Princess Minamele and her pair of religious companions left the Coast



Copyright © 1990 by Tad Williams.
All Rights Reserved.

Jacket Art and Frontispiece by Michael Whelan-
Maps by Tad Williams-

For color prints of Michael Whelan paintings,
please contact:

Glass Onion Graphics
P.O. Box 88
Brookdeld, CT 06804

DAW Book Collectors No. 824.

This scries is dedicated to my mother, Barbara Jean Evans, who
taught to me a deep affection for Toad Hall, the Hundred Aker
Woods, the Shire, and many other hidden places and countries
beyond the fields we know. She also induced in me a lifelong desire
to make my own discoveries, and to share them with others. I wish
to share these books with her.

Book designed by Julian Hamer.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead
is strictly coincidental.

Printed in the U.S.A.

Quality Printing and Binding by:

R.R. Donnelley & Sons Company
1009 Sloan Street
Crawfordsville, IN 47933 U.S.A.

Autfw^s Note

. . . Of all the many changing things
In dreary dancing past us whirled,
To the cracked tune that Chronos sings,
Words alone are certain good.
Where are now the waning kings.
Word be-mockers?—By the Rood,
Where are now the warring kings?
An idle word is now their glory,
By the stammering schoolboy said,
Reading some entangled story:

The kings of the old time are dead;

The wandering earth herself may be
Only a sudden flaming word,
In clanging space a moment heard,
Troubling the endless reverie.

—WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

(from The Song of the Happy Shepherd)

I am indebted to Eva Cummmg, Nancy Deming-Wilhams. Paul Hudspeth,
Peter Stampfei, and Doug Werner, who all had a hand in the cultivation of
this book. Their insightful comments and suggestions have taken root—in
some instances, putting forth rather surprising blossoms Also, and as
usual, special thanks go to my brave editors, Betsy Wollheim and Sheila
Gilbert, who have labored mightily through both storm and drought.

(By the way, all [he above mentioned arejust the kind of folk I want at
my side if I'm ever ambushed by Norns. This might be construed as a
somewhat dubious honor, but 'tis mine own to bestow.)

NOTE: There is a cast of characters, a glossary of terms, and a guide to
pronunciation at the back of this volume.

Synopsis of
The Dragon6one Chair

For eons the Hayholc belonged to the immortal Sithi, but they had fled
the great castle before the onslaught of Mankind. Men have long ruled this
greatest of strongholds, and the rest of Osten Ard as "well. Presfer John,
High King of all the nations of men, is its most recent master; after an
early life of triumph and glory, he has presided over decades of peace from
his skeletal throne, the Oragonbone Chair.

Simon, an awkward fourteen year old, is one of the Hayholt's scullions.
His parents are dead, his only real family the chamber maids and their
stern mistress, Rachel the Dragon. When Simon can escape his kitchen-work
he steals away to the cluttered chambers of Doctor Morgenes, the castle's
eccentric scholar. When the old man invites Simon to be his apprentice,
the youth is overjoyed—until he discovers that Morgenes prefers teaching
reading and writing to magic.

Soon ancient King John will die, so Elias, the older of his two sons,
prepares to take the throne. Josua, Elias' somber brother, nicknamed
Lackhand because of a disfiguring wound, argues harshly with the king-
to-be about Prymtes, the ill-reputed priest who is one of Elias' closest
advisers. The brothers' feud is a cloud of foreboding over castle and
country.

Elias' reign as king starts well. but a drought comes and plague strikes
several of the nations of Osten Ard. Soon outlaws roam the roads and
people begin to vanish from isolated villages. The order of things is
breaking down, and the king's subjects are losing confidence in his rule,
but nothing seems to bother the monarch or his friends. As rumblings of
discontent begin to be heard throughout the kingdom, Elias' brother Josua
disappears—to plot rebellion, some say.

Xll

Tad Williams

Ellas' misrule upsets many, including Duke Isyimnur of Rimmersgard
and Count Eolair, an emissary from the western country of Hernystir.
Even King Elias' own daughter Miriamele is uneasy, especially about the
scarlet-robed Pryratcs, her father's trusted adviser.

Meanwhile Simon is muddling along as Morgcncs' helper. The two
become fast friends despite Simon's mooncalf nature and the doctor's
refusal to teach him anything resembling magic. During one of his mean-
dcrings through the secret byways of the labyrinthine Hayholt, Simon
discovers a secret passage and is almost captured there by Pryratcs. Elud-
ing the priest, he enters a hidden underground chamber and finds Josua,
who is being held captive for use in some terrible ritual planned by
Pryrates. Simon fetches Doctor Morgcnes and the two of them free Josua
and take him to the doctor's chambers, where Josua is sent to freedom
down a tunnel that leads beneath the ancient castle. Then, as Morgenes is
sending off messenger birds bearing news of what has happened to myste-
rious friends, Pryrates and the king's guard come to arrest the doctor and
Simon. Morgenes is killed fighting Pryrates, but his sacrifice allows
Simon to escape into the tunnel.

Half-maddened, Simon makes his way through the midnight corridors
beneath the castle, which contain the ruins of the old Sithi palace. He
surfaces in the graveyard beyond the town wall, then is lured by the light
of a bonfire. He witnesses a weird scene: Pryrates and King Elias engaged
in a ritual with black-robed, white-faced creatures. The pale things give
Elias a strange gray sword of disturbing power, named Sorrou'. Simon
flees.

Life in the wilderness on the edge of the great forest Aldheorte is
miserable, and weeks later Simon is nearly dead from hunger and exhaus-
tion, but still far away from his destination, Josua's northern keep at
Naglimund. Going to a forest cot to beg, he finds a strange being caught
in a trap—one of the Sithi, a race thought to be mythical, or at least long-
vanished. The cotsman returns, but before he can kill the helpless Sitha,
Simon strikes him down. The Sitha, once freed, stops only long enough
to fire a white arrow at Simon, then disappears. A new voice tells Simon
to take the white arrow, Chat it is a Sithi gift.

The dwarfish newcomer is a troll named Binabik, who rides a great gray
wolf. He tells Simon he was only passing by, but now he will accompany
the boy to Naglimund. Simon and Binabik endure many adventures and
strange events on the way to Naglimund: they come to realize that they
have fallen afoul of a threat greater than merely a king and his counselor
deprived of their prisoner. At last, when they find themselves pursued by
unearthly white hounds who wear the brand ofStormspike, a mountain of
evil reputation in the far north, they are forced to head for the shelter of
Geloe's forest house, taking with them a pair of travelers they have rescued
from the hounds. Geloe, a blunt-spoken forest woman with a reputation

STONE OF  FAREWELL

Xlll

as a witch, confers with them and agrees that somehow the ancient Norns,
embittered relatives of the Sithi, have become embroiled in the fate of
Prcster John's kingdom.

Pursuers human and otherwise threaten them on their journey to
Naglimund. After Binabik is shot with an arrow, Simon and one of the
rescued travelers, a servant girl, must struggle on through the forest. They
are attacked by a shaggy giant and saved only by the appearance of Josua's
hunting party.

The prince brings them to Naglimund, where Binabik's wounds are
cared for, and where it is confirmed that Simon has stumbled into a
terrifying swirl of events. Elias is coming soon to besiege Josua's castle.
Simon's serving-girl companion was Princess Miriamele traveling in dis-
guise, fleeing her father, whom she fears has gone mad under Pryrates'
influence. From all over the north and elsewhere, frightened people are
flocking to Naglimund and Josua, their last protection against a mad king.

Then, as the prince and others discuss the coming battle, a strange old
Rimmersman named jamauga appears in the council's meeting hall. He is
a member of the League of the Scroll, a circle of scholars and initiates of
which Morgenes and Binabik's master were both part, and he brings more
grim news. Their enemy, he says, is not just Elias: the king is receiving
aid from Ineluki the Storm King, who had once been a prince of the
Sithi—but who has been dead for five centuries, and whose bodiless
spirit now rules the Noms of Stormspike Mountain, pale relatives of the
banished Sithi.

It was the terrible magic of the gray sword Sorrow that caused Ineluki's
death—that, and mankind's attack on the Sithi. The League of the Scroll
believes that Sorrow has been given to Elias as the first step in some
incomprehensible plan of revenge, a plan that will bring the earth beneath
the heel of the undcad Storm King. The only hope comes from a pro-
phetic poem that seems to suggest that "three swords" might help turn
back Ineluki's powerful magic.

One of the swords is the Storm King's Sorrow, already in (he hands of
their enemy. King Elias. Another is the Rimmersgard blade Minneyar,
which was also once at the Hayholt, but whose whereabouts are now
unknown. The third is Thorn, black sword of King John's greatest knight,
Sir Camaris. Jamauga and others think they have traced it to a location in
the frozen north. On this slim hope, Josua sends Binabik, Simon, and
several soldiers off" in search of Thorn, even as Naglimund prepares for
siege.

Others are affected by the growing crisis. Princess Miriamele, frustrated
by her uncle Josua's attempts to protect her, escapes Naglimund in
disguise, accompanied by the mysterious monk Cadrach. She hopes to make
her way to southern Nabban and plead with her relatives there to aid
Josua. Old Duke Isgrimnur, at Josua's urging, disguises his own very

XIV

Tad Williams

recognizable features and follows after to rescue her. Tiamak, a swamp-
dwelling Wrannaman scholar, receives a strange message from his old
mentor Morgcncs that tells of bad times coming and hints thatTiamak has
a part to play. Mae^win, daughter of the king of Hernystir, watches
helplessly as her own family and country are drawn into a whirlpool of

war by the treachery of High King Elias.

Simon and Binabik and their company are ambushed by In^en je^er,
huntsman of Stormspikc, and his servants. They are saved only by the
reappearance of the SithaJt'nfel, whom Simon had saved from the cotsman's
trap. When he learns of their quest, Jiriki decides to accompany them to
Urmsheim mountain, legendary abode of one of the great dragons, in

search of Thorn.

By the time Simon and the others reach the mountain. King Elias has

brought his besieging army to Josua's castle at Naglimund, and though
the first attacks arc repulsed, the defenders suffer great losses. At last Ellas'
forces seem to retreat and give up the siege, but before the stronghold's
inhabitants can celebrate, a weird storm appears on the northern horizon,
bearing down on Naglimund. The storm is the cloak under which Ineluki's
own horrifying army ofNorns and giants travels, and when the Red Hand.
the Storm King's chief servants, throw down Naglimund's gates, a terri-
ble slaughter begins. Josua and a few others manage to flee the ruin of the
castle. Before escaping into the great forest. Prince Josua curses Elias for his
conscienceless bargain with the Storm King and swears that he will take

their father's crown back.

Simon and his companions climb Urmsheim. coming through great
dangers to discover the Uduntree, a titanic frozen waterfall. There they
find Thorn in a tomblike cave. Before they can take the sword and make
their escape, Ingen Jeggcr appears once more and attacks with his troop
of soldiers. The battle awakens I^jarjuk, the white dragon, who has been
slumbering for years beneath the ice. Many on both sides are killed.
Simon alone is left standing, trapped on the edge of a cliff; as the ice*
worm bears down upon him, he lifts Thorn and swings it. The dragon's
scalding black blood spurts over him as he is struck senseless.

Simon awakens in a cave on the troll mountain of Yiqanuc. jiriki and
Haestan, an Erkynlandish soldier, nurse him to health. Thorn has been
rescued from Urmsheim, but Binabik is being held prisoner by his own
people, along with Studio the Rimmersman, under sentence of death.
Simon himself has been scarred by the dragon's blood and a wide swath
of his hair has turned white. Jiriki names him "Snowlock" and tells Simon
that, for good or for evil, he has been irrevocably marked.

Foreword'

J. He ^VlTlU- sawed across the empty battlements, yowling like a
thousand condemned souls crying for mercy. Brother Hengfisk, despite
the bitter cold that had sucked the air from his once-strong lungs and
withered and peeled the skin of his face and hands, took a certain grim
pleasure in the sound.

Yes, that is what they will all sound like, all the sinjul multitude who scoffed at
the message of Mother Church—including, unfortunately, the less rigorous of
his Hoderundian brothers. How [hey will cry out before God's just wrath,
begging for mercy, when it is far, far too fate. . . .

He caught his knee a wicked blow on a stone lying tumbled from a
wall, and pitched forward into the snow with a crack-lipped squeal. The
monk sat whimpering for a moment, but the painful bite of tears freezing
on his cheek forced him back onto his feet. He hobbled forward once
more.

The main road that climbed through Naglimund-town Coward the castle
was full of drifting snow. The houses and shops on either side had nearly
disappeared beneath a smothering blanket of deadly white, but even those
buildings not yet covered were as deserted as the shells of long-dead
animals. There was nothing on the road but Hengfisk and the snow.

As the wind changed direction, the whistling of the fluted battlements at
the top of the hill rose in pitch- The monk squinted his bulging eyes up at
the walls, then lowered his head. He trudged on through the gray after-
noon, the crunch of his footsteps a near-silent drumbeat accompanying the
skirling wind.

/(i"5 no wonder the townspeople have fled to the keep, he thought, shivering.
All around him gaped the black idiot-mouths of roofs and walls staved in

XVI

Tad Williams

by the weight of snow. But inside the castle, under the protection of stone
and great timbers, there they must be safe. Fires would be burning, and
red, cheerful faces—sinners' faces, he reminded himself scornfully: damned,
heedless sinners' faces—would gather around him and marvel that he
had walked all this way through the freakish storm.

It is Yuven-month, is it not? Had his memory suffered so, that he could

not remember the month?

But of course it was. Two full moons ago it had been spring—a little

cold, perhaps, but that was nothing to a Rimmersman like Hengfisk,
reared in the chill of the north. No, that was the freakish thing, of course,
that it should be so deadly cold, the ice and snow flying, in Yuven—the

first month of summer.
Hadn't Brother Langrian refused to leave the abbey, and after all Hengfisk

had done to nurse him back to health? "It's more than foul weather, Brother,"
Langrian had said. "It's a curse on God's entire creation. It's the Day of

Weighing-Out come in our lifetimes."

Ah, that was well enough for Langrian. If he wanted to stay in the burned
wrack of Saint Hoderund's abbey, eating berries and such from the forest—
and how much fruit would there be anyway, in such unseasonable cold?
—then he could do as he pleased. Brother Hengfisk was no fool. Naglimund
was the place to go. Old Bishop Anodis would welcome Hengfisk. The
bishop would admire the monk's clever eye for what he had seen, the
stories that Hengfisk could tell of what had happened at the abbey, the
unseasonable weather. The Naglimunders would welcome him in, feed
him, ask him questions, let him sit before their warm fire. . . .

But they must know about the cold, mustn't they? Hengfisk thought dully as
he pulled his ice-crackling robe closer about him. He was in the very
shadow of the wall now. The white world he had known for so many
days and weeks seemed to have come to an ending, a precipice that
vanished into stony nothingness. That is, they must know about the snow and
all. That's why they^ve all left the town and moved into the keep. It's the
damnable, demon-cursed weather that's keeping the sentries off the walls, isn't it?

Isn't it!?
He stood and surveyed with mad interest the pile of snow-mantled

rubbish that had been Naglimund's greater gate. The huge pillars and
massive stones were charred black beneath the drifts. The hole in the
sagging wall stood large enough to hold twenty Hengfisks standing abreast,

shoulder to bony, trembling shoulder.

Look how they've let things go. Oh, they'll shriek when their judgment comes,
shriek and shriek with never a chance to make amends. Everything has been let

go—the gate, the town, the weather.

Somebody must be scourged for such negligence. Doubtless Bishop

Anodis had his hands full crying to keep such an unruly flock in line.
Hengfisk would be only too happy to help that fine old man minister to

STONE OF  FAREWELL

XV11

such slackers- First, a fire and some warm food. Then. a little monasterial
discipline. Things would soon be brought to rights. . . .

