling beneath the baluster and past
; brink, then pulled himself forward with hands and
sees, desperate to recover his knife. It was lying only
ches from Hengfisk, who crouched against the wall,
otuberant eyes glaring at the troll, hand drizzling red
ato the stair.
But his grin had vanished.

"Vad... ?" Hengfisk's voice was a hollow croak. He
Aed from side to side and up and down, as though he

446

Tad Williams

suddenly found himself somewhere unexpected. The ex-
pression he turned at last on Binabik was full of confused
horror.

"Why are you attacking me?" Binabik rasped. Blood
was smeared on his chin and cheeks. He could barely
speak. "We were not having friendship ... but ..." He
broke off in a fit of coughing.

'Troll... ?" Hengfisk's face, which moments before
had been stretched in glee, had gone slack. "What... ?
Ah, horrible, so horrible!"

Astonished by the change, Binabik stared.

"I cannot ..." The monk seemed overwhelmed with
misery and bafflement. His fingers twitched. "I cannot
... oh, merciful God, troll, it is so cold... !"

"What has happened to you?" Binabik pulled himself a
little nearer, keeping a watchful eye on the dagger, but
though it lay only a short distance from Hengfisk's hand,
the monk seemed oblivious.

"I cannot tell. I cannot speak it." The monk began to
weep. 'They have filled me ... with ... pushed me aside
.,. how could my God be so cruel. -. ?"

'Tell me. Is there some helping thing I can do?"

The monk stared at him, and for a brief moment some-
thing like hope flickered in his bulging, red-rimmed eyes.
Then his back stiffened and his head jerked. He screamed
with pain.

"Hengfisk!" Binabik threw his hands up as though to
ward off whatever had stabbed at the monk.

Hengfisk jerked, arms extended straight out, limbs
shaking. "Do not... !" he shouted. "No!" For an instant
he seemed to master himself, but his gaunt face, when he
turned it back to Binabik, began to ripple and change as
though serpents roiled beneath the flesh. "They are false,
troll." There was a terrible, deathly weight to his words.
"False beyond believing. But as cunning as Time itself."
He turned awkwardly and took a few staggering steps
down the stairway, passing so close that Binabik could
have reached out to touch him. "Go," the monk breathed.

Unnerved even more than he had been by the attack,
Binabik crawled forward and picked up his knife. A

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          447

sound behind him made him whirl. Hengfisk, his lips
skinned back in a grin once more, was lurching up the
steps. Binabik had time only to lift his arms before the
monk fell upon him. Hengfisk's stinking robe wrapped
around them both like a shroud. There was a brief strug-
gle, then stillness.

Binabik crawled out from beneath the body of the
monk. After regaining his breath, he rolled Hengfisk over
onto his back. The hilt of his bone knife protruded from
the monk's left eye. Shuddering, the troll pulled the blade
free and wiped it on the dark robe. Hengfisk's last smile
was frozen on his face.

Binabik picked up his fallen torch and stumbled back
up the steps to the landing. Miriamele had vanished, and
the packs that had contained their food and water and
other important articles were gone, too. Binabik had noth-
ing but his torch and h'is walking stick.

"Princess!" he called. The echoes caromed into the
emptiness beyond the stairs, "Miriamele!"

Except for the body of the monk, he was alone.

A

"He must have gone mad- Are you certain that is what
^ he wants?"

"Yes, Prince Josua, I am certain. I spoke to him my-
self." Baron Seriddan lowered himself onto a stool, wav-
ing away his squire when the young man tried to take his
cloak. "You know, if this is not a trick, we could hardly
wish for a better offer. Many men will die before we take
the city walls, otherwise. But it is strange."

"It is not at all what I expected of Benigaris," Josua ad-
mitted. "He demanded that it be Camaris? Is he so tired
of life?"

Baron Seriddan shrugged, then reached out to take the
cup his squire brought him.

Isgrimnur, who had been watching silently, grunted. He
understood why the baron and Josua were puzzled. Cer-
tainly Benigaris was losing-in the last month, the coali-
tion assembled by Josua and the Nabbanai barons had

448 Tad Williams

pushed the duke's forces back until all that remained in
Benigaris' control was the city itself. But Nabban was the
greatest city in Osten Ard, and its seaport made a true
siege difficult. Some of Josua's allies had provided their
own house navies, but these were not enough to blockade
the city and starve it into submission. So why should the
reigning Duke of Nabban offer such an odd bargain? Still,
Josua was taking the news as though it were he 'who
would have to fight Camaris.

Isgrimnur shifted his aching body into a more comfort-
able position. "It sounds mad, Josua-but what have we
to lose? It is Benigans who is trusting our good faith, not
the other way around."

"But it's madness!" Josua said unhappily. "And all he
wants if he wins is safe passage for himself and his fam-
ily and servants? Those are surrender terms-so why
should he wish to fight for them'? It makes no sense. It
must be a trick." The prince seemed to be hoping some-
one would agree with him. "This sort of thing has not
been done in a hundred years!"

Isgrimnur smiled. "Except by you, just a few short
months ago in the grasslands. Everyone knows that story,
Josua. They'll be telling it around the campfires for a
long time."

The prince did not return his smile. "But I used a trick
to force Fikolmij into that! And he never dreamed that his
champion might lose. Even if Benigaris does not believe
that this is truly his uncle, he must have heard what sort
of warrior he is! None of it makes sense!" He turned to
the old knight, who had been sitting in the comer, still as
a statue. "What do you think. Sir Camaris?"

Camaris spread his broad hands palms upward before
him. "It must end. If this is how the ending will come,
then I will play my part. And Baron Seriddan speaks
truly: we would be fools to throw away this chance out of
suspicion. We may save many lives. For that alone, I
would do whatever is needed."

Josua nodded. "I suppose so. I still do not understand
the why of it, but I suppose I must agree. The people of
Nabban do not deserve to suffer because their lord is a

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

449
patricide. And if we accomplish this, we have a greater
task before us-one for which we will need our army
whole and strong."

Of course, Josua's down-mouthed, Isgrimnur realized.
He knows that we have horrors before us that may over-
shadow the slaughter in the Onestrine Pass so gravely
' that we think back on that battle as a day of sport. Only
\ Josua, of all of us in this room, survived the siege of
^Naglimund. He's fought the White Foxes. Of course he's
grim.

Out loud, he said: "Then it's settled. I just hope some-
body will help me find a stool for my fat old backside so
;I can watch it happen."

Josua looked at him a little sourly. "It is not a tourney,
Isgrimnur. But you will be there-we all will. That seems
to be what Benigans wants."

"

Rituals, Tiamak thought. My people's must seem as odd

the drylanders as these to me.

He stood on the windy hillside, ^watching as Nabban's

eat city gates swung wide. A small procession of horse-
ien emerged, the leader dressed in plate armor that
gleamed even beneath the cloudy afternoon skies. One of
ie other riders carried the huge blue and gold banner of
ie Kingfisher House. But no horns blew.

Tiamak watched Benigaris and his party ride toward
the place where the Wrannaman stood with Josua's com-
pany. As they waited, the wind grew stronger. Tiamak felt
it through his robe and shivered.

It is bitterly cold. Too cold for this time of year, even
near the ocean.

The riders stopped a few paces short of the prince and
|"is followers. Josua's soldiers lounged in scattered ranks
about the bottom of the hillside, caught up in the moment
and watching attentively. Faces also peered from the win-
dows and rooftops of outer Nabban and from the city
walls. A war had been abruptly halted so that this mo-

450

Tad Williams

ment could take place. Now all the participants stood
waiting, like toys set up and then forgotten.
Josua stepped forward. "You have come, Benigaris."
The leading rider pushed up the visor of his helm. "I
have, Josua. In my way, I am an honorable man. Just like

you."

"And you intend to abide by the terms you gave paron
Seriddan? Single combat? And all you ask if you win is
safe conduct for your family and retainers?"

Benigaris flexed his shoulders impatiently. "You have
my word. I have yours. Let us get on with this. Where is
... the great man?"

Josua looked at him with some distrust. "He is here."

As the prince spoke, the circle of people behind him
parted and Camaris stepped forward. The old knight wore
chain mail. His surcoat was without insignia, and he held
the antique sea-dragon helmet under his arm. Tiamak
thought that Camaris looked even more unhappy than

usual.

As he stared at the old man's face, Benigaris' sour
smile curled the ends of his mustaches. "Ah. I was right.
I told her." He nodded toward the knight. "Greetings, Un-
cle."

Camaris said nothing.

Josua lifted his hand. He seemed to be finding the
scene increasingly distasteful. "So, then. Let us get on
with it.'* He turned to the Duke of Nabban. "Varellan is
here, and he has not been mistreated. I promise that what-
ever happens, we will treat your sister and mother with
kindness and honor.'*

Benigaris stared at him for a long moment, his eyes
cold as a lizard's. "My mother is dead." He snapped his
visor down, then turned his horse and rode a short way
back up the hillside.

Josua wearily beckoned Camaris. 'Try not to kill him."

"You know I can promise nothing," the old knight said-
"But I will grant him quarter if he asks."

The wind grew sterner. Tiamak wished he had taken up
drylander clothing more completely: breeches and boots
would be a decided improvement over the bare legs and
TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                          45!

sandals that his robe barely protected from the cold. He
shivered as he watched the two riders turn toward each
other.

He Who Bends the Trees must have woken up angry, he
thought, echoing something his father had often said. The
idea sent a deeper chill through him than had the wind.
But I do not think that it is the weatherlord of the Wran
who sends this cold. We have another enemy, one who has
lain quiet for a long time-and there is no question that
he can command wind and storms.

Tiamak stared up at the hillside where Camaris and
Benigaris faced each other across a distance that a man
could walk in a few short moments. They were only sep-
arated by a short span, and were bound close by ties of
blood, but it was clear that an impassable gulf stretched
between them.

And meanwhile the Storm King's wind blows, Tiamak
thought. As these two, uncle and nephew, dance some
mad drylander ritual ... just like Josua and Elias....

The two riders abruptly spurred toward each other, but
they were nothing but a blur to Tiamak. A sickening no-
tion had crept over him, black and frightening as any
storm cloud.

We have been thinking all along that King Elias was
the tool oflneluki's vengeance. And the two brothers have
gone brawling from Naglimund to Sesuad'ra, biting and
scratching at each other so that Prince Josua and the rest
of us have had no chance to do anything but survive. But
what if Elias is as benighted about what the Storm King
plans as we are? What if his purpose in some vast plan is
only to keep us occupied while that dark, undead thing
pursues some completely different end?

Despite the cold air on the hill, Tiamak felt beads of
sweat cooling on his forehead. If this was true, what
could Ineluki be planning? Aditu swore that he could
never come back from the void into which his death spell
had cast him-but perhaps there was some other revenge
he schemed for that was far more terrible than simply rul-
ing humankind through Elias and the Noms. But what
could it be?

452 Tad Williams

Tiamak looked around for Strangyeard, anxious to
share this worry with his fellow Scrollbearer, but the
priest was hidden by the milling crowd. The people
around the Wrannaman were shouting excitedly at some-
thing. It took the distracted Tiamak a moment to realize
that one of the mounted men had unhorsed the other. A
brief stab of fear was allayed when he saw that it was
gleaming-annored Benigaris who had fallen.
A murmur ran through the crowd when Camaris dis-
mounted. Two boys ran forward to lead the horses away.

Tiamak put aside his suspicions for the moment and
squeezed between Hotvig and Sludig, who were standing
just behind the prince. The Rimmersman looked down in
annoyance, but when he saw Tiamak he grinned.
"Knocked him rump over plume! The old man is giving
Benigaris a stem lesson!"

Tiamak winced. He could never understand his com-
panions' pleasure at such things. This "lesson" might end
in death for one of the two men who were now circling
each other, shields up and longswords at the ready. Black
Thorn looked like a stripe of emptiest night.

At first it seemed the combat would not last long.
Benigaris was an able fighter, shorter than Camaris but
stocky and broad-shouldered; he swung the heavy blade
as easily as a smaller man might have brandished Josua's
Naidel, and was well-trained in the use of his shield. But
to Tiamak, Camaris seemed another kind of creature en-
tirely. graceful as a river otter, swift as a striking serpent.
In his hands, Thom was a complicated black blur, a web
of glinting darkness. Although he knew nothing good of
Benigaris, Tiamak could not help feeling sorry for him.
Surely this whole ridiculous battle would be over in a few
moments.

The sooner Benigaris gives up, Tiamak thought, the
sooner we can get out of this wind.

But Benigaris, it rapidly became clear, had other plans.
After looking almost helpless through the first score of
strokes, Nabban's duke suddenly took the battle to
Camaris, crashing blow after blow on the old knight's
shield and deflecting those that his opponent returned.

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              453

Camaris was forced back, and Tiamak could feel the
worry that ran through Josua's party like a whisper.

He is an old man, after all. Older than my father's fa-
ther was when he died. And perhaps he has even less
heart for this battle than for others.

Benigaris rained strokes against Camaris' shield, trying
to push home his advantage as the old knight gave
ground; the duke was grunting so loudly that everyone on
the hillside could hear him above the clang of iron. Even
Tiamak, with almost no knowledge of drylander sword-
play, wondered how long he could keep up such an at-
tack.

But he doesn't necessarily have to last a long time,
Tiamak realized. Just until he beats down Camaris' guard
and finds an opening. He is gambling.

For a moment Benigaris' gamble appeared to have
paid. One of his hammering blows caught Camaris with
his shield too low, skimmed off its upper edge and struck
the old knight on the side of the helmet, staggering him.
The crowd made a hungry sound- Camaris regained his
footing and lifted his shield as though it had become al-
most impossibly heavy. Benigaris waded in.

Tiamak was not quite sure what happened next. One
moment the old knight was in a crouch, shield raised in
what looked like helplessness against Benigaris' battering
sword; the next, he had somehow caught Benigaris*
shield with his own and knocked it upward, so that for a
moment it hung in the air like a blue and gold coin. When
it fell to the earth, Thorn's black point was at the duke's
gorget.

"Do you yield, Benigaris?" The voice of Camaris was
clear, but there was a hint of a weary tremor.

In answer, Benigaris knocked Thorn aside with a
mailed fist, then thrust his own blade at Camaris' unpro-
tected belly. The old man seemed to contort as the sword
touched his mail-clad midsection. For an instant Tiamak
thought he might have been skewered, but instead
Camaris whirled all the way around. Benigaris' sword
slid past him, and as Camaris finished his circular turn
Thom came with him in a flat, deadly arc. The black

454 Tad Williams

blade crunched into Benigaris' armor just below   his ribs.
The duke was driven to one knee; he wobbled for   an in-
stant, then collapsed. Camaris pulled Thom free   of the
rent in the breast plate and a freshet of blood   followed it.

Beside Tiamak, Sludig and Hotvig were cheering
hoarsely. Josua did not seem so happy.

"Merciful Aedon." He turned to look at his two cap-
tains with more than a little anger, but his eye lit on me
Wrannaman. "At least we can thank God Camaris was
not killed. Let us go to him, and see what we can do for
Benigaris. Did you bring your herbs, Tiamak?"

The marsh man nodded. He and the prince began to
push their way forward through the knot of people that
was quickly forming around the two combatants.

When they reached the center of the crowd, Josua put
a hand on Camaris' shoulder. "Are you well?"

The old man nodded. He appeared exhausted. His hair
hung down his forehead in sweaty twists.

Josua turned to the fallen Benigaris. Someone had re-
moved' the duke's helmet. He was pale as a Nom and
there was a froth of blood on his lips. "Lie still,
Benigaris. Let this man look at your wound."

The duke turned his bleary eyes on Tiamak. "A marsh
man!" he wheezed. "You are a strange one, Josua." The
Wrannaman kneeled down beside him and began looking
for the catch-buckles on the breastplate, but Benigaris
struck his hands away. "Leave me alone, damn you. Let
me die without having some savage paw at me."

Josua's mouth tightened, but he motioned Tiamak to
step back. "As you wish. But perhaps there is something
that can be done for you...."

Benigaris barked a laugh. A bubble of bloody spittle
caught in his mustache. "Let me die, Josua. That is what
is left for me. You can have ..." he coughed more red
froth, "... you can have everything else."

"Why did you do it?" Josua asked. "You must have
known you could not win."

Benigaris mustered a grin. "But I frightened you all,
didn't I?" His face contorted, but he regained control. "In

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                             455

any case, I took what was left to me ... just as my mother
did."

"What do you mean?" Josua stared at the dying duke
as though he had never seen anything quite like him.

"My mother realized ... with help from me ... that her
game was over. There was nothing left but shame. So she
took poison. I had my own way."

"But you could have escaped, surely. You still control
the seas."

"Escape to where?" Benigaris spat another scarlet gob-
bet- 'To the loving arms of your brother and his pet wiz-
ard? And in any case, the damnable docks belong to
Streawe now-I thought I was holding him prisoner, but
he was gnawing away at my power from within. The
count is playing us all off each other for his own profit."
The duke's breath sawed in and out. "No, the end had
come-I saw it as soon as the Onestrine Pass fell. So I
chose my own death. I was duke less than a year, Josua.
No one would ever have remembered me as anything but
a father-murderer. Now, if anyone survives, I will be the
man who fought Camaris for the throne of Nabban ...
and damned near won."

Josua was looking at Benigaris with an expression that
was not quite recognizable. Tiamak could not let the
question go unasked.

"What do you mean, 'if anyone survives'?"

Benigaris looked at the Wrannaman with contempt. "It
talks." He slowly turned back to the prince. "Oh, yes," he
said, his labored breathing not disguising his relish, "I
forgot to tell you. You have won your prize-but you may
not get much joy from it, Josua."

"I almost felt sorry for you, Benigaris," the prince said.
"But the feeling has passed." He stood up.

"Wait!" Benigaris raised a bloody hand- "You really
should know this, Josua. Stay just a moment. I won't em-
barrass you long."

"Speak."

'The ghants are crawling up out of the swamps. The
riders have begun coming in from the Lakelands and the
coast towns along Firannos Bay bearing the tale. They are

456

Tad Williams

swarming. Oh, there are more of them than you can imag-
ine, Josua." He laughed, bringing up a fresh welter of
blood. "And that's not all," he said gleefully. "There was
another reason I had no desire to flee Nabban by boat.
The kilpa, too, seem to have gone mad. The Niskies are
terrified. So you see, not only did I buy myself a clean
and honorable death ... but it is a death you and yours
might find yourself envying very soon."

"And your own people?" Josua asked angrily. "Do you
care nothing for them? If what you say is true, they are
already suffering."

"My people?" Benigaris wheezed. "No more. I am
dead, and the dead have no loyalty. And in any case, they
are your people now-yours and my uncle's."

Josua stared at him for a long moment, then turned and
strode away. Camaris tried to follow him. but he was
quickly surrounded by a curious mob of soldiers and
Nabbanai citizens and could not break away.

Tiamak was left to kneel beside the fallen duke and
watch him die. The sun was almost touching the horizon,
and cold shadows were stretching across the hillside,
when Benigaris finally stopped breathing.

20

Prisoned on the Wheet

Simon fuuf Ot first thought the great underground
forge was someone's attempt to recreate Hell. After he
had been captive there for nearly a fortnight, he was cer-
tain of it.

He and the other men seemed barely to have fallen into
their ragged nests at the end of one backbreaking day be-
fore one of Inch's assistants-a handful of men less terri-
fying but no more humane than their master-was
braying at them to get up and start the next. Almost dizzy
with weariness before the work had even begun, Simon
and his fellow prisoners would gulp down a cupful of thin
porridge that tasted of rust, then stumble out to the
foundry floor.

If the cavern where the workers slept was unpleasantly
hot. the vast forge cavern was an inferno. The stifling
heat pressed against Simon's face until his eyeballs felt
dry as walnut shells and his skin seemed about to crisp
and peel away. Each day brought a long, dreary round of
backbreaking, finger-burning labor, made bearable only
by the man who brought the water dipper. It seemed eons
between drinks.

Simon's one piece of luck was that he had fallen in
with Stanhelm, who alone among the wretches working in
the forge seemed to have retained most of his humanity.
Stanhelm showed the new prisoner the spots to go and
catch a breath where the air was a little cooler, which of
Inch's minions to avoid most scrupulously, and, most im-
portantly, how to look like he belonged in the forge. The

458

Tad Williams

older man did not know that Simon had a particular rea-
son to stay nameless and unnoticed, but sensibly believed
that no one should invite Inch's attention, so he also
taught the new prisoner what was expected of all the
workers, the greatest part of which was cringing subservi-
ence; Simon learned to keep his eyes lowered and work
fast and hard whenever Inch was near. He also tied a strip
of rag around his finger to cover his golden ring. He was '.
unwilling to let such a precious thing out of his grasp, but
he knew it would be a terrible mistake to let others see it.

Stanhelm's work was to sort bits of waste metal for the
crucibles. He had Simon Join him at it, then taught his
new apprentice how to tell copper from bronze and tin
from lead by tapping the metal against stone or scratching
its surface with a jagged iron bar.

A strange jumble of things passed through their hands
on the way to the smelter, chains and pots and crushed bits
of plating whose original purpose was unguessable, wagon
rims and barrel bands, sacks full of bent nails, fire irons,
and door hinges. Once Simon lifted a delicately wrought
bottle rack and recognized it as something that had hung
on the wall of Doctor Morgenes' chamber, but as he
stared, caught for a moment in an eddying memory of a
happier past, Stanhelm nudged him in warning that Inch
was approaching. Simon hurriedly tossed it into the pile.

The scrap metal was carried to the row of crucibles that
hung in the forge fire, a blaze as large as a house, fed
with a seemingly unending supply of charcoal and heated
by bellows that were themselves pumped by the action of
the foundry's massive water wheel, which was three times
as high as a man and revolved ceaselessly, day and night.
Fanned by the bellows, the forge fire burned with such in-
credible ferocity that it seemed a miracle to Simon the
very stone of the cavern did not melt. The crucibles, each
containing a different metal, were moved by a collection
of blackened chains and pulleys which were also con-
nected to the wheel. Yet another set of chains, so much
larger than the links that moved the crucibles that they
seemed made to shackle giants, extended upward from
the wheel's hub and vanished into a darkened crevice in

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

459

the forge chamber's roof. Not even Stanhelm wanted to
talk about where those went, but Simon gathered it had
something to do with Pryrates.

In stolen moments, Stanhelm showed Simon the whole
process, how the scrap was melted down to a glowing red
liquid, then decanted from the crucibles and formed into
sows, long cylindrical chunks of raw metal which, when
cool, were carried away by sweating men to another part
of the vast chamber where they would be shaped into
whatever it was that Inch supplied to his king. Armor and
weapons, Simon guessed, since in all the great quantities
of scrap, he had seen almost no articles of war that were
not damaged beyond use. It made sense that Elias wished
to convert every unnecessary bit of metal into arrow
heads and sword blades.

As the days passed, it became more and more clear to
Simon that there was little chance he would escape from
this place. Stanhelm told him that only a few prisoners
had escaped during the past year and all but one had
quickly been dragged back. None of the recaptured had
lived long after returning.

And the one who escaped was Jeremias, Simon
thought. He only managed it because Inch was foolish
enough to let him go upstairs on an errand. 1 doubt I will
get such a chance.

The feeling of being trapped was so powerful, the im-
pulse to flee so intense, that at times Simon could hardly
stand it. He thought obsessively about being carried up-
ward by the great water wheel chains to whatever dark
place they went. He dreamed of finding a tunnel leading
out of the great chamber, as he had during his first escape
from the Hayholt, but they were all filled in now, or led
only to other parts of the forge. Supplies from the outside
came with Thrithings mercenary guards armed with
spears and axes, and the arrival of anything was always
supervised by Inch or one of his chieftains. The only keys
hung rattling on Inch's broad belt.

Time was growing short for his friends, for Josua's
cause, and Simon was helpless.

And Pryrates has not left the castle, either. So it is
460 Tad Williams

likely only a matter of time until he comes back here.
What if he is not in such a hurry next time? What if he
recognizes me?

Whenever he seemed to be alone and unwatched, Simon
hunted for anything that might help him to escape, but he
found little that gave him any hope. He pocketed a piece
of scrap iron and took to sharpening it against the stone
when he was supposed to be sleeping. If Pryrates discov-
ered him at last, he would do what damage he could.

Simon and Stanhelm were standing near the scrap pile,
panting for breath. The older man had cut himself on a
Jagged edge and his hand was bleeding badly.

"Hold still." Simon tore a piece from his ragged
breeches for a bandage and began to wrap it around
Stanhelm's wounded hand. Exhausted, the older man
wobbled from side to side like a ship in high winds.
"Aedon!" Simon swore unhappily. "That's deep."

"Can't go no more," Stanhelm muttered. Above the face
mask, his eyes had finally taken on the lifeless glaze that
marked the rest of the forge's laborers. "Can't go no more."

"Just stand there," Simon said, pulling me knot tight.
"Rest."

Stanhelm shook his head hopelessly. "Can't."

"Then don't. Sit down. I'll go find the dipper man, get
you some water."

Something large and dark passed before the flames,
blocking the light like a mountain obscuring a sunset.

"Rest?" Inch lowered his head, peering first at
Stanhelm, then at Simon. "You are not working."

"He h-hurt his hand." Avoiding the overseer's eyes, Si-
mon stared instead at Inch's broad shoes, noting with
numbed bemusement that one flat, blunt toe poked
through on each- "He's bleeding."

"Little men are always bleeding," Inch said matter-of-
factly. "Time to rest later. Now there is work to do."

Stanhelm swayed a little, then abruptly sagged and sat
down. Inch stared at him, then stepped closer.

"Get up. Time to work."

Stanhelm only moaned softly, cradling his injured hand.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          4&I

"Get up." Inch's voice was a deep rumble. "Now."
The seated man did not look at him. Inch leaned down
and smacked Stanhelm on the side of the head so hard
that the forge worker's head snapped to one side and his
body rocked. Stanhelm began to cry.

"Get up."

When this did not produce any better results. Inch
lifted his thick fist high and struck Stanhelm again, this
time knocking him into a splay-limbed sprawl.

Several of the other forge workers had stopped to stare,
watching Stanhelm's punishment with the crushed calm
of a flock of sheep who have seen one of their number
taken by a wolf, and know that for a while at least they
are safe.

Stanhelm lay silent, only barely moving. Inch lifted his
boot above the man's head- "Get up, you."

Simon's heart was racing. The whole thing seemed to
be happening too fast. He knew he would be a fool to say
anything-Stanhelm had clearly reached his breaking
point and was as good as dead. Why should Simon risk
everything?

It's a mistake to care about people, he thought angrily.

"Stop." He knew it was his own voice, but it sounded
unreal. "Let him be."

Inch's wide, scarred face swung around slowly, his one
good eye blinking in the scorched flesh. "You don't talk,"
he growled, then gave Stanhelm an offhand kick.

"I said ... let him be."

Inch turned away from his victim and Simon took a
step backward, looking for someplace to run. There was
no turning back now, no escape from this confrontation.
Terror and long-suppressed rage battled inside him. He
yearned for his Qanuc knife, confiscated by the Noms.

"Come here."

Simon took another step backward, "Come and get me,
you great sack of guts."

Inch's ruined face screwed up in a snarl and he lunged
forward. Simon darted out of his reach and turned to run
across the chamber. The other workers gaped as the mas-
ter of the forge lumbered after him.

462 Tad Williams

Simon had hoped to tire the huge man, but had reck-
oned without his own weariness, the weeks of injury and
deprivation. Within a hundred strides he felt his strength
ebbing, although Inch stiU plodded some distance behind
him. There was nowhere to hide, and there was no escape
from the forge; better to turn and fight in the open, where
he could best use whatever advantage of speed still re-
mained to him.

He bent to pick up a large chunk of stone. Inch, certain
that he had Simon captured, but wary of the stone, moved
steadily but slowly closer.

"Doctor Inch is master here," he rumbled. 'There is
work to do. You .., you have ..." He growled, unable to
find words to describe the magnitude of Simon's crimes.
He took another step forward.

Simon flung the stone at his head. Inch dodged and it
thumped heavily against his shoulder instead. Simon
found himself filling with a dark exhilaration, a rising
fury that surged through him almost like joy. This was the
creature who had brought Pryrates to Morgenes' cham-
ber! This monstrosity had helped kill Simon's master!

"Doctor Inch!" Simon shouted, laughing wildly as he
bent for another stone. "Doctor?! You are not fit to call
yourself anything but Slug, but Filth, but HaIf-Wit! Doc-
tor! Ha!" Simon flung the second stone, but Inch side-
stepped and it clattered across the cavern floor. The big
man leaped forward with startling speed and hit Simon a
glancing blow that knocked him off his feet. Before he
could regain his balance, a wide hand closed on his arm.
He was jerked upright, then flung headfirst across the
stone floor. Tumbling, he hit his head, then lay for a mo-
ment, dazed. Inch's meaty hands closed on him again. He
was lifted up, then something struck his face so hard that
he heard thunder and saw lightning. He felt his cloth
mask pull away. Another blow rocked him, then he was
free and toppling to the ground. Simon lay where he had
fallen, struggling to understand where he was and what
had happened.

"You make me angry ..." said a deep voice. Simon
waited helplessly for another blow, hoping it would be

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

strong enough to take away the pain in his head and the
sickness in his guts forever. But for long moments noth-
ing happened.

'The little kitchen boy," Inch said at last, "I know you.
You are the kitchen boy. But you have hair on your face!"
There was a sound like two stones being rubbed together. It
took some time for Simon to realize that Inch was laughing.
"You came back!" He sounded as pleased as if Simon were
an old friend. "Back to Inch-but I am Doctor Inch now.
You laughed at me. But you won't laugh any more."

Thick fingers squeezed him and he was jerked up from
the floor. The sudden movement filled his head with
blackness-
Simon struggled to move but could not. Something
held him with his arms and legs extended, stretched to
their utmost.

He opened his eyes to the tattered moon face of Inch.
"Little kitchen boy. You came back." The huge man
leaned closer. He used one hand to pinion Simon's righl
arm against whatever stood behind, then raised the other,
which clutched a heavy mallet. Simon saw the spike be-
ing held against his wrist and could not hold back his
shout of terror.

"Are you afraid, kitchen boy? You took my place, the
place that should have been mine. Turned the old man
against me. I didn't forget." Inch raised the mallet and
brought it down hard against the head of the spike. Simon
gasped and twitched helplessly, but there was no pain
only a tightening of the pressure on his wrist. Inch ham-
mered the spike in deeper, then leaned back to examine
his work. For the first time Simon realized that they were
high above the cavem floor. Inch was standing on a lad-
der that leaned against the wall just below Simon's arm.

But it wasn't the wall, Simon saw a moment later. The
rope around his wrist was now spiked to the forge's im-
mense water wheel. His other wrist and both ankles had
already been secured. He was spread-eagled a few cubits
beneath the wheel's edge, ten cubits above the ground

464

Tad Williams

The wheel was not moving, and the sluice of dark water
seemed farther away than it should.

"Do whatever you want." Simon clenched his teeth
against the scream that wanted to erupt. "I don't care. Do

anything."

Inch tugged at Simon's wrists again, testing. Simon
could begin to feel the downward pull of his weight,
against the bonds and the slow warmth in the joints of his
arms, precursor of real pain.

"Do? I do nothing." Inch placed his huge hand on Si-
mon's chest and gave a push, forcing Simon's breath out
in a surprised hiss. "I waited. You took my place. I waited
and waited to be Doctor Inch. Now you wait."

"W-wait for what?"

Inch smiled, a slow spread of lips that revealed broken
teeth. "Wait to die. No food. Maybe I will give you
water-it will take longer that way. Maybe I will think of
... something else to do. Doesn't matter. You will wait."
Inch nodded his head. "Wait." He pushed the mallet's
handle into his belt and climbed down the ladder.

Simon craned his neck, watching Inch's progress with
stupefied fascination. The overseer reached the bottom
and waved for a pair of his henchmen to take the ladder
away. Simon sadly watched it go. Even if he somehow es-
caped his bonds, he would surely fall to his death.

But Inch was not Finished. He moved forward until he
was almost hidden from Simon's view by the great wheel,
then pulled down on a thick wooden lever. Simon heard
a grinding noise, then felt the wheel jerk, its sudden mo-
tion rattling his bones. It slipped downward, shuddering
as it went, then splashed into the sluice, sending another
jolt through Simon.

i    Slowly ... ever so slowly ... the wheel began to turn,

At first it was almost a relief to be rotated down toward
the ground. The weight shifted from both his arms to his
wrist and ankle, then gradually the strain moved to his
legs as the chamber turned upside down. Then, as he
rolled even further downward, blood rushed to his head
until it felt as though it would burst out through his ears.

•i

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                             465

At the bottom of his revolution, water splashed just be-
yond him, almost wetting his finger tips.

Above the wheel, the immense chains were again reel-
ing up into darkness.

"Couldn't stop it for long," rumbled a downside-up
Inch. "Bellows don't work, buckets don't work-and the
Red Rat Wizard's tower don't turn." He stood staring for
a moment as Simon slowly began to rise toward the cav-
ern ceiling. "It does lots of things, this wheel." His re-
maining eye glittered in the light from the forge. "Kills
little kitchen boys."

He turned and lumbered off across the chamber.

It didn't hurt that much at first. Simon's wrists were so
securely bound, and he was stretched so tightly against
the wheel's wide rim, that there was very little movement.
He was hungry, which kept him clearheaded enough to
think; his mind revolved far more swiftly than the prison-
ing wheel, circling through the events that had brought
him to this place and through dozens of unlikely possibil-
ities for escape.

Perhaps Stanhelm would come when it was sleeping time
and cut him loose, he told himself. Inch had his own cham-
ber somewhere in another part' of the forge: with luck, Si-
mon could be freed without the hulking overseer even
knowing. But where would he go? And what made him
think that Stanhelm was still alive, or if he was, that he
would risk death again to save a person he barely knew?

Someone else? But who? None of the other foun-
drymen cared if Simon lived or died-nor could he much
blame them. How could you worry about another person
when every moment was a struggle to breathe the air, to
survive the heat, to perform backbreaking work at the
whim of a brutish master?

And this time there were no friends to rescue Simon.
Binabik and Miriamele, even should they somehow make
their way into the castle, would surely never come here.
They sought the king-and had no reason to believe Si-
mon still lived, anyway. Those who had rescued him from
danger in the past-Jiriki, Josua, Aditu-were far away,

466 Tad Williams

on the grasslands or marching toward Nabban- Any
friends who had once lived in the castle were gone. And
even if he somehow managed to free himself from this
wheel, where would he go? What could he do? Inch
would only catch him again, and next time the forge-
master might not devise such a gradual torment.

He strained again at his bonds, but they were heavy
ropes woven to resist the strains of forge work and they
gaVe not at all. He could work at them for days and only
tear the skin from his wrists. Even the spikes that held the
knotted ropes against the wheel's timbers were no help:

Inch had carefully driven them between the strands so
that the rope would not split.

The burning in his arms and legs was worsening. Si-
mon felt a drumbeat of real dread begin inside him. He
could not move. No matter what happened, no matter how
bad it got, no matter how much he screamed and strug-
gled for release, there was nothing he could do.

It would almost be a relief, he thought, if Pryrates came               ^
and found that Inch held him prisoner. The red priest would                   ^
do terrible things to him, but at least they would be differ-                     j|
ent terrible things-sharp pains, long pains, little ones and                  |
great ones. This, Simon could tell, was only going to be-                r
come steadily worse. Soon his hunger would become a tor-                \'
ment as well. Most of a day had passed since he had last
eaten, and he was already thinking on his last bowl of
scum-flecked soup with a regret bordering on madness.

As he turned upside-down once more, his stomach       ^
lurched, momentarily freeing him from hunger. It was lit-               |"-
tie enough to be grateful for, but Simon's expectations         'i
were becoming very slight.                                  ^

The pain that burned his body was matched by a fury
that grew within him as he suffered, a helpless rage that
could findr no outlet and so began to gnaw at the very
foundations of his sanity instead. Like an angry man he         ^
had once seen in Erchester, who threw everything in his         ^
house out of the window, piece by piece, Simon had noth-            |
ing to fling at his enemies but what was his own-his be-            &
liefs, his loves, his most cherished memories.
TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

Morgenes and Josua and Binabik and the others had
used him, he decided. They had taken a boy who could
not even write his own name and had made him a tool.
Under their manipulation and for their benefit he had
been driven from his home, had been made an exile, had
seen the death of many he held dear and the destruction
of much that was innocent and beautiful. With no say in
his own destiny he had been led this way and that, and
told just enough half-truths to keep him soldiering on. For
the sake of Josua he had faced a dragon and won-then
the Great Sword had been taken from him and given to
someone else. For Binabik's sake he had stayed on in
Yiqanuc-who could say that Haestan would have been
killed if the company had left earlier? He had come with
Miriamele to protect her on her journey, and had suffered
because of it, both in the tunnels and now on this wheel
where he would likely die. They had all taken from him,
taken everything he had. They had used him.

And Miriamele had other crimes to answer for. She had
led him on, treated him like an equal even though she was
a king's daughter. She had been his friend, or had said she
was, but she had not waited for him to come back from
the quest to the northern mountains. No, instead she had
gone off on her own without even a word left for him, as
though their friendship had never existed- And she had
given herself to another man-delivered her maidenhood
to someone she did not even like! She had kissed Simon
and let him think that his hopeless love had some mean-
ing ... but then she had thrown her own deeds in his face
in the crudest manner possible.

Even his mother and father had abandoned him, dying
before he could ever know them, leaving him with no life
and no history but what the chambermaids had given him.
How could they!? And how could God let such a thing
be?! Even God had betrayed him, for God had not been
there. He was said to watch all creatures of His world, but
He obviously cared little for Simon, the least of His chil-
dren. How could God love someone and leave them to
suffer as Simon had suffered, for no fault other than try-
ing to do right?

468 Tad Williams

Yet with all his fury at these so-called friends who had
abused his trust, he had greater hatred still for his enemies:

Inch, the brute animal-no, worse than any animal, for an
animal did not torture; King Elias who had thrown the
world into war and blighted the earth with terror and fam-
ine and death; silver-masked Utuk'ku, who had set her
huntsman after Simon and his friends and had killed wise
Amerasu; and the priest Pryrates, Morgenes' murderer,'
who had nothing in his black soul but self-serving malice.

But the greatest author of all Simon's suffering, it
seemed, was he whose ravening hatred was so great that
even the grave could not contain it. If anyone deserved to
be repaid in torment, it was the Storm King. Ineluki had
brought ruin to a world full of innocents. He had de-
stroyed Simon's life and happiness.

Sometimes Simon felt that hate was keeping him alive.
When the agony became too strong, when he felt life slip-
ping away, or at least passing out of his control, the need
to survive and revenge himself was something to which
he could cling. He would stay alive as long as he could,
if only to return some measure of his own suffering to all
who had abused him. Every miserable lonely night would
be recompensed, every wound, every terror, every tear.

Revolving through darkness, in and out of madness, Si-
mon made a thousand oaths to repay pain for pain.

At first it seemed a firefly, flitting on the edge of his
vision-something small that glowed without light, a
point of not-black in a world of blackness. Simon, his
thoughts floundering in a wash of ache and hunger, could
make no sense of it.

"Come," a voice murmured to him. Simon had been
hearing voices through this entire second day-or was it
the third?-upon the wheel. What was another voice?
What was another speck of dancing light?

"Come."

Abruptly he was pulled free, free of the wheel, free of
the ropes that burned his wrists. He was tugged onward
by the spark, and could not understand how escape could
be accomplished so easily ... until he looked back.

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

469

A body hung on the slowly circling rim, a naked white-
skinned form sagging in the ropes. Flame-hued hair was
sweat-plastered on its brow. Chin sagged on chest.

Who is that? Simon wondered briefly ... but he knew
the answer. He viewed his own form with dispassion. So
that's what I looked like? But there's nothing left in it-it's
like an empty jar.

The thought came to him suddenly. I'm dead.

But if that was so, why could he still dimly feel the
ropes, still feel his arms yanked to the straining length of
their sockets? Why did he seem to be both in and out of
his body?

The light moved before him again, summoning, beckon-
ing. Without will, Simon followed. Like wind in a long
daric chimney, they moved together through chaotic shad-
ows; almost-things brushed at him and passed through him.
His connection to the body hanging upon the wheel grew
more tenuous. He felt the candle of his being flickering.

"/ don't want to lose me! Let me go back!"

But the spark that led him flew on.

Swirling darkness blossomed into light and color, then
gradually took on the shapes of real things. Simon was at
me mouth of the great sluice that -turned the water wheel,
watching the dark water tumble down into the depths below
the castle, headed for the foundry. Next he saw the silent
pool in the deserted halls of Asu'a. Water trickled down
into the pool through the cracks in the ceiling. The mists
mat floated above the wide tarn pulsed with life, as though
mis water was somehow revivifying something that had
long been almost lifeless. Could that be what the flickering
light was trying to show him? That water from the forge
had filled the Sithi pool? That it was coming to life again?

Other images flowed past He saw the dark shape that
grew at me base of me massive stairwell in Asu'a, the tree-
thing he had almost touched, whose alien thoughts he had
felt. The stairway itself was a spiraling pipe that led from me
roots of me breathing tree up to Green Angel Tower itself.

As he thought of the tower, he abruptly found himself
staring at its pinnacle, which reared like a vast white tooth.
Snow was falling and the sky was thick with clouds, but

4?o

Tad Williams

somehow Simon could see through them to the night sky
beyond. Hovering low in the northern darkness was a fiery
ember with a tiny smear of tail-the Conqueror Star.

"Why have you brought me here, to all these places?"
Simon asked. The spot of light hovered before him as
though listening. "What does this mean?"

There was no answer. Instead, something cold splashed
against his face-
Simon opened his eyes, suddenly very much an inhab-
itant of his painful flesh once more. A distorted shape
hung upside down from the ceiling, piping like a bat.

No. It was one of Inch's henchmen, and Simon himself
was hanging head-down at the lowest point of the wheel's
revolution, listening to the axle squeak. The henchman
turned another dipper full of water over Simon's face,
pouring only a little of it into his mouth. He gasped and
choked, trying to swallow, then licked his chin and lips.
As Simon began his upward turn, the man walked away
without a word. Little drops ran down from Simon's head
and hair, and for a while he was too busy trying to catch
and swallow them before they dripped away to wonder at
his strange vision. It was only when the wheel brought
him down the other side again that he could think.
What did that mean? It was hard to hold a coherent
thought against the fire in his joints- What was that glow-
ing thing, what was it trying to show me? Or was it just
more madness?

Simon had experienced many strange dreams since Inch
had left him-visions of despair and exaltation, scenes of
impossible victory over his enemies and of his friends suf-
fering dreadful fates, but he had also dreamed of far less
meaningful things. The voices he had heard in the tunnels
had returned, sometimes as a faint babble barely audible
above the splashing and groaning of the wheel, other times
clear as someone whispering in his ear, snatches of speech
that always seemed just tantalizingly beyond his compre-
hension. He was beset by fantasies, dizzy as a storm-
battered bird. So why should this vision be any more real?

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

471

But it felt different. Like the difference between wind on
your skin and someone touching you.

Simon clung to the memory. After all, it was something
to think about, something beside the horrible gnawing in
his stomach and fire in his limbs.

What did I see? That the pool down below the castle is
alive again, filled up by the water that's splashing right
under this wheel? The pool! Why didn't I think of it be-
fore? Jiriki-no, Aditu-said that there was something in
Asu'a called the Pool of Three Depths, a Master Witness.
That must be what I saw down there. Saw? I drank from
it! But what does that matter, even if it's true? He strug-
gled with his thoughts. Green Angel Tower, that tree, the
pool-are they all linked somehow?

He remembered his dreams of the White Tree, dreams
that had plagued him for a long time. At first he had
thought it was the Uduntree on frozen Yijarjuk, the great
ice waterfall that had stunned him with its magnificence
and improbability, but he had come to think it had another
meaning as well.

A white tree with no leaves. Green Angel Tower. Is
something going to happen there? But what? He laughed
harshly, surprising himself by the rasping noise-he had
been silent for many, many hours. And what can I do
about it anyway? Tell Inch?

Still, something was happening. The Pool was alive,
and Green Angel Tower was waiting for something ...
and the water wheel kept turning, turning, turning.

/ used to dream about a wheel, too-a great wheel that
spun through Time, that pulled the past up into the light
and pushed everything alive down into the ground ... not
a huge piece of wood paddling dirty water, like this.
Now the wheel was carrying him down once more, tip-
ping him so that the blood again rushed to his head and
made his temples pound.

What did the angel tell me in that other dream? He gri-
maced and choked back a cry. The pain as it moved to his
legs felt like someone jabbing him with long needles.
"Go deeper," she said. "Go deeper."

4?2 Tad Williams

Time's walls began to crumble around Simon, as
though the wheel that carried him, like the wheel that had
haunted his dreams, plunged directly through the fabric of
the living moment, pushing it down into the past and
dredging up old history to spill across the present. The
castle below him, Asu'a the Great, dead for five centu-
ries, had become as real as the Hayholt above. The deeds
of those who were gone-or those like Ineluki who had
died but still would not go-were as vital as those of liv-
ing men and women. And Simon himself was spun be-
tween them, a bit of tattered skin and bone caught on the
wheel-rim of Eternity, dragged without his consent
through the haunted present and the undying past.

Something was touching his face. Simon surfaced from
delirium to feel fingers trailing across his cheek; they
caught in his hair for a moment, then slid free as the
wheel pulled him away. He opened his eyes, but either he
could not see or the torches in the chamber had all been
extinguished-

"What are you?" asked a quavering voice. It was just to
one side, but he was moving away from it. "I hear you
cry out. Your voice is not like the others. And I can feel
you. What are you?"

The inside of Simon's mouth was swollen so that he
could barely breathe. He tried to speak, but nothing came
out except a soft gargle of noise.

"What are you?"

Simon   struggled to answer, wondering even as he did
so if   this was another dream. But none of those, for all
their   rustlingly intrusive presence, had touched him with
solid   flesh.

An eternity of time seemed to pass as he made his way
to the top of the wheel where the great chains sawed nois-
ily upward, then began his downward turn again. By the
time he reached the bottom he had worked up enough spit
for something close to speech, although the effort tore at
his aching throat.

"Help ... me ..."

TO   GREEN     ANGEL   TOWER
473

But if someone was there, they did not speak or touch
him again. His circle continued, uninterrupted. In dark-
ness, alone, he wept without tears.

The wheel turned. Simon turned with it- Occasionally
water splashed on his face and trickled into his mouth.
^ Like the Pool of Three Depths, he thirstily absorbed it to
fi keep the spark inside him alive. Shadows flitted through
his mind. Voices hissed in the porch of his ear. His
thoughts seemed to know no boundary, but at the same
time he was trapped in the shell of his tormented, dying
body. He began to yeam for release.
The wheel turned. Simon turned with it.

He stared into a grayness without form, an infinite dis-
tance that seemed somehow near enough to touch. A fig-
ure hovered there, faintly glimmering, gray-green as
dying leaves-the angel from the tower-top.

"Simon," the angel said. "/ have things to show you."
f Even in his thoughts, Simon could not form the words
'. to question her.

"Come. There is not much time."
Together they passed through -things, moving cross-
ways to another place. Like a fog evaporated by strong
&un, the grayness wavered and melted away, and Simon
found himself watching something he had seen before, al-

-f though he could not say where. A young man with golden
fhair moved carefully down a tunnel. In one hand was a
torch, in the other a spear.

. Simon looked for the angel, but there was only the man
". with the spear and his stance of fearfully poised expecta-
tion. Who was he? Why was Simon being shown this vi-
sion? Was it the past? The present? Was it someone
SsComing to rescue him?

^ The stealthy figure moved forward. The tunnel wid-
ened, and the torchlight picked out the carvings of vines
and flowers that twined on the walls. Whenever this

•: might be, the past, future, or present, Simon now felt sure
that he knew where it was happening-in Asu'a, in the
; depths below the Hayholt.

474

Tad Williams

The man stopped abruptly, then took a step backward,
raising his spear. His light fell upon a shape that bulked
huge in the chamber before him, the torch-glare glittering
on a thousand red scales. An immense clawed foot lay
only a few paces from the archway in which the spearman
stood, the talons knives of yellow bone.
"Now look. Here is a part of your own story...,."
But even as the angel spoke, the scene faded abruptly.

Simon awoke to feel a hand on his face and water run-
ning between his lips. He choked and spluttered, but at
the same time did his best to swallow every life-
preserving drop.

"You are a man," a voice said. "You are real."

Another draught of water was poured over his face and
into his mouth. It was hard to swallow while dangling
downside-up, but Simon had learned in his hours on the
wheel.

"Who... ?" he whispered, forcing the word out
through cracked lips. The hand traced across his features,
delicate as an inquisitive spider.

"Who am I?" the voice asked. "I am the one who is
here. In this place. I mean."

Simon's eyes widened. Somewhere in another chamber
a torch sdll burned, and he could see the silhouette before
him-the silhouette of a real person, a man, not a mur-
muring shadow. But even as he stared, the wheel drew
him up again. He felt sure that when he came back around
mis living creature would be gone, leaving him alone
once more.

"Who am I?" the man pondered. "I had a name, once-
but that was in another place. When I was alive."

Simon could not stand such talk. All he wanted was a
person, a real person to speak with. He let out a strangled
sob.

"I had a name," the man said, his voice becoming qui-
eter as Simon rotated away. "In that other place, before
everything happened. They called me Guthwulf."

PART TWO

A

Trie
Btaswg Tower

s




21

Tfie FrigAtened' Ones

*

Mirumiefe OWafoietf slowly into darkness. She was
moving, but not of her own power, carried by somebody
or something as though she were a bundle of clothing.
The cloying sweetness was still in her nose. Her thoughts
were muddy and slow.

What happened? Binabik was fighting that terrible
grinning man....

She dimly remembered being grasped and pulled back
into darkness. She was a prisoner ... but of whom? Her
father? Or worse ... far worse ... Pryrates?

Miriamele kicked experimentally, but her legs were
firmly held, restrained by something less painful than
ropes or chains, but no more yielding; her arms were also
pinioned. She was helpless as a child.

"Let me go!" she cried, knowing it was useless, but un-
able to restrain her frustration. Her voice was muffled: the
sack, or whatever it was, still covered her face.

Whoever held her did not reply; the bumpy progress
did not slow. Miriamele struggled a bit longer, then gave
up.

She had been drifting in a half-sleep when whoever
carried her stopped. She was set down with surprising
gentleness, then the sack was carefully lifted from her
head.

At first the light, though dim, hurt her eyes. Dark fig-
ures stood before her, one leaning so close that at first she
did not recognize the silhouetted shape as a head. As her

4?8

Tad Williams

eyes adjusted, she gasped and scrambled backward until
hard stone halted her. She was surrounded by monsters.

The nearest creature flinched, startled by her sudden
movement. Like its fellows, it was more or less man-
like, but it had huge dark eyes with no whites, and its
gaunt, lantern-jawed head bobbed on the end of a slender
neck. It reached out a long-fingered hand toward her,       ^
then drew it back as though it feared she would bite.'It        |
said a few words in a tongue that sounded something like        *
Hemystiri. Miriamele stared back in horrified incompre-
hension. The creature tried again, this time in halting,
oddly-accented Westeriing,

"Have we brought harm to you?" The spidery creature
seemed genuinely worried. "Please, are you well? Is there
aught we can give to you?"

Miriamele gaped and tried to slide out of the thing's
reach. It did not seem inclined to hurt her-at least not
yet. "Some water," she said at last. "Who are you?"
"Yis-fidri am I," the creature replied. "These others are
my fellows, and that is my mate Yis-hadra."                   ^

"But what are you?" Miriamele wondered if the seem-     1|
ing kindness of these creatures could be a trick of some          |.
sort. She tried to look unobtrusively for her knife, which
was no longer sheathed at her waist; as she did so, she
took in her surroundings for the first time. She was in a
cavern, featureless but for the rough surface of the rock.
It was dimly illuminated, all glowing pink, but she could              ^
see no source for the light. A few paces away, the packs      §
she and Binabik had carried lay beside the cavern wall.
There were things inside them she could use as a weapon
if she had to....

"What are we?" The one called Yis-fidri nodded sol-
emnly. "We are the last of our people, or at least the last
who have chosen this way, the Way of Stone and Earth."
The other creatures made a musical sound of regret, as
though this meaningless remark had great significance.
"Your people have known us as dwarrows,"

"Dwarrows!" Miriamele could not have been more sur-
prised had Yis-fidri announced they were angels.
Dwarrows were creatures of folktale, goblins who lived in

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                         479

the earth. Still, as unbelievable as it seemed, they stood
here before her. And more, there was something almost
familiar in Yis-fidri's manner, as though she had known
him or someone like him before. "Dwarrows," she re-
peated. She felt a terrified laugh bubbling inside her. "Yet
another story springs to life." She sat up straighter, trying
to hide her fright. "If you mean me no harm, then take me
back to my friend. He is in danger."

The saucer-eyed creature looked mournful. He made a
melodious sound and one of the other dwarrows stepped
forward with a stone bowl. 'Take of this and drink. It is
water, as you asked."

Miriamele sniffed at it suspiciously for a moment, then
realized that if they could bring her here so easily the
dwarrows had little need to poison her. She drank, savor-
ing the feel of the chill, clean water on her dry throat.
"Will you take me back to him?" she asked again when
she had finished.

The dwarrows looked nervously at each other, heads
wavering like poppies in a windy field. "Please, mortal
woman, ask not for that," Yis-fidri said at last. "You were
in a perilous place-more perilous than you can know-
and you carried something there which you should not
have. The balance is exceeding delicate." The words
sounded stilted and almost comical, but his reluctance
was very clear.

"Perilous!?" A spark of indignation kindled. "What
right do you have to snatch me away from my friend? I
will decide what is perilous for me!"

He shook his head. "Not for you-or not for you only.
Dreadful things are in the balance, and that place ... it is
not good." He seemed very uncomfortable, and the other
dwarrows swayed a little behind him, humming nervously
to themselves. Despite her unhappiness, Miriamele almost
laughed at the odd spectacle. "We cannot let you go there.
We are deeply sorry. Some of our number will return and
look for your friend."

"Why didn't you help him? Why couldn't you bring
him with us if it was so important that we not be there?"

"We were sorely afraid. He did fight with an Unliving

480 Tad Williams

One, or so it seemed. And the balance is very delicate
there."

"What does that mean?'" Miriamele stood up, for a
moment more angry than fearful. "You cannot do this!"
She began to edge toward a shadowy place on the cavern
wall that she thought might be a tunnel mouth. Yis-fidri
reached out and caught at her wrist. His thin fingers were
callused and hard as stone. There was deceptive strength,
great strength, in this slender dwarrow.

"Please, mortal woman. We will tell you all that we are
able. Content yourself for now to stay with us. We will
seek for your friend."

She struggled, but it was hopeless. She might have
been pulling against the weight of the earth.

"So," she said at last. Fright was turning to hopeless-
ness. "I have no choice. Tell me what you know, then.
But if Binabik is hurt because of what you've done, I'll
... 1*11 find a way to punish you, whoever you are. I
will."

Yis-fidri hung his great head like a dog being scolded.
"It is not our wont to force others against their will. We
have ourselves suffered too much at the hands of bad
masters."

"If I must be your prisoner, at least call me by my
name. I'm Miriamele."

"Miriamele, then." Yis-fidri let go of her arm. "Forgive
us, Miriamele, or at least judge us not until all we have to
say is heard."

She lifted the bowl and took another drink, "Tell me,
then."

The dwarrow looked around at his fellows, at the circle
of huge dark eyes, then began to talk.
*

"And how is Maegwin?" Isorn asked. His bandage
gave him a strange, swollen-headed appearance. Icy air
crept past the tent flap to ripple the flames of the small
fire.

"I had thought she might be coming back to us," Eolair

TO   GREEN   ANOEL   TOWER                             481

sighed. "Last night she began to move a little and take
deeper breaths. She even spoke a few words, but they
were whispered. I could make no sense of them."

"But that is good news! Why are you so long-faced?"

"The Sitha woman came to see her. She said it was like
a fever-that sometimes the sufferer comes near to the
surface, like a drowning man coming up for air one last
time, but that does not mean ..." Eolair's voice shook.
He made an effort to control himself. "The healer said
that she was still just as close to death, if not closer."

"And you believe the Sitha?"

"It is not an illness of the flesh, Isom," the count said
quietly- "It is a wound to her soul, which was already
damaged. You saw her in the last weeks." He twined his
fingers, then untwined them. "And the Sithi know more
of these things than we do. Whatever happened to
Maegwin left no marks, no broken bones or bleeding cuts.
Give thanks that your own injury is something that can be
mended."

"I do, by my faith." The young Rimmersman frowned.
"Ah, Merciful Usires, Eolair, that is more grim news,
then. And is there nothing anyone can do?"

The count shrugged. *tThe healer says it is beyond her
powers. She can work only to make Maegwin comfort-
able."

"A cursed fate for such a good woman. Lluth's family
is haunted somehow."

"No one would have said so before this year." Eolair
bit his lip before continuing. His own sorrow grew until
it seemed it must escape or kill him. "But, Murhagh's
Shield, Isom, no wonder that Maegwin sought the gods!
How could she not think they had deserted us? Her father
killed, her brother tortured and hacked to pieces, her peo-
ple driven into exile?" He fought for a breath. ^My peo-
ple! And now poor Maegwin, maddened and then left
dying in the snows of Naglimund. It is more than the ab-
sence of the gods-it is as though the gods were deter-
mined to punish us."

Isorn made the sign of the Tree. "We can never know
482

Tad Williams

what Heaven plans, Eolair. Perhaps there are greater de-
signs for Maegwin than we can understand."

"Perhaps." Eolair pushed down his anger. It was not
Isom's fault that Maegwin was slipping away, and every-
thing he said was kind and sensible. But the Count of Nad
Mullach did not want kindness and sense. He wanted to
howl like a Frostmarch wolf. "Ah, Cuamh bite me, Isom,
you should see her' When she is not lying still as death,
her face stretches in terror, and her hands clutch," he
raised his own hands, fingers curled, "like this, as if she
sought something to save her." Eolair slapped his palms
against his knees in frustration. "She needs something,
and I cannot give it to her. She is lost, and I cannot find
her to bring her back!" He gasped raggedly.

Isom stared at his friend. The light of understanding
kindled in his eyes. "Oh, Eolair. Do you love her?"

"I don't know!" The count put his hands to his face for
a moment before continuing. "I thought once I might be
coming to it, but then she turned harsh and cold to me,
pushing me away whenever she could. But when the mad-
ness came over her, she told me that she had loved me
since she was a child. She was certain I would scom her,
and did not like to be pitied, so she kept me ever at bay
so I would not discover the truth."

"Mother of Mercy," Isom breathed. He reached out his
freckled hand and grasped Eolair's. The count felt the
broad strength of the contact and held on for a long mo-
ment.

"Life is already a confounding maze without wars be-
tween immortals and such. Ah, gods, Isorn, will we never
have peace?"

"Someday," said the Rimmersman. "Someday we
must."

Eolair gave his friend's hand a parting squeeze before
he let it go. "Jiriki said the Sithi plan to leave within two
days. Will you go with them, or back to Hemystir with
me?"

"I am not sure. The way my head feels, I cannot ride
at anything like speed."

TO    GREEN    ANGEL   TOWER

483

"Then go with me," the count said as he rose. "We are
in no hurry, now."

"Be well, Eolair."
"And you. If you like, I'll come back later with some
of that Sithi wine. It would do you miles of good, and
take the sting of that wound away."

"It will take more than that away," Isom laughed. "My
wits will go, too. But I do not care. I am going nowhere,
and am expected to do nothing. Bring the wine when you
can."

Eolair patted the younger man's shoulder, then pushed
out through the door flap into the biting wind.

As he reached the place where Maegwin lay, he was
struck again by the power of Sithi craft. Isom's small tent
was well-made and sturdy, but cold air crept in on all
sides and melting snow seeped through at the base.
Maegwin's tent was of Sithi make, since Jiriki had wished
her to rest in as much comfort as she could, and though
its glistening cloth was so thin as to be translucent, step-
ping across the threshold was like walking into a well-
built house. The storm that gripped Naglimund could
have been leagues away.

But why should that be so, Eolair wondered, when the
Sithi themselves seemed almost unaware of cold or
damp?

Kira'athu looked up as Eolair entered- Maegwin,
stretched out on the pallet beneath a thin blanket, was
moving restlessly, but her eyes were still closed and the
deathlike pallor had not left her face,

"Any change?" Eolair asked, knowing the answer al-
ready.

The Sitha gave a small, sinuous shrug. "She is fighting,
but I do not think she has the strength to break the grip of
whatever has her." The Sitha seemed emotionless, her
golden eyes unrevealing as a cat's, but the count knew
how much time she spent at Maegwin's side. They were
just different, these immortals; it was senseless trying to
judge them by their faces and even voices. "Has she spo-
ken any words to you?" Kira'athu asked suddenly.

484

Tad Williams

Eolair watched as Maegwin's fingers clawed at the
blanket, scrabbling for something that was not there. "She
has spoken, yes, but I could not hear her well. And what
I did hear was only babble- There were no words in it I
recognized."

The Sitha raised a silvery eyebrow. "I thought I
heard ..." She turned to look at her ward, whose mouth
now moved soundlessly.

"Thought you heard what?"
"The speech of the Garden." Kira'athu spread her
hands, curving the fingers to meet the thumbs. "What you
would call Sithi speech."

"It is possible that she learned some in the time we
have all traveled and fought together." Eolair moved
closer. It tugged at his heart to see Maegwin's hands
searching restlessly.

"It is possible," the healer agreed. "But it seemed spo-
ken as the Zida'ya would speak it ... almost."

"What do you mean?" Eolair was confused and more
than a little irritated.

Kira'athu rose. "Forgive me. I should speak to Jiriki
and Likimeya about it rather than trouble you. And it
matters little, in any case, I think. I am sorry, Count
Eolair. I wish I could give you happier news."

He sat down on the ground at Maegwin's side. "It is
not your fault. You have been very kind." He reached out
his hand so Maegwin could grip it, but her cold fingers
moved skittishly away. "Bagba bite me, what does she
want?"

"Is there something she usually carries with her or
wears about her neck?" Kira'athu asked. "Some amulet or
other thing that gives her comfort?"

"I can think of nothing like that. Perhaps she needs wa-
ter."

The Sitha shook her head. "I have given her to drink."

Eolair leaned down and began fumbling absently in the
saddlebags that contained the strew of Maegwin's belong-
ings. He took out a scarf of warm wool and pressed it into
her hands, but Maegwin only held it a moment before

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

485

pushing it away. Her hands began to search again as she
murmured wordlessly in her throat.

Desperate to give Maegwin some kind of comfort, he
began to pull other things out of the bags, placing them
one at a time beneath her fingers-a bowl, a wooden bird
that had apparently come from the Taig's Hall of Carv-
ings, even the hilt of a sheathed knife. Eolair was not very
happy to find this last. Afraid that with her mind clouded
she might do herself an injury, he had forbidden her to
bring it from Hemysadharc. Maegwin had apparently
flouted his orders. But none of these things, nor the other
small objects he gave to her, seemed to soothe her. She
pushed them away, the movements of her hands angry
and abrupt as a small child's, although her face was still
empty.

His fingers closed on something heavy. He lifted it out
and stared at the chunk of cloudy stone.

"What is that?" Kira'athu was surprisingly sharp.

"It was a gift from the dwarrows." He lifted it so she
could see its face. "See, Yis-fidri carved Maegwin's name
upon it-or so he told me."

Kira'athu took the stone from him and turned it in her
slender fingers. "That is indeed her name. Those are the
craft-runes of the Tinukeda'ya. Dwarrows, do you say?"

Eolair nodded. "I led Jiriki to their place in the earth,
Mezutu'a." He took the stone back and held it, weighing
it, watching the firelight become confused in its depths.
"I did not know she had this with her."

Maegwin suddenly moaned, a deep sound that made
the count flinch. He turned hurriedly to the bed- She
made another sound which seemed to have words in it.

"Lost," Kira'athu murmured, moving closer.

Eolair's heart clenched. "What do you mean?"

"That is what she said. She is speaking in the Garden-
tongue,"

The count stared at Maegwin's furrowed brow. Her
mouth moved again, but no sound came but a wordless
hiss; her hqad whipped from side to side upon the pillow.
Suddenly, her hands reached out and scrabbled at
Eolair's. When he released the stone to take them, she

486 Tad Williams

snatched it from him and pulled it against^her breasts. Her
feverish writhing subsided and she fell silent. Her eyes
were still closed, but she seemed to have fallen back into
a more peaceful sleep.

Eolair watched, dumbfounded. Kira'athu bent over her
and touched her brow, then smelled her breath.

"Is she well?" the count asked finally.

"She is no closer to us. But she has found a little rest
for a while. I think that stone was what she sought."

"But why?"

"I do not know. I will speak to Likimeya and her son,
and anyone else who might have some knowledge. But it
changes nothing, Eolair. She is the same. Still, perhaps
where she walks, on the Dream Road or elsewhere, she is
less afraid. That is something."
She pulled the blanket up over Maegwin's hands,
which now clasped the dwarrow-stone as though it were
a part of her.

"You should rest yourself. Count Eolair." The Sitha
moved to the doorway. "You will be no good to her if you
fall ill as well."

A breath of cold air moved through the tent as the flap
opened and closed.

*

Isgrimnur watched Lector Velligis leave the throne
room. The huge man's litter was carried by eight grimac-
ing guards, and was led out, as it had been led in, by a
procession of priests bearing sacred objects and smoking
censers. Isgrimnur thought they resembled a traveling fair
on its way to a new village. Spared kneeling by his inju-
ries, he had watched the new lector's performance from a
chair against the wall.

Camaris, for all his noble look, appeared uncomfort-
able on the high ducal throne. Josua, who had kneeled be-
side the chair while Lector Velligis offered his blessing,
now rose.

"So." The prince dusted his knees with his hand.
"Mother Church recognizes our victory."

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              487

"What choice did Mother Church have?" Isgrimnur
growled. "We won. Velligis is one of those who always
puts his money on the favorite-any favorite."

"He is the lector. Duke Isgrimnur," said Camaris
sternly. "He is God's minister on earth."

"Camaris is right. Whatever he was before, he has been
elevated to the Seat of the Highest. He deserves our re-
spect."

Isgrimnur made a noise of disgust. "I'm old and I hurt
and I know what I know. I can respect the Seat without
loving the man. Did taking the Dragonbone Chair make
your brother a good king?"

"No one ever claimed a kingship made its possessor in-
fallible."

'Try telling that to most kings," snorted Isgrimnur.

"Please." Camaris raised his hand. "No more. This is a
wearisome day, and there is more yet to be done."

Isgrimnur looked at the old knight. He did look tired, in
a way that the duke had never seen. It would have seemed
that freeing Nabban from his brother's killer should have
brought Camaris joy, but instead it seemed to have sapped
the life from him.

It's as if he knows he's done one of the things he's
meant to do-but only one. He wants to rest. but he can't
yet. The duke thought he finally understood. I've won-
dered why he was so strange, so distant. He does not wish
to live. He is only here because he believes God wishes
him to finish the tasks before him. Clearly any ques-
tioning of God's will, even the infallibility of the lector,
was difficult for Camaris. He thinks of himself as a dead
man. Isgrimnur suppressed a shudder. It was one thing to
yeam for rest, for release, but another to feel that one was
already dead. The duke wondered momentarily whether
Camaris might, more than any of them, understand the
Storm King.

"Very well," Josua was saying. 'There is one person
left we must see. I will speak to him, Camaris, if you do
not mind. I have been thinking about this for some time."

The old knight waved his hand, uncaring. His eyes
were like ice chips beneath his thick brows.

488 Tad Williams

Josua signaled a page and the doors were thrown open.
As Count Streawe's litter was earned in, Isgrimnur sat
back and picked up the mug of beer he had hidden behind
his chair. He took a long sip. Outside it was afternoon,
but the chamber's ceiling-high windows were barred
against the storm that lashed the seas beneath the palace,
and torches burned in the wall sconces. Isgrimnur knew
that the room was painted in delicate colors of sea and
sand and sky, but in the torchlight all was muddy and in-
distinct.

Streawe was lifted from his litter and his chair was set
down at the base of the throne. The count smiled and
bowed his head. "Duke Camaris. Welcome back to your
rightful home. You have been missed, my lord." He swiv-
eled his white head. "And Prince Josua and Duke
Isgrimnur. I am honored that you have summoned me.
This is noble company."

"I am not a duke, Count Streawe," said Camaris. "I
have taken no title, but only revenged my brother's
death."

Josua stepped forward. "Do not mistake his modesty,
Count. Camaris does rule here."

Streawe's smile broadened, deepening the wrinkles
around his eyes. Isgrimnur thought he looked like the
most grandfatherly grandfather that God ever made. He
wondered if the count practiced before a looking glass. "I
am glad you took my advice. Prince Josua. As you see,
there were indeed many folk unhappy with Benigaris'
rule. Now there is joy in Nabban. As I came up from the
docks, people were dancing in the public square."
Josua shrugged. "That is more to do with the fact that
Baron Seriddan and the others have sent their troops into
the town with money to spend. This city did not suffer
much because of Benigaris, difficult as times are. Patri-
cide or no, he seems to have ruled fairly well."

The count eyed him for a moment, then appeared to de-
cide a different approach was warranted. Isgrimnur found
himself enjoying the show. "No," Streawe said slowly,
"you are correct there. But people know, don't you think?
There was a sense that things were not right, and many

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          489

rumors that Benigaris had slain his father-your dear
brother. Sir Camaris-to achieve the throne. There were
problems that were certainly not all Benigaris' fault, but
there was also much unrest."

"Unrest which you and Pryrates both helped to kindle,
then fanned the flames."

Perdruin's ruler looked genuinely shocked. "You link
me with Pryrates'?" For a moment his courtly mask fell
away, showing the angry, iron-willed man beneath. "With
that red-cloaked scum? If I could walk, Josua, we would
cross swords for that."

The prince stared at him coldly for a moment, then his
face softened. "I do not say you and Pryrates worked in
concert, Streawe, but that you each exploited the situation
for your own ends. Very different ends, I'm sure."

"If that is what you meant, then I name myself guilty
and throw myself on the mercy of the throne." The count
seemed mollified. "Yes, I work in the ways I can to pro-
tect my island's interests. I have no armies to speak of,
Josua, and I am always prey to the whims of my neigh-
bors. 'When Nabban rolls over in its sleep,' it is said in
Ansis Pellipe, 'Perdmin falls out of bed.' "

"Well argued. Count," Josua laughed. "And quite true,
as far as it goes. But it is also' said that you are perhaps
the wealthiest man in Osten Ard. A;/ the result of your
vigilance on Perdruin*s behalf?"

Streawe drew himself up straighter. "What I have is
none of your business. I understood you sought me as an
ally, not to insult me."

"Spare me your false dignity, my good Count. I find it
hard to believe that calling you wealthy is an insult. But
you are right about one thing: we wish to speak with you
about certain matters of mutual interest."

The count bobbed his head solemnly. "That is better to
hear. Prince Josua. You know that I support you-
remember the note I sent with my man Lenti!-and I am
anxious to speak about ways that I can help you."
"That we can help each other, you mean." Josua raised
his hand to still Streawe's protest. "Please, Count, let us
avoid the usual dancing. I am in a fierce hurry. There, I

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have given up a bargaining token already by telling you
so. Now please do not waste our time with false protesta-
tions of this or that."

The old man's lips pursed and his eyes narrowed.
"Very well, Josua. I find myself oddly interested. What

do you want?"

"Ships. And sailors to man them. Enough to ferry our

armies to Erkynland."

Surprised, Streawe waited a moment before replying.
"You intend to set sail for Erkynland now? After fighting
fiercely for weeks to take Nabban, and with the worst
storm in years sweeping down on us out of the north even
as we speak?" He gestured toward the shuttered windows;

outside, the wind wailed across the Sancelline Hill. "It
was so cold last night that the water froze in the Hall of
Fountains. The Clavean Bell barely rang over God's
house, it was so icy. And you wish to go to sea?"

Isgrimnur felt a clutch of shock at the count's mention
of the bell. Josua turned for a moment and caught the
Rimmersman's eye, warning him not to speak- Obviously
he, too, remembered Nisses' prophetic poem.

"Yes, Streawe," said the prince. "There are storms and
storms. We must brave some to survive others. I will take
ship as soon as I can."

The count lifted his hands, showing open, empty
palms. "Very well, you know your own business. But
what would you have me do? Perdruin's ships are not
warships, and they are all at sea. Surely Nabban's great
fleet is what you need, not my trading vessels." He ges-
tured to the throne. "Camaris is master of the Kingfisher

House now."

"But you are master of the docks," Josua replied. "As
Benigaris said, he thought you were his prisoner, but all
the time you were gnawing him away from within. Did
you use some of that gold they say fills the catacombs be-
low your house on Sta Mirore? Or something more
subtle-rumors, stories-.. ?" He shook his head. "It mat-
ters not. The thing is, Streawe, you can help us or hinder
us- I wish to discuss with you your price, whether in
power or gold. There is provisioning to do as well. I want
TO    GREEN    ANGEL   TOWER                           491

those ships loaded and on their way in seven days or
less."

"Seven days?" The count showed surprise for the sec-
ond time. "That will not be easy. And you have heard
about the kilpa, have you not? They are running like
quinis-fish-but quinis-fish do not pull sailors over the
rails and eat them. Men are reluctant to go to sea in these
dark days."

"So we have started the bargaining?" Josua asked.
"Granted and granted. Times are difficult. What do you
want, power or gold?"

Abruptly, Streawe laughed. "Yes, we have started bar-
gaining. But you underestimate me, Josua, or you under-
value your own coffers. You have something that might
be more use to me than either gold or power-something
that in fact brings both in its train."

"And what is that?"

The count leaned forward. "Knowledge." He sat up, a
slow smile spreading across his face. "So now I have
given you a bargaining token in return for your earlier
gift." The count rubbed his hands in barely restrained en-
joyment. "Let us speak in earnest, then."

H,      Isgrimnur groaned softly as Josua sat down beside
.'    Perdruin's master. Despite the prince's stated hurry, it was
;    indeed going to be a complicated dance- This was clearly
something Streawe enjoyed too much to do quickly, and
something Josua took too seriously to be rushed through.
Isgrimnur turned to look at Camaris, who had been silent
during the whole discussion. The old knight was staring
at the shuttered windows as if they were an intricately ab-
sorbing picture, his chin resting on his hand. Isgrimnur
made another noise of pain and reached for his beer. He
sensed a long evening ahead.

"

Miriamele's fear of the dwarrows was dwindling. She
was beginning to remember what Simon and others had
told her of Count Eolair's journey to Sesuad'ra. The
count had met dwarrows-he called them domhaini-in

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the mines below Hernystir's mountains. He had called
them friendly and peaceful, and that seemed to be true:

except for snatching her from the stairs, they had not
harmed her. But they still would not let her go.

"Here." She gestured to the saddlebags. "If you are so
certain that something I am carrying is harmful, or dan-
gerous, or ... or whatever, search for yourselves."

As the dwarrows conferred in anxious, chiming voices,
Miriamele considered escape. She wondered if dwarrows
ever slept. But where had they brought her? How could
she find her way out, and where would she go then? At
least she still had the maps, although she doubted she
could read them as efficiently as Binabik had.