Hengfisk stepped carefully through the splintered posts and white-
covered stones.

The thing of it was, the monk slowly realized, in a way it was quite . . .
beautiful. Beyond the gate, all things were covered in a delicate tracery of
ice, like lacy veils of spidcrweb. The sinking sun embellished the frosted
towers and ice-crusted walls and courtyards with rivulets of pale fire.

The crv of the wind was somewhat less here within the battlements.
Hengfisk stood for a long while, abashed by the unexpected quiet. As the
weak sun slid behind the walls, the ice darkened. Deep violet shadows
welled up in the comers of the courtyard, stretching laterally across the
faces of the ruined towers. The wind softened to a feline hiss, and the
pop-eyed monk lowered his head in numb recognition.

Deserted. Naglimund was empty, with not a single soul left behind to
greet a snow-bewildered wanderer. He had walked leagues through the
storm-ridden white waste to reach a place that was as dead and dumb as
stone.

But, he wondered suddenly, if that is so . . . then what are those blue lights
that flicker in the windows of the towers?

And what were these figures who approached him across the shambles
of the courtyard, moving as gracefully over the icy stones as blowing
thistledown?

His heart raced. At first, as he saw their beautiful, cold faces and pale
hair, Hengfisk thought them angels. Then, as he saw the fell light in their
black eyes, and their smiles, he turned, stumbling, and tried to run.

The Norns caught him effortlessly, then carried him back with them
into the depths of the desolated castle, beneath the shadowed, ice-mantled
towers and the ceaselessly flickering lights. And when Naglimund's new
masters whispered to him in their secretive, musical voices, his screams
for a while overtopped even the howling wind.




PART ONE

Stormy Eye

The Music of High Places

-L^Vtm in the cave, where the crackling fire sent gray ringers of
smoke up to the hole in the stony roof, and red light played across the wall
carvings of twining serpents and tusked, staring-eyed beasts, the cold still
gnawed at Simon's bones. As he floated in and out of fevered sleep,
through curtained daylight and chill night, he felt as though gray ice grew
inside him, stiffening his limbs and filling him with frost. He wondered if
he would ever be warm again.

Fleeing the chill Yiqanuc cave and his sickened body, he wandered the
Road of Dreams, slipping helplessly from one fantasy to the next. Many
times he thought he had returned to the Hayholt, to his castle home as it
once had been, but would never be again: a place of sun-warmed lawns, of
shadowed nooks and hiding-holes—the greatest house of all, full of bustle
and color and music. He walked again in the Hedge Garden, and the wind
that sang outside the cave in which he slept sang in his dreams as well,
blowing gently through the leaves and shaking the delicate hedges.

In one strange dream he seemed to travel back to Doctor Morgenes'
chamber. The doctor's study was now at the top of a tall tower, with
clouds swimming past the high-arched windows. The old man hovered
fretfully over a large, open book. There was something frightening about
the doctor's single-mmdedness and silence. Simon did not seem to exist
at all for Morgenes; instead, the old man stared intently at the crude
drawing of three swords that stretched across the splayed pages.

Simon moved to the windowsill. The wind sighed, though he could feel
no breeze. He looked down to the courtyard below. Staring up at him
with wide, solemn eyes was a child, a small, dark-haired girl. She lifted a
hand in the air, as ifm greeting, then suddenly was gone.

The tower and Morgenes' cluttered chamber began to melt away be-
neath Simon's feet like a receding tide. Last to vanish was the old man
himself. Even as he slowly faded, like a shadow m growing light, Morgenes
still did not lift his eyes to Simon's; instead, his gnarled hands busily

4                           Tad Williams

traced the pages of his book, as though restlessly looking for answers.
Simon called out to him, but all the world had turned gray and cold, full of
swirling mists and the tatters of other dreams. . . .

He awakened, as he had so many times since Urmsheim, to find the
cave night-darkened, and to see Haestan and Jiriki bedded down near the
rune-scrawled stone wall. The Erkynlander was curled sleeping in his
cloak, beard on breastbone. The Sitha stared at something cupped in the
palm of his long-fingered hand. Jiriki seemed deeply absorbed. His eyes
gleamed faintly, as though whatever he held reflected the last embers of
the fire. Simon tried to say something—he was hungry for warmth and
voices—but sleep was tugging at him again.

The wind is 50 loud . . .
It moaned in the mountain passes outside, as it did around the tower

tops of the Hayholt ... as it had across the battlements ofNaglimund-

So sad . . . the wind is sad . . .
Soon he was asleep once more. The cave was quiet but for faint

breathing and the lonely music of high places.

It was only a hole, but it made a very sufficient prison. It plunged
twenty cubits down into the stone heart of Mintahoq Mountain, as wide as
two men or four trolls lying head to foot. The sides were polished like the
finest sculptor's marble, so that even a spider would have been hard-pressed
to find a foothold. The bottom was as dark and cold and damp as any dungeon.

Though the moon ranged above the snowy spires ofMintahoq's neigh-
bors, only a fine spray of moonlight reached down to the bottom of the
pit, where it touched but did not illuminate two unmoving shapes. For
a long while since moonrise it had been this way: the pale moon-disk—
Sedda, as the trolls called her—the only moving thing in all the night
world, crossing slowly through the black fields of the sky.

Now something stirred at the mouth of the pit. A small figure leaned

over, squinting down into the thick shadows.

"Binabik ..." the crouching shape called at last in the guttural tongue of

the troll folk. "Binabik, do you hear me?"

If one of the shadows at the bottom moved, it made no sound in doing

so. At last the figure at the top of the stone well spoke again.

"Nine times nine days, Binabik, your spear stood before my cave, and I waited

for you."

The words were spoken in a ritual chant, but the voice wavered un-
steadily, pausing for a moment before continuing. "/ waited and f called
out your name in the Place of Echoes. Nothing came back to me but my own voice-
Why did you not return and take up your spear a^ain?"

STONE OF FAREWELL                                    5

Still there was no reply.

"Binabik? Why do you not answer? Surely you owe me that, do you not?"

The larger of the two shapes at the bottom of the pit stirred. Pale blue
eyes caught a thin stripe ofmoongleam.

"What is that trollish yammering? It's bad enough you throw a man
down a hole who's never done you harm, but must you come shouting
your nonsense-talk at him when he's trying to sleep?"

The crouching shape froze for a moment like a startled deer splashed
by lantern-glare, then disappeared into the night.

"Good." The Rimmersman Sludig curled himself up once more in his
damp cloak. "I do not know what that troll was saying to you, Binabik,
but I do not think much of your people, that they come to mock at
you—and me, too. although I am not surprised that they hate my kind."

The troll beside him said nothing, only stared at the Rimmersman with
dark, troubled eyes. After a while, Sludig rolled over again, shivering, and
tried to sleep.

•ff

"But Jiriki, you can't go!" Simon was perched at the edge of his pallet,
wrapped in his blanket against the insinuating chill. He gritted his teeth
against a wave of light-headedness; he had not been oft' his back often in
the five days since he had awakened.

"I must," the Sitha said, eyes downcast as though he could not meet
Simon's imploring stare. "I have already sent Sijandi and Ki'ushapo ahead,
but it is my own presence that is demanded. I shall not leave for a day or
two, Seoman, but that is the utmost length I can put off my duty."

"You have to help me free Binabik!" Simon lifted his feet off the cold
stone floor back onto the bed. "You said the trolls trust you. Make them
set Binabik free. Then we'll all go together."

Jiriki let out a chin whistle of air between his lips. "It is not so simple,
young Seoman," he said, almost impatiently. "I have no right or power to
make the Qanuc do anything. Also, I have other responsibilities and duties
you cannot understand. I only stayed as long as I have because I wanted to
see you on your feet once more. My uncle Khendraja'aro has long since
returned to Jao e-Tinukai'i, and my duties to my house and my kin
compel me to follow."

"Compel you? But you're a prince!"

The Sitha shook his head. "That word is not the same in our speech as
in yours, Seoman. I am of the reigning house, but I order no one and rule
no one. Neither am I ruled, fortunately—except in certain things and at
certain times. My parents have declared that this is such a time." Simon
thought he could almost detect a touch of anger in Jinki's voice- "Never

6                          Tad Williams

fear, though. You and Haestan are not prisoners. The Qanuc honor you.

They will let you leave when you wish."

"But I won't leave without Binabik." Simon twisted his cloak between

his fists. "And Sludig, too."

A small dark figure appeared in the doorway and coughed politely.

Jiriki looked over his shoulder, then nodded his head. The old Qanuc
woman stepped forward and set a steaming pot down at Jiriki's feet, then
quickly pulled three bowls out of her tentlike sheepskin coat, arranging
them in a semicircle. Though her diminutive fingers worked nimbly, and
her seamed, round-cheeked face was expressionless, Simon saw a glimmer
of fear in her eyes as they rose briefly to meet his. When she had finished,
she backed quickly out of the cave, disappearing under the door flap as

silently as she had appeared.

What is she afraid of? Simon wondered. Jiriki? But Binabik said the Qanuc

and Sithi have always gotten along—more or less.

He suddenly thought of himself: twice as tall as a troll, red-haired,
hairy-faced with his first man's beard—skinny as a switch, too, but since
he was wrapped in blankets the old Qanuc woman couldn't know that.
What difference could the people of Yiqanuc see between himself and a
hated Rimmersman? Hadn't Sludig's people warred on the troll folk for

centuries?

"Will you have some, Seoman?" Jiriki asked, pouring out steaming

liquid from the pot. "They have provided you with a bowl."
Simon reached out a hand. "Is it more soup?"
"It is aka, as the Qanuc call it—or as you would say, tea."
"Tea!" He took the bowl eagerly. Judith, Kitchen Mistress of the
Hayholt, had been very fond of tea. She would sit down at the end of
a long day's work to nurse a great hot mug full of the stuff, the kitchen
filling with the vapors of steeped southern island herbs. When she was in a
good mood, she would let Simon have some, too. Usires, how he missed

his home'

"I never thought. . ."he began, and took a great long swallow, only to

spit it out a moment later in a fit of coughing. "What is it?" he choked.

"That's not tea!"

Jiriki might have been smiling, but since he had his bowl up to his
mouth, sipping slowly, it was impossible to tell. "Certainly it is," the
Sitha replied. "The Qanuc people use different herbs than you Sudhoda'ya,
of course. How could it be otherwise, when they have so little trade with

your kind?"

Simon wiped his mouth, grimacing. "But it's salty!" He took a sniff of

the bowl and made another face.
The Sitha nodded and sipped again. "They put salt in it, yes—and

butter as well."
"Butter!"

STONE OF  FAREWELL                                    7

"Marvelous are the ways of all Mezumiiru's grandchildren," Jiriki in-
Eoned solemnly, ". . . endless is their variety."

Simon set the bowl down in disgust. "Butter. Usires help me, what a
miserable adventure."

Jiriki calmly finished his tea. The mention of Mezumiiru reminded
Simon again of his troll friend, who one night in the forest had sung a
song about the Moon-woman. His mood turned sour once more.

"But what are we going to do for Binabik?" Simon asked. "Anything?"

Jiriki lifted calm, catlike eyes. "We will have a chance to speak on his
behalf tomorrow. I have not yet discovered his crime. Few Qanuc speak
any language but their own—your companion is a rare troll indeed—and I
am not very accomplished in theirs. Neither do they like to share their
thoughts with outsiders."

"What's happening tomorrow?" Simon asked, sinking back into his bed
again. His head was pounding. Why should he still fee! so weak?

"There is a ... court, I suppose. Where the Qanuc rulers hear and
decide."

"And we are going to speak for Binabik?"

"No, Seoman, not as such," Jiriki said gently. For a moment a strange
look flitted across his spare features. "We are going because you met the
Dragon of the Mountain . . . and lived. The lords of the Qanuc wish to
see you. I do not doubt that your friend's crimes will also be addressed,
there before the whole of his people. Now take rest, for you will have
need of it."

Jiriki stood and stretched his slender limbs, moving his head in his
disconcertingly alien way, amber eyes fixed on nothing. Simon felt a
shudder travel the length of his own body, followed by a powerful weariness.

The dragon! he thought groggily, halfway between wonderment and
horror. He had seen a dragon! He, Simon the scullion, despised muckabout
and mooncalf, had swung a sword at a dragon and lived—even after its
scalding blood had splashed him! Like in a story!

He looked at blackly gleaming Thorn, which lay partly covered against
the wall, wailing like a beautiful, deadly serpent. Even Jiriki seemed
unwilling to handle it, or even discuss it; the Sitha had calmly deflected
all of Simon's questions as to what magic might run like blood through
Camaris' strange sword. Simon's chilled fingers crept up his jaw to the still-
painful scar running down his face. How had a mere scullion like himself
ever dared to lift such a potent thing?

Closing his eyes, he felt the huge and uncaring world spin ever so
slowly beneath him. He heard Jiriki pad across the cave toward the
doorway, and a faint swish as the Sitha slid past the flap and out, then sleep
tugged him down.

J.
y

8                           Tad Williams

Simon dreamed. The face of the small, dark-haired girl swam before
him once more. It was a child's face, but the solemn eyes were old and
deep as a well in a deserted churchyard. She seemed to want to tell him
something. Her mouth worked soundlessly, but as she slipped away
through the murky waters of sleep, he thought for a moment he heard her
voice.

He awoke the next morning to find Haestan standing over him. The
guardsman's teeth were bared in a grim smile and his beard sparkled with

melting snow.

"Time y'were up, Simon-lad. Many doin's this day, many doin's."
It took some time, but even though he felt quite feeble, he managed to
dress himself. Haestan helped him with his boots, which he had not worn
since waking up in Yiqanuc. They seemed stiff as wood on his feet, and
the fabric of his garments scraped against his strangely sensitive skin, but
he felt better for being up and dressed. He walked gingerly across the
length of the cave a few times, beginning to feel like a two-legged animal
once more.

"Where's Jinki?" Simon asked as he pulled his cloak around his shoulders.
"That one's gone ahead. But ha* no worry 'bout goin' t' meetin'. I
could carry ye, stickly thing that y'are."

"I was carried here," Simon said, and heard an unexpected coldness
creeping into his voice, "but that doesn't mean I'll have to be carried always."
The husky Erkynlander chortled, taking no offense. "I'm as happy if
y'walk, lad. These trolls make paths narrow enough, I've no great wish

t'carry anyone."

Simon had to wait a moment just inside the cave-mouth to adjust to the
glare leaking through the raised door-flap. When he stepped outside, the
reflective brilliance of the snow, even on an overcast morning, was almost
too much for him.

They stood on a wide stone porch that extended almost twenty cubits
out from the cave. It stretched away to the right and left on either side,
running along the face of the mountain. Simon could see the smoking
mouths of other caves all along its length, until it bent back out of sight
around the curve of Mintahoq's belly. There were similar wide trackways
on the slope above, row upon row up the mountain's face. Ladders
dangled down from higher caves, and where the irregularities of the slope
made the joining of the paths impossible, many of the different porches
were connected across empty space by swaying bridges that seemed made
of little more than leather thongs. Even as Simon stared, he saw the tiny,
fur-coated shapes of Qanuc children skittering across these slender spans,
gamboling blithely as squirrels, though a fall would mean certain death. It
made Simon's stomach churn to watch them, so he swung around to face
outward once more.

STONE OF  FAREWELL                                    9

Before him lay the great valley of Yiqanuc; beyond, Mintahoq's stony
neighbors loomed out of the misted depths, towering up into the gray,
snow-ftecked sky. Tiny black holes dotted the far peaks; minuscule shapes,
barely discernible across the dark valley, bustled along the twining paths
between them.

Three trolls, slouching in wrought-hide saddles, came riding down the
track on their shaggy rams. Simon stepped forward out of their way,
moving slowly across the porch until he was within a few feet of the edge.
Looking down, he felt a momentary surge of the vertigo he had felt on
Urmsheim. The mountain's base, bewhiskered here and there by twisted
evergreens, fell away below, crisscrossed by more ladder-hung porches
like the one on which he stood. He noticed a sudden silence and turned to
look for Haestan.

The three ram-riders had stopped in the middle of [he wide pathway,
gazing at Simon in slack-mouthed wonderment. The guardsman, nearly
hidden in the shadow of the cave-mouth on their far side, gave him a
mocking salute over the heads of the trolls.

Two of the riders had sparse beards on their chins. All wore necklaces
of thick ivory beads over their heavy coats and carried ornately carved
spears with hooked bottoms, like shepherd's crooks, which they used to
guide their spiral-homed steeds. They were all largef than Binabik: Si-
mon's few days in Yiqanuc had taught him that Binabik was one of the
smallest adults of his people. These trolls also seemed more primitive and
dangerous than his friend, well-armed and fierce-faced, threatening despite
their small stature.

Simon stared at the trolls. The trolls stared ac Simon.

"They've alt heard of ye, Simon," Haestan boomed; the three riders
looked up, startled by his loud voice, "—but no one's hardly seen ye yet."

The trolls looked the tall guardsman up and down in alarm, then
ducked at their mounts and rode on hurriedly, disappearing around the
mountain face. "Gave them some gossip," Haestan chuckled.

"Binabik told me about his home," Simon said, "but it was hard to
understand what he was saying. Things are never quite what you think
they're going to be, are they?"

"Only th' good Lord Usires knows all answers," Haestan nodded.
"Now, if y'would see y'r small friend, we'd best move on. Walk careful
now—and not so close t'edge, there."

They made their way slowly down the looping path, which alternately
narrowed and widened as it traversed the mountainside. The sun was high
overhead, but hidden in a nest of soot-colored clouds, and a biting wind
swooped along Mintahoq's face. The mountaintop above was white-
blanketed in ice, like the high peaks across the valley, but at this lower
height the snow had fallen more patently. Some wide drifts lay across the

10

Tad Williams

path, and others nestled among the cave mouths, but dry rock and
exposed soil were also all around. Simon had no idea if such snow was
normal for the first days of Tiyagar-momh in Yiqanuc, but he did know
that he was mightily sick of sleet and cold. Every flake that swooped into
his eye felt like an insult; the scarred flesh of his cheek and jaw ached

terribly-

Now that they had left what seemed like the populous section of the

mountain, there were not many troll folk to be seen. Dark shapes peered
out of the smoke of some of the cave-mouths, and two more groups of
riders passed by heading in the same direction, slowing to stare, then
bustling along as hastily as had the first troop.

The pair passed a gaggle of children playing in a snowdrift. The young
trolls, barely taller than Simon's knee, were bundled up in heavy fur
jackets and leggings; they looked like little round hedgehogs. Their eyes
grew wide as Simon and Haestan trudged past, and their high-pitched
chatter was stilled, but they did not run or show any sign of fear. Simon
liked that. He smiled gently, mindful of his pained cheek, and waved to

them.

When a loop of the path led them far out toward the northward side of

the mountain, they found themselves in an area where the noise of
Mintahoq's inhabitants disappeared entirely and they were alone with the
voice of wind and fluttering snow.

"Don't like this bit m'self," Haesten said.

"What's that?" Simon pointed up the slope. On a stone porch far above
stood a strange egg-shaped structure made of carefully ordered blocks of
snow. It gleamed faintly, pink-tinged by the slanting sun. A row of silent
trolls stood before it, spears clutched in their mittened hands, their faces

harsh in their hoods.

"Don't point, lad," Haestan said, gently pulling at Simon's arm. Had a
few of the guards shifted their gazes downward? "It be somethin' impor-
tant, y'r friend Jiriki said. Called 'Ice House.' Th' little folk be all worked
up over it right this moment. Don't know why—don't want t'know,

either."

"Ice House?" Simon stared. "Does someone live there?"

Haestan shook his head. "Jiriki didna say."

Simon looked to Haestan speculatively. "Have you talked with Jiriki much
since you've been here? I mean, since I wasn't around for you to talk to?"

"Oh, aye," Haestan said, then paused. "Not much, in truth. Always
seems like . . . like he's thinkin' on something' grand, d'ye see? Some-
thin' important. But he's nice enough, in's way. Not like a person, quite,
but not a bad'un." Haestan thought a bit more. "He's not like I thought
magic-fellow 'd be. Talks plain, Jiriki does." Haestan smiled. "Does think
well on ye, he does. Way he talks, un'd think he owed ye money." He
chuckled in his beard.

STONE OF  FAREWELL

11

It was a long, wearying walk for someone as weak as Simon: first up,
then down, back and forth over the face of the mountain. Although
Haestan put a steadying hand under his elbow each time he sagged, Simon
had begun to wonder if he could go any farther when they trudged around
an outcropping that pushed out into the path like a stone in a river and
found themselves standing before the wide entranceway of the great
cavern of Yiqanuc.

The vast hole, at least fifty paces from edge to edge, gaped in the face of
Mintahoq like a mouth poised to pronounce a solemn judgment. Just
inside stood a row of huge, weathered statues: round-bellied, humanlike
figures, gray and yellow as rotted teeth, stoop-shouldered beneath the
burden of the entranceway roof. Their smooth heads were crowned with
ram's horns, and greac tusks pushed out between their lips. So worn were
they by centuries of harsh weather that their faces were all but featureless.
This gave them, to Simon's startled eye, not a look of antiquity, but rather
of unformed newness—as if they were even now creating themselves out
of the primordial stone.

"Chidsik Uh Lingit, "a voice said beside him, "—the House of the Ancestor."
Simon jumped a little and turned in surprise, but it was not Haestan

who had spoken. Jiriki stood beside him, staring up at the blind stone

faces.

"How long have you been standing there?" Simon was shamed to have
been so startled. He turned his head back to the entranceway. Who could
guess that the tiny trolls would carve such giant door-wardens?

"I came out to meet you," Jiriki said. "Greetings, Haestan."

The guardsman grunted and nodded his head. Simon wondered again
what had passed between the Erkynlander and the Sitha during the long
days of his illness. There were times when Simon found it very hard to
converse with veiled and roundabout Prince Jiriki. How might it be for a
straightforward soldier like Haestan, who had not been trained, as Simon
had, on the maddening circularities of Doctor Morgenes?

"Is this where the'king of the trolls lives?" he asked aloud.

"And the queen of the trolls, as well, "Jiriki nodded. "Although they
are not really called a king and queen in the Qanuc language. It would be
closer to say the Herder and Huntress.'*

"Kings, queens, princes, and none of them are what they are called,"
Simon grumbled. He was tired and sore and cold. "Why is the cave so
big?"

The Sitha laughed quietly. His pale lavender hair fluttered in the sharp
wind. "Because if the cave were smaller, young Seoman, they would
doubtless have found another place to be their House of the Ancestor
instead. Now we should go inside—and not only so that you can escape
the cold."

Jiriki led them between two of the centermost statues, toward flickering

12

Tad Williams

yellow light. As they passed between pillarlike legs, Simon looked up to
the eyeless faces beyond the polished bulges of the statues' great stone
bellies. He was reminded again of the philosophies of Doctor Morgenes.

The Doctor used to say that no one ever knows what will come to them—"don't
build on expectation," he said that all the time. Who would ever have though!
someday I would see such things as this, have such adventures? No one knows

what will come to them. . . .

He felt a twinge of pain along his face, then a needle of cold in his gut.

The Doctor, as was so often the case, had spoken nothing but the truth.

Inside, the great cavern was full of trolls and dense with the sweetly
sour odors of oil and fat. A thousand yellow lights blazed.

All around the craggy, high-ceilinged stone room, in wall-niches and in
the very floor, pools of oil bloomed with fire. Hundreds of such lamps,
each with its floating wick like a slender white worm, gave the cavern a
light that far outshone the gray day outside. Hide-jacketed Qanuc filled
the room, an ocean of black-haired heads. Small children sat pickaback,

like seagulls floating placidly atop the waves.

At the room's center an island of rock protruded above the sea of troll
folk. There, on a raised stone platform hewn from the very stuff of the

cavern floor, two smallish figures sat in a pool of fire.

It was not exactly a pool of pure flame, Simon saw a moment later, but
a slender moat cut into the gray rock all the way around, filled with the
same burning oil that fueled the lamps. The two figures at the center of
the ring of flames reclined side by side in a sort of hammock of ornately-
figured hide bounded by thongs to a frame of ivory. The pair nested
unmoving in the mound of white and reddish furs. Their eyes were bright

in their round, placid faces.

"She is Nunuuika and he is Uammannaq," Jiriki said quietly, "—they

are the masters of the Qanuc . . ."

Even as he spoke, one of the two small figures gestured briefly with a
hooked staff. The vast, packed horde of troll folk drew back to either side,
pressing themselves even closer together, forming an aisle that stretched
from the stone platform to the place where Simon and his companions
stood. Several hundred small, expectant faces turned coward them. There
was much whispering. Simon stared down the open length of cavern

floor, abashed.

"Seems clear enough," Haestan growled, giving him a soft shove. "Go

on, then, lad."

"All of us," Jiriki said. He made one of his oddly-articulated gestures to

indicate that Simon should lead the way.

Both the echoing whispers and the scent of cured hides seemed to

increase as Simon made his way toward the king and queen . . .
—Or the Herdsman and Huntress, he reminded himself. Or whatever.

STONE OF FAREWELL

13

The air in the cavern suddenly seemed stiflingly thick. As he struggled
t0 get a deep breath he stumbled and would have fallen had not Haestan
caught at the back of his cloak. When he reached the dais he stood for a
moment staring at the floor, struggling with dizziness, before looking up
t0 the figures on the platform. The lamplight glared into his eyes. He felt
angry, although he didn't know at whom. Hadn't he more or less just
gotten out of bed today for the first time? What did they expect? That he
would leap right out and slay some dragons?

The startling thing about Uammannaq and Nunuuika, he decided, was
that they looked so much alike, as though they were twins. Not chat it
wasn't instantly obvious which was which: Uammannaq, on Simon's left,
had a chin beard mac hung from his chin, knotted with red and blue
thongs into a long braid. His hair was braided as well, held in intricate
loops upon his head with combs of black, shiny stone. As he worried at
his beard gently with small, thick fingers, his other hand held his staff of
office, a thick, heavily carved ram-rider's spear with a crook at one end.

His wife—ifchac was che way things worked in Yiqanuc—held a straight
spear, a slender, deadly wand with a stone point sharpened to translucency.
She wore her long black hair high on her head, held in place with many
combs of carved ivory. Her eyes, gleaming behind slanting lids in a plump
face, were flat and bright as polished stone. Simon- had never had a
woman look at him in quite that cold and arrogant way. He remembered
that she was called Huntress, and felt out of his depth. By contrast.
Uammannaq seemed far less threatening. The Herder's heavy face seemed
to sag in loose lines of drowsiness, but there was still a canny edge to his
glance.

After the brief moment of mutual inspection, Uammannaq's face creased
in a wide yellow grin, his eyes nearly disappearing in a cheerful squint. He
lifted his two palms toward the companions, then pressed his small hands
together and said something in guttural Qanuc.

"He says you are welcome to Chidsik Ub Lingit and to Yiqanuc, the
mountains of the trolls," Jiriki translated. Before he could say more,
Nunuuika spoke up. Her words seemed more measured than Uammannaq's,
but were no more intelligible to Simon. Jiriki listened to her carefully-

"The Huntress also extends her greetings. She says you are quite tall,
but unless she is very mistaken in her knowledge of the Utku people, you
seem young for a dragon-slayer, despite the white in your hair. Utku is the
troll word for lowlanders," he added quietly.

Simon looked at the two royal personages for a moment. "Tell them
that I'm pleased to have their welcome, or whatever should be said. And
please tell them that I didn't slay the dragon—likely only wounded it—and
that I did it to protect my friends, just as Binabik of Yiqanuc did for me
many other times.*'

When he finished the long sentence he was momentarily out of breath,

14

Tad Williams

bringing a rush of dizziness. The Herder and Huntress, who had been
watching curiously as he spoke—both had frowned slightly at the mention
of Binabik's name—now turned expectantly to Jiriki-

The Sitha paused for a moment, considering, then rattled off a long
stream of thick trollish speech. Uammannaq nodded his head in a puzzled
way. Nunuuika listened impassively. WhenJiriki had finished, she glanced

briefly at her consort, then spoke again.

Judging by her translated reply, she might not have heard Binabik's
name at all. She complimented Simon on his bravery, saying that the
Qanuc had long held the mountain Urmsheim—Yijarjuk, she called it—as
a place to be avoided at all costs. Now, she said, perhaps it was time to
explore the western mountains again, since the dragon, even if it had
survived, had most likely disappeared into the lower depths to nurse its

wounds.

Uammannaq seemed impatient with Nunuuika's speech. As soon as

Jiriki finished relaying her words the Herder responded with some of his
own, saying that now was hardly the time for such adventures, after the
terrible winter just passed, and with the evil Croohokuq—the Rimmers-
men—so malevolently active. He hastened to add that of course Simon
and his companions, the other lowlander and the esteemed Jiriki, should
stay as long as they wished, as honored guests, and that if there was
anything he or Nunuuika could grant them to ease their stay, they had

only to ask.

Even before Jiriki finished converting these works to the Westerling

speech, Simon was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, anxious

to respond.

"Yes," he told Jiriki, "there is something they can do. They can free

Binabik and Sludig, our companions. Free our friends, if you would do us
a favor!" he said loudly, turning to the fur-swaddled pair before him, who
regarded him with incomprehension. His raised voice caused some of the
trolls crowded around the stone platform to murmur uneasily. Simon
dizzily wondered if he had gone too far, but for the moment was beyond

caring.

"Seoman," Jiriki said, "I promised myself that I would not mistranslate

or interfere in your speech with the lords ofYiqanuc, but I ask you now as
a favor to me, do not ask this of them. Please."

"Why not?"

"Please. As a favor. I will explain later; I ask you to trust me."
Simon's angry words spilled out before he could control them. "You
want me to desert my friend as a favor to you? Haven't I already saved
your life? Didn't I get the White Arrow from you? Who owes the favors

here?"

Even as he said it he was sorry, fearing that an unbreachable barrier had

suddenly grown between himself and the Sitha prince. Jiriki's eyes burned

STONE OF FAREWELL

15

into his. The audience began to fidget nervously and mutter among
themselves, sensing something amiss.

The Sitha dropped his gaze. "I am ashamed, Seoman. I ask too much of
you."

Now Simon felt himself sinking like a stone into a muddy pool. Too
fast! It was too much to think about. All he wanted was to lie down and
not know anything.

"No, Jiriki," he blurted out, "I'm ashamed- I'm ashamed of what I said.
I'm an idiot. Ask the two of them if I can speak to them tomorrow. I feel
sick." Suddenly the dizziness was horribly real; he felt the whole cavern
tilt. The light of the oil lamps wavered as though in a stiff wind. Simon's
knees buckled and Haestan caught his arms, holding him up.

Jiriki turned quickly to Uammannaq and Nunuuika. A rumble of fasci-
nated consternation ran through the trollish throng. Was the red-crested,
storklike lowlander dead? Perhaps such long thin legs were not capable of
bearing weight for long, as some had suggested. But then, why were the
other two lowlanders still standing upright? Many heads were shaken in
puzzlement, many whispered guesses exchanged.

"Nunuuika, keenest of eye, and Uammannaq, surest of rein: the boy is still sick
and very weak. "Jiriki spoke quietly. The multitude, cheated,by his soft speech,
leaned forward. "I ask a boon, on the primeval friendship of our people."

The Huntress inclined her head, smiling slightly. "Speak, Elder Brother,"
she said.