Where was Binabik? Was he alive? She felt almost ill
as she remembered the grinning thing that had attacked
the troll. Another friend was lost somewhere in the shad-
ows. The little man had been right-this had been a fool-
ish journey. Her own stubbornness had perhaps brought
death to her two closest friends. How could she live with
that knowledge?

By the time the dwarrows had finished their discussion,
Miriamele did not much care what they had decided.
Gloom had settled on her, sapping her strength.

"We will search among your possessions, by your
leave," Tis-fidri said. "In respect of your customs, my
wife Tis-hadra only will touch them."

Miriamele was bemused by the dwarrow's circumspec-
tion. What did they think she had brought down into the
earth, the dainty small-clothes of a castle-dwelling prin-
cess? Tiny, fragile keepsakes? Scented notes from admir-
ers?

Yls-hadra approached timidly and began to examine the
contents of the saddlebags. Her husband came and
kneeled beside Miriamele. "We are sorely grieved that
things should be thus. It is truly not our way-never have
we pressed our will by force on another. Never." He
seemed desperate to convince her.

"I still do not understand the danger you fear."

"It was the place you and your two companions
walked. It is ... it is-there are no words that I know in

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

493

mortal tongues to explain." He flexed his long fingers.
"There are ... powers, things which have been sleeping.
Now they awaken. The tower stairwell in which you
climbed is a place where these forces are strong. Every
day they become stronger. We do not yet understand what
is happening, but until we do, nothing must happen which
might upset the balance...."

Miriamele waved for him to stop. "Slowly, Yis-fidri. I
am trying to understand. First of all, that... thing that at-
tacked us on the stairs was not a companion of ours-
Binabik seemed to recognize him, but I have never seen
him before."

Tis-fidri shook his head, agitated. "No, no, Miriamele.
Be not insulted. We know that what your friend fought
was no companion-it was a walking hollowness full of
Unbeing. Perhaps it was a mortal man once. No, I meant
that companion who followed a little behind you."

"Behind us? There were only two of us. Unless ..."
Her heart skipped. Could it have been Simon, searching
for his friends? Had he only been a short distance away
when she had been taken? No, that would be too cruel!

"Then you were followed," Yis-fidri said firmly. "For
good or ill, we cannot say. We Jjist know that three mor-
tals were upon the stairs."

Miriamele shook her head, unable to think about it. Too
much confusion was piled atop too much sorrow.

Yis-hadra made a birdlike sound. Her husband turned.
The she-dwarrow held up Simon's White Arrow.

"Of course," Yis-fidri breathed. The. other dwarrows
leaned closer, watching raptly. "We felt it, but knew it
not." He turned to Miriamele. "It is not our work or we
would know it as verily as you know your own hand at
the end of your arm. But it was made by Vindaomeyo,
one of the Zida'ya to whom we taught our skills and
craft. And see," he reached to take it from his wife, "here
is a piece of one of the Master Witnesses." He pointed to
the cloudy blue-gray arrowhead. "No surprise that we felt
it."

"And carrying it on the stairwell was a danger some-
how?" Miriamele wanted to understand, but terror had

494

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battered her for a long time, and weariness was now pull-
ing at her like an undertow. "How could that be?"

"We will explain if we can. Things are changing- Bal-
ances are delicate. The red stone in the sky speaks to the
stones of the earth, and we Tinukeda'ya hear the voices of
those stones."

"And these stones tell you to snatch people off the
staircase?" She was exhausted. It was hard not to be rude.

"We did not wish to come here," Yis-fidri said gravely.
"Things that happened in our home and elsewhere drove
us ever southward, but when we reached this place
through the old tunnels, we realized that the menace here
is even greater. We cannot go forward, we cannot go
back. But we must understand what is happening so that
we can decide how best to escape it."
"You're going to run away?" Miriamele asked- "That's
why you're doing all these things? To give yourself a
chance to run away?"

"We are not warriors. We are not our once-masters, the
Zida'ya. The way of the Ocean Children has always been
to make do, to survive."

Miriamele shook her head in frustration. They had
trapped her and torn her away from her friend, but only so
they could escape something she did not understand. "Let
me go."

"We cannot, Miriamele. We are sorry."

"Then let me go to sleep." She crawled away toward
the wall of the cavern and curled herself in her cloak. The
dwarrows did not hinder her, but began talking among
themselves again. The sound of their voices, melodious
and incomprehensible as cricket calls, followed her down
into sleep.

22

A Sleeping Dragon

*

Ohy p(ease^ Gody don't let him be gone!

The wheel carried Simon upward. If Guthwulf still
spoke in the darkness below, Simon could not hear him
above the creak of the wheel and the clanking of the
heavy chains.

Guthwulf! Could it be the same man Simon had so of-
ten glimpsed, the High King's Hand with his fierce face?
But he had led the siege against Naglimund, had been one
of King Elias' most powerful friends. What would he be
doing here? It must be someone else. Still, whoever he
was, at least he had a human voice.

"Can you hear me?" Simon croaked as the wheel
brought him down again. Blood, regular as the tide at
evening, was rushing into his head once more.

"Yes," Guthwulf hissed. "Don't speak so loudly. 1 have
heard others here, and I think they would hurt me. They
would take away all I have left."

Simon could see him, a dim, bent figure-but large, as
the King's Hand had been, broad shoulders evident de-
spite his stoop. He held his head in an odd way, as though
it hurt him.

"Can I have ... more water?"

Guthwulf dipped his hands into the sluice beneath the
wheel; as Simon swung low enough to reach, he poured
the water over the prisoner's face. Simon gasped and
begged for more. Guthwulf filled his palms three more
times before Simon rose out of reach. "You are on ... on

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a wheel?" the man said, as though he could not quite be-
lieve it.

His thirst quenched for the first time in days, Simon
wondered at the question. Was he simple-minded? How
could anyone who wasn't blind doubt it was a wheel?

Suddenly Guthwulf's odd way of holding his head
made sense. Blind. Of course. No wonder he had felt at
Simon's face.

"Are you .. . Earl Guthwulf?" Simon asked as the
wheel headed downward again. "The Earl of Utanyeat?"
Remembering what his benefactor had said, he kept his
voice low. He had to repeat the question when he was
nearer.

"I ... think I was." The earl's hands hung limply, drip-
ping. "In another life. Before my eyes were gone. Before
the sword took me. - -."

The sword? Had he been blinded in battle? In a duel?
Simon dismissed the thought: there were more important
things to think about. His belly was full of water, but
nothing else. "Can you bring me food? No, can you free
me? Please!? They are tormenting me, torturing me!" So
many words rasped his tender throat and he broke into a
fit of coughing.

"Free you... ?" Guthwulf sounded distinctly shaken.
"But... you do not wish to be here? I'm sorry, things are     ^
... so different. I have trouble remembering."

He's a madman. The only person who might help me,
and he's mad!

Aloud, he said: "Please. I am suffering. If you don't
help me, I'll die here." A sob choked him. Talking about
it suddenly made it real. "I don't want to die!"

The wheel began to carry him up again.

"I ... could not. The voices will not let me do any-
thing," Guthwulf whispered. 'They tell me that I must go
and hide, or someone will take everything I have from
me." His voice took on a horribly wistfiil tone. "But I
could hear you there, making noises, breathing. I knew
you were a real thing, and I wanted to hear your voice. I
have not spoken to anyone for so long." His words grew

TO    GREEN    ANGEL   TOWER                            407

faint as the wheel took Simon away. "Are you the one
who left me food?"

Simon had no idea what the blind man was talking
about, but heard him hesitating, troubled by Simon's pain.
"I did!" He tried to be heard above the wheel without
shouting. Was the man out of hearing? "I did! I brought
you food!"

Please let him be there when I get back, Simon prayed.
Please let him be there. Please.

As Simon neared the bottom again, Guthwulf reached
out his hand once more and let it trail across Simon's fea-
tures. "You fed me. I do not know. I am afraid. They will
take everything from me. The voices are so loud!" He
shook his shaggy head. "I cannot think now. The voices
are very loud," Abruptly, he turned and lurched away
across the cavern and vanished into the shadows.

"Guthwulf!" Simon cried. "Don't leave me!"

But the blind man was gone.

The touch of a human hand, the sound of a voice, had
awakened Simon to his terrible pain once more. The pass-
ing hours or days or weeks-he had long since given up
trying to mark time-had beguiuo smear into a gradually
increasing nothingness; he had been floating in fog, drift-
ing slowly away from the lights of home. Now he was
back again, and suffering.

The wheel turned. Sometimes, when all the forge
chamber's torches were lit, he saw masked, soot-
blackened men hustling past him, but none ever spoke to
him. Inch's helpers brought him water with excruciating
infrequency, and did not waste words on him when they
did. On a few occasions he even saw the huge overseer
standing silently, watching as the wheel bore Simon
around. Strangely, Inch did not seem interested in gloat-
ing: he came only to inspect Simon's misery, as a house-
holder might pause to mark the progress of his vegetable
garden while on the way to some other duty.

The pain in Simon's limbs and belly was so constant
that he could not remember what it was like to feel any
other way. It rolled through him as though his body were

498

Tad Williams

only a sack to contain it-a sack being tossed from hand
to hand by careless laborers. With each rotation of the
wheel, the pain rushed to Simon's head until it seemed his
skull would burst, then pushed through his empty, aching
guts to lodge in his feet once more, so that it seemed he
stood on blazing coals.

Neither did the hunger go away. It was a gentler com-
panion than the agony of his limbs, but still a dull and un-
ceasing hurt. He could feel himself becoming less with
every revolution-less human, less alive, less interested
into holding onto whatever made him Simon. Only a dim
flame of vengefulness, and an even dimmer spark of hope
that someday he might come home to his friends, kept
him clinging to the remains of his life.

/ am Simon, he told-himself until it was hard to remem-
ber what that meant. / won't let them take that. I am Si-
mon.

The wheel turned. He turned with it.

A

Guthwulf did not return to speak to him. Once, as he
floated in a haze of misery, Simon felt the person who
gave him water touch his face, but he could not move his
lips to make a sound of inquiry. If it was the blind man,
he did not stay.

Even as Simon felt himself shrinking away to nothing-
ness, the forge chamber seemed to grow larger. Like the
vision the glowing speck had shown him, it seemed
opened to the entire world-or rather, it seemed that the
world had collapsed in upon the foundry, so that often Si-
mon felt himself to be in many different places at the
same moment.

He felt himself trapped upon the empty, snow-chilled
heights, burning with the dragon's blood. The scar upon
his face was a searing agony. Something had touched him
there, and changed him. He would never be the same.

Below the forge, but also inside Simon, Asu'a stirred.
The crumbled stone shivered and bloomed anew, gleam-
ing like the walls of Heaven. Whispering shadows be-

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          499

came golden-eyed, laughing ghosts. Ghosts become Sithi,
hot with life. Music as delicately beautiful as dew-spotted
spiderwebs stretched through the resurrected halls.

A great red streak climbed into the sky above Green
Angel Tower. The heavens surrounded it, but the other
stars seemed only timid witnesses.

And a great storm rolled down out of the north, a
whirling blackness that vomited wind and lightning and
turned everything beneath it to ice, leaving only dead, si-
lent whiteness in its wake.

Like a man floundering in a whirlpool, Simon felt him-
self at the center of powerful currents with no strength to
alter them- He was a prisoner of the wheel. The world
was turning toward some mighty, calamitous change, but
Simon could not even lift his hand to his burning face.

"
"Simon."

The fog was so thick he could not see. Gray blankness
surrounded him. Who called him? Couldn't they see he
needed to sleep? If he waited, the voice would go away.
Everyone went away if he waited long enough.

"Simon." The voice was insistent.

He did not want voices any more. He wanted nothing
except to go back to sleep, a dreamless, endless sleep....

"Simon. Look at me."

Something was moving in the grayness. He did not
care. Why couldn't the voice leave him be? "Go away."

"Look at me, Simon. See me, Simon. You must reach
out."

He tried to shut out the troubling presence, but some-
thing inside him had been awakened by its voice. He
looked into the emptiness.

"Can you see me?"

"No. I want to sleep."

"Not yet, Simon. There are things you must do. You will
have your rest someday-but not today. Please, Simon,
look!"

The moving something took on a more definite form. A

500 Tad Williams

face, sad and beautiful, yet lifeless, hovered before him.
Something like wings or flowing garments moved around
it, barely distinct from the gray.

"Do you see me?"

"Yes."

"Who am I?"

"You're the angel. From the tower."

"No. But that doesn't matter." The angel moved closer.
Simon could see the discolorations on her weathered
bronze skin. "/ suppose it is good you can see me at all.
I have been waiting for you to come close enough. I hope
. you can still get back."

"I don't understand." The words were too difficult. He
wanted only to let go, to float back into uncaring, to
sleep. -..

"You must understand, Simon. You must. There are
many things I must show you, and I have only a little time
left."

"Show me?"

"Things are different here. I cannot simply tell you.
This place is not like the world."

"This place?" He labored to make sense. "What place
is this?"

"It is ... beyond. There is no other word."

A faint memory came to him. "The Dream Road?"

"Not exactly: that road travels along the edge of these
fields, and even to the borders of the place where I will
soon go. But enough of this. We have little time." The an-
gel seemed to float away from him. "Follow me."

"I... I can't."

"You did before. Follow me."

The angel receded. Simon did not want her to go. He
was so lonely. Suddenly, he was with her.

"You see," she said. "Ah, Simon, I waited so long for
this place-to be here all the time! It is wonderful! I am
free!"

He wondered what the angel meant, but he had no
strength for more riddles. "Where are we going?"

"Not where, but when. You know that." The angel
seemed to give off a sort of joy; if she had been a flower,

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

501

Simon thought, she would have been standing in a patch
of sunlight, surrounded by bees. "/(was so terrible those
other times when I had to go back. I was only happy here.
I tried to tell you that once, but you could not hear me."

"I don't understand."

"Of course. You have never heard my voice until now.
Never my own voice, that is. You heard hers."

There were no words, Simon realized suddenly. He and
the angel were not speaking as people spoke; rather, she
seemed to give him her ideas and they found a home in
his head. When she talked of "her," of the other whose
voice he had heard, he did not perceive it as a word, but
as a feeling of a protecting, holding, loving, but still
somehow dangerous, female.

"Who is 'her'?"
"She has gone on ahead," the angel said, as though he
had asked a completely different question. "Soon I will
join her. But I had to wait for you, Simon. It doesn 't
bother me, though. I am happy here. I'm just glad I didn 't
have to go back." Simon felt "back" as a trapped, hurting
place. "Even before, when 1 first came here, I never
wanted to go back ... but she always made me."

Before he could question further-before he could even
decide whether, in this strange'dream, he wanted to ques-
tion further-Simon found himself in the tunnels of
Asu'a. A familiar scene spread before him-the fair-
haired man, the torch, the spear, the great glittering some-
thing that lay just beyond the archway.

"What is this?"

"Watch. It is your story-or part of it."

The spearman took a step forward, every inch of him
aquiver with fearful expectation. The great beast did not
move. Its red claw lay curled on the ground just a few
paces before his feet.

Simon wondered if the beast slept. His own scar, or the
memory of it, stung him.

Run away. man. he thought. A dragon is more than you
can know. Run away!

The spearman took another cautious step, then stopped,
Simon was suddenly closer, looking into the wide cham-

502 Tad Williams

ber as though he saw through the eyes of the golden-
haired man. What he saw was at first hard to take in.

The room was huge, with a ceiling that stretched up be-
yond the limits of the torchflame. The walls had been
blasted and melted by great fires.

It's the forge, Simon realized. Or that's what it is now.
This must be the past.

The dragon lay sprawled across the cavern floor, red-
gold, as though the countless scales mirrored the torch-
light. It was larger than a house, its tail a seemingly
endless coil of looping flesh. Great wings stretched from
its haunches to the elongated spurs behind its front claws.
It was magnificent and terrifying in a way that even the
ice-dragon Igjarjuk had not been. And it was completely
and utterly dead.

The spearman stared. Simon, floating in a dream,
stared.

"Do you see?" the angel whispered. "The dragon was
dead."
The spearman took a step forward to prod the inert
claw with his spear. Reassured, he moved into the great
chamber of melted stone,

Something pale lay beneath the dragon's breast.

"It's a skeleton," Simon whispered. "A person's skele-
ton. "

"Hush," the angel said in his ear. "Watch. This is your
story."

"What do you mean?"

The spearman moved toward the pile of white bones,
his lingers tracing the sign of the Tree in the air. The
shadow of his hand leaped across the wall. He leaned
close, still moving slowly and stealthily, as though any
moment the dragon might suddenly roar back to life-but
the man, like Simon, could see the ragged holes where the
dragon's eyes had been, the withered, blackened tongue
that lolled from the gaping mouth.

The man reached down and reverently touched the hu-
man skull that lay beside the dragon's breastbone like a
pearl from a broken necklace. The rest of the bones were
scattered close by. They were blackened and warped.

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

503

Looking at them, Simon suddenly remembered Igjarjuk's
scalding blood, and felt a pang of sadness for the poor
wretch who had slain this creature and received his own
death. For slain it he had, it seemed; the only bones which
still hung together were a forearm and hand, and they
were wrapped around the hilt of a sword driven nearly to
the hilt in the dragon's belly.

The spearman stared at this odd sight for a long time,
then at last lifted his head, looking wildly around the cav-
ern as though in fear someone might be watching. His
face was somber, but his eyes gleamed feverishly. In that
instant Simon almost recognized him, but the grayness of
his thoughts was not entirely dispersed; when the fair-
haired man turned back to the skeleton, the recognition
faded.

The man dropped his spear and detached the skeletal
hand from the sword's hilt with trembling care. One of
the fingers broke loose. The man held it for a moment, his
expression unreadable, then kissed the bone and tucked it
into his shirt. When the hilt was freed, the man put his
torch down on the stone, then took the sword in a firm
grip. He placed his boot against the dragon's arching
breastbone and pulled. Muscles, rippled on his arms and
cords stood out in his neck, but the sword did not come
free- He rested for a moment, then spat on his palms and
gripped the sword again. At last it slid out, leaving a
puckered hole between the gleaming red scales.

The man lifted the sword before him, his eyes wide. At
first Simon thought the blade a simple, almost crude piece
of work, but its lines were clean and graceful beneath the
char of dragon's blood. The man regarded it with an ad-
miration so frank that it was almost greedy, then lowered
it abruptly and looked around again, as though still afraid
someone might be watching. He picked up the torch and
began to move back toward the chamber's arched door-
way, but stopped to stare at the dragon's leg and clawed
front foot. After a long moment's consideration, he
kneeled and began sawing away with the blackened
sword at the leg's narrowest point, just in front of the
wing-spur.

504

Tad Williams

It was hard labor, but the man was young and power-
fully built. As he worked, he looked up anxiously, staring
into the shadows of the vast room as though a thousand
scornful eyes were watching him. Sweat was trickling
down his face and limbs. He seemed possessed, as though
some wild spirit had taken hold of him; when he had
sawed almost halfway through the thing he suddenly
stood and began hacking with the sword, smashing at the
arm with blow after blow until bits of tissue spun away
on all sides. Simon, still a helpless but fascinated ob-
server, saw that the man's eyes were full of tears, that his
youthful face was contorted in a grimace of pain and hor-
ror-

Finally the last of the flesh parted and the claw rolled
free. Shivering like a terrified child, the man shoved the
sword through his belt, then hefted the huge claw up onto
his shoulder as though it were a side of beef. His face still
full of misery, he staggered out of the chamber and disap-
peared up the tunnel.

"He felt the Sithi ghosts," the angel whispered to him.
Simon had been so caught up in the man's private torment
that he was startled by her voice. "He felt them shame
him for his lie."

"/ don't understand." Something was tickling his mem-
ory, but he had been in the gray for so long.... "What
was that? And who was the other one-the skeleton, the
one who killed the dragon?"

"That is part of your story, Simon." And suddenly the
cavern was gone and they were in nothingness once more.
"There is much still to show you ... and there is very lit-
tle time."

"But 1 don't understand!"

"Then we must go deeper still."
The gray wavered, then dissolved into another of the
visions that had come to him in sleep upon the Tan'ja
Stairs.

A large room opened before him, A few candles made
all the light, and shadows hung in the comers. The room's
sole occupant sat in a high-backed chair at the room's
center, surrounded by a scatter of books and scrolls.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER           505

Simon had glimpsed this person during his stairwell
dream. As in that earlier vision, the man sat in the chair
with a book spread open in his lap. He was past middle
age, but in his calm, thoughtful features there still re-
mained a trace of the child he had once been, an innocent
sweetness only slightly diminished by a long hard life.
His hair had mostly gone to gray, although it still held
darker streaks and much of his short beard remained light
brown. He wore a circlet on his brow. His clothes, though
simple in form, were well-made and of good cloth.

As with the man in the dragon's lair, Simon felt a
twinge of recognition. Before the dream, he had never
seen this person-yet, in some way, he knew him.

The man looked up from his reading as two other fig-
ures entered the room. One, an old woman with her white
hair caught up in a ragged scarf, came forward and
kneeled at the man's feet. He put his book aside, then
stood and gave the woman his hand to help her up. After
saying a' few words that Simon could not hear-as with
the dragon-dream, all these shapes seemed voiceless and
remote-the man Walked across the chamber and squatted
beside the old woman's companion, a little girl of seven
or eight years. She had been crying; her eyes were puffy
and her lip trembled with anger or fright. She avoided the
man's gaze. pulling fitfully at her reddish hair. She, too,
wore simple clothing, an unadorned dark dress, but de-
spite her disarray she looked well cared for. Her feet were
bare.

At last the man reached out his arms for her- She hes-
itated, then flung herself at him and buried her face
against his chest, crying. Tears came to the man as well,
and he held her for a long time, stroking her back. At last,
with clear reluctance, he let her go and stood. The girl ran
from the room. The man watched her go, then turned to
the old woman. Without saying another word, he slipped
a thin golden ring from his finger and gave it to her; she
nodded and wrapped her fingers around it as he leaned
down and kissed her forehead. She bowed to him; then, as
if her own composure was fast slipping, she turned and
hurried away.

506 Tad Williams

After a long moment the man walked to a book-
covered chest that lay beside the wall, opened it, and
withdrew a sheathed sword. Simon recognized it immedi-
ately: he had seen that sparsely decorated hilt only mo-
ments before, standing in a dragon's breast. The man held
the sword carefully, but did not look at it for more than a
moment; instead, he cocked his head as though he heard
something. He made the Tree sign with slow deliberatrbn,
lips moving in what might have been prayer, then re-
turned to his seat. He set the sword across his lap, then
picked up his book and opened it, spreading it atop the
sword. But for the set of his jaw and the faintest tremor
in his fingers as he turned the pages, he might have been
thinking only of a good night's sleep-but Simon knew
that he was waiting for something far different.
The scene wavered and dissipated like smoke-
"Do you see? Do you understand now?" the angel
asked, impatient as a child-
Simon felt as though he groped at a large sack. Some-
thing was inside it, and he could feel strange comers and
significant bumps, but just when he thought he knew
what it contained, his imagination failed. He had been in
the gray fog a long time. Thinking was difficult-and it
was hard to care.

"I don't know. Why can't you just tell me, angel?"
"It is not the way. These truths are too strong, the
myths and lies around them too great. They are sur-
rounded on all sides by walls I cannot explain, Simon.
You must see them and you must understand/or yourself.
But this has been your story."

His story? Simon thought      again about what he had
seen, but meaning seemed      to slither away from him. If he
could only remember what      things had been like before,
the names and stories he      had known before the grayness
surrounded him... !

"Hold to them," the angel said. "If you can get back,
these truths will be of use to you. And now there is one
more thing I must show you."

"I'm tired. I don't want to see any more." The urge for
restful oblivion had returned, pulling at him like a power-

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

507

fill current. All he had gained from this visitor     was con-
fusion. Go back? To the world of pain? Why should     he
bother? Sleep was easier, the drowsy emptiness of     not
caring. He could just let go, and all would be so     easy....

"Simon!" There was fear in the angel's voice. "Don't!
You must not give up."

Slowly the angel's verdigrised features appeared once
more. Simon wanted to ignore her, but although her face
was a mask of lifeless bronze, there was something in her
voice, some note of true need, that would not let him.
"Why can't I rest?"

"I have only a little while left with you, Simon. You
were never near enough before. Then I must give you a
push to send you back or you will wander here forever."

"Why do you care?"

"Because I love you." The angel spoke with sweet sim-
plicity that held neither obligation or reproach. "You
saved me-or you tried. And there are others 1 love who
need you. There is only a small chance that the storm can
be turned away-but it is the only chance that remains."

Saved her? Saved the angel who stood on the tower
top? Simon felt exhausting confusion tug at him again.
He could not afford to wonder..

"Then show me, if you must."

This time the translation from gray nothing to living vi-
sion seemed more difficult, as though this place was
somehow harder to reach, or as though her powers were
flagging. The first thing Simon saw was a great circular
shadow, and for a long time he saw nothing else. The
shadow grew ragged at one edge. Tracings of light ap-
peared there, then became a figure.

Even in the dislocated netherworld of the vision, Simon
felt a stab of fear. The figure that sat at the edge of the
shadowy circle wore a crown of antlers. Before it, point
down, double-guarded hilt clutched in its hands, was a
long gray sword-

The enemy! His mind was empty of names, but the
thought was clear and cold. The black-hearted one, the
frozen yet burning thing that caused the world's misery.
Simon felt fear and hatred burning inside him so strongly

508

Tad Williams

that for a moment the vision flickered and threatened to
vanish.

"See!" The angel's voice was very faint. "You must

see!"

Simon did not want to see. His entire life had been de-
stroyed by this monstrosity, this demon of ultimate evil.
Why should he look?

To learn the way to destroy it, he told himself, strug-
gling. To keep my anger strong. To find a reason to go
back to the pain.

"Show me. I will watch."
The image strengthened. It took Simon a moment to re-
alize that the darkness which surrounded the enemy was
the Pool of Three Depths. It gleamed beneath the cloak of
shadows, the stone carvings uncorrupted, the pool itself
alight and scintillant, shifting as though the very water
were alive. Washed by the liquidly shifting glow, the fig-
ure sat on a pedestal on a peninsula of stone with the Pool
all around.

Simon dared to look closer. Whatever else it might be,
this version of the enemy was a living creature, skin and
bone and blood. His long-fingered hands moved fretfully
on the pommel of the gray sword. His face was covered
by shadow, but his bowed neck and shoulders were those
of one horribly burdened.

His attention captured, Simon saw with surprise   that
the antlers upon the enemy's head were not homs   at all,
but slender branches: his crown was carved from   a single
circlet of some silvery-dark wood. The branches   still bore
a few leaves.

The enemy lifted his head. His face was strange, as
were the faces of all the immortals Simon had seen-
high-cheeked and narrow-chinned, pale in the shifting
light, and surrounded by straight black hair, much of
which hung in twisted plaits. His eyes were wide open,
and he stared across the water as though in desperate
search. If something was there, Simon could not see it.
But it was the expression upon the enemy's face that Si-
mon found most disconcerting. There was anger, which
did not surprise him, and an implacable determination in

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          509

the set of the long jaw, but the eyes were haunted. Simon
had never seen such unhappiness. Behind the stem mask
lurked devastation, an inner landscape that had been
scoured to bare rock, a misery that had hardened into
something like the stuff of the earth itself. If this being
ever wept again, it would be tears of fire and dust.

Sorrow. Simon remembered the name of the gray
sword. Jingiw. So much sorrow. He felt a kind of convul-
sion of despair and anger. He had never seen anything as
terrible, as frightening, as the enemy's suffering face.

The vision wavered.

"... Simon ..." The angel's voice was as quiet as a
leaf tumbling across the grass. "... / must send you
back...."

He was alone in misty gray nothingness. "Why did you
show me that? What is it supposed to mean?"

"... Go back, Simon. I am losing you, and you are far
away from where you should be...."

"But I need to know! I have so many questions!"
"... I waited for you so long. I am called to go on, Si-
mon. ..."

And now he did feel her slipping away, A very differ-
ent kind of fear caught at him. "Angel! Where are you?!"

"... / am free now ..." Faint as feather brushing
feather. "/ have waited so long...."

And suddenly, as the last touch of her voice slid away,
he knew her.

"Leiethf" he cried. "Leieth! Don't leave me!"

A sense of her smiling, of Leieth free and flying at
last, brushed him, then was gone. Nothing came in its
place.

Simon was suspended in emptiness, without direction
or understanding. He tried to move as he and Leieth had
moved, but nothing happened. He was lost in the void,
more lost than he had ever been. He was a rag blowing
through the darkness. He was utterly alone.

"Help me!" he screamed.

Nothing changed.

"Help me," he murmured. "Someone."

Nothing changed. Nothing would ever change.

23

Tfte Rose Unmade

Tfte Sriip plunged again. As the cabin timbers creaked,
Isgrimnur's empty cup bounced from his hand and
clanked to the floor.

"Aedon preserve us! This is horrible!"

Josua's smile was thin. "True. Only madmen are at sea
in this storm."

"Don't joke," Isgrimnur growled, alarmed. "Don't joke
about boats. Or storms."

"I was not jesting." The prince gripped his chair with
his hand as the cabin lurched again. "Are we not mad to
let the fear of a star in the sky hurry us into this attack?"

The duke glowered. "We are here. Heaven knows, I
don't want to be, but we are here."

"We are here," Josua agreed. "Let us only give thanks
that for now Vorzheva and the children and your Outrun
are safe in Nabban."
"Safe until the ghants get there." Isgrimnur winced,
thinking of the horrid nest. "Safe until the kilpa decide to
try dry land."

"Now who is the worrier?" Josua asked gently.
"Varellan, as we saw, has become an able young man, and
a good portion of Nabban's army stayed there with him.
Our ladies are much safer than we are."

The ship shuddered and pitched. Isgrimnur felt the
need to talk, to do anything besides listen to what
sounded like the timbers of the hull being wrenched apart.
"I have been wondering something. If the Niskies are
cousins to the immortals, as Miriamele told us, then how

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          511

are we to trust them? Why should they favor our fairy-
folk over the Noms?" As if summoned by his words, a
Niskie's song, alien and powerful, rose once more above
the shouting winds.

"But they do." Josua spoke loudly. "One of the sea-
watchers gave her life so Miriamele could escape. What
stronger answer do you need?"

"They haven't kept the kilpa as far away as I'd like."
He made the sign of the Tree. "Josua, we have been at-
tacked three times already!"

"And would have been attacked more often were it not
for Nin Reisu and her brother and sister Niskies, I have
no doubt," said Josua. "You have been on deck. You've
seen the cursed things swimming all around. The seas are
choked with them."

Isgrimnur nodded somberly. He had indeed seen the
kilpa-far too many of them-swarming about the fleet,
active as eels in a barrel. They had boarded the flagship
several times, once in daylight. Despite the agony of his
ribs, the duke had killed two of the hooting things him-
self, then spent hours trying to wash the oily, foul-
smelling blood from his hands and face. "I know," he said
at last. "It is as if they have been sent by our enemy to
hold us back."

"Perhaps they have." Josua poured a bit of wine into
his cup, "I find it strange that the kilpa should rise and
the ghants should come pouring out of the swamps at just
the same moment. Our enemy's reach is long, Isgrimnur."

"Little Tiamak believes that was happening in the
ghant nest when we found him-that somehow Storm-
spike was using him and the other Wrannamen to talk to
those bugs." The thought of Tiamak's countrymen used
by the ghants, burned up like candles and then discarded,
and of the hundreds of Nabbanai mariners dragged away
to a hideous death by the kilpa, made Isgrimnur curl his
fist and wish for something to hit. "What kind of a demon
could do such things, Josua? What kind of an enemy is
this, that we cannot see and cannot strike?"

*The greatest enemy we have." The prince sipped his

5*2 Tad Williams

wine, swaying as the ship pitched again. "An enemy we
must defeat, no matter the cost."

The cabin door swung open. Camaris steadied himself,
then entered, his scabbard scraping the doorframe. The
old knight's cloak drizzled water on the floor.

"What did Nin Reisu say?" Josua asked as he poured
wine for Camaris- "Will Emettin's Jewel hold together for
one more night?"

The old man drained his cup and stared at the le°s-

"Camaris?" Josua moved toward him. "What did Nin
Reisu say?"

After a moment, the knight looked up. "I cannot
sleep."

The prince shared a worried look with Isgrimnur. "I do
not understand."

"I have been up on deck."

Isgrimnur thought that was obvious from the water
puddling on the floor. The old knight seemed even more
fearfully distracted than was usual. "What's wrong,
Camaris?"

"I cannot sleep. This sword is in my dreams." He
pawed fitfully at Thorn's hilt. "1 hear it ... singing to
me." Camaris tugged it a short way out of the scabbard,
a length of pure darkness. "I carried this sword for
years." He struggled for words. "I ... felt it sometimes,
especially in battle. But never this way. I think ... I think
it is alive."

Josua looked at the blade with more than a little dis-
trust. "Perhaps you should not carry it, Camaris. You will
be forced to take it up soon enough. Put it somewhere
safe."

"No." The old man shook his head. His voice was
heavy. "No, I dare not. There are things to leam. We do
not know how to use these Great Swords against our en-
emy. As you said, the time is fast coming. Perhaps I can
understand the song it sings. Perhaps ..."

The prince lifted his hand as if to dispute him, then let
it fall. "You must do as you think best. You are Thorn's
master,"

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER
513

Camaris looked up solemnly. "Am I? I thought so,
once."

"Come, have some more wine," Isgrimnur urged him.
He tried to rise from his stool but decided against it. The
battles with the kilpa had set back his recovery. Wincing,
he signaled to Josua to refill the old man's cup. "It is hard
not to feel haunted when the wind howls and the sea
flings us about like dice in a cup."

"Isgrimnur is right." Josua smiled. "Here, drink up,"
The room lurched once more, and wine splashed onto his
wrist. "Come, while there is more in the cup than on the
floor."

Camaris was silent for long moments. "I must speak to
you, Josua," he said abruptly. "Something weighs upon
my soul."

Puzzled, the prince waited.

The knight's face seemed almost gray as he turned to
the duke. "Please, Isgrimnur, I must talk with Josua
alone."

"I am your friend, Camaris," said the duke. "If anyone
is to blame for bringing you here, it's me. If something is
plaguing you, I want to help."

"This is a shame that bums. I would not tell Josua, but
that he needs to Hear it. Even as* I lie sleepless for fear of
what the sword will do. God punishes me for my secret
sin. I pray that if I make this right. He will give me the
strength to understand Thorn and its brother swords. But
please do not force me to bare this shame to you as well."
Camaris looked truly old, his features slack, his eyes
wandering. "Please. I beg you."

Confused and more than a little frightened, Isgrimnur
nodded. "As you wish, Camaris. Of course."

Isgrimnur was debating whether he should wait in the
narrow passageway any longer when the cabin door
opened and Camaris emerged. The old knight brushed
past, hunched beneath the low ceiling. Before Isgrimnur
could get more than half his question out, Camaris was
gone down the passageway, thumping from wall to wall
as Emettin's Jewel heaved in the storm's grip.

514

Tad Williams

Isgrimnur knocked at the cabin door. When the prince
did not answer, he carefully pushed it open. The prince
was staring at the lamp, his blasted expression that of a
man who has seen his own death.
"Josua?"

The prince's hand rose as though tugged by a string. He
seemed entirely leeched of spirit. His voice was flat, ter-
rible. "Go away, Isgrimnur. Let me be alone."

The duke hesitated, but Josua's face decided him.
Whatever had happened in the cabin, there was nothing
he could give the prince at this moment but solitude.

"Send for me when you want me." Isgrimnur backed
out of the room. Josua did not look up or speak, but con-
tinued to watch the lamp as though it were the only thing
that might lead him out of ultimate darkness.

A

"I am trying to understand." Miriamele's head ached.
"Tell me again about the swords."

She had been with the dwarrows for several days, as
far as she could tell: it was hard to know for certain here
in the rocky fastness below the Hayholt. The shy earth-
dwellers had continued to treat her well, but still refused
to free her, Miriamele had argued, pleaded-even raged
for a long hour, demanding to be released, threatening,
cursing. As her anger spent itself, the dwarrows had mur-
mured among themselves worriedly. They seemed so
shocked and unsettled by her fury that she had almost felt
ashamed of herself, but the embarrassment passed as
quickly as the anger.

After all. she had decided, / did not ask to be brought
here. They say their reasons are good-then let their rea-
sons make them feel better. I shouldn 't have to.

She was convinced of, if not reconciled to, the reasons
for her captivity. The dwarrows seemed to sleep very lit-
tle if at all, and only a few of them at a time ever left the
wide cavem. Whether they were telling her the entire
truth or not, she did not doubt that there was something

TO    GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

515

out there that frightened the slender, wide-eyed creatures
very badly.

"The swords," said Yis-fidri. "Very well, I will try bet-
ter to explain- You saw that we knew the arrow, even
though we did not make it?"

"Yes." They had certainly seemed to know something
y;    significant was in the saddlebags, although it was possible
^   they could have made up the story on the spot after find-
ing it.

"We did not make the arrow, but it was crafted by one
who learned from us. The three Great Swords are of our
making, and we are bound to them."

^'     "You made the three swords?" This was what had con-
fused her. It did not match what she had been told. "I
knew that your people made Minneyar for King Elvrit of
Rimmsersgard-but not that they forged the other two as
well. Jamauga said that the sword Sorrow was made by
Ineluki himself."

"Speak not his name!" Several of the other dwarrows
looked up and chimed a few unsettled words which
Yis-fidri answered before turning back to Miriamele.
"Speak not his name. He is closer than he has been in
centuries. Do not call his attention!"

It's like being in a whole cave full of Strangyeards,
thought Miriamele. They seem afraid of everything. Still,
Binabik had said much the same thing. "Very well. I
won't say ... his name. But that story is not what I was
told. A learned man said that ... he ... made it himself
in the forges of Asu'a."

The dwarrow sighed. "Indeed. We were the smiths of
Asu'a-or at least some of our people were ... some who
had not fled our Zida'ya masters, but who were still Nav-
igator's Children for all that, still as like to us as two
chunks of ore from the same vein. They all died when
the castle fell." Yis-fidri chanted a brief lament in the
dwarrow tongue; his wife Yis-hadra echoed him. "He
used the Hammer that Shapes to forge it-our Hammer-
and the Words of Making that we taught to him. It might
as well have been our own High Smith's hand that crafted

5i6 Tad Williams

it. In that terrible instant, wheresoever we were. scat-
tered across the world's face ... we felt Sorrow's mak-
ing. The pain of it is with us still." He fell silent for a
long time. 'That the Zida'ya allowed such a thing." he
said at last, "is one of the reasons we have turned away
from them. We were so sorely diminished by that one act
that we have ever since been crippled."

"And Thorn?"

Yis-fidri nodded his heavy head. "The mortal smiths of
Nabban tried to work the star-stone. They could not. Cer-
tain of our people were sought out and brought secretly to
the Imperator's palace. These kin of ours were thought by
most mortals to be only strange folk who watched the
oceans and kept the ships safe from harm, but a small
number knew that the old lore of Making and Shaping ran
deep in all the Tmukeda'ya, even those who had chosen
to remain with the sea.**

"Tinukeda'ya?" It took a moment to sink in. "But
that's what Gan Itai ... those are Niskies!"

"We are all Ocean Children," said the dwarrow gravely.
"Some decided to stay near the sea which forever sepa-
rates us from the Garden of our birth. Others chose more
hidden and secretive ways, like the earth's dark places
and the task of shaping stone. You see, unlike our cousins
the Zida'ya and Hikeda'ya, we Children of the Navigator
can shape ourselves just as we shape other things."

Miriamele was dumbfounded. "You're ... you and the
Niskies are the same?" Now she understood the phantom
of recognition that had troubled her upon first seeing Yis-
fidri. There was something in his bones, in his way of
moving, that reminded her of Gan Itai. But they looked so
different!

"We are not the same any more. The act of shaping
ourselves takes generations, and it changes more than Just
our outward seeming. But much does not change. The
Dawn Children and Cloud Children are our cousins-but
the sea-watchers are our sisters and brothers."

Miriamele sat back, trying to grasp what she had been
told. "So you and the Niskies are the same. And Niskies
forged Thom." She shook her head. "You are saying,

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

517

then. that you can feel all the Great Swords-even more
strongly than you felt the White Arrow?" A sudden
thought came to her. "Then you must know where Bright-
Nail is-the sword that was called Minneyar!"

Yis-fidri smiled sadly. "Yes. although your King John
hung it with many prayers and relics and other mortal
magicks, perhaps in the hope of concealing its true na-
ture. But you know your own arms and hands. Princess
Miriamele, do you not? Would you know them any the
less if they were still joined to you, but were clothed in
some other mortal's jacket and gloves?"

It was strange to think of her magnificent grandfather
working so hard to hide Bright-Nail's heritage. Was he
ashamed of owning such a weapon? Why? "If you know
these swords so well, can you tell me where Bright-Nail
is now?"

"I cannot say, 'it is such and such a place,' no. But it
is somewhere near. Somewhere within a few thousand
paces."

So it was either in the castle or the under-castle,
Miriamele decided. That didn't help much, but at least her
father had not had it thrown in the ocean or carried off to
Nascadu. "Did you come here'because you knew the
swords were here?"

"No. We were fleeing other things, routed from our
city in the north. We knew already that two of the swords
were here, but that meant little to us at that time: we fled
[away through our tunnels and they led us here. It was
only as we drew close to Asu'a that we came to under-
stand that other forces were also at work."

"And so now you're caught between the two and don't
know which way to run." She said it with more than a lit-
tle disapproval, but knew even so that what the dwarrows
faced was much like her own situation. She, too, was
driven by things bigger than herself. She had fled her fa-
ther, trying to put the entire world between the two of
them. Now she had risked her life and the lives of her
friends to come back and find him, but feared what might
happen if she succeeded. Miriamele pushed the useless

5i8 Tad Williams

thoughts away. "Forgive me, Yis-fidri. I'm tired of sitting
for so long, that's all."

It had been good to rest the first day, despite her anger
over her imprisonment, but now she was aching to be on
her way, to move, to do something, whatever that might
be. Otherwise, she was trapped with her thoughts. They
made painful company.

"We are truly sorry, Miriamele. You may walk as much
as you wish here. We have tried to give you all that you

need."

It was fortunate for them that she had the packs that
held the remaining provisions, she reflected. If she had
been forced to subsist on the dwarrows' food-fungi and
smalt, unpleasant burrowing creatures-she would be a
much less congenial prisoner. "You cannot give me what
I need as long as I am held captive," she said. "Nothing
can change that, no matter what you say."

"It is too perilous."

Miriamele bit back an angry reply. She had already
tried that approach. She needed to think.

Yis-hadra scraped at a bit of the cavern wall with a
curved, flat-ended tool. Miriamele could not quite tell
what Yis-fidri's wife was doing, but she seemed to be en-
joying it: the dwarrow was singing quietly beneath her
breath. The more Miriamele listened, the more the song
fascinated her. It was scarcely louder than a whisper, but
it had something in it of the power and complexity of Gan
Itai's kilpa-singing. Yis-hadra sang in rhythm with the
movement of her long, graceful hands. Music and move-
ment together made one singular thing. Miriamele sat be-
side her for some time, transfixed.

"Are you building something?" she asked during a lull
in the song.

The dwarrow looked up. A smile stretched her odd
face. "This s'h'rosa here-this piece of stone that runs
through the other stone ..." she indicated a darker streak,
barely visible in the glow of the rose crystal. "It wishes
to ... come out. To be seen."

Miriamele shook her head. "It wishes to be seen?"

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER             519

Yis-hadra pursed her wide mouth thoughtfully. "I do
not have your tongue well. It ... needs? Needs to come
out?"

Like gardeners, Miriamele thought bemusedly. Tending
the stone.

Aloud, she said: "Do you carve things? AH the ruins of
Asu'a I've seen are covered with beautiful carvings. Did
the dwarrows do that?"

Tis-hadra made an indecipherable gesture with curled
fingers. "We prepared some of the walls, then the Zida'ya
created pictures there. But in other places, we gave care
to the stone ourselves, helping it... become. When Asu'a
was built, Zida'ya and Tinukeda'ya still worked side by
side." Her tone was mournful. "Together we made won-
derful things."

"Yes. I saw some of them." She looked around.
"Where is Yis-fidri? I need to talk to him."

Yis-hadra   appeared embarrassed. "Is it I have said
something   bad? I cannot speak your tongue as I can the
tongue of   the mortals of Hemystir. Yis-fidri speaks more
well than   I."

"No." Miriamele smiled. "Nothing bad at all. But he
and I were talking about something, and I want to talk to
him more."

"Ah. He will come back in a little time. He has left this
place,"

"Then I'll just watch you work, if you don't mind."

Yis-hadra returned the smile. "No. I will tell you some-
thing about the stone, if you like. Stones have stories. We
know the stories. Sometimes I think we know their stories
better than our own."

Miriamele sat down with her back against the wall.
Yis-hadra continued with her task, and as she did so, she
talked. Miriamele had never thought much about rocks
and stone, but as she listened to the dwarrow's low, mu-
sical voice, she saw for the first time that they were in a
way living things, like plants and animals-or at least
they were to Yis-hadra's kind. The stones moved, but that
movement took eons. They changed, but no living thing,
not even the Sithi, walked alive beneath the sky long

520
Tad Williams

enough to see that change. The dwarrow-folk studied and
cultivated, and even in a way loved, the bones of the
earth. They admired the beauty of glittering gems and
shining metals, but they also valued the layered patience
of sandstone and the boldness of volcanic glass. Every
one of them had its own tale, but it took a certain kind of
vision and wisdom to understand the slow stories that
stones told. Yis-fidri's wife, with her huge eyes and care-
ful fingers, knew them well, Miriamele found herself
oddly touched by this strange creature, and for a while,
listening to Yis-hadra's slow, joyful speech, she forgot
even her own unhappiness.

"

Tiamak felt a hand close around his arm.

"Is that you?" Father Strangyeard's voice sounded
querulous.

"It is me."

"We shouldn't either of us be out on deck," the archi-
vist said. "Sludig will be angry."

"Sludig would be right," Tiamak said. "The kilpa are
all around us." But still he did not move. The closed quar-
ters of the ship's cabin had been making it hard to think,
and the ideas that were moving at the edge of his mind
seemed too important to lose Just because of a fear of the
sea-creatures-however worthy of fear they might be.

"My sight is not good," Strangyeard said, peering wor-
riedly into the darkness. He held his hand beside his good
eye to shield against the strong winds. "I should probably
not be walking the deck at night. But I was ... worried
for you, you were gone so long."

"I know." Tiamak patted the older man's hand where it
lay on the weathered rail. "I am thinking about the things
I told you earlier-the idea I had when Camaris fought
Benigaris." He stopped, noticing for the first time the
ship's odd movement. "Are we anchored?" he asked at
last.

"We are. The Hayefur is not lit at Wentmouth, and
Josua feared to come too close to the rocks in darkness.

TO    GREEN    ANGEL   TOWER

521

He sent word with the signal-lamp." The archivist shiv-
ered. "It makes it worse, though, having to sit still. Those
nasty gray things ..."

"Then let us go down. I think the rains are returning, in
any case." Tiamak turned from the rail. "We will warm
some of your wine-a drylander custom I have come to
appreciate-and think more about the swords." He took
the priest's elbow and led him toward the cabin door.

"Surely this is better," Strangyeard said. He braced
himself against the wall as the ship dipped into a trough
between the waves, then handed the sloshing cup to the
Wrannaman. "I had better cover the coals. It would be
terrible if the brazier tipped over. Goodness! I hope ev-
eryone else is being careful, too."

"I think Sludig is allowing few others to   have braziers,
or even lanterns, except on deck." Tiamak   took a sip of
the wine and smacked his lips. "Ah. Good.   No, we are the
privileged ones because we have things to   read and time
is short."

The archivist lowered himself to the pallet on the floor,
pitching gently with the motion of the ship, "So I suppose
we should be back at our work again." He drank from his
own cup. "Forgive me, Tiamak, but does it not seem fu-
tile to you sometimes? Hanging all our hopes on three
swords, two of which are not even ours?" He stared into
his wine.

"I came late to these matters, in a way." Tiamak made
himself comfortable. The rocking of the ship, however
pronounced, was not that different from the way the wind
rattled his house in the banyan tree. "If you had asked me
a year ago what chance there was that I would be aboard
a boat sailing for Erkynland to conquer the High King-
that I would be a Scrollbearer, that I would have seen
Camaris reborn, been captured by the ghants, saved
by the Duke of Elvritshalla and the High King's
daughter ..." He waved his hand. "You see what I am
saying. Everything that has happened to us is madness,
but when we look back, it all seems to have followed log-
ically from one moment to the next. Perhaps someday

522

Tad Williams

capturing and using the swords will seem just as clear in

its sense."

"That is a nice thought." Strangyeard sighed and
pushed his eyepatch, which had shifted slightly, back into
place. "I like things better when they have already hap-
pened. Books may differ, one from the other, but at least
most every book claims to know the truth and set it out

clearly."

"Someday we will perhaps be in someone else's book,"
Tiamak offered, smiling, "and whoever writes it will be
very certain about how everything came to pass. But we
do not have that luxury now." He leaned forward. "Now
where is the part of the doctor's manuscript that tells of
the forging of Sorrow?"

"Here, I think." Strangyeard shuffled through one of
the many piles of parchment scattered about the room.
"Yes, here." He lifted it to the light, squinting. "Shall I
read something to you?"

Tiamak held out his hand. He had an immense fondness
for the Archive Master, a closeness he had not felt to any-
one since old Doctor Morgenes. "No," he said gently, "let
me read. Let us not put your poor eyes to any more work

tonight."

Strangyeard mumbled something and gave him the

sheaf of parchment.

"It is this bit about the Words of Making that sticks in
my head," Tiamak said. "Is it possible that all these
swords were made with these same powerful Words?"

"But why would you think so?" Strangyeard asked. His
face became intent. "Nisses' book, at least as Morgenes
quotes it, does not seem to say that. All the swords came
from different places, and one was forged by mortals."

"There must be something that links them all together,"
Tiamak replied, "and I can think of nothing else. Why
else should possessing them all give us such power?" He
shuffled through the parchments. "Great magic went into
their forging. It must be this magic that will bring us
power over the Storm King!"

As he spoke, the song of a Niskie rose outside, piercing
the mournful sound of the winds. The melody throbbed

TO    GREEN   ANOEL TOWER

523

with wild power, an alien sound even more disturbing
than the distant rumble of thunder.

"If only there were someone who knew of the swords'
forging," Tiamak murmured in frustration; his eyes stared
at Morgenes' precise, ornate characters, but did not really
see them. The Niskie song rose higher, then vibrated and
fell away on a note of keening loss. "If only we could
speak to the dwarrows who made Minneyar-but Eolair
says they were far to the north, many leagues beyond the
Hayholt. And the Nabbanai smiths who forged Thorn are
centuries dead." He frowned. "So many questions we
have, and still so few answers. This is tiring, Strangyeard.
It seems that every step forward takes us two paces back
into confusion."

The archivist was silent while Tiamak looked for the
well-thumbed pages that described Ineluki creating Sor-
row in the forges below Asu'a. "Here it is," he said at
last. "I will read."

"Just a moment," said Strangyeard. "Perhaps the an-
swer to one is the answer to both."

Tiamak looked up. "What do you mean?" He dragged
his thoughts away from the page before him.

"Your other idea was that somehow we have been pur-
posely kept in confusion-that the Storm King has played
Elias and Josua off against each other while he pursued
some goal of his own."

"Yes?"

"Perhaps it is not just some secret goal he has that he
wishes to conceal. Perhaps he also tries to hide the secret
of the Three Swords."

Tiamak felt a glimmer of understanding. "But if all the
contention between Josua and the High King has been ar-
ranged just to keep us from understanding how to use the
swords, it might mean that the answer is quite simple-
something we would quickly see if we were not dis-
tracted."

"Exactly!" Strangyeard, in pursuit of an idea, had lost
his usual reticence. "Exactly. Either there is something so
simple that we could not fail to see it if we were not
caught up in the day-to-day struggle, or there is someone

524

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or someplace vital to us that we cannot reach as long as
this war between brothers continues."

They Who Watch and Shape, marveled Tiamak, it is
good to have someone to share my thoughts with-
someone who understands, who questions, who searches
for meaning! For a moment he did not even miss his
home in the swamp. Aloud, he said: "Wonderful,
Strangyeard. It is something well worth considering."

The archivist colored, but spoke confidently. "I remember
when we were first fleeing Naglimund, Deomoth said that
the Norns seemed to wish to keep us from going certain
directions-at that time it was deeper into Aldheorte. In-
stead of trying to kill us, or capture us, they seemed to try
to ... drive us." The priest wiped absently at his chill-
reddened nostrils, not yet recovered from the sojourn on
deck. "I think perhaps they were keeping us from the Sithi."

Tiamak put the pages he was holding down: there would
be time enough for them later. "So perhaps there is some-
thing the Sithi know-perhaps even they do not realize it!
He Who Always Steps on Sand, how 1 wish we had ques-
tioned young Simon more closely about his time with the
immortals." Tiamak stood up and moved toward the cabin
door. "I will go tell Sludig that we wish to talk to Aditu."
He stopped. "But I do not know how she could cross from
one ship to another. The seas are so dangerous now."
Strangyeard shrugged. "It will do no harm to ask."
Tiamak paused, tilting back and forth with the ship's
movement, then abruptly sat down again. "It can wait un-
til the morning, when it would be a safe crossing. There
is much we can do first." He picked up the parchments
again. "It could be anything, Strangyeard-anything! We
must think back on all the places we have been, the peo-
ple we have met. We have been reacting to only what was
in front of us. Now it is up to you and me to think on
what we did not see while we were busy watching the
spectacle of pursuit and war."

"We should talk to others, too. Sludig himself has seen
much, and certainly Isgrimnur and Josua should be ques-
tioned. But we do not even know what questions to ask."
The priest sighed and shook his head mournfully. "Merci-

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          525

ful Aedon, but it is a pity that Geloe is not here with us.
She would know where to begin."

"But she is not, as you said, and neither is Binabik. So
we must do it on our own. This is our fearful duty, just as
it is Camaris* task to swing a sword, and Josua's to bear
the burdens of leadership." Tiamak looked at the untidy
mess of writings in his lap. "But you are right: it is hard
to know where to begin. If only someone could tell us
more about the forging of these swords. If only that
knowledge had not been lost."

As the two sat, lost for a moment in glum silence, the
Niskie's voice rose again, cutting through the clamor of
the storm like a sharp blade.

A

At first the very size of the thing prevented Miriamele
from understanding what it was. Its dawn-colored brilliance
and massive velvety petals, the dew drops sparkling like
glass globes, even the thorns, each one a great spike of
dark curving wood, all seemed things that must be ab-
sorbed and considered individually. It was only after a long
while-or what seemed a long while-that she could com-
prehend that the vast thing spinning slowly before her eyes
was ... a rose. It revolved as though its stem were being
twirled by gigantic yet invisible fingers; its scent was so
powerful that she felt the whole universe choked in per-
fume, and yet even as it smothered her, it filled her with life.

The wide, unbroken plain of grass above which the rose
turned began to shudder. The sod buckled upward be-
neath the mighty bloom; gray stones appeared, tall and
angular, pushing up through the earth like moles nosing
toward sunlight. As they burst free, and as she saw for the
first time that the long stones were joined at the bottom,
she realized that what she saw was a huge hand pushing
up from below the world's surface. It lifted, grass and
clotted dirt tumbling away; the stony fingers spread wide,
encircling the rose. A moment later the hand closed and
squeezed. The huge rose ceased turning, then slowly van-
ished in the crushing grip. A single wide petal scudded

526

Tad Williams

slowly from side to side as it floated to the ground. The
rose was dead....

Miriamele struggled up, blinking, her heart rattling in-
side her chest. The cavern was dark but for the faint pink
glow of a few of the dwarrow's crystals, as it had been
when she had drifted off to sleep. Nevertheless, she could
tell something was different.

"Yis-fidri?" she called. A shape detached itself from
the wall nearby and moved toward her, head bobbing.

"He still has not returned," said Yis-hadra.

"What happened?" Miriamele's head was throbbing as
though she had been struck a blow. "Something just hap-
pened."

"It was very strong, this one." Yis-hadra was clearly

upset: her immense eyes were wider than usual and her
long fingers twitched spasmodically. "Some ... change is
happening here-a change in the bones of the earth and in
the heart of Asu'a." She sought for words. "It has been
happening for some time. Now it grows stronger."

"What kind of change? What are we going to do?"

"We do not know. But we will do nothing until Yis-
fidri and the others are come back."

'The whole place is falling down around our ears ...
and you're not going to do anything?! Not even run away?"

"It is not ... falling down. The changing is different."
Yis-hadra laid a trembling hand on Miriamele's arm,
"Please. My people are frightened. You make it worse."

Before Miriamele could say anything else, a strange si-
lent rumble moved through her, a sound too low to hear.
The entire chamber seemed to shift-for a moment, even
Yis-hadra's odd, homely face became something unliving,
and the roseate light from the dwarrow's batons deepened
and chilled to glaring white, then azure. Everything
seemed to be skewed. Miriamele felt herself slipping
away sideways, as though she had lost her grip on the
spinning world.

A moment later, the crystal lights warmed again and
the cavern was once more as it had been.
TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

527

Miriamele took several shaky breaths before she could
speak. "Something ... very bad ... is happening."

Yis-hadra rose from her crouch, swaying unsteadily. "I
must see to the others. Yis-fidri and I try to keep them
from becoming too fearful. Without the Shard, without
the Pattern Hall, there is little left to hold us together."

Shivering, Miriamele watched the dwarrow go. The
mass of stone all around her felt like the confining walls
of a tomb. Whatever Josua and old Jamauga and the oth-
ers had feared was now happening. Some wild power was
coursing through the stones beneath the Hayholt just as
blood ran through her own body. Surely there was only a
little time left.

Is this where it will end for me? she wondered. Down
here in the dark, and never knowing why?

Miriamele did not remember falling asleep again, but
she awakened-more gently this time-sitting upright
along the cavern wall, pillowed against the hood of her
cloak. Her neck was sore, and she rubbed it for a moment
until she saw someone squatting by her pack, a dim out-
line in the faint rose light of the dwarrow-crystals.

"You there! What are you doing?"

The figure turned, eyes wide. "You are awake," the
troll said.

"Binabik?" Miriamele stared for a moment, dumb-
founded, then sprang to her feet and ran to him. She
caught him up in a hug that squeezed out a breathless
laugh. "Mother of Mercy! Binabik! What are you doing?
How did you get here?"

"The dwarrows found me wandering on the stairs," he
said as she set him down. "I have been here a little time.
I did not want to wake you, but I am full of hunger, so I
have been searching in the packs...."

"There's a little trait-bread left, I think, and maybe
some dried fruit." She rummaged through her belongings.
"I am so happy to see you-I didn't know what had be-
come of you! That thing, that monk! What happened?"

"I killed him-or perhaps I was releasing him."
Binabik shook his head. "I cannot say. He was himself for

528 Tad Williams

a moment, and warned that the Noms were ... what did
he say? ... 'false beyond believing'." He took the piece
of hard bread Miriamele offered. "I knew him as a man
once, Simon and I met him in St. Hoderund's ruins. We
were not being friends, Hengfisk and I-but to look into
his eyes... ! Such a terrible thing should not be done to
anyone. Our enemies have much to be answering for."

"What do you think of the dwarrows? Did they tell you
why they took me?" A thought occurred to her. "Are you
a prisoner now, too?"

"I do not know if prisoner is being the correct word,"
Binabik said thoughtfully. "Yes, Yis-fidri was telling me
much when they found me, as we were making our way
back to this place. At least for a while he was."

"What do you mean?"

"There are soldiers in the tunnels," the troll replied.
"And others, too-Norns, I think, although we did not see
them as we did the soldiers. But the dwarrows were cer-
tainly feeling them, and I do not think they were pre-
tending for the benefit of me. They were full of terror."

"Noms? Here? But I thought they couldn't come to the
castle!"

Binabik shrugged. "Who can say? It is their deathless
master who is barred from this place, but I did not think it
likely the living Noms would wish to enter here. Still, if
everything I have been thinking was truth was now proved
false, it would no longer be a surprising thing to me."

Yis-fidri approached, then stooped and crouched beside
them, the padded leather of his garments creaking. De-
spite his kind, sad face, Miriamele thought that his long
limbs gave him something of the appearance of a spider
picking its way across a web.

"Here is your companion safe, Miriamele."

"I'm glad you found him."

"And not a moment too soon did we come upon him."
Yis-fidri was clearly worried. "There are mortal men and
Hikeda'ya swarming through the tunnels. Only our skill
in hiding the doorway to this chamber keeps us safe,"

"Do you plan to stay here forever? That won't help
anything." The joy of Binabik's return had worn off a lit-

TO    OREEN   ANGEL TOWER

529

tie, and now she felt desperation returning. They were all
trapped in an isolated cavern while the world around them
seemed to be moving toward some terrible cataclysm.
"Don't you feel what is happening? All the rest of your
folk felt it."

"Of course we feel it." For a moment Yis-fidri almost
sounded angry. "We feel more than you. We know these
changes of old-we know what the Words of Making can
do. And the stones speak to us as well. But we have no
strength to stop what is happening, and if we call atten-
tion to ourselves, that will be the end. Our freedom is of
no use to anyone."

"Words of Making... ?" Binabik asked, but before he
could finish his question, Yis-hadra appeared and spoke
softly to her husband in the dwarrow tongue. Miriamele
looked past her to where the rest of the tribe huddled
against the cavern's far wall. They were clearly disturbed,
eyes wide in the dim light, chattering quietly among them-
selves with much nodding and shaking of their large heads.

Yis-fidri's thin face wore a look of alarm. "Someone is
outside," he said.

"Outside?" Miriamele pulled the pack closed. "What
do you mean? Who?"

"We know not. But someone is outside the hidden door
to this chamber, trying to get in." He flapped his hands
anxiously. "It is not mortal soldiers, for whoever it is,
they have some power over things-we shielded that door
to the limits of the Tinukeda'ya's art."

'The Norns?" Miriamele breathed.

"We know not!" Yis-fidri stood and put his thin arm
around Yis-hadra. "But we must hope that even though
they have found the door, they cannot force it. There is
nothing more we can do."

"There must be another way out. isn't there?"

Yis-fidri hung his head. "We took a risk. Hiding two
doors makes both of them more vulnerable, and we feared
to expend too much Art when things are so unbal-
anced. ..."

"Mother of Mercy!" Miriamele cried. Anger fought with

530

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hopeless terror inside her. "So we're trapped." She turned
to Binabik. "God help us, what choice do we have?"

The troll looked tired. "Are you asking if we will
fight? Of course. The Qanuc are not giving their lives
away. Mindunob inik yat, we say-'my home will be your
tomb.' " His laugh was grim. "But with certainty, even
the fiercest troll would rather find a way to keep his cave
without himself dying."

"I found my knife," said Miriamele, drumming her fin-
gers nervously on her leg. She struggled to keep her voice
steady. Trapped! They were trapped with no way out, and
the Noms were at the door! "Merciful Elysia, I wish I'd
brought a bow. I only have Simon's White Arrow, but I'm
sure he would approve if I feathered a Norn with it. I sup-
pose I can use it to stab someone."

Yis-fidri looked at them in disbelief. "You could not
save yourself from the Hikeda'ya with a bow and a whole
quiver full of Vindaomeyo's most perfect arrows, let
alone with only a knife."

"I don't think we will save ourselves," Miriamele
snapped. "But we have come too far to let them take us as
though we were frightened children." She took a breath to
calm herself. "You are strong, Yis-fidri-I felt it when you
carried me off. Surely you won't just let them kill you?"

"It is not our way, fighting," Yis-hadra spoke up. "We
have never been the strong ones-not strong that way."

"Then stay back." Inwardly, Miriamele thought she
sounded like the worst kind of boastful tavern brawler, but
it was already hard enough to think about what might be
coming. Just looking at the trembling, terrified dwarrows
sapped her resolve, and the fear that lay beneath felt like
a hole into which she might tumble and fall forever. "Take
us to the door. Binabik, let's at least pick up some stones.
The good Lord knows this place is full of them."

The huddled dwarrows watched them with distrust, as
though the very act of preparing a resistance made them
almost as dangerous as the enemy outside. Miriamele and
Binabik quickly gathered a pile of stones, then Binabik
broke down his walking-stick and placed the knife section
in his belt, then readied the blowpipe.

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

531

"Better to use this first." He pushed a dart into the
tube. "Perhaps a death they cannot see will make them a
little more slow for coming in."

The doorway appeared to be only another section of the
striated cavern wall, but as Miriamele and the trol! stood
before it, a faint silvery line began to creep up the stone.

"Ruyan guide us!" Yis-fidri said miserably. "They have
breached the wards!" There was a chorus of fearful noises
from his fellow.

The silver gleam crept up the rock face, then coursed
across the length of a man's reach and started down
again. When a whole section was bounded by a thread of
light, the stone inside the glow slowly began to swivel in-
ward, scraping as it moved against the cavern floor.
Miriamele watched its ponderous movement with terrified
fascination, trembling in every limb.

"Do not step to the front of me," whispered Binabik. "I
will tell you when it is safe for moving."

The door ground   to a halt. As a figure appeared in the
narrow opening,   Binabik raised his blowpipe to his
mouth. The dark   shape tottered and fell forward. The
dwarrows moaned   in fear.

"You hit him!" Miriamele exulted. She hefted a rock,
ready to try for the next one through while Binabik loaded
another dart ... but no one else moved into the doorway.

'They're waiting," Miriamele whispered to the troll.
j   "They saw what happened to the first one."

"But I was doing nothing!" said Binabik. "My dart is
still unflown."

The figure raised its head. "Close ... the ... door."
Each word was an agonized effort. "They are ... behind
me...."

Miriamele gaped in astonishment. "It's Cadrach!"
;     Binabik stared first at her, then at the monk, who had
collapsed again. He put down his walking-stick and ran
forward.

"Cadrach?" Miriamele slowly shook her head. "Here?"

The dwarrows rushed past her, hurrying to shut the
door.

24

Tfte Graytands

"

Tfte coforfess fbq went on forever, without floor or
ceiling or any visible limit at all. Simon floated in the
middle of nothingness. There was no movement, no
sound.

"Help me!" he shouted, or tried to, but his voice never
seemed to leave his own head. Leieth was gone, her last
touch upon his thoughts now grown cool and distant.
"Help! Someone!"

If any shared the empty gray spaces with him, they did
not answer.

And what if there is someone or something here? Si-
mon thought suddenly, remembering all he had been told
about the Road of Dreams. It might be something I don't
want to meet. This might not be the Dream Road, but
Leieth had said it was close. Binabik's master Ookequk
had met some dreadful thing while he walked the road-
and it had killed him.

But would that be worse than just floating here forever,
like a ghost? Soon there will be nothing left of me worth
saving.

Hours went by with nothing changing. Or it might have
been days. Or weeks. There was no time here. The noth-
ingness was perfect.

After a long empty space, his weak and scattered
thoughts again coalesced.

Leieth was supposed to push me back, back to my body,
to my life. Maybe f can do it myself.

He tried to remember what it felt like to be inside his

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

533

living body, but for a long while could form only dis-
jointed and disturbing images of the most recent days-
burrowing diggers grinning into the torchlight, the Noms
gathered whispering on the hilltop above Hasu Vale.
Gradually he summoned a vision of the great wheel, and
a naked body prisoned upon it.

Me! he exulted. Me, Simon! I'm still alive!

The figure hanging on the wheel's rim was shadowy
and without much form, like a crudely carved image of
Usires on His Tree, but Simon could feel the intangible
connection between it and him. He tried to give the shape
a face, but could not remember his own features.

I've lost myself. The realization crawled over him like
a blanket of killing frost. / don't remember what I look
like-I don't have a face!

The figure on the wheel, even the wheel itself, wavered
and became indistinct.

No! He clung to the wheel, willing its circular shadow
to stay before his mind's eye. No! I'm real. I'm alive. My
name is Simon!

He struggled to remember how he had looked in Jiriki's
mirror-but first had to draw up the memory of the mir-
ror itself, its cool feel beneath' his fingers, the delicate
smoothness of its carvings. It had warmed at his touch
until it felt like a living thing.

Suddenly he could recall his own face prisoned in the
Sithi glass. His red hair was thick and unkempt, slashed
by a white streak; down his cheek from eye to jaw ran the
mark of the dragon's blood. The eyes did not reveal all
that went on behind them. It was not a boy who looked
back from Jiriki's mirror, but a rawboned young man. It
was his own face, Simon realized, his own face returned
to him.

He narrowed his will, straining to force his own fea-
tures onto the shadowy form hanging on the wheel. As
the mask of his face grew upon the dim figure, everything
else became clearer, too. The forge chamber grew out of
the indistinct gray nothing, faint and ghostly, but unques-
tionably a real place from which Simon was separated

534

Tad Williams

only by some short, indefinable distance. Hope flooded
back into his heart.

But no matter how he tried, he could not push any far-
ther. He wanted desperately to return-even to the
wheel-yet it remained tantalizingly out of reach: the
more he struggled, the greater the distance seemed be-
tween the Simon that floated in the dreamworld and his
empty, slumbering body,

/ can't reach it! Defeat pulled at him. / can't.
With that realization, his vision of the wheel dimmed,
then vanished. The phantom forge evaporated as well,
leaving him adrift once more in the colorless void-
He summoned up the strength to try again, but this time
could bring into existence only the faintest glimmering of
the world he had left behind. It faded swiftly. Furious, de-
spairing, he tried again and again, but was unable to
break through. At last, his will flagged. He was defeated.
He belonged to the void.
I'm lost....

For a while Simon knew nothing but hollowness and
hopeless pain.

He did not know if he had slept or passed over into
some other realm, but when he could feel himself think
again, something else had finally come to share the emp-
tiness. A single mote of light glowed faintly before him,
like a candle flame seen through a thick fog.

"Leieth!? Leieth, is that you?"

The spark did not move. Simon willed himself toward
the gleam of light.

At first he could not say if it grew nearer, or whether,
like a star on the horizon, it remained remote and beyond
reach no matter how he traveled. But even though Simon
could not be sure that the spark was any closer, things be-
gan to change around him. Where once there had been
only airy nothingness, he now began to see faint lines and
shapes which gradually became sharper and more distinct
until at last he could make out the forms of trees and
stones-but all were transparent as water. He was passing
along a hillside, but the very earth below him and the

TO    GREEN    ANGEL   TOWER

535
vegetation that shrouded it seemed only scarcely more
real than the void that stretched overhead in place of the
sky. He seemed to be moving through a landscape of clear
glass, but when he lost his way for a moment and stepped
into a rock in his path, he passed through it.

Am I the ghost? Or is it this place?

The light was nearer. Simon could see its warm glow
reflected faintly in the fog of tree-shapes that ringed it
round. He moved closer.

The radiance hovered on the edge of a ghostly valley,
perched at the end of a jut of translucent stone. It was cra-
dled in the arms of a dim, smoky figure. As he drew
closer, the phantom turned. Ghost or angel or demon, it
had the face of a woman. The eyes widened, although
they did not quite seem to see him.

"Who is there?" The shadowy woman's face did not
move, but there was no question in his mind that it was
she who spoke. Her voice was reassuringly human.

"I am, I'm lost." Simon thought of how he would feel,
approached in this deathly emptiness by a stranger. "I
mean no harm."

A ripple passed through the woman's form, and for a
moment the gleam of light she cradled against her breast
glowed more brightly. Simon felt it as a spreading
warmth inside him and was strangely comforted. "I know
you," she said slowly. "You came to me once before."

He could make no sense of that. "I am Simon. Who are
you? What is this place?"

"My name is Maegwin." She sounded uneasy. "And
this is the land of the gods. But surely you know both
those things. You were the gods' messenger."

Simon had no idea what she meant, but he was desper-
ately hungry for the company of another creature, even
this ghost-woman. "I am lost," he repeated. "May I stay
here and talk to you?" It seemed somehow important that
he have her permission.

"Of course," she said, but the uncertainty had not left
her voice. "Please, be welcome."

For a moment he could see her more clearly; her sor-

536

Tad Williams

rowful face was framed by thick hair and the hood of a
long cloak. "You are very beautiful," he said.

Maegwin laughed, something Simon felt more than
heard. "In case I had forgotten, you have reminded me
that I am far from the life I knew." There was a pause.
The glowing light pulsed. "You say you are lost?"

"I am. It's hard to explain, but I am not here-at least,
the rest of me is not." He considered telling her more, but
was hesitant to open himself completely even to this mel-
ancholy, harmless-seeming spirit. "Why are you here?"

"I wait." Maegwin's voice was regretful. "I do not
know who or what I am waiting for. But I know that is
what I do."

For a time the two of them did not speak. The valley
shimmered below, pellucid as mist.

"It all seems so far away," Simon said at last. "All the
things that seemed so important."

"If you listen," Maegwin replied, "you can hear the
music."

Simon listened, but heard absolutely nothing. That in
itself was astonishing, and for a moment he was over-
whelmed. There was nothing at all-no wind, no bird-
song, no soft babble of voices, not even the muffled
bumping of his own heart. He had never imagined a quiet
so absolute, a peace so deep. After all the madness and
uproar of his life, he seemed to have come to the still cen-
ter of things.

"I fear this place a little," he said. "I'm afraid that if I
stay here too long, I won't even want to go back to my
life."

He could feel Maegwin's surprise. "Your life? Are you
not already long dead? When you came to me before, I
thought you must be an ancient hero." She made an un-
happy sound. "What have I done? Could it be that you
did not know you were dead?"

"Dead?" Shock and fury and more than a little terror
surged through him. "I'm not dead! I'm still alive, I just
can't get back. I'm alive!"

"Then what are you doing here with me?" There was
something very strange in her voice.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

537

"I don't know. But I'm alive!" And although he said it
in part to combat his own sudden apprehension, he felt it,
too-ties that had grown weak but were nevertheless
quite real still bound him to the waking world and his lost
body.

"But surely only the dead come here? Only the dead,
like me?"
"No. The dead go on." Simon thought of Leieth flying
free and knew he spoke truly. "This is a waiting place-a
between-place. The dead go on."

"But how can that be, when I ..." Maegwin suddenly
fell silent.

Simon's frightened anger did not dissipate, but he felt
the flame of his life still inside him, a flame that had dim-
med but had not yet blown out, and he was comforted. He
knew he was alive. That was all he had to cling to, but it
was everything.

He felt something strange beside him. Maegwin was
crying, not in sounds, but in great shuddering movements
that caused her entire being to waver and almost dissi-
pate, like breeze-stirred smoke.

"What's wrong?" As odd and unsettling as all this was,
he did not want to lose her, but she had become alarm-
ingly insubstantial. Even the light she bore seemed to
have grown fainter. "Maegwin? Why are you crying?"

"I have been such a fool," she keened. "Such a fool!"

"What do you mean?" He tried to reach out to her, to
take her hand, but the two of them could not touch. Si-
mon looked down and saw nothing where his body should
be. It was odd, but in this dreamlike place it did not seem
as terrifying as it might have elsewhere. He wondered
how he looked to Maegwin. "Why have you been a
fool?"

"Because I thought I knew all. Because I thought even
the gods waited to see what I would do."

"I don't understand."