"/ have no right to interfere in your justice, and will not. I do ask that the
judgment of Binabik ofMintahoq not go forward until his companions—including
the boy Seoman—have a chance to speak in his behalf. And that the same be
granted also for the Rimmersman, Sludig. This I ask of you in the name of the
Moon-woman, our shared roof. "Jiriki bowed slightly, using only his upper
body. There was no suggestion of subservience.

Uammannaq tapped the shaft of his spear with his fingers. He looked to
the Huntress, his expression troubled. At last he nodded. "We cannot refuse
this, Elder Brother. So shall it be. Two days, then, when the boy is stronger—but
even if this strange young man had brought us Igjarjuk's toothy head in a
saddlebag, that would not change what must be. Binabik, apprentice of the Singing
Man, has committed a terrible crime."

"So I hare been told," Jiriki replied. "But the brave hearts of the Qanuc were
not the only thing that gained them the esteem of the Sithi. We loved the kindness
of trolls as well."

Nunuuika touched the combs in her hair, her gaze hard. "Kind hearts
must never overthrow just law, Prince Jiriki, or all Sedda's spawn—Sithi as well
as mortals—will return naked to the snows. Binabik shall have his judgment."

Prince Jiriki nodded and made another brief bow before turning away.
Haestan half-carried the stumbling Simon as they walked back across the
cavern, down the gauntlet of curious trolls, back out into the cold wind.




2

Masks and Shadows

J. rU^ J~l-re popped and spat as snowflakes drifted down into the
flames to boil away in an instant. The surrounding trees were still striped
with orange, but the campfire had burned down almost to embers- Beyond
this fragile barrier of firelight, mist and cold and dark waited patiently.

Deomoth held his hands closer to the embers and tried to ignore the
vast living presence of Aldheorte Forest all around, the twining branches
that blotted the stars overhead, the fog-shrouded trunks swaying somberly
in the cold, steady wind. Josua sat across from him, facing away from the
flames toward the unfriendly darkness; the prince's angled face, red-
washed by rippling firelight, was contorted in a silent grimace. Deomoth's
heart went out to his prince, but it was too difficult to look at him just
now. He turned his eyes away, kneading his chilled fingers as though he
could rub away all suffering—his, his master's, and that of the rest of their
pitiful, lamed flock.

Someone moaned nearby, but Deomoth did not look up. Many in their
party were suffering, and some—the little handmaiden with the terrible
throat wound, and Helmfest, one of the Lord Constable's men, gut-bitten
by those unholy creatures—he doubted would live through the night.

Their troubles had not ended when they had escaped the destruction of
Josua's castle at Naglimund. Even as the prince's party had staggered
down the last broken steps of the Stile, they had been set on. Mere yards
from the outer stand of Aldheorte, the ground had erupted around them
and the false, storm-carried night had rung with chirping cries.

There had been diggers everywhere—Bukken, as young Isom called
them, shouting the name hysterically as he lay about him with his sword.
Even in his fear the duke's son had killed many, but Isorn had also taken a
dozen shallow wounds from the diggers' sharp teeth and crude, jagged
knives. That was something else to worry about: in the forest, even small
wounds were likely to fester.

18

Tad Williams

Deornoth shifted uneasily. Those small shapes had clung to his own
arm like rats. In his choking fear, he had almost cut his hand loose from
his body to get the chittering things off. Even now, the thought made
him squirm. He rubbed at his fingers, remembering.

Josua's beleaguered company .had finally escaped, hacking free long
enough to make a dash for the forest. Strangely, the forbidding trees
seemed to provide a sort of sanctuary. The swarming diggers, far too

numerous to have been defeated, did not follow.

Is there some power in the forest that prevented them? Deornoth wondered.
Or more likely, does something live here more fearsome even than they are?

Fleeing, they had left behind five torn things that had once been human
beings. The prince's troop of survivors now numbered perhaps a dozen—
and judging by the tortuous, gasping breaths of the soldier Helmfest, who
lay wrapped in his cloak near the fire, they would be fewer than that soon.

Lady Vorzheva was dabbing the blood away from Helmfest's ghost-pale
cheek. She had the distant, distracted look of a madman Deornoth had once
seen, who had sat in the Naglimund-town square pouring water from one
bowl to another for hours at a time, back and forth, never spilling a drop.
Tending this living dead man was just as useless a thing to do, Deornoth

felt sure, and it showed in Vorzheva's dark eyes.

Prince Josua had been paying no greater heed to Vorzheva than to
anyone else in the battered company. Despite the terror and weariness she
shared with the rest of the survivors, it was obvious that she was also
furiously angry about his inattention. Deornoth had long been a witness Co
Josua and Vorzheva's stormy relationship, but was never quite sure how
he felt about it. Sometimes he resented the Thrithings-woman as a distrac-
tion, a hindrance to his prince's duties; at other moments he found himself
pitying Vorzheva, whose sincere passions often outstripped her patience.
Josua could be maddeningly careful and deliberate, and even at the best of
times tended toward melancholy. Deornoth guessed that the prince would
be a very difficult man for a woman to love and live with.

The old jester Towser and Sangfugol the harper were talking dispirit-
edly nearby. The jester's wine sack lay empty and flattened on the ground
beside them; it was the only wine any of the survivors would see for a
while. Towser had drained it dry himself in just a few gulps, occasioning
more than a few sharp words from his fellows. His rheumy eye had
blinked angrily as he drank, like an old rooster warning away a henyard

interloper.

The only ones engaged in useful activity at this moment were the

Duchess Gutrun, Isgrimnur's wife, and Father Strangyeard, the archivist
of Naglimund. Gutrun had slit the front and back of her heavy brocade
skirt and was now sewing the open pieces together, making something
like a pair of breeches for herself, the better to travel through Aldheorte's
clinging brush. Strangyeard, recognizing the good sense of this idea, was

STONE OF FAREWELL

19

sawing away at the front of his own gray robe with Dcornoth's dulled
knife.

The brooding Rimmersman Einskaldir sat near Father Strangyeard;

between them lay a quiet shape, a dark bump below the wash of firelight.
That was the little handmaiden whose name Deornorh could not remem-
ber. She had fled with them from the residence, and had cried quietly all
the long way up and down the Stile.

Cried, that is, until the diggers had reached her. They had clung to her
throat like terriers to a boar, even after their bodies had been sheared loose
by the blades other would-be rescuers. Now she cried no longer. She was
very, very still, holding precariously to life.

Deornoth felt a shudder of trapped horror surge up within him. Merci-
ful Usircs, what had they done to deserve such dreadful retribution? Of
what abominable sin were they guilty, to be punished by the harrowing of
Naglimund?

He fought down the panic that he knew showed plainly on his face, then
looked around. No one was watching him, thank Usires: no one had seen
his shameful fear. Such conduct was not fitting, after all. Deornoth was a
knight. He was proud that he had felt his prince's gauntlet upon his head,
had heard the pronouncement of service. He only wished for the clean
terror of battle with human enemies—not tiny, squealing diggers, or the
stone-faced, fish-white Noms who had destroyed Josua's castle. How
could you battle creatures out of childhood bogey-tales?

It must be the Day of Weighing-Out come at last. That was the only
explanation. These might be living things they fought—they bled and
died, and could demons be said to do so?—but they were forces of
Darkness, nevertheless. The final days had come in truth.

Oddly, the idea made Deornoth feel a little stronger. Was this not, after
all, a knight's true calling, to defend his lord and land against enemies
spiritual as well as corporeal? Hadn't the priest said so before Deomoth's
vigil of investiture? He forced his fearful thoughts back into their proper
track. He had long prided himself on his calm face, his slow and measured
anger; for just that reason, he had always felt very comfortable with the
reserved manners of his prince. How could Josua lead, except by the
mastery of his own person?

Thinking of Josua, Deornoth stole another look at him and felt worry
come surging back. It seemed that the prince's armor of patience was at
last breaking apart, wracked by forces no man should bear. As his liege
man watched, Josua stared out into the windy darkness, lips working as he
spoke soundlessly to himself, brow wrinkled in pained concentration.

The watching became too difficult. "Prince Josua," Deornoth called
softly. The prince finished his silent speech, but did not turn his eyes to
the young knight. Deornoth tried again. "Josua?"

"Yes, Deornoth?" he replied at last.

20

Tad Williams

"My lord," the knight began, then realized he had nothing to say. "My

lord, my good lord ..."

As Deornoth bit at his lower lip, hoping inspiration might strike his

weary thoughts, Josua suddenly sat forward, eyes fixed where moments
before they had aimlessly roved, staring at the dark beyond the fire-
reddened breakfront of the forest.

"What is it?" Deornoth asked, alarmed. Isorn, who had been slumber-
ing behind him, roused with an incoherent cry at the sound of his friend's
voice. Deornoth fumbled for his sword, pulling it free from the scabbard,
half-standing as he did so.

"Be silent." Josua raised his arm.

A thrill of dread swept through the camp. For stretching seconds there
was nothing, then the rest heard it, too: something breaking clumsily
through the undergrowth just beyond the ring of light.

"Those creatures!" Vorzheva's voice rose up out of a whisper into a
wavering cry. Josua turned and grasped her arm tightly. He gave her a

single harsh shake.

"Quiet, for the love of God!"

The sound of branches breaking came nearer. Now Isom and the
soldiers were on their feet, too, hands clutching fearfully at sword-hilts.
Some of the rest of the company were quietly weeping and praying.

Josua hissed: "No forest dweller would go so noisily . . ." His anxious-
ness was poorly hidden. He pulled Naidel out of the sheath. "It walks

two-legged ..."

"Help me . . ." called a voice out of the dark. The night seemed to grow

deeper still, as though the blackness might roll over them and obliterate

their feeble campfire.

A moment later something pushed through into the ring of trees. It

flung its arms up before its eyes as the firelight beat upon it.
"God save us, God save us!" Towser cried hoarsely.
"Look, it is a man," Isorn gasped. "Aedon, he is covered in blood!"
The wounded man lurched another two steps toward the fire, then slid

jerkily to his knees, pushing forward a face nearly black with dried blood,

but for the eyes that stared unseeingly toward the circle of startled people.
"Help me," he moaned again. His voice was slow and thick, almost

unrecognizable as a man speaking the Westerling tongue.

"What is this madness, Lady?" Towser groaned. The old jester was

tugging at Duchess Gutrun's sleeve as might a child. "Tell me, what is

this curse that has been put on us?"

"1 think 1 know this man!" Deornoth gasped, and a moment later felt
the freezing fear drop away; he sprang forward to grab the trembling
man's elbow and ease him closer to the fire. The newcomer was draped in
tattered rags. A fringe of twisted rings, all that remained of a mail shirt,
hung about his neck on a collar of blackened leather. "It is the pikeman

STONE OF FAREWELL

21

who came with us as a guard," Deornoth told Josua. "When you met
your brother in the tent before the walls."

The prince nodded slowly. His gaze was intent, his expression momen-
tarily unfathomable. "Ostrael . . ."Josua murmured. "Was that not his
name?" The prince stared at the blood-spattered young pikeman for a long
instant, then his eyes brimmed with tears and he turned away.

"Here, you poor, wretched fellow, here ..." Father Strangyeard reached
forward with a skin of water. They had scarcely more of that than they
had of wine, but no one said a word. The water filled Ostrael's open

mouth and overflowed, streaming down his chin. He could not seem to
swallow.

"The . . . diggers had him," Deornoth said. "I am sure I saw him
caught by them, back at Naglimund." He felt the pikeman's shoulder
quiver beneath his touch, heard the man's breath whistling in and out.
"Aedon, how he must have suffered."

Ostrael's eyes turned up to his, yellow and glazed even in the dim light.
The mouth opened again in the dark-crusted face. "Help . . ." The voice
was painfully slow, as chough each heavy word were being hoisted up his
throat to his mouth before tumbling out into the air- "It . . . hurts me,"
he wheezed. "Hollow."

"God's Tree, what can possibly be done for him?" Isorn groaned. "We
are all hurting."

Ostrael's mouth gaped. He stared up with blind eyes.
"We can bandage his wounds." Isorn*s mother Gutrun was recovering

her considerable poise. "We can get him a cloak. If he lives until the

morning, we can do more then."

Josua had turned back to look at the young pikeman again. "The
duchess is right, as usual. Father Strangyeard, see if you can find a cloak.
Perhaps one of the less injured can spare theirs ..."

"No!" £inskaldir growled. "I do not like this!"

A confused silence fell on the gathering.

"Surely you do not begrudge ..." Deornoth began, then gasped as
Einskaldir leaped past him and seized the panting Ostrael by the shoulders,
throwing him roughly to the ground. Einskaldir squatted on the young
pikeman's chest. The bearded Rimmersman's long knife appeared from
nowhere to lie against Ostrael's blood-smeared neck like a glinting smile.

" Einskaldir! "]osw's face was pale. "What is this madness?"

The Rimmersman looked over his shoulder, a strange grin slashing his
bearded face. "This is no true man! I do not care where you think you
have seen him before!"

Deornoth reached a hand toward Einskaldir, but drew it back quickly
when the Rimmersman's knife whickered past his outstretched fingers.
"Fools! Look!" Einskaldir pointed with his hilt toward the fire.
Oscrael's bare foot lay among the embers aC the edge of the firepit. The

22

Tad Williams

flesh was being consumed, blackening and smoking, yet the pikeman
himself lay almost placidly beneath Einskaldir, his lungs fluting as he

forced breath in and out.
There was a moment of silence. A smothering, bone-chilling fog seemed

to settle over the clearing. The moment had become as horribly strange yet
inalterable as a nightmare. Fleeing the ruin of Naglimund, they might
have wandered into the trackless lands of madness.

"Perhaps his wounds . . ." Isom began-

"Idiot! He feels no fire," Einskaldir snarled. "And he has a slash in his
throat that would kill any man. Look! See.'" He forced back Ostrael's head
until those gathered around could see the ragged, fluttering edges of the
wound, which stretched from one angle of his jaw to the other. Father
Strangyeard, who had been leaning close, made a choking noise and

turned away.

"Tell me he is not some ghost . . ." the Rimmersman continued, then

was almost thrown to the ground as the body of the pikeman began to
thrash beneath him. "Hold him down!" Einskaldir shouted, Crying to keep
his face away from Ostrael's head, which whipped from side to side, the

teeth snapping shut on empty air.

Deornoth dove forward and clutched at one of the slender arms; it was
cold and hard as stone, but still horribly flexible. Isorn, Strangyeard, and
Josua were also struggling to find handholds on the wriggling, lunging
form. The half-darkness was rich with panicky curses. When Sangfugol
came forward and wrapped himself around the last unprisoned foot,
hanging on with both arms, the body became quiescent for a moment.
Deornoth could still feel the muscles moving beneath the skin, tightening
and relaxing, mustering strength for another try. Air hissed in and out of

the pikeman's distended, idiot-mouth.

Ostrael's head craned out on his uplifted neck, his blackened face swing-
ing to look at each of them in turn. Then, with terrifying suddenness, the
staring eyes seemed to blacken and fall inward. A moment later, wavering
crimson fire blossomed in the empty pits and the labored breathing stopped.
Somebody shrieked, a thin cry that quickly fell away into choking silence.

Like the clammy, crushing grip of a titan hand, loathing and raw dread
reached out and enfolded the entire camp as the prisoner spoke.

"So/' it said. Nothing human was left in its tones, only the dreadful, icy
inflection of empty spaces; the voice droned and blew like a black, un-
fenced wind. "This would have been much the easier way . . . but a swift death

that comes in sleep is denied to you, now."

Deornoth felt his own heart speeding like a snared rabbit's, speeding
until he thought it might leap from his breast. He felt the strength flowing
out of his fingers, even as they clutched at the body that had once been
Ostrael Firsfram's son. Through the tattered shirt he could feel flesh chill
as a headstone but nevertheless trembling with awful vitality.