For a long time she did not reply. He felt her sorrow
flow through him in great gusts, angry and mournful in
turn. "I will explain-but first tell me who you are, how
you came to be in this place. Oh, the gods, the gods!" Her

538

Tad Williams

sorrow threatened to sweep her away again. "I have made
too many assumptions. Far, far too many."

Simon did as she asked, starting slowly and hesitantly
at first, then gaining confidence as bit by bit his past re-
turned to him. He was surprised to find that he could re-
member names which only a little while before had been
misty holes in his memory.

Maegwin did not interrupt, but as his recitation went on
she became slightly more substantial. He could see her
clearly again, her bright, wounded eyes, her lips pressed
together tightly as though to keep them from trembling.
He wondered who had loved her, for certainly she was a
woman someone could love. Who mourned for her?

When he spoke of Sesuad'ra, and of Count Eolair's
mission from Hemysadharc, she broke her silence for the
first time, asking him to tell more of the count and what
he had said.

As Simon described Aditu, and what the Sitha-woman
had said about the Dawn Children riding to Hemystir,
Maegwin again began to weep.

"Mircha clothed in rain! It is as I feared. I have almost
destroyed my people with my madness. I did not die!"

"I don't understand." Simon leaned a little closer, bask-
ing in the warmth of her glow. It made the strange ghostly
landscape a little less empty. "You didn't die?"

The shadow-woman began to speak of her own life. Si-
mon realized with 'dawning amazement that he did indeed
know of her, although they had never met: she was
Lluth's daughter, sister of Gwythinn the Hernystirman Si-
mon had seen at Josua's councils in Naglimund.

The story she told, and then the further tale of dreams
and misunderstandings and accidents that she and Simon
pieced together from fragments and guesses, was terrible
indeed. Simon, who had spent much of his time on the
wheel in a fury of self-pity, found himself sickened by
Magwin's losses-her father, her brother, her very home
and country taken from her in a way that even he, for all
his sorrows, had not experienced. And the cruel tricks
that fate, with Simon's unwitting help, had played on her!

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

539

No wonder she had lost her wits and imagined herself
dead. He ached for her.

When Maegwin had finished, the phantom valley again
fell into total silence.

"But why are you here?" Simon finally asked.

"I do not know. I was not led here, like you. But after
I touched the mind of the thing in what I thought was
Scadach-in Naglimund, if that is where it was-I was
nowhere at all for a time. Then I awoke to this place, this
land, and knew I was waiting." She paused- "Perhaps it
was you I was meant to wait for."

"But why?"

"I do not know. But it seems we fight the same
fight-or rather we did fight it, since I see no way that ei-
ther of us will leave this place."
Simon waited and thought. "That thing ... that thing at
Naglimund. What was it like? What did ... what did you
feel when you touched its thoughts?"

Maegwin struggled to find a way to explain. "It ... it
burned. Being so near to it was like putting my face in the
door of a kiln-I feared it would scorch away my very
being. I did not sense words, as I do from you, but ...
ideas. Hatred, as I told you-a hatred of the living. And
a longing for death, for release, which was almost as
strong as the longing for revenge." She made a sad noise.
For a moment her light dimmed. "That was when I was
first troubled about my own thoughts, for / felt that long-
ing for death, too-and if I was already dead, how could
I desire to be released from life?" She laughed, a bitter-
sweet sensation that pricked at Simon's being. "Mircha
shelter me! Listen to us! Even after all that has passed,
this is a madness beyond all understanding, dear stranger.
That you and I should be in this place, this moiheneg"
she used a Hemystiri word or thought that Simon did not
understand, "talking of our lives, although we do not
even know whether we still live."

"We have stepped out of the world," Simon told her,
and suddenly everything seemed different. He felt a sort
of calm descend upon him. "Perhaps we've been given a
gift. For a time, we've been allowed to step outside the

540 Tad Williams

world. A time to rest." Indeed, he felt more like himself
than he had since he had fallen through the earth of
John's barrow. Meeting Maegwin had done much to make
him feel like a living thing again.

"A time to rest? Perhaps for you, Simon-and if that is
so, I am happy for you. But I can only look on the fool-
ishness I made of my life and mourn."

"Was there anything else you learned from ... from'the
burning thing?" He was anxious to distract her. Her sor-
row over her mistakes seemed only barely contained, and
he feared that if it overwhelmed her he would find him-
self alone again.

Maegwin shimmered slightly. An unfelt wind seemed
to toss her cloudy hair. "There were thoughts for which I
have no words. Pictures I cannot quite explain. Very
strong, very bright, as though they were close to the cen-
ter of the flames that give that spirit life."

"What were they?" If the burning presence Maegwin
described was what he thought it was, any clue to its
plans-and by extension to the designs of its undead
master-might help avert an endless age of blackness.

/// can even get back, he reminded himself. Iff can es-
cape this place. He pushed the disturbing thought away.
Binabik had taught him to do only what he could at any
given time. 'You cannot catch three fish with two hands,'
the little man often said.

Maegwin hesitated, then the glow began to spread- "I
will try to show you."

In the valley of glass and shadows before them, some-
thing moved. It was another light, but where the one that
Maegwin held against her breast was soft and warm. this
one blazed with a fierce intensity; as Simon watched, four
more points of radiance sprang up around it. A moment
later the central light grew into a licking flame, stretching
upward-but even as the flame grew, it changed color,
becoming paler and paler until it was white as frost; the
licking tendrils of fire stiffened into immobility even as
they reached up and outward. Simon gaped at what they
had become. At the center of the four-comered ring of
flames now loomed a tall white tree, beautiful and un-

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

541

earthly. It was the thing that had haunted him so long.
The white tree. The blazing tower.

"It's Green Angel Tower," he murmured.

"This is where all the thoughts of the spirit in
Naglimund are bent." Maegwin's voice was suddenly
weary, as though showing Simon the tree had taken
nearly all her strength. "That idea burns inside it, just as
those flames bum around the tree." The vision wavered
and fell away, leaving only the shadowy, insubstantial
landscape.

Green Angel Tower, Simon thought. Something is going
to happen there.

"One other thing." Maegwin had grown markedly
fainter. "Somehow it thought of Naglimund as ... the
Fourth House. Does that mean something?"

Simon had a dim recollection of hearing something
similar from the Fire Dancers on the hilltop over Hasu
Vale, but at this moment it meant little to him. He was
consumed by the thought of Green Angel Tower. The
tower, and its mirror-phantom the White Tree, had
haunted his dreams for almost a year. It was the last Sithi
building in the Hayholt, the place where Ineluki had spo-
ken the dreadful words that had slain a thousand mortal
soldiers and had barred him forever from the living world
of Osten Ard. If the Storm King desired some ultimate re-
venge, perhaps by giving some dread power to his mortal
ally Elias, what more likely place for it to happen than the
lower?

Simon felt a frustrated rage sweep over him. To know
this, to see at last the outlines of the Enemy's ultimate
plan, but to be helpless to do anything-it was madden-
ing! More than ever he needed to be able to act, yet in-
stead he was condemned to wander as an unhomed spirit
while his body hung useless and unihabited.

"Maegwin, I have to find a way out of this . -. this
place. I must go back, somehow. Everything we have both
fought for is there. Green Angel Tower in the Hayholt-
that is the White Tree. I must go back!"

The shadowy figure beside him took a long time to re-

542

Tad Williams

spond. "You wish to go back to that pain? To all your suf-
fering?"

Simon thought of all that had happened and still might
happen, of his tormented body on the wheel and the ag-
ony he had fled in coming here, but it did not change his
resolve. "Aedon save me, I have to. Don't you want to go
back, too?"

"No." Maegwin's dim form shuddered. "No. I have no
strength left, Simon. If something was not keeping me
here, I would already have let go of everything that held
me." She took what seemed to be a deep breath; when she
spoke again, her voice trembled on the edge of weeping.
"There are some I have loved, and I know now that many
of them are still among the living. One in particular." She
steadied herself. "I loved him-loved him until I was sick
with it. And perhaps he even cared for me a little and I
was too stupidly prideful to see it ... but that is not im-
portant now." Her voice grew ragged. "No, that is not i
true. There is nothing in the living world more important '
to me than that love-but it is not to be. I would not go
back and start again, even if I could."

Her pain was so great that Simon was left without
words. There were some things that could not be made .
better, he realized. Some sorrows were irreparable.         '

"But I believe that you must go back," she said. "It is
different for you, Simon. And I am glad to know that, to t
find that there are still those who wish to live in the
world. I would not wish the way I feel on anyone. Return,
Simon. Save those you love if you can-and those I love, .
too."

"But I can't." And now his thwarted anger at last gave
way to desolation. There was no way to return. He and
Maegwin would be here discussing the minutiae of their
lives for eternity. "I don't know why I even said it, be-
cause I can't. I've tried. I don't have the strength to find
my body again."

'Try. Try once more."

"Don't you think I did? Don't you believe I tried as
hard as I could? It's out of my reach!"

TO    GREEN    ANGEL   TOWER                         543

"If you are right, we have forever. It will do no harm
to try once more."

Simon, who knew that he had already exerted his pow-
ers to the utmost and failed, choked down bitter words.
She was right. If he were to be any help to his friends, if
he were to have even a remote chance to gain revenge for
all he and Maegwin and thousands of others had suffered,
he must try again-however unlikely success might be.

He tried to empty his mind of all his fears and distrac-
tions. When he had achieved a small measure of calm, he
called up the image of the waterwheel, willing it into ex-
istence so that it turned in a great smoky circle over the
ghostly valley. Then he summoned the image of his own
face, his particular and only face, paying special attention
this time to what was behind the features as well, the
dreams and thoughts and memories that made him Simon.
He tried to make the shadowy figure bound to the wheel
come alive with Simon-ness, but already felt himself at
the limits of his strength.

"Can you help me, Maegwin?" As the wheel grew
more substantial she had grown dimmer; she was now lit-
tle more than a glow of hazy light. "I can't do it."

"Try."

He struggled to keep the wheel before him, tried to
summon the pain and terror and unending loneliness that
went with it. For a moment he almost felt the rough wood
scraping his back, heard the splashing of the wheels and
the grating clash of the great chains, but then it began to
slip away once more. Fading, the wheel trembled like a
reflection in a rippling pond. It had been so close, but
now it was receding from his reach....

"Here, Simon."

And suddenly Maegwin's presence was all around
him-even, somehow, inside of him. The glow that she
had cradled as long as they spoke she now passed to him;

it felt warm as the sun. "I think this is why I was brought
here to wait. It is time for me to go on-but it is time for
you to return."

Her strength filled him. The wheel, the forge chamber,

544

Tad Williams

the gnawing pain of his living body, all the things that at
this moment meant life to hmi were suddenly very close.
But Maegwin herself was far away. Her next words
seemed to come from a great distance, faint and
dwindling rapidly.

"/ am going on, Simon. Take what I give you and use
it: I do not need my life any more. Do what yyu must. I
pray it will be enough. If you meet Eclair ... no, 7 will
tell him myself. Someday. In another place ..."

Her brave words did not mask her fear. Simon felt ev-
ery bit of her terror as she let go and allowed herself to
slip away into the dark unknown.

"Maegwin! Don't!"

But she was gone. The glow she had held was part of
Simon, now. She had given him the only thing she had
left-the bravest, most terrible gift of all-
Simon fought as he had never fought before, deter-
mined not to waste Maegwin's sacrifice. Although the liv-
ing world was so close he could feel it, still some
inexplicable barrier separated him from the body he had
left behind-but he could not let himself fail. Using the
strength Maegwin had given him, he forced himself
closer, embracing the agony, the fear, even the helpless-
ness that would be his if he returned. There was nothing
he could do unless he accepted what was real. He pushed
and felt the barrier ripping. He pushed again.

Murky gray turned to black, then red. As he passed
back from the nether realms into the waking world, Si-
mon screamed. He hurt. Everything hurt. He was reborn
into a world of pain.

The scream continued, rasping from his dried throat
and cracked lips. His hand was on fire, full of scorching
agony.

"Quiet!" The frightened voice was very close. "I am
trying ..."

He was back on the wheel. His head was pounding, and
splintered wood rubbed against his skin. But what was
wrong with his hand? It felt as though someone were try-
ing to tear it from his wrist with hot pincers. -..

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

545

It moved! He could move his arm!

Again there came a tremulous whisper. "The voices say
I must hurry. They will be coming soon."

Simon's left arm was free. As he tried to flex it, a flam-
ing bolt of pain leaped into his shoulder-but the arm
moved. He opened his eyes and goggled dizzily.

A figure hung upside down before him; beyond, the
forge cavern itself was inverted as well. The dark shape
was sawing at his right arm with something that caught
the gleam of one of the torches at the far side of the cav-
ern. Who was it? What was it doing? Simon could not
make his crippled thoughts follow each other.

A throbbing, burning pain now crept into his right
hand. What was happening?

"You brought me food. I ... I could not leave you. But
the voices say I must hurry!"

It was hard to think with both of his arms on fire, but
slowly Simon began to understand. He was hanging head-
downward on the wheel. Someone was cutting him free.
Someone ...

"... Guthwulf... ?"

"Soon the others will notice. They will come. Do not
move-I cannot see and I fear I will cut you." The blind
earl was working furiously.

Simon ground his teeth as the blood rushed back into
his arms, trying to choke back another scream. He had not
believed such misery was possible.

Free. It will be worth it. I'll be free.... He shut his
eyes again, his jaws clamped together. His other arm was
loose, and now both dangled beside his head. The change
of position was excruciating.

He dimly heard Guthwulf wade a few steps, then felt
the rhythmic sawing begin on his ankle.

Only a few moments, Simon promised himself, trying
desperately to stay silent. He remembered what the cham-
bermaids had told him when, as a child, he had wept over
a small hurt. "It won't mean anything tomorrow. You'll be
happy then."

One ankle came free, and the misery of its release was
equaled by the strain now put on the other. Simon turned

546

Tad Williams

his head and sank his teeth into his own shoulder. Any-
thing to keep from making noise that might bring Inch or
his minions.

"Almost ..." said Guthwulf hoarsely. There was an    in-
stant of slow movement, a sense of slippage, then    Simon
abruptly fell. Stunned, he found himself drowning    in cold
water. He thrashed helplessly, but could not feel    his
limbs- He did not know which direction was up.

Something grasped his hair and yanked. A moment
later, another hand curled chokingly around his neck be-
neath his chin. Simon's mouth came up out of the water,
and he gasped in a long breath. For a moment his face
was pressed against Guthwulf's lean stomach while his
rescuer struggled to get a better grip. Then Simon was
dragged forward and dumped onto the rim of the sluice,
His hands still did not work properly; he clung in place
with his elbows, almost oblivious to the shrieking pain uf
his joints. He did not want to go back into that water

again.

"We must..." he heard Guthwulf begin, then the blind
man gasped and something smashed against Simon, who
slid backward and only barely retained his hold on the
edge of the sluice.

"What happens here?'" Inch's voice was a dreadful
rumbling growl. "You do not touch my kitchen boy'"

Simon felt hope fade, replaced with sick terror. How i
could this happen? It was wrong! That he should have !
come back from death, from nothingness, only to have ,
Inch show up a few moments too soon-how could Fate ;

play such a monstrous trick?                             ;

Guthwulf gave a choking cry. then Simon could hear
nothing but frenzied splashing. He slowly let himself
back down until his feet touched the slippery bottom of
the sluice. Putting weight on his wounded legs sent a
blinding cloud of black fire through his head and back,
but he stood. After his torments he knew he should not
even be able to move, but he still retained some of the
strength given to him by Maegwin's sacrifice; he felt it
smoldering in him like a low-banked fire. He forced him-

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

547

self to remain upright in the slow-moving water until he
could see again.

Inch had waded into the sluice, and now stood waist-
deep in the center like some beast of the swamps. In the
dim torchlight, Simon saw Guthwulf burst up from be-
neath the water, struggling wildly to escape the overseer's
clutches. Inch grabbed the blind man's head and pushed
him back under.

"No!" Simon's crippled voice was barely louder than a
whisper. If it carried across the short distance. Inch gave
him no heed. Still, the silence nagged at Simon in some
obscure way. Was he deaf? No, he had heard both
Guthwulf and Inch. So why did the chamber seem so
quiet?

Guthwulf's arms jerked above the surface, but the rest
of him remained submerged in the dark waters.
Simon stumbled toward them, thrashing against the
slow current. The great wheel hung unmoving above the
waterway. As he saw it, Simon realized why the cavern
was strangely quiet: Guthwulf had somehow managed to
lift the wheel so he could cut Simon free.

As he neared Inch, the cavern began to grow lighter, as
though dawn had somehow found its way down through
the rock. Shadowy figures were approaching, a few of
them bearing torches. Simon thought they must be sol-
diers or Inch's henchmen, but when they came a little
closer he saw their wide, frightened eyes. The forge
workers had been roused, and now came hesitantly for-
ward to see what was causing the uproar.

"Help!" Simon rasped. "Help us! He cannot stop you
all!"

The tattered men stopped, as though Simon's words
alone might make them traitors, liable to Inch's punish-
ment. They stared, too cowed even to whisper among
themselves.

Inch was paying neither Simon nor his slave labor any
attention. He had allowed Guthwulf to surface briefly,
gasping and spitting, and now was shoving him back into
the water again. Simon lifted his hands, still numb with
their long binding, and struck at Inch as hard as he could.

548

Tad Williams

He might as well have kicked a mountain. Inch turned to
look at him. The overseer's scarred face was curiously
expressionless, as though the act of violence in which he
was engaged took all his attention.

"Kitchen boy," Inch boomed. "You do not run away. You
are next." He reached out a huge hand and jerked Simon
forward. He released his grip on drowning Guthwulf long
enough to pick Simon up with both hands and throw'him
out of the sluiceway onto the hard stone. All Simon's breath
blew out, and another rush of pain coursed through him,
fiercer even than the simmering agony of his limbs. For a
moment he could not make his battered body respond.

Simon sensed somebody stooping over him. Certain it
was Inch come to finish the job, he curled into a ball.

"Here, lad," someone whispered, and tried to help him
into a sitting position. Stanhelm, the forge worker who
had befriended him, was crouching at his side. The older
man seemed barely able to move: one arm curled use-
lessly in front of his chest, and his neck was bent at an
odd angle.

"Help us." Simon struggled to rise. His chest felt
dagger-stabbed with each breath.
"Nothing left of me." Even Stanhelm's speech was
slurred. "But look to yon wheel, lad."

While Simon fought to make sense of this, one of
Inch's helpers strode over.

"Don't touch him," he snarled. "He's Doctor's."

"Shut your mouth," said Stanhelm. The henchman
lifted his hand as if to strike, but suddenly several other
forge men moved in on either side of him. Some of them
held bits of iron scrap, heavy and sharp-edged.

"You heard," one of them growled quietly at Inch's
man. "Shut your mouth."

The man looked around, judging his chances. "You'll
pay pretty when Doctor hears. He'll be done with that'un
in a moment."

"Then go watch," spat another of the forge workers.
The men seemed frightened, but somehow they had
drawn a line: if they were not yet willing to fight back
against the hulking overseer, neither would they stand by

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

549

and see Inch's crony harm Simon or Stanhelm. The
henchman cursed and backed off, then hurried to the
safety of his master's vicinity.

"Now, lad," Stanhelm whispered. "Look to yon wheel."

Dizzied by all that was happening, Simon stared at the
forge man as he tried to make sense out of his words.
Then he turned slowly and saw.

The great wooden paddlewheel had been lifted up so
that it hung almost twice a man's height above the water-
course. Inch, who had pursued floundering Guthwulf a
short way down the sluice, now stood beneath the wheel.

Stanhetm extended a bent and shaking arm. "There.
Them are the works."

Simon struggled to his feet and took a few shaky steps
toward the vast framework. The lever which he had seen
Inch use was cocked, secured by a rope. Simon slowly
tugged the rope free, straining his burning muscles and
cramped hands, then grasped the lever itself in slippery,
numbed fingers. Inch had pushed Guthwulf under again; he
watched his victim's suffering with calm interest. The blind
man was floundering away from his tormentor, toward Si-
mon, and now appeared to be beyond the wheel's rim.

Simon said the few words of the Elysia prayer that he
could remember, then heaved' on the wooden lever. It
moved only slightly, but the frame that held the wheel
groaned. Inch looked up and around, then gradually
turned his monocular gaze toward Simon.

"Kitchen boy! You ..."

Simon heaved again, this time lifting his feet from the
ground so that all his weight hung on the lever. He
screamed with the pain of holding on. The frame groaned
again, then, with a grating squeal, the lever banged down
and the wheel shuddered and dropped into the sluice with
a thunderous splash. Inch tried to dive forward out of the
way, but disappeared beneath the huge paddles.

For a moment nothing moved in the whole cavern but
the wheel, which began, slowly, to revolve. Then, as if
the frothing channel gave birth to a monster, Inch burst
to the surface howling in anger, water running from his
wide-stretched mouth.

550

Tad Williams

"Doctor!" he spluttered, waving his fist. "Can't kill
me! Not Doctor Inch!" Simon slumped to the ground. He
had done all he could.

Inch took a sloshing step forward, then began to fly. Si-
mon stared, overwhelmed. The world had run entirely mad,

Inch's body lifted out of the water. Only when all of
him was in view could Simon see that the foundry-
master's broad belt had somehow caught on the fittings of
one of the vast paddle blades.

The waterwheel bore Inch upward. The giant was in a
frenzy now, bellowing as he was manhandled by some-
thing even larger than he was. He twisted at the end of the
blade, struggling to free himself, reaching back to smash
at the wooden paddle wi   us fist. As the wheel swung
him up toward the top of its rotation, he reached out for
the great chains which twined around its axle and climbed
up out of sight into the shadows of the cavem ceiling.
Inch's huge hands grasped the slippery links. He clung
tightly. As they pulled upward past the wheel, he was
stretched to his utmost for an instant. Then the buckle of
his belt snapped loose and he fell free of the paddle. He
clung to the massive chain with both his arms and legs.

Inch was still not coherent, but his echoing roar
changed to a note of triumph as the chains carried him
slowly upward. He swung away from the wheel so he
could drop into the water below, but when he let go, he
fell only a little way and then tipped over. He slammed
against the chain and dangled, head downward. His foot
had slid through the center of one of the wide, oily links
and was wedged there.

The overseer thrashed, trying to pull himself up to free
his foot. Howling and sputtering, he tore his own leg
bloody, but he could not drag his weight high enough.
The chain carried him up toward the unseen heights.

His cries grew fainter as he vanished into the shadows
overhead, then a horrendous agonized cry echoed down, a
rasping gargle with nothing human in it. The wheel
lurched in its rotation for a moment and stopped, bounc-
ing a little from side to side as the current pushed at the
immobilized paddle blades. Then the wheel began to turn

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

551

again, forcing   the obstruction through the monumental
grinding gears   that turned Pryrates' tower-top. A drizzle
of dark fluids   rained down. Bits of something more solid
•:   spattered   across the waterway.

Moments later, what remained of Inch slowly de-
^   scended into the light, wrapped around the huge chain
like meat on a cooking skewer.

Simon stared idiotically for a moment, then bent, retch-
ing, but there was nothing in his stomach to bring up.

Someone was patting his head. "Run, lad, if you got
place to go. Red priest*!! come quick. His tower stopped
turning for a good long time when wheel was up."

Simon squinted against the black flecks that danced be-
fore his eyes, fighting to make sense of things.
"Stanhelm," he gasped. "Come with us."

"Can't. Nothing left of me." Stanhelm gestured with
his chin at his twisted, badly-healed legs. "Me and
Others'11 keep the rest shut up. Say Inch had a bit of ac-
cident. King's soldiers won't do us badly-they need us.
You run. Didn't belong here."

"Nobody belongs here," Simon gasped. "I'll come
back for you."

"Won't be here." Stanhelm turned away. "Go on now."

Simon clambered to his feet and stumbled toward the
watercourse, pain arrowing through him with every step.
A pair of forge workers had lifted Guthwulf out of the
water; the blind man lay on the cavern floor, struggling
for air. The men who had saved him stared, but did noth-
ing further to help. They seemed curiously numbed and
slow,, like fish in a winter pond.

Simon bent and tugged at Guthwulf. The last of the
strength Maegwin's sacrifice had lent him was eddying
away.

"Guthwulf! Can you get up?"

The earl flailed his hands. "Where is it? God help me,
where is it?"

"Where is what? Inch is dead. Get up! Hurry! Where
do we go?"

The blind man choked and spat water. "Can't go! Not
without ..." He rolled over and forced himself up onto

552

Tad Williams

hands and knees, then began scrabbling along the ground
beside the watercourse, pawing as though to dig himself

a hole.

"What are you doing?"

"Can't leave it. I'll die. Can't leave it." Suddenly,
Guthwulf gave an animal cry of joy. "Here!"

"Aedon's mercy, Guthwulf, Pryrates will be here any

moment!"

Guthwulf took a few staggering steps. He lifted some-
thing that reflected a yellow strip of torchlight. "I should
never have brought it," he babbled. "But I needed some-
thing to cut the rope." He gasped in more air. "They all

want to take it."

Simon stared at the long blade. Even in the shadowy
forge chamber, he knew it. Against all sense, against all
likelihood ... here was the sword they had sought.

"Bright-Nail," he murmured.
The blind man suddenly lifted his free hand. "Where

are you?"

Simon took a few painful steps closer. "I'm here. We
have to go. How did you get here? How did you come to

(his place?"

"Help me." Guthwulf put out his arm.

Simon took it. "Where can we go?"

"Toward the water. Where the water goes down." He
began to limp along the edge of the channel. The forge
workers drifted back to let them pass, watching with

nervous interest.

"You're free!" Simon croaked at them. "Free!" They
stared at him as though he spoke a foreign tongue.
But how are they free, unless they/allow us? The
forges are still locked, the doors still barred. We should
help them. We should lead them out.

Simon had no strength left. Beside him, Guthwulf was
mumbling, shuffling his feet like a lame old man. How
could they save anyone? The forge workers would have

to make their own way.

The water ran foaming down through a fissure in the
cavern wall. As Guthwulf felt his way along the stone, Si-
mon was momentarily certain that the blind earl had lost

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          553

what few wits he had left-that they had escaped drown-
ing once, but would now be washed down into blackness,
But there was a narrow track along the edge of the water-
course, one that Simon could never have found in the
shadows. Guthwulf, to whom light was useless, made his
way downward, tracking the wall with his fingers as Si-
mon struggled to help him and still remain balanced.
They passed out of the last gleams of torchlight and into
blackness. The water churned noisily beside them.

The darkness was so complete that Simon had to strug-
gle to remember who he was and what he was doing.
Fragments of the things Leieth had showed him floated
up from his memory, colors and pictures as swirlingly
confused as an oil film on a puddle. A dragon, a king
with a book, a frightened man looking for faces in the
shadows-what did all these things mean? Simon did not
want to think any more. He wanted to sleep. To sleep ...

The roar of the water was very loud. Simon emerged
suddenly from a haze of pain and confusion to find him-
self leaning sideways at a precarious angle. He grabbed at
the cracked wall of the fissure, pulling himself upright.
"Guthwulf!"

"They speak so many tongues," the blind man mur-
mured. "Sometimes I think I understand them, but then I
am lost again." He sounded very weak. Simon could feel
him trembling.

"I can't... go much longer." Simon clung to the rough
stone. "I have to stop,"

"Almost." Guthwulf took another stumbling step along
the slender track. Simon forced himself away from the
wall, struggling to retain his clutch on the blind man.

They trudged on. Simon felt several openings in the
stone wall pass beneath his fingers, but Guthwulf did not
turn. When the tunnel began to resonate with loud voices,
Simon wondered if he were sliding into Guthwulf's mad-
ness, but after a short while he saw a gleam of amber
torchglow on the cavern wall and realized that someone
was coming down the sluiceway behind them.
"They're after us! I think it's Pryrates." He slipped and

554

Tad Williams

released his hold on the blind man to steady himself.
When he reached out again, Guthwulf was gone.

A moment of complete panic ended when Simon found
the opening to a spur tunnel. Guthwulf was just inside.
"Almost," the earl panted. "Almost. The voices-Aedon,
they're screaming'-but I have the sword. Why are they
screaming?"

He headed down the tunnel, lurching against the wans.
Simon kept his hand against the earl's back as Guthwulf
turned several more times. Soon Simon could no longer
remember all the turnings. That was hopeful-whoever
followed them should find it no easier.

The trudge through blackness seemed to go on and on.
Simon felt bits of himself drifting away, until he thought
himself a spirit again, an unhomed ghost like the one that
had roamed the gray spaces alone.

Alone except for Leieth. And Maegwin.

Thinking of those who had helped him there, he
reached down for a last increment of resolve and strug-
gled on.

Walking in a daze, he did not notice that they had
stopped until he felt Guthwulf abruptly drop forward; when
Simon's hand found him again, the blind man was crawl-
ing. When Guthwulf stopped, Simon reached down and felt
crumpled cloth strewn across the stone. A nest. Letting his
hand travel farther across the floor, Simon touched the
carPs quivering leg, then the cold metal of the sword.

"Mine," Guthwulf said reflexively. His voice was
muddy with fatigue. "This, too. Safe."

At that moment, Simon no longer cared about the
sword, about Pryrates or any soldiers who might be fol-
lowing, or even whether the Storm King and Elias might
bring the whole world tumbling down around his ears.
Every breath burned, and his arms and legs were a-twitch
with agonizing cramps. His head hammered like the bells
in Green Angel Tower.

Simon found a place of his own amid the scattered
rags, then surrendered to the dark pull.

25

Living in Eidfe

^
Jiriki took- his hands off the dwarrow-stone.

Eolair did not need to be told. "She is gone." The count
stared at Maegwin's pale face, relaxed now as though in
sleep. "Gone." He had been preparing himself for this
moment, but still felt as though a huge emptiness had
opened inside him, a void that would never be filled. He
reached out and grasped her hands, which were still
warm.

"I am sorry," said Jiriki.

"Are you?" Eolair did not look at him. "What can the
short life of a mortal mean to your kind?"

The Sitha did not speak for 'a moment. "The Zida'ya
die, just as mortals do. And when those we held in our
hearts have passed from us, we, too, are unhappy."

"Then if you understand," Eolair said, struggling for
control, "please leave me alone."

"As you wish." Jiriki stood, a catlike unfolding from
his seat on the pallet. He seemed about to say something
more, but instead went silently out of the tent.

Eolair stared at Maegwin for a long time. Her hair,
damp with sweat, lay in tight curls across her forehead.
Her mouth seemed to hint at a smile. It was almost im-
possible to believe that life had left her.

"Oh, the gods have been cruel masters," he groaned.
"Maegwin, what did we do to be so ill-treated?" Tears
started in his eyes. He buried his face in her hair, then
kissed her cooling cheek. "It has all been a cruel, cruel
trick. It has all been for nothing, if you are dead." His

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Tad Williams

body was shaken by sobs. For a while he could only rock
back and forth, clutching her hand. The dwarrow-stone
was still in her other palm, held against her breast as
though to keep it from theft.

"I never knew. I never knew. You foolish woman, why
did you tell me nothing? Why did you pretend? Now all
is gone. All is lost...."

Jiriki, white hair streaming in the wind, was waiting for
him when he emerged. Eolair thought he looked like a
storm-spirit-like a harbinger of death.

"What do you want?"

"As I said, Count Eolair, I am very sorry. But there are
things I think you should know-things that I discovered
in the last moments of the Lady Maegwin's life."
Oh, Brynioch preserve me, he thought wearily. The
world was too much for Eolair, and he did not think he
could bear any more Sithi riddles.

"I am tired. And we must leave tomorrow for
Hemystir."

"That is why I wish to tell you now," Jiriki said pa-
tiently.

Eolair stared at him for a moment, then shrugged.
"Very well. Speak."

"Are you cold?" Jiriki asked this with the careful solic-
itousness of one who had learned that although he never
suffered from the elements, others did. "We can walk to
one of the fires."

"I will survive."

Jiriki nodded slowly. "That piece of stone was given to
Maegwin by the Tinukeda'ya, was it not? By those you
call domhaini?"

"It was a gift from the dwarrows, yes."

"It was much like the great stone you and I visited in
Mezutu'a beneath the mountain-the Shard, the Master
Witness. When I touched this small stone, I felt much of
Maegwin's thought."

Eolair was disturbed by the idea of the immortal being
with Maegwin in her last moments, being with her in a

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

557

way he could not. "And can you not leave those thoughts
in peace-let them go with her to her barrow?"

The Sitha hesitated. "It is difficult for me. I do not
wish to force things upon you. But there are things I think
you should know." Jiriki laid his long fingers against
Eolair's arm. "I am not your enemy, Eolair. We are all
hostages to the whims of a mad power." He let his hand
fall. "I cannot claim to know for certain all that she felt
or thought. The ways of the Dream Road-the path that
Witnesses such as the dwarrow-stone open-are very
confusing these days, very dangerous. You remember
what happened when I touched the Shard. I was reluctant
even to risk the Other Pathways, but felt that if there was
a chance I could help, I should."

From a mortal Eolair would have found this self-
serving, but there was something about the Sitha that sug-
gested an almost frightening sincerity. Eolair felt a little
of his anger slip away.
"In that muddle of thoughts and feelings," Jiriki contin-
ued, "I did understand two things, or at least I am fairly
sure that I did. I believe that at the end her madness
lifted. I did not know the Maegwin that you knew, so I
cannot be certain, but her thoughts seemed clear and
unmuddied. She thought of you. I felt that very strongly."

Eolair took a step backward. "She did? You do not say
that to soothe me, as a parent might to a child?"

The Sitha's smooth face momentarily showed surprise-
"Do you mean tell you something that is not true, delib-
erately? No, Eolair. That is not our way."

"She thought of me? Poor woman! And I could do
nothing for her." The count felt tears returning, but made
no attempt to hide them. "This is no favor, Jiriki."

"It was not meant to be. These are things you deserve
to know. Now I must ask you a question. There is a
young mortal named Seoman who is linked to Josua. Do
you know him? More importantly, did Maegwin know
him?"

"Seoman?" Eolair was bewildered by the sudden shift
of the conversation. He thought for a moment. "There
was a young knight named Simon, tall, red-haired-is

558

Tad Williams

that who you mean? I think I heard some call him Sir
Seoman."

"That is him."

"I doubt very much that Maegwin knew him. She never
traveled to Erkynland, and I believe that was where the
young man lived before running away to serve Josua.
Why?" Eolair shook his head. "I do not understand this."

"Nor do I. And I fear what it might mean. But in those
last moments, it seemed Maegwin thought also of young
Seoman, almost as though she had seen him or spoken
with him." Jiriki frowned. "It is our ill luck that the
Dream Road is so murky now, so unrewarding. It was all
I could do to glean that much. But something is happen-
ing in Asu'a-the Hayholt-and Seoman will be there. I
fear for him, Count Eolair. He is ... important to me."

"But that is where you are going anyway. That is for-
tunate, I suppose." Eolair did not want to think any more.
"I wish you luck finding him."

"And you? Even if Seoman had some significance for
Maegwin? Even if she had some message from him, or
for him?"

"I am done with that-and so is she. I will take her
back to Erkynland to be buried on the mountain beside
her father and brother. There is much to do to rebuild our
country, and I have been absent too long."

"What help can I give you?" Jiriki asked.

"I want no more help." Eolair spoke more sharply than
he had intended. "We mortals are very good at burying
our dead."

He turned and walked away, pulling his cloak tight
against the flurrying snows.

"

Isgrimnur limped out onto the deck, cursing his aching
body and his halting progress. He did not notice the shad-
owy figure until he had nearly stumbled into it.

"Greetings, Duke Isgrimnur." Aditu turned and re-
garded him for a moment. "Is it not chill weather for one
of your folk to be out in the wind?"

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          559

Isgrimnur hid his startlement by an elaborate readjust-
ment of his gloves. "Perhaps for the southern folk like
Tiamak. But my people are Rimmersmen, my lady- We
are hardened to the cold."

"Am I your lady?" she said with amusement. "I cer-
tainly hold no mortal title. And I cannot believe that
Duchess Outrun would approve of any other meaning."

He grimaced, and was suddenly grateful for the chill
wind on his cheeks. "It is just politeness, my la ..." He
tried again. "I find it difficult to call by their first name
someone who ... who ..."

"Who is older than you are?" She laughed, a not un-
pleasant sound. "Another problem for which I am to
blame! I truly did not come to you mortals to discomfort
you."

"Are you really? Older than me?" Isgrimnur was not
sure if it was a polite question-but after all, she had
brought it up.

"Oh, I should think so ... although my brother Jiriki
and I are both accounted quite young by our folk. We are
both children of the Exile, born since Asu'a fell. To some,
like my uncle Khendraja'aro, we are barely even real peo-
ple, and certainly not to be trusted with any responsibil-
ity." She laughed again. "Oh, poor Uncle. He has seen so
many outrageous things happen in these last days-a
mortal brought to Jao e-Tinukai'i, the breaking of the
Pact, Zida'ya and humans fighting side by side again. I
fear that he will finish his present duty to my mother and
Year-Dancing House and then simply let himself die.
Sometimes it is the strongest who are the most brittle. Do
you not think so?"

Isgrimnur nodded. For once, he understood what the
Sitha-woman meant. "I have seen that, yes. Sometimes
those who act the strongest are really the most fright-
ened."

Aditu smiled. "You are a very wise mortal. Duke
Isgrimnur."

The duke coughed, embarrassed. "I am a very old, very
sore mortal." He stared out across the choppy bay. "And
tomorrow we make landfall. I am glad we have been able

560 Tad Williams

to shelter here in the Kynslagh-I don't think most of us
could have taken much more of the storms and the kilpa
on the open sea, and God knows I hate boats-but I still
don't understand why Elias has not lifted a hand in his
own defense."

"He has not yet," Aditu agreed. "Perhaps he feels that
his Hayholt walls are defense enough."

"Could be." Isgrimnur voiced the fear that others in the
prince's fleet shared. "Or perhaps he is expecting allies-
the kind of allies he had at Naglimund."

"That could also be true. Your people and my people
have both wondered much about what is intended." She
shrugged, a sinuous gesture that might have been part of
a ritual dance. "Soon it will not matter. Soon we will
learn first hand, as I think you say."

They both fell silent. The wind was not strong, but its
breath was bitterly cold. Despite his rugged heritage,
Isgrimnur found himself pulling his scarf higher on his
neck.

"What happens to your fairy-folk when they get old?"
Isgrimnur asked suddenly. "Do they just get wiser? Or do
they turn silly and mawkish, as some of ours do?"

" 'Old' means something different to us, as you know,"
Aditu replied. "But the answer is: there are as many dif-
ferent answers as there are Zida*ya, as is no doubt true
with mortals. Some grow increasingly remote; they do not
speak to anyone, but live entirely in their own thoughts.
Others develop fondnesses for things others find unim-
portant. And some begin to brood on the past, on wrongs
and hurts and missed chances.

"The oldest one of all, the one you call the Norn
Queen, has grown old in that way. She was known once
for her wisdom and beauty, for grace beyond measure-
ment. But something in her was balked and grew bent,
and so she curled inward into malice. As the years almost
beyond counting rolled past, all that was once admirable
became twisted." Aditu had suddenly become serious in a
way that Isgrimnur had not seen before. "That is perhaps
the greatest sorrow of our folk, that the ruin of the world

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              56!

should be brought about by two who were among the
greatest of the Gardenbom."

"Two?" Isgrimnur was trying to reconcile the stories he
had heard of the silver-masked queen of ice and darkness
with Aditu's description.

"Ineluki ... the Storm King." She turned back to look
across the Kynslagh, as though she could see the old
Asu'a looming beyond the darkness. "He was the
brightest-burning flame ever kindled in this land. Had the
mortals not come-had your own ancestors not come,
Duke Isgrimnur-and attacked our great house with iron
and fire, he might have led us out of the shadows of exile
and back into the light of the living world again. That was
his dream. But any great dream can flower into madness."
She was silent for a while. "Perhaps we must all learn to
live with exile, Isgrimnur. Perhaps we must all leam to
live with smaller dreams."

Isgrimnur said nothing. They stood for a while in the
wind, silent but not uncomfortably so, before the duke
turned and sought the warmth of the cabins.

"

Duchess Gutrun looked up in alarm when she felt the
cold air. "Vorzheva! Are you mad? Bring those children
away from the windows."

The Thrithings-woman, one child cradled in each arm,
did not move. Beyond the open window stretched
Nabban, vast but strangely intimate; the city's famous
hills made the houses and streets and buildings seem built
almost on top of each other. "There is no harm in air. On
the grasslands, we live all our lives out in the open."

"Nonsense," Gutrun said crossly. "I've been there,
Vorzheva, don't forget. Those wagons are almost like
houses."

"But we only sleep in them. Everything else-eating,
singing, loving-we do beneath the sky."

"And your men cut their cheeks with knives, too. Does
that mean you're going to do that to poor little
Deomoth?" She bristled at the mere thought.

562 Tad Williams

The Thrithings-woman turned and gave her companion
an amused look. "You do not think the little one should
wear scars?" She gazed at the male infant's sleeping face,
then laid a finger along his cheek, pretending to consider
it. "Oh, but they are so handsome to see. .. ." She darted
a sideward glance, then burst out laughing at the
Rimmerswoman's horror. "Outrun! You think I mean it
for true!"

"Don't even say such things. And bring those poor ba-
bies away from the window."

"I am showing them the ocean where their father is.
But you, Outrun, you are very angry and unhappy today.
Are you not well?"

"What is there to be happy about?" The duchess sank
down again onto her chair and picked up her sewing, but
only turned the cloth in her hands. "We are at war. People
are dying. It is not even a week since we buried little
Leieth!"

"Oh, I am sorry," Vorzheva said. "I did not mean to be
cruel. You were very close to her."

"She was just a child. She suffered terrible things, may
God grant her peace."

"She did not seem to have any pain at the end. That is
something. Did you think she would come awake, after
all that time?"

"No." The duchess frowned. "But that does not make
the sadness less. I hope I am not the one who must tell
young Jeremias when he comes back." Her voice
dropped. "If he comes back."

Vorzheva looked at the older woman intently. "Poor
Outrun. It is not just Leieth, is it? You are frightened for
Isgrimnur also."

"My old fellow will come back well," Gutrun mut-
tered. "He always does." She peered up at Vorzheva, who
still stood before the open window, a sweep of ash-gray
sky behind her. "But what of you, who feared so much
for Josua? Where is your worry?" She shook her head.
"Saint Skendi protect us, I should not speak of such
things. Who knows what ill luck it could bring?"

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          563

Vorzheva smiled. "Josua will come back to me. I had a
dream."

"What do you mean? Has all that nonsense of Aditu's
turned your head?"

"No," The Thrithings-woman looked down at her girl-
child; Vorzheva's thick hair fell like a curtain, so that for
a moment the faces of both mother and daughter were
hidden. "But it was a true dream. I know. Josua came to
me and said, 'I have what I always have wanted.' And he
was at peace. So I know that he will win, and he will
come back to me."
Gutrun opened her mouth to say something, then shut
it again. Her face was fearful. Quickly, while Vorzheva
still gazed at little Derra, the duchess made the sign of the
Tree.

Vorzheva shivered and looked up. "Perhaps you are
right, Gutrun. It is getting cold. I will shut the windows."

The duchess levered herself up from her chair. "Non-
sense. I'll do it. You take those little ones right back and
get under the blankets." She paused in front of the win-
dow. "Merciful Elysia," she said. "Look."

Vorzheva turned. "What?"

"It's snowing."

A

"You would think we were stopping for a visit to a lo-
cal shrine," Sangfugol observed. "That these were boat-
loads of pilgrims."

Tiamak was huddled with the harper and Strangyeard
on a windy, snow-clad slope east of Swertclif. Below
them, landing boats bounced Josua's army across the
choppy Kynslagh toward the shore; the prince and the
martial arm of his household were at the landing site,
overseeing the complex enterprise.

"Where is Elias?" Sangfugol demanded. "Aedon's
Bones, his brother is landing an army on his doorstep.
Where is the king?"

Strangyeard winced ever so slightly at the oath. "You
sound as though you want him to come! We know where

564

Tad Williams

the High King is, Sangfugol." He gestured toward the
Hayholt, a cluster of spiky shadows almost hidden by
whirling snow. "Waiting. But we do not know why."

Tiamak sank deeper into his cloak. His bones felt fro-
zen. He could understand that the prince might not want
them underfoot, but surely they could have found a place
to stay out of the way that was less exposed to the wind
and snow?

At least I have drylander breeches now. But I still do
not want to end my days here, in this cold place. Please
let me see my Wran again. Let me go to the Wind Festival
one more time. Let me drink too much fern beer and play
snatch-the-feather. I don't want to die here and be un-
burned and unremembered.

He shivered and tried to slough off such glum thoughts.
"Has the prince sent scouts toward the castle?"
Sangfugol shook his head, pleased to be knowledge-
able. "Not in close. I heard him tell Isgrimnur that stealth
was useless, since the king must have seen us coming
days ago, and heard of it long before that. Now that he
has made sure Elias has no soldiers hidden in Erchester-
soldiers! No one is there but dogs and rats!-Josua will
send outriders ahead when the company moves up to set
the siege."

As the harper went on to explain how, in his estima-
tion, the prince should go about deploying his forces,
Tiamak saw someone slogging up the hill through the
snow.

"Look!" Father Strangyeard pointed. "Who is that?"
"It's young Jeremias." Sangfugol was a little nettled to
be interrupted. "Been driven out like the rest of us, I sup-
pose."

Tiamak!" Jeremias called. "Come with me! Hurry!"
"Goodness!" Strangyeard fluttered his hands. "Perhaps
they've found something important!"
Tiamak was already standing. "What is it?"
"Josua says come quickly. The Sitha-woman is sick."
"Shall we come, Tiamak?" Strangyeard asked. "No, I
am sure you would rather not be crowded. And what help
or comfort could / give to one of the Sithi?"

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          565

The Wrannaman started down the hill, leaning into the
wind. As the snow crunched beneath his feet, he was
again grateful for Sangfugol's loan of boots and breeches,
although both were too large.

/ am in a strange place, he marveled. A strange time.
A marsh man wading through the snows of Erkynland to
help one of the Sithi. It must be They Who Watch and
Shape who have drunk too much fern beer.

Aditu had been taken to a makeshift shelter, a cloth
cargo cover that had been stretched across the bottom
branches of a tree on a rise above the shoreline. Josua and
Sludig and a few of the soldiers stood by awkwardly,
hunched beneath the low roof. "Sludig found her," the
prince said. "I feared she had surprised some of my
brother's spies, but there are no marks of violence upon
her and Sludig said he saw no signs of struggle. No one
heard anything, either, although she was only a hundred
paces up from the shore." He frowned worriedly. "It is
like Leieth after Geloe died. She is sleeping, but will not
wake."

Tiamak stared at the Sitha's face. With her eyes closed
she appeared nearly human. "I did little for Leieth," he
said, "and I have no idea what-effect my herbs would
have on one of the immortals. I do not know what I can
do for Aditu."
Josua made a gesture of helplessness. "At least see that
she is comfortable."

"Did you see anything that might have caused it?"
Tiamak asked Sludig.

The Rimmersman shook his head vigorously. "Nothing.
I found her as you see her, lying on the ground with no
one else nearby."

"I must get back to watch over the unloading. Unless
there is something . . ." Josua seemed distracted, as
though even this upsetting event was not quite enough to
hold his full attention. The prince had always been a bit
remote, but in the day since they had made landfall, the
Wrannaman had found him to be unusually preoccupied-
Still, Tiamak decided, with what lay ahead of them all,
the prince had a right to be a little distracted.

566 Tad Williams

"I will stay with her. Prince Josua." He bent and
touched the Sitha's cheek. Her skin was cool, but he had
no idea whether that was unusual.

"Good. My thanks, Tiamak." Josua hesitated for a mo-
ment, then ducked out from beneath the lean-to. Sludig
and the other soldiers followed,

Tiamak squatted beside Aditu. She was dressed in mor-
tal clothes, pale breeches and a jacket made of hide, nei-
ther of them heavy enough for the weather-but Sithi
cared little about weather, Tiamak reminded himself. She
was breathing shallowly, and one hand was curled into a
fist. Something about the way her long fingers were bent
caught Tiamak's interest; he opened her hand. Her grip
was surprisingly strong.

Nestled in Aditu's palm was a small round mirror,
scarcely larger than an aspen leaf. Its frame was a narrow
ring of what appeared to be shiny bone, minutely carved.
Tiamak lifted it up and balanced it gently in his own
hand. It was heavy for its size and oddly warm.

A tingling, prickling sensation crept through his fin-
gers. He tilted the mirror so that he could see his face re-
flected; as he moved the angle, he could find no trace of
his own features, but only roiling darkness. He brought it
closer to his face and felt the tingling grow more pro-
nounced.

Something struck his wrist. The mirror tumbled from
his hand onto the damp ground.

"Leave it." Aditu withdrew her hand and let herself fall
back, covering her eyes with her long fingers. Her voice
was thin and strained. "Do not touch it, Tiamak."

"You are awake!" He looked at the mirror where it lay
in the grass, but felt no particular urge to flout Aditu*s
warning.

"Yes, I am now. Were you sent to take care of me? To
heal me?"

"To watch over you, anyway." He moved a little closer
to her. "Are you well? Is there anything I can get you?"

"Water. Some snowmelt would be a good thing."

Tiamak scrambled out from under the heavy cloth and

TO   GREEN    ANGEL   TOWER                             567

scooped up a double handful of snow, then brought it
back. "I have no cup or bowl."

"It does not matter." She sat up, not without effort, and
received it in her cupped palms. She pushed some of it
into her mouth and rubbed the rest on her face. "Where is
the mirror?"

Tiamak pointed. Aditu bent and plucked it from the
grass; a moment later, her hand was empty again. Tiamak
had not seen where she put it. "What happened to you?"
he asked. "Do you know?"

"Yes and no." She pressed her hands against her face.
"You have learned something of the Witnesses?"

"A little."

'The Dream Road, the place we Zida'ya go when we
use such Witnesses as the mirror you held for a moment,
has been almost completely barred to us since Amerasu
Ship-Bom was slain in the Yasira. Because of this, I have
not been able to confer with Jiriki or Likimeya my mother
or any of my people since I left them. But I have been
thinking about the things you and Strangyeard asked
me-even though, as I told you, I have no answers my-
self. I agree that your questions may be very important. I
hoped that since we are now closer to my kin, perhaps I
could somehow let them know I needed to speak with
them."

"And you failed?"

"Worse than that, I may have done something foolish.
I underestimated how things have changed on the Dream
Road."

Tiamak the Scrollbearer, glutton for knowledge, was
starting to settle in for the tale before he remembered his
nominal duty. "Is there anything else I can bring to you,
Lady Aditu?"

She smiled at something, but did not explain. "No. I
am well."

"Then please tell me what you meant about the Dream
Road."

"I will tell you what I can-but there is a reason I said
'yes and no' when you asked whether I knew what had
happened. I am not quite sure what did happen. The Road

568 Tad Williams

of Dreams was far more chaotic than I have ever found it,
but that I expected. What I did not expect was some ter-
rible thing to be waiting for me there."

Tiamak was uneasy. "What do you mean, a 'thing'? A
demon? One of our ... enemies?"

"It was not like that." Aditu's amber eyes narrowed in
concentration. "It was ... a structure, I suppose. Some-
thing very powerful and very strange that had been'...
built there. There is no other word. It was something as
huge and menacing in its own way as the castle that Josua
plans to attack here in the waking world."

"A castle?" Tiamak was mystified.

"Nothing so simple, nothing so much like anything you
know. It was a construction of the Art, I believe-an in-
telligent construction, not like the shadow-things that
spontaneously spring into being along the Other Ways.
It was a maelstrom of smoke and sparks and black en-
ergies-a thing of great power, something that must have
been long in the building. I have never seen or heard of
anything like it. It caught me up as a whirlwind draws in
a leaf, and I only barely won free again." She pressed her
temples again. "I was lucky, I think."

"Is it a danger to us? And if it is, is there anything you
can think of that might help solve this riddle?" The
Wrannaman was reminded of his earlier thought about
unfamiliar ground: this was territory about which he
knew nothing.

"I find it hard to believe that such an unusual thing
would not have something to do with Ineluki and the
other events of these days." She paused, considering.
"One thought I had might mean something, although it
means nothing to me. When I first perceived it, I heard
or felt the word 'Sumy'asu.' In the speech of the
Gardenborn, that means 'The Fifth House.' "

"The Fifth House?" repeated Tiamak, mystified.

"Yes." Aditu lay back. "It means nothing to me, either.
But that was the name I heard when I first encountered
this powerful thing."

"I will ask Strangyeard," said Tiamak. "And I suppose

TO GREEN ANOEL TOWER          569

we should tell Josua, too. In any case, he will be relieved
to hear you are well."

"I am tired. I think I will lie here quietly a while and
think." Aditu made a gesture unfamiliar to the
Wrannaman. "My thanks to you, Tiamak."

"I did nothing."

"You did what you could." She closed her eyes and
leaned back. "The Ancestors may understand all this-
but I do not. I am frightened. I would give much to speak
to my kin."

Tiamak rose and made his way back out onto the
Kynslagh's snowy shores.

*

The cart rolled to a stop and the wooden wheels fell si-
lent. The Count of Nad Mullach was certain that he
would be very tired of the painful sound of their creaking
by the time his journey was finished.

"Here we say farewell," he called to Isom. He left his
horse in the care of one of the soldiers and walked
through the snow to the young Rimmersman, who dis-
mounted and embraced him.

"Farewell, indeed." Isorn looked to the cart and
Maegwin's shrouded body. "I cannot tell you my sorrow.
She deserved better. So do you, Eolair."

The count gave him a last handclasp. "In my experi-
ence," he said with more than a touch of bitterness, "the
gods do not seem to care much what their servants
deserve-or at least the rewards they give are too subtle
for my understanding." He closed his eyes for a moment.
"But enough. She is dead, and all the lamenting in the
world, all the railing against Heaven, cannot bring her
back. I will bury her with her loved ones and then I will
help Inahwen and the rest of my folk do what they can to
rebuild."

"And after that?"

Eolair shook his head- "I think that depends on whether
the Sithi are able to stop Elias and his ally. I hope you do
not think I wish you ill luck if I say that we may keep the

570

Tad Williams

caves of the Grianspog prepared in case we need them
again."

Isom smiled thinly. "You would be a fool not to."

"And you will go with them? Your own people will be
looking for help, now that Skali is gone,"
"I know. But I must find my family, and Josua. My
wounds have healed well enough that I can ride, so I will
go with the Sithi. The only mortal, I will be. It will get
lonely on the way to Erchester."

Eolair smiled. "The way that Jiriki's folk ride, I do not
think it will be a long journey." He looked to his ragged
troop of men. He knew that they preferred crossing the
blizzard-ridden Frostmarch to any more travels with the
immortals. "But if things go in such a way that the men
of Hemystir are needed, send word to Hernysadharc. I
will find a way to come."

"I know."

"Pare you well, Isom."

Eolair turned and walked back toward his horse. As he
mounted, Likimeya and Jiriki, who had been hanging
back, rode toward them.

"Men of Hemystir." Likimeya's eyes were bright be-
neath her black helm. "Know that we honor you. Not
since the days of Prince Sinnach have your folk and ours
fought side by side. Your fallen lie with our own dead,
both here and in your home country. We thank you."

Eolair wanted to ask the stem-faced Sitha what value
there had been in the deaths of four score Hemystiri, but
this was not the time to recommence such an argument.
His men stood, nervous but silent, wanting only to be on
their way.

"You freed Hemystir from a great scourge," he replied
dutifully. There were observances that had to be made.
"We thank you and honor you, as well."

"May you find some peace at the end of your journey,
Count Eolair," said Jiriki. His dark blade Indreju hung at
his hip. He, too, was armored and looked every bit as
much a strange warrior god as his mother. "And when
you find it, may it last."

"May Heaven preserve you." Eolair swung up into his

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

57i

saddle, then waved his arm, signaling the carter. The
wheels slowly began to turn. Maegwin's shroud rippled in
the stiff, sharp wind.

And as for me, he thought, may the gods from this mo-
ment leave me alone. They have broken my people and my
life. Let them now turn their attention elsewhere so we
can begin to build anew.

When he looked back, the Rimmersman and the Sithi
still stood motionless, outlined by the rising sun. He
raised his arm; Isorn returned the gesture of leavetaking.

Eolair looked west across the snows. "Come, my coun-
trymen," he called to his tattered band. "We are going
home."

26

Song of the Red Star

"Here., drin^." The troll held out a water skin. "I am
Binabik of Mintahoq. Ookequk was my master. And you
are Padreic. He was speaking of you many times."

"Padreic is dead," the monk gasped. He took a sip of
water, letting some run down his chin. He was clearly ex-
hausted. "I am a different man now." He put up a trem-
bling hand to push the bowl away. "By all the gods, old
and new, that was a powerful ward on the door. I have not
tried to defeat such a thing in two decades. I think it al-
most killed me." He shook his head. "Better if it had, per-
haps."

"Listen to you!" Miriamele cried. "You appear from
nowhere, but you are still spouting the same nonsense.
What are you doing here?"

Cadrach would not meet her eye. "I followed you."

"Followed me? From where?"

"All the way to Sesuad'ra-then followed after you
when you fled." He looked at the dwarrows, who had
closed the stone door and now stood in huddled colloquy
at the far end of the cavern, peering at the newcomer as
though he might be a Nom in disguise. "And there they
are-the domhaini." He grimaced. "I thought 1 felt their
clever hand in that door-ward, but I couldn't be sure. I
had never encountered one of theirs so new-minted."

Miriamele would not be distracted. "What are you
doing here, Cadrach? And who is following you?"

The monk turned his gaze down to his own hands,
which were clenched in the folds of his tattered robe. "I

TO    GREEN   ANGEL    TOWER

573

fear I have brought the Norns   down on you and your al-
lies. The white monsters have   been following me almost
since I descended through the   catacombs. I have been
hard-pressed to stay ahead of   them."

"So you led them to us?" Miriamele still did not know
what she felt about seeing Cadrach again. Since he had
deserted her and the rest of the company in the Lake
Thrithing, she had done her best to put him out of her
mind. She still felt shame about the argument over
Tiamak's parchment.

"They will never take me again," the monk said fer-
vently. "If I had not been able to force the door, I would
have thrown myself down the Tan'ja Stairs before falling
into their hands."

"But now the Noms are outside, you say, and the cav-
ern has only one door for leaving," Binabik pointed out.
"This is not much good you have done for yourself,
Cadrach or Padreic or whichever name you now wear."
Binabik had heard many stories about the monk from her
and from Simon. Miriamele could see his respect for what
the Hernystirman had once been warring with distrust of
anyone who could betray one of the troll's friends. He
shrugged. "Chukku's Stones'-Enough of talking. Let us
be seeing to important things now." He rose and padded
across the cavern toward the dwarrows.

"Why did you run away, Cadrach? I told you I was
sorry about Tiamak's parchment ... about all that."

The monk finally turned his eyes to hers. His gaze was
curiously flat- "Ah, but you were right, Miriamele. I am
a thief and a liar and a drunkard, and that is the truth of
many years. That I did a few honest deeds does not
change that."

"Why do you always say such things?" she demanded.
"Why are you so determined to see the worst in your-
self?"

The look on his face became something almost accusa-
tory. "And why are you determined to see the best in me,
Miriamele? You imagine that you know all about the
world, but you are only a young girl, after all is said and

574

Tad Williams

done. There are limits to your imagination, to your under-
standing of how black a place the world truly is."

Stung, Miriamele turned away and busied herself look-
ing in the saddlebag. He had only been back a few
moments, and already she wanted to strangle him-yet
she was searching diligently for something to feed him.

/ suppose I might as well keep him healthy until I de-
cide to kill him.

Cadrach was leaning against the cavern wall, head
thrown back and eyes closed, overcome with exhaustion.
She took the opportunity to look him over. He had grown
even thinner since he had abandoned her.on the grass-
lands; his face sagged, the skin deprived of its padding of
flesh. Even in the pink light of the dwarrows' stones, the
monk looked gray.
Binabik returned. "Our safeness may not last long. Yis-
fidri is telling me the door-wards will never be as strong
now that they have once been forced. Not all the Noms
are being masters like your monkish friend, but some of
them might be. And even if none of them can open it, it
is likely that Pryrates will not be prevented."

"Masters? What do you mean?"

"Lore-masters. Learned in the Art-what folk who are
not Scrollbearers sometimes are calling magic."

"Cadrach said he couldn't do magic any more."

Binabik shook his head in bemusement. "Miriamele,
once Padreic of Crannhyr was perhaps the most adept
user of the Art in all of Osten Ard-although that was in
part being so because other Scrollbearers, even the great-
est, Morgenes, chose not to risk its deepest currents. It is
seeming that Cadrach has not lost his skills, either-how
else did he force the dwarrows' door?"

"It all happened so fast. I suppose I hadn't thought
about it." She felt a brief upsurge of hope. Perhaps fate
had brought the monk here for a reason.

"I did what I had to," Cadrach said abruptly.
Miriamele, who had thought he was asleep, jumped. "The
White Foxes would have caught me in a few more mo-
ments. But I am not what I was, troll. Working the Art
takes discipline and hard work ... and peace. I have been

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER           575

a stranger to those things for many years." He let his head
fall back against the cavern wall. "Now the well is dry. I
have no more to give. Nothing."

Miriamele was determined to have answers. "You still
have not explained why you followed me, Cadrach."

The monk opened his eyes. "Because there is nothing
else. The world holds nothing else for me." He hesitated,
then looked at Binabik angrily, as though the little man
was eavesdropping on something he had no right to hear.
The words came slowly. "Because ... because you were
kind to me, Miriamele. I had forgotten what it feels like.
I could not go with you to face the questions, the looks,
the disgust of all those others-Duke Isgrimnur and the
rest-but neither could I let go of that small touch of life
... life as it once was. / could not let go" He reached up
with both hands and rubbed at the skin of his face, then
laughed wretchedly. "I suppose I am not so much a dead
man as I thought."

"Was it you who followed Simon and me in the for-
est?"

"Yes, and through Stanshire and Falshire as well. It
was only when this one joined you," he indicated
Binabik, "that I had to fall farther behind. That wolf has
a keen nose."

"You were not much help when the Fire Dancers
caught us."

Cadrach only shuddered.

"So you followed us all the way here?"

"I lost your track after Hasu Vale. It was pure luck I
found you again. If you had not come to Saint Sutrin*s,
where I had found a sheltering roof courtesy of that mad-
man Domitis, I think we would never have met again."
He laughed again, harshly. "Think on that, my lady. Your
luck went bad when you entered God's house."

"Enough of this." Miriamele was losing patience with
Cadrach's self-loathing. "You are here. What do we do
now?"

Before the monk could offer any suggestion, Yis-fidri
came shambling up. The dwarrow looked mournfully at
Cadrach, then turned to Miriamele and Binabik. "This

576 Tad Williams

man is right in one thing. Someone else is now outside
this cavern. The Hikeda'ya have come."

There was a silence as the words sank in.

"Are you certain?" Miriamele held little hope they
were wrong, but the thought of being hemmed in the cav-
ern with the corpse-faced Norns outside was dreadful.
The White Foxes had been fearsome enough as characters
in her uncle's tales of the fall of Naglimund, but on the
hillside above Hasu Vale she had seen them for herself.
She never wished to see them again-but she doubted she
would be so lucky. Her panic, which had abated with the
surprise of Cadrach's entrance, now returned. She was
suddenly short of breath. "You're certain it's the Noms,
not just some of my father's soldiers?"

"This man we did not expect," said Yis-fidri, "but we
know what things move through our tunnels. The door
does for now hold them out, but soon that may change."

"If these are your tunnels, you must know a way we
can escape!"

The dwarrow said nothing.

"Perhaps we will after all be using those stones we
gathered," Binabik said. "We should give thought to try-
ing an escape before more of our enemies arrive." He
turned to Yis-fidri. "Can you tell how many are being
outside?"
The dwarrow fluted what sounded like a question to his
wife. After listening to her reply, he turned. "The number
of one hand's fingers, perhaps. But that will not be true
for long."

"That few?" Miriamele sat up. "We should fight! If
your folk wilt help us, surely we can defeat so few of
them and escape!"

Yis-fidri shrank back, plainly uneasy. "I have told you.
We are not strong. We do not fight."

"Listen to what the Tinukeda'ya say." Cadrach's voice
was cold. "Not that it will make much difference soon,
but I for one prefer to await the end here rather than be
spitted on one of the White Foxes' spears."

"But the end is certain if we wait. At least if we try to
escape, there is a chance."

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              577

"There is no chance either way," the monk replied. "At
least here, we can make our peace and die by our own
choice when it suits us."

"I cannot believe what a coward you are!" cried
Miriamele. "You heard Yis-fidri! A half-dozen Noms at
the most! That is not the end of the world. We have a
chance!"

Cadrach turned to her. Sorrow and disgust and barely-
concealed fury warred in his expression. "It is not the
Noms that I fear," he said finally. "But it is the end of the
world."

Miriamele caught something unusual in his tone, some-
thing beyond even his ordinary pessimism. "What are you
talking about, Cadrach?"

"The end of the world," he repeated. He took a deep
breath. "Lady, if you and I and this troll could somehow
slaughter every Norn in the Hayholt-every Norn in
Stonnspike, too-still it would make no difference. It is
too late to do anything. It was always too late. The world,
the green fields of Osten Ard, the people of its lands ...
they are doomed. And I have known it since before I met
you." He looked up imploringly. "Of course I am bitter,
Miriamele. Of course I am almost mad. Because I know
beyond doubt that there is no hope."

A

Simon woke from cloudy, chaotic dreams into utter
darkness. Someone was moaning nearby. Every part of
his body throbbed, and he could barely move his wrists
and ankles. For long moments he was certain he had been
captured and was bound in some black cell, but at last he
remembered where he was.
"Guthwulf?" he croaked. The moans continued, un-
changing.

Simon rolled over onto his stomach and crawled to-
ward the sounds. When his swollen fingers encountered
something, he stopped and explored clumsily until he
found the earl's shaggy-bearded face. The blind man was
blazing with fever.

578 Tad Williams

"Earl Guthwulf. It's Simon. You saved me from the
wheel."

"Their home is burning!" Guthwulf sounded terrified.
"They cannot run-there are strangers with black iron at
the gates!"

"Do you have water here? Is there food?"

He felt the blind man struggle to sit up. "Who's there?
You can't take it! It sings for me. For me!" Guthwulf
grabbed at something, and Simon felt a cold metal edge
drag painfully along his forearm. He swore and lifted the
arm to his mouth, tasting blood.

Bright-Nail. It seemed impossibly strange. This /over-
ridden blind man has Bright-Nail.

For a moment he considered simply pulling it from
Guthwutf's weakened grasp. After all, how could this
madman's need outweigh that of entire nations? But even
more troubling than the idea of stealing the sword from a
sick man who had saved his life was the fact that Simon
was lost without light somewhere in the tunnels beneath
the Hayholt. Unless for some incomprehensible reason
the blind earl kept a torch or lantern, without Guthwulf's
knowledge of this maze he might wander forever in the
shadows. What good would Bright-Nail be then?

"Guthwulf, do you have a torch? Flint and steel?"

The earl was murmuring again. Nothing Simon could
understand seemed useful. He turned away and began to
search the cavern by touch, wincing and groaning at the
pain each movement caused.

Guthwulf's nesting place was small, scarcely a dozen
paces wide-if Simon had been on his feet and
pacing-in either direction. He felt what seemed to be
moss growing in the cracks of the stone beneath him. He
broke some off and smelled it: it did not seem to be the
same plant that had sustained him in Asu'a's ruined halls.
He put a little on his tongue, then spat it out again. It
tasted even more foul than the other. Still, his stomach
hurt so much that he knew he would be trying it again
soon.

Except for the various rags strewn about the uneven
stone floor, Guthwulf seemed to have few possessions.
TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

579

Simon found a knife with half its blade snapped off.
When he reached to tuck it into his belt, he suddenly re-
alized he did not have one, nor any other clothes.

Naked and lost in dark. Nothing left of Simon but Si-
mon.

He had been splashed by the dragon's blood, but
afterward, he had still been Simon. He had seen Jao
e-Tinukai'i, had fought in a great battle, had been kissed
by a princess-but he was still the same kitchen boy,
more or less. Now everything had been taken from him,
but he still had what he had begun with.

Simon laughed, a dry, hoarse sound. There was a sort
of freedom in having so little. If he lived to the next hour,
it would be a triumph. He had escaped the wheel. What
more could anyone do to him?

He put the broken knife against the wall so he could
find it again, then continued his search. He encountered
several objects he could see no purpose for, oddly shaped
stones that felt too intricate to be natural, bits of broken
pottery and splintered wood, even the skeletons of some
small animals, but it was only as he reached the far side
of the cavern that he found something truly useful.

His numb, stiffened fingers touched something wet. He
snatched his hand away, then slowly reached out again. It
was a stone bowl half full of water. On the ground beside
it, as wonderful as any miracle from the Book of Aedon,
was what felt like a lump of stale bread.

Simon had the bread to his mouth before he remem-
bered Guthwulf. He hesitated, his stomach raging, then
tore a piece loose and dipped it in the water and put it in
his mouth. He ate two more small pieces the same way,
then held the bowl carefully in his aching, trembling hand
and crawled to where Guthwulf lay. Simon dipped his fin-
gers in the water and let some dribble into the earl's
mouth; he heard the blind man swallow thirstily. Next he
took a morsel of bread and moistened it, then fed it to his
ward. Guthwulf did not close his mouth, and seemed un-
able to chew or swallow it. After a moment, Simon re-
trieved it and ate it himself. He felt exhaustion creeping
over him.

580 Tad Williams

"Later," he told Guthwulf. "Later you will eat. You
will be well again, and so will I. Then we will leave
here."

Then I will take Bright-Nail to the tower. That is what
I took back my life to do.
"The witchwood is in flames, the garden is burn-
ing. ..." The earl squirmed and twisted. Simon moved
the bowl away, terrified it might be spilled- Guthwulf
groaned. "Ruakha, ruakha Asu'a!"

Even from a short distance away, Simon could feel his
raging heat.

A

The man lay on the ground, his face pressed against the
stone. His clothes and skin were so dirty it was hard to
see him. 'That's everything, master. I swear it!"

"Get up." Pryrates kicked him in the ribs, but not hard
enough to break anything. "I can scarcely understand
you."

He rose to his haunches, whiskered mouth quivering in
fear. "That's all, master. They run away. Down water-
course."

"I know that, fool."

The alchemist had given his soldiers no directions
since they had returned from their fruitless search, and
now they stood uneasily. Inch's remains had been re-
moved from the chains that turned Pryrates' tower top;

they lay in an untidy heap beside the sluice. It was obvi-
ous that most of the guardsmen wished they had been al-
lowed to cover such of the overseer as had been
recovered, but since they had received no order from
Pryrates, they were studiously looking anywhere else.

"And you do not know who these people were?"

'"Twas the blind man, master. Some have seen him, but
none ever catched him. He takes things sometime."

A blind man living in the caverns. Pryrates smiled. He
had a reasonably good idea who that might be. "And the
other? One of the foundrymen being punished, I take it?"

TO    GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

581

"That it was, master. But Inch called him something
else."

"Something else? What?"

The man paused, his face a mask of terror. "Can't re-
member," he whispered.

Pryrates leaned down until his hairless face was only a
handbreadth from the man's nose. "I can make you re-
member."
The forge man froze like a serpent-tranced frog. A
small whimper escaped his throat. "I be trying, master,"
he squeaked, then: " 'Kitchen Boy'! Doctor Inch called
him 'Kitchen Boy'!"

Pryrates straightened up. The man slumped, his chest
heaving.

"A kitchen boy," the priest mused. "Could it be?" Sud-
denly he laughed, a rasping scrape of sound. "Perfect. Of
course it would be." He turned to the soldiers. "There is
nothing else for us to do here. And the king has need of
us."

Inch's henchman stared at the alchemist's back. His
lips moved as he worked up the nerve to speak. "Mas-
ter?"

Pryrates turned slowly. "What?"

"Now ... now that Doctor Inch be dead . .. well, who
do you wish to ... to take charge here? Here in king's
forge?"

The priest looked sourly at the grizzled, ash-blackened
man. "Sort that out yourselves." He gestured at the wait-
ing soldiers, marking out half of the score of men. "You
lot will stay here. Do not bother protecting Inch's
cronies-I should not have left him in charge of this place
so long. I want you only to make sure that wheel stays in
the water. Too many important things are driven by it to
risk a second occurrence of a foliy like this. Remember:

if that wheel stops turning again, I will make you very,
very sorry."

The designated guards took up positions along the edge
of the watercourse; the rest of the soldiers filed out of the
forge. Pryrates' stopped in the doorway to look back.
Under the impassive gaze of the guardsmen. Inch's chief

582 Tad Williams

henchman was quickly being surrounded by a tightening
ring of grim forge workers. Pryrates laughed quietly and
let the door crunch shut.

*

Josua sat up, startled. The wind was howling fiercely,
and the shape in the tent's door loomed giant-size.

"Who is there?"

Isgrimnur, who had been nodding during the long si-
lence, snorted in surprise and fumbled for Kvalnir's hilt.

"I cannot stand it any longer." Sir Camaris swayed in
the doorway like a tree in a strong wind. "God save me,
God save me ... I hear it even in my waking hours now.
In the darkness it is all there is."

"What are you talking about?" Josua rose and went to
the tent flap. "You are not well, Camaris. Come, sit down
here beside the fire. This is no weather to be out wander-
ing."

Camaris shook off his hand. "I must go. It is time. I
can hear the song so clearly. It is time."

"Time for what? Go where? Isgrimnur, come help me."

The duke struggled to his feet, wheezing at the pain of
stiff muscles and still-tender ribs. He took Camaris by the
arm and found the muscles tight as wet knots.

He is terrified! By the Ransomer, what has done this to
him ?

"Come, sit." Josua urged him toward a stool. "Tell us
what ails you."

The old knight abruptly pulled away and toqk a few
staggering steps backward out into the snow. Thorn's long
scabbard bumped against his leg. "They are catling, each
to each. They need. The blade will go where it will go. It
is time."

Josua followed him out onto the hillside. Isgrimnur,
puzzled and worried, limped after, pulling his cloak tight
against the wind. The Kynslagh lay below, a dark expanse
beyond the blanketing white. "I cannot understand you,
Camaris," the prince called over the wind- "What is it the
time for?"

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              583

"Look!" The old man threw up an arm, pointing into
the murk of storm clouds. "Do you not see?"

Isgrimnur, like Josua, looked upward to the sky. A dull
spot of ember-red burned there. "The Conqueror Star?"
he asked.

"They feel it. It is time." Camaris took another retreat-
ing step, wobbling as though he might at any moment
tumble backward down the hill. "God grant me strength,
I can resist it no longer."

Josua caught the duke's eye, silently asking his help.
Isgrimnur walked forward and he and the prince again
grasped Camaris' arms. "Come in from the cold," Josua
begged.

Sir Camaris yanked himself free-his strength never
ceased to astonish Isgrimnur-and for a moment his hand
strayed to Thorn's silver-wrapped hilt.

"Camaris!" Isgrimnur was shocked. "You would draw
blade against us!? Your friends'?"

The old man stared at him for a moment, his eyes cu-
riously unfocused. Then, slowly, the duke saw his tension
ease. "God help me, it is the sword. It sings to me. It
knows where it wants to go. Inside." He gestured limply
toward the dark bulk of the Hayholt.