STONE OF FAREWELL

23

"What are you!?" Josua said, struggling to keep his voice even. "And
what have you done to this poor man?"

The thing chuckled, almost pleasantly, but for the awful emptiness of its
voice. "/ did nothing so this creature. It was already dead, of course, or nearly
so—it was noi hard to find dead mortals in the ruins of your freehold, prince of
rubble."

Somebody's fingernails were cutting into the skin of Deomoth's arm,
but the ruined face gripped his gaze like a candle gleaming at the end of
a long, black tunnel.

"Who are you?" Josua demanded.

"/ am one of the masters of your castle . . . and of your ultimate death," the
thing replied with poisonous gravity. "I owe no mortal answers. If not for the
bearded one's keen eye, your throats would have all been quietly slit tonight,
saving us much time and trouble. When your fleeing spirits go sauealing at last into
the endless Between jrom which we ourselves escaped, it will be by our doing. We
are the Red Hand, knights of the Storm King—and He is the master of all!"

With a hiss from the ruptured throat, the body abruptly doubled over
like a hinge, struggling with the horrifying strength of a scorched snake.
Deornoth felt his hold slipping away. As the fire was kicked up into
fluttering sparks, he heard Vorzheva sobbing somewhere nearby. Others
were filling the night with frightened cries. He was sliding off; Isom's
weight was being pushed down on top of him. Deornoth heard the terrified
shouts of his fellows intertwine with his own hysterical prayer for strength . . .

Suddenly the thrashing became weaker. The body beneath him contin-
ued to flail from side to side for long moments, like a dying eel, then
finally stopped.

"What. . . ?" he was able to force out at last.

Einskaldir, gasping for breath, pointed to the ground with his elbow,
still maintaining a tight grip on the unmoving body. Severed by Einskaldir's
sharp knife, Ostrael's head had rolled an arm's length away, almost out of
the firelight. Even as the company stared, the dead lips pulled back in a
snarl. The crimson light was extinguished; the sockets were only empty
wells. A thin whisper of sound passed the broken mouth, forced out on a
last puff of breath.

". . . No escape . . . Noms will find ... No ..." It fell silent.

"By the Archangel ..." Hoarse with terror, Towser the jester broke
the stillness.

Josua rook a shaky breath. "We must give the demon's victim an
Aedonite burial." The prince's voice was firm, but it clearly took a heroic
effort of will to make it so. He turned to look at Vorzheva, who was
wide-eyed and slack-mouthed with shock. "And then we must flee. They
are indeed pursuing us." Josua turned and caught Deomoth's eye, staring.
"An Aedonite burial," he repeated.

24

Tad Williams

"First," Einskaldir panted, blood welling in a long scratch on his face,
"I cut the arms and legs off, too." He bent to the task, lifting his hand axe.

The others turned away.

The forest night crept in closer still.

^

Old Gealsgiath walked slowly along the wet, pitching deck of his ship
toward the two hooded and cloaked figures huddling at the starboard rail.
They turned as he approached, but did not remove their hands from the

ratlin g-

"Be-damned-to-Hell stinking weather!" the captain shouted above the

moaning of the wind. The hooded figures said nothing. "Men are going
down to sleep in kilpa-beds on the Great Green tonight," Old Gealsgiath
added in a conversational roar. His thick Hemystiri burr carried even
above the flapping and creaking of the sails. "This be drowning weather,

sure enough."
The heavier of the two figures pushed back his hood, eyes squinting in

his pink face as the rain lashed at him.

"Are we in danger?" Brother Cadrach shouted.

Gealsgiath laughed, his brown face wrinkling. The sound of his mirth
was sucked away by the wind. "Only if you plan to go in for swimming.
We're already near the shelter ofAnsis Pelippe and harbor-mouth."

Cadrach turned to stare out into the swirling twilight, which was dense
with rain and fog. "We're almost there?" he shouted, turning back.

The captain lifted a hooked finger to gesture at a deeper smear of
darkness off the starboard bow. "The big black spot there, that's Perdruin's
mountain—'Streawe's Steeple,' as some do call it. We'll be slipping past
the harbor-gate before full dark. Unless the winds play tricksy. Brynioch-

curscd strange weather for Yuven-month."

Cadrach's small companion snuck a look at the shadow of Perdruin in

the gray mist, then lowered his head again.

"Anyhap, Father," Gealsgiath shouted above the elements, "we dock
tonight, and remain two days. I take it you'll be leaving us, since y'paid
fare only this far. P'raps you'd like to come down dockside and join me
for a drink of something—unless your faith forbids it." The captain
smirked. Anyone who spent time in taverns knew that Aedonite monks
were no strangers to the pleasures of strong drink.

Brother Cadrach stared for a moment at the heaving sails, then turned
his odd, somewhat cold gaze onto the seafarer. A smile creased his round
face. "Thank you, captain, but no. The boy and I will remain on board for
a bit after we dock. He's not feeling well and I'm in no hurry to rush him
out. We'll have far to walk before we reach the abbey, much of it uphill."
The small figure reached up and tugged meaningfully at Cadrach's elbow,
but the monk paid him no attention.

STONE OF FAREWELL

25

Gealsgiath shrugged and pulled his shapeless cloth hat farther down on
his head. "You know best, Father. You paid your way and did your work
aboard—although I would say your lad did the heartiest share of it. You
can leave anytime aforc we hoist sail for Crannhyr." He turned with a
wave of his knob-knuckled hand and started back along the slippery
boards, calling: "—but if the lad ain't feeling well, I'd get him below
soon!"

"We were just taking some air!" Cadrach bellowed after him. "We'll go
ashore tomorrow morning, most likely! Thanks to you, good captain!"

As Old Gealsgiath stumped away, fading into the rain and mist, Cadrach's
companion turned and confronted the monk.

"Why are we going to stay on board?" Miriamele demanded, anger
plainly displayed on her pretty, sharp-featured face. "I want to get off this
ship! Every hour is important!" The rain had soaked even through her
thick hood, plastering her black-dyed hair across her forehead in sodden
spikes.

"Hush, milady, hush." This time Brother Cadrach's smile seemed a
touch more genuine. "Of course we're going off—nearly as soon as we've
touched the dock, don't you worry."

Miriamele was angry. "Then why did you tell him. . . ?"
"Because sailors talk, and I'll wager none of them talk louder or longer
than our captain. There was no way for keeping him quiet, Saint Muirfath
knows. If we'd given him money to keep silent, he'd just get drunk faster
and be talking sooner. This way, if anyone's listening for news of us,
they'll at least think we're aboard the ship srill. Maybe they'll sit and
watch for us to come off until it sets out again, back to Hernystir.
Meanwhile, we'll be quietly ashore in Ansis Pelippe." Cadrach clucked his
tongue in satisfaction.

"Oh." Miriamele considered silently for a moment. She had underesti-
mated the monk again. Cadrach had been sober since they had boarded
Gealsgiath's ship in Abaingeat. Small wonder, since the voyage had made
him violently ill several times- But there was a shrewd brain behind that
plump face. She wondered again—and not for the last time, she felt
sure—what Cadrach was really thinking.

"I'm sorry," she said at last. "That was a good idea. Do you really
think somebody is looking for us?"

"We would be fools to suppose otherwise, my lady." The monk took
her elbow and headed back coward the limited shelter of the lower deck.

When at last she saw Perdruin, it was as if a great ship had risen out of
the unquiet ocean, coming suddenly upon their small, frail craft. One
moment it was a deeper blackness off the bow; in the next, as though a
final curtain of obscuring mist had been drawn away, it loomed overhead
like the prow of a mighty vessel.

26

Tad Williams

A thousand lights gleamed through the fog, small as fireflies, making
the great rock sparkle in the night. As Gcalsgiath's cargo-hauler glided in
through the harbor passages, the island continued to rise above them. its
mountainous back a wedge of darkness pushing ever upward, blocking

out even the mist-cloaked sky.

Cadrach had chosen to remain below decks. Miriamele was quite satis-
fied with the arrangement. She stood at the railing, listening to the sailors
shouting and laughing in the lantem-prickcd darkness as they furled the
sails. Voices rose in ragged song, only to end abruptly in curses and more

laughter.
The wind was gentler here, in the lee of the harborside buildings.

Miriamele felt a strange warmth climb up her back and into her neck, and
knew without thinking what it signified: she was happy. She was free and
going where she chose to go; that had not been true for as long as she

could remember.

She had not set foot on Pcrdruin since she had been a small girl, but she

still felt, in a way, as if she were returning home. Her mother Hylissa had
brought her here when Miriamele had been very young, as part of a visit
to Hylissa's sister, the Duchess Nessalanta in Nabban. They had stopped
in Ansis Pelippe to pay a courtesy call on Count Strcawe. Miriamele
remembered little of the visit—she had been very young—except a kind
old man who had given her a tangerine, and a high-walled garden with a
tiled walkway. Miriamele had chased a long-tailed, beautiful bird while
her mother drank wine and laughed and talked with other grown people.

The kind old man must have been the count, she decided. It was
certainly a wealthy man's garden they had visited, a carefully-tended
paradise hidden in a castle courtyard. There had been flowering trees and
beautiful silver and golden fish floating in a pond set right into the

path. . . -
The harbor wind gained strength, tugging at her cloak. The railing was

cold beneath her fingers, so she tucked her hands under her arms.

It had been not long after the visit to Ansis Pelippe that her mother had
gone on another journey, this time without Miriamele. Uncle Josua had
taken Hylissa to join Miriamele's father Elias, who was in the field with
his army. That had been the journey which had crippled Josua, and from
which Hylissa had never returned. Elias, almost mute with grief, too full
of anger to speak of death, would only tell his little daughter chat her
mother could never come back. In her child's mind, Miriamele had
pictured her mother captive in a walled garden somewhere, a lovely
garden like the one they had visited on Perdruin, a beautiful place that
Hylissa could never leave, even to visit the daughter who missed her

so....

That daughter lay awake many nights, long after her handmaidens had

tucked her into bed, staring up into the darkness and plotting to rescue her

STONE OF FAREWELL

27

lost mother from a flowering prison threaded by endless, tiled paths. . . .

Nothing had been right since then. It was as though her father had
drunk of some slow poison when her mother had died, some terrible
venom that had festered within, turning him into stone.

Where was he? What was High King Elias doing at this moment?

Miriamele looked up at the shadowy, mountainous island and felt her
moment of joy swept away as the wind might snatch a kerchief from her
hand. Even now, her father was laying siege to Naglimund, venting his
terrible rage on [he walls ofJosua's keep. Isgrimnur, old Towser, all of
them were fighting for their lives even as she floated in past the harbor
lights, riding che ocean's dark, smooth back.

And the kitchen boy Simon, with his red hair and his awkward, well-
meaning ways, his unconcealed concerns and confusions—she felt a pang
of sorrow as she thought of him. He and the little troll had gone into the
trackless north, perhaps gone forever.

She straightened up. Thinking other former companions had reminded
her of her duty. She was posing as a monk's acolyte—and a sick one at
that. She should be below decks. The ship would be docking soon.

Miriamele smiled bitterly. So many impostures. She was free now of
her father's court, but she was still posing. As a sad child in Nabban and
Meremund, she had often pretended happiness. The lie had been better
than answering the well-meaning but unanswerable questions. As her
father had retreated from her she had pretended not to care, even though
she had felt that she was being eaten away from within.

Where was God, the younger Miriamele had wondered; where was He
when love was slowly hardening into indifference and care becoming
duty? Where was God when her father Elias begged Heaven for answers,
his daughter listening breathlessly in the shadows outside his chamber?

Perhaps He believed my lies, she thought bitterly as she walked down the
rain-slicked wooden steps onto the lower deck. Perhaps He wanted to believe
them, so He could get on with more important things.

The city on the hillside was bright-lit and the rainy night was full of
masked revelers. It was Midsummer Festival in Ansis Pelippe: despite the
unseasonable weather, the narrow, winding streets were riotous with
merrymakers.

Miriamele stepped back as a half-dozen men dressed as chained apes were
led past, clanking and staggering. Seeing her standing in the shadowy
doorway of one of the shuttered houses, a drunken actor turned, his false
fur matted with rainwater, and paused as if to say something to her.
Instead, the ape-man belched, smiled apologetically through the mouth
hole of his skewed mask, then returned his sorrowful gaze to the uneven
cobblestones before him.

As the apes tumbled away, Cadrach reappeared suddenly at her side.

28

Tad Williams

"Where have you been?" she demanded. "You have been gone nearly

an hour."

"Not so long, lady, surely." Cadrach shook his head. "I have been

finding our certain things that will be useful. Very useful." He looked
around. "Ah, but it's a riotous night, is it not?"

Miriamele tugged Cadrach out into the street once more. "You'd never
know there was war in the north and people dying," she said disapprov-
ingly. "You wouldn't know that Nabban may soon be at war, too, and

Nabban'sjust across the bay."

"Of course not, my lady," Cadrach huffed, matching his shorter strides

to hers as best he could. "It is the way of the Perdruinese not to know such
things. That is how they remain so cheerfully uninvolved in most con-
flicts, managing to arm and supply both the eventual victor and the
eventual vanquished—and turn a neat profit." He grinned and wiped
water from his eyes. "Now there's something your Perdruin-folk would

be going to war about; protecting their profit."

"Well, I'm surprised no one's invaded this place." The princess wasn't
sure why the heedlessness of Ansis Pelippe's citizens should nettle her so,
but she was nevertheless feeling exceedingly nettlesome.

"Invade? And muddy the waterhole from which all drink?" Cadrach
seemed astonished. "My dear Miriamele . . . your pardon, my dear
Malachias—I must remember, since we will soon be moving in circles
where your true name is not unfamiliar—my dear Malachias, you have
much to learn about the world." He paused for a moment as another gang
of costumed folk swirled by, engaged in a loud, drunken argument about
the words to some song. "There," the monk said, gesturing after them,
"there is an example of why that which you say will never come to pass.

Were you hearing that little debate?"

Miriamele pulled her hood lower against the slanting rain. "Some of

it," she replied. "What does it matter?"

"It is not the subject of the argument that matters, but the method.

They were all Perdruinese, unless my ear for accents has gone wrong from
all that ocean roar—yet they were arguing in the Westerling tongue."

"So?"
"Ah," Cadrach squinted his eyes as if looking for something down the

crowded, lantern-lit street, but continued speaking all the while. "You and
I are speaking Westerling, but except for your Erkynlandish fellow-
countrymen—and not even all of them—no one else speaks it among their
own people. Rimmersmen in Elvritshalla use Rimmerspakk; we Hernystiri
speak our own tongue when in Crannhyr or Hernysadharc. Only the
Perdruinese have adopted your grandfather King John's universal lan-
guage, and to them it is now truly their first language."

Miriamele stopped in the middle of the slickened roadway, letting the
press of celebrants eddy around her. A thousand oil lamps raised a false

STONE OF  FAREWELL

29

dawn above the housetops. "I'm tired and hungry. Brother Cadrach, and I
don't understand what you are getting at."

"Simply this. The Perdruinese are what they are because they strive to
please—or, put more clearly, they know which way the wind is blowing
and they run that direction, so the wind is always at their backs. If we
Hern ystir-folk were a conquering people, the merchants and sailors of
Perdruin would be practicing their Hernystiri. 'If a king wants apples,' as
the Nabbanai say, 'Perdruin plants orchards.' Any other nation would be
foolish to attack such a compliant friend and helpful ally."

"Then you are saying that the souls of these Perdruin-folk are for sale?"
Miriamele demanded. "That they have no loyalty to any but the strong?"

Cadrach smiled. "That has the ring of disdain, my lady, but it seems an
accurate summing up, yes."

"Then they're no better than—" she looked around carefully, fighting
down anger, "—no better than whores!"

The monk's weathered face took on a cool, distant cast; his smile was
now a mere formality. "Not everyone can stand up and be a hero,
Princess," he said quietly. "Some prefer to surrender to the inevitable and
salve their consciences with the gift of survival."

Miriamele thought about the obvious truth of what Cadrach had said as
they walked on, but could not understand why it made her so unutterably
sad.

The cobbled paths of Ansis Pelippe not only wound tortuously, in
many places they climbed in gouged stone steps up the very face of the
hill, then spiraled back down, doubling and redoubling, crossing each
other at odd angles like a basket of serpents. On either side the houses
stood shoulder to shoulder, most with windows shadowed like the closed
eyes of sleepers, some ablaze with light and music. The foundations of the
houses tilted upward from the streets, each structure clinging precariously
to the hillside so that their upper stories seemed to lean over the con-
stricted roads. As- her hunger and fatigue began to make her giddy,
Miriamele felt at times that she was back beneath the close-stooping trees
ofAldheorte Forest.

Perdruin was a cluster of hills surrounding Sta Mirore, the central
mountain. Their lumpy backs rose up almost directly from the island's
rocky verges, looking over the Bay ofEmettin- Perdruin's silhouette thus
resembled a mother pig and her feeding young. There was little flat land
anywhere, except in the saddles where high hills shouldered together, so
the villages and towns of Perdruin clung to the faces of these hills like
gulls' nests. Even Ansis Pellipe, the great seaport and the seat of Count
Streawe's house, was built on the steep slopes of a promontory that the
residents called Harborstone. In many places the citizens of Ansis Pellipe
could stand on one of the capital's hill-hugging streets and wave to their
neighbors on the thoroughfare below.

30

Tad Williams

"1 must eat something," Miriamele said at last, breathing heavily. They
stood at a turnout of one of the looping streets, a place where they could
look down between two buildings to the lights of the foggy harbor below.
The dull moon hung in the clouded sky like a chip of bone.

"I am also ready to stop, Malachias," panted Cadrach.

"How far is this abbey?"

"There is no abbey, or at least we are not going to such a place."
"But you told the captain . . - oh." Miriamele shook her head, feeling
the damp heaviness of her hood and cloak, "Of course. So, then, where

are we going?"

Cadrach stared at the moon and laughed quietly. "Wherever we wish,
my friend. 1 do think there is a tavern of some repute at the top of this
street: I must confess I was leading us in that general direction. Certainly
not because I enjoy climbing these goirach hills."

"A tavern? Why not a hostel, so we can find a bed after we eat?"
"Because, begging your pardon, it is not eating that I am thinking
about. I have been aboard that abominable ship longer than I care to think.
I will take my rest after I have indulged my thirst." Cadrach wiped his
hand across his mouth and grinned. Miriamele did not much like the look

in his eyes.

"But there was a tavern every cubit down below ..." she began.
"Exactly. Taverns full of drunken tale-passers and minders of others'
business. I cannot be taking my well-deserved rest in such a place." He
turned his back on the moon and began stumping away up the road.
"Come, Malachias. It is only a little farther, I am sure."

It seemed that during Midsummer Festival there was no such thing as an
uncrowded tavern, but at least the drinkers in The Red Dolphin were not
cheek to cheeky as they were in the dockside inns, only elbow to elbow.
Miriamele gratefully slid down onto a bench set against the far wall and let
the wash of conversation and song flow over her. Cadrach, after putting
down his sack and walking stick, moved off to find himself a mug of
Traveler's Reward. He returned after only a moment.

"Good Malachias, I had forgotten how nearly beggared I am from
paying our sea passage. Do you have a cintis-piece or two 1 might employ

in the removal of thirst?"

Miriamele dug in her purse and produced a palm full of coppers. "Get
me some bread and cheese," she said, pouring the coins into the monk's

outstretched hand.

As she sat wishing she could take off her wet cloak to celebrate being
out of the rain, another group of costumed celebrants banged in through
the door, shaking water from their finery and calling for beer. One of the
loudest wore a mask shaped like a red-tongued hound. As he thumped his

STONE OF  FAREWELL

31

fist on a table, his right eye lit on Miriamele for a moment and seemed to
pause. She felt a rush of fear, suddenly remembering another hound mask,
and flaming arrows slashing through the forest shadows. But this dog
quickly turned back to his fellows, making a jest and throwing his head
back in laughter, his cloth ears swinging.

Miriamele pushed her hand against her chest as if to slow down her
speeding heart.

/ must keep this hood on, she Cold herself. It's a festival night, so who will
look twice? Better that than someone recognizing my face—however unlikely that
might seem.

Cadrach was gone a surprisingly long time. Miriamele was just starting
to feel restive, wondering if she should go and look for him, when he
returned with ajar of ale in each hand. A half-loaf of bread and an end of
cheese were prisoned between the jars.

"A man could die of thirst a-waiting for beer, tonight," the monk said.
Miriamele ate greedily, then took a long swallow of the ale, which was

bitter and dark in her mouth. The rest of the jar she left for Cadrach, who

did not protest.

When the last crumbs were licked from her fingers and she was ponder-
ing whether she was hungry enough to eat a pigeon pie, a shadow fell
across the bench she and the monk shared.

The raw-boned face of Death stared down at them from a black cowl.

Miriamele gasped and Cadrach sputtered ale on his gray robe, but the
stranger in the skull mask did not move.

"A very pretty joke, friend," Cadrach said angrily, "and merry mid-
summer to you, too." He swiped at the front of his garments.

The mouth did not move. The flat, unexcited voice issued from behind
the bared teeth. "You come with me."

Miriamele felt the skin on the back of her neck crawl. Her recently-
consumed meal felt very heavy in her stomach.

Cadrach squinted. She could see tension in his neck and fingers. "And
who might you be, mummer? Were you truly Brother Death, I would
expect you clad in finer clothing." The monk pointed a slightly trembling
finger at the tattered black cloak the figure wore.

"Stand up and come with me," the apparition said. "I have a knife. If you
shout, things will be very bad for you."

Brother Cadrach looked at Miriamele and grimaced. They rose, the
princess on wobbly knees. Death gestured for them to walk ahead, through
the press of tavern guests.

Miriamele was entertaining disconnected thoughts of making a bolt for
freedom when two other figures slipped discreetly out of the crowd near
the doorway. One wore a blue mask and the stylized garb of a sailor; the
other was dressed as a rustic peasant in an oversized hat. The somber eyes
of the newcomers belied their gaudy costumes.

32

Tad Williams

With the sailor and peasant on either side, Cadrach and Miriamcle
followed black-cloaked Death out into the street. Before they had gone
three dozen paces, the little caravan turned into an alley and down a flight
of stairs to the next street below. Miriamcle slipped for a moment on one
of the rainwashed stone steps and felt a thrill of horror as her skull-faced
captor reached out a hand to steady her. The touch was fleeting and she
could not draw away without falling down, so she suffered it silently. A
moment later they were off the stairway, then quickly into another alley-
way, up a ramp, and around a corner.

Even with the faint moon overhead and the cries of late revelers echoing
from the tavern above and the harbor district below, Miriamcle quickly
lost any sense of where she was. They traveled down tiny back streets like
a string of skulking cats, ducking in and out of hidden courtyards and
vine-shrouded walkways. From time to time they heard the murmur of
voices from a darkened house, and once the sound of a woman crying-

At last they reached an arched gateway in a tall stone wall. Death
produced a key from his pocket and opened the lock. They stepped
through into an overgrown courtyard roofed with leaning willow trees,
from whose trailing branches rainwater dripped patiently onto the cracked
stone cobbles. The leader turned to the others, gestured briefly with his
key, then indicated that Miriamele and Cadrach should walk ahead of him

toward a shadowed doorway.

"We have come with you so far, man," the monk said, whispering as if

he, too, were a conspirator. "But there is no benefit to us in walking into
an ambush. Why should we not fight you here and die beneath open sky,

if we must be dying?"

Death leaned forward without a word. Cadrach started back, but the

skull-masked man only leaned past him and knocked on the door with
black-gloved knuckles, then pushed it inward. It swung open silently on

oiled hinges.

A dim, warm light burned inside the portal. Miriamele stepped past the

monk and through the doorway. Cadrach followed a moment later,
muttering to himself. Skull-face came last of all and pushed the door shut

behind him.

It was a small sitting room, lit only by a fire in the grate and one candle

burning in a dish beside a decanter of wine on the table top. The walls
were covered with heavy velvet tapestries, their designs distinguishable in
the firelight only as swirls of color. Behind the table, in a high backed
chair, sat a figure fully as strange as any of their escorts: a tall man in a
russet-brown cloak, wearing the sharp-featured mask of a fox.
The fox leaned forward, indicating two chairs with a graceful sweep of

his velvet-gloved fingers.

"Sit down." His voice was thin but melodious, "Sit down. Princess

Miriamele- I would rise, but my crippled legs do not permit it."

STONE OF FAREWELL

33

"This is madness," Cadrach blustered, but kept an eye on the skull-
faced specter at his shoulder. "You have made a mistake, sir—this is a boy
you address, my acolyte ..."

"Please." The fox gestured amiably for silence. "It is time to doff our
masks. Is that not how Midsummer Night always ends?"

He lifted the fox face away, revealing a shock of white hair and a face
seamed with age. As his unmasked eyes glittered in the fireglow, a smile
quirked his wrinkled lips.

"Now that you know who 1 am . . ." he began, but Cadrach inter-
rupted him.

"We do not know you, sir, and you have mistaken us!"

The old man laughed dryly. "Oh, come. You and I may not have met
before, my dear fellow, but the princess and I are old friends. As a matter
of fact, she was my guest, once—long, long ago."

"You are ... Count Streawe?" Miriamele breathed.

"Indeed," the count nodded. His shadow loomed on the wall behind
him. He leaned forward, clasping her wet hand in his velvet-sheathed
claw. "Perdruin's master- And, beginning the moment you two touched
foot on the rock over which I rule, your master as well."

Oath-Breaker

•iJCI/CCr in the day of his meeting with the Herder and Huntress, when
the sun was high in the sky, Simon felt strong enough to go outside and
sit on the rocky porch before his cave. He wrapped a corner of his blanket
about his shoulders and tucked the remainder of the heavy wool beneath
him as a cushion against the mountain's stony skin. But for the royal
couch in Chidsik ub Lingit, there seemed to be nothing like a chair in all

of Yiqanuc.
The herders had long since led their sheep out of the protected valleys

where they slept, taking them down-mountain in search of fodder. Jiriki
had told him that the spring shoots on which the animals usually fed had
been all but destroyed by the clinging winter. Simon watched one of the
flocks milling on a slope far below him, tiny as ants. A faint clacking
sound wafted up to him, the rams butting horns as they contested for

mastery of the herd.
The troll women, their black-haired babies strapped to their backs in

pouches of finely stitched hide, had taken up slender spears and gone
out hunting, stalking marmots and other animals whose meat could help
to eke out the mutton. Binabik had often said that the sheep were the
Qanuc people's true wealth, that they ate only such members of their
flocks as were good for nothing else, the old and the barren.

Marmots, coneys, and other such small game were not the only reason
the troll women carried spears. One of the furs ostentatiously wrapped
around Nunuuika had been that of a snow leopard, dagger-sharp claws
still gleaming. Remembering the Huntress' fierce eyes, Simon had little
doubt that Nunuuika had brought down that prize herself.

The women were not alone in facing danger; the task of the herdsmen
was just as perilous, since there were many large predators that had to be
kept from the precious sheep. Binabik had once told him that the wolves
and leopards, although a threat, were scarcely comparable to the huge
snow bears, the biggest of them heavy as two dozen trolls. Many a Qanuc

STONE OF FAREWELL

35

herdcr, Binabik had said, met a swift and unpleasant end beneath the claws
and teeth of a white bear.

Simon repressed a reflexive tremor of unease at this thought. Hadn't he
stood before the dragon Igjarjuk, grander and deadlier by far than any
ordinary animal?

He sat as late morning passed into afternoon, watching the life of
Mintahoq as it lay spread before him, as simultaneously hectic yet organ-
ized as a beehive. The elders, their years of hunting and herding past,
gossiped from porch to porch or crouched in the sun, carving bone and
horn, cutting and sewing cured hide into all manner of things. Children
too big to be carried off to the hunt by their mothers played games up and
down the mountain under the old folks' bemused supervision, shinnying
up the slender ladders or swinging and tumbling on the swaying thong
bridges, heedless of the fatal distances that stretched beneath them. Simon
found it more than a little difficult to watch these dangerous amusements,
but through all the long afternoon not a single troll child came to harm.
Though the details were alien and unfamiliar, he could sense the order
here. The measured beat of life seemed as strong and stable as the moun-
tain itself.

That night Simon dreamed once more of the great wheel.

This time, as in a cruel parody of the passion ofUsires the Son of God,
Simon was bound helplessly to the wheel, a limb at each quarter of the
heavy rim. It turned him not only topside-down, as Lord Usires had
suffered upon the Tree, but spun him around and around in an earthless
void of black sky. The stars' bleak radiance blurred before him like the
tails of comets. Something else—some shadowy, icy thing whose laugh was
the empty buzzing of flies—danced just beyond his sight, mocking him.

He called out, as he often did in such terrible dreams, but no sound
came forth. He struggled, but his limbs were without strength. Where
was God, who the priests said saw every act? Why should He leave Simon
in the grasp of such dreadful darknesses?

Something seemed to form slowly out of the pale, attenuated stars; his
heart filled with awful anticipation. But what emerged from the spinning
void was not the expected red-eyed horror, but a small, solemn face: the
little dark-haired girl he had seen in other dreams.

She opened her mouth. The madly revolving sky seemed to slow.

She spoke his name.

It came to him as down a long corridor, and he realized he had seen her
somewhere. He knew that face—but who . . . where. . . ?

"Simon," she said again, somehow clearer now. Her voice was filled
with urgency. But something else was reaching out for him, too—something
closer to hand. Something quite near . . .

He awoke.

36

Tad Williams

Someone was looking for him. Simon sat up on his pallet, breathless,
alert for any sound. But for the endless sighing of the mountain winds and
the faint snoring of Haestan, wrapped in his heavy cloak near the coats of

the evening's fire, the cavern was still.

Jiriki was absent. Could the Sitha have called to him from outside the
cave? Or was it only the residue of dream? Simon shivered and considered
pulling the fur coverlet back over his head once more. His breath was a

dim cloud in the ember-light.

No, somebody was waiting outside. He did not know how he knew,

but he was sure: he felt tuned like a harp string, trembling. The night

seemed tight-stretched.

What if someone did wait for him? Perhaps it was someone—some

thing—from which it would be better to hide?

Such thoughts made little difference. He had gotten it into his head that
he must go out. Now the need tugged at him, impossible to ignore.

My cheek aches terribly, anyway, he told himself. I won't be able to fall

asleep for a lon^ while.

He snaked his breeches out from under the sleeping-cloak where they

stayed warm in the bitter Yiqanuc night, wrestling them on as silently as
he could, then pulled his boots onto his cold feet. He briefly debated
putting on his mail shirt, but the thought of its chilly rings, rather than
any surety of safety, decided him against it. He furled the cloak around
him, suiting quietly past sleeping Haestan and out under the door-skin into

the cold.

The stars over high Mintahoq were mercilessly clear. As Simon stared

up, amazed, he felt their distance, the impossible vastness of the night sky.
The moon, not quite full, hovered low over distant peaks. Bathed in its
diffident light, the snow on the heights gleamed, but all else lay sunken in

shadow.

Even as he turned his eyes down and took a few steps to the right, away

from the cave-mouth, he was stopped short by a low growl. A strange
silhouette loomed on the pathway before him, moonbrushed at the edges,
black at the core. The deep rumble came again. Eyes flared green as they

caught the moonlight.