"And we will take you there-and the sword, too."
Josua was calm. "But there is the simple matter of
breaching the walls that we must deal with first."

"There are other ways," said Camaris, but his wild en-
ergy had faded. He allowed himself to be led into Josua's
tent.

Camaris downed the cup that Josua had filled for him
in a single gulp, then drained a second serving. This wor-
ried Isgrimnur almost as much as the strange things the
old knight had said: Camaris was reknowned as a moder-
ate man. Still, by his haunted look, the old knight now
seemed to welcome anything that might bring him relief
from the agony Thom caused him.

Camaris would say nothing more, although Josua
pressed him for information in what Isgrimnur thought
was an exceedingly solicitious yet awkward manner. Ever

584

Tad Williams

since the night on the ship, Isgrimnur had seen Josua's at-
titude to the old knight change, as though even the old
man's presence made him dreadfully uncomfortable.
Isgrimnur wondered, not for the first time, what terrible
thing Camaris had told him.

After a while, the prince gave up and returned to the
discussion interrupted by the knight's appearance,

"We know now that there are indeed forces still within
the castle walls, Isgrimnur-considerable forces of men,
mercenaries as well as the Erkynguard." Josua frowned.
"My brother shows more patience than I would have sus-
pected. Not even a sally while we were landing."

"Patience ... or perhaps Elias has some worse fate
planned for us." The duke tugged at his beard. "For that
matter, Josua, we do not even know that your brother is
still alive. Erchester is all but deserted, and the few peo-
ple we have managed to find there wouldn't know if
Fingil himself had come back from the grave and was sit-
ting on the Dragonbone Chair."

"Perhaps." The prince sounded doubtful. "But I cannot
rid myself of the feeling that I would know if Elias were
dead. In any case, even if Pryrates rules him, or has even
taken the throne himself, we are still faced with the Storm
King and the Scroll League's angry star."
Isgrimnur nodded. "Someone is in there, right enough.
Someone knows our plans. And they took your father's

sword."

Josua's mood darkened- "That was a blow. Still, when
I saw that Swertclif was unguarded, I had little hope left
we would find it there."

"We always knew we would have to go insTde the
Hayholt to get that fairy-sword, Sorrow." Isgrimnur
pulled at his beard again and made a noise of disgust.
War was difficult enough without these magical complex-
ities. "I suppose we can go in for two as easily as one."

"If it is even inside the walls," Josua pointed out. "That
hole in the side of my father's cairn looked a hurried
thing to me-not what I would have expected from
Pryrates or my brother, who need hide their works from
no one."

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER             585

"But who else would do it?"

"We still do not know what happened to my niece and
Simon and the troll."

Isgrimnur grunted. "I doubt that Miriamele or young
Simon would have taken the blade and just disappeared.
Where are they? They both know what Bright-Nail is
worth to us."

Camaris' sudden outcry made the duke flinch.

"All the swords! God's Nails, I can feel them, all three!
They sing to each other-and to me." He sighed. "Oh,
Josua, how I wish I could silence them!"

The prince turned. "Can you truly feel Bright-Nail?"

The old knight nodded. "It is a voice. I cannot explain,
but I hear it-and so does Thorn."

"But do you know where it is?"

Camaris shook his head. "No. It-the part that calls to
me-is not in a place. But they wish to come together in-
side the walls. There is need. The time is growing short."

Josua grimaced. "It sounds as though Binabik and the
others were right. Hours are marching by: if the swords
are any use to us, we must find them and discover that
use soon."

Madness, thought Isgrimnur; Our lives, our land, ruled
by madness out of old tales. What would Prester John
have thought, who worked so hard to drive the fairy-folk
out of his kingdom and to push the shadows away?
"We cannot fly over those walls, Josua," he pointed
out. "We've won a victory in Nabban and sailed north in
such a short time that folk will talk of it for years. But we
cannot fly an army into the Hayholt like a flock of star-
lings."

"There are other ways ..." Camaris whispered. Josua
looked at him sharply, but before he could discover
whether this was more singing-sword maundering or
something useful, another shape appeared in the tent
doorway, accompanied by a blast of chill air and a few
snowflakes.

"Your pardon. Prince Josua-" It was Sludig, in mail and
helm. He nodded to Isgrimnur. "My lord."

"What is it?"

586

Tad Williams

"We were riding the far side of Swertclif, as you asked.
Searching."

"And you found something?" Josua stood, his face
carefully expressionless.

"Not found something. Heard something." Sludig was
obviously exhausted, as though he had ridden far and fast.
"Horns in the far distance. From the north."

"From the north? How far away?"

"It is hard to say, Prince Josua." Sludig spread his
hands, as though he could find the words by touch. "They
were not like any horns I have heard. But they were very

faint."

"Thank you, Sludig. Are there sentries on Swertclif?"
"On the near side. Highness, out of sight of the castle."
"I do not care if anyone sees them," the prince said. "I
am more concerned about who might be coming down on
us from the north. If you and your men are tired, ask
Hotvig to take some of his grasslanders and ride down the
far side toward the skirts of Aldheorte. Tell them to return
immediately if they see something coming."
"I will, Prince Josua." Sludig went out.
Josua turned to Isgrimnur. "What do you think? Is the
Storm King going to play the same hand he produced at

Naglimund?"

"Perhaps. But you had castle walls, there. Here we
have nothing before us but open land, and nothing behind
us but the Kynslagh."

"Yes, but we have several thousand men here, too. And
no innocents to worry over. If my brother's chief ally
thinks he will find us as easy a nut to crack as before, he
will be disappointed."

Isgrimnur stared at the fierce-eyed prince, then at
Camaris, who held his head in his hands and stared at the

tabletop.

Is Josua right? Or are we the last raveled end of John's
empire, waiting for a final pull before it falls into

threads?

"I suppose we'd better go and talk to a few of the cap-
tains." The duke got up and held his hands close to the
brazier, trying to dispel some of the chill. "Better we tell

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

587

them something's coming than they hear it by rumor." He
made a noise of disgust. "Looks like we don't get much
sleep."

A

Miriamele stared at Cadrach. She, who had heard him
lie so many times, could not free herself of the horrifying
certainty that this time he was telling the truth.

Or the truth as he sees it, anyway, she tried to comfort
herself.

She looked at Binabik, who had narrowed his eyes in
concentration, then returned to Cadrach's bleak face.
"Doomed? Do you mean some danger beside that we al-
ready face?"

He met her stare. "Doomed beyond hope. And I have
played no little part in it."

"What is it you are saying?" demanded Binabik.

The dwarrow Yis-fidri seemed to want little to do with
this volatile and frightening conversation; he hesitated,
fingers flexing.

"What I am saying, troll, is that all the scurrying about
in caverns that we do here matters little. Whether we es-
cape the White Foxes outside, whether your Prince Josua
knocks down the walls, whether God Himself sends light-
ning down from Heaven to blast Elias to ash ... none of
it matters."

Miriamele felt her guts twist at the certainty in his
voice. "Tell us what you mean."

The monk's hard face crumpled. "Aedon's mercy! Ev-
erything you have thought about me is true, Miriamele.
Everything." A tear ran down his cheek. "God help me-
although He has no reason to-I have done such foul
things...."

"Curse you, Cadrach, will you explain!"

As if this outburst had somehow pushed Yis-fidri past
what he could bear, the dwarrow got up and moved away
rapidly, going to join his whispering fellows on the other
side of the cavern.

Cadrach wiped at his eyes and nose with his dirty

588 Tad Williams

sleeve. "I told you of my capture by Pryrates," he said to
Miriamele.

"You did." And she in turn had told Binabik and others
on Sesuad'ra, so she felt no need to retell the tale now.

"I told you that after I had betrayed the booksellers,
Pryrates threw me out, thinking I was dead."

She nodded.

'That was not true-or at least it did not happen then."
He took a breath. "He set me to spy on Morgenes and
others I had known from my days as a Scrollbearer."

"And you did it?"

"If you think I hesitated, my lady, you do not know
how fiercely a drunkard and coward can cling to his
life-or how terrified of Pryrates' anger I was. You see,
I knew him. I knew that the injuries he had done to my
flesh in his tower were nothing set against what he could
do if he truly wished to make me suffer."

"So you spied for him?! Spied on Morgenes?"

Cadrach shook his head. "I tried-by the Tree, how I
tried! But Morgenes was no fool. He knew that I had
fallen into dreadful straits, and that the red priest knew
both of us from elder days. He gave me food and a night's
lodging, but he was suspicious. He made sure there was
nothing for me to find in either his chambers or his dis-
course that would be useful to someone like Pryrates."
Cadrach shook his head. "If anything, my efforts only
taught Morgenes that he had less time than he had
hoped."

"So you failed?" Miriamele could not see where this
was leading, but a deep dread was spreading through her.

"Yes. And I was terrified. When I werrt back to
Hjeldin's Tower, Pryrates was angry. But he did not kill
me, or do something worse, as I feared. Instead he asked
me more questions about Du Svardenvyrd. I think by then
he had already been touched by the Storm King and was
beginning to bargain with him." Cadrach's look turned
contemptuous. "As if any mortal could successfully bar-
gain with one such as that! I doubt Pryrates has even yet
realized what has come through the door he opened."

"We will talk of what thing Pryrates has done later,"

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER           589

said Binabik. "You are telling us now of things you have
been doing."

The monk stared at him. "They are less separate than
you think," he said at last. "Pryrates asked me many
questions, but for one who had read Du Svardenvyrd-
indeed, for one who knew Nisses' book so well that the
memory of its words still haunts my thoughts daily-it
was easy enough to see the direction behind his questions.
Somehow he had been reached by the Storm King, and
now Pryrates was eager to know about the three Great
Swords."

"So Pryrates does know about the swords." Miriamele
took a shaky breath. "I suppose he was the one who took
Bright-Nail from the mound, then."

Cadrach held up his hand. "Pryrates dealt with me
harshly for failing with Morgenes. Then he had me send
a message to old Jarnauga in the north, asking for infor-
mation about the Storm King. I suspect that the alchemist
was looking for ways to defend himself against his new
and very dangerous friend. He made me write it as he
watched, then sent it himself with a sparrow he had
filched from Morgenes. He let me go free again. He was
sure I would not run away when-he could so easily locate

me.

"But you did run away," Miriamele said. "You told me

so.

Cadrach nodded. "Eventually. But not then. My fear
was too great. But at the same time I knew that Jamauga
would not respond. The Rimmersman and Morgenes were
closer than Pryrates realized, and I had no doubt the doc-
tor would have already written to tell Jarnauga about my
unexpected visit. In any case, Jamauga had been living in
Stormspike's shadow for years and would not have
opened his mind to anyone he did not know for certain to
be untouched by Ineluki's long hand. So I knew that the
imposture Pryrates had forced me to commit was useless,
and that when the red priest discovered it, he would have
no use left for me. My only worth was as one who had
read Nisses' book and as a former Scrotlbearer. But I had
answered all of his questions about the book, and now he

590
Tad miiams

would discover that the other Scrollbearers had stopped
trusting me years before...." He broke off, struggling
again with powerful emotions.

"Go on." Miriamele spoke a little more gently Aan be-
fore. Whatever he had done, he seemed to be genuinely
suffering.

"I was in terror-stark terror. I knew that I had only a
short time before Jarnauga's inevitably unhelpful reply. I
wanted desperately to flee, but Pryrates would know the
moment I left Erchester, and by his use of the Art would
also know where I had gone. He had marked me in that
high chamber of his tower. He would find me anywhere."
Cadrach paused, struggling for self-control. "So I
thought, and thought, and thought-but not, to my shame,
of a way to escape Pryrates or thwart his plans. No, in my
besottedness and my fear, I thought only of ways that I
could please this horrid master, that I could convince him
to grant me my pathetic life." He quivered, unable for a
moment to continue.

"I had thought much about his questions," the monk fi-
nally resumed. "Especially about the three Great Swords.
It was clear that they had some marvelous power, and
equally clear that they meant something to the Storm
King. What was not clear to anyone but me, I thought,
was that the sword Minneyar, one of the three, was in fact
Bright-Nail, the sword that had been buried with King
John."

Miriamele gaped. "You knew?"

"Anyone who read the books of history that I had
would have suspected it," Cadrach replied, "i am con-
vinced Morgenes knew, but hid it in his own book about
your grandfather so that only those who knew what to
look for would find it, thus keeping it from common
knowledge." He had regained a little composure. "In any
case, I read the same sources Doctor Morgenes did, and
had long held that opinion, although I had never shared it
with anyone. And the more I thought about the market-
place gossip that claimed Elias would not handle his fa-
ther's sword, that he had, against custom, buried it with

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              591

his father, the more I felt sure that my guess was not just
likely, but true.

"So I decided that if what Du Svardenvyrd seemed to
suggest was also true-that the only weapons the Storm
King feared were the Three Great Swords-what more
pleasing gift could 1 bring to Pryrates than one of the
swords? All three were thought to be lost. Surely if I pro-
duced one, I reasoned, Pryrates would find me useful."

Miriamele gaped at the monk in disgust and astonish-
ment. "You . . . you traitor! Was it you who took the
sword from my grandfather's barrow? And gave it to
Pryrates!? God curse you if it was, Cadrach!"

"You may call curses on me all you like-and you will,
with ample reason. But wait until you hear the whole
tale."

/ was right to try and drown him in Emettin Bay. I wish
he had never been fished out. She waved angrily for him
to continue.

"I went to Swertclif, of course," he said. "But the
burial ground was closely guarded by the king's soldiers.
It seemed that Elias meant to keep his father's grave safe.
I waited two nights for a moment when I might get at the
barrow, but ho such moment came. And then Pryrates
sent for me." He winced, remembering. "He had learned
well from his studies. His voice was in my head-you
cannot imagine how that feels! He forced me to come to
him, come slinking like a disobedient child...."

"Cadrach, there are Noms who are waiting outside this
cavern," Binabik interrupted. "So far your story is telling
us little that will help us."

The monk stared at him coldly. "Nothing will help us.
That is what I am trying to explain-but I will not force
you to listen."

"You will tell us everything," Miriamele declared, her
rage lighting free. "We are fighting for our lives. Speak!"

"Pryrates called me to him again. As I knew he would,
he told me that Jamauga had sent only information of no
worth, that it was clear the old Rimmersman did not trust
me. 'You are useless to me, Padreic ec-Crannhyr,' the al-
chemist said.

592

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" *What if I can tell you something that is very useful?'
I asked. No, that is not the right word. I begged. 'If you
will leave me my life, I will serve you faithfully. There
are still things I know that might help you!' He laughed
when I said that-laughed!-and told me that if I could
give him even a single piece of information that was truly
valuable, he would indeed spare me. So I told him that I
knew the Great Swords were important to him, that all
were lost, but that I knew where one of them was.

" 'Do you think to tell me Sorrow is with the Noms of
Stormspike?' he said scornfully. 'I know that already,' I
shook my head-in fact, I had not known that myself, but
I could guess how he had discovered it. 'That Thorn did
not sink into the ocean with Camaris?' he continued.

"I hurriedly told him what I had discovered-that
Minneyar and Bright-Nail were one and the same, that
one of the Great Swords was even now buried less than a
league from where we sat. In my eagerness to gain his fa-
vor, I even told him that I had tried to get it myself to
bring it to him."

Miriamele scowled. "To think that I saw you as a
friend, Cadrach-if you had even an idea of what this
could mean to us all... !"

The monk ignored her, grimly following her order to
finish the tale. "And when I was done ... he laughed
again. 'Oh, this is very sad. Padreic,' he hooted. 'Is this
your great work of spycraft? Is this what you think will
save you? I have known what Bright-Nail truly is since
before you first entered this tower. And if you had moved
it from its resting place, I would have plucked out your
eyes and tongue with my own fingers. It will Jje there on
old John's rotting breast until the proper time. When the
hour is right, the sword will come. All the swords will
come.* "

Miriamele's thoughts suddenly went staggering- "The
sword will come? He ... he has known all along?
Pryrates ... wanted it left there?" She turned helplessly to
Binabik, but the little man seemed just as amazed as she.
"I don't understand. Elysia, Mother of Mercy, what are
you telling us, Cadrach?"

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          593

"Pryrates knows all." A certain black satisfaction crept
into the monk's voice. "He knew what Bright-Nail was,
where it lay-and he saw no need to disturb it. I feel sure
that everything your uncle and these ..." he gestured to-
ward Binabik, "latter-day Scrollbearers plan is already
known to him. He is content to see it happen."

"But how can that be? How can Pryrates not fear the
one power that can undo his master?" Miriamele was still
astonished. "Binabik, what does this mean?"

The troll had lost his composure. He held up his trem-
bling fingers, begging a moment to think. "It is much for
considering. Perhaps Pryrates has a plan of some treach-
ery against the Storm King. Perhaps he thinks to keep
Ineluki's power restrained with the threatening of the
swords' power." He turned to Cadrach. "He was saying
'the swords will come'? Those words?"

The monk nodded. "He knows. He wants Bright-Nail
and the others brought here."

"But no sense in this am I seeing," said Binabik anx-
iously. "Why not then bring Prester John's blade in and
hide it away until the time he waits is arrived?"

Cadrach shrugged. "Who can know? Pryrates has
walked strange paths and learned hidden things."
As her shock lessened a little, Miriamele felt her rage
at the monk return, battening on her fear. "How can you
sit there so smugly? If you did not betray me and alt I
care about, it was not for lack of trying. I suppose he set
you free then to spy some more? Is that why you arranged
to accompany me from Naglimund? I thought you were
just using me to further your own greed .. ." as she
thought about it, despair seized her, "but ... but you were
working for Pryrates!" She turned away, unable to look at
Cadrach any longer.

"No, my lady!" Amazingly, he sounded hurt and upset.
"No, he did not release me-and I did not serve him
again."

"If you expect me to believe that," she said with cold
hatred, "you are truly mad."

"Is there more to your tale?" The tentative respect
Binabik had earlier shown the monk had curdled into sour

594

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practicality. "Because we are still trapped here, still in
danger that is most dreadful-although there is little else
we can do, I am thinking, until the Noms prove they can
force the dwarrows* door."

"There is a little more. No, Minamele, Pryrates did not
release me. As I told you, he had proved that I was worth-
less to him. I told you this much of the truth when we
were in the landing boat-I was not even worth more tor-
tures. Someone clubbed me, then I was tossed away like
offal dumped behind a rich man's house. Except I was not
left for dead out in the Kynswood as I told you before.
Rather, I was dumped into a pit in the catacombs that run
beneath Hjeldin's Tower ... and that is where I awoke. In
darkness."

He paused, as though this memory was even more
painful than the ghastly things he had already told.
Miriamele said nothing. She was furious and yet empty. If
Cadrach's tale was true, then perhaps there really was no
hope. If Pryrates was as powerful as this-if he had a
strategem to constrain even the Storm King to his will-
then should Miriamele somehow find her father and con-
vince him to end the war, the red priest would still find
some method to have things his own way.

No hope. It was strange to think about. As unlikely as
their chances had seemed, Josua and his allies had always
had the slim hope of the swords to cling to. If that was
gone . . . Miriamele felt dizzy. It seemed she had walked
through a familiar door only to find a chasm yawning just
beyond the threshold.

"I was alive, but wounded and dazed. I was in a terri-
ble place-no living man should have to visit the black,
black places beneath Pryrates' tower. And to go upward
would mean escaping through the tower, past Pryrates
himself. I could not imagine succeeding at that. The only
tiny scrap of luck I had was that he likely thought me
dead. So I went ... another way- Down."

Cadrach had to pause for a long moment and wipe the
sweat from his pale face. It was not particularly warm in
the cavern.

"When we were in the Wran," he suddenly said to

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          595

Miriamele, "I could not force myself to go down into the
ghants' nest. That was because it was too much like .,.
like going into the tunnels below Hjeldin's Tower."

"You were here before?" She stared at him, her atten-
tion unwillingly held. "Here beneath the castle?"

"Yes, but not in the places you have been, the places I
have followed you." He wiped at his forehead again.
"Ransomer preserve me, I wish my escape had been
through the parts of this vast maze you saw! The way I
came was far worse." He tried to find words but gave up.
"Far, far worse."

"Worse? Why?"

"No." Cadrach shook his head. "I will not tell you.
There are many ways in and out of here, and not all of
them are ... normal. I will speak no further on it, and if
you could glimpse even a piece of what I saw, you would
thank me for not telling you." He shivered. "But it felt
like years that I was below the ground, and I saw and
heard and felt things ... things that .. ." He stopped,
shaking his head again.

"Don't tell us, then. I don't believe you, in any case.
How could you escape unnoticed? You said that Pryrates
could find you, could summon-you."

"I had-I stilt have-some little smatterings of the Art
left to me. I was able to draw a ... a sort of fog over me.
I have kept it since. That is why you were not summoned
to Sesuad'ra as Tiamak and the others were. They could
not find us."

"But why didn't that shield you from Pryrates before.
when he summoned you-when you couldn't run away
and had to spy and sneak for him like the worst sort of
traitor in the world?" She was disgusted with herself for
being drawn back into a discussion. She was even angrier
that she had ever wasted her trust and concern on some-
one who could do what the monk had done. She had de-
fended him to the world, but it was she who had been the
fool. He was a traitor through and through.

"Because he thinks I am dead'" Cadrach almost
shouted. "If he knew I lived, he would find me soon
enough. He would blow my poor shielding fog away like

596 Tad Williams

a strong wind and I would be naked, and helpless. By all
the gods old and new, Miriamele, why do you think I was
so determined to get off Aspitis' ship? As I slowly came
to realize that he was one of Pryrates' servitors I could
think of nothing but that he might tell his master I still
lived. Aedon save us, why do you think when we met him
again on the Lakelands I begged you to kill him?" He
mopped more sweat from his face. "I can only guess that
Pryrates did not recognize the name 'Cadrach,' although
I had used it before. But I have used many names-even
that red-robed demon could not know them all."

"So you were making your way to freedom through the
tunnels," Binabik prompted. "Kikkasul! This place is in-
deed like our Mintahoq cave-city-most that is important
happens beneath the rock."

"Freedom?" Cadrach almost sneered. "How could any-
one be free who lived with the knowledge I did? Yes, I fi-
nally made my way up from the very deepest depths; I
think I was quite mad by then. I headed north, away from
Pryrates and the Hayholt, although at the time I had no
idea of where I would go. I wound up finally in
Naglimund, thinking that I would be safest in a place
sworn to oppose Elias and his chief counselor. But it was
soon apparent that Naglimund, too, would be attacked
and thrown down, so I took up the Lady Vorzheva's offer
to accompany Miriameie south."

"You said you were not free because of the knowledge
you had," said Miriamele slowly. "But you did not share
that knowledge with anyone. That is perhaps the most
wretched deed of all you have done, Cadrach. Fear of
Pryrates might make you do terrible things, but to-be free
of him and still say nothing-while the rest of us have
pondered and struggled and suffered and died ..." She
shook her head, trying to make her words reflect the
chilly contempt she felt. "That I cannot forgive."

He looked at her without flinching. "Now you truly
know me. Princess Miriamele."

A long silence fell, broken only by the faint singsong
of the dwarrows muttering among themselves. Binabik
was the one who ended it. "We have talked enough of

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

597

these things. And I need time for pondering on what
Cadrach has said. But something there is that is clear:

Josua and the others search for Bright-Nail, and they have
Thorn already. They plan to bring them here if they can,
but they are knowing nothing of what this one says of
Pryrates. If we were having no other reason for surviving
and escaping, we now have one that is large." He made a
close-fisted gesture. "But what is outside our door is the
first thing that will prevent us. How will we be making an
escape?"

"Or have we already lost the chance listening to
Brother Cadrach's tale of treachery?" Miriamele took a
breath. "There were a handful of Norns before-how
long before there is an army?"

Binabik looked at Cadrach, but the monk had lowered
his face into his hands.

"We must make an attempt at escaping. If only one of
us can survive to bear the tale, then still it will be a vic-
tory."

"And even if all is lost," Miriamele said, "there will be
some Noms who will not be around to see it. I would set-
tle for even a victory like that." She meant it, she
realized-and with that realization, a part of her seemed
to turn cold and lifeless.

27

Hammer of Pom

"Prince JiriJU. At last we meet." Josua bowed, then ex-
tended his left hand; the manacle he wore as a remem-
brance of imprisonment was a shadow on his wrist. The
Sitha made a strangely-jointed bow of his own, then
reached out his hand to clasp Josua's. Isgrimnur could not
help marveling at such a strange scene.

"Prince Josua." The new-risen sun turned both Jiriki's
white hair and the snow faintly golden. "Young Seoman
told me much about you. Is he here?"

Josua frowned. "He is not, to my regret. There is much
to say-much to tell you, and much we hope you can tell
us." He looked up at the looming walls of the Hayholt,
falsely welcoming in the dawn light. "I am not sure
which of us should say to the other: 'Welcome home.' "

The Sitha smiled coldly. "This is not our home any
more, Prince Josua."

"And I am not sure it is mine, either. But come, it is
foolish to stand in the snow. Will you come and^ break
your fast with us?"

Jiriki shook his head. "Thanks to you for your cour-
tesy, but 1 think not yet." He looked back at the milling
Sithi, who had fanned out across the hillside and were
rapidly setting up camp, the first colorful tents blooming
like snowfiowers. "My mother Likimeya, I think, speaks
with my sister; I, too, would like to spend a short time
with Aditu. If you would be kind enough to come to my
mother's tent by the time the sun is above the treeline,

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          599

bringing those of your household you deem necessary, we
will begin to talk. There is, as you said, much to tell."

The Sitha gave a sort of graceful salute, bowed again,
then turned and moved away across the snow.

"That's cheek," Isgrimnur muttered. "Making you
come to them."

"It was their castle first." Josua laughed quietly. "Even
if they do not wish to reclaim it."

Isgrimnur grunted. "As long as they help us put the
bastards out, I suppose we can go to their house for a
visit." He squinted. "Now who's that?"

A solitary rider had crested the hilltop behind the Sithi
encampment. He was taller and more solidly-built than
the immortals, but he slumped wearily in the saddle.

"God be praised!" Isgrimnur breathed, then shouted for
joy. "Isom! Hah, Isom!" He waved his arms. The rider
looked up, then spurred his horse down the hill.

"Ah, Father," he said after he had dismounted and re-
ceived a backbreaking embrace from the duke, "I cannot
tell you how good it is to see you. This brave Hernystiri
mount," he patted his gray horse, "kept up with the Sithi
almost all the way from Naglimund. They ride so fast!
But we fell behind at the end."

"No matter, no matter," Isgrimnur chortled. "I only
wish your mother was not behind in Nabban. Bless you,
son, it makes my heart glad to see you."

"Indeed," said Josua. "You are a happy sight. What of
Eolair? What of Hemystir? Jiriki said but little."

Isom made a weary bow. "Everything I can tell you I
will, Josua. Is there something to eat here? And some-
what to drink, too?"

"Come." Isgrimnur put his arm about bis tall son. "Let
your old father lean on you for just a few minutes-I was
smashed beneath my horse in Nabban, did you know? But
I am not finished yet! We will all break fast together.
Aedon has blessed us this morning."

The afternoon had turned dark and the wind had risen,
clawing at the walls of the tent. Silent Sithi had put out

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Tad Williams

shining globes of light which were now warming into full
brightness like small suns.

Duke Isgrimnur was beginning to feel restless. His
back was giving him no peace, and he had been sitting
propped on cushions-and how did a war party of
Sithi manage to carry cushions, he could not help
wondering-so long that he did not think he could rise/to
his feet without help. Even the presence of Isom sitting
nearby was not enough to keep his thoughts from turning

sour.

The Sithi had destroyed Skali and his men-that was
the first news Isom had given him. The immortals had
brought the Thane of Kaldskryke's head back to
Hemysadharc in a sack. Isgrimnur knew he should rejoice
that the man who had stolen his dukedom and brought so
much unhappiness to Rimmersgard and Hernystir was
dead, but he felt mostly his own age and infirmity, as well
as a certain angry shame. The revenge he had sworn so
loudly at Naglimund had been taken by someone else. If
he regained Elvritshalla, it would be because the Sithi had
earned it for him. That did not sit well. The unhappy duke
was having trouble paying attention to the things that
seemed to fascinate Josua and the immortals. *

"All this talk of Houses and Stars is very well," he said
crossly, "but what exactly are we going to do?" He folded
his arms across his broad chest. Someone had to hasten
things along. These Sithi were like an army of golden-
eyed Josuas, seemingly content to talk and ponder until
The Day of Weighing-Out-but the reality of the Hayholt
would not go away. "We have siege engines, if you know
what those are. We can knock the gates down eventually,
or maybe even burrow under the walls. But the Hayholt
was built stronger than anything in Osten Ard, and it
won't happen fast. In the meantime, your Conqueror Star

is right overhead."

Likimeya, who Isgrimnur supposed was the queen of
the Sithi, though no one seemed to call her by that title,
turned her faintly serpentine gaze on him. It was all the
Rimmersman could do to meet her stare.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER           601

This one chills my blood. And I thought Adilu was
strange.

"You are correct, mortal. If our understanding, and the
lore of your Scrollbearers is true, we have very little
time." She turned to Josua. "We brought down
Naglimund's walls in days-but that did not stop the
Hikeda'ya from doing what they wished, or at least we do
not think it did. We cannot afford to make that mistake
here."

Prince Josua lowered his head, thinking. "But what
else can we do? As Isgrimnur pointed out to me last
night, we cannot fly over the walls."

"There are other ways into the castle you call the
Hayholt," said Likimeya. The tall, black-haired Sitha be-
side her nodded. "We could not send an army in through
those passages, nor would we wish to, but we can, and
should, send a sufficient force. Ineluki has a hand in alt
this; he or your mortal enemies have doubtless made sure
that these ways are guarded. But if we keep our foes' at-
tention on what happens out here before the walls, we
might succeed in getting a small troop inside,"

"What 'other ways' do you mean?" Josua asked,
frowning.

Tunnels," said Camaris suddenly. "Ways in and out.
John knew them. There is one on the cliffside below the
Sea Gate." The old man had a slightly wild look, as
though any moment he might begin raving again.

Likimeya nodded. The strings of polished stones
braided into her hair clinked. "Just so-although I think
we can choose a better entrance than the caves along the
cliff. Do not forget. Prince Josua: Asu'a was ours once,
and many of us were alive when it was still the great
house of the Zida'ya. We know its hidden paths."

"The sword." Camaris rubbed his hand back and forth
across Thorn's pommel. "It wants to go inside. It has
been . . ." He broke off and fell silent. He had been
strangely subdued through the entire day, but Isgrimnur
could not help noticing that he seemed less daunted by
the Sithi than any of the other mortals assembled in
Likimeya's tent. Even Tiamak and Strangyeard, students

602

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of old lore, sat wide-eyed and silent except when forced
into stammering speech.

Outside, the wind grew louder.

"That is another, and perhaps the most important, mys-
tery," said Jiriki. "Your brother has one Great Sword,
Prince Josua. This mortal knight, Sir Camaris, has an-
other. Where is the third?"

Josua shook his head. "As I told you, it is gone from
my father's barrow."

"And how will they serve us if we bring them all to-
gether?" Jiriki finished. "Still, it seems that Camaris must
be one of those we send beneath the walls. We cannot af-
ford the chance that we would gain the other two swords
and have this black blade left outside." He steepled his
long fingers. "I regret more than ever the fact that Eolair
and I could not find the Tinukeda'ya of Mezutu'a-those
you call dwarrows. They know more of sword-lore and
forging than anyone, and they certainly made Minneyar.
There is doubtless much they could have told us."

"Send in Camaris? Through some underground cav-
erns?" Josua seemed more than dubious-there was an
edge almost of despair to his words. "We face perhaps the
greatest battle that Osten Ard has seen-certainly, it
seems, one of the most important-and you say that we
should send away our greatest warrior?" As Josua looked
over to the old knight, Isgrimnur saw again the discom-
fort he had sensed earlier. What had Camaris told him?

"But surely you can see the sense of what my brother
says, Prince Josua." Aditu had been almost deferentially
silent through the afternoon. "If all the signs, if all the
dreams and rumors and whispered lore are tme, then it is
the Great Swords that will thwart Ineluki's plan, not
men-or even immortals-battling before the gates of the
castle. That has been the wisdom by which you have
planned everything."

"So because Thorn belongs to Camaris, he and he
alone can take it inside? And not through the gate or over
the walls with the army behind him, but like a sneak
thief?"

"Thorn does not belong to me." Camaris seemed to be

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              603

struggling just to speak slowly and rationally. "Methinks
it is the other way around. Merciful Aedon, let me go,
Josua. I doubt I can wait much longer before this thing
drives me mad."

Josua looked at the old knight for a long time; some-
thing unspoken passed between them. "Perhaps there is
sense in what you all say," the prince admitted at last.
"But it will be a hard thing to lose Camaris...." He
paused. 'To lose him for the coming battle. It will be hard
on the men. They feel invincible when they follow him."

"Perhaps they should not know that he is gone," Aditu
said.

Josua turned, startled. "What? How would we hide
such a thing?"

"I think my sister has spoken wisely," said Jiriki. "If
we hope to have a chance to send Sir Camaris into your
brother's castle-and he will not be alone, Josua; there
will be Zida'ya with him who know those places-but we
do not wish to blow a trumpet and announce that we have
done that, we must make it seem that Camaris is still
here, even once the full siege has begun."

"The siege? But if our only hope is the swords and our
true stroke is this company that we send in through your
secret ways. what point is there in throwing away the
lives of others?" the prince demanded angrily. "Are you
saying we should sacrifice men in a bloody siege that we
already know .is starting too late to achieve success?"

Likimeya leaned forward. "We must sacrifice men and
Zida'ya both." Isgrimnur caught a flicker in her amber
stare that seemed almost like regret, or pain, but he dis-
missed it. He could not believe one so stem, so alien, felt
anything but cool necessity. "Otherwise, we announce to
our enemies that we have other hopes. We shout to them
that we are waiting for some other stratagem to take ef-
fect."

"Why?" Isgrimnur could see that Josua was truly
agonized. "Any sensible war-leader knows it is better
practice to starve out a foe than to waste men's lives on
thick stone walls."

"You are camped beside the Zida'ya. Those who are

604 Tad Williams

even now watching from behind those stone walls have
made compact with Ineluki. Some may even be our kin,
the Hikeda'ya. They will know that the Dawn Children
see the red star in the sky overhead. The Conqueror Star,
as you call it, tells us that we have only a few days at
most, that whatever your mortal sorcerer plans to do on
Ineluki's behalf must happen soon. If we appear to ignore
that fact, we will fool no one. We must launch the siege
immediately, and your people and ours must fight as
though we have no other hope. And who knows? Perhaps
we do not. Not all tales end happily, Prince Josua. We
Gardenbom know that all too well."

Josua turned to Isgrimnur as if for support. "So we
send our finest warrior, who is also our greatest inspira-
tion, down into the earth. And we throw away the lives of
our fighting men on a siege that we know cannot succeed.
Duke Isgrimnur, have I gone mad? Is this all that is left
to us?"

The Rimmersman shrugged helplessly. It was dreadful
to watch Josua's honest torment. "What the Sithi-folk say
makes sense. I'm sorry, Josua. It galls me, too."

The prince lifted his hand in a gesture of resignation.
"Then I will do as you all say. Since my brother took the
throne, I have been faced with horror after horror. It
seems, as one of my teachers once told me, that God
shapes us with a hammer of pain on an anvil of duty. I
cannot imagine what shape we will be when He is fin-
ished." He sat back, waving to the others to continue.
"Make certain only that Camaris is well-defended. He
carries the one thing we have that we did not already pos-
sess when my brother and the Storm King broke
Naglimund-and we have lost much else since then."

Isgrimnur looked at the old knight. Camaris was lost in
thought, his eyes fixed on nothing visible, his lips mov-
ing.
A

The king was lurking in the passageway above the en-
trance to the forge. The soldiers, already nervous, startled

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

605

when they saw the cloaked shape lurch forward out of the
shadows. One of them even went so far as to draw his
sword before Pryrates barked at him to put up; Elias,
though, seemed oblivious to what would normally be a
fatal error for a young guardsman.

"Pryrates," the king rasped. "I have been searching and
searching. Where is my cupbearer? My throat is so
dry..-."

"I will help you, Majesty." The priest turned his coal-
black stare on the gawking soldiers, who quickly shifted
their eyes sideways or down to their own chests. "The
captain will take these men back to the walls. We are fin-
ished here." He waved them away with a flapping red
sleeve.

When the noise of their footfalls grew faint in the cor-
ridor, Pryrates gently took the king's arm so that Ellas
could lean on him. The king's staring face was
parchment-white, and he licked at his lips constantly.

"Did you say you had seen my cupbearer?"

"I will take care of you. Majesty. I think we will not
see Hengfisk again."

"Has he ... has he run away to ... them?" Elias
cocked his head as though treachery might have a sound.
'They are all around the walls. You must know. I can feel
them. My brother, and those bright-eyed creatures ..."
He pawed at his mouth. "You said they would be de-
stroyed, Pryrates. You said all that resisted me would be
destroyed."

"And so they will be, my king." The priest induced
Elias to walk down the hallway, heading him through the
maze of corridors toward the residences. They passed an
open window where snow blew in and melted into pud-
dles on the floor: outside, Green Angel Tower loomed
against the swirling storm clouds. "You yourself will de-
stroy them and usher in the Golden Age."

"And then the pain will go away," Elias wheezed. "I
would not hate Josua so if he had not brought me such
pain. If he had not stolen my daughter, too. He is my
brother, after all . . ." the king clenched his teeth as

6o6 Tad Williams
though something had stabbed him, "... because family
is blood... "

"And blood is powerful magic," Pryrates said, half to
himself. "I know, my king. But they turned against you.
That is why I found you new friends-powerful friends,"

"But you cannot replace a family," said Elias, a little
sadly. He winced. "Ah, God, Pryrates, I am burning up.
Where is that cupbearer?"

"A little farther. Majesty. Just a little farther."

"I can feel it, you know," Elias panted. He lay back on
his mattress, which had rotted through in so many places
that the horsehair stuck up all around him. A stained gob-
let, now empty, was clutched in his hand.

Pryrates paused in the doorway. "Feel what, Majesty?"

"The star, the red star." Elias pointed at the cobwebbed
ceiling. "It is hanging overhead, staring at me like an eye.
I hear the singing all the time."

"Singing?"

"The song it sings-or that the sword sings to the star.
I cannot tell which." His hand fell and crawled like a
white spider onto the long sheath. "It sings in my head.
'It is time, it is time,' the voices say, over and over." He
laughed, a cracked, jagged sound. "Sometimes I awaken
to find myself walking through the castle and I cannot re-
member how I came there. But I hear the song, and I feel
the star burning into me whether it is day or night. It has
a fiery tail, like a dragon...." He paused. "I will go out
to them."

"What!?" Pryrates returned to the king's bedside.

"I will go out to them-Josua and the others. Perhaps
that is the time the sword means. Time to show them that
I am different than they know. That their resistance is
foolish." He brought his hands to his face. "They are ...
they are my blood, Pryrates."

"Your Highness, I ..." The priest seemed momentarily
unsure. 'They are your enemies, Elias. They wish you
only harm."

The king's laugh was almost a sob. "And you mean me
only well, is that right? That is why every night since you

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          607

took me to that hill I have suffered dreams that God
would not visit upon sinners in Hell? That is why my
body aches and burns until I can barely keep from
screaming out loud?"

Pryrates frowned. "You have suffered, my king, but
you know the reason. The hour is coming fast. Do not let
your torments be for nothing."

Elias waved his hand. "Go away. I do not wish to talk
any more. I will do what I think best. I am the master of
this castle-of this land." He gestured violently. "Go
away, damn you. I am in pain."

The alchemist bowed. "I pray you can rest. Majesty. I
will go."

Pryrates left the king staring up into the shadows of the
ceiling.

After standing silently in the corridor for long mo-
ments, the priest returned to the closed door and passed
his hand over hinges and frame and door latch several
times, mouth working soundlessly. When he had finished
he nodded, then went briskly up the corridor, bootheels
clicking.

*-

Tiamak and Strangyeard walked close together as they
made their way down the hillside. Snow was no longer
falling, but it was piled high on the ground; they made
slow progress despite the comparatively short distance
between the Sithi camp and the fires of the prince's army.

"I am going to turn to ice in a moment," Tiamak said
through clicking teeth. "How do your people live like
this?"

Strangyeard was shivering, too. "This is a terrible cold
by any measurement. And we have thick walls to hide be-
hind, and fires-the lucky ones do, that is." He stumbled
and went down on his knees in a thick drift. Tiamak
helped him back up. The bottom half of the priest's robe
was covered in clinging snow. "I am tempted to curse,"
Strangyeard said, and laughed unmerrily; his breath hov-
ered as a cloud.

6o8 Tad Williams

"Come, lean on me," urged Tiamak. The priest's disar-
ranged hair and sad face tugged at his heart. "One day
you must come see the Wran. It is not all pleasant, but it
is never cold."

"Just n-now that sounds very n-n-nice."

The storm clouds had been borne away by the wind,
and a salting of dim stars glimmered. Tiamak stared up-
ward. "It looks so close."

Strangyeard followed his gaze, stumbled for a moment,
then righted himself. The Conqueror Star seemed to hang
almost directly over the Hayholt, a burning hole in the
darkness with a tail like a smear of blood. "It is close,"
the priest said. "I can feel it. Plesinnen wrote that such
stars spout bad air over the world. Until n-now, I was
never sure whether I believed him-but if there was ever
a star that dripped p-pestilence, that is it." He hugged
himself. "I sometimes wonder if these are the final days,
Tiamak."

The marsh   man did not want to think about that. "All
the stars   here are a little strange. I keep thinking that I
recognize   the Otter or the Sand Beetle, but they seem
stretched   and changed."

Strangyeard squinted his single eye. "The stars look
odd to me, too." He shivered and lowered his gaze to the
knee-high snow. "I am frightened, Tiamak."

They staggered on toward the camp, side by side.

"The worst of it," said Tiamak, holding his hands close
to the fire, "is that we have no better answer to our ques-
tions than we did when Morgenes sent the first sparrow to
Jamauga. The Storm King's plan is a complete puzzle,
and so is the one scheme we have to stop him." The small
tent was filling with smoke despite the opening near the
top, but at this moment Tiamak did not care; as a matter
of fact. it felt somewhat homelike.

"That is not completely true." Strangyeard coughed
and waved away some of the smoke. "We know a few
things-that Minneyar is Bright-Nail, for one."

"But that Hernystirman had to come tell us that,"
Tiamak said crossly. "You need not feel bad, Strangyeard.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

609

From what I heard, you did much to help them locate
Thorn. But I have done little to warrant being a member
of the League of the Scroll."

"You are too hard on yourself," the archivist said. "You
brought the page of Nisses' book that helped bring back
Camaris."

"Have you looked into his eyes, Strangyeard? Was that
anything other than a curse to him? And now it seems he
is losing those wits all over again. We should have left
him alone."

The priest stood. "Forgive me, but this smoke .. ." He
pulled the tent flap open and fanned vigorously. A blast
of cold air pushed much of the smoke back inside and set
them both to shivering anew. "I'm sorry," he said miser-
ably.

Tiamak gestured for him to sit down. "It is a little bet-
ter. My eyes are not stinging so." He sighed. "And this
talk of a Fifth House-did you see how worried the Sithi
looked? They may have said they did not know what it
meant, but I believe they knew something. They did not
like it." The Wrannaman shrugged his thin shoulders; he
had already learned from Aditu that what the Sithi did not
want to discuss remained a secret. They were polite, but
could be stubbornly vague when they wished. "It matters
little, I suppose. The siege begins tomorrow morning, and
Camaris and the others will try to make their way inside,
and whatever They Who Watch and Shape decide will
happen ... it will happen."

Strangyeard stared at him, his unpatched eye red-
rimmed and watery. "You do not seem to get much solace
from your Wran gods, Tiamak."

"They are mine," the marsh man said. "I doubt yours
would bring me any greater peace." He looked up, and
was startled by the archivist's pained expression. "Oh! I
am sorry, Strangyeard. I did not mean to be insulting. I
am just angry ... and frightened, like you."

Please, let me not lose my friends. Then I would have
nothing at all!

"Of course," the archivist said, then sighed. "And I am
no different than you. I cannot escape the feeling that

6io Tad Williams

something important is just before me-some simple
thing, as you mentioned. I can feel its presence, but I can-
not grasp it." He stared at his knit hands. "It is infuriat-
ing. There is some obvious mistake we have made, or will
make, I am certain. It is as though I looked back and forth
through a well-known book, looking for a page I have of-
ten read, but now I cannot find it." He sighed again. "It
is no wonder we are neither of us very happy, my friend."

Tiamak warmed briefly at the word 'friend,' but then
felt his sorrow return. "Something else is worrying me,
too," he told the archivist.

"What is that?" Strangyeard leaned over and tugged the
door flap open for a moment, then let it fall shut.

"I have realized that I must go down into the deeps
with Camaris and the others."

"What? Blessed Elysia, Tiamak, what do you mean?
You are no warrior."

"Exactly. And neither Camaris nor any of the Sithi
have read Morgenes' book, or studied the archives at
Naglimund, as you did, nor shared the wisdom of
Jarnauga and Dinivan and Valada Geloe. But someone
who has must go-otherwise, what if the people of this
raiding party secure the swords and cannot guess how to
use them? We will not get a second chance."

"Oh! Well, then ... mercy! I suppose I should go,
since I have had the most time to study these things of
anyone remaining."

"Yes, Strangyeard, my good dryiander friend, of all of
us, you know the most about the swords. But you have
only one eye, and the sight in that one is not good. And
you are many years older than I am, and no^so used to
climbing and getting in and out of tight places. If Binabik
of Yiqanuc were here, I would let him go and wish him
well, since he is more learned in these things than I, and
at least as capable in other ways-not to mention the least
likely to get stuck in a narrow tunnel of any of us."
Tiamak wagged his head sadly. "But Binabik is gone, and
the wisewoman Geloe is gone, and alt the old
Scrollbearers are dead. So it falls to me, I think. You have
taught me much in a short time, Strangyeard." He let out

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

6ll

another heartfelt sigh. "I have evil dreams still about be-
ing in the ghant nest, of the pictures I saw in my head, of
hearing my own voice clacking away in the dark. But I
fear this may be worse."

After a long silence, the priest went and pawed through
his belongings, coming back at last with a skin bag.
"Here. This is a strong drink made from berries. Jamauga
brought it with him to Naglimund: he said it was a shield
against the cold." He laughed nervously. "Cold we cer-
tainly have, don't we? Try a little." He passed Tiamak the
sack.

The liquor was sweet and fiery. Tiamak swallowed,
then took another swig. He passed the bag back to
Strangyeard. "It is good, but strange-tasting. I am used to
sour fern beer. Try some."

"Oh, I think it too potent for me," the priest stam-
mered. "I wanted you ..."

"A little will help to keep out the chill-perhaps it will
even help set free that elusive thought you spoke of."

Strangyeard hesitated, then lifted the sack to his lips.
He took a tiny sip and worked it around his mouth, then
took a little more. Tiamak was pleased to see he did not
choke. "It's ... hot," the priest- said, wonderingly.

"It feels that way, does it not?" The Wrannaman sank
back against one of the priest's saddlebags. "Have an-
other, then pass it to me again. I will need more than a
few swallows before I work up the nerve to tell Josua
what I have decided."

The sack was mostly empty. Tiamak had heard the sen-
tries change outside, and knew it must be near midnight.
"I should go," he said. He listened to the words as he
formed them, and was proud of how well-articulated they
were. "I should go because I need to tell Prince Josua
what I will do."

"What you will do, yes." Strangyeard was holding the
wineskin by its cord strap and watching it swing back and
forth. "That is good."

"So in a moment I will get up," Tiamak pointed out.

"I wish Geloe were here."

6l2

Tad Williams

"Geloe? Here?" Tiamak frowned. "Drinking this
Rimmersgard liquor?"

"No. Well, I suppose." Strangyeard reached up his free
hand and set the skin swinging again. "Here to talk to us.
She was a wise one. Frightening, a little-didn't she
frighten you? Those eyes ..." His forehead creased as he
remembered Geloe's alarming stare. "But solid. Reassur-
ing."

"Of course. We miss her." He got unsteadily to his feet.
"Terrible thing."

"Why did those ... things do it?" the priest wondered.

"Kill Geloe?"

"No, Camaris." Strangyeard carefully placed the skin
on top of a blanket. "Why did they kill Camaris? No." He
smiled, abashed. "I mean ... why did they try to kill
Camaris? Just him. Doesn't make sense."

"They wanted to take the sword. Thorn."

"Ah," Strangyeard replied. "Ah. P'raps so."

Tiamak struggled out through the tent flap. The chilly
air was like a blow. He looked over at the priest, who had
followed him out. "Where are you going?"

"With you," Strangyeard said matter-of-factly. "Tell
Josua I'm going, too. Down in the tunnels."

"No, you're not." Tiamak was firm. "That would be a
bad idea. I told you before."

"I'll come with you anyway. To talk with him." The
priest's teeth were already chattering. "Can't let you walk
in the cold by yourself." He staggered a few steps, then
stopped, peering upward, and frowned broadly. "Look at
that red star. Mad thing. Causing all this trouble"The stars
should leave us alone." He raised his fist. "We're not
afraid!" he called to the distant spot of light. "Not
afraid!"

"You drank too much," Tiamak said as he took the ar-
chivist's elbow.

Strangyeard bobbed his head. "I might have done."

A

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          613

Josua watched the archivist and the Wrannaman lurch out
of his tent and into the night, then turned to Isgrimnur. "I
would never have believed it."

"A drunken priest?" The duke yawned despite the ten-
sion that roiled his stomach. "That's nothing strange."
There was a dull pressure behind his eyes. It was past the
middle of the night, and the next day promised to be
something dreadful. He needed sleep.

"Perhaps, but a drunken Strangyeard?" Josua shook his
head slowly. "I think that Tiamak is right about going,
though-and he is, from what you've told me, a useful
fellow."

"Wiry as a hound," Isgrimnur said. "Brave, too, and   so
well-spoken I'm still not used to it. I'll confess,   I didn't
think marsh men were that learned. Camaris could do   far
worse than to take Tiamak, even with his limp. That   was
a cockindrill bit him there, did you know?"

Josua's mind was on other things. "So that is two of
our mortal contingent." He rubbed his temple. "I cannot
think any more-it feels like three days have passed since
this morning's sun rose. We will begin the siege tomor-
row, and tomorrow evening will be time enough to make
the final decision on who shall go." He rose and looked
almost with tenderness at Camaris, who was stretched
full-length on a pallet at the far side of the tent, moving
fitfully in his sleep. The squire Jeremias, who seemed to
attach himself to troubled folk, was curled up on a pile of
blankets near the old knight's feet.

"Can you find your way back?" Josua asked the duke.
"Take the lantern."

"I'll find my way right enough. Isom will be up telling
tales with Sludig and the rest, I have no doubt." He
yawned again. "Wasn't there a time when we could stay
up all night drinking, then fight in the morning, then start
drinking all over again?"

"Maybe for you, Uncle Isgrimnur," Josua said with a
tiny smile. "Never for me. God grant you good rest to-
night."

Isgrimnur grunted, then picked up the lamp and made

614 Tad Williams

his way out of the tent, leaving Josua standing in its cen-
ter, staring at the sleeping Camaris.
Outside the storm clouds had dispersed. The stars
spread a faint light over the Hayholt's silent walls. The
Conqueror Star seemed to hang just above Green Angel
Tower like a flame above a candle.

Go away, you cursed, ill-omened thing, he demanded,
but he knew that it would not comply.

Shivering in the chill, he stumped slowly through the
snow toward his tent.

*

"Jeremias! Boy! Wake up!"

The young squire sat up, fighting his way out of sleep.
"What?"

Josua stood over him, half-dressed. "He's gone. He's
been gone far too long." The prince snatched up his
sword belt and leaned to pluck his cloak from the floor.
"Put on your boots and come help me."

"What? Who's gone. Prince Josua?"

"Camaris, curse it, Camaris! Come and help me. No,
rouse Isgrimnur and find some men to help. Have them
bring torches."

The prince took a brand from the fire, then turned and
pushed out through the door flap. He looked down at the
snow, trying to make some sense out of the muddle of
footprints. At last he chose a set of tracks that led down-
hill toward the Kynslagh. Within moments he was beyond
the light of the few campfires still burning. The moon had
vanished from the sky, but the Conqueror Star still burned
like a signal beacon.

The trail twisted erratically, but within half a furlong it
was clear that the footprints had turned toward the cliffs
east of the Hayholt's seawall. Josua looked up to see a
pale figure moving along the edge of the shoreline, sil-
houetted against the wall of empty blackness that was the
Kynslagh.

"Camaris!" Josua called. The figure did not stop, but
moved along unsteadily toward the edge, lurching like a

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

615

puppet with knotted strings. The prince began to run,
floundering in the deep snow, then slowed as he reached
the cliffs. "Camaris," he said, his voice deceptively calm.
"Where are you going?"

The old man turned to look at him. He wore no cloak,
and his loose shin flapped in the wind. Even seen by star-
light there was something odd in his posture.

"It is Josua." The prince lifted his arms as though to
embrace the old man. "Come back with me. We will sit
by the fire and talk."

Camaris stared as though the words were animal
noises, then began to make his way down the rocks. Josua
hastened forward.

"Stop! Camaris, where are you going?" He scrambled
over the edge, struggling to keep his balance on the
muddy slope. "Come back with me."

The old knight whirled and pulled Thorn from its scab-
bard. Although he seemed fearfully confused, he handled
the sword with unthinking mastery. His hom Cellian dan-
gled on its baldric, drawing Josua's eye as it swung back
and forth. "It is time," Camaris whispered. He was barely
audible above the waves that slapped on the shore below.

"You cannot do this." Josua reached out his hand. "We
are not ready. You must wait until the others can go with
you." He advanced a few slithering steps down the slope.
"Come back."

Camaris abruptly swung the sword in a wide, flat arc;

it was nearly invisible in the darkness, but it hissed as it
passed the prince's chest.

"Aedon's Blood, Camaris, do you not recognize me?"
Josua took a step back. The old man raised the sword for
another stroke.

"It is time!" he said, and swung, this time with deadly
aim.

Josua threw himself backward. His feet skidded from
beneath him and he whirled his arms for a moment, strug-
gling for balance, then fell and tumbled down the slope,
through long grasses and over mud and stones, landing at
last in a drift of dirty snow where he lay for long mo-
ments, wheezing in pain.

6i6 Tad Williams

"Prince Josua?!" A head appeared at the top of the rise.
"Are you down there?"

Josua dragged himself onto his feet. Camaris had made
his way down to the bottom of the hill and onto the
heach. Now he was a ghostly shape moving along the
cliff face. "I'm here," he called to Jeremias. "Damn it,
where is the duke!?"

"He's coming, but I don't see him yet," the youth said
excitedly. "I ran back after I told him. Shall I come down
and help you? Are you hurt?"
Josua turned and saw Camaris hesitating before one of
the black openings in the cliff wall. A moment later he
vanished into the hole. "No!" Josua shouted, then called
up to Jeremias: "Get Isgrimnur, make him hurry! Tell him
Camaris has gone into one of the caves down here-I will
mark which one! We will lose him if we wait any longer.
I am going to bring him out."

"You ... you .. ." The squire was confused. "You're
going to follow him?"

"Damn me, I can't let him go down there himself-he
is mad. Aedon knows what-he might fall. be lost ... I
will bring him back somehow, even if I have to outfight
him myself and carry him back on my shoulder. But for
God's sake, tell Isgrimnur to hurry with the torches and
men. Go on, boy, run!"

Jeremias hesitated a moment longer, then vanished
from the prince's sight. Josua crawled the short distance
to where his torch lay sputtering on a muddy outcropping,
then clambered down the slope to the beach. He quickly
made his way to the place where Camaris had disap-
peared and found a cave mouth little different than any of
the others along the cliff. Josua grabbed several stones
and piled them next to the opening, then stepped in, hold-
ing the torch before him.

Isgrimnur stared at the soldiers. "What do you mean,
gone?"

The man looked back at him, half-apologetic and half-
defensive. "Just that. Duke Isgrimnur. The hole splits off,
goes different ways. We thought we saw some marks, like

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER           6l7

from a torch-end, up on the walls, but we didn't find any-
body that way. We searched the other passages, too. It's
like wormholes in there, tunnels everywhere."

"And you shouted?"

"Called the prince's name loud as we could. Nobody
called back."

Isgrimnur stared at the gap in the cliff wall, then
looked at Sludig. "Ransomer preserve us," he groaned.
"Both gone. We'll have to get the Sithi after them now."
He turned to the soldier. "I'll be back before sunrise- Un-
til then, keep looking and calling."

The man nodded. "Yes, sire."

Isgrimnur pulled at his beard for a moment, then began
making his way back along the beach. "Oh, Josua," he
said quietly. "You fool. And me, too. We've all been
fools."

28
Abandoned Ways

Bino6iJl touches! her arm. "Miriamele, what are you
thinking?"

"I'm trying to think of what we can do." Her head was
pounding. The shadowed cavern seemed to be closing in.
"We have to get out, somehow. We have to. I don't want
to be trapped in here." She caught her breath and looked
at Cadrach huddled against the wall on the far side of the
cavern. "How could he do such things, Binabik? How
could he betray us all that way?"

"He was not knowing you then," the troll pointed out.
"So he could not be thinking that it was you he was be-
traying."

"But he didn't tell us afterward! He didn't tell us any-
thing! All that time we were together."

Binabik lowered his head. "It is done. Now we must be
thinking on other things." He gestured to the dwarrows,
who were seated in a circle, singing quietly. "They are
thinking the Norns come soon, they have said to me. Al-
ready the ward is crumbling. The door will not hold for a
much lengthier time."

"And they're just going to sit and wait," said
Miriamele bitterly. "I can't understand them any more
than I can understand Cadrach." She stood and walked
past the troll. "Yis-fidri! Why are you mooning around
like this when the Noms are outside? Don't you under-
stand what will happen to us?" She heard her voice rising
shrilly, but she did not care.

The dwarrows stared up apprehensively, mouths agape,

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

619

Miriamele thought they looked like a nestful of baby
birds. "We are waiting ..." he began.

"Waiting! That's just it, you're waiting." She quivered
with anger. They were alt waiting for those fishbelly-
white things to come in and take them-take her and the
troll, too. "Then let's open the door now. Why put it off
any longer? Binabik and I wilt fight to win free and prob-
ably be killed-killed because you brought us here to this
trap against our will-and you will sit and be slaughtered.
So there is no sense waiting any longer."

Yis-fidri goggled. "But ... perhaps they will go...."

"You don't believe that! Come, open the door!" Her
fear beat higher, rising like storm-tossed waves. She
leaned down and grabbed the dwarrow's long wrist in her
hand and tugged. He was as unmovable as stone. "Get up,
damn you!" she shouted, and yanked as hard as she could.
Alarmed, the dwarrows burbled at each other. Yis-fidri's
eyes widened in consternation; with a flick of his power-
ful arm he dislodged Miriamele's grip. She fell back on
the cavern floor, breathless.

"Miriamele!" Binabik hurried to her side. "Are you
hurt?"

She shook off the troll's helping hand and sat up.
"There!" she said triumphantly. "Yis-fidri, you didn't tell
the truth."

The dwarrow stared at her as though she had begun to
foam at the mouth. He curled his flat fingers protectively
against his chest.

"You didn't," she said, and stood. "You will push me
away to keep me from forcing you against your will, so
why not the Noms? Do you want to die, then? Because
the Norns will certainly kill you, kill me, kill us all. Or
perhaps they will make you slaves again-is that what
you are hoping for? Why do you resist me and not resist
them?"

Yis-fidri turned briefly to his wife; she stared back at
him, silent and solemn-eyed. "But there is naught we can
do." The dwarrow seemed to be pleading for Miriamele's
understanding.

"There is always something you can do," she snapped.

620 Tad Williams

"It may not change anything, but you will have tried. You
are strong, Yis-fidri-you dwarrow-folk are very strong,
and you can do many things: I watched your wife shaping
stone. Maybe you have always run away before, but now
there is nowhere left to hide. Stand with us, damn you!"

Yis-hadra said something in the dwarrow tongue,
which brought a murmuring but swift reply from others in
the group. Yis-fidri entered in, then for a long time the
dwarrows argued among themselves, voices rushing and
burbling like water chiming on stone.

At last Yis-hadra rose. "I will stand with you," she
said. "You speak rightly. There is nowhere left to run, and
we are almost the last of our kind. If we die, no one then
will be left to tend and harvest the stone, no one to find
the beautiful things in the earth. That would be a shame."
She turned to her husband and again spoke rapidly to
him. After a moment, Yis-fidri hdded his huge eyes.

"I will do as my wife does," he said with obvious re-
luctance. "But we do not speak for our fellow
Tinukeda'ya."

"Then speak to them," Miriamele urged. "There is so
little time!"
Yis-fidri hesitated, then nodded. The other dwarrows
looked on, their strange faces fearful.

Miriamele crouched in blackness, her heart thudding.
She could see nothing at all, but apparently enough light
was still bleeding from the crystal batons to allow the
dwarrows to see: Miriamele could hear them padding
back and forth across the cavern as unhesitatingly as she
herself would walk through a lamplit room.

She reached out to touch the small but reassuring shape
of Binabik crouched beside her. "I'm frightened," she
whispered.

"As who is not?" She felt him pat her hand.

Miriamele had opened her mouth to say something else
when a slight sensation of movement passed through the
stone behind her. At first she thought it was the strange
shifting she had felt earlier, the thing that had so fright-
ened Yis-hadra and the other dwarrows, but then a faint

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

621

blue glow sprang up in the empty black where the door
stood. It was not like any light she had seen, for it illumi-
nated nothing else; it was only a pulsing sky-blue streak
hanging in the darkness.

"They're coming," she gurgled. Her heart raced even
more swiftly. All her brave words now seemed foolish.
On the far side of Binabik, she heard Cadrach's harsh
breathing grow louder. She half-expected him to cry out,
to try to shout a warning to the Norns. She did not believe
his claim that he had no Art that would help them against
the Norns, nor even the strength left now to use those few
skills he retained.

The blue line lengthened. A warm wind pushed through
the chamber, tangible as a slap to her heightened senses.
For the dozenth time since the dwarrows had darkened
the cavern she tugged at the straps of her pack and wiped
sweat from the handle of her dagger. She also clutched
Simon's White Arrow; if the Norns grabbed her, she
would stab at them with both hands. A shudder ran
through her. The Norns. The White Foxes. They were
only moments away....

Yis-fidri said something quiet but emphatic in the
dwarrow tongue. Yis-hadra replied in the same tone from
somewhere across the cavern. The sound of moving
dwarrows ceased. The chamber was silent as a grave.

The blue gleam grew in a rough oval until one end of
the line met the other. For a moment the heat became
greater, then the glow faded. Something scraped and then
fell heavily. A rush of cold air swept into the chamber,
but if the door had opened, no light came through-

Curse them! Despair swept over her. They are too
clever to come in with torches. She clutched her knife
tighter: she was shaking so violently she feared she might
drop it.

Suddenly there was a booming rumble like thunder and
a high-pitched shout that came from no human throat.
Miriamele's heart leaped. The great stones the dwarrows
had loosened above the cavern door were tumbling
down-she could hear the Norns' high-pitched, angry
wailing. Another crash was followed by a scraping, grind-

622 Tad Williams

ing noise, then many voices were shouting, none of them
in human languages. After a moment Miriamele felt her
eyes begin to sting. She took a breath and felt it bum all
the way down.

"Up!" Binabik cried. "It is poison-smoke!"

Miriamele struggled to her feet, lost in the dark and
feeling as though her insides were on fire. A powerful
hand gripped her and led her stumbling through the black-
ness. The cavern was raucous with strange cries and
shrieks and the sound of smashing stone.

The next moments were blind madness. She felt herself
pulled through into chilly air; within moments she could
breathe again, although she still could not see. The hand
that held her let go, and a moment later she caught her
foot on something and crashed to the ground.

"Binabik!" she shouted. She tried to rise, but some-
thing had entangled her. "Where are you!?"

Miriamele was seized again, but this time was lifted
bodily and carried swiftly through the noisy darkness.
Something struck her a glancing blow. For a moment
whoever was carrying her stopped and put her down;

there was a succession of strange noises, some of them
grunts or gasps of pain, then a moment later she was
snatched up again.

At last she touched down again on the hard stone. The
darkness was absolute. "Binabik?" she called.

There was a spark nearby, then a flash. For a moment
she saw the troll standing beside a cavern wall in the
midst of darkness with his hand full of flame. Then he
flung whatever he held outward, and it scattered in a
shower of sputtering sparks. Tiny flames burned every-
where. Frozen as if painted on a tapestry were Binabik,
several dwarrows, and almost a dozen other shadowy fig-
ures, all scattered about a long, high-ceilinged cavem.
The stone door that had protected them lay in pieces be-
hind her at the far end of this outer cavern.
She had scarcely an instant to marvel at the effect of
the troll's fire-starting powder before a pale-faced shape
raced toward her, long knife held high. Miriamele lifted
her own blade, but her ankles seemed bound somehow

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

623

and she could not get her feet beneath her. The knife
lashed toward Miriamele's face, but the blade stopped ab-
ruptly a hand's length from her eyes.

The dwarrow that had caught the creature's arm jerked
upward. There was a sound of something snapping; a mo-
ment later the Norn was pitched headfirst across the
chamber.

"Go that way," Yis-fidri gasped, pointing toward a dark
hole at the near end of the cavern. In the faint, flickering
light he looked even more grotesque than the enemy he
had dispatched: one of his arms hung limply, and the bro-
ken shaft of an arrow wagged in his shoulder. The
dwarrow flinched as another arrow shattered against the
cavern wall beside him.

Miriamele reached down and disentangled her feet
from what had held them-a Norn bow. Its owner lay a
few paces away, just inside the entrance to the dwarrow's
hiding place; a thick shard of rock jutted from his crushed
chest.

"Move quickly, quickly," said Yis-fidri. "We have sur-
prised them, but there may be more coming." His brisk
tones could not hide his terror; his saucer eyes seemed to
bulge. One of the other dwarrews threw a stone at the
Nom archer. The motion was awkward, but the missile
flew so swiftly that the white-faced immortal staggered
backward before the dwarrow's arm had finished moving,
then crumpled to the cavern floor.

"Run!" Binabik called. "Before more archers are com-
ing!"

Miriamele rushed after him into the tunnel mouth, still
clutching the bow. She stooped on the run to pick up a
few scattered Norn arrows. She put Simon's arrow
through her belt for safekeeping, and nocked one of the
black arrows; as she did so, she looked back. Yis-fidri
and the other dwarrows were backing after her, keeping
their frightened eyes fixed on the Norns. These inched
along behind them, staying out of the dwarrows' long
reach, but obviously not intending to let them escape so
easily. Despite the carnage, the half-dozen bodies lying
scattered in the outer chamber and the breached doorway,

624 Tad Williams

the Norns seemed as calm and unhurried as hunting in-
sects.

Miriamele turned and hastened her pace. Binabik had
lit a torch, and she followed its light down the uneven
funnel.

"They're still following!" she panted.

"Run, then, until we find a better place for fighting,"
the troll called back. "Where is the monk Cadrach?"

"Don't know," Miriamele said.

And maybe it would be better for everyone if he died
back there. The thought felt cruel but just. Better for ev-
eryone.

She raced along after the bobbing torch.

"

"Josua is gone?" Isorn was stunned. "But how could he
risk himself, even for Camaris?"

Isgrimnur did not know how to answer his son's ques-
tion. He tugged fiercely at his beard, trying to think
clearly. "Still, there it is," he said. He stared around the
tent at the rest of the unhappy faces. "I have had soldiers
hunting all through the caves for hours with no luck. The
Sithi are preparing to go after the two of them, and
Tiamak will accompany them. There is nothing more we
can do about it." He blew out, fluttering his mustache.
"Yes, damn me, Josua has hamstrung us, but now more
than ever we must make sure we distract Elias. We can't
waste tears."

Sludig peered out through the door flap. "It is nearly
dawn, Duke Isgrimnur. And snowing again. The men
know something strange has happened-they are growing
restless. We should decide what to do, my lord."

The duke nodded. Inwardly he cursed the fate that had
dropped Josua's command into his lap. "We will do what
we planned. All that has changed from yesterday's coun-
cil is that Josua is gone. So we will need not one mimic,
but two."

"I am ready," Isom said. "I have Camaris' surcoat, and
see," he pulled his sword from its scabbard: blade and hilt

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER            625

were shiny black, "a little paint and it becomes Thorn."
He caught Isgrimnur's discomfited look. "Father, you
agreed to this and nothing has changed. Of all who can be
trusted with the secret, only I am nearly tall enough to
pass as Camaris."

The duke frowned. "It is so. But because you pretend
to be Camaris, don't believe you are Camaris: you need
to stay alive and on your horse so you can be seen. Take
no foolish chances."

Isom flashed him an unhappy glance, angry after all his
experiences to be treated like a child. Isgrimnur almost
regretted his fatherly worry-almost, but not quite. "So
then. Who shall mime Josua?"

"Are there any that can fight with their left hands?"
Sludig asked.

"S'right," said Freosel. "None'll believe Josua with a
right hand."

Isgrimnur felt his frustration growing. This was
madness-like choosing courtiers to act in the Tunath's
Day pageant. "He need only be seen, not fight,"
Isgrimnur growled.

"But he must be somewhere in the fighting," Sludig in-
sisted, "or no one will see him.""

"I will do it," said Hotvig. The scarred Thrithings-man
lifted his arm and his bracelets jangled. "I can fight with
either hand."

"But . . . but he does not took like Josua," said
Strangyeard apologetically, "... does he?" He had so-
bered since the duke had seen him earlier, but still seemed
distracted. "Hotvig. you are ... you are very broad in the
chest. And your hair is too light."

"He will be wearing a helm," Sludig pointed out.

"The harper Sangfugol looks much like the prince,"
Strangyeard offered. "At least he is slender and dark-
haired."

"Ha." Isgrimnur barked a laugh. "I would not send a
singer into the middle of such a bloodletting. Even if he
need not fight, he must sit his horse in the clamor of
fierce fighting." He shook his head. "But I cannot spare
you, either, Hotvig. We need your Thrithings-men-you

626 Tad Williams

are our fastest horsemen, and we must be ready in case
the king's knights make a sally from the gate. Who else?"
He turned to Seriddan. The Nabbanai captains had been
silent, stunned by Josua's disappearance. "Have you any
ideas. Baron?"

Before Seriddan could reply, his brother Brindalles
stood. "I am close to the prince's size. And I can ride."

"No, that is foolish," Seriddan began, but Brindalles
halted him with a raised hand.

"I am not a fighter like you, my brother, but this is
something I can do. Prince Josua and these folk have
risked much for us. They faced imprisonment or even
death at our hands to bring us the truth, and then helped
us to drive Benigaris from the throne." He looked around
the tent somberly. "But what good is that to us if we do
not survive to enjoy it, if our children are unhomed by
Elias and his allies? I am still somewhat baffled by all
this talk of swords and strange magics, but if this strata-
gem is truly necessary, then it is the least I can do."

Isgrimnur saw his calm resolve and nodded. "It is
done, then. Thank you, Brindalles, and may Aedon give
you good luck. Isom, get him into things of Josua's as
will fit, then you can take whatever else of Camaris' that
you need. From what Jeremias said, I doubt he took his
helm with him. Freosel?"

"Yes, Duke Isgrimnur?"

"Tell the engineers to make ready. Everyone else, go to
your men and make ready. God's grace on us all."

"Yes," Strangyeard said suddenly. "Yes, of course-
God's grace on us all."

A

He Who Always Steps on Sand, Tiamak prayed silently,
/ am going into a dark place. I am far from our swamps,
farther than I have ever been. Please do not lose sight of
this marsh man!                     '

The sun was invisible beyond the storm, but the deep
blue of night was beginning to pale. Tiamak looked up
from the Kynslagh beach at the faint shadows that must

TO   GREEN     ANGEL   TOWER                           627

be the turrets of the Hayholt. They seemed impossibly far
away, distant and forbidding as mountains.

Bring me out   alive and I will. .. and ... He could not
think of any   promise that might tempt the protector-god.
/ will honor   you. I will do what is right. Bring me out
alive again,   please!

The snow swirled and the wind moaned, whipping the
black Kynslagh to a froth of waves.

"We go, Tiamak," Aditu said from behind him. She
was near enough that he jumped in surprise at the sound
of her voice.

Her brother disappeared into the black mouth of the
cave. Tiamak followed; the noise of the wind began to di-
minish behind him.

Tiamak had been surprised to find the Sithi such a
small group, and even more surprised to find Likimeya a
part of it.
"But isn't your mother too important to leave your peo-
ple and come down here?" he whispered to Aditu. As he
scrambled down a boulder, clinging to the shining globe
that Jiriki had given him, he saw Likimeya turn to look
back at him with what he felt sure was disgust. He was
embarrassed and angry with himself for underestimating
the Sithi's keen ears.

Aditu slithered down beside him, nimble as a deer. "If
someone must speak for Year-Dancing House, Uncle
Khendraja'aro will be there. But the others will make
their decisions as things happen, and all will do what
needs to be done." She stopped to pick something off the
floor and stared at it intently; it was too small for Tiamak
to see. "In any case, there are things at least as important
to be done down here, and so those most able to do them
have come."

He and Aditu were at the back of the small company,
trailing Jiriki and Likimeya, as well as Kira'athu, a small,
quiet Sitha-woman, another woman named Chiya, who
seemed to Tiamak inexplicably more foreign than even
the rest of the alien group, and a tall, black-haired Sitha-
man named Kuroyi. All moved with the odd grace

628 Tad Williams

Tiamak had long noted in Aditu, and except for Aditu and
her brother, none seemed to take any more notice of the
Wrannaman than of a dog following in the road.

"I found sand," Aditu called to the rest of the party.
She had been careful to speak Westerling all morning,
even with her kin, for which Tiamak was duly grateful.

"Sand?" Tiamak squinted at the invisible something
she held prisoned between finger and thumb. "Yes'?"

"We are now far in from the water's edge," she said.
"But this is rounded, formed by the motion of stone in
water. I would say we are still on Josua's track."

Tiamak had thought the Sithi were following the prince
by some kind of immortals' magic. He did not know quite
what to make of this revelation. "Can't you ... don't you
just ... know where the prince and Camaris are?"

Her amused smile was very human. "No. There are
things we can sometimes do to make finding someone or
something easier-but not here."

"Not here? Why?"

The smile went away. "Because things are changing
here. Can you not feel it? It is as powerful to me as the
wind was loud outside."

Tiamak shook his head. "If anything dangerous comes
toward us, I hope you will tell me. This is not my marsh,
and I do not know where the dangerous sands lie."
"Where we go was our place once," Aditu said seri-
ously. "But no more."

"Do you know your way?" Tiamak looked around at
the sloping tunnel, the countless crevices and nearly iden-
tical cross-passages, black beyond the range of the lighted
globes. The thought of being lost here was terrifying.

"My mother does, or at least she soon will. Chiya also
lived here."

"Your mother lived in this place?"

"In Asu'a. She lived there for a thousand years."

Tiamak shivered.

The company followed no logical path that Tiamak
could see, but he had long resigned himself to trusting the
Sithi, although there was much about them that frightened
him. Meeting Aditu on Sesuad'ra had been strange

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          629

enough, but she had been singular, a freak, as Tiamak
himself must have seemed to the drylanders. Seeing them
together, either in their great numbers on the hillside east
of the Hayholt, or here in a group that, despite making
many decisions without discussion, seemed always in ac-
cord, he felt for the first time the true force of their
strangeness. They had ruled all of Osten Ard once. His-
tory said they had been kind masters, but Tiamak could
not help wondering if they had been truly kind, or had
just given no attention at all, tyrannical or otherwise, to
their mortal inferiors. If that was true, they had been cru-
elly repaid for their heedlessness.

Kuroyi halted and the others stopped with him. He said
something in the liquid Sithi speech.

"Someone is there," Aditu quietly told Tiamak.

"Josua? Camaris?" He did not want to think it could be
something worse.

"We will find out."

Kuroyi turned into a passageway and took a few steps
downward. A moment later he danced back out, hissing.
Aditu pushed past Tiamak and ran to Kuroyi's side- "Do
not run!" she called into the dark space. "I am Aditu!"

After a few moments a figure appeared, sword leveled.

"Prince Josua!" Relief flowed through Tiamak. "You
are safe."

The prince stared at them for a long moment, blinking
in the light of the crystal globes. "Aedon's Mercy, it is
truly you." He sank down heavily onto the floor of the
tunnel. "My ... my torch burned out. I have been in dark-
ness some time. I thought I heard footsteps, but you walk
so quietly I could not be sure...."

"Have you found Camaris?" Tiamak asked.

The prince shook his head miserably. His eyes were
haunted. "No. I lost sight of him soon after I followed
him in. He would not stop, no matter how I called. He has
gone! Gone!" He struggled to control himself. "I have left
my men without a leader-deserted my people! Can you
take me back?" He looked imploringly around the circle
of Sithi.

"The mortal Duke Isgrimnur is performing ably in your

630 Tad Williams

place," said Likimeya. "We cannot afford the time to re-
turn you, nor any of our number, and you could not find
your way back alone."

Josua lowered his head, bowed by shame. "I have done
a foolish thing, and failed those who trusted me. It was all
to find Camaris ... but he has gone. And he has taken
Thorn with him."

"Do not worry yourself over what is done. Prince
Josua." Aditu spoke with surprising gentleness. "As for
Camaris, do not fear. We will find him."

"How?"

Likimeya stared at Josua for a moment, then turned her
glance up the passageway. "If the sword is being drawn
toward Sorrow and the other blade, as seems true from
what you have told us, then we know where he is bound."
She looked at Chiya, who nodded. "We will go there by
the straightest route, or close to it. Either we will find
him, or we will reach the upper levels before him and can
wait."

"But he could wander down here forever'" Josua said
unhappily, and Tiamak remembered his own earlier
thought.

"I do not think so," said Likimeya. "If some conver-
gence of power is drawing the swords together-which
may be our greatest hope, for it will bring Bright-Nail,
too-then he will find his way, even with his wits as trou-
bled as you say they were. He will be like a blind man
searching for the fire in a cold room. He will find his
way."

Jiriki extended his hand to the prince. "Come, Prince
Josua. I have some food and water. Take some nourish-
ment, then we will find him."

As the prince looked at him some of the hard edge of
worry softened. "Thank you. I am grateful you found
me." He took Jiriki's hand and stood, then laughed,
mocking himself. "1 thought ... I thought I heard
voices."

"I have no doubt you did," said Jiriki. "And you will
hear more."

Tiamak could not help noticing that even the impassive

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER            63!

Sithi did not look entirely comfortable with Jiriki's re-
mark.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Tiamak's surroundings
began to change. As he and Josua followed the immortals
through the twisting passages, he first noticed that the
floors seemed more level, the tunnels a little more regu-
lar. Soon he began to see the undeniable marks of intelli-
gent shapers, hard angles, arches of stone that braced the
wider crossings, even a few patches in the rock walls that
seemed to have been carved, although the decorations
were little more than repetitive patterns like waves or
twining grass stems.

"These outermost reaches were never finished," Aditu
told him. "Either they were built too late in Asu'a's life,
or were abandoned in favor of more useful paths."

"Abandoned?" Tiamak could not imagine such a thing-
"Who would do all the work of gouging through this
stone and then abandon it?"

"Some of these passages were built by my people, with
the help of the Tinukeda'ya-the dwarrows as mortals
call them," she explained. "And that stone-loving folk
carved some just for themselves, unconcerned with fin-
ishing or keeping, as a child might make a basket of grass
stems and then toss it away when it is time to run home."

The marsh man shook his head.

Mindful of their mortal companions, the Sithi stopped
at last for a rest in a wide grotto whose roof was covered
with a tracery of slender stalactites. In the mellow light of
the globes, Tiamak thought it looked entirely magical; for
a moment, he was glad he had come. The world below, it
seemed, was full of wonders as well as terrors.

As he sat eating a piece of bread and a savory but un-
familiar fruit the Sithi had brought, Tiamak wondered
how far they had come. It seemed they had walked most
of a day, but the full distance on the surface between
where they had begun and the walls of the Hayholt would
not have taken a fourth of that time. Even with the circu-
itous track of the tunnels, it seemed they should have
632 Tad Williams

reached something, but they were still wandering through
largely featureless caverns.

It is like the spirit-hut ofBuayeg in the old story, he de-
cided, only half in jest. Small outside, big inside.

He turned to ask Josua if he had noticed the same odd-
ity; the prince was staring at his own piece of bread as
though he was too tired or distraught to eat. Abruptly,the
cavern shuddered-or seemed to: Tiamak felt a sensation
of movement, of sudden slippage, but neither Josua nor
the Sithi seemed to move in response to it. Rather, it was
as though everything in the grotto had slid to one side,
but the people inside had slid effortlessly with it. It was
a frightening wrench, and for a long moment after it had
passed Tiamak felt as though he occupied two places at
the same time. A thrill of terror ran up his spine.

"What is happening!?" he gasped.

The obvious uneasiness of the Sithi did nothing to
make him feel better. "It is that which I spoke of before,"
said Aditu. "As we draw closer to Asu'a's heart, it is get-
ting stronger."

Likimeya stood and slowly looked around, but Tiamak
felt sure that she was using more than her eyes. "Up," she
said. "Time is short, I think."

Tiamak scrambled to his feet. The look on Likimeya's
stem face frightened him badly. He suddenly wished he
had kept his mouth closed, that he had stayed above
ground with the rest of his mortal companions. But it was
far too late to turn back.

"

"Where are we going?" Miriamele gasped.
Yis-hadra, who had replaced her wounded husband as
leader, turned to stare. "Going?" said the dwarrow. "We
are fleeing. We run to escape."

Miriamele stopped, bending over to catch her breath.
The Noms had attacked them twice more as they fled
through the tunnels, but without archers they had been
unable to overcome the terrified dwarrows. Still, two
more of the stone-tenders had fallen in the fighting, and

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

633

the white-skinned immortals had by no means given up.
Since the last struggle, Miriamele had already spotted the
pursuers once when she had entered a passageway long
and straight enough to permit a backward look; in that
glimpse they had truly seemed creatures of the lightless
depths-pate, silent, and remorseless. The Noms seemed
in no hurry, as if they were merely trailing Miriamele and
her companions until more of their kind came bearing
bows and long spears. It had been as much as she could
do not to sink to the ground in surrender.

She knew that they had been lucky to escape the
dwarrows' cavern at all. If the White Foxes had antici-
pated any resistance, they had doubtless expected it to be
close combat in a narrow comer. Instead, the dwarrows'
desperate attack in the dark and the avalanches of falling
stone they had engineered had caught the immortals by
surprise, permitting Miriamele and her companions to
flee. But she had no illusions they could trick the cunning
Morns twice.

"We could be forced to run this way forever," she told
Yis-hadra. "Perhaps you can outlast them, but we can't.
In any case, our people are in danger up above."

Binabik nodded. "She speaks truth to you. Escaping is
not enough for us. We have need of finding our way out
from this place."

The dwarrow did not reply, but looked to her husband
who was limping up the passageway toward them, trailed
by the last of the dwarrows and Cadrach. The monk's face
was ashen, as though he had been wounded, but
Miriamele saw no injuries. She turned away, unwilling to
waste sympathy on him.

"They are a distance behind us, now," said Yis-fidri
wearily. "They seem full content to let us run ahead." He
leaned back against the wall, letting his head rest against
the stone. Yis-hadra went to him and probed gently with
her wide fingers at the arrow wound in his shoulder.
"Sho-vennae is dead, and three others," he groaned, then
fluted a few words to his wife, who gave a cry of grief.
"Smashed like delicate crystals. Gone."

"If we had not run, they would all be dead anyway-

634

Tad Williams

and you and the rest of us would be, too." Miriamele
paused to fight back her anger and her horror of the pur-
suing Noms. "Forgive me, Yis-fidri. I am sorry about
your people. I am truly sorry."

Sweat beaded on the dwarrow's brow, glimmering in
the light of the batons. "Few mourn for the Tinukeda'ya,"
he replied softly. "They make us their servants, they steal
from us the Words of Making, they even beg our 'help
when they are in need-but they seldom mourn us."

Miriamele was ashamed. Surely he meant that she was
as guilty of using the dwarrows-and Niskies, too, she
thought, remembering Gan Itai's sacrifice-as even their
one-time masters, the Sithi.

"Take us to where we can reach the world above," she
said. "That is all I ask. Then go with our blessing, Yis-
fidri."

Before the dwarrow could reply, Binabik suddenly
spoke up. "The Words of Making. Were all the Great
Swords being forged with these Making-Words?"

Yis-fidri looked at him with more than a little suspi-
cion, then winced at something his wife was doing to his
shoulder. "Yes. It was needful to bind their substance-to
bring their being within the Laws."

"What laws are these?"

"Those Laws that cannot be changed. The Laws that
make stone be stone, make water be water. They can
be . .." he searched for a word, "stretched or altered for
a short time, but that brings consequences. Never can they
be undone."

One of the dwarrows at the rear of the tunnel spoke
anxiously.

"Imai-an says he can feel them coming," Yis-hadra
cried. "We must run."

Yis-fidri pushed himself away from the tunnel wall and
the group began its uneven progress once more.
Miriamele's weary heart was racing. Wouy there never
be an end to this? "Help us reach the surface, Yis-fidri,"
she begged. "Please."

"Yes! It is more than ever important!"

Miriamele turned at the distraught tone of Binabik's

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER           635

voice. The little man looked terrified. "What is it?" she
asked him.

Sweat was running on his dark forehead. "I must think
on this, Miriamele, but I have never had such fear as I do
now. For the first time I believe I see behind the shadow
that has been all our consideration, and I am thinking-
Kikkasut! To be saying such words!-that the monk may
have spoken rightly. There may be nothing left for our
doing at all."

With those words hanging in the air, he turned from her
and hastened after the dwarrows. As though his sudden
despair had passed to her like a fever, she felt hopeless-
ness enwrap her,

29

Tfie Howf of tfte Nortd
A

Tfte Wtmts sftridied' around Stormspike's summit,
but beneath the mountain all was silent. The Lightless
Ones had fallen into a deep slumber. The corridors of
Under-Nakkiga were nearly empty.

Utuk'ku's gloved fingers, slender and brittle as cricket
legs, flexed upon the arm of her throne. She settled her
ancient bones against the rock and let her thoughts move
through the Breathing Harp, following its twistings and
turnings until Stormspike fell away and she became pure
mind moving through the black between-spaces.

The angry Dark One was gone from the Harp. He had
moved himself to the place-if it could be called a
place-where he could act in concert with her to enact the
final step of their centuried scheme, but she could still
feel the weight of his hatred and envy, personified in the
net of storms that spread across the land above.

In Nabban, where the upstart Imperators had once
ruled, snow piled high in the streets; in the great harbor
high waves flung the anchored ships against each other,
or drove them into the shore where their splintered tim-
bers lay like the bones of giants. The kilpa, frenzied,
struck at everything that moved across the water, and
even began to make sluggish forays into the coastal
towns. And deep within the heart of the Sancellan
Aedonitis, the Clavean Bell hung silent, immobilized by
ice just as the mortals' Mother Church was frozen by fear.

The Wran, although its interior was sheltered from the
worst of the storm, nevertheless turned chillingly cold.

TO    GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

637

The ghants, undeterred as a group, though countless indi-
viduals died in the harsh weather, continued to boil out of
the swamps and harry the coastal villages. Those few
mortals of Kwanitupul who braved the icy winds to walk
outside went only in groups, armed with iron weapons
and wind-whipped torches against the ghants who now
seemed to be crawling in every shadowy place. Children
were kept inside, and doors and windows were shuttered
even during those few hours when the storm abated.

Even Aldheorte Forest slept beneath a blanket of white,
but if its ageless trees suffered beneath the freezing hand
of the North, they did so in silence. In the heart of the
woods Jao e-Tinukai'i lay empty, misty with cold.

All the mortal lands lay trembling beneath Storm-
spike's hand. The storms kept Rimmersgard and the
Frostmarch an icy wasteland, and Hemystir suffered only
a little less. Before the Hernystiri could truly reclaim the
homes from which they had been driven by Skali of
Kaldskryke, they had been forced back into the caves of
the Grianspog. The spirit of the people the Sithi had
loved, a spirit which had flamed high for a short time,
sank back to a guttering flicker.

The storm hung low over Erkynland. Black winds bent
and broke the trees and piled snow high on the houses;

thunder growled like an angry beast up and down the
length of the land. The storm's malevolent heart, as it
seemed, full of whirling sleet and jagged lightning, pulsed
above Erchester and the Hayholt.

Utuk'ku noted all this with calm satisfaction, but did
not pause to savor the terror and hopelessness of the
hated mortals. She had something to do, a task she had
awaited since her son Drukhi's pale, cold body had been
set before her. Utuk'ku was old and subtle. The irony that
it was her own great-great-grandchild who had led her to
her revenge at last, that he was also a scion of the very
family that had destroyed her happiness, was not lost on
her. She almost smiled.

Her thoughts raced on, out along the whispery threads
of being until they passed into the farther regions, the
places only she of all the living could go. When she felt

638

Tad Williams

the presence of the thing she sought, she reached out for
it, praying to forces that had been old in Venyha Do'sae
that it would give her what she needed to accomplish her
final, long-awaited goal.

A flare of joy passed through her.   The power was there,
more than enough for her purposes;   now all that remained
was to master it and make it hers.   The hour was ap-
proaching, and Utuk'ku had no need   to be patient any
longer.

"

"My eyes are not good at the best of times,"
Strangyeard complained. "And with this sunless day and
the blowing snow, I cannot see anything! Sangfugol, tell
me what is happening, please!"

"There's nothing to see, yet." They were perched on
the side of one of Swertclif's foothills, looking down on
Erchester and the Hayholt. The tree beneath which the
pair huddled and the low wall of stones they had made
provided scant protection against the wind. Despite his
hooded cloak and the two blankets he had wrapped
around himself, the harper was shivering. "Our army is
before the walls and the heralds have blown the trumpets.
Isgrimnur or someone must be reading the Writ of De-
mand. I still don't see any of the king's soldiers ... no,
there are some shapes moving on the battlements. I had
begun to wonder if anyone was inside at all...."

"Who? Who is on the battlements?"

"Aedon's mercy, Strangeyeard, I can't tell. They are
shapes, that's all."

"We should be closer," the priest said fretfully. "This
hillside is too distant in weather like this."

The harper darted a glance at him. "You must be mad.
I am a musician, you are a librarian. We are too close as
it is-we should have stayed in Nabban. But here we are,
and here we will stay. Closer, indeed'" He blew into his
cupped palms.

A faint clamor of homs drifted over the wind. "What is
it?" Strangyeard asked. "What is happening?"

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

639

'They have finished the Writ and I suppose they've
gotten no answer. That is just like Josua, to give Elias a
chance to surrender honorably when we know already he
will do nothing of the sort."

"The prince is ... determined to do the right thing,"
Strangyeard replied. "Goodness, I hope he is well. It
makes me sick to think of him and Camaris wandering
lost in those caverns."

"There is that Nabbanman," Sangfugol said excitedly.
"He does look rather like Josua-from here, anyway." He
turned suddenly toward the priest. "Did you really sug-
gest / should mimic the prince?"

"You look much like him."

Sangfugol stared at him with disgust and bitter amuse-
ment. "Mother of God, Strangyeard, do me no favors."
He huddled deeper into his blankets. "Imagine me riding
around waving a sword. Ransomer save us all."

"But we all must do what we can."

"Yes-and what I can do is play my harp, or my lute,
and sing. And if we win, I will most assuredly do that.
And if we don't-well, 1 may do that anyway if I live, but
it won't be here. But what I cannot do is ride and fight
and convince people that I am-Josua."

They were silent for a time, listening to the wind.

"If we lose, I fear there will be nowhere else to run to,
Sangfugol."

"Perhaps." The harper sat unspeaking a while longer,
then said: "Finally!"
"What? Is something happening?"

"They are bringing forward the battering ram-save
me, but it is a frightening thing. It has a great iron head
on it that looks like a real ram, with curling horns and all.
But it's so big! Even with all those men, it is a miracle
they can push it along." He took a sharp breath. "The
king's men are firing arrows from the walls! There, some-
one is down. More than one. But the ram is still going
forward."

"May God keep them safe," Strangyeard said quietly.
"It is so cold up here, Sangfugol."

"How can anyone shoot an arrow in this wind, let alone

640 Tad Williams

hit anything? Ah! Someone has fallen from the wall.
That's one of theirs gone, in any case." The harper's
voice rose in excitment. "It is hard to see what is happen-
ing, but our men are close to the walls now. There, some-
one has put up a ladder. There are soldiers swarming up
it." A moment later he made a noise of surprise and hor-
ror.

"What do you see?" Strangyeard squinted his eye, try-
ing to see through the swirling snows.

"Something was dropped on them." The harper was
shaken. "A big stone, I think. I am sure they are all
dead."

"May the Ransomer protect us," Strangyeard said mis-
erably. "It has begun in earnest. Now we can only wait
for the ending, whatever that may be."

*

Isgrimnur held his hands close to his face, trying to
shield himself from the wind-flung snow. He was having
great difficulty keeping track of what was happening, al-
though the Hayholt's walls were less than five hundred
cubits up the hillside from where he watched. Hundreds
of armored men floundered in the drifts before the wall,
busy as insects. Hundreds more, even dimmer shapes
from Isgrimnur's vantage point, scurried about atop the
Hayholt's walls. The duke cursed quietly. Everything
seemed so damnably distant!

Freosel climbed onto the wooden platform the engi-
neers had built between the bottom of the hill and the
empty, storm-raddled husk of Erchester. The Falshireman
was visibly struggling against the wind. "Ram's almost to
the gates. The wind, it'll be our friend today-hard on
their bowmen, it be."

"But we're not able to shoot any better," the duke
snarled. "They've got free run of the walls and they're
pushing our scaling ladders off easy as you "please." He
smacked his fist into his gloved hand. "The sun's been up
for hours and all we've done is wear a few trenches in the
snow."

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

641

The Falshireman looked at him quizzically. "Pardon,
Sir Duke, but seems you think we should knock these
walls down 'fore sunset."

"No, no. God knows the Hayhoit is built strong. But I
don't know how much time we have." He looked up into
the murky sky. "That cursed star they all talk about is
right overhead. I can almost feel it glaring. The prince
and Camaris are gone. Miriamele's gone." He turned his
gaze to the Hayhoit, peering through the snow flurries.
"And our men are going to freeze solid if we keep them
out there too long. I wish we could knock the walls down
by sunset-but I don't hold much hope."

A

Isom pointed upward. The soldiers gathered around
him looked up.

"There. On the walls."

Beside the helmeted heads peering through the crenel-
lations were more than a few whose heads were bare;

their faces were ghostly, and their white hair blew in the
strong wind.

"White Foxes?" asked Sludig. He made the sign of the
Tree.

"Indeed. And inside the Hayhoit. Cursed things!" Isom
lifted his black-painted sword and waved it back and
forth in challenge, but the distant figures on the walls did
not seem to notice. "And curse Elias for whatever foul
bargain he made."

Sludig was staring. "I have not seen them before," he
cried above the tumult. "Merciful Aedon, they look like
demons!"

"They are demons. And now the Hayhoit is their nest."

"But they are doing nothing that I can see."

"Just as well," Isorn replied. "Perhaps they are too few.
But they are fearsome archers. I wonder why none of
them seem to have bows."

Sludig shook his head, mystified. He was unable to
look away from the pale faces. "Preserve us," he said
hoarsely.
642

Tad Williams
*

Baron Seriddan climbed heavily up the steps onto
the platform, weighted by his armor. "What news?"
Isgrimnur asked.

Seriddan took off his gloves and held his hands close to
the brazier of coals. "Things go well, I suppose. Elias'
men are firing on the ram and it is slow going to keep it
moving uphill, but it will be against the gate soon. Some
of the siege towers are also being moved into place, and
they seem to be concentrating their arrows on them. We
are lucky there is such wind today, and that it is so hard
for the king's archers to see."

"That's what everyone keeps saying," the duke grum-
bled. "But I am going quietly mad here anyway. Curse
Josua for leaving me this way." He scowled, then made
the sign of the Tree. "Forgive me. I did not mean that."

Seriddan nodded. "I know. It is terrible not to know
where he is."

"That's not all that's bothering me. There are still too
many unanswered questions."

"What do you mean?"

"If all they need to do is stall us-if this flaming star
truly signifies something will happen that helps Elias-
then why didn't they even try to parley? And you'd think
that the king would want to see his brother at the very
least, if only to shout at him and call him a traitor."

"Perhaps Elias knows that Josua is not here."

Isgrimnur flinched. "How could he know that? Josua
on!y disappeared last night!"

"You know more of these matters than I do, Duke
Isgrimnur. You have been fighting the king and his mag-
ical allies a long time."

Isgrimnur walked to the front of the platform, staring at
the Hayholt's shadowy walls. "Maybe they do know.
Maybe they lured Camaris in somehow-but, ^amn me,
that wouldn't mean Josua would come, too. They couldn't
have planned on that."

"I cannot even guess," said the baron. "I only came to
tell you that I'd like to take some of my men around to

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          643

the western wall. I think it is time we gave them another
spot to worry about."
"Go ahead. But that is another thing that troubles me:

Elias doesn't seem very worried at all. With the battering
ram so close, I would have expected at least one sortie to
prevent us from dragging it into place."

"I cannot answer you." Seriddan clapped him on the
arm. "But if this is all that the High King has left to offer,
we will have the gate down in a matter of days at the
most."

"We may not have days," Isgrimnur replied, frowning.

"But we do what we can." Seriddan clambered down
and moved toward his horse. "Take heart. Duke
Isgrimnur," he called. "Things are going well."

Isgrimnur looked around. "Jeremias!"

The boy pushed through a small knot of armored men
at the back of the platform. "Yes, sire."

"See if you can find me some wine, boy. My guts are
colder than my toes."

The squire hurried off toward the tents. Isgrimnur
turned back to the windy, snow-smothered battlefield,
glowering.

A

"God preserve us!" Sludig gaped in astonishment.
"What are they doing?"

"Singing," said Isorn. "I saw it before the walls of
Naglimund. It went on a long time." He stared at the two
dozen Sithi, who had ridden forward and now stood
calmly within bowshot of the walls, knee-deep in the
drifting snows.

"What do you mean, singing?"

"It is how they fight-at least it is how they fight with
their cousins, the Noms. If I understood better, I would
explain it to you."

"And these are the allies we've been waiting for?"
Sludig's voice rose in anger. "We battle for our lives-
and they sing? Look! Our men are dying out there!"

"The Sithi can fight in other ways too, Sludig. You will

644 Tad Williams

see that, I think. And it worked for them at Naglimund,
although I don't know how. They brought the walls
down."

His companion snorted derisively. "I will put my faith
in the ram and the siege-towers-and in men with strong
arms." He looked up at the sky. "It's getting darker. But
it cannot be much past midday."

"The storm is growing thicker, perhaps." Isorn re-
strained his horse, which was stepping nervously. "I do
not like the looks of it, though. Do you see that cloud
over the towers?"

Sludig stared, following Isorn's pointing finger. He
blinked. "Lightning! Is this the Sithi's doing?" Indeed, al-
most the only thing that could be heard over the moaning
wind was the strange, rhythmic rise and fall of the im-
mortals' voices.

"I do not know, but it might be. I watched them at it
before Nagtimund for days, and still I could not tell you
what they do. But Jiriki told me that his people work to
counter certain magicks of the Noms." Isorn winced as
thunder crashed, echoing across the hillside and down
through the deserted streets of Erchester behind the
prince's army. The lightning flashed again, seeming for a
moment to freeze everything on and before the walls of
the Hayholt-men, engines of war, flurrying snowflakes,
even arrows in their flight-before the storm darkness re-
turned. Another roar of thunder sounded. The wind
howled even louder. "Perhaps that is why the Noms are
not among the archers," Isorn continued loudly. "Because
they are preparing some trick, some spell-something we
will not like much. Oh, I saw horrors at Naglimund,
Sludig. I pray Jiriki's people are strong enough to hold
them back."

"This is madness!" Sludig shouted. "I can see almost
nothing!"

Another crash came, this one a little softer. It was not
thunder. "Praise Usires! They have brought tne ram
against the gates," Isom called, excited. "See, Sludig,
they have struck the first blow!" The black sword raised
before him, he spurred his horse forward a few steps.

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              645

With the sea-dragon helm on his head and his cloak whip-
ping in the high wind, even Sludig could almost believe
this was Camaris and not his liege-lord's son. "We must
find Hotvig's riders and be ready to go in if they can
breach the gate."

Sludig looked in vain for a messenger among the mill-
ing foot soldiers. "We should tell your father," he
shouted.

"Go, then. I will wait. But hurry, man. Who would
have thought we would be so close so soon?"

Sludig tried to say something, but it was lost in the
noise of the storm. He turned his horse away and rode
back down the hill toward Duke Isgrimnur's watching
place.

A

"The ram is against the gate," Sangfugol said
exultantly. "Look at it! It is big as three houses!"

"The gate is bigger." Strangyeard was shivering. "Still,
I am astonished that there should be so little resistance."

"You saw Erchester. Everyone has fled. Elias and his
pet wizard have made this place a wasteland."

"But there seem to be men enough inside the walls to
defend the castle. Why did they dig no trenches to slow
the siege engines? Why did they lay up so few stones to
push down on the scaling ladders?"

"The stones they had did their work," Sangfugol re-
plied, angry that Strangyeard did not share his excite-
ment. "The men who wound up beneath them are as dead
as you could wish."

"Elysia. Mother of our Ransomer!" The priest was
shocked. "Sangfugol, do not speak so of our fallen sol-
diers! I only meant it is strange the defenders seem so ill-
prepared for a siege Elias must have known was coming
for weeks, even months."

"The king has gone mad," the harper replied. "You've
heard what those who fled Erkynland say. And there are
few left to fight with him. This will be no different than
prodding a bear out of its cave. The bear is fierce, but it

646 Tad Williams

is an animal for all that, and must lose out to the clever-
ness of men."

"Cleverness?" The archivist did his best to shake the
snow off his blanket. The wind slashed bitterly even
through the low barrier of stones they had erected. "What
have we done that is so clever? We have been led by the
nose like oxen all along."

Sangfugol waved his hand airily, although he too Was
trembling with cold. "Having Isom and that Nabban fel-
low pose as Camaris and Josua-that was a clever idea,
you must admit ... except for your little suggestion that
/ be the one to play the prince. And going beneath the
Hayholt's walls by caverns and tunnels-that is some-
thing clever indeed! The king would not think of that in
a thousand years."

Strangyeard, who was rubbing his hands together furi-
ously in an effort to keep them warm, suddenly stopped.
"The king might not-but his allies must know of those
tunnels." His voice shook. "Surely the Norns must
know."
"That is why our fairy-folk have gone down after the
prince and Camaris. I've seen them, Aditu's brother and
mother and the rest. They can take care of themselves, I
have no doubt ... even if the Norns know about the tun-
nels and are waiting for them, as you seem to think."

"That is not what I am thinking." Strangyeard stood.
Snow fell from him and was promptly snatched away by
the wind. "Not what I am thinking at all. The Noms know
all about the tunnels." He stepped over the low wall of
stones, knocking several loose.

"Hi! What are you doing?"

"I have to find Duke Isgrimnur. We are in more danger
than we suspected." He turned and waded downhill
through the drifts, leaning into the wind, frail but deter-
mined.

"Strangyeard!" cried Sangfugol. "Blast it, I am not
staying here by myself. I'll come with you, Whatever
madness you're onto." He followed the archivist over the
barrier. "You are heading right toward the fighting!" he
shouted. "You'll be shot with an arrow!"

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          647

"I have to find Isgrimnur," Strangyeard called back.
Cursing richly, the harper hurried after him.

A

"Isom's right, sire," said Sludig. "If we pass through
the gate, we must make a great charge. The men have al-
ready seen the Noms and they are frightened. If we hes-
itate, the advantage will be the king's again. Who knows
what will happen if he makes a sortie, and us fighting up-
hill?"

Isgrimnur stared at the Hayholt's high walls. It was
only when seen against a storm like this that the works of
man, even such a mighty construction as the Hayholt,
seemed truly small. Perhaps they actually could knock
down the gate. Perhaps Sludig and the others were
right-Elias' kingdom was a rotting fruit waiting to fall
from the vine.

There was another strange, sputtering flash of lightning
over the tower tops. Thunder rolled, but following close
behind it came a loud crash as the great ram was swung
forward into the gate.

"Go, then," Isgrimnur told Sludig. His earl had not dis-
mounted, but had brought his steam-puffing horse to the
edge of the wooden structure where the duke stood.
"Hotvig and his riders are still waiting at the edge of the
Kynswood. No, better yet, you stay here." Isgrimnur sum-
moned one of the newly returned outriders and gave him
a message for the Thrithings-men, then sent him on his
way. "You go back to Isorn, Sludig. Tell him to hold fast
and let the first of the men-at-arms go through on foot.
There will be no storied charges here, at least not until I
see what Elias has waiting."

As the duke spoke, the ram smashed against the
Nearulagh Gate. The timbers seemed to sag inward a little
way, as though the huge bolts had been loosened.

"Yes, sire." Sludig turned his charger toward the walls.

The ram's engineers swung it forward once more. The
iron-plated head crunched against the barrier. A length of
wood splintered away down the length of the gate, and

648 Tad Williams

even through the storm noises Isgrimnur could hear the
excited shouts of men all across the field. The ram was
pulled back and then set in motion again. The Nearulagh
Gate shattered and fell inward in an explosion of broken
timbers and tumbling statuary. Snow swirled in the empty
space. Isgrimnur goggled, almost unable to believe the
gate was down. When the snow cleared, a few score of
the castle's pikemen moved into the opening, braced
against attack. No great hidden army charged outward.

A long moment passed as the two forces eyed each
other through the snow-flurries. It seemed no one could
move, that both sides were astonished by what had hap-
pened. Then a small, golden-helmeted figure lifted a
sword and spurred forward. A score of mounted knights
and several hundred foot soldiers surged toward the
breach in the Hayholt's walls.

"Damn me, Isom!" Duke Isgrimnur shouted. He leaned
so far forward that he nearly lost his balance and toppled
from the observation platform. "Come back! Where is
Sludig!? Studig! Stop him!" Someone was tugging at his
sleeve, pulling him back from the edge of the platform,
but Isgrimnur paid the intruder no mind. "Can't he see
that it's too easy? Isom?" He knew his voice could not
possibly carry above the tumult. "Seriddan! Where are
you!? Ride after him-by Dror's red mallet, where are
my messengers!?"

"Duke Isgrimnur!" It was Strangyeard the archivist,
stil! pulling at his sleeve.

"Get away, damn you!" Isgrimnur roared. "I do not
need a priest, I need mounted knights. Jeremias, run to
Seriddan," he called. "Isom has forced our hand. Tell the
baron to ride in."

Strangyeard was undaunted. "Please, Duke Isgrimnur,
you must listen to me!"

"I have no time for you now, man! My son has just
charged in like a fool. He must think he is Camari<-after
all I told him!" He stalked across the platform, satisfying
himself that everyone was in as much of a furious state of
excitement as he was. The priest pursued him like a dog
nipping at the heels of a bull. Finally Strangyeard grasped

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER           649

Isgrimnur's -surcoat and yanked hard, pulling the duke
off-balance and almost toppling him over.

"By all that's holy, Isgrimnur!" he shouted. "You must
listen to me!"

The duke stared at the priest's reddened face.
Strangyeard's eyepatch had slid almost onto his nose.
"What are you on about?" Isgrimnur demanded. "We
have knocked down the gates! We are at war, man!"

"The Norns must know about the tunnels," Strangyeard
said urgently. Isgrimnur saw Sangfugol the harper
skulking beside the platform, and wondered what both a
priest and a harper were doing in the middle of things
that did not concern them.

"What do you mean?"

"They must know. And if we can think to send some-
body under the castle walls ..."

The clamor of men as they charged up the hillside to-
ward the shattered gate, even the grumbling of thunder
and the moan of the wind, were suddenly overtopped by
a hideous grinding noise, a rasp like fingernails on slate.
Horses reared, and several of the soldiers on the platform
lifted their hands to their ears.

"Oh, merciful Aedon," said Isgrimnur, staring up at the
Hayholt. "No!"

The last of Isorn's company had fought their way
through the opening in the wall. At their backs, thrusting
up from the snowy ground and the wreckage left by the
battering ram, a second gate was rising. It climbed up-
ward swiftly, rasping like an ogre's teeth grinding on
bone. Within a few moments the wall was sealed again.
The new gate, beneath a layer of snow and mud, was cov-
ered with dull iron plates.

"Oh, God help me, I was right," Isgrimnur groaned.
'They have trapped Isom and the others. Sweet Usires."
He stared in sick horror as the engineers rolled the ram
forward and began hammering at the second gate. The
metal-clad wood did not seem to give even an inch.

"They think they have trapped Camaris," Strangyeard
said. "That is what they planned to do all along."

Isgrimnur turned and grabbed at the priest's robe,

650 Tad Williams

thrusting his face close to the smaller man's. "You knew?
You knew?!"

"Goodness, Isgrimnur, no, I didn't. But I see it now."

The duke let him go and began shouting frantic orders,
sending his remaining archers forward to help protect the
engineers, who were receiving redoubled interest from the
soldiers on the Hayholt's walls. "And find me that damn
Sithi general!" he bawled. "The one in green! The fairy-
folk must help us knock this new wall down!"

"But you still must listen to me, Isgrimnur," said the
priest. "If the Sithi know of those tunnels, the Noms
must, too. The Storm King, when he lived, was master of
Asu'a!"

"What does that mean? Speak plainly, damn you!"
Isgrimnur was furiously agitated. "My son is trapped in
there with only a few men. We must break down this new
gate and go in after him."

"I think you must look ..." Strangyeard began, when
another round of excited shouts interrupted him. This
time, though, they came from behind Isgrimnur.

"Coming up through Erchester!" one of the mounted
men screamed. "Look! It is the White Foxes!"

"I think you must look behind you, I was going to say."
Strangyeard shook his head. "If we could go beneath the
walls, so could they."

Even in near-darkness it was possible to see that the
host moving up Main Row was not human. White faces
gleamed in the shadows. White hands held long sharp
spears. Now that they had been sighted and the need for
stealth was gone. they began to sing, a triumphant chant
that fell painfully on Isgrimnur's ears.

The duke allowed himself one moment of utter despair.
"Ransomer preserve us, we have been snared like rab-
bits." He patted the priest's shoulder in silent thanks, then
strode to the middle of the platform. "To me, Josua's
men! To me!" He waved to Jeremias, calling for his
horse.

The Noms came up Main Row, singing.

30

Beside tfte PooC

^Up to trie tree . . ." Guthwulf mumbled. His face
beneath Simon's hand was oven-hot and slippery with
sweat. "To the flaming tree. Wants to go ..."

The earl was getting worse, and Simon did not know
what to do. He was still badly hobbled by his own
wounds, knew almost nothing of the healing arts, and in
any case was in a lightless place with nothing that might
be of use in easing Guthwulf's fever. Because of a dim
recollection that fevers had to bum themselves out, he
had covered the suffering earl with some of the rags
strewn about the floor, but he felt like a traitor putting
warm things on someone who seemed to be burning up.

Helpless, he sat down beside Guthwulf once more, lis-
tening to him rave and praying that the earl would sur-
vive. The blackness pressed in on him like the crushing
depths of the ocean, making it hard to breathe, to think.
He tried to distract himself by remembering the things he
had seen, the places he had been. More than anything he
wanted to do something, but at this moment there seemed
to be nothing to do but wait. He did not want to be left
alone and lost in the empty places again.

Something touched his leg and Simon reached out,
thinking that Guthwulf in his misery was looking for a
hand to hold. Instead, Simon's fingers trailed across
something warm and covered with fur. He let out a shout
of surprise and scrabbled back, expecting momentarily to
feel rats or something worse swarming over him. When

652

Tad Williams

there was no further contact he crouched, huddled into
himself, for a long time. Then his feelings of responsibil-
ity for Guthwulf won out and he edged back toward the
earl. A squeamish exploration found the furry thing again.
It shrank back as he had. but did not go far. It was a cat.

Simon laughed breathlessly, then reached out and
stroked the creature. It arched beneath his hand, but
would not come to him. Instead it settled against the blind
man and Guthwulf's movements became less agitated, his
breathing quieter. The cat's presence seemed to soothe
him. Simon, too, felt a little less alone, and resolved to be
careful not to frighten the animal away. He fetched some
of the remaining heel of bread and offered a pinch to the
cat, who sniffed it but did not take any. Simon ate a few
small pieces himself, then tried to find a comfortable po-
sition to sleep in.

Simon awakened, abruptly conscious that something
had happened. In the darkness it was impossible to dis-
cern any changes, but he had the inescapable feeling that
things had shifted somehow, that he was suddenly in an
unfamiliar place with no knowledge of how he had come
there. But the rags around him were the same, and
Guthwulf's labored breathing, though quieter, still rasped
away nearby. Simon crawled over to the earl, gently
pushed aside the warm and purring cat, and was heart-
ened to feel much of the cramping tension gone from the
blind man's limbs. Perhaps he was recovering from the
fever. Perhaps the cat had been his companion and its
presence had restored a little of his sanity. In any case,
Guthwulf had stopped raving. Simon let the cat clamber
back into the crook of the earl's arm. It felt strange not to
hear Guthwulf's voice.

During the earliest hours of his fever, the earl had been al-
most lucid for short stretches, although he was so plagued by
his voices and former solitude that it was difficult to separate
truth from terrifying dream. He talked about crawling
through darkness, desperate to find Bright-Nail-although,
strangely, he did not seem to think of it as a sword at all, but
as something alive that summoned him. Simon remembered

T

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          653

Thorn's disturbing vitality and thought he understood a little
of what the earl meant.

It was hard to make sense out of the impressions of a half-
mad blind man, but as Guthwulf spoke, Simon pictured the
earl walking through the tunnels, lured by something that
called to him in a voice he could not ignore. Guthwulf had
gone far beyond his usual range, it seemed, and had heard
and felt many terrible things. At last he had crawled, and
when even those narrow ways were blocked, he had dug,
fighting his way through the last cubits of earth that had sep-
arated him from the object of his obsession.

He dug into John's barrow, Simon realized, shuddering.
Like a blind mole after a carrot, scraping, scraping ...

Guthwulf had taken his prize and had somehow found
his way back to his nest, but apparently even the joy of
possessing the thing he had sought had not been enough
to keep him in hiding. For some reason he had ventured
out, perhaps to steal food from the forge-where else had
the bread and water come from?-but perhaps for some
deeper, more complicated reason.

Why did he come to me? Simon wondered. Why would
he risk being caught by Inch? He thought again of Thom,
of how it had seemed almost to choose where it wished to
go. Maybe Bright-Nail wanted to find ... me.

The thought was a frighteningly seductive one. If
Bright-Nail was being drawn to the great conflict that was
coming, then maybe it somehow knew that Guthwulf
would never willingly go up into the light again. As
Thorn had chosen Simon and his fellows to bring it down
from Urmsheim and back to Camaris, maybe Bright-Nail
had chosen Simon to carry it up to Green Angel Tower to
fight the Storm King.

Another dim recollection surfaced. In my dream, Leieth
said that the sword was part of my story. Is that what she
meant? The details were strangely misty, but he remem-
bered the sad-faced man who had held the blade across
his lap as he waited for something. The dragon?

Simon let his fingers trail away from the cat's back and
down Guthwulf's arm until they reached Bright-Nail. The
earl moaned, but did not resist as Simon gently pried his

654

Tad Williams

fingers away. His finger reverently traced the rough shape
of the Nail, bound just below the guard. A nail from the
Execution Tree of holy Usires! And some sacred relic of
Saint Eahlstan was sealed inside the hollow hilt, he re-
membered. Prester John's sword. It was astonishing that a
onetime scullion should ever touch such a thing!

Simon curled his hand around the hilt. It seemed to ...
fit. It lay in his hand as comfortably as though it had been
made for him. All other thoughts about the blade, about
Guthwulf, slid away. He sat in the dark and felt the sword
to be an extension of his own arm, of himself. He stood,
ignoring his aching muscles, and slashed at the lightless
void before him. A moment later, horrified at the thought
that he might accidentally strike Bright-Nail against the
rock wall of the cavern and blunt its edge, he sat down
again, then crawled away to his corner of the cavern and
stretched out on the stone, clutching the sword to him as
though it were a child. The metal was cold where it
touched his skin, and the blade was sharp, but he did not
want to let it go. Across the chamber, Guthwulf mur-
mured uncomfortably.

Some time had passed, although Simon did not know
whether he had slept or not, when he suddenly became
aware that something was missing: he could no longer
hear the earl breathing. For a moment, as he scrambled
across the uneven floor, he clung to the wild hope that
Guthwulf had grown well enough to leave the cavern,
but the presence of Bright-Nail still gripped in his own
fingers made that seem very unlikely: the blind man
would not for a moment allow someone else to have his
blade.

When Simon reached Guthwulf, the earl's skin was
cool as river clay.

He did not weep, but his feeling of loss was great
His sorrow was not for Guthwulf the man, who except
for these last dreamlike hours or days he had only known
as a fearsome figure, but for himself, left alone once
more.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER           655

Almost alone. Something bumped against his shin. The
cat seemed to be trying to get his attention. It missed its
companion, Simon felt sure. Perhaps it thought that some-
how he could wake Guthwulf where it had failed.

"Sorry," he whispered, running his fingers down its
back and gently tugging its tail. "He's gone somewhere
else. I*m lonely, too."
Feeling empty, he sat for a moment and took stock of
things. Now he had no choice but to brave the mazy,
lightless tunnels, even though he doubted he would find
his way out again without a guide. Two times he had
stumbled through this haunted labyrinth, each time fol-
lowed so closely by death that he heard its patient foot-
steps behind him; it was too much to hope that he would
be lucky again. Still, there was little else he could do.
Green Angel Tower stood somewhere above, and Bright-
Nail must be carried there. If Josua and the others had not
brought Thorn, he would do what he could, although it
would doubtless end in failure. He owed that much to all
those who had sold their dear lives for his freedom.

It was difficult to put Bright-Nail down-he already
felt a little of Guthwutf's possessiveness, although there
was nothing in the small cavern that might endanger the
sword-but he could accomplish little with it clutched in
his hand. He leaned it against one of the walls, then pro-
ceeded to the unpleasant task of undressing the dead earl.
When he had removed Guthwulf's tattered clothing he
took some of the rags scattered about the cavern and, in
poor imitation of the priestly labors in the House of Pre-
paring, wrapped the body. A part of him felt ridiculous
for going to such lengths for a man who had, by all re-
pute, been little-loved in his life, and who would lie here
alone and undiscovered regardless, but Simon felt a stub-
born urge to pay the blind man back- Morgenes and
Maegwin had given their lives for him, and they had been
given no memorial, no rites, except those in Simon's own
heart. Guthwulf should not go to the Fields Beyond un-
heralded.

When he had finished, he stood.

656                  Tad Williams
"Our Lord protect you,"

he began, struggling to remember the words to the
Prayer for the Dead,

"And Usires His only Son lift you up.

May you be carried to the green valleys

Of His domains,

Where the souls of the good and righteous sing from

the hilltops,

And angels are in the trees,

Speaking joy with God's own voice....

"Thank you, Guthwutf," he said when the prayer was
done. "I'm sorry to take the sword away from you, but
I'll try to do what should be done."

He made the sign of the Tree-hoping that, despite the
darkness, God would see and so take note of Guthwulf
when at last the earl came before Him-then he pulled on
Guthwulf's clothing and boots. A year before, he might
have thought twice before donning a dead man's garb, but
Simon had walked so close to death himself that he was
now all practicality. It was warm and safe in the cavern,
but who knew what cold winds, what sharp stones.
awaited him?

As he drank off the last drops in the water bowl, the cat
nudged his leg once more. "You can come with me or
stay here," he told it. "Your choice." He took up Bright-
Nail, then wrapped a rag around the blade just below the
hilt and tied the earl's buckleless belt around the sword
and his waist so his hands would be free. It was more
than a slight relief to feel it against him once more.

As he felt his way toward the mouth of the cavern the
cat was at his feet, twining in and out between his ankles.
"You'll trip me," he said. "Stop that."

He edged a little distance along the passageway, but the
creature was between his legs again and made him stum-
ble. He reached down for it, then laughed hollowly at the
stupidity of trying to catch a cat in blind darkness. The

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              657

cat moved under his hand and then slipped away in the
opposite direction. Simon paused.

"That way, not this way?" he said aloud. After a mo-
ment, he shrugged, then laughed again. Despite all the
horror behind him and before him, he fell curiously free.
"Very well, then, I'll follow you for a while. Which
means I'll probably wind up sitting next to the largest rat
hole in Osten Ard."

The cat bumped him, then slipped away up the corri-
dor. Feeling along the walls, entirely surrounded by dark-
ness, Simon trailed after it.

A

Yis-hadra stopped at the base of the stairs and chimed
anxiously to her husband- Yis-fidri replied. They bent to
examine the cracked stone baluster.

"This place," Yis-fidri said. "If you follow these steps
upward, you will come at last to the mortal castle built
atop this one."

"Where?" asked Miriamele. She dropped her bow and
pack to the tunnel floor and slumped against the stone.
"Where in the castle?"

"We know not," Yis-hadra said. "All has been built
since our day. No Tinukeda'ya touched those stones."

"And you? Where will you go?" She looked up the
stairwell. It spiraled up far beyond the weak light of the
dwarrow's batons, twisting into darkness.

"We will find another place." Yis-fidri looked at his
wife. "There are few of us left, but there are still places
that will welcome our hands and eyes."

"It is time for our going," Binabik said urgently. "Who
is knowing how far away the Noms are?"

Miriamele asked the dwarrows; "Why don't you come
with us? You are strong, and we can use your strength.
You should know by now that our fight is yours, too."

Yis-fidri shuddered and raised his long hands as though
to fend her off. "Do you not understand? We do not be-
long in the light, in the world of Sudhoda'ya. We have al-
ready been changed by you, done things that Tinukeda'ya

658 Tad Williams

do not do. We have ... we have killed some of those who
were once our masters." He murmured something in the
dwarrow-tongue and Yis-hadra and his other remaining
folk chorused unhappily. "It will take us long to leam to
live with that. We do not belong in the world above. Let
us go to find the darkness and deep places we crave."

Binabik, who had spoken much to Yis-fidri during the
last part of their flight, stepped forward and extended his
small hand. "May you find safety."

The dwarrow looked at him for a moment as if he did
not understand, then slowly put out his own spidery fin-
gers and wrapped them around the troll's. "And you. I
will not tell you my thoughts, for they are fearful and un-
happy."

Miriamele bit back words of argument. The dwarrows
wished to go. They had fulfilled the promise that she had
forced out of them. They were already frightened and
miserable; aboveground they might be less than useless,
more a responsibility than an asset. "Farewell, Yis-fidri,"
she said, then turned to his wife. "Yis-hadra, thank you
for showing me how you tend the stone."

The dwarrow bobbed her head. "May you also fare
well."

Even as she spoke, the lights of the batons flickered
and the underground chamber seemed to shift, another
convulsion without movement; a moment later, when
things were again as they had been, the remaining
dwarrows began to whisper.

"We must go now," Yis-hadra said, her dark eyes wide
with fear. She and her husband turned and led their troop
of shuffling, spindle-legged kin away into the shadows.
Within moments the corridor was as empty as if they had
never existed. Miriamele blinked.
"We must go also." Binabik started up the stairs, then
turned. "Where is the monk?"

Miriamele looked back. Cadrach, who had been at the
rear of the assembled dwarrows, was sitting on the
ground, his eyes half-closed. The flicker of Binabik's
torch made him seem to sway.

"He's useless." She bent to pick up her belongings.

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              659

"We should leave him here. Let him follow if he wants
to."

Binabik frowned at her. "Help him, Miriamele. Other-
wise, he is left for the Noms' finding."

She was not sure the monk didn't deserve just that, but
she shrugged and went to him-anyway. A tug on his arm
brought him slowly to his feet.

"We're going."

Cadrach looked at her for a moment. "Ah," he said,
then followed her up the ancient stairway.

*

As the company of Sithi led them farther into the deeps
below the Hayholt, Tiamak and Josua found themselves
staring around in astonishment, like Lakeland farmers on
their first visit to Nabban.

"What a treasure trove this is!" Josua breathed. "And
to think it was below me all those years I lived here. I
would gladly spend a lifetime down here, exploring,
studying...."

Tiamak, too, was overwhelmed. The rough corridors of
the outer tunnels had given way-to a decayed splendor he
could never have imagined, and even now could scarcely
believe. Vast chambers which seemed to have been pains-
takingly carved out of living rock. every surface a min-
utely detailed tapestry; seemingly endless stairways, thin
and beautiful as spiderwebs, that curled up into shadow
or stretched across black emptiness; entire rooms carved
in the likeness of forest clearings or mountainsides with
waterfalls, though everything in the chamber was solid
stone-even as crumbling ruins, Asu'a the Great was as-
tonishing.

They Who Watch and Shape, Tiamak thought, seeing
this place has made every bit of my suffering worthwhile.
My lame leg, my hours in the ghant nest-/ would not
trade them if I must also lose the memories of this hour.

As they wound through the dusty byways, Tiamak tore
his eyes away from the wonders that surrounded him long
enough to observe the strange behavior of his Sithi com-

66o Tad Williams

panions. When Likimeya and the others stopped to let the
mortals rest, in a high-roofed chamber whose arching
windows were clogged with dirt and rubble, Tiamak sat
beside Aditu.

"Forgive me if my question is rude," he asked softly,
"but do your people mourn their old home? You seem ...
distracted."

Aditu inclined her head, bending her graceful neck. "In
part, yes. It is sad to see the beautiful things our people
built in such a state-and for those who lived here ..."
she made an intricate gesture, "it is even more painful.
Do you remember the chamber carved with great flow-
ered steps-the Hall of Five Staircases, as we call it?"

"We stopped there a long time," Tiamak said, remem-
bering.

"That was the place where my mother's mother,
Briseyu Dawnfeather, died."

The marsh man thought of how Likimeya had stood
expressiontessly in the center of that wide room. Who
could know these immortals?

Aditu shook her head. "But such are not the greatest
reasons we are, as you put it, distracted. There are ...
presences here. Things that should not be."

Tiamak had himself felt more than a touch of what he
thought Aditu meant-a riffle of wind on the back of his
neck that seemed insistent as probing fingers, echoes that
almost sounded like faint voices. "What does it mean?"

"Something is awake here in Asu'a that should not be
awake. It is hard to explain. Whatever it may be, it has
given a semblance of life to what should not have one."

Tiamak frowned, unsure. "Do you mean . .. ghosts?"

Aditu's smile was fleeting. "If I understood First
Grandmother when she taught me what the mortal word
means, no. Not as such. But it is hard to show the differ-
ence. Your tongue is not suited for it, and you do not see
or feel what we do."

"How can you tell?" He looked across to4osua, but the
prince was staring fixedly at the ornately carved walls.

"Because if you did," Aditu replied, "I suspect you
would not be sitting there so calmly." She rose and

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          66l

crossed the rubble-strewn floor to where her mother and
Jiriki stood in quiet conversation.

In the middle of emptiness, Tiamak suddenly felt sur-
rounded by danger. He slid closer to Josua.

"Do you feel it, Prince Josua?" Tiamak asked. "The
Sithi do. They are frightened."

The prince looked grim. "We are all of us frightened. I
would have liked a full night to prepare for this, but
Camaris took that away from me. I try not to remember
where it is we are going."

"And all with no idea of what to do when we get
there," Tiamak mourned. "Was there ever a battle fought
so confusedly?" He hesitated. "I have no right to question
you, Prince Josua, but why did you follow Camaris?
Surely others less crucial to our success than you could
have tried to track him."

The prince stared ahead. "I was the only one there. I
sought to bring him back before he was lost to us." He
sighed. "I feared others would not come in time. But even
more ..."

The strange perturbation of air and stone came again,
sudden and disorienting, cutting Josua off in mid-speech.
The Sithi's lights jittered, although the immortals them-
selves seemed not to move- For a moment, Tiamak
thought he sensed the presence of a host of others, a shad-
owy horde disposed all through the ruined halls. Then the
feeling was gone and everything was as it had been but
for an odd, lingering smell of smoke.

"Aedon's mercy!" Josua looked down at his feet as
though surprised to discover them still on the ground.
"What is this place?"

The Sithi had paused. Jiriki turned to the mortals.

"We must go faster," he said. "Can you keep up?"

"I have a tame leg," Tiamak replied. "But I will do my
best."

Josua laid his hand on the Wrannaman's shoulder. "I
will not leave you behind. I can carry you if need be."

Tiamak smiled, touched. "I do not think it will come to
that, Prince Josua."

662 Tad Williams

"Come, then. The Sithi need haste. We will try to give
it to them."

They moved at a fast trot through the winding passage-
ways. Watching the backs of the Sithi, Tiamak had little
doubt that if they chose they could leave their mortal
companions far behind. But they did not, and that said
much: the Sithi thought that Tiamak and Josua could do
something important. He ignored the pain in his leg and
hurried on.

They seemed to run for hours, although Tiamak had no
way of knowing if that was true: just as the substance of
Asu'a itself seemed strangely unstable, so too did time
move in a manner that Tiamak no longer trusted himself
to interpret. The lag between steps sometimes seemed to
stretch for long moments, then an instant later he would
be in another part of the ruined sub-castle, still running,
with no memory of the intervening journey.

He Who Always Steps on Sand, keep me sane until I
have done whatever I can do, he prayed. Beside him, the
prince too seemed in silent communication with some-
thing or someone.

For a while the Sithi were so far ahead that their lights
were little more than a glow in the tunnel before them.
Tiamak's own globe, jiggling in his clutch, provided in-
constant light; he and Josua found themselves stumbling
through wreckage they could barely see, suffering more
than a few cuts and bruises, until they caught up to the
immortals once more.

The Sithi had halted beneath a high archway where
they stood silhouetted by a diffuse glow from the cham-
ber beyond. As Tiamak hobbled to a stop beside them,
gasping for breath, he wondered if they had finally
reached the light of the upper world. As he sucked air
into his lungs, he stared at the dragonlike serpent carved
on the arch. Its tail stretched down one side and was
carved across the dusty floor of the archway as well, then
rose up the other side and back to the lintel, where the tip
was clasped in its owner's mouth. There were still flecks
of paint on its thousands of minute scales.

The smoky light behind the Sithi made them seem dis-

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                             663

torted, freakishly lean and without firm edges. The near-
est, Jiriki, turned and looked back at the panting mortals.
There was compassion on his face, but it battled with
more pressing emotions. "Beyond is the Pool of Three
Depths," he said. "If I tell you it is a Master Witness, you
may have some idea of what kind of forces are at work
here. This is one of the mightiest of the places of power;

the great worms of Osten Ard once came to drink its wa-
ters and share their wordless wisdom, long before my
people set foot in this land."

"Why have we stopped here?" Josua asked. "Is
Camaris.. . ?"

"He may be, or he may have already been here and
passed on. It is a place of potency as I said, and it is one
of the sources of the change we have felt all around us.
He may very well have been drawn here." Jiriki lifted his
hand in warning; for the first time, Tiamak could see the
weariness on the immortal's face. "Please do nothing
without asking. Touch nothing except the floor where we
walk. If something speaks to you, do not reply."

Tiamak was chilled. He nodded his understanding. There
were a thousand questions he longed to ask, but the tension
he saw in the Sithi was a strong argument for silence.

"Lead on," said Josua.

Appearing a little hesitant themselves, the Sithi stepped
through the archway into a wide chamber full of indirect
light. Where Tiamak could see the walls through the
strange mistiness of the air, they seemed almost new-
built, undamaged and ribbed with great sculpted pillars
that stretched up toward the hidden ceiling. The pool, a
circular expanse of scintillant water, lay in the center of
the chamber. A circular staircase whose landing touched
on the pool's far side spiraled up, massive yet graceful,
and vanished in the mists above.

Something in the room was ... alive. Tiamak could
think of no other way to describe the sensation. Whether
it'was the pool itself, with its shifting blue and green
glows flickering up from the depths, he could not say, but
there was far more to this place than water and stone. The
air was thunderstorm-taut, and he found he was holding

Tad Williams

his breath as they moved forward. The Sithi, moving as
cautiously as hunters stalking a wounded boar, fanned out
along the edge of the pool, growing unaccountably more
distant from him with each single step. The smoky light
glimmered.

"Camaris!" shouted Josua. Tiamak looked up, startled.
The prince was staring at a shape beyond the farthest of
the Sithi, a tall figure with a long shadow in one h'and.
The prince hastened around the tarn's rim; the Sithi, their
attention pulted away from the pool, moved with him to-
ward the solitary figure. Tiamak hurried after, the pain of
his leg momentarily forgotten.

For an instant Tiamak thought the prince was mistaken,
that whatever this shape was, it was not Camaris: for a
blink of time he saw someone completely different, jet-
haired and dressed in strange robes, with a branching
crown upon his head. Then the chamber seemed to shud-
der and tip, and the Wrannaman stumbled; when he had
regained his balance, he saw that it was indeed the old
knight. Camaris looked up at the approaching figures and
stepped back, his eyes wild with alarm, then leveled the
black sword before him. Josua and the Sithi stopped be-
yond its reach.

"Camaris," said the prince. "It is Josua. Look, it is only
me. I have been searching for you."
The old man stared at him, but the sword did not waver
from its defensive position. "It is a sinful world," he re-
plied hoarsely.

"I will go with you," said Josua. "Wherever you wish
to go. Do not be afraid. I will not stop you."

Likimeya's voice was surprisingly gentle. "We can help
you, Hikka Ti-tuno. We will not stay you, but we can
make your pain less." She took a step forward, her hands
held with palms upward. "Do you remember Amerasu
Ship-Born?"

The old man's lips drew back in a grimace of pain or
fear and he drew Thom back as if to strike. Dark Kuroyi's
sword hissed from its sheath as he stepped in front of
Likimeya.

"There is no need," she said coldly. "Put up."

T

665

The tall Sitha hesitated for a moment, then slipped his
witchwood sword back into place. Camaris lowered his
black blade once more.

"Pity." Kuroyi sounded genuinely regretful. "I have al-
ways wondered what it would be to cross swords with the
greatest of mortal warriors...."

Before anyone else spoke again the light flared wildly,
then the room was plunged into blackness. A moment
later light returned, but this time the misty air was blue as
the center of a flame. Tiamak felt a freezing wind that
seemed to blow through him, and the tension of the air in-
creased until his ears hammered.

"How you do love mortals." The dreadful voice
sounded in his thoughts and all through his body; the
words felt like insects skittering on the Wrannaman's
skin. "You cannot leave them alone."

Tiamak and the others turned. In the roiling mists be-
hind them a shape was forming, pale robed and silver
masked, enthroned in midair above the pool. The sickly
blue light did not reach much beyond the water, and the
chamber was now walled with shadow. The Wrannaman
felt terror seize him by the spine. He could not move,
could only pray that he would be unnoticed. Stormspike's
queen-for who else could it be?-was as dreadful as any
nightmare vision of She Who Waits to Take All Back.

Likimeya nodded her head. She held herself stiffly, as
though even speaking took much effort. "So, Eldest. You
have found a way to reach the Pool of Three Depths. That
does not mean that you can use it."
The masked figure did not move, but Tiamak felt some-
thing almost like triumph emanate from it. "/ silenced
Amerasu-I broke her before my huntsman dispatched
her. Do you think you are her equal, child?"

"By myself, no. But I have others here with me."

"Other children." A pale gloved hand lifted, wavering
as the mist swirled.

Tiamak was dimly aware of movement on the edge of
the circle of figures around him, but could not tear his
eyes away from the shimmering silver mask,

"Camaris!" Josua cried. "He is leaving."

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

666 Tad Williams

"Go," said Jiriki. "And you, too, Tiamak. Follow him."

"But what of you?" The prince's voice cracked. "And
how will we find our way?"

"He is going where he is drawn." Jiriki moved closer to
his mother, who already seemed locked in some silent
struggle with the Norn Queen. The muscles of Likimeya's
face were rippling. "And that is where you must go, too.
This is our struggle here." Jiriki turned to face the pool.

"Go!" said Aditu urgently. She tugged at Tiamak's
sleeve, pulling him off-balance and sending him stum-
bling toward Josua. "We will call on the power of the
Oldest Tree and hold her at bay as long as we can, but we
cannot defeat their plan here. Utuk'ku is already drawing
on the Master Witness. I can feel it."

"But what is she doing? What is happening?" Tiamak
heard his voice rising in terror.

"We cannot see that," Aditu moaned. Her teeth were
clenched. "We have all we can do to hold her back. You
and the others must accomplish whatever remains. This is
our battle. Now go!" She turned away from him.

The pulsing radiance of the pool grew stronger, and
lavender flames kindled along the walls, leaping as
though in a fierce wind. The entire chamber felt tight as
a drumhead. Tiamak thought he could feel himself
shrinking, twisting, being slowly crushed by the forces
now unleashed. Something powerful, yet without form or
substance, was beating out at him from the misty shape
that hovered over the water.

Fumbling as though they were battered by gale winds,
the Sithi formed into a line before the pool and linked
their hands, then began to sing.

As the immortals* strange music rose, the lights of the
pool flickered wildly. Tiamak stared helplessly at the
glowing mists, unable to remember how to move. The
walls around the pool seemed to bend inward and then
push out again, bend in and push out, as though the cham-
ber breathed. On the rim of the pool Aditu staggered and
slumped forward, but her brother, who stood beside her,
pulled her upright; the song of the Sithi faltered for a mo-
ment, then resumed.

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

667

In response to their wailing music, something else be-
gan to form in the mists of the pool, something that rap-
idly became entangled with the pate shadow of the Norn
Queen. Tiamak saw it as a dim, dark shape with a wide
trunk, swaying branches, and phantom leaves that flut-
tered as though a wind caressed them. Aditu had said "the
Oldest Tree"; Tiamak could sense this huge thing's antiq-
uity, its deep roots and spreading, nurturing strength. For
a moment he felt something like hope.

As if in response, the blue lights in the water began to
burn even more Fiercely, until the glare filled the chamber
with blinding radiance. The tree shape grew less substan-
tial. The Wrannaman felt himself sinking down to the
ground as Utuk'ku's choking, freezing might surged out
from the Pool of Three Depths.

"Tiamak!"

The voice was distant and far behind him; it meant lit-
tle. Nothing could push through the fog that was filling
his ears, his heart, his thoughts... .

High above the center of the pool, the Nom Queen
seemed a creature made entirely of ice, but something black
pulsed at the heart of her, and jagged flares of purple and
blue played about her head and glinted from her shining
mask. She spread her arms, then clenched her gloved fists.
Kuroyi abruptly shrieked and fell away from the rest of the
Sithi to writhe on the ground. The dark-haired Sitha began to
deform into impossibly swift-changing shapes, as though in-
visible hands kneaded him like dough. The other Sithi
slumped and fell back; the ghost-tree vanished completely.
After a few moments Aditu and her kin recovered them-
selves and began fighting to close the gap where Kuroyi had
been. They struggled as though immersed in deep water,
striving to join hands once more. The fallen Sitha had
stopped struggling and lay still. There was no longer any-
thing manlike in his form.

Something jerked at Tiamak's arm, then jerked again.
He turned slowly. Josua was screaming at him. but he
could not hear the words. The prince pulled him up onto
his feet and dragged him, stumbling, away from the pool.
Tiamak's heart was rattling as though it might burst. His

668
Tad Williams

legs did not want to support him, but Josua kept tugging
until Tiamak could move on his own, then the prince
turned and lurched away in pursuit of Camaris. The old
knight was several score paces ahead, walking stiff-
legged toward the dark passages at the far side of the
wide chamber. Tiamak limped slowly after them both.

The song of the Dawn Children rose again behind him,
more raggedly this time. Tiamak did not dare look back.
Blue light throbbed all across the cavern ceiling, and the
shadows bloomed and vanished and then bloomed again.

A

Despite the strange shifting that seemed to be going on
around him, despite the bodiless voices that sometimes
shrieked or gibbered in the blackness, Simon did not sur-
render to fear. He had survived the wheel and. then had
passed over into the void and returned. He had won back
his life, but he did not hold it as tightly as he once had,
and so, in a way, his grip on it was more sure. What were
little things like hunger or momentary blindness? He had
been hungry before. He had wandered without light.

The cat padded silently ahead, turning at   intervals to
rub against him before moving on, leading   him slowly
through the twisting tunnels. He had long   since given his
safety over into the animal's care. There   was nothing else
to do, and no use worrying about it.

Something was happening around him, although he
could not tell exactly what that something was. The
ghostly presences and strange distortions were even stron-
ger than before, and seemed to come now as regularly as
waves dashing themselves upon a beach, sweeping all be-
fore them, then ebbing away again. He hardened himself
to the sensations as he had hardened himself to his own

aches.

Simon felt his way along the black corridors, Bright-
Nail scraping the walls like a beetle's feeler, his fingers
trailing through dust and dank moss and cobwebs and
other things less pleasant. He could do nothing but what
he was doing. He had faced the ice-dragon and shouted

TO   GREEN     ANGEL   TOWER                          669

his name at it, had wandered the emptiness beyond
dreams and clung to himself. He could not turn back from
the task that was before him, and he would not.

Bright-Nail seemed to change along with his lightless
surroundings. One moment it was a simple blade slapping
against his hip, then a moment later it seemed to throb in
time with the convulsions of the castle depths, becoming
for a moment a living thing; at those times, it was hard to
tell whether one of them was master, or whether Simon
and the sword were, as he and the cat were, two creatures
traveling the darkness together in strange partnership.

At such times, he could begin to hear its call in his
thoughts; it was a faint presence, only a hint of the song
that Guthwutf had seemed to hear, but it was growing
steadily stronger. For brief moments he could almost un-
derstand it, as though it spoke to him in a language he
had forgotten long ago, but which was slowly surfacing
from the place in his memory where it had been buried.
But Simon did not think he wanted to understand what
the blade sang. Perhaps if he wandered long enough, he
thought, he would indeed become like Guthwulf, and hear
almost nothing but the sword's compelling music.

He hoped he would not be-in darkness that long.

There came a time when the cat stopped and did not go
on. It wreathed itself around his shins as though it wished
to be stroked; when he bent to touch it, it pushed at his
fingers with its muzzle, but did not continue on its way.
He waited, finally wondering if he had not put far too
much trust in a mere beast.

"Where next?" he said. His voice scarcely echoed: they
were still in one of the narrower passages. "Go on, now.
I'm waiting."

The cat rubbed against him, purring. After a few mo-
ments, Simon put his hands out and began searching care-
fully along the walls, looking for something-perhaps a
doorway of some kind that did not reach the floor-which
might have stopped their progress. Instead, on a shelf of
rock set into the wall, nearly head high, he found a plate
and a covered bowl.

670 Tad Williams

I've been here before.' he realized. Unless some mad-
man is leaving food all across the tunnels. But if so, bless
him, bless him anyway.

Simon said a prayer of thanks as he took the bread and
dried meat and small wedge of cheese from the plate,
then sat down and ate enough of each to feel happier and
more prosperous than he had in a long while. He drank
half the bowl of water, then after a moment's considera-
tion, finished it off. He regretted the lack of a water skin,
but if he had to carry the water without one, it might as
welt be inside him.

The cat was at him again, butting and purring. Simon
broke off a sizable piece of the jerked meat to share with
his guide-the cat took it so quickly its sharp teeth
scraped his fingers-then put the remainder in the pocket
of his shirt. He stood.

P 'raps he won't want to lead me anymore, he thought.
This may have been all the little creature wanted.
But the cat, as though some ritual had been success-
fully observed, slithered in and out between his ankles for
a few moments, then started off again. Simon bent and
felt first its head, then its back, then its tail pass beneath
his fingers. He smiled an invisible smile and followed it.

It was so faint at first as to be almost unnoticeable, but
gradually Simon realized that the walls around him were
slowly becoming visible. The light was so dim that for
hundreds of paces he thought it was only his eyes playing
tricks on him, but eventually he realized that he was see-
ing the rough surfaces across which he dragged his hands.
The cat, too, had become a real thing instead of just an
idea, a hint of movement on the tunnel floor before him.

He followed the shadow-cat up through the coiling tun-
nels. These were rougher hewn than those which tra-
versed the ruins of Asu'a, and he felt a growing certainty
that he was back in the mortal castle once more. As he
turned another bend, the dim netherlight became a torch
in a wall bracket at the far end of a long passageway.

Light! Back again! He fell to his knees, unmindful for
a moment of his aching limbs, and pressed his forehead

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER           671

against the stone floor. He stayed there, trembling. Light!
He was in the world again.

Thank you, Maegwin. Bless you. Thank you, Guthwulf.

The cat was a gray shape against the gray stone. Some-
thing else tugged at his memory.

I've seen that cat before-or have I? The Hayholl was
full of cats.

The air abruptly contracted and the walls shivered and
then bowed inward as though to trap him. An image
passed before his mind's eye, a great tree shivering in
storm winds, its branches torn loose and spinning away.
For a moment Simon felt as though he had been turned
inside-out. Even when the vision had gone and all was as
it had been, he remained on his knees for long moments,
panting.

His four-footed guide stopped and looked around to see
if he was still following, then continued on, as though the
strange slippage was beneath a cat's notice. Simon clam-
bered to his feet.

The creature paused in an archway. Simon saw a nar-
row staircase climbing up into darkness. The cat bumped
his shin but did not move on.

"Should I go up here?" he whispered. He poked his
head into the entranceway. High above, hidden by the
twisting stairwell, another source of light glowed faintly.
He stared at the cat for a moment. The cat stared back,
yellow eyes wide.

"Very well, then." He touched Bright-Nail, making
sure the hilt was not tangled in the rags of his belt, then
began to climb. After a few steps he turned and looked
back. The cat still sat in the middle of the tunnel floor,
watching. "Aren't you coming?"

The gray cat stood and slowly sauntered away down
the corridor. Even if it had possessed the gift of speech,
it could not more clearly have told him that from this
point he was on his own.

Simon smiled grimly.

/ suppose there's no cat in the world stupid enough to
go where I'm going.

He turned and made his way up the shadowed stairs.

672 Tad Williams

The stairwell opened at last into a broad windowless
room imperfectly lit by an open hatch door in the ceiling.
As he stepped out from behind the wooden screen that hid
the stairway, he realized that he was in one of the storage
rooms below the refectory. He had been in this place be-
fore as well, on the momentous, horrible day when he had
discovered Prince Josua in Pryrates* prison cell ... but
that time the storeroom had been packed to the ceilings
with all manner of food and other goods. Now the barrels
that remained lay empty, many in splinters. Dusty mantles
of spiderweb covered the remains, and the few spatters of
flour left on the floor were crisscrossed with the tracks of
mice. It looked as though no one had entered the room for
some time.

Up above him, he knew, stood the refectory, and the
hundreds of other close-huddled buildings of the Inner
Bailey. Looming over them all was the ivory spike of
Green Angel Tower.

As he thought of it, he felt Bright-Nail's song grow a
little more insistent.

... go there.... It was a whisper at the farthest edge of
his thoughts.

Simon found and replaced the hatchway ladder, which
had toppled to the floor, then began to climb. It creaked
ominously, but held. Beneath its complaining he could
hear a faint murmur, as though the hissing voices of the
tunnels were following him up from the dark.

The only illumination in the refectory hall was the
weak and unevenly pulsing gray light that leaked in
through the high windows. The remaining tables and
benches were scattered, some smashed to flinders, but
most were gone entirely, perhaps taken to be burned as
firewood. A bleak layer of dust lay everywhere, even on
those things which had suffered a violent end, as though
the destruction had happened a century before. -A pair of
rats scurried across one of the broken tables, paying Si-
mon no heed.

The murmuring noise he had heard was louder here.
The greatest part of it was the wind moaning outside the

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

673

windows, but there were still hints of voices crying out in
pain or anger or fear. Simon looked up and saw tiny
flecks of snow whirling in past the broken shutters. He
thought he could feel Bright-Nail stir, like a hunting beast
catching the scent of blood.

He looked once more around the refectory-taking
note, however distractedly, of the damage visited upon his
home-then moved as quietly as he could toward the
eastern portico. As he approached the door, he saw that it
sagged on broken hinges and he despaired of opening it
without noise, but as he came closer and heard the tumult
outside he realized no one would hear him even if he
were to kick it loose. The menacing song of the wind had
grown, but the shouting voices and other noises had be-
come louder still, until it sounded as if a great battle were
being fought just outside the refectory door.

He crouched and placed his eye against the wedge of
light where the door had edged free from its frame. It was
hard at first to make sense of what he saw.

There was a battle just outside, or at least great knots
of armored men were surging back and forth across the
bailey. The chaos was abetted by the snows which cov-
ered the muddy ground and blew through the air like
smoke, making everything murky; what sky he could see
was full of streaming black clouds.

Lightning flashed, turning all to brilliant noon one in-
stant, then, on its disappearance, making it seem for a
moment as though all light had fled. It looked like a battle
at the gates of Hell, a madness of shrieking faces and ter-
rified horses, and it raged like an angry sea all across the
snow-smothered bailey. Trying to make his way through
such madness would be choosing to die.

On the far side, hopelessly out of Simon's reach. Green
Angel Tower stood with its ivory spire wreathed in thun"
derheads. Lightning burst across the sky once more, a
jagged, flaring chain that seemed to encircle the tower.
Thunder shook his bones. Staring upward in that instant
of savage illumination, Simon saw a pale face gazing
from the great bellchamber windows.

31
The False Messenger

A

Miriomete WOS staggeringly exhausted. She could not
imagine how Binabik, with his shorter legs, could still be
moving. She was certain they had been climbing for more
than an hour. How could there be so many steps? Surely
by this time they could have reached the Hayholt if they
had started from the center of the earth.

Panting, she stopped to wipe sweat from her face and
look back. Cadrach was two flights down, barely visible
in the torchlight. The monk would not give up; Miriamele
had to credit him for that.

"Binabik, wait," she called. "If I ... if I go another
step ... my legs will fall off."

The troll paused, then turned and came back down. He
handed her his water skin, and as she drank, he said: "We
have almost reached to the castle. 1 can feel the changing
of air."

Miriamele slumped down onto the wide smooth step,
discarding the bow and pack she had been tempted to toss
away so many times in the past hour. "What air? I haven't
had any in my lungs since I don't remember when."