Simon's breath snagged in his throat for a moment, until he remembered.

"Qantaqa?" he said quietly.

The growl changed into a curious whine. The wolf tipped its head.
"Qantaqa? Is it you?" He tried to think of some of Binabik's troll
speech, but could summon nothing. "Are you hurt?" He silently cursed
himself. He had not once thought of the wolf since he had been brought
down from the dragon's mountain, although she had been a companion—

and, in a way, a friend.
Selfish! he chided himself.

STONE OF FAREWELL                  37

With Binabik imprisoned, who knew what Qantaqa had done? Her
friend and master had been taken from her, just as Doctor Morgenes had
been taken from Simon. The night seemed suddenly colder and emptier,
full of the world's heedless cruelty.

"Qantaqa? Are you hungry?" He took a step coward her and the wolf
shied back. She growled again, but it sounded more like excitement than
anger. She took a few prancing steps, the shimmer other gray coat almost
invisible, then growled again before bounding away. Simon followed her.

It occurred to him as he went, stepping carefully on the wet stone
pathways, that he was doing a foolish thing. The twisting roadways of
high Mintahoq were no place for a midnight walk, especially without a
torch. Even the native trolls knew better: the cave-mouths were lightless
and silent, the paths empty. It was as if he had wakened from one dream
to enter another, this shadowy pilgrimage beneath the distant and uncar-
ing moon.

Qantaqa seemed to know where she was going. When Simon lagged
too far behind she trotted back, stopping just out of reach until he caught
up, her hot breath pluming the air. As soon as he drew within an arm's
length she was off again. Thus, like a spirit of the aftcrworld, she led him
away from the fires of his own kind.

It was only when they had walked for some time, traveling well around
the curve of the mountain from the sleeping-cave, that Qantaqa bounded
all the way back to Simon. She did not pull up short this time. Her great
frame struck him so suddenly that even though she had merely bumped
against him, he fell back onto his seat. She stood over him for a moment,
her face buried in his neck, cold nose rooting ticklingly near his ear.
Simon reached up to scratch her ears and felt her tremble even through
her thick fur. A moment later, as if her need for comfort had been
satisfied, she leaped away again and stood whining quietly until he rose,
rubbing his tailbone, and followed.

It seemed that Qantaqa had led him halfway around Mintahoq. She
stood now at the edge of a great blackness, yipping in excitement. Simon
walked forward cautiously, feeling the raw stone face of the mountain
with his right hand as he went. Qantaqa paced in seeming impatience.

The wolf was standing at the rim of a great pit, which burrowed away
from the side of the path into the very mountain. The moon, sailing
low in the sky like an overloaded carrack, could only silver the stone
around the hole's mouth. Qantaqa barked again with barely contained
enthusiasm.

To Simon's staggering surprise, a voice echoed thinly from below.
"Go away, wolf! Even sleep is taken from me, Aedon curse it!"
Simon threw himself to the cold gravel and crawled forward on elbows
and knees, stopping at last with his head hanging over blind nothingness.

38

Tad Williams

"Who's there?" he cried. His words reverberated as though they jour-
neyed a great distance. "Sludig?"
There was a pause.

"Simon? Is that you who calls?"
"Yes! Yes, it's me' Qantaqa brought me' Is Bmabik with you? Binabik!

It's me. Simon!"

A silent moment passed, then Sludig spoke again. Now Simon could

hear the strain in the Rimmersman's voice. "The troll will not speak. He is
here, but he will not speak to me, CoJiriki when he came, to anyone."
"Is he sick? Binabik, it's Simon! Why don't you answer me?"
"He is sick in his heart, I think," Sludig said. "He looks as he always
did—thinner, perhaps, but so I am, too—but he acts like one already
dead." There was a scraping noise as Sludig, or someone, moved in the
depths, "jiriki says they will kill us," the Rimmcrsman said a moment
later, his voice flat with resignation. "The Sitha spoke for us—not with
heat or anger, as far as I could tell, but he spoke for us all the same. He
said the troll people did not agree with his arguments and were deter-
mined to have their justice." He laughed bitterly. "Some justice, to kill a
man who never did them harm, and kill one of their own as well, both of
whom have suffered much for the good of all folk—even the trolls.
Einskaldir was right. But for this silent fellow beside me, they are all

hell-wights."

Simon sat up, holding his head in his hands. The wind blew uncaringly

about the heights. Helplessness spread through him.

"Binabik!" he cried, leaning over once more. "Qantaqa waits for you!
Sludig suffers at your side! No one can help if you don't help yourself

Why won't you speak to me?!"

Only Sludig answered. "It's no good, I tell you. His eyes are closed. He

does not hear you, will not speak at all."

Simon slapped his hand against the rock and cursed. He felt tears start in

his eyes.

"I will help you, Sludig," he said at last. "I do not know how, but I

will." He sat up. Qantaqa nosed him and whimpered. "Can I bring you

something? Food? Water?"

Sludig laughed dully. "No. They feed us, although not to bursting. I

would ask for wine. but I do not know when they come for me. I will not
go with my head foggy from drink. Only pray for me, please- And for the

troll, too."

"I will do more than that, Sludig, I swear." He stood up.
"You were very brave on the mountain, Simon," Sludig called quietly.

"I am glad that I knew you."
The stars glittered coldly above the pit as Simon walked away, fighting

to stand straight and cry no more.

*     *     *

STONE OF  FAREWELL

39

He walked a while beneath the moon, lost in the swirl of his distracted
thoughts, before he realized that he was again following Qantaqa. The
wolf, who had paced anxiously beside the edge of the pit while Simon
talked to Sludig, now trotted purposefully along the path before him. She
did not allow him a chance to catch up as she had on their outward
journey, and he was hard pressed to keep to her pace.

The moonlight was just bright enough for Simon to see where he was
going, the trail just wide enough to allow for recovery from the occasional
misstep. Still, he was feeling decidedly weak. He wondered more than once
whether he should just sit down and wait until dawn came, when some-
one would find him and return him safely to his cave, but Qantaqa trotted
on, full of lupine determination. Feeling that he owed her a sort of loyalty,
Simon did his best to follow.

He soon noted with more than a little alarm that they seemed to be
climbing above the main trail, angling up Mintahoq's face along a steeper,
narrower pathway. As the wolf led him ever upward, and as they cut
across more than a few horizontal paths, the air began to seem thinner.
Simon knew he had not climbed so far, that the sensation was due instead
to his own flagging wind, but he nevertheless felt himself to be passing
out of the realms of safety into the upper heights. The stars seemed very
close.

He wondered for a moment if chose cold stars might somehow be the
airless peaks of other, incredibly distant mountains, vast bodies lost in
darkness, snow-capped heads gleaming with reflected moonlight. But no,
that was foolishness. Where could they be standing, that they would not
be visible in daylight beneath the bright sun?

In truth, the air might have been no scarcer, but the cold was certainly
growing, undeniable and intrusive despite his heavy cloak. Shivering, he
decided he should turn around and make his way back down to the main
roadway, no matter what moonlight pastime Qantaqa found so enticing.
A moment later, he was surprised to find himself stepping up off the path
and following the wolf onto a narrow shelf in the mountainside.

The rocky porch, dotted with patches of dimly gleaming snow, stood
before a large, black crevice. Qantaqa jogged forward and stopped before
it, sniffing. She turned to regard Simon, her shaggy head tipped at an
angle, then barked once inquiringly and slipped into blackness. Simon
decided there must be a cave hidden in the shadows. He was wondering
whether he should follow her—letting a wolf lead him on a foolish hike
along the mountainside was one thing, but letting her lead him into a
lightlcss cavern in the middle of the night was another thing entirely—
when a trio of small dark shapes appeared out of the blackness of the cliff
face before him, startling Simon so badly that he almost stepped backward
off the stone porch.

Differs! he thought wildly, scrabbling on the barren ground for some

40

Tad Williams

weapon. One of the shapes stepped forward, raising a slender spear
toward him as if in warning. It was a troll, of course—they were quite a
bit larger than the subterranean Bukken, when calmly examined—but still
he was frightened. These Qanuc were small but well-armed; Simon was a
stranger wandering about at night, perhaps in some sacred place.

The nearest troll pushed back a fur-ringed hood. Pallid moonlight shone
on the face of a young woman. Simon could see little of her features but
the whites of her eyes, but he was sure her expression was fierce and
dangerous. Her two companions moved up beside her, muttering in what
seemed like angry voices. He took a step backward down the pathway,

feeling carefully for a safe foothold.

"I'm sorry. I'm just going," he said, realizing even as he spoke that they
could not understand him. Simon cursed himself for not having Binabik
or Jiriki teach him some words of troll speech. Always regretting, always
too late! Would he be a mooncalf forever? He was tired of the position.

Let someone else take it on.

"I'm just going," he repeated. "I was following the wolf. Following

... the ... wolf." He spoke slowly, trying to make his voice sound
friendly despite his tightened throat. One misunderstanding and he might
be plucking one of those wicked-looking spears out of his midsection.

The troll woman watched him. She said something to one of her
companions. The one addressed took a few steps toward the shadowed
cave-mouth. Qantaqa growled menacingly from somewhere within the
echoing depths and the troll quickly scuttled away again.

Simon took another step back down the path. The trolls watched him in
silence, their small dark forms poised and watchful, but they made no
move to hinder him. He turned his back on them slowly and helped
himself down the trail, picking his way among the silvered rocks. After a
moment the three trolls, Qantaqa, and the mysterious cave were all out of

sight behind him.

He made his way downslope alone in dreaming moonlight. Halfway

back to the main trail he had to stop and sit, elbows on trembling knees.
He knew that his exhaustion and even his fear would eventually recede,
but he could imagine no cure for such loneliness.

^

"I am truly sorry, Seoman, but there is nothing to be done. Last night
Reniku, the star we call Summer-Lantern, appeared above the horizon at
sundown. 1 have stayed too long. I can remain no longer."

Jiriki sat cross-legged atop a rock on the cave's vast porch, staring down
into the mist-carpeted valley. Unlike Simon and Haestan, he wore no
heavy clothing. The wind plucked at the sleeves of his glossy shirt.

"But what will we do about Binabik and Sludig?" Simon flung a stone

STONE OF FAREWELL                    41

into the depths, half-hoping it would wound some fog-hidden troll below.
"They'll be killed if you don't do something!"

"There is nothing I could do, in any circumstance," Jiriki said quietly.
"The Qanuc have a right to their justice. I cannot honorably interfere."

"Honor? Hang honor, Binabik won't even speak! How can he defend
himself?"

The Sitha sighed, but his hawkish face remained impassive. "Perhaps
there is no defense. Perhaps Binabik knows he has wronged his people."

Haestan snorted his disgust. "We dunna even know ch' little man's
crime."

"Oath-breaking, I am told," Jiriki said mildly. He turned to Simon. "I
must go, Seoman. The news of the Norn Queen's Huntsman attacking the
Zida'ya has upset my people very much. They wish me home. There is
much to discuss." Jiriki brushed a strand of hair from his eye. "Also,
when my kinsman An'nai died and was buried on Urmsheim, a responsi-
bility fell upon me. His name must now be entered with full ceremony in
the Book of Year-Dancing. I, of all my people, can least shirk that
responsibility. It was, after all, Jiriki i-Sa'onserei and no other who brought
him to the place of his death—and it was much to do with me and my
willfulness that he went." The Sitha's voice hardened as he clenched his
brown fingers into a fist. "Do you not see? I cannot turn my back on
An'nai's sacrifice."

Simon was desperate. "I don't know anything about your Dancing
Book—but you said that we would be allowed to speak for Binabik! They
told you so!"

Jiriki cocked his head. "Yes. The Herder and Huntress so agreed."

"Well, how will we be able to do that if you are gone? We can't speak
the troll-tongue and they can't understand ours."

Simon thought he saw a look of bewilderment flit briefly across the
Sitha's imperturbable face, but it passed so swiftly he was not sure. Jiriki's
flake-gold eyes caught and held his gaze. They scared at each other for
long moments.

"You are right, Seoman," Jiriki said slowly. "Honor and heritage have
pincered me before, but never quite so neatly." He dropped his head
down and stared at his hands, then slowly lifted his eyes to the gray sky.
"An'nai and my family must forgive me. J'asu pra-peroihin! The Book of
Year-Dancing must then record my disgrace." He took a deep breath. "I
will stay while Binabik ofYiqanuc has his day at court."

Simon should have exulted, but instead felt only hollowness. Even to a
mortal, the Sitha prince's unhappiness was profoundly apparent; Jiriki was
making some terrible sacrifice that Simon could not understand. But what
else could be done? They were all caught here on this high rock beyond
the known world, all prisoners—at least of circumstance. They were
ignorant heroes, friends to oath-breakers . . .

42

Tad Williams

A chill dashed up Simon's backbone. "Jiriki!" he gasped, waving his
hands as if to clear a way for the sudden inspiration.

Would it work? Even if it did, would it help?

"Jiriki," he said again, more quietly this time, "I believe I have thought
of something that will let you do what you need to and help Binabik and

Sludig, too."
Haestan, hearing the tightness in Simon's voice, put down the stick he

had been carving and leaned forward. Jiriki raised an expectant eyebrow.

"You will only need to do one thing," Simon said. "You must go with
me to see the king and queen—the Herder and the Huntress."

After they had spoken to Nunuuika and Uammanaq, gaining the pair's
grudging acceptance of their proposal, Simon and Jiriki walked back in
mountain twilight from the House of the Ancestor. The Sitha wore a faint

smile.

"You continue to surprise me, young Seoman. This is a bold stroke. I

have no idea if it will help your friend, but it is a beginning, nevertheless."
"They would never have agreed if you hadn't asked, Jiriki- Thank

you."

The Sitha made a complicated gesture with his long fingers. "There is

still a brittle respect between the Zida'ya and some of the Sunset Children—
chiefly the Hernystiri and the Qanuc. Five desolate centuries cannot so
easily overwhelm the millennia of grace. Still, things have changed. You
mortals—Lingit's children, as the trolls say—are in ascendancy. It is not
my people's world any longer." His hand reached out, touching lightly on
Simon's arm as they walked. "There is also a bond between you and me,

Seoman. I have not forgotten that."
Simon, trudging along at the side of an immortal, could think of no

reply.

"I ask only that you understand this: my kin and I are now very few. I

owe you my life—twice, in fact, to my great distress—but my obliga-
tions to my people greatly outweigh even the value of my own continued
existence. There are some things that cannot be wished away, young
mortal. I hope for Binabik's and Sludig's survival, of course . . . but I am
Zida'ya. 1 must take back the story of what happened on the dragon-
mountain: the treachery ofUtuk'ku's minions and the passing ofAn'nai."

He stopped suddenly and turned to face Simon. In the violet-tinged
evening shadows, with his hair blowing, he seemed a spirit of the wild
mountains. For a moment, Simon perceived Jiriki's immense age in his
eyes, and felt he could almost grasp that great ungraspable; the vast
duration of the prince's race, the years of their history like grains of sand

on a beach.

"Things are not so easily ended, Seoman," Jiriki said slowly, "even by

my leaving. It is a very unmagical wisdom that tells me we shall meet

STONE OF FAREWELL

43

again. The debts of the Zida'ya run deep and dark. They carry with them
the stuff of myth. I owe you such a debt."Jiriki again flexed his fingers in
a peculiar sign, then reached into his thin shirt and produced a flat, circular
object.

"You have seen this before, Seoman," he said- "It is my mirror—a scale
of the Greater Worm, as its legend has it."

Simon took it from the Sitha's outstretched palm, marveling at its
surprising lightness. The carved frame was cool beneath his fingers. Once
this mirror had shown him an image ofMiriamele; another time, Jiriki had
produced the forest-city of Enki-e-Shao'saye from its depths. Now, only
Simon's own somber reflection stared back. murky in the half-light.