Binabik looked at her solicitously. "Mountain-
clambering is what we Qanuc leam before we can talk-
You have been doing well to stay with me." ,

Miramele did not bother with a reply. A few moments
later Cadrach staggered up and toppled against the wall,
then slid down onto the step an arm's length from her. His
pale face was moist, his eyes remote. She watched him

TO   GREEN   ANGEL    TOWER                             675

fight for breath, and after a moment's hesitation offered
him the water skin. He took it without looking up.

"Rest, both of you," said Binabik "Then after will be
time for the last climbing. We are near, very near."

"Near to what?" Miriamele took the water skin from
Cadrach's unresponsive fingers and had another drink,
then passed it back to the troll. "Binabik, I have been try-
ing to find the breath to ask you-what is happening?
Something the dwarrows said, something you thought
of . . ." She held his eye, although she could see he
wished to look away. "What is it?"

The troll fell silent, but he cocked his head as though
listening. There was nothing to be heard in the stairwell
except the rough noise of their breathing. He sat down be-
side her.
"It was indeed something the dwarrows were saying-
although that alone would not have been making my
thoughts leap so." Binabik stared at his feet. "There are
other thoughts I have, too. Something I have been long
pondering-the 'false messenger' of Simon's dream."

"In Geloe's house," Miriamele whispered, remember-
ing.

"And he was not the only one. A message we were re-
ceiving in the White Waste, sparrow-carried-which now
it is my thinking was sent by Dinivan of Nabban, since
Isgrimnur later heard him speak it as well-also held a
warning against false messengers."

Miramele felt a pang at the memory of Dinivan. He had
been so kind, so clever-yet he had been broken like a
kindling-stick by Pryrates. Isgrimnur's tale of the horrors
he had seen in the Sancellan Aedonitis still colored her
nightmares.

A sudden thought came to her: she had fought Cadrach
when he tried to take her out of the Sancellan, resisted
him and called him a liar until he was forced to strike her
senseless and carry her out-but he had, in fact, told her
the truth. Why hadn't he simply run and saved himself,
leaving her to make her own way?

She turned to look at him. The monk had still not

6?6 Tad Williams

caught his breath; he lay curled against the wall, his face
blank as a wax doll's.

"So long have I wondered who could be such a mes-
senger," Binabik continued. "Many are the messengers
who have come to Josua, and also to Simon and Dinivan,
the two who somehow had these warnings. Which mes-
senger was meant?"

"And now you think you know?"

Binabik started to answer, then took a breath. "Let me
tell you what I am thinking. Perhaps you will be finding
some flaw-you too, Cadrach. I have hope only that I am
wrong." He knitted the fingers of his small hands together
and frowned. "The dwarrow-folk say the Great Swords
were all having their forging with the help of Words of
Making-words that the dwarrows say are used for push-
ing back the rules of the world."

"I didn't understand that."

"I will try for explaining," Binabik said unhappily.
"But truly we are having little time to talk."

"When I've caught my breath, you can talk while we're
climbing."
The troll nodded. "Then here is my explaining about
the world's rules. One is that things want to fall down-
ward." He put the stopper on the water skin and then
dropped it, illustrating his point. "If some other kind of
falling is wanted-to make this fall upward, that might
be-that is one thing that the Art is being used for. To
make something that is going against the world's rules."

Miriamele nodded. Beside her, Cadrach had raised his
head as though listening, but he still stared out at the op-
posite wall.

"But if some rule must be broken for a long time, then
the An used must have great powerfulness, just as lifting
a heavy thing once and then dropping it is easier than the
holding of it in the air for hours. For-such tasks, the
dwarrows and others who were practicing the Art
used ..."

"... The Words of Making," Miriamele finished for
him. "And they used them when the Great Swords were
forged."

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                            677

Binabik bobbed his head. "They did that because alt
the Great Swords were forged of things that had no place
in Osten Ard, things which were resisting the Arts used
for creating a magical weapon. This needed overcoming,
but not just for a moment. Forever was the time that these
resisting forces must be subdued, so the most powerful
Words of Making were being used." He spoke slowly
now. "So those blades, it is my thinking, are like the
pulled-back arm of the giant sling-stones your people use
to attack walled cities-balanced so that one touch sends
a vast rock flying like a tiny, tiny bird. Such great power
is being restrained in each one of those swords-who
knows what the power of three brought together may be
doing?"

"But that's good," said Miriamele, confused. "Isn't that
what we need-the strength to overcome the Storm
King?" She looked at Binabik's sorrowful face and her
heart grew heavy. "Is there some reason we can't use it?"

Cadrach shifted against the wall, turning his gaze at
last on the troll. A gleam of interest had kindled in his
eyes. "But who will use it?" the monk asked. "That is the
question, is it not?"

Binabik nodded unhappily. "That is indeed what I am
fearing." He turned to the princess. "Miriamele, why is
Thorn being brought here? Why are Josua and others
searching for Bright-Nail?"

"To use against the Storm King," Miriamele replied.
She still did not see where the troll's questions were lead-
ing, but Cadrach evidently did. A grim half-smile, as of
reluctant admiration, curled the monk's lips. She won-
dered who the admiration was for.
"But why?" asked the troll. "What was telling us to use
them against our enemy? This is not something for trick-
ing you, Miriamele-it is what I myself have been worry-
ing until my head feels full of sharp stones."

"Because ..." For a moment, she could not remember.
"Because of the rhyme. The rhyme that told how to drive
the Storm King away."

" When frost doth grow on Cloves' bell ..."

678

Tad Williams

Binabik recited, his voice ringing strangely in the stair-
well. His face twisted in what looked like pain.

"And Shadows walk upon the road
When water blackens in the Well
Three Swords must come again

f          ''

"When Bukkenfrom the Earth do creep
And Hunen from the heights descend
When Nightmare throttles peaceful Sleep
Three Swords must come again

"To turn the stride of treading Fate
To clear the fogging Mists of Time
If Early shall resist Too Late
Three Swords must come again ..."

"I've heard it a hundred times'" she snapped. Anger
only thinly covered her fear at the little man's strange ex-
pression. "What are you saying?"

Binabik lifted his hands. "Listen, listen to what it is
telling, Miriamele. All the first parts are true things-
diggers, giants, the great bell in Nabban-but at the end
it only speaks of turning Fate, of clearing Time ... and of
Early fighting against Late."

"So?"

"What, then, is to say that it speaks to us'?" hissed

Binabik.

She was so astonished by the troll's agitation that it
took several moments before his words sank in. "Do you
mean to say... ?"

"That it could just as easily be speaking of what will be
helping the Storm King himself For what are we mortals
being to him if not the Lateness to his Earliness? Who is
turning this Fate? And whose fate is it being?"
"But ... but ..."

Binabik spoke on in a fury, as though the-words had
been unbottled after a long fermentation and now foamed
free. "Where did the idea to look for this rhyming come
to us? From the dreams of Simon and Jamauga and oth-

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                            679

ers! The Dream Road has been long compromised-Jiriki
and the other Sithi have told that to us-but we were
frightened enough to believe those dreams, desperate to
have some way for fighting the returning Storm King'*'
He paused a moment, panting. "I am sorry, but I have so
much angriness at my own stupidity... ' We took a twig
of great slendemess and hung a bridge upon it without
thinking more. Now we are over the middle of the
chasm." He slapped his palms against his thighs.
"Scrollbearers, we are now called. Kikkasut!"

"So -.." She struggled to understand the ins and outs
of what the troll had said; a throb of despair had begun
beating inside her. "So the dreams about Nisses' book-
those were the false messengers? The ones that led us to
this rhyme?"

"That is what I am now thinking."

"But that doesn't make sense! Why would the Storm
King play such a strange trick? If we cannot defeat him,
why lead us to believe we could?"

Binabik took a breath. "Perhaps he has need of the
swords, but cannot bring them himself. Pryrates was tell-
ing Cadrach that he knew where Bright-Nail was and did
not wish it touched. Perhaps the red priest was having no
plans of his own, and was doing only the Storm King's
bidding. I am thinking the dark one in the north needs the
great power that is in those blades." His voice broke. "It
... it is my great fear that all this has been a complicated
game, like the Sithi's shent, created for making us bring
the remaining swords."

Miriamele sat back against the wall, stunned. "Then
Josua, Simon ... all of us ..."

"Have been doing the enemy's bidding all along," said
Cadrach abruptly. Miriamele expected to hear satisfaction
in his words, but there was none, only hollowness. "We
have been his servants. The enemy has already won."

"Shut your mouth," she spat. "Damn you! If you had
told us what you knew, we would likely have discovered
this already." She turned to Binabik, struggling to keep
her wits. "If you're right, is there anything we can do?"

68o Tad Williams

The troll shrugged. "Try to be escaping, then find our
way back to Josua and the others for warning them."
Miriamele stood. A few moments earlier she had been
rested and ready to climb again. Now she felt as though
an ox-yoke had been laid across her shoulders, a ponder-
ous, painful weight that could not be shrugged off. There
seemed little doubt that all was indeed lost. "And even if
we find them, now we will have no weapons to use
against the Storm King."

Binabik did not reply. The diminutive troll seemed to
have shrunk even smaller. He rose and began clambering
up the stairs again. Miriamele turned her back on Cadrach
and followed him.

A

Order had been overthrown; screaming, grinding chaos
raged before the Hayholt's walls. Pale Noms and shaggy,
barking giants were everywhere, fighting with no discern-
ible regard for their own lives, as though their only pur-
pose was to strike horror into the hearts of their enemies.
One of the giants had lost most of an arm to a warrior's
ax-blow, but as it pushed through panicked human soldiers
the huge beast swung the fountaining stub as vigorously as
it did the club in its remaining hand, both combining to fill
the surrounding air with a mist of red. Other giants were
yet unwounded, and they quickly piled terrible carnage
around themselves. The Noms, almost as fierce but far
more canny, gathered themselves into small rings and
stood shoulder to shoulder, their needle-sharp pikes facing
outward. The swiftness and battle mastery of the white-
skinned immortals was such that they seemed to fell two
or three humans for each one of their own number that fell
... and as they fought, they sang. Their eerie, strident
voices echoed even above the clamor of combat.

And over all hung the Conqueror Star, glowing a sickly
red.

Duke Isgrimnur raised Kvalnir in the air and shouted
for Sludig, for Hotvig, but his voice was swallowed by

TO OREEN ANGEL TOWER          681

the din. He turned his horse in circles, trying to find some
area where the forces were concentrated, but already his
army was scattered in a thousand separate pieces. Al-
though he had been fighting vigorously for some time,
Isgrimnur still could not quite believe what was happen-
ing. They were under attack by creatures out of old sto-
ries. The battlefield, grim but familiar less than an hour
before, had now become a nightmare of otherworldly
punishment.

Josua's standard had been thrown down; Isgrimnur
searched in vain for something he could use to give his
forces a rallying point. A giant fell to the snow, thrashing
as it died with a dozen arrows crackling beneath it, and
the duke's horse bolted away despite his attempts to con-
trol it, pulling up at last in an eddy of calm on the part of
the northeastern hillside nearest the Kynswood.

When he had steadied his mount, Isgrimnur sheathed
Kvalnir and removed his helmet, then tugged his surcoat
up, grunting at the pain in his back and ribs. For a mo-
ment his bulky mail prevented him from pulling the gar-
ment over his head; Isgrimnur struggled, cursing and
sweating, horrified at the thought of being taken by sur-
prise and struck down in such a ridiculous position. The
surcoat ripped at the armholes and he yanked it free at
last, then looked around for something to which he could
tie it. One of the Noms' pikes lay on the snow. Isgrimnur
unsheathed his sword, then leaned over, grunting, and
hooked it up so he could grab the long shaft. As he tied
the shirt sleeves to the smooth grayish wood, he stared at
the bladed tip that seemed to blossom like a knife-petaled
flower. When he had finished, he lifted the makeshift
banner above his head and rode back into the thick of the
battle, roaring a Rimmersgard war song that even he
could not hear.

He had already dodged one swinging blow from an ax-
wielding Norn before he realized his helm was still
swinging on his saddle hom. Kvalnir bounced ineffect-
ively from the creature's strange painted armor. Isgrimnur
managed to catch the returning blow on his arm, suffering
only torn mail and a shallow gouge in his flesh, but the

682 Tad Williams

Norn was very nimble on the slippery snow, and was cir-
cling rapidly for another attack. The wind abruptly blew
the banner across the duke's face.

Killed by my own shirt, was his brief thought, then the
cloth flapped away again. A dark something heaved into
his field of sight and the Nom staggered sideways, blood
erupting from a split helmet. The new arrival wheeled
about in a splash of snow and returned to ride d6wn
Isgrimnur's reeling enemy.

"You are alive," Sludig gasped, swiping his dripping ax
against his cloak-

Isgrimnur took a breath, then shouted over the growing
rumble of thunder. "This is a damnable mess-where's
Freosel?"

Sludig indicated a knot of struggling shapes a hun-
dred cubits away. "Come. And put your damned helmet
on."

"They're coming down the waits!" someone shouted.

Isgrimnur looked over to see rope ladders unrolling at the
far end of the Hayholt's sloping outwall. The darkening sky
and the dizzying flashes of intermittent lightning made it
hard to see anything clearly, but to Isgrimnur the men mak-
ing their way down the ladders looked like mortals.
"God damn their mercenary souls!" the duke growled.
"And now we're pinched from both sides. We're being
forced back against the walls and we won't have the advan-
tage of numbers much longer." He turned and looked past
his small, besieged company. Across the battlefield he could
see determined clumps of men, Seriddan's Nabbanai legions
and Hotvig's horsemen, trying to fight their way toward his
surcoat-banner, which now waved on the strut of a scaling
ladder socketed in the muddy ground. The question was
whether Hotvig and the rest could cut their way through be-
fore Isgrimnur's small party was crushed between the Noms
and the mercenaries.

Perhaps we should fall back toward the'base   of the
castle walls, he thought,-even try to fetch   up in front of
that new gate. There was little else he and   Sludig and the
rest could do: they were going to be forced   back in any

TO    GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

683

case, so they might as well pick their spot. The duke had
noticed that none of Elias' soldiers were atop the gate: he
guessed it might not be wide enough. If that was true, he
and his small company could use it as a rearguard without
having to worry about missiles from above. With their
backs protected, they could hold off even the fearsome
Norns until the rest of the soldiers fought through ... or
so he hoped.

And maybe if we make ourselves a little room we can
force that cursed gate, or use those ladders, and go in af-
ter Isorn. No reason Elias shouldn't have some mortal
foxes in his henyard for a change.

He turned back to the horde of pale, black-eyed crea-
tures and their witchwood blades. Lightning split the sky
again, eclipsing for a moment the scarlet smolder of the
Conqueror Star. Dimly, Isgrimnur heard a bell toiling, and
felt it in his gut and bones as well. For a moment he saw
what looked like flames crawling at the edge of his vi-
sion, but then the storm-darkness fell again.

God help us, he thought distractedly. That's the noon
bell in the tower. And here it is black as night. Aedon, it's
so dark. .. .

*

"Oh! Mother of Mercy!" Miriamele looked down from
the balcony, horrified. Below her perch on the king's res-
idence, the Inner Bailey was a sea of men and horses that
moved in strange rippling patterns of conflict. Snow
whipped and circled in the wind, making everything in-
distinct. The sky was knotted with stormclouds, but the
red star burned visibly behind them, its long tail casting
a faint bloody glow over all. "Uncle Josua has begun the
siege!" she cried. Their hurry to find him and warn him
seemed to have been for nothing.
The climb up the stairs had led them at last to a door
hidden in the lower recesses of the storerooms beneath
the king's residence. Miriamele, who prided herself on
her knowledge of the Hayholt's ins and outs, many of
them discovered while in her Malachias disguise, had

684

Tad Williams

been shocked to discover that a passageway to old Asu'a
had been beneath her nose all the time she had lived
here-but there were more surprises waiting.

The second came when they emerged cautiously into
the ground-level portions of the residence. Despite the
howling of wind and the roar of wild voices outside, the
many chambers of the residence were deserted ,and
showed little evidence of any recent habitation. As they
passed through the cold rooms and grimy hallways,
Miriamele's fear of discovery had lessened, but her sense
of things being wrong had grown steadily. Braced for any
number of unhappy discoveries, she had entered her fa-
ther's sleeping chamber only to Find it not just empty, but
in such a fetid and bestial state that she could not imagine
who might have been living there.

Now they had emerged onto a small sheltered balcony
off one of the third floor rooms, where they crouched be-
hind its stone railing, peering through the ornamental slits
at the madness below. The air smelled strongly of
lightning-tang and blood.

"I fear that is true." Binabik spoke in a loud voice: be-
tween the uproar of combat and the howling winds, there
was no fear of drawing attention. "People are fighting
down below, and there are men and animals lying dead.
But still something there is that is strange. I wish we
could be seeing beyond the castle walls."

"What do we do?" Miriamele looked about frantically.
"Josua and Camaris and the rest must still be outside. We
have to get out to them somehow!"

The daylight, darkened by stormclouds until the whole
of the castle seemed sunk in deep water, shifted and flick-
ered strangely, then for a moment the world suddenly
shouted and went white. A coil of lightning had snapped
down like a fiery whip; thunder rattled the air and even
seemed to shake the balcony beneath them. The lightning
curled around Green Angel Tower, hung for a moment as
the thunder echoes faded, then sputtered out of existence.

"How?" Binabik shouted. "I do not know this castle.
What places might there be for escaping?"

Miriamele was having trouble thinking. The noises of

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          685
wind and combat made her want to scream and cover her
ears; the whirling clouds overhead dizzied her. She ab-
ruptly remembered Cadrach, who had been trailing along
behind them, silent and unresponsive as a sleepwalker
Miriamele turned, certain that he had taken advantage of
their confusion to sneak away, but the monk was
crouched in the doorway, gazing up at the tempestuous,
red-shot sky with a look of resignation.

"Perhaps we could get out through the Seagate," she
said to the troll. "If Josua's army is at the walls above
Erchester, perhaps there will be only a few ..."

Binabik's eyes widened. "Look there!" He thrust his
hand through the slitted railing to point. "Is that not... ?
Oh, Daughter of the Mountains!"

Miriamele squinted, trying to make sense out of the
madness below her, and saw that there was more to the
antheap-swirl of activity than just defenders running to
and from the moat-bridge that led to the Middle Bailey. In
fact, there seemed to be a fight of some kind taking place
on the bridge itself. A large knot of armed men in the
Middle Bailey was forcing a smaller troop of riders and
footmen back across the moat. As she stared, one of the
horses reared and tumbled from-the span, taking its rider
with it into the dark water. Were Josua's forces inside the
wall already, and pushing toward the Inner Bailey? Could
those few on the bridge be the last of her father's defend-
ers? But then what of all the armored men just below her
who were doing nothing to support the retreating horse-
men? Who were they?

And then, as the small troop on the bridge was forced
back even farther, she saw what Binabik had seen. One of
the riders, standing almost impossibly tall in his saddle,
swung his blade high overhead. Even in the false twilight
she could see that the sword was black as coal.

"Oh, God, save us." Something cold clutched at her in-
nards. "It's Camaris!"

Binabik was leaning forward, his face pressed against
the stone rails. "I am thinking I see Prince Josua, too-
there, in the gray cloak, riding near to Camaris." He
turned to her, his face fearful. Another jagged lightning

686 Tad Williams

flash silvered the sky. "And there are so few with them-
they could not have been fighting their way inside the
walls, I am guessing. Somehow they have been tricked
into bringing the sword into the castle."

Miriamele hammered her palms against the balcony
floor. "What can we do?'"

The troll peered out through the rails again. "I am not
knowing," he half-shouted. "I have no thoughts at all!
Kikkasut! We will be cut in pieces if we go down to
them-and they have already been bringing the sword!
Kikkasut!"

"There are flames in the tower window," Cadrach said
in a loud, flat tone.                        •

Miriamele glanced briefly at both Green Angel Tower
and Hjeldin's Tower, but except for the clot of writhing
clouds above the tall spire of the first, she could see noth-
ing unusual.

"See!" Binabik called. "Something is happening!" He
sounded angry and puzzled. "What are they doing?"

Josua and Camaris and their small company of allies
had been driven across the bridge and onto the soil of the
Inner Bailey. But the rest of the mercenary troops milling
haphazardly inside the bailey did not step up to cut them
off; rather, a ragged gap formed in their ranks, a split
which gradually opened into a path that led from the base
of the moat-bridge to the front steps of Green Angel
Tower. As the rest of the king's soldiers pushed their way
across the bridge, Josua and his followers were forced to-
ward the tower. Astoundingly, the mercenaries on either
side did not menace them at all until Camaris, on his pale
horse, tried to turn the troop sideways to cut his way
through the wall of enemies. The king's forces resisted
fiercely and the small company was thrown back, then
driven again across the open space toward Green Angel's
waiting steps.

"The tower!" said Miriamete. "They're forcing them to
the tower! What... ?"

"The Sithi-place!" Binabik sprang up suddenly, all
thought of hiding now gone. "The place ^vhere the Storm

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              687

King was making his last battle- Your father and Pryrates
are wanting the swords there!"

Miriamele stood. Her knees were weak. What mon-
strous thing was happening before them. as relentless and
inescapable as the clutch of a nightmare? "We have to go
to them! Somehow! Maybe ... maybe there's still some-
thing we can do!"

Binabik grabbed his pack from the floor inside the bal-
jcony window. "Where and how are we going to them?"
he asked her.

Miriamele stared at him, then at silent Cadrach. For a
moment, her mind was empty of everything except the
howling of the wind outside. At last, a memory fluttered
up from the depths.

"Follow me." She shouldered her pack and Nom bow
and ran across the damp stone toward the doorway and
the residence stairs. Binabik hurried after her. She did not
look back to see what Cadrach did.

A

Tiamak and Josua scrambled up the stairwell, silent ex-
cept for their labored breath, struggling to stay close be-
hind Camaris. A flight above them the knight climbed
steadily, unheeding as a sleepwalker, his powerful legs
carrying him upward two steps at a time.

"How could any stairs stretch so high?" Tiamak
gasped. His lame leg was throbbing.

"There are mysteries in this place I never dreamed."
Josua held his torch high, and the shadows leaped from
crevice to crevice along the richly-textured walls. "Who
knew a whole world still remained down here?"

Tiamak shuddered. The silver-masked Norn Queen
hovering over the Skin's sacred pool was a mystery that
the Wrannaman wished he had never discovered. Her
words, her chill invincibility, and especially the dreadful
power that had filled the cavern of the Pool of Three
Depths, had haunted him all the way up the great stair-
case. "Our ignorance is thrown back at us," he panted.
"We are fighting things we only guessed at, or glimpsed

688 Tad Williams

in nightmares. Now the Sithi are locked in struggle with
that... she-thing, fighting, dying ,.. and we do not even
know why."

Josua turned his gaze from the old man's back to peer
briefly at Tiamak. "I thought that was the task of the
Scroll League. To know such things."

"Those who went before us knew more than we do,"
Tiamak replied. "And there is much that even Morgenes
and the others never learned, much hidden even to
Eahlstan Fiskerne, who they say was a true if secret
friend to the Sithi. The immortals have always been tight-
fisted with their lore."

"And who can blame them, after the harm mortals have
done with nothing more than stone and iron and fire."
Josua glanced at the marsh man again. "Ah,' merciful
God, we are wasting breath on talk. I see pain on your
face, Tiamak. Let me carry you a white."

Tiamak, climbing doggedly, shook his head. "Camaris
has not slowed. We would fall farther behind, and if we
leave the stairs we might lose him again, with no Sithi
this time to help us find our way. He would be alone, and
we might wander here forever." He mounted several more
steps before he had the breath to speak again. "If need be,
let me trail behind. It is more important you stay with
Camaris than with me."
Josua did not say anything, but at last nodded unhap-
pily.

The terrible sensation of shifting eddied away, and with
it the dancing lights that, for a moment, had made Tiamak
think the great staircase was burning. He shook his head,
trying to clear his rattled thoughts. What could be hap-
pening? The air seemed strangely hot, and he felt the
hairs on his arm and neck prickling.

"Something dreadful is happening," Tiamak cried. He
staggered in Josua's shadow, wondering if the increasing
force of the strange slippages meant that the Nom Queen
was defeating the Sithi. The thought fastened on him as
though it had claws. Perhaps she had escaped the pool.
Would she follow him and the prince up the darkened

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

689

stairs, silver mask expressionless, white robes flutter-
ing. .. ?

"He's gone!" Josua's voice was full of horror. "But
how can that be?"

"What? Gone where?" Tiamak looked up.

The torchlight revealed a place where the stairwell
abruptly stopped, capped by a low ceiling of stone.
Camaris was nowhere in sight.

"There is no place he could have hidden!" the prince
said.

"No, look!" Tiamak pointed toward a fissure in the
ceiling wide enough to allow a man to crawl through.

Josua quickly lifted Tiamak up into the hole, then held
him steady while the Wrannaman probed for something to
grasp. Tiamak found he could almost push his head above
the surface on the far side. He pulled himself up and
through, fighting against his treacherous, weary muscles,
and when he lay quivering on the stone floor he called
down through the fissure: "Come! It's a storeroom!"

Josua tossed up the torch. With a helping hand from
Tiamak, he struggled upward through the crack. Together
they raced across the room, dodging the bits of wreckage
strewn about, and climbed a rickety ladder through a
hatchway. Beyond this was another storeroom, this one
with a small window high in the wall. Threatening black
clouds roiled in the box of sky visible there, and cold
wind bled through. Another hatchway led to yet one more
level.

As Tiamak put his aching leg to the bottommost rung,
a crash resounded back through the hatch door, a sudden
and violent sound. Josua, who climbed above him, sped
up the ladder and disappeared.

When Tiamak made his way to the top, he found him-
self in a small, shadowy room, staring at the flinders of a
door strewn outward into the chamber beyond. He could
see torchlight in the chamber, and figures moving. Josua's
voice rang out.

"You! May God send your black soul to hell!"

Tiamak hurried to the doorway, then stopped, blinking
as he tried to make sense of the wide circular room that

690 Tad Williams

opened before him. On his left, the windows above the
tall main doors streamed with scarlet-tinted light that vied
with the dull glow of torches in the wall sconces. Just a
few cubits before the Wrannaman, Camaris stood in the
ruins of the smaller door which had blocked his own way
out into the chamber; the old knight now stood motion-
less, as though stunned. Josua was only an arm's length
away from Camaris, Naidel unsheathed and dangling in
his hand. Two dozen paces beyond them, on the far side
of the stone floor, a small door in the wall mirrored the
one Camaris had just burst into flinders. On Tiamak's
right, beyond a high arch, a great sweep of stairs coiled
upward out of sight.

But it was the figures on the bottom steps of this stair-
case that caught and held Tiamak's eye, as they had
Josua's-especially the bald man in the flapping red robe,
who stood tall in the midst of a strew of human bodies,
like a fisherman in a shallow stream. One armored man
he still held by the shoulders, though the way the sol-
dier's gold-helmeted head wagged suggested he had long
since stopped fighting.

"Damn you, Pryrates, let him go!" cried Josua.

The priest laughed. With a shrug, he effortlessly threw
aside ... Camaris, who clattered on the stone flags and
lay still, black blade clutched in his fist.

Tiamak stared in numb astonishment. The Camaris he
and Josua had followed still stood nearby, wavering
slightly like a tree in a stiff breeze. How could there be
two? Who sprawled there?

"Isom!" Josua shouted, his voice ragged with grief.
Tiamak suddenly remembered, and the terror that
clutched him clamped tighter. The deception they had
conceived with the Sithi had come to this-this clutter of
motionless men? Nearly a dozen soldiers, including pow-
erful young Isom, and the priest had defeated them with
his bare hands? What could possibly stop Pryrates and his
immortal ally now? Josua and his companions had but
one of the Great Swords, and its wielder, Camaris,
seemed lost in a dreaming daze....
"I'll have your heart for this," Prince Josua snarled,

TO    GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

691

leaping toward the stairway. Pryrates lifted his hands and
a nimbus of oily yellow light flickered around the alche-
mist's fingers. As Naidel came flashing toward him in a
wide, deadly arc, Pryrates' hand snaked out and caught
the blade. The point of contact hissed like a hot stone
dropped into water, then the priest grabbed Josua's sword
arm and pulled him forward. The prince struggled, flail-
ing at Pryrates with his other, handless arm, but the priest
caught that too and drew Josua toward him until their
faces were so close it seemed that the alchemist might
kiss the prince.

"It is almost too easy," Pryrates said, laughing.

Tiamak, weak with fear, slid back into the shadows of
the doorway. / must do something-but who am I? The
Wrannaman could barely stand upright. A little man, a
nobody! I am no fighter! He would catch me and kill me
like a tiny fish.

"There is no hell deep enough for you," Josua grated.
Sweat streamed down his face, and his sword arm trem-
bled, but he seemed as helpless as a child in the priest's
prisoning grip.

"And I will visit them all." Pryrates extended his arms
again. The yellow light wavered around him. "You are
one of the few who have balked me, Lackhand. Now you
will see that your interference comes to-nothing." He
flung Josua against the nearby arch. The prince struck
hard and slid down to lie motionless beside a man dressed
in his own gray surcoat and armor-the Nabbanai baron's
brother, Brindalles. The man's right arm, like Josua's,
ended in a black leather cap, but Brindalles' arm was bent
at an angle that made Tiamak's stomach lurch. There was
no sign of life on the impostor's pale, blood-flecked face.

Tiamak shrank farther back into the shadows, but
Pryrates did not even look at him. Instead, the priest
moved up the stairwell, then stopped and turned to
Camaris,

"Come, old one," he said, and smiled. Tiamak thought
his grin as empty and mirthless as a crocodile's. "I can
feel the ward solidifying, which means the time has come.
You need carry your burden only a little farther."

692 Tad Williams

Camaris took a step toward him, then stopped, shaking
his head slowly. "No," he said hoarsely. "No. I will not
let it. .." Something of his real self had returned; Tiamak
felt a faint swelling of hope.
Pryrates only crossed his arms on his scarlet breast. "It
will be interesting to watch you resist. You will fail, of
course. The pull of the sword is too strong for any mortal,
even a tattered legend like yourself."

"Damn you," Camaris gasped. His body twitched and
he shifted his balance back and forth, as though he fought
some invisible thing that sought to tug him toward the
stairs. The old knight sucked in a breath with a painful
gasp. "What manner of creature are you?"

"Creature?" Pryrates' hairless face was amused. "I am
what a man who accepts no limits can become...."

While his last words still hung in the air, there was a
sudden booming concussion. Where the door on the op-
posite side of the chamber had been, a murky cloud bil-
lowed. Several shadowy figures stumbled through,
indistinguishable in the smoke.

"How exciting." Pryrates' tone was sardonic, but
Tiamak saw a certain animation creep into the alchemist's
face that had not been there before. The priest took a step
downward and peered into the haze. A moment later he
reeled back, gurgling, with a black arrow all the way
through his neck, its head standing out a handspan be-
yond the skin. Pryrates stumbled in place for a moment,
then felt and rolled down the stairs to lie beside his vic-
tims. Blood pooled beneath his head, as though his bright
robes melted and ran.

A

Miriamele Stared up and down the narrow hallways,
struggling to regain her bearings. The Chancelry had been
a daunting maze when she had lived in the castle, but it
was even more confusing now. Familiar doors and hall-
ways were not quite where they should be, and all the
passages seemed the wrong lengths, as though the Chan-
celry's dimensions had somehow become shiftingly fluid.

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

693

Miriamele struggled to keep her head. She was certain
she could eventually "find a way through, but she feared
the loss of precious time.

As she waited for her companions, the freezing wind
which whistled through the unshuttered windows rolled a
few crumpled parchments past her feet.

Binabik trotted around the comer. "I did not mean that
you should be waiting for me," he said. "I was stopping
only because I saw these. They have come through the
window, I am thinking." He handed her three arrows of
plainer workmanship than the Nom shafts she had scav-
enged earlier. "There were others, too, but they had been
broken by striking on the stone walls."
Miriamele had no quiver to put them in. She slipped
them into the open corner of her pack beside Simon's
prize and the shafts she had saved from the tunnels. Even
with Binabik's additions she stil! had far fewer arrows
than she would have liked, but it was a relief to know that
if it came to it, she need not sell her life cheaply.

Look at me, she marveled. The world is ending, the
Day of Weighing-Out has come at last ... and I'm play-
ing at soldier.

Still, it was better than letting the terror push through.
She felt it coiling inside her, and knew that if she let go
of composure for even a moment she would be over-
whelmed.

"I wasn't waiting." She pushed away from the wall.
"Just making sure I know the way. This place was always
difficult, but now it's almost impossible. And it's not just
this...." She gestured at the smashed furniture and the
ghostly rags of parchment, the doors splintered off their
hinges that lay across the passage. "There are other
changes too, things I don't understand. But I think I'm
right, now. We must go quietly from here, wind or no
wind-we're almost to the chapel, and that's right beside
the tower."

"Cadrach is coming." The troll said it as though he
thought she might care.

Miriamele curled her lip. "I'm not waiting. If he can
keep up, then let him." She hesitated for a moment, then

694

Tad Williams

pulled one of the arrows from her pack and nocked it, let-
ting it sit loosely on the bowstring. Armed, she set off
down the narrow hallway. Binabik looked back, then
scurried after her.

"He has been having as much hurt as us, Miriamele,"
said the troll. "Maybe more. Who can say what things he
or she would be doing under Pryrates' torturing?"

"The monk has lied to me more times than I can
count." The thought of his betrayals burned so fiercely in-
side her that for a moment she was not even afraid. "One
word of truth about the swords, about Pryrates, might
have saved us all."

Binabik's face was unhappy. "We are not losing every-
thing yet."

"Not yet."

Cadrach caught up to them in the chaplain's walking
hall. The monk said nothing-perhaps in part because he
was fighting for breath-but fell in behind the troll.
Miriamele allowed herself one icy stare.

As they reached the door, everything seemed to shift
again. For a moment Miriamete thought ^he saw pale
flames running up the walls; she struggled not to cry out
as, for a dreadful instant, she felt herself torn apart. When
the sensation passed, she did not feel as though she had
been completely restored.

Long moments passed before she felt able to speak,

"The .., chapel is on ... the other side." Despite the
incessant keening of the wind beyond the walls, Miramele
whispered. The terror inside her was struggling to break
free and it took all her strength to keep it in place.
Binabik was wide-eyed and unusually pale; Cadrach
looked ill, his forehead moist, his gaze fever-bright. "On
the far side there is a short hallway that leads directly into
the tower. Look to your feet. With all these broken things
about, you might trip and hurt yourself-" she pointedly
addressed her concern only to Binabik, "-or make
enough noise that whoever is inside will hear us coming."

The troll smiled wanly. "Like hare's feet are the steps
of the Qanuc," he whispered. "Light on snows or rock."

"Good." Miriamele turned to stare at the monk, trying

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER           695

to divine what further treachery might lurk behind his wa-
tery gray eyes, then decided it did not matter. There was
little Cadrach could do to worsen their situation: the time
for stealth would be over in moments, and what had been
their greatest hope seemed now to have been turned
against them.

"Follow me, then," she told Binabik.

As she opened the door into the transept of the chapel,
the cold reached out and grasped at her; a cloud of her
steaming breath hung in the air. She paused for a moment
and listened before leading her companions out onto the
wide chapel floor. Snow had drifted into the corners and
against the walls, and pools of water lay everywhere on
the stone. Most of the benches were gone; the few tapes-
tries that remained flapped in ragged, moldy strips. It was
hard to believe it had once been a place of comfort and
refuge.

The storm and the clamor of the struggle outside were
also louder here. When she looked up, she learned the
reason.

The great dome overhead had been ruptured, the glass
saints and angels all tumbled and shattered into colored
dust. Miriamele trembled, awed even after all she had ex-
perienced to see a familiar thing so changed. Snowflakes
swirled lazily downward, and the storm-darkened sky,
touched with the bloodlight of the flaming star, twisted in
the broken frame like an angry face.

As they made their way across the front of the apse,
past the altar, Miriamele saw that other forces beside im-
personal nature had worked desecration here: crude hands
had smashed the faces of the holy martyrs' statues, and
had smeared others with blood and worse things.

Despite the dangerous footing, they made their way si-
lently across to the far transept. She led them down a
slender passageway to a door set deeply into the rock.
She stooped and listened at the keyhole, but could hear
nothing through the echoing din that leaked from above.
A strange, painful, prickling sensation came over her, as
though lightning were in the air-but lightning was in the
air, she reminded herself,

696

Tad Williams

"Miriamele...." Cadrach sounded fhghtened.

She ignored him, trying the latch. "Locked," she said
quietly, then shrugged against the crawling itch, which
was worsening. "And too heavy for us to knock down."

"Miriamele!" Cadrach pulled at her sieeve. "Some kind
of barrier is being formed. We will be trapped."

"What do you mean?"

"Can you not sense it pushing in on us? Feel your skin
creep? A barrier is being formed and drawn inward to
surround the tower. Pryrates' work-I feel his heedless
power."

She stared at the monk, but there was no sign of any-
thing but unfeigned concern on his face. "Binabik?" she
asked.

"I am thinking he speaks rightly." He, too, was begin-
ning to twitch. "We will be squeezed in a most comfort-
less way."

"Cadrach, you opened the dwarrows' door. Open this
one."

"This is a simple lock. Lady, not a door-warding spell."

"But you have been a thief, too!"

He shivered. Wisps of hair were beginning to stand up-
right on his head, and Miriamele could feel a stirring on
her own arms and scalp. "I have no lockpicks, no
tools-it is useless. Perhaps it is just as well. I wager it
will be a quick death."

Binabik hissed in exasperation. "I am not wanting any
death, of quickness or slowness, if it can be escaped." He
stared at the door for a moment, then threw down his
pack and began to rummage in it.

Miriamele watched helplessly. The oppressive feeling
was growing by the moment. Praying they could find
some other way into the tower, she hurried back up the
passageway, but within a dozen strides the air seemed to
become grossly thicker, harder to breathe. A strange hum-
ming was in her ears and her skin burned. Unwilling to
give up so easily, she took a few more steps; each was
more difficult than the last, as though she waded in deep-
ening mud.

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                             697

"Come back!" Cadrach cried. 'That will do you no
good!"

She turned with difficulty and made her way back to
the door. "You were right, there is no going back. But this
thing, this barrier, moves so slowly!"

The monk was scratching frenziedly at his arms. "Such
things take a certain time to appear, and the priest has ex-
pended much power summoning it. He obviously intends
nothing should go in or come out."

Binabik had found a small leather sack and was rooting
in it. "How do you know it's Pryrates?" Miriamele asked.
"Perhaps it's ... the other."

Cadrach shook his head mournfully, but there was a
hard core of rage beneath. "I know the red priest's work.
Gods! I shall never forget the feeling of his filthy pres-
ence in my head, in my thoughts...."

"Miriamele, Cadrach," the troll said. "Lift me up."

They bent and raised him from the floor, then moved at
his direction to the side of the door. The air seemed to be
tightening around them: the effort to lift tiny Binabik
seemed tremendous. The troll climbed until he stood with
his feet on their quivering shoulders.

"It's ... hard to ... breathe," Miriamele panted. Some-
thing was buzzing in her ears. Cadrach's mouth hung
open and his chest heaved.

"No speaking." Binabik reached up and poured a hand-
ful of something into the door's upper hinge.

Miriamele's ears were hammering now; she felt
squeezed, as though held in a huge, crushing fist. A con-
stellation of sparks spun in the shadows before her.

"Turn away your faces," Binabik gasped, then took
something from his hand and smacked it sharply against
the hinge.
A sheet of light filled Miriamele's eyes. The throttling
fist became a giant open hand that slapped her away from
the door. Despite the force, she fell backward only a little
way and retained her feet, buoyed by the unseen but en-
croaching barrier. Binabik toppled from her shoulders and
fell onto the ground between her and Cadrach.

698 Tad Williams

When she could see again, the door lay a-tilt in its
frame, half-obscured by drifting smoke.

"Through!" she said, and tugged the troll's arm. He
snatched up his pack, then they pushed into the dark
space, stumbling on the tipped door. For a moment
Miriamele stuck in the doorway, her pack wedged, her
bow snagged on the broken hinge, but she fought free at
last. When they had passed over into Green Angel Tow-
er's broad antechamber, the pressure was suddenly gone.

"Lucky we are the hinges were outside," Binabik
gasped, fanning the air.

Miriamele stopped and stared. Through the murk she
could see a flash of bright red on the tower's staircase. A
moment later the smoke had cleared enough that she
could clearly see Pryrates' gleaming pink skull. Bodies
lay scattered at his feet, and Camaris stood before him in
the room's center. The old man was staring at the priest
with such hopeless misery that Miriamele felt her heart
tear in her breast.

Grinning, Pryrates turned from the old knight and took
a step down, swiveling his bottomless black eyes toward
the doorway where she stood. The door's destruction
seemed to have startled him no more than the fall of a
tumbling leaf. Without thinking, Miriamele lifted her
bow, straightened the arrow, drew, and fired. She aimed
for the widest pan of the priest's body, but the shaft flew
high. It seemed a miracle when she saw Pryrates stumble
backward. When she saw that the arrow stood from his
throat, she was too dumbfounded at her own shot even to
feel joy. The priest fell and rolled bonelessly down the
few remaining steps to the antechamber floor.

"Chukku's Stones!" the troll gasped. "You have ended
him."

"Uncle Josua!" she shouted. "Where are you? Camaris!
It's a trick! They wanted us to bring the swords!"

I've killed him! The thought was a quiet bloom of ex-
ultation deep inside her. I've killed the monster!

"The sword must not be going any farther," cried
Binabik.

The old knight took a few lurching steps toward them,

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER
699

but even with Pryrates facedown on the floor, dead or
dying, Camaris still seemed in the grip of some terrible
power. Of Josua there was no sign; but for the old man,
all in the chamber lay motionless.

Before anyone could speak again a bell rang in the
tower high above, monstrously loud, lower and deeper
than any bell Miriamele had ever heard. The very stones
of the wide room shuddered, and she felt its tolling strike
into her bones. For an instant the antechamber seemed to
melt away, the waterstained tapestries replaced by walls
of gleaming white. Lights glittered everywhere, like fire-
flies. As the cry of the bell faded, the illusion flickered
and disappeared.

As Miriamele struggled to regain her wits, a figure rose
slowly near the foot of the stairs, grasping at the stone
arch for support. It was Josua, his cloak hanging raggedly,
his thin shirt torn at the neck.

"Uncle Josua!" Miriamele hastened toward him.

He stared at her, eyes wide and, for a brief moment,
uncomprehending. "You live," he said at last. "Thank
God."

"It's a trick," she said even as she threw her arms
around him. The small return of hope, when the greatest
perils still remained, was painful as a knife-wound. "The
false messenger-that was the rhyme about the swords! It
was a trick. They wanted the swords here, wanted us to
bring them!"

He gently disengaged himself. A trickle of blood
showed along his high hairline. "Who wanted the
swords? I do not understand."

"We were fooled. Prince Josua." Binabik came for-
ward. "It has been the planning of Pryrates and the Storm
King all along that the swords should be brought here. I
am thinking the blades will be used in some great magic."

"We didn't find Bright-Nail," Miriamele said urgently.
"Do you have it?"

The prince shook his head. 'The barrow was empty."

"Then there's hope! It's not here!"

Josua opened his mouth to reply, but a loud moan of
pain from Camaris stopped him.

7<x> Tad Williams

"Ah, God, why do You torment me?" the old man cried.
He lifted his free hand to his head as though he had been
struck by a stone. "It is wrong-that answer is wrong!"
The prince's face was full of startled concern. "We
must take him out of this place. Something in the sword
drew him here. While he still has his wits about him, we
must get him outside again."

"But Pryrates was making some barrier around the
tower," said Binabik anxiously. "Our only hope is that
now ..."

"This is my punishment!" cried Camaris. "Oh, my
God, there is too much blackness, too much sin. I am
sorry ... so sorry'"

Josua took a step toward him, then leaped away again
as Thorn flickered through the air. The prince backed to-
ward the stairwell, trying to keep himself between
Camaris and whatever called him so powerfully.

"The thing Pryrates has begun is not yet being fin-
ished," Binabik shouted. "The sword must not be going
further!"

Josua danced back from another awkward blow. He held
Naidel before him, but seemed reluctant even to use it for
defense, as though fearing he might hurt the old man.
Miriamele, full of fluttering panic, knew that the prince
would be killed if he did not resist with all his power.

"Uncle Josua! Fight back! Stop him!"

As Josua backed up the wide stairway and Camaris
reached the bottom step, Binabik bolted from her side. He
leaped across the motionless bodies lying before the stairs
and threw himself at the back of the old knight's legs,
knocking Camaris down. As Miriamele hurried forward
to help the troll, another figure came up beside her. She
was amazed to see that it was the Wrannaman, Tiamak.

"Take one of his arms, Lady Miriamele." The marsh
man*s eyes were wide with fear and his voice shook, but
he was already reaching down. "I will take the other."

Although Binabik had wrapped both his arms and legs
around the old knight's knees, Camaris was already be-
ginning to rise. Miriamele grasped at the hand that sought
to pull Binabik loose, but it slipped from her sweating

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              701

grip. She clutched again at his upper arm and this time
hung on as Camaris' long muscles bunched beneath her.
A moment later all four of them tumbled to the floor
again, landing among the scatter of bodies. Miriamele
found herself staring down into the half-open eyes of
Isom, whose slack face was as white as one of the Morns.
A scream tried to force its way out of her, but she was
clinging so fiercely to Camaris' flailing arm that she
could not think much about Isgrimnur's son. There was
only the scent of fear-sweat and rolling bodies.
She caught a glimpse of Josua, who stood a short dis-
tance away on the stairs. Camaris again began to climb to
his feet, dragging his attackers up with him.

"Josua," she panted. "He'll ... get away from us! Kill
him ... if you have to ... but stop him!"

The prince only stared. Miriamele could feel the old
knight's tremendous strength. He would shake them off in
a few moments.

"Kill him, Josua!" she screamed. Camaris was half-
standing now, but Tiamak was draped around his sword
arm; the knight's chest and stomach were unprotected.

"Something!" Binabik grunted in pain, struggling to
hold Camaris1 legs together. "Be doing something!"

But Josua only took a hesitant step forward, Naidel
hanging slack in his hand.

Miriamele let go with one arm and hurriedly groped for
Camaris' sword belt. When she had it, she slid off his arm
and grasped the belt with both hands, then braced her legs
against the bottom step and pulled backward as hard as
she could. The old man swayed for a moment, but the
tangling weight of Tiamak and Binabik were making his
movements clumsy and he could not keep his balance. He
tottered, then fell backward as heavily as an axed tree.

Miriamele's legs were caught beneath the knight. His
collapse knocked the breath from her. When Camaris
stirred after a long moment, she knew she did not have
the strength to pull him down again.

"Ah, God," the knight murmured to the ceiling. "Free
me from this song! I do not wish to go-but it is too
strong for me. I have paid and paid...."

702 Tad Williams

Josua seemed almost as wracked with torment as
Camaris. He took another step downward, then paused ,
before backing up again. "Merciful God," said the prince. '
"Merciful God." He straightened, blinking. "Keep
Camaris there as long as you can. I think I know who is I
waiting at the top of the stairs." He turned away.

"Come back, Josua!" cried Miriamele. "Don't go!"      ^

"There is no time left," he called over his shoulder as     1
he mounted upward. "I must get to him while I can. He
is waiting for me."

She suddenly realized who he meant. "No," she whis-
pered.

Camaris was still lying on the floor, but Binabik had
not let go of the knight's legs. Tiamak had been flung to
one side; he crouched at the foot of the stairs, rubbing a
bruised arm and staring at Camaris with fearful anticipa-
tion.

"Tiamak, follow him," pleaded Miriamele. "Follow my
uncle. Hurry! Don't let them kill each other."

The Wrannaman's eyes   widened. He looked at her, then
back to Camaris, his   face solemn as a frightened child's.    !
At last he clambered   to his feet and hobbled up the stairs
after Josua, who had   already disappeared into the shad-
ows.

Camaris drew himself into a sitting position. "Let me
up. I do not wish to hurt you, whoever you are." His eyes
were fixed on some distant point beyond the antechamber.
"It is calling me."

Miriamele pulled herself free and, trembling, took his
hand. "Sir Camaris, please. It is an evil spell that is call-
ing you. Don't go. If you take the sword there, everything
you have fought for may be destroyed."

The old knight lowered his pale eyes to meet hers. His
face was bleak, drawn with terrible strain. "Tell the wind
not to blow," he said hoarsely. "Tell the thunder not to
roar. Tell this cursed sword not to sing and pull at me."
But he seemed to sag, as though for a moment the sum-
moning grew less powerful.

A wordless cry like a howl of animal fear rang through
the antechamber. Miriamele suddenly remembered

TO   GREEN   ANGEL     TOWER                            703

Cadrach. She whirled to look at him where he crouched
by the doorway, but the monk yowled again and pointed.

Pryrates was climbing slowly to his feet, loose-limbed
as a drunkard. The arrow still protruded from either side
of his neck. A faint, putrescent glow played about the
torn flesh.

But he's dead.' Horror gusted through her. He's dead!
Sweet Elysia, Mother of God, I killed him!

The priest staggered a step, groaning, then turned his
sharkiike gaze toward Miriamele. His voice was even
harsher than before, ripped raw. "You ... hurt me. For that,
I will ... I will keep you alive a long time, womanchild."

"Daughter of the Mountains," Binabik said hopelessly.
He still clung to the old knight's legs. Camaris lay staring
at the ceiling, oblivious to all but the call from above.

Swaying, the priest reached up and grasped the black
shaft just behind the arrowhead and snapped it off, bring-
ing a fresh dribble of blood from the wound. He took a
couple of whistling breaths, then grasped the feathers and
drew the rest of the arrow back out through his throat, his
face stretched in a rictus of agony. He stared at the blood-
smeared thing for a moment before tossing it disdainfully
onto the floor.

"A Nakkiga shaft," he rasped. "I should have known.
The Norns make strong weapons-but not strong
enough." The bleeding had stopped, and now a tiny wisp
of smoke wafted from one of the holes in his neck.

Miriamele had nocked another arrow, and now trem-
blingly drew her bow and leveled the black point at his
face. "May ... may God send you to Hell, Pryrates!" She
struggled to form the words without falling into panicked
shrieking. "What have you done with my father?!"

"He is upstairs." The priest laughed suddenly. He stood
now without wavering, and seemed almost gleefully
drunk on his own display of power. "Your father is wait-
ing. The time we have both waited for is come. I wonder
who shall enjoy it more?" Pryrates lifted his lingers and
curled them. The air grew momentarily hotter around
Miriamele's hand, then the arrow snapped. The suddenly
empty bow almost flew from her grasp.

704

Tad Williams

"It is not so pleasant tugging out arrows that I will
stand and let you feather me all day, girl." Pry rates turned
to look back across the antechamber at Cadrach. The bro-
ken doorway behind the monk, barred by the alchemist's
ward, was full of shifting, crimson-streaked shadows. The
priest beckoned. "Padreic, come here."

Cadrach gave a low moan, then stood and took a lurch-
ing step.

"Don't do it!" Miriamele called to him.

"Do not be so cruel," said Pryrates. "He wishes to at-
tend his master."

"Fight him, Cadrach!"

The priest cocked his head. "Enough. Soon I-shall have
to go and attend to my duties." He lifted his hand again.
"Come here, Padreic."

The monk staggered forward, sweating and mumbling.
As Miriamele watched helplessly, he sank into a heap at
Pryrates' feet. face pressed against the stone. He edged
forward, quivering, and laid his cheek against one of the
priest's black boots.

"That is better," Pryrates crooned. "I am glad you are
not so foolish as to challenge me-glad that you remem-
ber. I feared you had forgotten me during your travels.
And where have you been, little Padreic? You left me and
went to keep company with traitors, I see."
"It is you who are being the traitor," Binabik shouted
at him. He grimaced as Camaris shifted, trying at last to
break the troll's grip on his legs. "To Morgenes, to my
master Ookequk, to all who were taking you in and teach-
ing you their secrets."

The priest looked up at him, amused. "Ookequk? So
you are the fat troll's errand boy? This is splendid, in-
deed. All of my old friends gathered here to share this
day with me."

Camaris was clambering to his feet. Binabik struggled
to retain his hold, but the old man reached down and ef-
fortlessly dislodged him, then straightened, black Thorn
dangling in his hand. He took a few hesitant steps toward
the stairs.

"Soon, now," said Pryrates. 'The call is very strong."

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

705

He turned his attention to Miriamele. "I fear the rest of our
conversation will have to wait. The ritual will soon reach
a delicate moment. It would be good for me to be there."

Miriamele was desperate to distract him, to keep him
away from her uncle and father. "Why do you do this,
Pryrates? What can you gain?"

"Gain? Why, everything. Wisdom such as you cannot
even imagine, child. The entire cosmos laid naked before
me, unable to hide even its smallest secret." He extended
his arms, and for a moment seemed almost to grow. His
robe billowed, and eddies of dust whirled away across the
chamber. "I will know things at which even the immortals
can only guess."

Camaris suddenly cried out as though he had been
stabbed, then stumbled toward the wide staircase. As he
did, the great bell tolled again from somewhere above,
making everything shiver and rock. The room wavered
before Miriamele's eyes; flames licked up the walls, then
vanished as the echoes faded away.

Miriamele's head was reeling, but Pryrates seemed un-
affected. "That means the moment is very near," he said.
"You hope to detain me while Josua confronts his
brother." The priest shook his hairless head. "Your uncle
can no more halt what is to come than he could carry this
castle away on his shoulders. And neither can you. I hope
I can find you when everything is finished, little
Miriamele-I am not quite sure what will remain, but it
would be a shame to lose you." His cold eyes flicked over
her. 'There is so much we will do. And we will have as
long as we want-forever, if need be."

Miriamele felt her heart smothered in an icy fist.
"But you've failed!" she shouted at him. "The other
sword isn't here! You've failed, Pryrates!"

He smiled mockingly. "Have I?"

She turned as something moved just at the edge of her
vision. Camaris' resistance had faded at last, and he was
shambling up the first flight of stairs; within moments he
had vanished around the spiraling stairwell. She watched
the old man go with dull resignation. They had done ev-
erything they could, but it had not been enough.

706 Tad Williams

Pryrates stepped past Binabik and Miriamele to follow
the old knight, then stopped at the base of the steps and
slapped at his neck. He turned slowly to stare at the troll,
who had just taken his blowpipe from his lips. Pryrates
plucked something from behind his ear and examined it.
"Poison?" he asked. "You are a fitting apprentice for
Ookequk. He was always slow to leam."

He dropped the dart on the floor and ground it beneath
his black boot, then mounted the stairs.

"He is fearing nothing," Binabik whispered, awed. "I
do not ..." He shook his head.

Miriameie stared at the priest's red garment until it had
disappeared into the shadows. Her gaze moved down to
the sad, broken bodies of Isom and the other soldiers. The
flame of her anger, which had nearly been extinguished
by fear, suddenly sprang up again.

"My father is up there."

On the floor beside them, Cadrach lay weeping with his
face buried in his sleeve.

A

Tiamak hurried up the stairs.

All our calculations, all our clever plans, our hopes, he
mourned. All for nothing. The swords were a trick, they
said. We have been foolish, foolish.. ..

He scrambled upward, ignoring the flare of pain each
step brought as he fought to keep close to Josua, who was
a slender gray shadow moving through the near-darkness
above him. Tiamak's mouth was dry. Something waited at
the top of these stairs.

Death, he thought. Death, crouching like a ghant in the
treetops.

From somewhere above the bell thundered again, a
shuddersome impact that shook him as an angry parent
shakes a child. Flames flickered again before his eyes,
and the very substance of things seemed to shred apart. It
seemed an agonizingly long time before he could see the
steps before him once more, and could make his clumsy,

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

707

nerveless legs do what he bade them. The tower ... was
it coming to life? When everything else was about to die?
Why did she send me? What can I do? He Who Always
Steps on Sand, I am so frightened!

Prince Josua pulled farther ahead, then disappeared
from view, but the lame Wrannaman climbed on. Quick
glances through the tower windows showed him brawling
chaos raging across the unfamiliar terrain below. The
Conqueror Star glared like an angry eye overhead. Snow
cluttered the reddened skies, but he could make out the
faint shapes of men swarming over the walls, small skir-
mishes forming along the battlements, other combats
spilling across the open ground around the tower. For a
moment Tiamak felt hope, guessing that Duke Isgrimnur
and the rest of Josua's army must be forcing their way
in-until he remembered the ward with which Binabik
said the tower was sealed. Isgrimnur and the others would
be unable to prevent whatever was to happen here.

So much was confusing. What exactly had Miriamele
and the troll meant about the swords? They were a trick,
somehow-and, more importantly, Pryrates and Elias
wanted them brought here. But why? What had they
planned? Clearly, Utuk'ku's presence beneath the castle
had something to do with it. The Sithi had said they could
slow her but not stop her. There had been some vast
power in the Pool of Three Depths, and Tiamak felt sure
the Nom Queen intended to harness it. The Sithi had been
struggling to slow her, but they had seemed to be failing
at even that task.

Tiamak heard Josua's voice close by. He paused, quiv-
ering, afraid to go the final steps. Suddenly he did not
want to see whatever the prince had found at the top of
the stairs. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and prayed
with all his strength that he would wake up in his banyan-
tree hut once more, everything that had happened just an
evil dream. But the sound of the restless winds outside
never faded, and when he opened his eyes the pale, pol-
ished walls of Green Angel Tower's stairwell still sur-
rounded him. He knew he must go on, although every

708 Tad Williams

hammerblow of his heart urged him to flee back down the
stairs. His legs too weak to hold him upright, he sank to
the stone, then climbed the last few steps on his hands
and knees, until his head rose past the top step into cold
wind and he found himself inside the airy bellchamber.

The huge bronze bells hung beneath the vaulted ceiling
like poisonous green marsh flowers, and indeed, despite
the buffeting wind, the chamber was filled with the odor of
decaying flesh that such flowers produced. Around the
center of the chamber a cluster of dark pillars rose to the
ceiling, and on all four sides great arched windows opened
out onto swirling snow and angry crimson clouds. Josua
stood a few steps before Tiamak, facing the north window.
The prince's attitude was stiff, as though he did not know
what to do, how to stand. Facing him, seated before the
window on a simple wooden stool, was his brother Elias.

The king wore a dark iron crown on his pale brow, and
held in his hands a long gray something that Tiamak
could not quite see. It had something of the shape of a
sword, but Tiamak's eyes could not fasten on it properly,
as though it did not entirely reside within the natural
world. The king himself was dressed in full royal pomp,
but his clothes were stained, and his cloak where the wind
caught and lifted it showed more holes than cloth.

"Throw it away?" Elias said slowly. His eyes were still
downcast, and he replied to whatever Josua had said with
the air of one who had been daydreaming. "Throw it
away? But I could never do that. Not now."

"For God's love and mercy, Elias!" Josua said desper-
ately, "it is killing you! And it is meant to do more-
whatever Pryrates has told you, he plans only evil!"

The king lifted his head, and Tiamak, though he was
behind Josua and hidden by the shadows in the stairwell,
could not help recoiling in horror. The red light from the
windows played across the king's colorless face; muscles
writhed beneath the skin like worms. But it was his eyes
that made Tiamak choke back a shout of fear. A dull
gleam smoldered in them, an inhuman light like the pallid
glare of marsh-candles,

"Aedon save us," Josua gasped.

T

709

"But this is not Pryrates' plan." Elias' lips pulled back
in a stiff smile, as though he could no longer make his
face work properly. "I am the High King, do not forget:

everything moves at my will. It is my plan. The priest has
only done my bidding, and soon I will have no further
need of him. And you ..." he rose, unfolding himself
with odd jerking movements until he stood at full height,
the uncertain gray thing still resting point-down on the
floor, "... you were my brother. Once."

"Once!?" Josua shouted. "Elias, what has happened to
you? You have become something foul-something de-
monic!" He took a step back and almost fell into the hole
of the stairwell, then turned NaideFs hilt in his trembling
hand and made the sign of the Tree over his own breast.
Thunder growled outside and the light flickered, but the
king only stared at him blankly.

"I am no demon," the king said. He seemed to be con-
sidering the matter carefully. "No. But soon I will be
more-much more-than a man. I can feel it already, feel
myself opening to the winds that cry between stars, feel
myself as a night sky where comets flare...."

"May Usires the Ransomer forgive me," Josua breathed.
"You are correct, Elias. You are -no longer my brother."

The king's calm expression twisted into rage. "And
whose is the fault?! You have envied me since you were
a child and have done your best to destroy me. You took
my wife from me, my beloved Hylissa, stole her and gave
her to Death! I have not had a moment's peace since!"
The king lifted a twitching hand. "But that was not
enough-no, cutting out my heart was not enough for
you, but you would have my rightful kingship, too! So
you covet my crown, do you?" he bellowed. "Here, take
it!" He wrenched at the dark circlet as Josua stared-
"Cursed iron-it has burned me until 1 thought I would
go mad!" Elias grunted as he ripped it free and cast it to
the floor. A seared shadow-crown of torn, blackened flesh
remained on his brow.

Josua took a step back, eyes wide with horror and pity.
Tears ran down his cheeks. "I pray ... Aedon's mercy! I
pray for your soul, Elias." The prince lifted his leather-

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

7io Tad Williams

capped arm as though to push away what he saw. "Ah,
God, you poor man!" He stiffened, then raised Naidel and ,
extended it until the point trembled before the king's i
breast. "But you must surrender that cursed sword- There
are only moments before Pryrates comes. I cannot wait."

The king dropped his chin, peering out at Josua from
beneath his eyebrows, head lolling as if his neck was bro- ,
ken. A thick droplet of blood oozed from the place where '
the crown had been. "Ah. Ah. Is it that time, then? I grow
confused, since everything has already happened-or so it '
seems ..." He swept up the gray thing, and for a moment
it hardened into existence, a long mottle-bladed sword ,
with a double guard, streaked with fiery gleams. Tiamak
quailed, but stayed where he was, unable to look away.
The blade seemed a piece of the storm-tortured sky.
"Very well. ..."

Josua leaped forward with a wordless cry, Naidel dart-
ing like lightning. The king flicked Sorrow and knocked
the blow aside, but did not return the thrust. Josua danced
back, shaking as though fevered; Tiamak wondered if
merely having the gray sword touch his own made him
quiver so. The prince waded in again, and for long mo-
ments he strove to break through his brother's guard.
Elias seemed to fight in a sort of dream, moving in sud-
den spasms, but only enough to block Josua's attacks,
waiting unti! the last moment each time as though he
knew where the prince would strike.

Josua at last drew back, gasping for breath. The sweat
on his brow gleamed as lightning flickered in the dis-
tance.

"You see," Elias said, "it is too late for such crude
methods." He paused for a moment; a rumble of thunder
gently shook the bells. "Too late." The smoky light in his
eyes flared as he lifted Sorrow. "But it is not too late for
me to enjoy a little repayment for all the evil you have
done me-my wife dead, my throne made unsafe, my
daughter's heart poisoned against me. Later I will have
other concerns. But for this time I can think on you, once-
brother." He stepped forward, the sword a shadowy blur.

Josua fought a desperate battle of resistance, but the

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

711

king had a more than human strength. He quickly backed
Josua against the southern window, then, despite the
strange stiffness of his movements, kept the prince pinned
there with heavy blows that Josua only barely managed to
keep from his vital spots. Slender Naidel was not enough
to hold the king away, and within instants Josua tottered
against the window-ledge, unable to protect himself any
longer. Elias abruptly reached out and grasped Naidel by
the blade, then yanked it from Josua's grip. Tiamak, des-
perate beyond sense, clambered up out of the stairwell
and flung himself at the king's back as Sorrow rose over-
head. The Wrannaman dragged at Ellas' sword arm.

It was not enough to save the prince. Josua flung up his
arms to protect himself, but the gray blade hammered
down at his neck. Tiamak did not see the sword bite, but
he heard the awful smash of impact and felt it shiver up
the king's arm. Josua's head jerked and he flew to one
side, blood streaming from his neck. He collapsed like an
empty sack, then lay still.

Thrown off his balance, the king staggered sideways,
then reached up and grasped the back of Tiamak's neck
with his free hand. For a moment the Wrannaman's hands
closed on Sorrow; the sword was so cold that it burned
him. A horrible lance of chill pierced Tiamak's chest and
his arms lost their feeling. He had time only to let out a
scream of anguish for his pain, for Josua, for all that had
gone so terribly wrong, then the king tugged him free and
threw him aside. Tiamak felt himself skid across the
bellchamber's stone floor, helpless, then something
smashed against his head and neck.

He lay on his side, crumpled against the wall.
Tiamak was unable to speak or move. His already fad-
vision blurred as his eyes filled with tears. A great

in

noise suddenly boomed through the chamber, shaking
even the floor beneath him. Red light bloomed even more
brightly beyond the windows, as though flames sur-
rounded the tower-for a moment they leaped high
enough that he could see them, and see the king's fire-
drawn silhouette in the window. Then they were gone.
The bell had rung a third time.

32

Tfte Tower

*

Simon, paused at the throne room door. Despite the

strange calm he had felt on his trip through the Hayholt's
underbelly, despite Bright-Nail hanging on" his hip, his
heart was thudding in his chest. Would the king be wait-
ing silently in the dark, as in Hjeldin's Tower?

He pushed through the doorway, one hand falling to his
sword hilt.

The throne room was empty, at least of people. Six si-
lent figures flanked the Dragonbone Chair, but Simon
knew them of old. He stepped inside.

The heraldic banners that had hung along the ceiling
had fallen, worried free by the leeth of the wind that
streamed in through the high windows. Flattened beasts
and birds lay in tangled piles, a few of them even draped
limply across the bones of the great chair. Simon stepped
over a waterstained pennant; the falcon stitched upon it
stared, eye wide as though shocked by its tumble from the
heavens. Nearby, partially covered by other damp ban-
ners, lay a black cloth with a stylized golden fish. As Si-
mon looked at it, a memory came drifting up.

The tumult was growing outside. He knew he had little
time to spare, but the wisp of memory teased him. He
moved toward the black malachite statues. The pulsing
storm light made their features seem to writhe, and for a
moment Simon worried that the same magics that made
the entire castle shift and change might be bringing the
stone kings to life, but to his relief they remained frozen,
dead.

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

7i3

Simon stared at the figure standing just to the right of
the great chair's yellowed arm. Eahlstan Fiskeme's face
was lifted as though he looked to a glory beyond the win-
dows, beyond the castle and its towers. Simon had gazed
many times at the martyr-king's face, but this time was
different.

He's the one I saw, he realized suddenly. In the dream
Leieth showed me. He was reading his book and waiting
for the dragon. She said: "This is a part of your story, Si-
mon. " His eyes dropped to the thin circlet of gold around
his own finger. The fish symbol scribed on the band
looked back at him. What was it Binabik had told him the
Sithi writing on the ring meant? Dragons and death?

"The dragon was dead." That was what Leieth had
whispered in that not-place, the window onto the past.

And King Eahlstan is a part of my story? Simon won-
dered. Is that what Morgenes entrusted to me when he
sen! this ring to me? The greatest secret of the League of
{he Scroll-that its founder killed the dragon, not John?

Simon was Eahlstan's messenger, across five centuries.
It was a weight of honor and responsibility he could
scarcely think of now, a richness to savor if he survived,
a delicate secret that could change the lives of almost ev-
eryone he knew.

But Leieth had shown him something else, too. She had
given him a vision of Ineluki, with Sorrow in his hands.
And all Ineluki's malice was bent upon ...

The tower! The peril of the present hour suddenly
rushed back. / must take Bright-Nail there. I have been
wasting time?

Simon turned to look again at Eahlstan's stone face. He
bowed to the League's founder as to a liege-lord, relish-
ing the strangeness of it all, then turned his back on the
statue-flanked throne and walked .quickly across the stone
tiles

The tapestries in the standing room were gone, and the
stairway to the privy was exposed. Simon scrambled up the
stairs and out through the privy's window-slit, nervous ex-
citement struggling with terror inside him. The bailey might
be full of armed men, but they had forgotten about Simon

714

Tad Williams

the Ghost-Boy, who knew the Hayholt's every nook and
cranny. No, not just Simon the Ghost-Boy-Sir Seoman,
Bearer of Great Secrets!

The cold wind hit him like a battering ram, almost top-
pling him from the ledge. The wind threw snow almost
sideways, stinging his eyes and face so that Simon could
scarcely see. He held on to the window-slit, squinting.
The wall outside the window was a pace wide. Ten cubits
below, armored men were shouting and metal clashed
against metal. Who was fighting? Were those giants that
he heard roaring, or was that only the storm? Simon
thought he could make out huge white shapes thrashing in
the murk, but he dared not look too long or too closely at
what waited for him if he tumbled from the wall.

He turned his eyes upward. Green Angel Tower loomed
overhead, thrusting out from the muddle of the Hayholt's
roofs like the trunk of a white tree, the lord of an ancient
forest. Black clouds clung to its head; lightning split the
sky.

Simon let himself down from the ledge, then inched
forward along the wall on his hands and knees. His fin-
gers rapidly grew numb, and he cursed the luck that had
lost his gloves. He clung to the icy stone and tried to keep
low so the incessant winds would not pluck him loose.

Usires on the Tree! This wall was never so long before!

He might have been on a bridge above the pits of Hell.
Screams of pain and rage, as well as less definable
sounds, drifted up from the murk, some of them loud
enough to make him flinch and almost lose his grip. The
cold was terrible, and the wind kept shoving, shoving. He
kept his eyes on the wall's narrow top until it ended. An
emptiness as long as he was tall yawned before the wall's
edge and the turret that surrounded Green Angel Tower's
fourth floor. Simon crouched beside this gap, braced
against the buffeting wind as he tried to nerve himself to
jump. A surge of air shoved him hard enough to make
him lean forward until he was almost lying down atop the

wall.
There it is, he told himself. You've done it a hundred

times.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

715

But not in a blizzard, another pan of him pointed out.
Not with armed men down below who would chop you to
pieces before you even knew whether you'd survived the
fall.

He grimaced against the sleet and tucked his hands un-
derneath his arms to bring some blood back into his fin-
gers.

You carry the secrets of the League, he told himself.
Morgenes trusted you. It was a reminder, an incantation.
He touched Bright-Nail to make sure it was still secure in
his belt-its quiet song rose to his touch like the back of
a stroked cat-then carefully lifted himself to stand
hunched at the comer of the wall. After teetering precar-
iously for long moments, waiting for the wind to slacken
just a little, he said a brief prayer and leaped.
The wind caught him in midair and shoved him to the
side. He fell short of his landing. For a moment he was
slipping away into empty space, but his clawing hand
caught in one of the crenellations and he jerked to a halt,
dangling. As the wind tugged at him the tower and sky
seemed to twist above his head, as though any moment all
of creation would go topside-down. He felt the stone slid-
ing from beneath his damp fingers and quickly pushed his
other hand into the gap as well, but it was scant help. His
legs and feet dangled over nothingness, and his grip was
giving way.

Simon tried to ignore the fierce pain that raced through
his already aching joints. He might have been tied to the
wheel all over again, stretched to the breaking point-but
this time there was a way out of the torment. If he let go,
it would be over in a moment, and there would be peace.

But he had seen too much, suffered too much, to settle
for oblivion.

Straining until agony shot through him, he pulled him-
self a little higher. When his arms had bent as far as he
could make them, one hand scrabbled free, searching for
a firmer handhold. His fingertips at last found a crevice
between stones; he hauled himself upward again, an in-
voluntary shout of pain forcing its way out through his
clenched teeth. The stone was slippery, and for a moment

7i6

Tad Williams

he almost fell back, but with a last jerk he pulled his up-
per body into the crenellation and slithered ahead, his legs
still protruding.

A raven, sheltering beneath the tower's overhang,
stared at him, its yellow eyes blank. He pulled himself a
little farther forward and the raven danced away, then
stopped with its head tipped to one side, watching. ,

Simon dragged himself toward the tower window,
thinking only of getting out of the icy wind. His arms and
shoulders throbbed, his face felt seared by the bitter cold.
As he caught at the sill, he suddenly felt something seize
him from head to foot, a burning tingle that ran up and
down his skin, maddening as biting ants. The raven
leaped into the sky in a flapping blur of black feathers,
caromed once again the powerful wind, then flew upward
out of sight.

The stinging grew stronger and his limbs twitched
helplessly. Something began squeezing the air from his
chest. Simon knew that he had leaped directly into a trap,
a trap set just to catch and kill overeager scullions.
Mooncalf, he thought. Once a mooncalf ...
He half-crawled, half-fell through the tower window
and onto the stairway. The agonizing pressure abruptly
ceased. Simon lay on the cold stones, shivering violently,
and struggled to catch his breath. His head throbbed, es-
pecially the dragon-scar on his cheek. His stomach
seemed to be trying to crawl up his throat.

Something shook the tower then, a deep pealing like
some monstrous bell, a sound that rattled in Simon's
bones and aching skull, unlike anything he had ever
heard. For a long moment the world turned inside-out.

Simon huddled on the stairs, trembling. That wasn't the
tower's bells! he thought when the echoes had died and
his shattered thoughts had coalesced. They rang every
day, all my life. What was it? What's happening to every-
thing!?

A little more of the chill wore away, and blood rushed
back to the places it had fled. More than just his cheek
was throbbing. Simon ran his fingers across his forehead.
There was the beginning of a lump above his right eye;

TO   GREEN     ANGEL   TOWER                            717

even touching it lightly made him suck in his breath. He
decided he must have struck his head on something as he
flung himself through the window and onto the stairs.

It could have been worse, he told himself. / could have
hit my head when I was jumping to the battlement. I'd be
dead now. But instead I'm in the tower-the tower where
Bright-Nail needs to . .. wants to ...

Bright-Nail!

He reached down in a panic, but he had not lost the
sword: it was still caught against his hip, tangled in his
belt. At some point it had rubbed against him and cut
him-two small snakes of dried blood coiled on his left
forearm-but not badly. And he still had it. That was the
important thing.

And the sword was quietly singing to him. He felt
rather than heard it, a seductive pull that fought past the
pain in his head and battered body.

It wanted to go up.

Now? Should I just climb? Merciful Aedon, it's so hard
to think!

He raised himself and crawled to the side of the stair-
well, then propped his back against the smooth wall as he
tried to rub the knots from his muscles. When all his
limbs seemed to bend again in more or less the way they
should, Simon grabbed at the wall and pulled himself to
his feet. Immediately, the world began to tip and spin, but
he braced himself, hands pressed flat against the tracery
of reliefs that covered the stone, and after some moments
he could stand unaided.

He paused, listening to the wind moaning outside the
tower walls and the faint din of battle. One additional
sound gradually became louder. Footsteps were echoing
up the stairwell.

Simon looked around helplessly. There was nowhere to
hide. He drew Bright-Nail and felt it throb in his hand,
filling him with a heady warmth like a swallow of the
trolls' Hunt-wine. For a brief moment, he considered
standing bravely with the sword in his hand, waiting to
meet whoever was mounting the stairs, but he knew that
was terrible foolishness. It could be anyone-soldiers,

7i8 Tad Williams

Norns, even the king or Pryrates. Simon had the lives of
.others to think about, a Great Sword that must be brought
to the final battle; these were responsibilities that could
not be ignored. He turned and went lightly up the steps,
holding Bright-Nail leveled before him so the blade
would not scrape against something and give him away.
Someone had already been on these stairs today: torches
burned in the wall-sconces, filling the places between
windows with jittering yellow light.

The stairs wound upward, and within a score of steps
he came upon a thick wooden door set into the inner wall.
Relief swept through him: he could hide in the room be-
hind it, and if he was careful, peer out through the slot set
high in the door to see who climbed behind him. The dis-
covery had come not a moment too soon. Despite his
haste, the trailing footfalls had not grown any fainter, and
as he paused to fumble with the doorlatch they seemed to
become quite loud.

The door pivoted inward. Simon peered into the shad-
ows beyond, then stepped through. The floor seemed to
sag beneath his feet as he turned and eased the door
closed. He stepped away so the edge of the door could
swing past without hitting him, and his back foot came
down on nothing.

Simon made a sound of startled terror and grabbed at
the inside door handle. The door swung into the room,
tipping him even farther backward as he stabbed with his
foot for something to stand on. Panic-sweat made his grip
on the door handle treacherous. The torchlight leaking in
through the doorway showed a floor that extended only a
cubit past the door jamb and then fell away in rotted
splinters. He could see nothing below but darkness.

He had barely regained his balance, pulling himself
back onto the fragment of flooring with one hand, when
the great and terrible bell rang a second time. For an in-
stant the world fell away around him and the room with
the missing floor filled with light and leaping flames. The
sword, which he had held tightly even while dangling
over nothingness, tumbled from his grip and fell. A mo-
ment later the flames were gone and Simon was tottering

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER
719
on the edge of floor. Bright-Nail-precious, precious
thing, the hope of all the world-had disappeared into the
shadows below.

The footfalls, which had stopped for long moments
started again. Simon pushed the door closed and huddled
with his back against it, on a narrow strip of wood over
empty blackness. He heard the footsteps pass his hiding
place and move away up the stairwell-but he no longer
cared who shared the tower with him. Bright-Nail was
lost.

^

They were so high. The walls of the stairwell seemed
to lean inward, closing on her like a swallowing throat.
Miriamele swayed. If that ear-shattering bell rang a fourth
time, she would surely lose her balance and fall. The
plummet down the battering stairs would be unending.

"We are almost there," whispered Binabik.

"I know." She could feel something waiting for them
just a short distance above: the very air trembled. "I don't
know if I can go there. .. ."

The troll took her hand. "I ^m also frightened." She
could scarcely hear him over the shrilling of the wind.
"But your uncle is being there, and Camaris has now car-
ried the sword up to that place. Pryrates is there, too."

"And my father."

Binabik nodded.

Miriamele took a deep breath and looked up to where
a thin gleam of scarlet leaked past the bend of the stair-
well. Death and even worse was waiting there. She knew
she must go, but she also knew with terrible clarity that
the moment she took her next step the world she had
known would begin to end.

She ran her hands across her sweaty face.

"I'm ready."

Smoky light throbbed where the stairs opened into the
chamber above. Thunder growled outside. Miriamele
squeezed Binabik's arm, then patted at her belt, touching

720 Tad Williams

the dagger she had taken from the cold, unmoving hand
of one of Isom's men. She took another arrow from her
pack and fitted it loosely on the string of her bow.
Pryrates had been hurt once-even if she could not kill
him, perhaps she could provide a crucial distraction.
They stepped up into the bloody glow.

Tiamak's thin legs were the first thing she saw. The
Wrannaman lay unmoving against the wall with his robe
rucked up around his knees- She choked back a cry and
swallowed hard, then mounted higher; her face lifted into
the streaming wind.

Dark clouds knotted the sky beyond the high windows,
ragged edges agleam with the Conqueror Star's feverish
light. Flecks of snow swirled like ashes beneath the
chamber ceiling where the great bells hung. The sense of
waiting, of a world in suspension, was very strong.
Miriamele struggled for breath.

She heard Binabik make a small noise beside her.
Camaris knelt on the floor beneath the green-skinned
bells, his shoulders shaking, black Thorn held upright be-
fore him like a holy Tree. A few paces away stood
Pryrates, scarlet robes rippling in the powerful wind. But
neither of these held her attention.

"Father?" It came out as little more than a whisper.

The king's head lifted, but the motion seemed to take a
long time. His pale face was skeletally gaunt, his eyes
deep-sunken, gleaming like shuttered lamps. He stared at
her, and she felt herself falling into shards. She wanted to
weep, to laugh, to rush to him and help to make him well
again. Another part of her, trapped and screaming, wanted
to see this twisted thing that pretended to be him-that
could not be the man who had raised her-obliterated,
sent down into darkness where it could not trouble her
with either love or terror.

"Father?!" This time her voice carried.

Pryrates cocked his head toward her; a look of annoy-
ance hurried across his shiny face. "See? They pay no
heed. Highness," he told the king. "They will always go
where they do not belong. No wonder your reign has bur-
dened you so."

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

721

Elias shrugged his shoulders in anger or impatience.
His face was slack. "Send her away."

"Father, wait!" she cried, and took a step forward,
"God help us, don't do this! I have crossed the world to
speak to you! Don't do this!"

Pryrates held up his hands and said something she
could not hear. Abruptly she was seized all over by some
invisible thing that clung and burned, then she and
Binabik were thrown back against the chamber wall. Her
pack fell from her shoulder and tumbled onto the floor,
spilling its contents. The bow flew from her hand and
spun away out of reach. She fought, but the clinging force
gave only enough to allow her a few slow, twitching
movements. She could not move forward. Binabik strug-
gled beside her, but with no more success. They were
helpless.

"Send her away," Elias repeated, more angrily this
time, his eyes looking at anything but her.

"No, Majesty," the priest urged, "let her stay. Let her
watch. Of all the people in the world, it is your brother,"
he gestured to something Miriamele could not see,
"-who is unfortunately beyond appreciating it now-and
your treacherous daughter who forced you onto this
path." He chortled. "But they did not know that the solu-
tion you found would make you even greater than be-
fore."

"Is she in pain?" the king asked brusquely. "She is no
longer my daughter-but I will not see you torture her."

"No pain. Highness," he said. "She and the troll will
merely be ... an audience."

"Very well." The king at last met her eyes, squinting as
though she were a mile distant. "If you had-only lis-
tened," he said coldly, "if you had only obeyed me ..."

Pryrates put a hand on Elias' shoulder. "All was for the
best."

Too late. The emptiness and desperation Miriamele had
been fighting broke free and spread through her like black
blood. Her father was lost to her, and she was dead to
him. All the risks, the suffering, had been for nothing.
Her misery grew until she thought it would stop her heart.

722 Tad Williams

A fork of lightning split the sky beyond the window.
Thunder made the bells hum.

"For ... love." She forced her jaws to work against the
alchemist's prisoning spell. Each faint word echoed in her
own ears, as though she stood at the bottom of a deep
well. She told him, but it was too late, too late. "You . ..
I ... did these things ... for love."

"Silence!" the king hissed. His face was a rawboned
mask of fury. "Love! Does it remain after worms have
gnawed the bones? I do not know that word."

Elias slowly turned back to Camaris. The old knight
had not moved from his spot on the floor, but now, as
though some power in the king's attention compelled him,
he crawled a few steps closer. Thorn scraping across the
stone tiles before him.

The king's voice became curiously gentle. "I am not
surprised to see that the black sword chose you, Camaris.
1 was told that you had returned to the living. I knew that
if those tales were true, Thorn would find you. Now we
will act together to protect your beloved John's king-
dom."

Miriamele's eyes widened in horror as a figure that had
been blocked from her sight by Camaris now became vis-
ible. Josua lay crumpled just a little to one side of her fa-
ther, arms and legs splayed. The prince's face was turned
away, but his shirt and cloak were sodden crimson around
his neck, and blood had pooled beneath him. Miriamele's
eyes filled with blurring tears.

"It is time, Majesty," said Pryrates.

The king extended Sorrow like a gray tongue until it
nearly touched the old knight. Although Camaris was vis-
ibly struggling with himself, he began to lift Thorn to
meet the shadowy blade in the king's hand-
Fighting against the same force that bound Miriamele.
Binabik gave a muffled shout of warning, but still Thorn
rose in the old man's trembling hands/

"God, forgive me," Camaris cried wretchedly. "It is a
sinful world ... and I have failed You again."

The two swords met with a quiet click that cut through
the room. The noise of the storm diminished, and for a

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

723

moment the only thing audible was Camaris' moan of an-
guish.

A point of blackness began to pulse where the tips of
the two blades crossed, as though the world had been
ripped open and some fundamental emptiness was begin-
ning to leak through. Even through the bonds of the al-
chemist's spell, Miriamele could feel the air in the high
chamber suddenly grow hard and brittle. The chill deep-
ened. Traceries of ice began to form in the arches of the
windows and along the walls, spreading like wildfire.
Within moments the chamber was furred with a thin sur-
face of ice crystals that shimmered in a thousand strange
colors. Icicles were growing on the great bells, translu-
cent fangs that gleamed with the light of the red star.

Pryrates lifted his arms triumphantly. Glinting flakes
clung to his robe. "It has begun."

The somber cluster of bells at the ceiling did not move,
but the bone-shaking sound of a greater bell rang out once
more. Powdery ice fluttered as the tower trembled like a
slender tree caught in storm winds.

A

Simon tugged at the handle and cursed quietly. This
lower door was wedged shut-there would be no easy en-
try into the room beneath the missing floor-and now he
heard footsteps coming up the stairwell again.

His joints still hurt fiercely, but he scrambled back up
the stairs to the other door as quickly as he could, then
stepped inside, taking care this time to stand at the very
edge of the flooring, which had held his weight before.
He was forced to move far to the side of the door as it
closed. As the footfalls passed outside, he carefully made
his way along the strip of wood to look through the door
slit, but by the time he could reach it he glimpsed only a
small dark shape vanishing up the stairwell, lurching
strangely. He waited a score of heartbeats, listening, then
crept outside and took a torch from the nearest bracket.

To his vast relief, Simon saw by the torch's light that
there was indeed a bottom to the chamber below, and

724 Tad Williams

though parts of that lower floor had rotted through as
well, it was mostly intact Bright-Nail lay gleaming in a
pile of discarded furniture Seeing it lying there like a
piece of splendid jewelry thrown onto a midden heap, Si-
mon felt a violent pang He must get it back Bnght-Nail
must go to the tower Even from a distance, he could feel
its yearning

A faint thread of the blade's song coiled through his
thoughts as he found what seemed the most stable spot on
the floor below, gripped the butt of the torch between his
teeth, then slid his legs over the edge of the strip inside
the doorway He let himself down to the full extension of
his arms, then dropped, his heart fluttering as he landed
The wood creaked loudly and sagged a little,,but held Si
mon took a step toward Bright-Nail, but his foot sank as
though into muddy ground He hurriedly pulled it back to
see that a section of the floor a little larger than his boot
sole had crumpled and fallen in

Simon got down onto his hands and knees He made
his way across the treacherous surface with slow caution
taking more than a few splinters as he probed before him
The cry of the wind outside was muffled The torch
burned hot beside his cheek, its quavering flame threw
his shadow up on the wall, a hunched thing like a beast

He stretched out his hand Nearer    nearer    there'
His fingers closed around Bnght-Nail's hilt, and instantly
he could feel its song intensify, vibrating through him.
making him feel welcome    and more Its need became
his need

Up, he thought suddenly The word seemed a glowing
thing before his mind's eye It's lime to go up

But that was easier said than accomplished He sat back
on his haunches, wincing as the floor creaked, and re-
moved the torch from his teeth He lifted it and looked
around This room was wider than the one above, the half
of the ceiling that had not been the wood floor of the up-
per chamber was a slab of pale stone, seemingly without
support The walls were bare except for a faint scrawl of
carvings, overlaid with dust and soot There was nothing
to afford any holds for climbing, and even if he jumped,

TO    GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

725

he could not reach the bit of flooring that edged the door-
way above

Simon pondered for a moment The sword's pull was a
shadow behind his thoughts, an urgency like a quiet but
steady drumbeat He slid Bnght-Nail into his belt, reluc-
tantly releasing the hilt, then resettled the torch handle in
his jaws He crawled back across the floor toward the
door he had tried from the stairs, but it was just as im-
passable from the inside either damp weather or shifting
timbers kept it firmly closed no matter how he pulled He
sighed, then crept back to the middle of the room

Moving with extreme care, he dragged bits of broken
furniture across the floor, setting each piece carefully on
or beside the last, until he had made a shoulder-high pile
near the sealed doorway As he was sliding the scarred
surface of a discarded table into place at the top of the
heap, he again heard someone mounting the steps

It was hard to tell, but this time there seemed to be
more than one set of' feet He crouched m silence, steady-
ing the tabletop with his hand, and listened to the foot-
falls move past the door beside him, then, after a few
dragging moments, echo softly past the door above He
held his breath wondering which of his many enemies
might be climbing the tower, knowing that he would dis-
cover the answer all too soon Bright-Nail tugged at his
thoughts It was hard to sit still

When the noises had faded, Simon prodded at the pile
until he was certain it was steady He had tried to point all
the jagged edges and snapped legs downward m case he
fell, but he knew that if he did, he and the spiky pieces of
broken chairs, stools, and heavy tables would probably
break through the floor together and tumble down into yet
a lower room He did not think much of his chances if
that happened

Simon climbed the pile as gently as he could, laying
his body flat across the tabletop until he could draw his
legs up behind him The flame of the torch he held in his
teeth sizzled the ends of his hair He clambered to his feet
and felt the unsteady mass rock gently beneath him Bal-
ancing carefully, he removed the torch and held it up,

726 Tad Williams

looking for the sturdiest spot on the edge of flooring over-
head.

He was moving toward the edge of the teetering pile
when the bell rang for a third time.

Even as the thunderous peal grabbed the entire tower
and shook it, and the pile of wood fell away beneath him,
Simon let go of the torch and leaped. One piece of the
flooring overhead broke loose in his hand, but the other
held. Panting, he grasped another section with his free
hand and struggled to pull himself up, even as gusts of
purple fire chased themselves across the walls and every-
thing shifted and blurred. His arms, already tired, trem-
bled. He pulled himself higher, reaching out a hand to
grab at the doorsill, then lifted his leg until it was on the
strip of floor. The echo of the bell faded, although he felt
it still in his teeth and the bones of his skull. The lights
flickered and died, but for a faint glow beneath him. He
could smell smoke rising from the torch that now lay
among the shards of the piled furniture.

Grunting with the strain, Simon dragged himself the
rest of the way onto the safety of the narrow band of
wood. As he lay gasping for air, he saw flames beginning
to lick up from the floor below.

He scrabbled to one side as cautiously as haste would
permit, pulled the door open, then sprawled forth onto the
stairs. He tugged the door shut, leaving a few orphaned
tendrils of smoke to float and dissipate, and waited for his
hands to stop shaking quite so violently.

He pulled the sword from his belt. Bright-Nail was his
once more. He was still alive, still free. Hope remained.

As he began to climb he felt the blade's song rise in-
side him, a chant of joy, of approaching fulfillment. He
felt his own heart speed as it sang. Things would be set
right.

The sword was warm in his grip. It seemed a part of his
arm, of his body, a new organ of sense as alert and at-
tuned as the nose of a hunting hound or the ears of a bat.

Upward. It is time.

The pain in his head and limbs flowed away, to be

TO      GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

727

filled with the ever-rising triumph of Bright-Nail,
clutched firmly in his hand, safe from all harm.

It is time at last. Things will be set right. It is time.

The sword's urging grew stronger. He found it hard to
think of anything but putting one foot before the next,
carrying himself up toward the top of the tower, to the
place where Bright-Nail longed to go. Knotted, red-shot
clouds showed in the windows he passed, scarred by the
occasional jagged flicker of lightning, but the noise of the
storm seemed curiously muffled. Far louder now, at least
in his thoughts, was the song of the sword.

It's finally going to end, he thought. He could feel that,
Bright-Nail's promise. The sword would bring a halt to
all the confusions and dissatisfactions that had plagued
him for so long; when it joined its brothers, everything
would change. All that unhappiness would end.

There was no one else on the steps now. No one moved
but Simon, and he could feel that everyone, everything,
waited for him. All the world hung on the fulcrum of
Green Angel Tower, and he would be the one to shift that
balance. It was a wild, heady feeling. The sword pulled
him on, singing to him, filling him with imprecise but
powerful intimations of glory and release at every upward
step.

/ am Simon, he thought, and could almost hear trum-
pets flare and echo. / have done mighty deeds-slain a
dragon.' Won a battle! Now, I bring the Great Sword.

As he mounted up, the stairs shimmered before and be-
hind, a downward-flowing river of ivory. The pale stone
of the stairway wall seemed to glow, as if it reflected the
light that burned within him. The sky-blue carvings were
as heartbreakingly lovely as flowers strewn before the
feet of a conqueror. Completion was ahead. An end to
pain awaited him.

The bell tolled a fourth time, even more powerfully
than before.

Simon staggered, shaken like a rat in a dog's teeth as
the echoes boomed and resounded down the stairwell. A
blast of freezing air rolled past him, blurring the carvings
on the wall with a milky skin of ice. He almost dropped

728 Tad William'i

the sword again as he lifted his hands to his head and
cried out. Stumbling, he grabbed at the frame of one of
the tower's windows for support.

As he stood, shivering and moaning, the sky outside
changed. The broad smear of clouds vanished, and for a
long moment the full blackness of the sky opened before
him, dotted with tiny, cold stars, as though Green Angel
Tower had torn free of its moorings and now floated
above the storm. He stared, teeth clenched against the
bell's fading echoes. After three heartbeats the black sky
clotted with gray and red and the tower was surrounded
by storm once more.

Something tugged at his thoughts, fighting against
Bright-Nail's unslackening pull.               ,
This ... is .. . wrong. The joy that he had shared, the
feeling that he would somehow make things right, ebbed
away. Something had is happening-something very had!

But he was already moving again, mounting the stairs
toward the dim glow. He was not the master of his own
body.

He struggled. His limbs felt distant, numb. He slowed
himself, then managed to stop, shuddering in the freezing
wind that blew down the stairwell. Tiny whiskers of ice
hung from the walls, and his breath clouded about his
head, but he could feel an even greater coldness lurk-
ing somewhere above him-a coldness that somehow
thought.

He fought for a long time on the stairs, struggling to re-
gain control of his own arms and legs-a struggle against
nothing visible that went unobserved except by the cold,
inhuman presence. He could feel its hungry attention as
the sweat beading on his skin froze and fell tinkling onto
the steps. Steam rose from his overheated body, and
where the warmth left, deadening chill crept in.

The cold took Simon at last, filling him. It moved him
like a puppet on a stick. He jerked and began to stagger
upward once more, screaming silently from the prison of
his skull.

He stepped up out of the stairwell and into the vapor-
ous bellchamber; the ice-blanketed walls glimmered and

TO GRBEN ANGEL TOWER

sparkled. Storm clouds surrounded the high windows and
light and shadow moved sluggishly, as though the cold
gripped them, too.

Miriamele and Binabik stood beside the door, writhing
slowly, caught somehow like flies struggling in amber.
His eyes widened as he saw them and his heart thudded
painfully behind his ribs, but he could not call out or even
stop his feet from carrying him forward. Miriamele
opened her mouth and made a muffled noise. Tears filled
his eyes, and for a moment her pale face held him like a
tamp in a dark room-but the thing that gripped him
would not be denied. It swept him past his friends like a
river current, tugging him toward the cluster of pillars at
the center of the chamber.

Beneath the frost-furred bells three figures waited, one
kneeling. The part of Bright-Nail that had entangled itself
with him danced and leaped ... but the still-Simon part
quailed as Elias turned toward him with a face like a dead
man's. The mottled gray sword in his two fists lay against
black Thorn, and where they touched there was nullity, an
emptiness that hurt Simon's mind.

Shivering, Camaris turned to Simon, his hair and brows
powdery with ice- The old man's eyes stared in abject
misery.

"My fault ..." he whispered through chattering teeth.

Pryrates had watched Simon's lurching entrance.
Now the priest nodded, smiling tightly. "I knew you were
in the tower somewhere, kitchen boy-you and the last of
the swords."

Simon felt himself drawn closer to the place where
Thorn and Sorrow met. Through Bright-Nail, whose song
coursed inside him, he could feel the music of the other
two swords as well: the dancing throb of life that was
within all of them grew stronger as the moment of their
joining approached. Simon felt it like the speeding cur-
rent of a river's narrows, but he could also feel that there
was a barrier that somehow kept the blades apart. Al-
though two of them were touching, and only a few cubits
stood between them and the third, they all remained as
widely separated as they had ever been.

730

Tad Williams

But what was different now, what Simon felt deeply
and wordlessly in his mind's inmost, was that soon there
would be a great change. Some mighty universal wheel
lay loose on its axle, ready to turn, and when it did all the
barriers would fall, all the walls would vanish. The
swords sang, waiting.

Before he knew it, he was stepping forward. Bright-
Nail clicked against the other two blades. The shock of
contact traveled not just through Simon, but through the
room as well. The black emptiness where the swords met
deepened, a hole into which the entire world might fall
and perish. The light changed all around: the star-glow
seeping in through the windows deepened, turning the
chamber bloody, and then the dreadful bell tolled a fifth
time.

Simon trembled and cried out as the tower snook and
the energies of the swords, still pent but fighting now for
release, traveled through him. His heart stuttered, hesi-
tated, and almost stopped. His vision blurred and dark-
ened, then gradually came back. He was inextricably
caught in something that burned like fire, that dragged
like a lodestone. He tried desperately to pull away, but a
supreme effort only made him sway gently, caught on
Bright-Nail's hilt like a fish dying on a hook. The bell's
echoes died out.

Even through the music of the swords, Simon could
sense the chill presence he had felt on the stairs growing
stronger, vast and weighty as a mountain, cold as the gaps
between stars. It was closer now, but at the same time it
hovered just beyond some incomprehensible wall.

Elias, who seemed almost unmoved by the exuberating
power of the swords, raked Simon with mad green eyes.
"I do not know this one, Pryrates," he murmured,
"-although there is something familiar about him. But it
does not matter. All the bargains have been kept."

"Indeed." The priest moved past, so close that his robe
touched Simon's arm. A buried part of Simon shrieked
with disgust and fury, but no sound passed his quivering
lips: he was now little more than something that held
Bright-Nail. The sword's vaulting spirit, connected now

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

73'
to its brothers, uncaring of human struggles and human
hatreds, waited only for whatever would happen next,
eager as a dog expecting to be fed.

"All bargains are kept," Pryrates rasped as he took a
place beside the king's shoulder, "and all is now set in
motion. Soon Utuk'ku the Eldest will have harnessed the
Pool of Three Depths. Then we will have completed the
Fifth House, and all will change." He looked at Simon
and his eyes glittered. "This one you do not know is Mor-
genes' kitchen-whelp. Highness." Pryrates grinned. "This
is satisfying. I saw what you did to Inch, boy. Very thor-
ough work. You saved me some tiresome effort."

Simon felt a powerful rage bubbling up inside him. In
the red light the priest's smug face seemed to hang
bodilessiy, and for a moment Simon could see nothing
else. He struggled to move his limbs, to pull Bright-Nail
away from its brothers so he could smash out the murder-
er's life, but he was helpless. The flame of anger blazed
without release, so hot that Simon felt sure it would
scorch him to ashes from within.

The tower rocked again to the thunderous voice of the
bell. Simon stared, even as the floor shook before him
and his ears popped, but the bronze bells at the center of
the chamber did not move. Instead, a ghostly shape ap-
peared, a bell of sorts, but long and cylindrical. For a mo-
ment, as the phantom bell vibrated, Simon saw flames
sheeting again outside the windows, the sky gone end-
lessly black.

When the noise had died, Pryrates lifted his hands.
"She has conquered. It is time."

The king lowered his head". "God help me, I have
waited long."

"Your waiting is over." The priest crossed his arms be-
fore his face, then lowered them. "Utuk'ku has captured
the Pool of Three Depths. The swords are here, waiting
only for the Words of Unmaking to release that which
binds them, then the force that was prisoned within them
will sing free and bring you everything that you have de-
sired."
"Immortality?" asked Elias, shy as a child.

732 Tad Williams

"Immortality. A life that outlasts the stars. You sought
your dead wife. Highness, but you found something far
greater."

"Do not ... do not speak of her."

"Rejoice, Elias, do not grieve!" Pryrates brought his
palms together and lightning scratched across the sky out-
side the tall windows. "You feared you would have, no
heir when your disobedient daughter ran away-but you
yourself will be your own inheritor. You will never die!"

Elias lifted his head, his eyes shut as though he basked
in a warming sun. His mouth trembled.

"Never die," he said.

"You have gained powerful friends, and in this hour
they will pay you back for all your suffering." Pryrates
stepped away from the king and thrust his red-sleeved
arm toward the ceiling. "1 invoke the First House!"

The great invisible bell sounded again, crashing like a
hammer in a god's smithy. Flames ran through the
betlchamber, capering across the icy walls. "On
Thisterborg, among the ancient stones," Pryrates intoned,
"one of the Red Hand is waiting. For his master and you
he uses the power of that place and opens a crack into the
between-places. He unfolds the first of the A-Genay'asu'e
and brings forth the First House."

Simon sensed the cold, dreadful something that waited
growing stronger. It was all around Green Angel Tower,
drawing nearer, like a hunting beast coming stealthily
through the darkness toward a campfire.

"At Wentmouth," Pryrates cried, "on the cliffs above
the endless ocean where the Hayefur once burned for
travelers from the lost West, the Second House is now
built. The Storm King's servant is there, and a far greater
flame lifts to the skies."

"Do ... not ..." Binabik, held by Pryrates' magics,
struggled to move forward from the walls. His voice
seemed to come from a great distance. "Do ... not... !"

The priest flicked a gesture toward him and the troll
was silenced, squirming helplessly.

Again the bell rang, and the power of it seemed to
pulse on and on, reverberating. For a moment Simon

TO   GREEN   ANGEL      TOWER                           733

heard voices rising outside, screams of pain and terror in
the language of the Sithi. Red lights flickered in the ici-
cles hanging from the bell-chamber's vaulted ceiling.

"Above Hasu Vale, beside the ancient Wailing Stone,
where the Eldest before the Eldest once danced beneath
stars that have burned out-the Third House is built. The
Storm King's servant lifts another flame to the skies."

Elias suddenly took a wobbly step. Sorrow's blade
dipped as he bent, although it still touched the other two
swords. "Pryrates," he gasped, "something ... something
is burning ... inside me!"

"Father!" Miriamele's voice was faint, but her face
was contorted with terror.

"Because it is time. Majesty," the alchemist said. "You
are changing. Your mortality must be scorched away by
clean flame." He pointed at the princess. "Look, Elias!
Do you see what your weakness does to you? Do you see
what the sham of love would bring you? She would make
you into an old man, sobbing for your meals, pissing in
your bed!"

The king straightened up and turned his back on
Miriamele. "I will not be held down," he gritted. Every
word seemed an effort. "I will . .. take ... what was
promised."

Simon saw that the priest was smiling, though sweat
trickled down his egg-smooth brow. "You will have it."
He lifted his arms once more. Simon strained until he
thought veins would burst in his temples, but could not
pull free from the crossed swords. "In your brother's
stronghold, Elias," Pryrates said, "in what was the very
heart of his treachery-at Naglimund we build the Fourth
House!"

Simon again saw the unfamiliar black sky framed in
the window. At the bottom of the sill, the Hayholt had be-
come a forest of pale, graceful towers. Flames ran among
them. The strange sight did not vanish. The Hayholt was
gone, replaced by ... Asu'a? Simon heard shrieking Sithi
voices echoing, and the roar of flames.

"And now the Fifth House!" cried Pryrates.

The tolling of the phantom bell this time brought back

734

Tad Williams

Simon's view of storm clouds and whirling snow. The
high-pitched anguish of the Sithi gave way to the dulled
shouts of mortals.

"In the Pool of Three Depths, Utuk'ku gives way to the
last of the Storm King's servitors, and beneath us the fifth
and final House is created." Pryrates spread his arms,
palms down, and the whole tower trembled. A kind, <of
sucking pull reached down the length of Bright-Nail,
through Simon's arm, tugging at his heart and even his
thoughts as though it sought to draw them out whole.
Across from him, Camaris bared his teeth in an. agonized
grimace, Thorn quivering in his fist.

A fountain of icy blue light sprang up through the floor
of the bellchamber, roaring and crackling as it passed
through the blackness where the swords touched. Dimin-
ished and distorted by that passage, it continued'up past
Simon's face and spattered the glinting ceiling with blue
sparks. Simon felt his body convulsing as tremendous en-
ergies flowed around him and through him. Inside his bat-
tered thoughts the swords thrilled exultantly, their spirits
released. He tried to open his mouth and scream, but his
jaws were locked tight, teeth grinding. The coruscating
blue light filled his eyes.

"And now the three Great Swords have found their way
to this place, beneath the Conqueror Star. Sorrow, de-
fender of Asu'a, scourge of the living; Thorn, star-blade,
banner of the dying Imperium; Bright-Nail, last iron from
the vanished West."

As Pryrates called each name, the great bell rang. The
tower and all around it seemed to shift with each sound-
ing, the delicate towers and flames giving way to the
squat, snow-covered roofs of the Hayholt, then appearing
once more with the next reverberating clang.

Caught in the grip of terrible forces, Simon felt himself
burning from within. He hated. Smoldering clouds of rage
rose up inside him, hatred at being tricked, at seeing his
friends murdered, at the terrible devastation that Pryrates
and Ellas had caused. He wanted to swing the sword in a
deadly arc, to smash everything in sight, to kill those who
had made him so horribly unhappy. He could not

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          735

shriek-he could not even move except to twitch help-
lessly. The rage, ordinary escape blocked, seemed to pour
out through his sword arm instead. Bright-Nail became a
blur, something not quite real, as though part of it had
gone away. Thorn was a dark smear in Camaris' hands.
The old man's eyes had rolled up in his head.

Simon felt his monstrous anger and despair break free.
The blackness where the swords met widened, an unend-
ing emptiness, a gate into Unbeing, and Simon's hate
poured into it. The void began to crawl up Sorrow's
length toward Elias.

"We harness the great fear." Pryrates moved to a spot
behind the king, who now seemed as trapped and helpless
as the other two swordbearers. The priest spread his arms
wide, so that for a moment Elias seemed to have another
pair of hands. "In every land, the fear has spread. The
kilpa make the seas boil. The ghants crawl through the
streets of the southern cities. The beasts of legend stalk
the snows of the north. The fear is everywhere.

"We harness the great fear. In every land, brother is
turned against brother. Plague and famine and the scourge
of war turn people into raging demons.

"All the strength of fright and fury is ours, tunneled
through the pattern of the Five Houses." Suddenly
Pryrates laughed. "You are all such small minds! Even
your terrors are small ones. You feared to see your armies
defeated? You will see more than that. You will see Time
itself roll backward in its rut."

King Elias jerked and twitched as the blackness
crawled up the blade toward him, but he seemed unable
to release Sorrow. "God help me, Pryrates!" A convulsive
shudder ran through him, a tremor of such power that he
should have fallen to the floor. The nightdark void
touched his hands- "Aaaah! God help me, I am burning
up! My soul is on fire!"

"Surely you did not think it would be easy?" Pryrates
was grinning. Sweat sheeted down his forehead. "It will
get worse, you fool."

"I do not wish immortality!" Ellas screamed. "Ah,
God, God, God! Release me! I am burning away!" His

736 Tad Williams

voice was distorted, as though some inconceivable thing
had invaded his lungs and chest.

"What you wish is not important," Pryrates spat back.
"You will have your immortality-but it may not be all
you had hoped."

Elias writhed. His shrieks were wordless now.

Pryrates extended his hands until they hovered oo ei-
ther side of Sorrow's hilt, only inches from Elias' own
lingers. "It is time for the Words of Unmaking," he said.

The bell thundered, and once more Green Angel Tower
was surrounded by the tragic delicacy of burning Asu'a.
The stars in that black sky were cold and tiny as snow-
flakes. The tower seemed to shake like an agonized living
thing.

"I have prepared the way!" Pryrates called. "I have
Grafted the vessel. Now, in this place, let Time turn back-
ward! Roll back the centuries to the moment before
Ineluki was banished to the realms beyond death. As I
speak the Words of Unmaking, let him return! Let him re-
turn!" He lapsed into a bellowing chant in a language
harsh as shattering stone, as cracking ice. The blackness
spread out over Elias and for a moment the king vanished
utterly, as though he had been pushed through the wall of
reality. Then he seemed to absorb the blackness, or it
flowed into him; he reappeared, thrashing and shrieking
incoherently.

Elysia, Mother of Mercy! They've won! They've won!
Simon's head seemed full of storm winds and flame, but
his heart was black ice.

Once more the bell caroled, and this time the very air
of the chamber seemed to grow solid and glassy, bending
Simon's gaze as though he looked through a mirrored
tunnel. There seemed no up or down. Outside, the stars
began to smear across the sky in long white threads, tan-
gling like wormholes in sod. Even as his life bled from
him and out of Bright-Nail in searing waves, he felt the
world turning inside out.

The beUchamber grew dark. Distorted shadows loomed
and shifted across the icy chamber, then the walls seemed

737

TO    GREEN     ANGEL   TOWER

to open and fall away. Blackness flowed through, bring-
ing with it a deeper chill, a freezing, ultimate cold.

Elias' agonized screams had become a choking near-
silence. He and Pryrates were now the only things visible.
The priest's hands flickered with yellow light; his face
gleamed. All the warmth of the world was leaking away.

The king began to change.

Ellas' silhouette bent and shifted, growing monstrously,
even though his own contorted form was somehow still
visible in the center of the darkness.

The deadening chill was inside Simon, too, seeping in
where the flames of his fury had burned away his hope.
His life was being drawn out of him, sucked clean like
marrow from a bone.

The cold, cold thing that had waited so long was com-
ing.

"Yes, you will live forever, Elias," intoned Pryrates. "But
it will be as a flitting shadow within your own body, a
shadow dwarfed by Ineluki's bright flame. You see, even
with the wheel of Time turned backward in its track and all
the doors opened to Ineluki once more, his spirit must have
an earthly home."

The sounds of the storm outside had ceased, or could
no longer penetrate through the strange forces that
clutched the bellchamber. The fountain of blue light flow-
ing upward from the Pool had narrowed to a silent stream
that vanished into the blackness of the swords' joining
and did not reemerge. When Pryrates had finished, there
was no sound in the dark room but the rapid chuffmg of
the king's breath. Scarlet flames kindled in the depths of
Elias' eyes, then his head rocked back as though his neck
had snapped. Vaporous red light leaked from his mouth.

Simon watched in horror; through the swords he could
feel the way being opened, just as Pryrates had said.
Something too horrible to exist was forcing its way
through into the world. The king's body jerked like a
child's doll dangling on a string. Smoldering light seemed
to spring forth from him everywhere, as though the very
fabric of his body was fraying apart, revealing some bum-
ing thing beneath.

738

Tad Williams

Somewhere Miriamele was screaming; her small, lost
voice seemed to come from the other end of the universe.

The bellchamber was gone. All around, angles as strange
as if reflected in broken mirrors, stood Asu'a's needle tow-
ers. They burned as the king's body burned, crumbled as
Time itself was crumbling. Five centuries were sliding
away into the frozen black void. Nothing would be left but
ashes and stone and Ineluki's utter triumph.

"Come to us. Storm King!" shouted Pryrates. "I have
made the way. The Words of Unmaking release the power
of the swords, and Time turns withershins. History is un-
done' We shall write it anew!"

Elias writhed, and writhing grew larger, as though
whatever filled him was too large for any mortal form and
stretched him almost to the point of bursting. A sugges-
tion of antlers flickered on the king's brow, and1 his eyes
were pits of shifting, molten scarlet. His outline wavered.
a moving tide of shadow that made it impossible to dis-
cern his true shape. The king's arms parted. One hand
still held the elusive blur of nothingness that had been
Sorrow; the other hand extended and the fingers spread,
black as charred sticks. EmberHght played in the creases.

The thing paused, flickering and shifting. It seemed sag-
gingly weary, like a butterfly newly emerged from a cocoon.

Pryrates took a step back and averted his face. "I have
... I have done what you asked, mighty one." His smug
grin was gone: the priest had willingly opened the door,
but what had entered shocked even him. He took a deep
breath and appeared to find some core of strength. His
face again became feral. "The hour is come-but it is not
your hour, it is mine. How could I trust one who hated ev-
ery living thing to keep its bargain? I knew that once you
had no need of me, your promises would be wind in dark-
ness." He spread his wide-sleeved arms. "Mortal I may
be, but I am no fool. You gave me the Words of Chang-
ing, thinking them a toy that would keep me childishly
amused as I did your bidding. But I have learned, too.
Those Words will become your cage, and then you will be
my servant. All creation will bend to you-but you will
bow to meF
TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                          739

The unstable thing at the room's center eddied like
blown smoke, but its black, scarlet-streaming heart re-
mained solid. Pryrates began to chant loudly in something
only recognizable as language because of the empty
spaces between noises. The alchemist seemed to change,
reeling in the red-shot darkness that surrounded the king
like a fog; his limbs curled and snapped in a ghastly, ser-
pentine way, then he faded into a coiling shadow, a wide
rope of blackness that drifted around the place where the
king or whatever had devoured him now stood. The shad-
owy coils tightened around the smoldering heart. The
world seemed to bend farther inward, distorting the two
shapes until only flame and steam and darkness pulsed at
the center of the bellchamber.

The whole of creation seemed to collapse in on this
place, on this moment. Simon fell his own terror surge
out, crackling through his arms, through Bright-Nail and
into the midst of the clotted dark.

The blackness bulged. Tiny arcs of lightning flickered
about the room. Somewhere outside, Simon knew, the
Asu'a of five centuries before was burning, its inhabitants
dying at the hands of Fingil's long-dead army. And what
of everyone else? Was all Simon knew gone, borne away
by Time's circling wheel?

The lightnings jittered about the chamber. Something
pulsed at the center, a storm of fire and thunderheads that
suddenly gaped, filling the room with blinding light.
Pryrates, his real form restored, staggered backward out
of the beating radiance, which promptly collapsed back
into shadow. For a moment the priest raised his arms tri-
umphantly over his head, then he teetered and dropped to
his knees. A vaguely manlike form coalesced out of the
darkness and stood over him, a scarlet suggestion of a
face fluttering atop its misshapen head.

Pryrates shuddered and wept. "Forgive me! Forgive my
arrogance, my foolishness! Oh, please. Master, forgive
me!" He crawled toward the thing, banging his forehead
against the almost invisible floor. "I can still do you great
service! Remember what you promised me. Lord-that if
I served you well I would be first among mortals."

740 Tad Williams

The thing retained its grip on shifting Sorrow, but ex-
tended its other blackened hand until it touched the alche-
mist. The fingers cupped his smooth wet head. A voice
more powerful than the bell, as ragged and deadly as the
hiss of freezing wind, scraped through the darkness. De-
spite everything else that had happened, Simon's eyes
filled with frightened tears at the sound of it.

"YES. YOU WILL BE FIRST."
Jets of steam lifted from beneath the king's fingers.
Pryrates shrieked and threw up his arms, grabbing at the
hand, but the king did not move and Pryrates could not
free himself. Runnels of flame sped down the alchemist's
robe. Above him, the king's face was an indistinct lump
of darkness, but eyes and ragged mouth blazed scarlet.
The priest's scream was a sound no human throat should
have loosed. Vapors enveloped him, but Simon saw his
threshing arms steaming, cracking, shriveling into wag-
gling things like tree limbs. After a long moment, the
priest, all bones and burning tatters, fell to the floor and
twitched like a smashed cricket. The jerking movements
slowed, then stopped.

The thing that had been Elias slumped, head down, so
that nothing could be seen of it but shadow. Still, Simon
could feel it drinking the energies that raced through
Bright-Nail, Thorn, and Sorrow, regaining the strength to
control its stolen body. Pryrates had hurt it, somehow, but
Simon could sense that it would be only the work of mo-
ments before it recovered. He felt a tiny flutter of hope,
and tried to let go of his sword hilt, but it was as much
a part of him as his arm. There was no escape.

As though it sensed his attempt to break free, the black
thing looked up at him, and even as his heart stumbled
and almost failed, he could glean its implacable thought.
It had smashed Time itself to return. Even the mortal
priest, no matter what powers he had wielded, would not
have been allowed to close the door again-what possible
chance could Simon have?

In this moment of horror, Simon suddenly felt the
shock of the dragon blood that had once scorched his
flesh and changed him. He stared at the unsteady black

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                             74!

shape that had been Elias, the ruined husk and its fiery
occupant, and felt an answering stab of pain where the
dragon's black essence had scarred him. Through the
pulsing unlighl that moved between Bright-Nail and Sor-
row, Simon felt not only the all-consuming hatred that
had been the blood of the Storm King's deathly exile, but
also Ineluki's terrible, mad loneliness.

He loved his people, Simon thought. He gave his life
for them but did not die.

Staring helplessly across the short distance between
them, watching as the thing regathered its strength, Simon
remembered the vision Leieth had shown him of Ineluki
beside the great pool. Such shattering unhappiness had
been in that face, but the determination had been a mirror
of Eahlstan's as he had sat in his chair and waited for the
terrible worm he knew he must meet, the dragon that he
knew would slay him. They were somehow the same,
Ineluki and Eahlstan, doing what must be done, though
life itself was the price. And Simon was no different.
Sorrow. His thoughts flittered and died like moths in a
flame, but he clung to this one. Ineluki named his sword
Sorrow. Why did she show me that?

Something was moving af the edge of his vision.
Binabik and Miriamele, freed by Pryrates' death, reeled a
few steps forward. Miriamele fell to her knees. Binabik
staggered closer, head held low as though he walked into
a powerful wind.

"You will destroy this world," the troll gasped. Al-
though his mouth was stretched wide, his words seemed
quiet as the whir of velvety wings. "You have lost your
belonging, Ineluki. There will be nothing for your gov-
erning. You do not belong here!"

The clot of darkness turned to look at him, then raised
a flickering hand. Simon, seeing Binabik quail before the
destroying touch, felt his fear and hatred rise anew. He
fought against that surge of loathing, although he did not
know why.

Hatred kepi him alive in the dark places. Five centu-
ries, burning in emptiness. Haired is all he has. And I
have hated, too. I have felt like him. We are the same.

742 Tad Williams

Simon struggled to keep the image of the living
Ineluki's suffering face before him. That was the truth be-
neath this horrible, burning thing. No creature in all the
cosmos deserved what had happened to the Storm King.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to the face in his memory.
"You should not have suffered so."

The surge of energy from Bright-Nail suddenly grew
less. The thing that held Sorrow turned back to him, and
waves of terror broke over Simon again. His heart was
being crushed.

"No," he gasped, and groped inside himself for a solid
place to stand and live. "I will ... fear you, but I ... will
not hate you."

There came a still instant that seemed like years. Then
Sir Camaris rose slowly from his knees and stood, sway-
ing. In his hands, Thorn still throbbed with blackness, but
Simon felt the drain of its forces weaken, as though what
he himself felt had somehow run down through the point
of connection into Camaris as well.

"Forgiven ..." the old knight croaked. "Yes. Let all
be ..."

There was a wavering at the center of the darkness that
was the Storm King. For a moment, the scarlet light grew
less, then died. A glowing red haze leaked free, agitated
as a swarm of bees. In the center of the shadows,
wreathed in smoke, the pale visage of King Elias shim-
mered into existence, his face contorted in pain. Wisps of
smoke curled from his hair. Flames darted on his cape
and shirt.

"Father!" Miriamele's entire being seemed in her cry.

The king turned his eyes to her. "Ah, God, Miriamele,"
he breathed. His voice was not entirely human. "He has
waited too long for this. He will not let me go. I was a
fool, and now ... / am ... repaid. I am sorry ... daugh-
ter. " He convulsed, and for a moment his eyes blazed red,
though his knotted features stiil remained. "He is too
strong . .. his hate is too strong. He will. .. not.. . let me
...go...."

His head began to sag. Emberlight bloomed in the cav-
ern of his mouth.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

743

Miriamele shouted wordlessly and lifted her arms. Simon
felt rather than saw some fleeting thing snap past him.

A feathered white shaft sprouted from Elias' breast.

For a heartbeat the king's eyes were his own once
more. and his gaze locked with Miriamele's. Then his
features twisted. A roar louder than thunder tore from the
king's gaping mouth and Elias toppled backward into
shadow. The roar became an echoing, impossibly loud
shriek that seemed to have no ending.

For a fleeting instant Simon felt an impossibly cold
something scrabbling at the place where the dragon's
blood had entered his heart, seeking to find refuge in him
if its other host was denied to it. The thing's hunger was
all-swallowing and desperate.

No. You do not belong here. Simon's thought echoed
Binabik's words.

The clawing thing fell away, shrieking soundlessly.

Flames climbed up and outward where the king had
stood, mushrooming beneath the roof of the bellchamber.
A terrible cold blackness was at the center of them, but as
Simon watched in shattered awe, it began to fragment into
darting shadows. The world tipped again, and the tower
shuddered. Bright-Nail throbbed in his grip, then dissolved
in a whirl of black; a moment later, he was holding only
dust. He lifted his trembling hand near his face to stare at
the sifting powder, then stopped, astonished.

He could move again!

A chunk of stone from the ceiling overhead crashed
down beside him, spattering him with sharp fragments.
Simon took a reeling step. The chamber was afire, as
though the stones themselves were burning. One of the
blackened bells tumbled from the cluster at the ceiling
and crashed to the floor, smashing a crater in the stone
tiles. Shadowy figures moved around him, their motions
distorted by the walls of flame.

A voice was calling his name, but he stood at the center
of fiery chaos and saw no direction in which to turn. The
swirling sky appeared in a jagged opening above his head
as more stone fell. Something struck him.

33

Hidden from the Stars

*

TmmaH StOOcC awkwardly, waiting. The duke   listened
patiently to the two Thrithings-men, then   nodded and re-
plied; they turned and walked through the   melting snow
toward their horses, leaving the duke and   the Wrannaman
alone beside the fire.

When Isgrimnur looked up and saw his visitor, he did
his best to smile. 'Tiamak, what are you doing standing
there? Aedon's Mercy, man, sit down. Warm yourself."
The duke tried to beckon, but his arm sling prevented it.

Tiamak limped over and sat down on the log. For a mo-
ment he held his hands before the flames without speak-
ing, then said: "I am so sorry about Isom."

Isgrimnur turned his red-rimmed eyes away and stared
across the foggy headland toward the Kynslagh. It was a
long time before he spoke. "I do not know how I will tell
my Outrun. She will be heartbroken."

The silence stretched. Tiamak waited, unsure whether
he should say more. He knew Isgrimnur far better than he
had known the duke's tall son, whom he had met only
once, in Likimeya's tent.

"He was not the only one to die," Isgrimnur said at
last. He rubbed at his nose. "And there are the living to
be taken care of." He picked up a stick and tossed it into
the fire, then blinked at it with an intent fury. Tears
glinted on his eyelashes. The silence grew again, swelling
to almost frightening proportions before Isgrimnur broke
it. "Ah, Tiamak, why wasn't it me? His life was ahead. I
am old. My life is over."

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

745

The Wrannaman shook his head. He knew there was no
answer to that question. No one could plumb the reason-
ing of They Who Watch and Shape. No one.

The duke dragged his sleeve across his eyes, then
cleared his throat. "Enough. Time for mourning will
come." He turned back to Tiamak, and the Wrannaman
for the first time saw the truth of Isgrimnur's words: the
duke was old, a man long past his prime. Only his great
vitality had masked it, and now, as though the struts had
been kicked from beneath him, he sagged. Tiamak felt an-
ger that such a good man should suffer.

But everyone has suffered, he told himself. Now is the
time to gather strength, to try to understand and to decide
what comes next.

"Tell me what happened, Tiamak." The duke forced
himself to sit upright, restoring a semblance of self-
discipline he clearly needed. "Tell me what you saw."

"Surely I have little to say that you . . ." the
Wrannaman began.

"Just tell me." Isgrimnur shifted his broken arm to a
more comfortable position. "We have a while before
Strangyeard can come and join us, but I imagine you have
spoken to him already."

Tiamak nodded. "When I was putting salve on his
wounds. Everyone has stories to tell, and none of them
pleasant to hear." He composed himself for a moment,
then began. "I traveled with the Sithi for what seemed a
long time before we found Josua...."

"So you believe Josua was dead already?" The calm-
ness of the duke's deep voice was belied by the unhappy
nervousness of his free hand, which passed in and out of
his beard, tugging and plucking. His beard looked thinner
and shabbier, as though he had pulled at it too often in re-
cent days.

Tiamak nodded sadly. "He was struck very hard on the
neck by the king's sword. There was a terrible noise when
it hit, a snapping, and then the blood... ." The small man
shuddered. "He could not have survived it."

Isgrimnur brooded for a moment, then shook his head.

746

Tad Williams

"Ah, well. I thank Usires Aedon in His mercy that at least
Josua did not suffer. An unhappy man, though I loved
him. An unhappy ending." He looked up at a shout in the
distance, then turned his gaze back to the Wrannaman.
"And you were then knocked senseless yourself."

"I remember nothing after I heard the bell again . .. un-
til I awakened. I was still in the place where the bette
hung, but I did not know it at first. All I could see was
that I was surrounded by a whirlpool of fire and smoke

and strange shadows.
"I tried to climb to my feet, but my head was spinning
and my legs would not work properly- Someone caught at
my arm and dragged at me until I could rise. At first 1
thought I had gone mad, because no one was there. Then
I looked down and saw that it was Binabik who had

helped me.

" 'Hurry,' he told me, 'this place is falling into pieces.'
He pulled at me again-I was dazed and did not entirely
understand him..Smoke was everywhere and the floor was
pitching beneath my feet with loud grinding noises. As I
stood wavering, another shape appeared. It was
Miriamele, and she was dragging a body across the floor
with great effort. It took me a moment to see through the
dust and ashes that it was the young man Simon.

" *I killed him,' Miriamele was saying over and over.
Tears were streaming down her face. I did not understand
why she thought-she had killed Simon when I could see
his fingers moving,- his chest rising and falling. Binabik
hastened to help her and they pulled Simon across the
floor toward the stairwell. I followed them. A moment
later the tower shook again and a great chunk of stone fell
down and shattered on the spot where I had stood."
Tiamak reached down and pointed at the cloth wrapped
around his leg. "A piece flew free and cut me, but not
badly." He straightened up.

"Miriamele wanted to go back for Josua, but the floor
was shaking powerfully now, and more pieces of the ceil-
ing and walls were crumbling. Binabik was doubtful, and
they began to argue. My wits were coming back. I told
them that the king had broken Josua's neck, that I had

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

747

seen it happen. Miriamele was hard to understand-she
seemed to be half-asleep, despite the tears-but she had
begun to say something about Camaris when one of the
bells broke loose and smashed down through the floor.
We could hear it clang as it struck on something below.
Smoke was everywhere. I was coughing, and my eyes
were as wet as Miriamele's. I did not much care at the
moment, but I felt sure that we would be burned or
smashed to death, that I would never know what had hap-
pened to cause all this.

"Binabik grabbed Miriamele's arm, pointing to the
ceiling, shouting that there was no time. Simon would be
difficult enough to carry. She fought him for a moment,
but her heart was not in it. The three of us picked Simon
up as best we could-he was limp; it made him very dif-
ficult to carry-and we scuttled into the stairwell.

"The smoke was not so thick down below the first turn.
The fire seemed to burn only in the bellchamber, although
I heard Binabik say something that made it sound as if the
whole tower had been in flames just instants before. But
even if it was easier to breathe, I was still certain we
would not survive to reach the ground: the tower was
pitching like a tree in a strong wind. I have heard that in
days long past one or two of the southernmost islands of
Firannos Bay disappeared because the earth shook so hard
that the sea swallowed them. If that is true, their last mo-
ments must have felt like this. We could barely keep on
our feet in the narrow stairwell. Several times 1 was
thrown against one of the walls, and we were lucky we
only dropped poor Simon twice. Stone was shivering
down and dust was everywhere, choking me as thor-
oughly as the smoke had."

Tiamak paused and pressed his fingers against his tem-
ples. His head hurt. Remembering the desperate flight
down the stairs made it ache almost as badly as it had
then.

"We had gone down a little farther-it was fearfully
difficult to make our way, and the very steps seemed to be
breaking apart beneath our feet-when a figure appeared
out of the dust below us. It was smeared with ash and

748

Tad Williams

grime and blood, and its eyes stared. At first I thought it
some horrible demon that Pry rates had summoned, but
Miriamele cried 'Cadrach!', and I recognized him. I was
astonished, of course-I had no idea how he of all people
had appeared in this place. I could hardly hear him above
the groaning and rumbling of the tower, but he said: 'I
waited for you/ to no one in particular, then turned and
led us down the stairs. I was angry and frightened, and I
could not help wondering why he did not offer to help
carry Simon, who was a terrible load for a young woman,
a troll, and a small man like me to bear. Simon was now
beginning to move a little more, mumbling to himself and
struggling weakly. It made him even more difficult to
carry.

"Then there was a time I can hardly remember. We
went as fast as we could, but there seemed little chance
we would escape before the tower collapsed completely.
We were still very high up, maybe ten times a man's
height. As we passed one of the windows, 1 saw the tow-
er's spire hanging crookedly, as if the whole tower bowed
from the waist. You notice strange things at such times, I
suppose, and I saw that the bronze angel at the spire's tip
had its arms extended as though it was poised to fly away,
Suddenly the whole spire shivered, broke loose, and fell
down out of sight.

"There were cracks in the walls of the stairwell wide
enough to put your arm into, Isgrimnur. Through some of
them I could see gray sky.
"Then the tower shook again, so strongly that we fell
down on the stairs. It kept shaking; it was almost impos-
sible to regain our feet, but we did at last. When we had
scrambled down a few more paces, the twisting of the
staircase suddenly opened onto nothing. The side of the
tower wall had gone, fallen away outward: I could see it
lying in great shards, spread out on the snow beneath,
white on white. A great chunk of the staircase had gone
with it, so that there was a gap many paces across, and
beneath lay a fall of twenty cubits onto darkness and bro-
ken stone."

Tiamak paused for a moment. "What happened next is

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                            749

strange. Had I stayed in my swamp, I would not believe
this tale from someone else. But I have seen things that
have changed what I believe is possible."

Isgrimnur nodded somberly. "As have I. Go on, man."

"We were stopped at the gap, staring hopelessly at the
bits of rubble working loose from the ragged edge and
tumbling down into shadows."

" 'So here it ends,' Miriamele said. I must say that she
did not sound particularly upset. She was fey, Isgrimnur.
She had worked as hard as any of us to stay alive, but she
seemed to do it only to help the rest of us.

" 'It is not over . ..' Cadrach said. The monk sank to
his knees beside the edge of the pit and spread his hands
flat over the nothingness. The tower was quivering itself
apart, and it seemed to me that the man was praying-
although I admit I could think of nothing better to do at
that point. As he did, he twisted his face like a man lifting
a heavy load. At last he looked over his shoulder to
Miriamele. 'Now cross,' he said. His voice was strained.

" 'Cross?' She stared at him. There was anger on her
face, strong anger. 'What final trick of yours is this?'

" 'You once said ... only trust me again ... when stars
shone at midday,' the monk said-softly. Every word was
an effort. I could barely hear him, and 1 could not under-
stand what he intended or what he was talking about.
'You saw them,' he said. 'They were there.'

"She looked at him for what seemed like a dreadfully
long time as the tower trembled. Then she gently set Si-
mon's shoulders down and took a step toward the pit. I
reached out to pull her back, but Binabik stopped me. He
had a strange look on his face. So did she, for that matter.
So did Cadrach.

"Miriamele closed her eyes, then stepped out from the
edge. I was certain that she would fall down and be
killed, and I may have shouted something, but she walked
out onto the solid air as though the stone steps were still
there. Isgrimnur, there was nothing beneath her feet!"

"I believe you," the duke grunted. "I have been told
Cadrach was once a mighty man."

"She opened her eyes and did not look down, but

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turned to Binabik and me and beckoned us to bring Si-
mon. For the first time, there was something lively in her
face again, but it was not happiness. We wrestled Simon
down-he was groaning by then, awakening-and she
reached up and took his feet, then began to back away
over the nothingness. I could not believe what she was
doing-what / was about to do! I slitted my eyes'so I
could see only Miriamele moving carefully downward,
and followed her. Binabik was beside me, holding Si-
mon's other shoulder. He looked between his feet, but
then looked up again very quickly. Even a mountain-troll
has some limits, it seems.

"It took us a long time. There were still things like
steps beneath us; we could not see them, and we had no
idea how far to either side they extended, so we went
very carefully. The tower was making deep moaning
noises now, as though its roots were being plucked from
the ground. If I live a thousand years, Isgrimnur, I will
never forget walking across nothingness and trying to
stay on my feet as everything pitched and tipped! He
Who Always Steps on Sand was truly with us. Truly.

"At last we reached a place where there was real stone.
As I stepped onto it and let out my breath, I looked back.
Cadrach was on the far side still. His face was gray as
ashes and his sides were heaving. He looked like a
drowning man before he sinks the last time. What
strength did it take him to do what he had done? Nearly
all, it seemed.

"Miriamele turned and called to him to cross, but he
only lifted his hand and sat back. He could barely speak.
'Go on,' he said. 'You are not safe yet. That was all I
had.' He smiled-smiled, Isgrimnur!-and said: 'I am not
the man I was.'

'The princess cursed him and cursed him, but more
rock was tumbling free, and Binabik and I shouted that
there was nothing to be done, that if Cadrach could not,
he could not. Miriamele looked down at Simon, then back
at the monk. At last she said something I could not hear,
then reached down for Simon's feet. As we hurried down
the stairwell, I looked back and saw Cadrach sitting be-

TO    GREEN    ANGEL   TOWER

751
side the broken edge, and the light from the gray sky
shone on him through the broken wall. His eyes were
closed. He might have been praying, or just waiting.

"We went down another flight, and then Simon was
fighting to be let free. We set him down, since we could
not carry him against his will-he is quite strong!-but
neither could we wait to see if his wits were about him.
Binabik pulled at his wrist, talking to him all the while,
and he stumbled along with us.

"Dust was so thick from crumbling stone that I could
barely breathe, and now there was fire, too, a blaze which
had burned away one of the inner doors and was filling
the stairwell with smoke. Beyond the windows we could
see other pieces of the tower's upper stories topple past.
Simon pointed to one of the windows and shouted we
must go there. We thought he was addled, but he grabbed
Miriamele and dragged her toward it.

"He was not addled, or at least in this he was not, for
outside the window was a porch of stone-perhaps it has
some drylander name-and beyond it the edge of a wall.
It was still a long drop to the ground, but the wall was not
far away, only a little farther than I am tall. But the tower
was shaking itself to pieces, and we almost fell from the
porch. More pieces were dropping. Simon suddenly bent
down and grabbed at Binabik, said something to him-
then flung him through the air! I was astonished! The troll
landed on the edge of the wall, slipped a little on the
snow, but held his balance. Miriamele went next, jumping
without help; Binabik kept her from sliding off when she
landed. Then Simon urged me, and I held my breath and
jumped. I would have fallen if the other two had not been
waiting, because the stone porch had begun to tip down-
ward as I went, and I almost did not leap far enough.

"Now Simon stood, trying to find his balance, and
Miriamele was screaming at him to hurry, hurry, and
Binabik was shouting, too. Simon leaped and landed,
and as he did, most of the porch dropped away, crashing
into the snow beneath. We all three caught at him and
pulled him to safety before he toppled off the wall.

"A few moments later the entire tower collapsed m on

752

Tad Williams

itself with a noise like nothing I have ever heard, louder
than any thunderstorm ... but you heard it. You know.
Pieces of stone bigger than this tent smashed past us, but
none hit the wall. Most of the tower fell inward, and a
cloud of dust and snow and streaming smoke rose up as
high as the tower had reached, then spread out across the
castle grounds."                                  ':

Tiamak took a deep breath. "We stood for a long time
staring. It was as though I watched a god die. I learned
later what Miriamele and the others had seen in the
towertop, and that must have been stranger still. When we
could think of moving again, Simon led us down through
the throne room, past that astounding chair of bones, and
out to meet you and the rest. I thanked my Wran deities
that the fighting was all but over-I could not have lifted
a hand if a Nom had put a knife to my neck."
He sat for a while, shaking his head.
Isgrimnur cleared his throat. "So nothing could have
survived, then. Even if Josua or Camaris lived until the
end, they would have been crushed."

"We will never know from what remains in that
rubble," Tiamak said. "I cannot think we could
recognize ..." He remembered Isorn. "Oh, Isgrimnur,
please, please forgive me. I forgot."

Isgrimnur shook his head. "The doors to the antecham-
ber came open a short while before the end-I suppose
Pryrates' dying put an end to his deviltry, his magical
wall or whatever it was. Some of the soldiers nearby
pulled out those of the fallen they could before the tower
began to collapse. I, at least, have my son's body." He
looked down, struggling for composure, then sighed.
"Thank you, Tiamak. I am sorry to make you remember."

Tiamak laughed shakily. "I have not been able to stop
talking about it. We are alt of us in this camp babbling
away at each other like children, and have been since the
tower fell, since . .. since everything happened."

The duke stood, slowly and painfully. "I see
Strangyeard coming. The others will meet us. Will you
come along, Tiamak? These are important matters, and I

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

75:

would like you to be with us when we talk. We need you
wisdom."

The Wrannaman gently bowed his head. "Of course
Isgrimnur. Of course."

A

Simon wandered through the rubble of the Inner Bailey
The melting snow had shrunk away to reveal patches o
dead grass, and here and there a freshet of new plant lift
which the sorcerous winter had not destroyed. The differ
ent hues of green and brown were soothing to his eyes
He had seen enough of black, ice-white, and blood-red t(
last him several lifetimes.

He only wished that everything followed such ordinar
patterns of renewal. It was a short two days since thi
tower had fallen and the Storm King had been van
quished, a time when he and his friends should have beei
rejoicing over their victory, yet here he was, wanderini-
and brooding.

He had slept through the night and the first day afte
their escape, a thick, bone-weary slumber. Binabik hac
come to him the second night, telling him stories, ex
plaining, commiserating, then finally sitting with him ii
silence until Simon fell asleep once more. Others had vis
ited him throughout the morning of this second day,
friends and acquaintances reaching out, proving to them-
selves that he lived, just as the sight of these visitors
showed Simon that the world still made a kind of sense.

But Miriamele had not come.

When the unclouded sun had begun to slide down past
noon, he had nerved himself to go and see her. Binabik
had assured him the night before that she lived and was
not badly hurt, so he did not fear for her health, but the
troll's reassurances had only made his other unhappiness
stronger. If she was well, why had she not come to him or
sent a message?

He had found her at her tent, in conversation with
Aditu, who earlier that morning had been one of his own
visitors. Miriamele had greeted him in a friendly enough

754

Tad Williams

fashion, and had exclaimed sorrowfully over his various
wounds, as he had over hers, but when he expressed his
sadness over the deaths of her uncle and father, she had
suddenly grown cold and remote.

Simon wanted to believe it was no more than the justi-
fiable bitterness of someone who had lived through a ter-
rible time and had lost her family-not to mention .her
own unhappy role in her father's death-but he could not
fool himself that there was nothing more to her reaction
than that. She had been reacting to him, too, as though
something about Simon still made her dreadfully uncom-
fortable. It made him miserable to see that distance in her
eyes after all they had been through together, but he had
also felt fury, wondering why he should be treated as
though it had been his cruelty to her that had marred their
trip into Erkynland, instead of the other way around. Al-
though he had struggled to hide this anger, things had
only grown chillier between them, and at last he had ex-
cused himself and gone out into the wind.

Into the wind and up the hill he had gone, to wander
now through the slushy grounds of the abandoned
Hayholt.

Simon paused, staring at the great pile of spread rubble
that had once been Green Angel Tower. Small figures
moved in the ruins, Erchester-folk scavenging for any-
thing worth saving, either to trade for food or as a keep-
sake of what was already a fabled event.
It was strange, Simon reflected. He had gone as deep
into the earth as anyone could, and had climbed equally
as high, but he had not changed very much. He was a lit-
tle stronger, perhaps, but he guessed that was a strength
mostly caused by the inflexibility of scarred places; other
than that, he was much the same. A kitchen boy, Pryrates
had called him. The priest had been right. Despite his
knighthood, despite all else that had happened, there
would always be the heart of a scullion inside him.

Something caught his eye and he bent forward. A green
hand lay at the bottom of the gulley beside his feet, fin-
gers protruding from the mud in a frozen gesture of re-

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER

755

lease. Simon leaned forward and scraped away some of
the soggy clay, exposing an arm, then finally a bronze
face.

It was the angel of the towertop, fallen to the earth. He
poured a handful of puddle water over the high-boned
face, clearing the eyes. They were open, but no life was
in them. It was a tumbled statue, nothing more.

Simon stood up and wiped his hands on his breeches.
Let someone else drag it from the muck and take it home.
Let it sit in the corner of someone's cottage and whisper
to them beguiling stories of the depths and heights.

But as he trudged away across the commons yard, turn-
ing his back on the wreckage of the tower, the angel's
voice-Leieth's voice-came back to him.

"These truths are too strong," she had said, "the myths
and lies around them too great. You must see them and
you must understand/or yourself. But this has been your
story."

And she had showed him important things indeed. The
proof of that, at least in part, lay scattered over a thou-
sand cubits of ground behind him. But there had been
more, something that had teased at the edge of his under-
standing, but which time and circumstance had kept him
from pondering. Now the curious thread of memory came
back to him, and would not be denied. He had come clos-
est to seeing it in the throne room....

His footsteps echoed across the tiles. There was no
other sound. This was a place no one had yet come to
scavenge-the mute specter of the Dragonbone Chair was
enough to raise fearful hackles in the best of times, and
these had not been the best of times.

The afternoon light, warmer than the last time he had
been here, spilled down from the windows and gave a lit-
tle color to the strew of fading banners, although the mal-
achite kings were stil! cloaked in their own black stone
shadows. Simon remembered a void of spreading noth-
ingness and hesitated, his heart pounding, but he swal-
lowed his momentary fear and stepped forward. That
blackness was gone. That king was dead.

In full daylight the great throne looked less daunting

756

Tad Williams

than he remembered it. The great toothy mouth still men-
aced, but some vitality it had once had seemed gone.
There was nothing in the eye sockets but cobwebs. Even
the massive cage of wired bones sagged in places, and it
was clear that some were missing, although none lay
around the chair. Simon had a dim recollection of seeing
yellowed bones somewhere else, but pushed it away:

something different had caught his attention.

Eahlstan Fiskerne. He stood before the stone statue and
examined it, trying to find the thing that would scratch
the itching spot in his memory. When he had seen the
martyr-king's face in his Dream Road vision, there had
been something familiar about it. In the throne room be-
fore, on his way to the tower, he had thought the resem-
blance was to the statue he had looked at so often. But
now he knew there was something else familiar about the
face. It was much like another, one he had also seen many
times-in Jiriki's mirror, in reflecting ponds, in the shiny
surface of a shield. Eahlstan looked much like Simon.

He lifted his hand and stared at the golden ring, re-
membering. The Fisher King's people had gone into ex-
ile, and Prester John had later come to claim the killing of
the dragon and with it the throne of Erkynland. Morgenes
had entrusted him with the ring that told that secret.

"This is your story," the angel had said. Who else to
entrust with the knowledge and record of Eahlstan's
house than .. . Eahlstan's heir?

As he stood before the statue, the sudden, certain
knowledge splashed him like cold water, raising
goosebumps of fear and wonder.

Much of the afternoon slid by as Simon paced back and
forth across the empty throne room, lost in thought. He
was staring at Eahlstan's statue again when he heard a
noise in the doorway behind him. He turned to see Duke
Isgrimnur and a few others filing into the chamber.

The duke looked him over carefully. "Ah. So you
know, do you?"

A

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER
757

The young man said nothing, but his face was full o!
conflicting emotions. Isgrimnur observed Simon care-
fully, wondering how this could be the same person as the
stripling brought to him on the plains south of Naglimund
a year before, draped like a sack across the saddle of a
riderless horse.

He had been tall even then, although surely not this
tall, and the thick reddish beard had been only soft boy-
whiskers-but there was more to the change. Simon had
developed an air of calm, a stillness that might have been
either strength or unconcern. Isgrimnur worried more
than a little about what the boy might have become: what
had happened to Simon seemed to have changed that
stripling of a year ago beyond reclaiming, almost beyond
recognizing. His childhood had been burned away. and
now only manhood remained.

"I think I have realized some things, yes," Simon said
at last. He carefully smoothed all expression from his
face. "But I do not think they matter very much-even to
me."

Isgrimnur made a noncommittal sound. "Well. We have
been looking for you."

"Here I am."

As the group moved forward, Simon nodded toward the
duke, then greeted Tiamak, Strangyeard, Jiriki, and Aditu.
As Simon said a few quiet words to the Sithi, Isgrimnur
saw for the first time how like them the young man had
become, at least at this moment-reserved, careful, stow
to speak. The duke shook his head. Who would ever have
imagined such a thing?

"Are you well, Simon?" asked Strangyeard.

The youth shrugged and offered a half-smile. "My
wounds are healing." He turned to Isgrimnur. "Jeremias
brought me your message. I would have come to your
tent, you know, but Jeremias insisted you would come to
me when you were ready." He looked around the small
company, his face closed and careful. "It looks like
you're ready now, but you've come a long way up from
camp to find me. Do you have more questions to ask?"

"Among other things." The duke watched the others

758

Tad Williams

seat themselves on the stone floor and made a face. Simon
smiled with good-natured mockery and motioned to the
Dragonbone Chair. Isgrimnur shook his head, shuddering.
"Very well, then." Simon collected a stack of fallen ban-
ners and put them down on the step below the throne dais.

With only one good arm, Isgrimnur took a little time to
lower himself to the makeshift seat, but he was determined
to do it without leaning on anyone. "I am glad to see you
up and around, Simon," he said when he could talk with-
out breathing hard. "You did not look well this morning."

The young man nodded and eased down beside him.
He moved slowly, too, nursing many hurts, but Isgrimnur
knew he would heal soon. The duke could not help feel-
ing a sharp twinge of envy. "Where are Binabik and
Miriamele?" asked Simon.

"Binabik will be here soon," Strangyeard offered.
"And ... and Miriamele ..."

The youth's calm evaporated. "She's still here, isn't
she? She hasn't run off, or been hurt?"

Tiamak waved his hand. "No, Simon. She is in camp
and healing, just as you. But she . . ." He turned to
Isgrimnur, seeking help.

"But there are things to be discussed without
Miriamele here," the duke said bluntly. "That is all."

Simon absorbed this. "Very well. / have questions."

Isgrimnur nodded. "Ask them." He had been expecting
this since he saw Simon standing in mute absorption be-
fore the statue of Eahlstan.

"Binabik said yesterday that bringing the swords was a
trick, a 'false messenger'-that Pryrates and the Storm
King wanted them all the time." Simon pushed at one of
the sodden banners with the heel of his boot. "They
needed them so they could turn back time to before
Ineluki's last spell, before all the wards and prayers and
whatnot had been laid on the Hayholt."

"All of us outside saw the castle change," the duke said
slowly, caught off balance by Simon's question. He had
been certain the youth would want to ask about his newly-
discovered history. "Even as we fought against the Noms,
the Hayholt just ... melted away. There were strange tow-

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

759

ers everywhere, and fires burning. I thought I saw . . .
ghosts, I suppose they were-ghosts of Sithi and Rimmers-
men in ancient costume. They were at war. right in the
midst of our own battle. What else could it have been?"
The clean afternoon light flooding in through the high win-
dows suddenly made it all seem unreal to Isgrimnur. Just
days ago, the world had been gripped by sorcerous madness
and deadly winter storms. Now a bird twittered outside.
Simon shook his head. "I believe that. I was there. It
was worse inside. But why did they need us to bring the
swords? Bright-Nail was less than a league away from
Pryrates for two years. And surely, if they had really
tried, they could have taken Thorn, either when we were
coming back from Yiqanuc or when it was lying on a
stone slab in Leavetaking House up on Sesuad'ra. It
doesn't make sense."

Jiriki spoke up. "Yes, this is perhaps the hardest matter
of all to understand, Seoman. I can explain some of it. As
we were struggling with Utuk'ku at the Pool of Three
Depths, much of her thought was revealed to us. She did
not shield herself, but rather used that strength in her
fight to capture and use the Pool. She believed there was
little at that point we could do even if we understood the
truth." His slow hand-spread seemed a gesture of regret.
"She was correct."

"You held her off a long while," Simon pointed out.
"And at a great price, from what I heard. Who knows
what might have happened if the Storm King hadn't been
forced to wait?"

Jiriki smiled thinly. "Of all of who fought beside the
Pool, Likimeya understood the most in the short time we
touched Utuk'ku's thoughts. My mother is recovering
very slowly from the battle with her ancestor, but she has
confirmed much that the rest of us suspected.

"The swords were almost living things. That will come
as no surprise to anyone who bore one of them. A large
part of their might was, as Binabik of Mintahoq suspected,
the unwordly forces bound by the Words of Making. But
almost as much of their power was in the effect those
Words had. Somehow, the swords had life. They were not

760 Tad Williams

creatures like us-they had nothing in them that humans
or even Sithi can fully understand-yet they lived. This
was what made them greater than any other weapons, but
it was also what made them difficult for anyone to rule or
control. They could be called-their hunger to be together
and to release their energies would eventually draw them
to the tower-but they could not be compelled. Part of-the
terrible magic the Storm King needed for his plan to suc-
ceed, perhaps the most important part, was that the swords
must come to the summoning themselves at the proper
time. They must choose their own bearers."

Isgrimnur watched Simon think carefully before speak-
ing. "But Binabik also told me that the night Miriamele
and I left Josua's camp, the Norns tried to kill Camaris.
But the sword had already chosen him-chosen him a
long time ago! So why would they want him dead?"

in
"I may have the beginning of the answer to that,"
Strangyeard spoke up. He was still nearly as diffident a^,
when Isgrimnur had first met him years before, but a little
boldness had begun to show through in recent days.
"When we fled Naglimund, the Noms who pursued us be-
haved very strangely. Sir Deomoth was the first to realize
that they were ... oh!" The archivist looked up, startled.

A gray shape had rushed into the throne room. It
bounded up onto the steps before the dais, knocking Si-
mon onto his side. The young man laughed, tangling his
fingers in the wolf's hackles, trying to keep the probing
muzzle and long tongue from his face.

"She is full of gladness to see you, Simon!" Binabik
called. He was just coming through the doorway, trotting
in a futile effort to keep pace with Qantaqa. "She has been
waiting long to bring you greeting. I was keeping her away
before, while your wounds were new-bandaged." The troll
hurried forward, distractedly greeting the rest of the com-
pany as he wrestled Qantaqa to the stone floor beside the
dais. She yielded, then stretched out between Binabik and
Simon, huge and content. "You will be pleased for know-
ing I have found Homefinder this afternoon," the troll told
the young man. "She wandered away from the fighting
and was roaming in the depths of the Kynswood."

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                          761

"Homefinder." Simon said the name slowly. "Thank
you, Binabik. Thank you."

"I will take you for seeing her later."

When all had settled in once more, Strangyeard contin-
ued. "Sir Deornoth was the first to see that they were not
so much chasing us as ... herding us. They drove us out
in fnght, but they did not kill us when they surely could
have. And they only became desperate to stop us when
we turned toward the innermost depths of Aldheorte."

"Toward Jao e-Tinukai'i," said Aditu softly.

".. . And they also killed Amerasu when she had begun
to see Ineluki's plan." Simon pondered. "But I still do not
see why they tried to kill Camaris."

Jiriki spoke. "They were content when you had the
sword, Seoman, although I am sure it made Utuk'ku un-
happy when Ingen Jegger brought her the news that Dawn
Children accompanied you. Still, she and Ineluki must
have thought it doubtful we would so quickly grasp what
they planned-and as it turned out, they were correct.
Only First Grandmother perceived the lineaments of their
plot. They removed her and sowed much other confusion
beside. For those who dwelled in Stormspike, the Zida'ya
were then little threat. They must'have felt sure that when
the time came, the black sword would select you or the
Rimmersman Sludig or someone else to be its bearer.
Josua would come for Bright-Nail-his father's sword,
after all-and the final rituals could take place."

"But Camaris came back," said Simon. "I suppose they
didn't suspect that might happen. Still, he had carried
Thorn for decades. It only makes sense the sword would
choose him again. Why should they fear him?"

Strangyeard cleared his throat. "Sir Camaris, may God
rest his troubled soul-" the priest quickly sketched the
Tree, "-confessed to me what he could not tell others.
That confession must go with me to my grave."
Strangyeard shook his head. "Ransomer preserve him!
But the reason he confessed to me at all was that Aditu
and Geloe wished to know whether he had traveled to Jao
... whether he had met Amerasu. He had."

"He told Prince Josua his secret, I am sure," muttered

762 Tad Williams

Isgrimnur. Remembering that night, and Josua's terrible
expression, he wondered again at what mere words could
have made the prince look as he had. "But Josua is dead,
too, God rest him. We will never know."

"But even though Father Strangyeard swears that it had
nothing to do with our battles here," Jiriki said. "it seems
that Utuk'ku and her ally did not know that. Nakkiga's
queen knew that Amerasu had met Camaris-perhaps she
somehow gleaned the knowledge from First Grandmother
herself during their tests of will- Having Camaris suddenly
and unexpectedly appear on the scene, perhaps with some
special wisdom Amerasu might have given him, and also
with his long experience of one of the Great Swords ..."
Jiriki shook his head. "We cannot know, but it seems they
decided it was too much of a risk. They must have thought
that with Camaris dead, the sword would find a new
bearer, one less likely to complicate their scheme. After
all, Thorn was not a loyal creature like Binabik's wolf."

Simon leaned back and stared at nothing. "So all our
hopes, our quest for the swords, were a trap. And we
walked into it like children." He scowled. Isgrimnur knew
that it was himself he berated.

"It was a damnably clever trap," the duke offered.
"One that must have been a-building for a long time. And
in the end they failed."

"Are we sure?" Simon turned to Jiriki. "Do we know
they've failed?"

"Isgrimnur has told how the Hikeda'ya fled when the
tower fell-those that still lived. I am not sorry that he
did not pursue them, for they are few now, and our kind
give birth infrequently. Many died at Naglimund, and
many here. The fact that they fled instead of fighting to
the death tells much: they are broken."

"Even after Utuk'ku wrested control of the Pool from
us," Aditu said, "we fought her still. And when Ineluki
began to cross over, we felt it." The long pause was elo-
quent. "It was terrible. But we also felt it when his mortal
body-King Elias' body-died. Ineluki had abandoned
the nowhere-ptace which had been his refuge, and risked

TO    GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                          76^

final dissolution to enter back into the world. He risked,
and he lost. There is surely nothing left of him."

Simon raised an eyebrow. "And Utuk'ku?"

"She lives, but her power is destroyed. She, too, gam-
bled much, and it was through her magics that InelukTs
being could be fixed in the tower during the moment when
Time was turned withershins. The failure blasted her."
Adilu fixed him with her amber eyes. "I saw her, Seoman,
saw her in my thoughts as clearly as if she stood before
me. The fires of Stormspike have gone dark and the halls
are empty. She is all but alone, her silver mask shattered."

"You mean you saw her? Saw her face?"

Aditu inclined her head. "Horror of her own antiquity
made her hide her features long ago-but to you, Seoman
Snowlock, she would seem nothing but an old woman.
Her features are lined and sagging, her skin mottled.
Utuk'ku Seyt-Hamakha is the Eldest, but her wisdom was
corrupted by selfishness and vanity ages ago. She was
ashamed that the years had caught up with her. And now
even the terror and strength she wielded is gone."

"So the power of Sturmrspeik and the White Foxes is
finished," Isgrimnur said. "We have suffered many losses,
but we could have lost far mo're, Simon-lost everything.
We have much to thank you and Binabik for."

"And Miriamele," Simon said quietly.

"And Miriamele, of course."

The young man looked at the gathering, then turned
back to the duke. "There's more brings you here, I know.
You answered my questions. What are yours?"

Isgrimnur couldn't help noticing how Simon's confi-
dence had grown. He was still courteous, but his voice
suggested that he deferred to no one. Which was as it
should be. But there was an undercurrent of anger which
made Isgrimnur hesitate before speaking. "Jiriki has been
talking to me about you, about your ... heritage. I was
astonished, I must say, but I can only believe him, since
it fits with everything else we've learned-about John,
about the Sithi, everything. I thought we would be bring-
ing you the news, but something in your face told me you
had already discovered it."

764
Tad Williams

Simon's lips quirked in an odd half-smile. "I did."

"So you know that you are of the blood of Eahlstan
Fiskerne," Isgrimnur forged on, "last king of Erkynland
in the centuries before Prester John."

"And the founder of the Scroll League," Binabik added.

"And the one who truly killed the dragon," Simon said
dryly. "What of it?" Despite his calm, something intense
and powerful moved beneath the surface. Isgrimnur was
puzzled.

Before Isgrimnur could say anything more, Jiriki spoke.
"I am sorry I could not tell you earlier what I knew,
Seoman, my friend. I feared it could only burden and con-
fuse you, or perhaps lead you to take dangerous risks."

"I understand," Simon said, but he did not sound
pleased. "How did you know?"

"Eahlstan Fiskerne was the first mortal king after the
fall of Asu'a to reach out to the Zida'ya." The sun was
setting outside, and the sky beyond the windows was
turning dark. A brisk wind coursed through the throne
room and ruffled some of the banners on the floor. Jiriki's
white hair fluttered. "He knew us, and some of our folk
came at times to meet with him in the caverns below the
Hayholt-in the ruins of our home. He feared that what
we Zida'ya knew would be lost forever, and even that we
might turn against humankind entirely after the destruc-
tion that Fingil had wrought. He was not far wrong. There
has been little love for mortals among my folk- There was
also little love for immortals among Eahlstan's own kind.
But as the years of his reign passed, small steps were
taken, small confidences exchanged, and a delicate trust
began to build. We who were involved kept it a secret."
Jiriki smiled. "I say 'we,' but I myself was only the
message-bearer, running errands for First Grandmother,
who could not let her continuing interest in mortals be
widely known, even within her own family."

"I was always jealous of you, Willow-Switch," said
Aditu, laughing. "So young, and yet with such important
tasks!"

Jiriki smiled. "In any case, whatever might have been
if Eahlstan had lived and his line had continued did not

TO    GREEN    ANGEL   TOWER

765

come to pass. The fire-worm Shurakai came, and in kill-
ing it, Eahlstan was himself killed. Whether his eventual
successor John knew something of Eahlstan's secret deal-
ings with us and feared we would expose John's lie that
he was the dragon-slayer or there was some other reason
for his enmity toward us, I do not know. But John set out
to drive us from the last of our hiding places. He did not
find them all, and never came near to discovering Jao
e-Tinukai'i, but he did us great harm. Almost all our con-
tact with mortals ended during John's life."

Simon folded his hands. "I am sorry for the things my
people have done. And I am glad to know my ancestor
was such a man."

"Eahlstan's folk scattered before the wrath of the
dragon. Eventually they settled into their exile, I am
told," Jiriki said. "And when John came and conquered,
all hope of regaining the Hayholt was gone. So they
nursed their secret and went on, a fishing folk living close
to the waters as they had been in the days of Eahlstan
Fiskerne's ancestors. But Eahlstan's ring they kept in the
royal family, and passed it down from parent to child.
One of Eahlstan's great-grandchildren, a scholar like his
forebear, studied the old Sithi runes from one of
Eahlstan's treasured scrolls, then had the motto that was
the family's pride-and Prester John's secret shame-
inscribed upon the ring. That was what Morgenes held in
trust for you, Seoman: your past."

"And I'm certain he would have told me some day."
Simon had listened to Jiriki's tale with poorly-hidden ten-
sion. Isgrimnur stared, looking for the cracks in Simon's
nature that he half-expected, but feared, to see. "But what
has it to do with anything now? All the royal blood in the
world did not make me less of a dupe for Pryrates and the
Storm King. It's a pretty tale, no more. Half the noble
houses in Nabban must have Imperators in their history.
What of it?" His jaw was set belligerently.

Several of the company turned to Isgrimnur- The duke
moved uncomfortably on the step. "Erkynland needs a
ruler," he said at last. "The Dragonbone Chair is empty."

Simon's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.

766 Tad Williams

"And... ?" he said at last. He stared at Isgrimnur dis-
trustfully. "Miriamele is in good health and has only a
few wounds. In fact. she is just the same as she ever
was,"-the bitterness in his voice was plain-"so surely
she will soon be able to rule."

"It is not her health that concerns us," said the duke
gruffly. Somewhere, this conversation had gone wrong,
Simon was acting like one awakened from his rightful
sleep by a group of misbehaving children. "It is-damn
it, it's her father!"

"But Elias is dead. She killed him herself. With the
White Arrow of the Sithi." Simon turned to Jiriki. "Come
to think of it, since that arrow certainly saved my life, I
suppose we have evened our debt."
The Sitha did not respond. The immortal's face was, as
usual, unrevealing, but something in his posture sug-
gested he was troubled.

"The people have suffered so under Elias that they may
not trust Miriamele," Isgrimnur said. "It's foolish, I know,
but there it is. If Josua had lived, they might have wel-
comed him with open arms. The barons know the prince
resisted Elias ever since he began to go bad, that he suf-
fered terribly and fought his way back from exile. But
Josua is dead."

"Miriamele did all those things, too!" Simon cried an-
grily. "This is nonsense!"

"We know, Simon," said Tiamak. "I traveled with her
a long way. Many of us know of her bravery."

"Yes, I know it, too," Isgrimnur growled, his own irri-
tation flaring. "But what is true does not matter here. She
fled Naglimund before the siege started and she did not
reach Sesuad'ra until after Fengbald had been defeated.
Then she vanished again, and wound up in the Hayholt
with her father at the very ending." He grimaced. "And
there are tales, doubtless spread by that whoreson Aspitis
Preves, that she was his doxy while he served Pryrates.
Rumors are flying."

"But some of those things are true of me, too. Am / a
traitor?"

"Miriamele is not a traitor. God knows-and / know."

TO   GRhPN   ANGEL   TOWER                              767

Isgrimnur glared at him. "But after what her father has
done, she may not be trusted. The people want someone
on the throne they can trust."

"Madness!" Simon slapped his hands against his
thighs, then turned to the Sithi. He seemed ready to burst.
"What do you two think of this?" he demanded.

"We do not concern ourselves in these kind of mortal
affairs," Jiriki said a little stiffly.

"You are our friend, Seoman," Aditu added. "Whatever
we can do for you to help you in this time, we will. How-
ever, we also have only respect for Miriamele, though we
know her but little."

Simon turned to the troll. "Binabik?"

The little man shrugged. "I cannot say. Isgrimnur and
the rest of you must be making decisions to settle it your-
selves. You and Miriamele are both my friends. If you are
wishing advice later, Simon, we will take Qantaqa off for
walking and we will speak."

"Speak about what? People telling lies about
Miriamele?"

Isgrimnur cleared his throat. "He means he will talk to
you about accepting the crown of Erkynland."

Simon turned back to stare at.the duke. This time,   for
all his newfound maturity, the young man could not   hide
any of his feelings. "You are ... you are offering   me the
throne?" he asked derisively, incredulously. "This   is mad-
ness! Me? A kitchen boy!"

Isgrimnur could not help smiling. "You are much more
than a kitchen boy. Your deeds are already filling up
songs and stories everywhere between here and Nabban.
Wait until the Battle in the Tower is added to the tally."

"Aedon preserve me," Simon said in disgust.

"But there are more important things." The duke grew
serious. "You are well-liked and well-known. Not only
did you battle a dragon, you fought bravely for Sesuad'ra
and Josua, and people remember that. And now we can
tell them that you have the blood of Saint Eahlstan
Fiskerne, one of the most beloved men ever to hold a
throne. In fact, it if weren't true, I would be tempted to
make it up."

768 Tad Williams

"But it doesn't mean anything?" Simon exploded.
"Don't you think I've thought about it? I've been doing
nothing but thinking since the moment I realized. I am a
scullion who was taught by a very wise, very kind man.
I have been lucky in my friends. I have been caught up in
terrible things, I did what I had to, and I lived through it.
None of that has anything to do with who my great-great-
however-many-greats-grandfather was!"

Isgrimnur waited a few moments after Simon finished,
letting some of the youth's anger pass. "But don't you
see," the duke said gently, "it doesn't matter whether it
changes anything or not. As I said, I don't think it really
matters much if it's true or not. Dror's red mallet, Simon,
Prester John's story was a myth-a lie! I've had to strug-
gle with that discovery myself in the last few days. But
does it make him any less a king? People need to believe
something whether you want them to or not. If you don't
give them things to believe, they will make things up.

"Right now they are frightened of the future. Most of
the world we know is in a shambles, Simon. And the sur-
vivors are wary of Miriamele because of who she is and
because of uncertainty about what she's done-and be-
cause she's a young woman, to speak bluntly. The barons
want a man, someone strong but not too strong, and they
want no civil wars over a reigning queen's choice of hus-
bands." Isgrimnur reached out to touch Simon's arm, but
decided against it and drew his hand back. "Listen to me.
The people who followed Josua love you, Simon, almost
as much as they loved the prince. More in some ways,
perhaps. You know and I know that what blood flows in
you makes no difference-it's all red. But your people
need to believe in something, and they are cold and hurt-
ing and homeless."

Simon stared at him. Isgrimnur could not help feeling
the force of the young man's rage. He had grown indeed.
He would be a formidable man-no, he was so already.

"And for such tricks you would have me betray
Miriameie?" Simon demanded.

"Not betray," Isgrimnur said. "I will give you a few
days to think about it, then I will go and put it to her my-

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER            769

self. We will bury our dead tomorrow, and the people will
see us all together. That will be enough for now." The
duke shook his head. "I'm not going to lie to her,
Simon-that's not my way-but I wanted you to have a
chance to hear me first." He suddenly felt immensely
sorry for the young man.

He probably thought he would have a chance to lick his
wounds in peace-and he's got plenty of them. We all do.

"Think about it, Simon. We need you-all of us. It will
be hard enough for me to pull my own dukedom together,
not to mention what will happen to young Varellan, or-
phaned in Nabban, and whoever still remains in
Hernystir. We need at least the appearance of the High
King's Ward again, and someone the people trust sitting
on the throne at the Hayholt."

He rose from the low stair, trying not to show how
much his back hurt, bowed stiffly to Simon-which in it-
self was an odd sensation-and stumped away across the
throne room, leaving the rest of the circle in silence. He
could feel Simon's eyes on his back.

God help me, Isgrimnur thought as he emerged into the
twilight. / need a rest. A long rest.

*

He looked up from the fire at the sound of footsteps.
"Bmabik?"

She moved forward into the light. Despite the cool
spring night and the patches of still unmelted snow, her
feet were bare. Her cloak fluttered in the breeze that
swept down the hillside from the Hayholt.

"I couldn't sleep," she said.

For a moment Simon hesitated. He had not expected
anyone, least of all her. After the day-long memorial for
Josua, Camaris, Isom, and the other dead, Binabik had
gone off to spend the evening with Strangyeard and
Tiamak, leaving Simon alone to sit before his tent and
think. Her arrival seemed a thing he might have dreamed
while staring into the campfire.

"Miriamele." He clambered awkwardly to his feet.

770

Tad Williams

"Princess. Sit down, please." He gestured to a stone near
the fire.

She sat, drawing her cloak close around her. "Are you
well?" she asked at last.

"I'm . . ." He paused. "I don't know. Things are
strange."

She nodded. "It's hard to believe it's finished. It's hard
to believe they're all gone forever."

He moved uncomfortably, not certain if she spoke of
friends or enemies. "There are still lots of things to be
done. People are scattered, the world has been turned
upside-down. . . ." Simon waved his hand vaguely.
"There's lots to do."

Miriamele leaned forward, stretching her hands toward
the fire. Simon watched the light play across her delicate
features and felt his heart clutch hopelessly. All the royal
blood in the world might run in his veins, rivers of it, but
it did not matter if she did not care for him. During all of
today's rites for the fallen, she had not once met his eyes.
Even their friendship seemed to have faded.

It would serve her right if I let them force me to take the
throne. He turned away to stare at the flames, feeling low
and mean-spirited. But it is hers by right. She was Prester
John's granddaughter. What difference did it make that
some ancestor of Simon's had been king two centuries ago?

"I killed him, Simon," she said abruptly. "I traveled al!
that way to speak to him, to try to let him know I under-
stood ... but instead I killed him." There was devastation
in her words. "Killed him!"

Simon searched frantically for something to say. "You
saved us all, Miriamele."

"He was a good man, Simon. Loud and short-tempered,
perhaps, but he was . . . before my mother . , ," She
blinked her eyes rapidly. "My own father!"

"You had no other choice." Simon ached to see her in
such pain. 'There was nothing else you could have done,
Miri. You saved us."

"He knew me at the end. May God help me, Simon, I
think he wanted me to do it. I looked at him ... and he
was so unhappy. He was in so much pain!" She rubbed at

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER 771

her face with her cloak. "I will not cry," she said harshly.
"I am so weary of crying!"
The wind grew stronger, sighing through the grass.
"And sweet Uncle Josua!" she said, more quietly now, but
with a core of urgency. "Gone, like everyone else. Gone. All
my family gone. And poor, tormented Camaris. Ah, God.
What kind of a world is this?" Her shoulders were heaving.
Simon reached out and awkwardly took her hand. She did
not try to pull away, as he felt sure she would. Instead, they
sat in silence except for the crackling of the fire. "And
C-Cadrach, too," she murmured at last. "Oh, Merciful Ely-
sia, in some ways he is the worst. He wanted only to die, but
he waited for me ... for us. He stayed, despite all that had
happened, despite all the terrible things I said to him." She
lowered her head, staring at the ground. Her voice was pain-
fully raw. "In his way, he loved me. That was cruel of him,
wasn't it?"

Simon shook his head. There was nothing to say.
She suddenly turned to him, eyes wide. "Let's go
away! We can take the horses and be half a dozen leagues
from here by morning. I don't want to be a queen!" She
squeezed his hand. "Oh, please don't leave me!"

"Go away? Where? And why would I leave you?" Si-
mon felt his heart speed. It was hard to think, hard to be-
lieve he had truly understood her. "Miriamele, what are
you talking about?"

"Curse you, Simon! Are you really as foolish as people
used to think you were?" She now grasped his hand in
both of hers; tears gleamed on her cheeks. "I don't care
if you were a kitchen boy. I don't care that your father
was a fisherman. I only want you, Simon. Oh, do you
think I'm an idiot? I am an idiot, I suppose." Her laugh
had a touch of wildness to it. She let go of his hand for
a moment to wipe at her eyes again. "I've been brooding
about this ever since the tower fell. I can't stand it! Uncle
Isgrimnur and the others, they're going to make me take
the throne, I know they will. And I'll go back to being the
old Miriamele again, except this time it will be a thou-
sand, thousand times worse! It will be a prison. And then
I'll have to marry some other Fengbald-just because

772 Tad Williams

he's dead doesn't mean there aren't a hundred more just
like him-and I'll never have another adventure, or be
free, or do what I want to ... and you'll go away, Simon!
I'll lose you! The only one I really care about."

He stood, then pulled her up from the stone so he could
put his arms around her. They were both shaking, and for
a little time all he could do was grapple her to him and
hang on, as though the wind might sweep her away.
"I've loved you so long, Miriamele." He could not
keep his voice steady.

"You frighten me. You don't know how you frighten
me." Her voice was muffled against his chest. "I don't
know what you see when you look at me. But please
don't go away," she said urgently. "Whatever happens,
don't go away."

"I won't." He leaned back so he could see her. Her
eyes were bright, fresh tears trembling on the lower
lashes. His own eyes were blurring as well. He laughed;

his voice cracked. "I won't leave you. I promised I
wouldn't, don't you remember?"

"Sir Seoman. My Simon. You are my love," She
sucked in her breath. "How did it happen?"

He leaned forward, pressing his mouth against hers, and
as they clung to each other the starry sky seemed to spin
around the place where they stood. Simon's hands moved
beneath her cloak and he ran his lingers down the long
muscles of her back. Miriameie shuddered and pulled him
closer, rubbing her damp face against his neck.

Feeling the length of her pressed against him filled Si-
mon with a kind of drunken, joyous madness. With his
arms still locked around her, he took a few staggering
steps toward the tent. He tasted the salt of her tears and
covered her eyes and cheeks and lips with kisses as her
hair swirled around him and stuck to his damp face.

Inside the tent, hidden from the prying stars, they
wrapped themselves tightly around each other, clutching,
drowning together. The wind plucked at the tent cloth, the
only sound beside the rustle of clothes and the urgent hiss
of their breathing.

For a moment the wind tugged the tent door open. In

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER          773

the thin starlight, her skin was pale as ivory, so smooth
and warm beneath his fingers that he could not imagine
ever wanting to touch anything else. His hand slid across
the curve of her breast and ran down her hip. He felt
something catch inside him, something almost like terror,
but sweet, so sweet. She held his face between her hands
and drank his breath, murmuring wordlessly all the while,
gasping quietly as his mouth moved down her neck and
onto the delicate arch of her collarbone.

He pulled her closer, wanting to devour her, wanting to
be devoured. His eyes overspitled with tears.

"I've loved you so long," he whispered.

Simon awakened slowly. He felt heavy, his body warm
and boneless. Miriamele's head nestled in the hollow of
his shoulder, her hair pressed softly against his cheek and
neck. Her slender limbs were wrapped around him, one
arm splayed across his chest, the fingers tickling beneath
his chin.

He pulled her nearer. She murmured sleepily and
rubbed her head against him.

The tent flap rustled. A silhouette, a slightly darker
spot against the night sky, appeared in the gap.

"Simon?" someone whispered.

Heart pounding, suddenly ashamed for the princess, Si-
mon tried to sit up. Miriamele made an unhappy sound as
he slid her arm lower.

"Binabik?" he asked. "Is that you?"

The dark shape pushed in, letting the flap fall shut be-
hind.

"Quiet. I am about to light a candle. Say nothing."

There was a muted clinking as flint met steel, then a
tiny glow sprang up in the grass near the tent door. A mo-
ment later a flame bobbed at the end of a wick and soft
candlelight filled the tent. Miriamele made a groggy noise
of protest and buried her face deeper in Simon's neck. He
gaped in astonishment.

Josua's thin face hovered above the candle.

"The grave cannot hold me," said the prince, smiling.

34

Leavetaking

*

Simon's heart tftmnped,

"Prince Josua... ?"

"Quietly, lad." Josua leaned forward. His eyes widened
for a moment as he saw the head pillowed on Simon's
chest, but then his smile returned. "Ah. Bless you both.
Make her marry you, Simon-not that it will take much
coaxing, I think. She will make a splendid queen with
you to help her."

Simon shook his head in amazement. "But ... but you
... surely ..." He stopped and took a breath. "You're
dead-or everyone thinks you are!"

Josua seated himself, holding the candle low so that the
gleam was mostly shielded by his body. "I should be."

"Tiamak saw your neck broken!" Simon whispered.
"And no one could have gotten out of that place after we
did."

"Tiamak saw me struck," Josua corrected him. "My
neck should indeed have been broken-as it is, it still
hurts fiercely. But I had my hand up." He extended his
left arm and the tattered sleeve pulled back. Elias' mana-
cle still hung on the swollen wrist, the metal flattened and
scarred. "My brother and Pryrates forgot the gift they had
given me. There is some poetry in that-or perhaps God
wished to send a message about the value of suffering."
The prince's sleeve rustled back into place. "I could
barely use the hand for two days after I awoke, but the
feeling is coming back now."

Miriamele stirred and opened her eyes. For a moment

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              775

they widened in dread, then she sat up, clutching the
blanket to her breast. "Uncle Josua!"

Smiling crookedly, he lifted his finger to his lips. She
pulled the top part of the blanket t -ound her-leaving
most of Simon exposed to the cold air-and threw her
arms around him, weeping. Josua, too, seemed almost
overcome. After a few moments Miriamele pulled away,
then looked down at her bare shoulders and colored. She
hurriedly lay back on the bedroll again and pulled the
blanket up to her chin. Simon took back his half of it with
gratitude.

"How can you be alive?" she said, laughing and dab-
bing at her eyes with the blanket's edge.

Josua explained again, showing her the dented mana-
cle.

"But how did you escape?" Simon was anxious now
for the story to continue. "The tower fell!"

The prince's head moved from side to side. Shadows
flittered on the tent wall. "That is one thing I cannot
know for certain, but my guess is that Camaris picked me
up and carried me down in the first moments. I have
come close to many campfires in the past nights, and
heard many things. It sounds as though the confusion and
smoke and flames were such that he could have gone
down the stairwell ahead of you. We first came into the
tower from beneath, through the tunnels; I believe he
went out that way as well. All I know for certain is that
I woke up beneath the stars, alone on the beach beside the
Kynslagh. But who except Camaris would have had the
strength to carry me so far?"

"If he went down before us, then Cadrach must have
seen." Miriamele fell silent, pondering this.

"It's a miracle," Simon breathed. "But why have you
told no one? And what did you mean when you said
Miriamele would be queen? Won't you... ?"

"You do not understand," the prince said quietly. There
was a strange edge of merriment in his voice. "I am dead.
I wish to stay that way."

"What?"

"Just as I said- Simon, Miriamele, I was never meant to

776

Tad Williams

rule. It was ago >; -r me, but I saw no other course but
to try to push Elias trom the throne. Now God has opened
a door for me, a door that I believed forever shut. To die
or to take the crown were my only choices. Now, I have
been given another."

Simon was stunned. For a long while he said nothing.
Miriamele was silent, too. Josua watched them, a smile
playing across his mouth.

"It is shocking, I know." The prince turned to his niece.
"But you will be a far better ruler than I ever would-as
will Simon."

"But you are John's true heir," Simon protested, "even
more than Miriamele! And I'm just a kitchen boy you
knighted! They say I'm a descendant of Saint Eahlstan,
but that means nothing to me. It doesn't make me fit to
rule Erkynland or anything else."

"I heard that tale, Simon. Isgrimnur and the others keep
secrets poorly, if they ever meant to keep your heritage
secret." Josua laughed quietly. "And I was not at all sur-
prised to hear that you are of Eahlstan Fiskerne's blood.
But as to whether that makes you more or less fit than
me, Simon-you do not know all, even so. I am no more
John's heir than you are."

"What do you mean?" Simon moved slightly so that
Miriamele's head found a more comfortable position on
his breast. She was not looking at Josua now, but up at Si-
mon, her brow furrowed with worry or deep thought.

"Just as I said," the prince replied. "I am not John's
son. Camaris was my father."

Simon sucked in his breath. "Camaris... ?"
Now Miriamele did look at the prince, as startled as Si-
mon. "What are you talking about?"

"John was old when he married my mother, Efiathe of
Hemysadharc," Josua said. "A measure of the distance in
their years is that he felt no qualms about giving her a
new name, Ebekah, as though she were a child." He
frowned. "What happened after that is not particularly
surprising. It is one of the commonest and oldest stories
in the world, although I do not doubt she loved the king
and he loved her. But Camaris was her special protector,

TO    GREEN    ANGEL   TOWER

777

a young man, as great and fabled a hero as John. What
began as a deep respect and admiration between them
grew into something more.

"Elias was John's child, but I was not. When my
mother died birthing me, Camaris went mad. What could
he think but that his sin had sentenced his beloved, who
was also the wife of his closest friend, to death?" The
prince shook his head. "His agony was such that he gave
away everything he had, as one who knows he will die-
and he must have felt he was dying, since every breath,
every moment, was so full of pain and terrible shame. At
last he took the hom Ti-tuno and went in search of the
Sithi, perhaps to expiate the sin of participating in John's
persecution of them, or perhaps, like Elias, he hoped the
wise immortals could help him reach his beloved beyond
death. Whatever the aim of his pilgrimage, Amerasu
brought him secretly to Jao e-Tinukai'i, for reasons of her
own. I have not discovered all that happened: my father
was so distraught when he told me it was hard to make
sense of everything.

"In any case, Amerasu met with him and took the hom
back, perhaps to keep it for him, perhaps because it had
belonged to her lost sons. Exactly what passed between
them is still a mystery to me, but apparently whatever she
told him was no comfort. My father left the forest deeps,
still grieving. Soon after, when his despair finally out-
weighed even his terror of the sin of self-slaughter, he
cast himself over the side of a ship into the Bay of
Firannos. He survived somehow-he is fearfully strong,
you know; that trait his blood certainly did not pass on to
me!-but his wits were shadowed. He wandered through
the southland, begging, living in the wilderness, subsist-
ing on the charities of others, until he found his way at
last to that Kwanitupul inn. In a way, I suppose, he knew
peace for that time, despite the harshness of his life and
his own poor wits. Then, after two score years, Isgrimnur
found him, and soon peace was taken from him again. He
awakened with the old horror still fresh in his mind, and
the knowledge he had tried to murder himself added to
it."

1

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778

"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 Streawe 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." Si-
mon 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

TO    GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

779

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 Streawe can help
me purchase Pelippa 's Bowl, and I will be the landlord of
a quiet inn at Kwanitupul. An inn where friends will al-
ways 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 in-
deed 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 under-
stand 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 foot in-
deed 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 school-
ing 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 prin-
cess lying beside him. The world was unimaginably
strange.

"So?" Miriamele asked suddenly.

780 Tad Williams

"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 flut-
tered above the stones, quarreling shrilly. Beyond the rub-
ble 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 be-
fore, 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

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER              781

bold, impatient horses. "It is beautiful," she said. "Beau-
tiful."

Jiriki smiled at her, then turned back to Simon. "So it
is time for my folk to go back to Jao e-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 hap-
pen 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 Chil-
dren, our day is past, but perhaps now we will not simply
disappear. Perhaps when we are gone there will be some-
thing of us left behind beside our ruins and a few old sto-
ries." 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 re-
building 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, Si-
mon, Miriamele-even after Gutrun's ship comes from

782 Tad Williams

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 be-
gan 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 de-
serted, 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.

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                          783

"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 cheer-
ful." 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 find-
ing other bearers, and no fighting back would have hap-
pened 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 hurry-
ing figures and the flicker of firelight. "Do you remember
the dream I had at Geloe'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 color-
ful 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 hap-
pened 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 think-
ing her parents will still have a small sadness when they
see I have survived."

"Soon? You're going soon?"

784 Tad Williams
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 sol-
emnly. "You are my dearest friend also, Simon. Always
we will be in each others' hearts."

They walked on toward the bonfire, hand in hand.

A

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 under-
stand 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 celebrat-
ing 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 exam-
ple 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

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                          785

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 bat-
tles 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. Per-
haps 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 mea-
ger 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 tike Miriamele, if she had been
brought up at all well, would understand the need for or-

786                    Tad Williams

der. Rachel did not think that her heart would ever en-
tirety be in her work again, but felt sure she had some-
thing 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 beeftmade 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 corner
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 any-
one 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."

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                            787

Grinning, Jeremias grabbed her hand. "Come with me.
There are people who will want to see you."

Protesting, although she did not quite know why-
surely there was nothing better an old woman like her had
to do-Rachel allowed herself to be led through the
swirling crowds, right across Battle Square. With Jere-
mias tugging at her until she wanted to ask him to let go,
they passed so close to the bonfire that she could feel its
heat down into her cold bones. Within moments they had
pushed through another knot of people and approached a
line of armored soldiers who held them back with crossed
pikes until Jeremias whispered something in the captain's
ear. The sentries then let them through. Rachel had just
enough strength to wonder what Jeremias had said, but
too little breath to ask.

They stopped abruptly and Jeremias stepped past her
toward a young woman sitting in the nearest of two tall
chairs. As he spoke to her, the woman turned her gaze to-
ward Rachel and her lips curled in a slow smile. The Mis-
tress of Chambermaids stared at her in fascination. Surely
that was Miriamele, the king's daughter-but she looked
so much older! And she was beautiful, her fair hair curv-
ing around her face, shimmering in the fireglow. She
looked every inch a queen.

Rachel felt a kind of gratitude sweep over her. Perhaps
there would be some kind of order to life after all, at least
a little. But what concern could Miriamele, this radiant
creature as exalted as an angel, have with an old servant?

Miriamele turned and said something to the man sitting
back in the shadows of the chair beside hers. Rachel saw
him start, then clamber to his feet.

Merciful Rhiap, she thought. He's so tall! This must be
that Snowlock, that one they all speak of. Someone said
his other name, what was it?

"... Seoman ..." she said aloud, staring at his face.
The beard, the scar, the streak of white in his hair-for a
moment he was just a young man. Then she knew.

"Rachel!" In a few long steps he was before her. He
stared down at her for a moment, his lips trembling, then

788 Tad Williams

a wide grin broke across his face. "Rachel!" he said
again.

"Simon... ?" she murmured. The world had ceased to
make any kind of sense. "You're ... alive?"

He bent down and grabbed her, squeezing hard. He
lifted her high in the air so that her feet wiggled above
the ground. "Yes!" he laughed. "I'm alive! God knows
how, but I'm alive! Oh, Rachel, you could never imagine
what has happened, never, never, never!"

He put her down but took both her hands in his. She
wanted to pull them free because tears were,streaming
down her cheeks. Could this be? Or had she finally gone
mad? But there he was, red hair, idiot grin, big as life-
bigger than life!

"Are you ... Snowlock?"

"I am, I suppose!" He laughed again. "I am." He let go
for a moment, then draped an arm around her. "There is
so much to tell you-but we have time now, nothing but
time." He lifted his head, shouting: "Quick! This is Ra-
chel! Bring her wine, bring her food, get her a chair!"

"But what has happened?" She craned her neck to look
up at him, impossibly tall, impossibly alive, but Simon
for all that. "How can this be?"

"Sit," he said. "I will tell you all. And then we can be-
gin the grand task."

She shook her head, dazed. "Grand task?"

"You were Mistress of Chambermaids ... but you were
always more. You were like a mother to me, but I was too
young and stupid to see it. Now you shall have the honor
you deserve, Rachel. And if you want it, you shall be the
mistress of the entire Hayholt. Heaven knows, we need
you. An army of servants will attend you, troops of build-
ers, companies of chambermaids, legions of gardeners."
He laughed, a man's loud laugh. "We will fight a war
against the ruin we have made, and we will build the cas-
tle again. We will make our home a beautiful place once
more!" He gave her a squeeze and steered her toward
where Miriamele and Jeremias waited, smiling. "You will
be Rachel the Dragon, General of the Hayholt!"

Tears trickled down her cheeks. "Mooncalf," she said.

Afterword

Tiamak pustied with his toe at the lilypad. The part of
the moat in the shadow of the wall was quiet but for the
hum of insects and the splashing of Tiamak's own feet
dangling in the water.

He was watching a water beetle when he heard foot-
steps behind him.

"Tiamak!" Father Strangyeard sat down awkwardly be-
side him, but kept his sandaled feet out of the moat. "I
heard you had arrived. How good it is to see you."

The Wrannaman turned and clasped the archivist's
hand. "And you, dear friend," he said. "It is astonishing
to see the changes here."

"A great deal can happen in a year," Strangyeard
laughed. "And people have been hard at work. But what
is your news since your last message?"

Tiamak smiled. "Much. I found the remnants of my
townsmen, scattered mainly through other villages across
the Wran. Many of them will come back to Village
Grove, I think, now that the ghants have retreated to the
deep swamp." His smile dwindled. "And my sister still
does not believe half of what I tell her."

"Can you blame her?" asked Strangyeard gently. "I can
scarcely believe the things I saw myself."

"No, I do not blame her." Tiamak's smile returned.
"And I have finally finished Sovran Remedys of the
Wranna Healers."

"Tiamak, my friend!" Strangyeard was honestly de-

790 Tad Williams

lighted. "But that is wonderful! I am hungry for it! Is
there a chance I can read it soon?"

"Very soon. I brought it with me. Simon and Miriamele
said they would have copies made here. Four writing-
priests, just to work on my book!" He shook his head.
"Who would ever have dreamed?"

"Wonderful," Strangyeard said again. His smile was
mysterious. "Come, should we not head back? I think ft is
almost time."

Tiamak nodded and reluctantly pulled his feet from the
water. The lily pad floated back into place.
"I have heard that this will be more than a memorial,"
the Wrannaman said as they gazed at the incomplete shell
of stone, littered with the boards and covering cloths of
absent workers, that rose where Green Angel Tower had
stood. "That there will be archives as well." He turned
suddenly to look at his friend. "Ah. I suspect you know
more about those four writing-priests than you told me."

Strangyeard nodded and blushed. "That is my news,"
he said proudly. "I helped draw the plans. It will be mag-
nificent, Tiamak. A place of learning where nothing will
be lost or hidden. And I will have many assistants to help
me." He smiled and stared across the grounds. Two slow-
moving figures made their way through the building site
and passed through the recently completed doorway into
the shadowed interior. "Most likely my eye will be so bad
by the time the thing is finished-if God has not yet
called me, that is-that I won't be able to see it. But that
does not worry me. I see it already." He tapped his head
and his gentle smile grew wider. "Here. And it is wonder-
ful, my friend, wonderful."

Tiamak took the priest's arm. They made their way
across the grounds of the Inner Bailey.

"As I said, it is astonishing to see the changes." The
marsh man looked up at the castle's hodgepodge of roofs,
almost all patched now, gleaming in the late afternoon
sun. Higher up, a scaffolding had been erected over the
dome of the chapel. A few workmen moved across it, ty-
ing things down for the night. Tiamak's gaze roved to the

TO GREBN ANGEL TOWER          791

far side of the Inner Bailey wall and he paused.
"Hjeldin's Tower-it has no windows in it any more.
They were red, were they not?"

"Pryrates' tower . . . and storehouse." Strangyeard
sketched the Tree on his breast. "Yes. Fire will be put to
it, I expect, then it will be leveled to the ground. It has
been sealed a long time, but no one is in much of a hurry
to go inside, and Simon-King Seoman, I suppose I
should say, although that still sounds faintly strange tc
me-wants the entrance to the catacombs beneath seak
as well." The archivist shook his head. "You know I thir
knowledge is precious, Tiamak. But I have not objecu
to any part of that plan."

The Wrannaman nodded. "I understand. But let us talk
of more pleasant things."

"Yes." Strangyeard smiled again. "Speaking of such, I
have come by a fascinating object-part of the
castellain's account book from the time of Sulis the Apos-
tate. Someone found it when they were cleaning up the
Chancelry. There are some astonishing things in it,
Tiamak-just astonishing! I think we just have time to
stop by my chamber and get it on our way-to the dining
hall."

"Let us go then, by all means," Tiamak said, grinning,
but as he fell in beside the archivist, he turned for a last
look at Hjeldin's Tower and its empty windows.

A

"You see," Isgrimnur said softly. "They have covered it
with fine stone, just as Miriamele said."

Gutrun wiped at her face with the scarf. "Read it to
me."

The duke squinted down at the slab set into the floor.
The place was open to the sky, but the light was fading
fast. "Isorn, son of Isgrimnur and Outrun, Duke and
Duchess of Elvritshalla. Bravest of men, beloved of God
and all who knew him." He straightened up, determined
not to cry. He would be strong for his lost child. "Bless
you, son," he whispered.

792 Tad Williams

"He must be so lonely," Gutrun said, her voice qua-
vering. "So cold in the ground."

"Hush." Isgrimnur put his arm around her. "Isom is not
here, you know that. He is in a better place. He would
laugh to see us fret so." He tried to make his words firm.
It did no good to question, to worry. "God has rewarded
him."

"Of course." Gutrun sniffed. "But, Isgrimnur, I still
miss him so!"

He felt his eyes misting and cursed quietly, then hastily
made the Tree sign. "I miss him, too, wife. Of course. But
we have our others to think of, and Elvritshalla-not to
mention two godchildren down in Kwanitupul."

"Godchildren I cannot even brag about!" she said in-
dignantly, then laughed and shook her head.

They stood a while longer, until the light had vanished
and the stone slab had fallen into shadow. Then they went
out again into the evening.

*

They sat in the dining hall, filling the chairs around
John's Great Table. All the wall sconces held torches, and
candles were set about the table as well, so that the long
room was full of light.

Miriamele rose, her blue gown whispering in the sud-
den silence. The circlet on her brow caught the torchlight.

"Welcome, all." Her voice was soft but strong. "This
house is yours and always will be. Come to us whenever
you wish, stay as long as you like."

"But be sure and be here at least once a year," Simon
said, and raised his cup.

Tiamak laughed. "It is a long journey for some of us,
Simon," he said. "But we will always do our best."

Beside him, Isgrimnur thumped his goblet on the table.
He had been making healthy inroads into the supply of
beer and wine. "He's right, Simon. And speaking of long
Journeys, I don't see little Binabik."

Simon stood up and put his arm around Miriamele's
shoulder, pausing for a moment to pull her close and

TO    GREEN   ANGEL     TOWER

793

brush the top of her head with a kiss. "Binabik and Sisqi
have sent a bird with a message." He smiled. "They are
performing the Rite of Quickening-Sludig knows what
I'm talking about, since it almost got us all killed-and
then traveling with their, folk down-mountain to Blue
Mud Lake. After that, they will come to visit us here." Si-
mon's grin widened. "Then, next year, Sludig and I will
be off to visit them in high Mintahoq!"

Sludig nodded his head vigorously as various jests
were made. "The trolls invited me," he said proudly.
"First what-do-they-call-it-'Croohok'-they have ever
asked." He raised his cup. "To Binabik and Sisqi! Long
life and many children!"

The toast was echoed.

"Do you really think you will slip off on such an ad-
venture without me?" asked Miriamele, eyeing her hus-
band. "Leave me home to do all the work?"

"Good luck trying to outrun Miri," Isgrimnur chortled.
"There's a woman who's already traveled more of the
world than you have!"

Gutrun elbowed him. "Let them speak."

Isgrimnur turned and kissed her cheek. "Of course."

"Then we will go together," Simon said grandly. "We
will make it a royal progress."

Miriamele gave him a sour glance, then turned to Ra-
chel the Dragon, who had paused in the hall's far door-
way to quietly berate a serving lad. Rachel's eyebrows
had shot up at Simon's offhand remark. Now she and
Miriamele shared a look of disgusted amusement.

"Do you have any idea what sort of trouble that will
be?" Miriamele demanded. "To take the whole court into
the mountains to Yiqanuc?"

Simon looked around the hall at me amused faces of
the guests. He ran his fingers through his red beard and
grinned. "I am not quite civilized yet, but they are doing
their best." Miriamele poked his ribs, then leaned against
him again. He lifted his goblet high. "It is so good to see
you all. Another toast! To the Prince's Company! Would
that Josua were here to see it-but I know he will be hon-

794

Tad Williams

ored, wherever he is!" The rest of the companions
laughed, all now privy to the secret.

Tiamak stood. "As a matter of fact, I bring word from
... an absent friend. He sends his great love, and wishes
you to know that he, his wife, and their children are
well." The announcement was greeted with shouts of ap-
proval.

Isgrimnur rose abruptly, teetering a little. "And let us
not forget to drink to all the others who also fought and
fell that we could be here," he cried. "All of them." His
voice shook a little. "God preserve their souls. May we
never forget them!"

"Amen!" cried many others. When the cheers fell
away, there was a long moment of silence.

"Now drink up," Miriamele ordered. "But keep your
wits. Sangfugol has promised to play us a new song."

"And Jeremias will sing it. He has been practicing."
The harper looked around. "I don't know where he has
gotten to. It is annoying to have the singer unprepared."

"You mean some singers are prepared?" Isgrimnur
laughed, then made a face of mock fear as Sangfugol
waved a heel of bread at him threateningly.

"When your ears are other than stone, Duke
Isgrimnur," Sangfugol replied with a certain frostiness,
"then you can make jokes."

The hall had fallen back into merriment and general
conversation when Jeremias appeared at Simon's shoulder
and whispered something in his ear.

"Good," said Simon. "I am glad he came. But you, Jer-
emias, what are you doing, scuttling around like a ser-
vant? They are expecting you to sing later. Sit down here.
Miri will pour you some wine." He got up and forced a
protesting Jeremias into his chair, then walked toward the
door.

In the entrance hall, a somber man with a dark horse-
tail of hair awaited him, still wearing traveling clothes
and a cloak.

"Count Eolair." Simon went forward to clasp the
Hemystirman's hand. "I hoped you would come. How
was your journey?"

TO    GREEN    ANGEL   TOWER

795

Eolair looked at him keenly, studying him as though
they had never met before. He bent his knee. "Well
enough, King Seoman. The roads are still not good, and
it is a long trip, but there is little fear of bandits anymore.
It does me good to get away from Hernysadharc. But you
know of rebuilding."

"It is Simon, please. And Queen Inahwen? How is
she?"

Eolair nodded, half-smiling. "She sends her greetings.
But we will play those tunes later, I suppose, when Queen
Miriamele and others can hear them-in the throne room,
where these things must be done." He looked up sud-
denly. "Speaking of throne rooms, was that not the
Dragonbone Chair I saw in the courtyard outside? With
ivy growing upon it?"

Simon laughed. "Out for everyone to see. Fear not-a
little wind and a little damp won't hurt those bones. They
are stronger than rock. And neither Miri nor I could bear
to sit in the thing."

"Some children were playing on it." Eolair shook his
head in wonderment. "That was something I never
thought to see."

"To the castle children, it's only something to climb on.
Although they were a little worried at first." He extended
a hand. "Come, let me take you in and give you some-
thing to drink and to eat."

Eolair hesitated. "Perhaps I would be better off finding
a bed. It was a long ride today."

Now it was Simon's turn to look at Eolair carefully.
"Forgive me if I am speaking out of turn," he said, "but
I have known something for a long time that you should
know too. I would have waited until we had spoken more,
you and I, but perhaps it would be best to tell you now."
He took a breath. "I met Maegwin before she died. Did
you know? But the strange thing was that we were really
leagues apart."

"I know something of it," said the Count of Nad
Mullach. "Jiriki was with us. He tried to explain. It was
difficult to understand what he meant."

'There will be much to talk about later, but here is the
796 Tad Williams

one thing you must know." Simon's voice dropped. "She
was herself at the last, and the only thing she regretted
leaving was you, Count Eolair. She loved you. But by
giving up her life she saved me and freed me to go to the
tower. We might none of us be here today-Erkynland,
Hernystir, everything else, all might be under cold
shadows-were it not for her."

Eolair was silent for a while, his face expressionless.
"Thank you," he said at last. A little of his brittleness
seemed to have gone.

Simon gently took his arm. "Now come, please. Come
and join us. Up the corridor you have a room full of
friends, Eolair-some of them you don't even know yet!"

He led the count toward the dining hall. Firelight and
the sound of laughing voices reached out to welcome
them.

Appendw

^

PEOPLE

ERKTNLANDERS

Bamabas-Hayholt chapel sexton

Deomoth, Sir-of Hewenshire, Josua's knight

Eahlferend-Simon's fisherman father

Eahlstan Fiskerne-"Fisher King," founder of League of

Scroll
Ebekah, also known as Efiathe of Hemysadharc-Queen

of Erkynland, John's wife, mother of Elias and Josua
Elias-High King, John's oldest son, Josua's brother
Fengbald-Earl of Falshire, High King's Hand
Freobeom-Freosel's father, a blacksmith of Falshire
Freosel-Falshireman, constable of New Gadrinsett
Guthwulf-Earl of Utanyeat
Heanwig-old drunkard in Stanshire
Helfgrim-Lord Mayor of Gadrinsett (former)

798

Tad Williams

Inch-foundry master

Isaak-Fengbald's page

Jack Mundwode-mythical forest bandit
Jeremias-former chandler's apprentice, Simon's friend

John-King John Presbyter, High King, also known as
"Prester John"

Judith-Hayholt Mistress of Kitchens

Leieth-Geloe's companion, once Miriamele's handmaid

Maefwaru-a Fire Dancer

Miriamele-Princess, Elias' daughter

Morgenes, Doctor-Scrollbearer, Simon's friend and
mentor

Old Bent Legs-forge worker in Hayholt

Osgal-one of Mundwode's mythical band

Rachel-Hayholt Mistress of Chambermaids, also known
as 'The Dragon"

Roelstan-escaped Fire Dancer

Sangfugol-Josua's harper

Sceldwine-captain of the prisoned Erkynguardsmen

Shem Horsegroom-Hayholt groom

Simon-castle scullion (named "Seoman" at birth)

Stanhelm-forge worker

Strangyeard, Father-Scrollbearer, priest, Josua's archi-
vist

Towser-King John's jester (original name "Cruinh")

Uica-girl on Sesuad'ra, called "Curly Hair"

Welma-girl on Sesuad'ra, called "Thin One"

Wiclaf-former First Hammerman killed by Fire Dancers

Zebediah-a Hayholt scullion, called "Fat Zebediah"

HERNTSTIRI

Airgad Oakheart-famous Hemystiri hero
Amoran-minstrel
Bagba-cattle god
Brynioch of the Skies-sky god
Bulychlinn-fisherman in old story who caught a demon
in his nets

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER            799

Cadrach-ec-Crannhyr-monk of indeterminate Order,
also known as "Padreic"

Caihwye-young mother

Craobhan-called "Old," adviser to Hemystiri royal
house

Croich, House-a Hemystiri clan

Cuamh Earthdog-earth god

Deanagha of the Brown Eyes-Hemystiri goddess,
daughter of Rhynn

Diawen-scryer

Earb, House-a Hemystiri clan

Eoin-ec-Cluias-legendary Hemystiri harper

Eolair-Count of Nad Mullach

Feurgha-Hemystiri woman, captive of Fengbald

Frethis of Cuihmne-Hemystiri scholar

Gullaighn-escaped Fire Dancer

Gwynna-Eolair's cousin and castellaine

Gwythinn-Maegwin's brother, Lluth's son

Hem-founder of Hemystir

Inahwen-Lluth's third wife

Lach, House-a Hemystiri clan

Lluth-King, father of Maegwin and Gwythinn

Llythinn-King, Lluth's father, uncle of John's wife
Ebekah

Maegwin-Princess, daughter of Lluth

Mathan-goddess of household, wife of Murhagh One-
Arm

Mircha-rain goddess, wife of Brynioch

Murhagh One-Arm-war god, husband of Mathan

Penemhwye-Maegwin's mother, Lluth's first wife

Rhynn of the Cauldron-a god

Siadreth-Caihwye's infant son

Sinnach-prince of Hemystir, also known as "The Red
Fox"
Tethtain-former master of the Hayholt, "Holly King"

Tad Williams

8oo
RIMMERSMEN

Dror-storm god

Dypnir-one of Ule's band

Einskaldir-Isgrimnur's man, killed in forest

Elvrit-first Osten Ard king of Rimmersmen

Fingil Bloodfist-first human master of Hayholt, "Bloody

King"

Frekke Grayhair-Isgrimnur's man, killed at Naglimund
Gutrun-Duchess, Isgrimnur's wife
Hengfisk-Hoderundian priest, Elias' cupbearer
Hjeldin-Fingil's son, "Mad King"
Ikferdig-third Hayholt ruler, "Burned King"
Isgrimnur-Duke of ElvritshaHa, Gutrun's husband
Isom-son of Isgrimnur and Gutrun
Jamauga-Scrollbearer, killed at Naglimund
Nisse-(Nisses) author of Du Svardenvyrd
Skali-Thane of Kaldskryke, called "Sharp-nose"
Sludig-Isgrimnur's man
Trestolt-Jamauga's father

Ule Frekkeson-leader of renegade band of Rimmers-
men, son of Frekke

NABBANAI

Aspitis Preves-Earl of Drina and Eadne
Benigaris-Duke of Nabban, son of Leobardis and

Nessalanta
Benidrivis-first duke under John, father of Camaris and

Leobardis

BrindaHes-Seriddan's brother
Camaris-sa-Vinitta, Sir-John's greatest knight, also

known as "Camaris Benidrivis"
Dinivan-Scrollbearer, secretary to Lector Ranessin,

killed in Sancellan Aedonitis

Domitis-bishop of Saint Sutrin's cathedral in Erchester
Eneppa-Metessan kitchen woman, once called "Fuiri"
Elysia-mother of Usires Aedon, called "Mother of God"

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER            801
Fluiren, Sir-knight of Sulian House, member of John's

Great Table
Gavanaxes-knight of Honsa Claves (Clavean House) for

whom Camaris was squire
Hylissa-Miriamele's mother, Elias' wife, killed in

Thrithings

Lavennin, Saint-patron saint of Spenit Island
Leobardis-Duke of Nabban, killed at Naglimund
Metessan House-Nabbanai noble house, blue crane em-
blem

Munshazou-Pryrates' Naraxi serving woman
Nessalanta-Dowager Duchess, mother of Benigaris
Nuanni (Nuannis)-ancient Nabbanai sea god
Pasevalles-BrindaHes' young son
Pelippa, Saint-called "Pelippa of the Island"
Plesinnen Myrmenis-ancient scholar
Pryrates-priest, alchemist, wizard, Elias' counselor
Ranessin-Lector of Mother Church, killed at Sancellan

Aedonitis

Rhiappa, Saint-called "Rhiap" in Erkynland
Seriddan, Baron-Lord of Metessa, also known as

"Seriddan Metessis"
Sulis, Lord-Nabbanai nobleman, former master of

Hayholt, "Heron King," also known as "The Apostate"
Thures-Aspitis' young page
Usires Aedon-Aedonite religion's Son of God
Varellan-youngest son of Leobardis and Nessalanta,

Benigaris' brother
Velligis-Lector of Mother Church
Xannasavin-Nabbanai court astrologer
Yistrin, Saint-saint linked to Simon's birth-day

SITHI

Aditu (no-Sa'onserei)-daughter of Likimeya and

Shima'onari; Jiriki's sister
Amerasu y-Senditu no'e-Sa'onserei-mother of Ineluki,

killed at Jao e-Tinukai'i, called "First Grandmother,"

also known as "Amerasu Ship-Bom"

802 Tad Williams

Benayha (of Kementari)-famed Sithi poet and warrior
Briseyu Dawnfeather-Likimeya's mother, wife of

Hakatri
Cheka'iso-called "Amber-Locks," member of Sithi clan
Chiya-member of Sithi clan, once resident of Asu'a
Contemplation House-Sithi clan
Drukhi-son of Utuk'ku and Ekimeniso, husband of

Nenais'u

Gathering House-Sithi clan
Hakatri-Amerasu's son, vanished into West
Ineluki-Amerasu's son, killed at Asu'a, now Storm King
Initri-husband of Jenjiyana
Jenjiyana-wife of Initri, mother of Nenais'u, called "the

Nightingale"
Jiriki (i-Sa'onserei)-son of Likimeya and Shima'onari,

brother of Aditu

Kendhraja'aro-uncle of Jiriki and Aditu
Kira'athu-Sitha healer
Kuroyi-called "the tall horseman," master of High

Anvi'janya, leader of Sithi clan
Likimeya (y-Briseyu no'e-Sa'onserei)-mother of Jiriki

and Aditu, called "Likimeya Moon-Eyes"
Mezumiiru-mistress of moon in Sithi legend
Senditu-mother of Amerasu
Shi'iki-father of Amerasu
Shima'onari-father of Aditu and Jiriki, killed at Jao

e-Tinukai'i
Vindaomeyo-famed arrow-maker of Tumet'ai, called

"the Fletcher"

Year-Dancing House-Sithi clan
Yizashi Grayspear-leader of Sithi clan
Zinjadu-of Kementari, called "Lore-Mistress"

QANUC

Binabik (Binbiniqegabenik)-Scrollbearer, Singing Man

of Qanuc, Simon's friend
Chukku-legendary troll hero
Kikkasut-legendary king of birds

TO    GREEN   ANGEL TOWER

803

Nimsuk-Qanuc herder, one of Sisqi's troop
Nunuuika-the Huntress
Ookequk-Scrollbearer, Binabik's master
Qinkipa (of the Snows)-snow and cold goddess
Sedda-moon goddess

Sisqi (Sisqinanamook)-daughter of Herder and Hunt-
ress, Binabik's betrothed
Snenneq-herd-chief of Lower Chugik
Uammannaq-the Herder

THRITHINGS-FOLK

Fikolmij-Vorzheva's father, March-thane of Clan

Mehrdon

Hotvig-High Thrithings randwarder, Josua's man
Lezhdraka-Thri things-man, mercenary chieftain
Ozhbem-High Thrithings-man

Uigart-a mercenary captain from the Meadow Thrithing
Vorzheva-Josua's wife, daughter of Fikolmij

PERDRUINESE

Chary stra-landlady of Pelippa's Bowl

Lenti-Streawe's servant, called "Avi Stetto"

Streawe, Count-master of Perdruin

Taltistro, Sir-famous knight of John's Great Table

Xorastra-Scrollbearer, first owner of Pelippa's Bowl

WRANNAMEN

Buayeg-owner of "the spirit-hut" (Wrannaman fable)
He Who Always Steps on Sand-god
He Who Bends the Trees-wind god
Inihe Red-Flower-woman in Tiamak's song
Nuobdig-Husband of the Fire Sister in Wrannaman leg-
end
Rimihe-Tiamak's sister

804 Tad Williams

She Who Birthed Mankind-goddess

She Who Waits to Take All Back-death goddess

Shoaneg Swift-Rowing-man in Tiamak's song

They Who Breathe Darkness-gods

They Who Watch and Shape-gods

Tiamak-Scrollbearer, herbalist

Tugumak-Tiamak's father

Twiyah-Tiamak's sister

Younger Mogahib-man of Tiamak's village

NORNS
Akhenabi-spokesman at Naglimund
"Bom-Beneath-Tzaaihta's-Stone"-one ofUtuk'ku*s Tal-
ons

"Called-by-tne- Voices"-one of Utuk'ku's Talons
Ekimeniso Blackstaff-husband of Utuk'ku, father of

Drukhi

Mezhumeyru-Norn version of "Mezumiiru"
Utuk'ku Seyt-Hamakha-Norn Queen, Mistress of

Nakkiga
"Vein-of-Silverfire"-one of Utuk'ku's Talons

OTHERS

Derra-a half-Thrithings child

Deomoth-a half-Thrithings child

Gan Itai-Niskie of Eadne Cloud

Geloe-a wise woman, called "Valada Geloe"

Imai-an-a dwarrow

Ingen Jegger-Black Rimmersman, huntsman of
Utuk'ku, killed at Jao eTinukai'i

Injar-Niskie clan living on Risa Island

Nin Reisu-Niskie of Emettin's Jewel

Ruyan Ve-patriarch of Tinukeda'ya, called 'The Navi-
gator"

Sho-vennae-a dwarrow

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER              805

Veng'a Sutekh-called "Duke of the Black Wind," one of

the Red Hand
Yis-fidri-a dwarrow, Yis-hadra's husband, master of the

Pattern Hall
Yis-hadra-a dwarrow, Tis-fidri's wife, mistress of the

Pattern Hall

PLACES

Anvi'janya-place of Kuroyi's dwelling, also known as

"Hidden" or "High" Anvi'janya
Ballacym-walled town on outskirts of Hernysadharc ter-
ritory

Bradach Tor-high peak in Grianspog Mountains
Bregshame-small town on River Road between

Stanshire and Falshire
Cathyn Dair, by Silversea-~Hernystiri town from

Miriamele's song

Cavern of Rending-where Talons of Utuk'ku are trained
Chamui Lagoon-a place in Kwanitupul
Chasu Yarinna-town built around keep, just northeast of

Onestrine Pass in Nabban

Elvritshalla-Isgrimnur's ducal seat in Rimmersgard
Falshire-wool-harvesting city in Erkynland, devastated

by Fengbald
Fiadhcoille-forest southeast of Nad Mullach, also

known as "Stagwood"

Fire Garden-tiled open space on Sesuad'ra
FrasUis Valley-valley east of Onestrine Pass (other side

of pass from Commeis Valley)
Garwynswold-small town on River Road between

Stanshire and Falshire

Gratuvask-Rimmersgard river, runs past Elvritshalla
Grenamman-island in Bay of Firannos
Hall of Five Staircases-chamber in Asu'a where Briseyu

died

Harcha-island in Bay of Firannos
Hasu Vale-valley in Erkynland

8o6 Tad Williams

Hekhasor-former Sithi territory, called "Hekhasor of the
Black Earth"

House of Waters-Sithi building on Sesuad'ra

Khandia-a lost and fabled land

Kiga'rasku-waterfall beneath Stormspike, called "the
Tearfall"

Leavetaking House-Sithi building on Sesuad'ra, later
center of Josua's exile court (Sithi name: "Sesu-d'asu")

M'yin Azoshai-Sithi name for Hem's Hill, location of
Hemysadharc

Maa 'sha-hilly former territory of Sithi

Mezutu'a-the Silverhome, abandoned Sithi and dwarrow
city beneath Grianspog
Mount Den Haloi-mountain from Book of the Aedon
where God created world

Naraxi-island in Bay of Firannos

Observatory, The-domed Sithi building on Sesuad'ra

Onestrine Pass-pass between two Nabbanai valleys, site
of many battles

Peat Barge Quay-dock in Kwanitupul

Peja'ura-former forested home of Sithi, called "cedar-
mantled"

Pulley Road-road in Stanshire

Risa-island in Bay of Firannos

Shisae'ron-broad meadow valley, once Sithi territory

Si'injan'dre Cave-place of Drukhi's confinement after
Nenais'u's death

Soakwood Road-a major thoroughfare of Stanshire

Spenit-island in Bay of Firranos

Taig Road-road leading through Hemysadharc, also
known as "Tethtain's Way"

Venyha Do'sae-original home of Sithi, Norns,
Tinukeda'ya, called "The Garden"

Ymitta-island in Bay of Firannos

Wealdhelm-range of hills in Erkynland

Ya Mologi- ("Cradle Hill") highest point in Wran, leg-
endary creation spot

Yakh //uyerM-("Hall of Trembling") cavern beneath
Stormspike

Yasird-Sithi sacred meeting place

TO    GREEN   ANGEL    TOWER

CREATURES

807

Bukken-Rimmersgard name for diggers, also called

"Boghanik" by trolls

Cat-a gray (in this case) and undistinguished quadruped
Diggers-small, manlike subterranean creatures
Ghants-chitinous Wran-dwelling creature
Giants-large, shaggy, manlike creatures
Droc/inar/iai'r-Hernystiri name for dragon Hidohebh

slain by Ineluki and Hakatri
Homefmder-Simon's mare
Hunen-Rimmersgard name for giants
Igjarjuk-ice-dragon of Urmsheim
Kilpa-manlike marine creatures
Niku'a-Ingen Jegger's chief hound, bred in kennels of

Stormspike

Oruks-fabulous water monsters
Qantaqa-Binabik's wolf companion, mount, and friend
Shurakai-fire-drake slain beneath Hayholt whose bones

make up the Dragonbone Chair
Vildalix-Deornoth's horse
Vinyafod-Josua's horse
Water-wights-fabulous water monsters

THINGS

A-Genay'asu-("Houses of Traveling Beyond") places of

mystical power and significance
Aedontide-holy time celebrating birth of Usires Aedon
"Badulfand the Straying Heifer"-a song Simon tries to

sing to Miriamele

Battle of Clodu Lake-battle John fought against
Thrithings-men, also known as "Battle of the Lake-
lands"

"Bishop's Wagon, The"-a Jack Mundwode song
Boar and Spears-emblem of Guthwulf of Utanyeat
Breathing Harp, The-Master Witness in Stormspike

8o8

Tad Williams

Bright-Nail-sword of Prester John, formerly called

"Minneyar," containing nail from the Holy Tree and

finger-bone of Saint Eahlstan
"By Greenwade's Shore"-song sung at Bonfire Night on

Sesuad'ra
Cellian-~Camaris' hom, made from dragon Hidohebhi's

tooth. (Original name: "Ti-tuno")
Citril-root for chewing, grown in south
Cockindrill-Northern word for "crocodile"
Conqueror Star-a comet, ominous star
Day of Weighing-Out-Aedonite day of final judgment
Door of the Ransomer-seal of confession
Du Svardenvyrd-near-mythical prophetic book by Nisses
Falcon, The-Nabbanai constellation
Fifty Families-Nabbanai noble houses
Floating Castle, The-famous monument on Warinsten
Frayja's Fire-Erkynlandish winter flower
Gardenbom. The-all who came from Venyha Do'sae
Good Peasant-character from the proverbs of the Book

of Aedon
Gray Coast-part of the shent board

Gray-cap-mushroom

Great Swords-Bright-Nail, Sorrow, and Thorn
Great Table-John's assembly of knights and heroes
Green Column, The-Master Witness in Jhina T'senei
Hare, The-Erkynlandish constellation name
Harrow's Eve-Octander 30, day before "Soul's Day"
Hesitancy, a-Norn spell

High King's Ward-protection of High King over coun-
tries of Osten Ard
Hunt-wine-Qanuc liquor
Indreju-Jiriki's witchwood sword
Juya'ha-Sithi art: pictures made of woven cords
Kei-vishaa-Substance used by Gardenbom to make ene-
mies drowsy and weak
Kingfisher, The-Nabbanai constellation
Kvalnir-Isgrimnur's sword
Lobster, The-Nabbanai constellation
Mansa Niclalis-Night ceremony of Mother Church
Market Hall-a domed building in central Kwanitupul

TO   GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                              809

Mist Lamp-a Witness, brought out of Tumet'ai by

Amerasu

Mixis the Wo//-Nabbanai constellation

Mockfoil-a flowering herb

Muster of Anitulles-Imperatorial battle-muster from
Golden Age of Nabban

Navigator's Trust-Niskie pledge to protect their ships at
all cost

Night Heart-Sitha star-name

Ocean Indefinite and Eternal-Niskie term for ocean
crossed by Gardenbom

Oldest Tree-Witchwood tree growing in Asu'a

One Who Fled, The-Aedonite euphemism for the Devil

Pact of Sesuad'ra-agreement of Sithi and Norn to part

Pool of Three Depths, The-Master Witness in Asu'a
Prise'a-"Ever-fresh," a favorite flower of Sithi

Quickweed-Wran herb

Rabbit-nose-mushroom

Red knifebill-Wran bird

Rhao iye-Sama'an-the Master Witness at Sesuad'ra,
called the "Earth-Drake's Eye"

Rhynn's Cauldron-Hernystiri battle-summoner

Rite of Quickening-Qanuc Spring ceremony

Saint Grams' Day-a holy day

Saint Rhiappa's-a cathedral in Kwanitupul

Sand Beetle, The-Wran name for constellation

Serpent, The-Nabbanai constellation

Shadow-mastery-Nom magics

Shard, The-Master Witness in Mezutu'a

Shent-a Sithi game of socializing and strategy

Snatch-the-feather-Wran gambling game

Sorrow-Elias' sword, a gift from Ineluki the Storm King

Speakfire, The-Master Witness in Hikehikayo

Spinning Wheel-Erkynlandish name for constellation

Sugar-bulb-Wran tree

Tarbox, The-inn at Falshire

Tethtain's Axe-sunk in the heart of a beech tree in fa-
mous Hernystiri tale

Thorn-black star-sword of Camaris

8io Tad Williams

Ti-two-Camaris* hom, made from dragon's tooth, also

known as "Cellian"
Tree. The-(or "Holy Tree," or "Execution Tree") symbol

of Usires Aedon's execution
Twistgrass-Wran plant
Uncharted, The-subject of Niskie oath
Wailing Stone-dolmen above Hasu Vale
Wedge and Beetle, The-Stanshire inn
Wind Festival-Wrannaman celebration
Winged Beetle, The-Nabbanai constellation
Winged dolphin-emblem of Streawe of Perdruin
Wintercap-Erkynlandish winter flower
"Woman from Nabban"-one of SangfugoFs songs
"Wormglass"-Hemystiri name for certain old mirrors
Yellow Tinker-Wran plant

Yrmansol-tree of Erkynlandish Maia-day celebration
Yuvenis' Throne-Nabbanai constellation

Knuckle Bones-Binabik's auguring tools,
Patterns include:

Wingless Bird
Fish-Spear

The Shadowed Path
Torch at the Cave-Mouth
Balking Ram
Clouds in the Pass
The Black Crevice
Unwrapped Dart
Circle of Stones
Mountains Dancing

TO      GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                          8lI

WORDS AND PHRASES

QANUC

Henimaatuq! Ea kup!-"Beloved friend! You're here!"
Inij koku na siqqasa min taq-"When we meet again, that

will be a good day."
Iq ta randayhet suk biqahuc-"Winter is not being the

time for naked swimming."
Mindunob inik yat-"My home will be your tomb."
Nenit, henimaatuya-"Come on, friends."
Nihut-"Attack"
Shummuk-"Wait"
Ummu Bok-"Well done!" (roughly)

SITHI

A y'ei g'eisu! Yas'a pripuma jo-shoi!-"You cowardly

ones! The waves would not carry you!"
A-Genay'asu-"Houses of Traveling Beyond"
Hikeda'ya-"Cloud Children": Noms
Hikka Staja-"Arrow Bearer"
Hikka Ti-tuno-"Bearer of Ti-tuno"
M'yon rashf-(Sithi) "Breakers of Things"
Sinya'a du-n'sha e-d'treyesa inro-"May you find the

light that shines above the bow"
Sudhoda'ya-"Sunset Children": Mortals
Sumy'asu-"Fifth House"
Tinukeda'ya-"Ocean Children": Niskies and dwarrows
Venyha s'ahn!-"By the Garden!"
Zida'ya-"Dawn Children": Sithi

NABBANAI

^ prenteiz-"Take him!" or "At him!"
Duos preterate!-"God preserve"
Duos Simpetis-"Merciful God"

8l2

Tad Williams

Em Wulstes Duos-"By God's will"

Matra sa Duos-"Mother of God"

Otillenaes-"Tools"

Son a-"Sister"

Ulimor Camaris? Veveis?-"Lord Camaris? You live?"

HERNYSTIRI

Goirach cilagh!-"Foolish (or mad) girl'"
Moiheneg-"between" or "empty place" (a ne,utral

ground)
Smearech fleann-"dangerous book"

RIMMERSPAKK

Vad es ... Uf nammen Hott, vad es
name of God, what?"

?-"What? In the

OTHER

Azha she'she t'chak6, umn she'she bhabekr6 .,. Mudhul
samat'ai. Jabbak s'era memekeza sanayha-z'a . . .
Ninyek she'she, hamut 'ike agrazh'a s'era ye ..."-
(Norn song) means Something Very Unpleasant

Shu'do-tkzayha!-(Norn) "mortals" (var. of Sithi
"Sudhoda'ya")

S'h'rosa-(Dwarrow) Vein of stone

A GUIDE TO PRONUNCIATION

ERKTNLANDISH

Erkynlandish names are divided into two types, Old
Erkynlandish (O.E.) and Warinstenner. Those names
which are based on types from Prester John's native is-

TO      GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                           8l3
land of Warinsten (mostly the names of castle servants or
John's immediate family) have been represented as vari-
ants on Biblical names (Elias-Elijah, Ebekah-Rebecca,
etc.) Old Erkynlandish names should be pronounced like
modem English, except as follows:

a-always ah, as in "father"

ae-ay of "say"

c-k as in "keen"

e-ai as in "air," except at the end of names, when it is
also sounded, but with an eh or uh sound, i.e., Hruse-
"Rooz-uh"

ea-sounds as a in "mark," except at beginning of
word or name, where it has the same value as ae

g-always hard g, as in "glad"

h-hard h of "help"

i-short i of "in"

j-hard j of "jaw"

o-long but soft o, as in "orb"

u-oo sound of "wood," never yoo as in "music"

HERNTSTIRI

The Hemystiri names and words can be pronounced in
largely the same way as the O.E., with a few exceptions:

th-always the th in "other," never as in "thing"
ch-a guttural, as in Scottish "loch"
v-pronounce yr like "beer," ye like "spy"
h-unvoiced except at beginning of word or after t or
c

e-ay as in "ray"
//-same as single 1: Lluth-Luth

RIMMERSPAKK

Names and words in Rimmerspakk differ from O.E. pro-
nunciation in the following:

814                   Tad Williams

j-pronounced y: Jarnauga-Yarnauga; Hjeldin-
Hyeldin (H nearly silent here)

ei-long i as in "crime"

e-ee, as in "sweet"
6-oo, as in "coop"

au-ow, as in "cow"

NABBANAI

The Nabbanai language holds basically to the rules of a
romance language, i.e., the vowels are pronounced "ah-
eh-ih-oh-ooh," the consonants are all sounded, etc. There

are some exceptions.

(-most names take emphasis on second to last sylla-
ble: Ben-i-GAR-is. When this syllable has an i, it is
sounded long (Ardrivis: Ar-DRY-vis) unless it comes be-
fore a double consonant (Antippa: An-TIHP-pa)

es-at end of name, es is sounded long: Gelles-Gel-

leez
y-is pronounced as a long (", as in "mild"

QANUC

Troll-language is considerably different than the other hu-
man languages. There are three hard "k" sounds, signified
by: c, q. and k. The only difference intelligible to most
non-Qanuc is a slight clucking sound on the q, but it is
not to be encouraged in beginners. For our purposes, all
three will sound with the k of "keep." Also, the Qanuc u
is pronounced uh, as in "bug." Other interpretations are
up to the reader, but he or she will not go far wrong pro-
nouncing phonetically.

SITHI

Even more than the language of Yiqanuc, the language of
the Zida'ya is virtually unpronounceable by untrained

TO      GREEN   ANGEL   TOWER                           8l5

tongues, and so is easiest rendered phonetically, since the

chance of any of us being judged by experts is slight (but

not nonexistent, as Binabik learned). These rules may be

applied, however.

('-when the first vowel, pronounced ih, as in "clip."

When later in word, especially at end, pronounced ee, as

in "fleet": Jiriki-Jih-REE-kee
ai-pronounced like long i, as in "time"
' (apostrophe)-represents a clicking sound, and should

be not voiced by mortal readers.

EXCEPTIONAL NAMES
Geloe-Her origins are unknown, and so is the source of
her name. It is pronounced "Juh-LO-ee" or "Juh-LOY."
Both are correct.

Ingen Jegger-He is a Black Rimmersman, and the "J" in
Jegger is sounded, just as in "jump."

Miriamele-Although born in the Erkynlandish court,
hers is a Nabbanai name that developed a strange
pronunciation--perhaps due to some family influence or
confusion of her dual heritage-and sounds as "Mih-ree-
uh-MEL."

Vorzheva-A Thrithings-woman, her name is pronounced
"Vor-SHAY-va," with the z/i sounding harshly, like the
Hungarian zs.