"I give it to you. It is has been a talisman of my family's since Jenjiyana
of the Nightingales tended fragrant gardens in the shade of Seni Anzi'in.
Away from me, it will no longer be anything but a looking glass." Jiriki
raised his hand. "No, that is not quite true. If you must speak with me, or
have need of me—true need—Cell the mirror. I will hear and know." Jiriki
pointed a stern finger at the speechless Simon. "But do not think to
summon me in a puff of smoke, as in one of your folk's goblin stories. I
have no such magical powers. I cannot even promise you I will be able to
come. But if I hear of your need, I will do what is in my power to help.
The Zida'ya are not totally without friends, even in this bold young world
of mortals."

Simon's mouth worked for a moment. "Thank you," he said at last.
The small gray glass suddenly seemed a thing of great weight indeed.
"Thank you."

Jiriki smiled, showing a stripe of white teeth. Again he seemed what he
was among his own folk—a youth. "And you have your ring, as well."
He gestured at Simon's other hand, to the thin gold band with its fish-
shaped sign. "Talk of goblin stories, Seoman! The White Arrow, the black
sword, a golden ring, and a Sithi seeing-glass—you are so weighted down
with significant booty that you will clank when you walk!" The prince
laughed, a trill of hissing music.

Simon stared at the ring, saved for him from the wrack of the doctor's
chambers, sent on to Binabik as one of Morgenes' final acts. Grimy with
the oil of the gloves Simon had been wearing, it sat unfiatteringly on a
dirt-blackened finger.

"I still don't know what the writing inside means," he said. On a
whim, he twisted it off and handed it to the Sitha. "Binabik couldn't read
it cither, except for something about dragons and death." He had a sudden
thought. "Does it help the person wearing it to slay dragons?" It was an
oddly depressing idea, especially since he didn't think he'd actually man-
aged to slay the ice-worm. Had it only been a magical spell after all? As he
recovered his strength, he found himself more and more proud of his
bravery in the face of the terrible Igjarjuk.

44

Tad Williams

"Whatever happened on Urmsheim was between you and ancient
Hidohebhi's child, Seoman. There was no magic." jiriki's smile had
disappeared. He shook his head solemnly, passing the ring back. "But I
cannot tell you more about the ring. If the wise man Morgenes did not
provide for your understanding when he sent it to you, then I will not
presume to tell. I have perhaps already burdened you unfairly during our
short acquaintance. Even the bravest mortals grow sick with too much

truth."

"You can read what it says?"

"Yes. It is written in one of the languages of the Zida'ya—although,
interestingly for a mortal trinket, one of the more obscure. I will tell you
this, however. If I understand its meaning, it does not concern you now in
any direct fashion, and knowing what it said would not help you in any

palpable way."

"And chat's all you'll tell me?"

"For now. Perhaps if we meet again, I will have more understanding of
why it was given to you." The Sitha's face was troubled. "Good fortune
to you, Seoman. You are an odd boy—even for a mortal, ..."

At that moment they heard Haestan's shout and saw the Erkynlander
striding up the path toward them, waving something. He had caught a
snow hare. The fire, he called happily, was ready for cooking.

Even with a stomach comfortably full of broiled meat and herbs, it took
Simon a long time to fall asleep that night. As he lay on his pallet looking
up at the flickering red shadows on the cave ceiling, his mind tumbled
with all that had happened, the maddening tale in which he had been

caught up.

I'm in a sort of story, just likejiriki said. A story like Shem used to tell—or is
it History, like Doctor Morgenes used to teach me. . . ? But no one ever explained
how terrible it is to be in the middle of a tale and not to know the ending. . . .

He slipped away at last, awakening with a start some time later. Haestan,
as always, was snorting and sighing in his beard, deep in slumber. There
was no sign of Jiriki. Somehow, the cavern's curious emptiness told
Simon that the Sitha was truly gone, headed down the mountain to return

to his home.

Stung by loneliness, even with the guardsman grumbling stuporously

away nearby, he found himself crying. He did so quietly, ashamed at this
failure of manhood, but he could no more stop the flow of tears than lift
great Mintahoq on his back.

Simon and Haestan came to Chidsik ub Lingit at the time Jiriki had told
them—an hour after dawn. The cold had worsened. The ladders and

STONE OF  FAREWELL

45

thong bridges swayed in the cold wind, unused. Mintahoq's stone byways
had become even more treacherous than usual, covered in many places by
a thin skin of ice.

As the two outsiders pressed their way in through a horde of chattering
trolls, Simon leaned heavily on Haestan's fur-cloaked elbow. He had not
slept well after the Sitha had gone. his dreams shot through with the
shadows of swords and the compelling but inexplicable presence of the
small, dark-eyed girl.

The troll folk around them were done up as if for a festival, many in
shiny necklaces of carved tusk and bone, the women with their black hair
bound up in combs made from the skulls of birds and fish. Men and
women both passed skins of some highland liquor back and forth, laugh-
ing and gesturing as they drank. Haestan watched this procedure gloomily -

"I talked one of 'em into givin* me sip o' that," the guardsman said.
"Tasted like horse piss, did. What I wouldna give for drop o' red Perdruin."

At the center of the room, just within the moat of unlit oil, Simon and
Haescan found four intricately-worked bone stools with seats of stretched
hide, which stood facing the empty dais. Since the milling trolls had made
themselves comfortable all around, but had left the seats empty, the
interlopers guessed that two of the stools were theirs. No sooner had they
seated themselves than the Yiqanuc folk gathered around them stood up.
A strange noise rose, echoing from the cavern walls—a sonorous, hum-
ming chant. Incomprehensible Qanuc words, like castoff spars floating on
an uneasy sea, bobbed to the surface and then slipped back beneath the
steady moaning. It was a strange and disturbing sound.

For a moment Simon thought the chanting had something to do with
his and Haestan's entrance, but the dark eyes of the assembled trolls were
focused on a door in the far cavern wall.

Through this door at last came not the masters of Yiqanuc, as Simon
had expected, but a figure even more exotic than the folk who surrounded
him. The newcomer was a troll, or at least of troll size. His small,
muscular body was oiled so that it gleamed in the lamplight. He wore a
fringed skirt of hide and his face was hidden behind a mask made from a
ram's skull which had been decoratively carved and gouged until the bone
was scarcely more than a filigree, a white basket around the black eye
holes. Two enormous, curving horns that had been hollowed to near
transparency stood out over his shoulders. A mantel of white and yellow
feathers and a necklace of curved black claws swung beneath the bony
mask.

Simon could not tell if this man was a priest, a dancer, or simply a
herald for the royal couple. When he stamped his gleaming foot the crowd
roared happily. When he touched the tips of his horns, then raised his
palms to the sky, the troll folk gasped and quickly resumed their chanting.
For long moments the man capered across the raised dais, as intent on his

46

Tad Williams

work as any solemn craftsman. At last he paused as though listening. The
murmuring of the crowd stopped. Four more figures appeared in the
doorway—three of troll size, one towering over the rest.

Binabik and Sludig were brought forward. One troll guard stood on
each side, the heads of their sharp spears remaining at all times near the
prisoners' backbones. Simon wanted to stand and shout, but Haestan's
broad hand fell on his arm, holding him down on his stool.

"Quiet, lad. They be comin' this way. Wait for 'cm t'get here. We

make no show for this rabble."

Both the troll and the fair-haired Rimmersman were considerably thin-
ner than when Simon had last seen them. Sludig's bushy-bearded face
was pink and peeling, as though he had been too much in the sun. Binabik
was paler than he had been, his once-brown skin now the color of

porridge; his eyes seemed sunken, surrounded by shadows.

The pair walked slowly, the troll head down, Sludig looking defiantly
around the room until he saw Simon and Haestan, to whom he offered a
grim smile. As they stepped over the moat into the inner circle, the
Rimmersman reached out and patted Simon's shoulder, then grunted in
pain as one of the guards following close behind pricked his arm with a

spear point.

"Had I but a sword," Sludig murmured, stepping forward and gingerly

seating himself on one of the stools. Binabik took the seat at the far end.
He had not yet raised his eyes to meet those of his companions.

"Take more than swords, friend," Haestan whispered. "They be small,

but stern—an' look at th'Usires-cursed numbers of 'em'"

"Binabik!" said Simon urgently, leaning across Sludig. "Binabik1 We've

come to speak for you!"
The troll looked up. For a moment it seemed he might say something,

but his dark eyes were distant. He gave the slightest, gentlest shake of his
head, then returned his gaze to the cavern floor- Simon felt rage burning
inside him. Binabik must fight for his life! He was sitting like old Rim the

plow-horse, waiting for the killing blow to fall.

The growing buzz of excited voices was abruptly stilled. Another trio of
figures appeared in the doorway, moving slowly forward: Nunuuika the
Huntress and Uammannaq the Herder, in full ceremonial trappings of fur
and ivory and polished stones. Another troll followed them on silent,
soft-booted feet—a young woman, her large eyes expressionless, her
mouth set in a firm line. Her shuttered stare flicked across the line of
stools, then away. The man with the ram horns danced before the three-
some until they reached the dais and ascended to their divan of hides and
fur robes. The unfamiliar troll woman sat just before the royal pair, one
step below the top. The capering herald—or whatever he was: Simon still
could not decide—thrust a taper into one of the wall lamps, then touched
it to the ring of oil, which caught with a blazing huff. Flames raced around

STONE OF FAREWELL

47

the circle, trailing black smoke. A moment later the smoke dissipated
upward into the shadowy reaches of the cavern ceiling. Simon and the
others were surrounded by a ring of fire.

The Hcrder leaned forward, lifting his crooked spear, and waved it at
Binabik and Sludig. As he spoke the crowd chanted again, just a few
words before they fell silent, but Uammannaq kept speaking. His wife and
the young female looked on. The Huntress' eyes seemed to Simon pierc-
ingly unsympathetic. The attitude of the other was harder Co discern.

The speech went on for some time. Simon was just beginning to
wonder if the lords ofYiqanuc had broken their promise toJiriki when the
Herder broke off, waving his spear at Binabik, then gesturing angrily to
Binabik's companions. Simon looked at Haestan, who raised his eyebrow
as if to say: wait and see.

"This is a strange thing, Simon."

It was Binabik who spoke, his eyes still fixed on the ground before him.
His voice seemed to Simon as fine a thing to hear as birdsong or rain upon
the roof. Simon knew he was beaming like a fool, but for the moment he
did not care.

"It seems," Binabik continued, his voice scratchy from disuse, "that
you and Haestan are guests of my masters, and that I must render these
proceedings into a speech you can understand, since' no one else here
speaks both tongues."

"We canna' speak for you ifcanna' be understood," Haestan said softly.
"We'll help you, Binabik," Simon said emphatically, "but your silence
will help nobody."

"This, as I said, is a strangeness," Binabik rasped. "I am condemned for
dishonor, yet for honor's sake I must translate my wrongs for outsiders,
since they are honored guests." A hint of a grim smile played at the
corners of his mouth. "Esteemed guest, dragon-slayer, meddler in other
people's affairs—somehow I am sensing your hand in this, Simon." He
squinted for a moment, then extended a stubby finger as if to touch
Simon's face. "You wear a brave scar, friend."

"What have you done, Binabik? Or what do they think you've done?"
The little man's smile evaporated. "I have broken my oath."
Nunuuika said something sharp. Binabik looked up and nodded. "The
Huntress says I have had time enough to explain. Now my crimes must be
dragged out into the light for inspecting."

With Binabik rendering the proceedings into the Westerling tongue,
everything seemed to happen much more quickly. Sometimes it seemed
he repeated what was spoken word for word, other times long speeches
would be dispatched in a quick summation. Although Binabik seemed to
regain a little of his familiar energy as he went about the business of
translating, there was no mistaking the perilousness of his situation.

48

Tad Williams

"Binabik, apprentice to the Singing Man, great Ookequk, you are held
as an oath-breaker." Uammannaq the Herder leaned forward, twisting his
thin beard fretfully, as though he found the proceedings upsetting- "Do

you deny this?"

There was a long silence after Binabik finished translating the Herder's

question. After a moment, he turned from his friends to face the lords of
Yiqanuc. "I have no denial." he said at last. "I will offer the full truth,
though, if you will be hearing it, Sharpest of Eye and Surest of Rein."

Nunuuika leaned back on her cushions. "There will be time for that."
She turned to her husband. "He does not deny it."

"So," Uammannaq responded heavily, "Binabik is charged. You,
Croofiofe," he swiveled his round head toward Sludig, "are accused of
being of an outlaw race who have attacked and injured our people since
time out of mind. That you are a Rimmersman no one can deny, so your

charge remains as spoken."
As the Herder's words were translated, Sludig began an angry retort,

but Binabik raised a hand to silence him. Surprisingly, Sludig complied.
"There can be no real justice between old enemies, it seems," the
northerner murmured to Simon. His fierce glare became an unhappy
frown. "Still, there are trollkind who have had less chance at the hands of

my kinsmen than I have here."

"Let those who have reason to accuse now speak," Uammannaq said.
A certain expectant stillness filled the cavern. The herald stepped for-
ward, his necklaces rattling and shivering. From the eyes of his ram skull
he looked at Binabik with undisguised contempt, then lifted his hand and

spoke in a thick, harsh voice.

"Qangolik the Spirit Caller says that the Singing Man Ookekuq did not
appear at the Ice House on the Winter Lastday, as has been the law of our
people since Sedda gave us these mountains," Binabik translated. His own
voice had taken on some of the unpleasant tone of his accuser's. "Qangolik
says that Binabik, the Singing Man's apprentice, also did not come to the Ice

House."

Simon could almost feel the hatred flowing between his friend and the

masked troll. There seemed little doubt that there was some rivalry or
dispute of long standing between the two.

The Spirit Caller continued. "Since Ookequk's apprentice did not come
to his duty—to sing the Rite of Quickening—the Ice House still has not
melted. Because the Ice House is unmelted, Winter will not leave Yiqanuc.
Through his treachery, Binabik has doomed his people to a bitter season.
The summer will not come and many will die.

"Qangolik calls him oath-breaker."

There was a rush of angry talk through the cavern. The Spirit Caller
had already squatted down once more before Binabik finished putting his
words into Westerling.

STONE OF FAREWELL

49

Nunuuika looked about with ritual deliberateness. "Does anyone else
here accuse Binbinaqegabenik?"

The unknown young woman, whom Simon had nearly forgotten in the
furor of Qangolik's words, got up slowly from her seat on the topmost
step. Her eyes were demurely lowered and her voice was quiet. She spoke
for only a few brief moments.

Binabik did not immediately explain her words, though they set off a
great rustle of whispering among the gathered trolls. He wore an expres-
sion Simon had never seen before on his friend's face: complete and utter
unhappiness. Binabik stared at the young woman with grim fixedness, as
though he watched some terrible event that it was nevertheless his duty to
remember and later report in detail.

Just when Simon thought Binabik had been silenced again, this time
perhaps forever, the troll spoke—flatly, chronicling the receipt of an old
and now insignificant wound.

"Sisqinanamook, youngest daughter of Nunuuika the Huntress and
Uammannaq the Herder, also accuses Binabik of Mintahoq. Though he
placed his spear before her door, when nine times nine days had passed
and the appointed day of marriage came, he was gone. Neither did he send
any word or explanation. When he returned to our mountains, he came
not to the home of his people, but traveled with Croohok and Utku to the
shunned peak Yijarjuk. He has brought shame on the House of the
Ancestor and on his once-betrothed.

"Sisqinanamook calls him oath-breaker."

Thunderstruck, Simon stared at Binabik's dejected face as the troll
droned his translation. Marriage! All the while Simon and the little man
had been fighting their way to Naglimund and making their way across
the White Waste, Binabik's people had been waiting for him to fulfill his
marriage oath. And he had been betrothed to a child of the Herder and
Huntress! He had never given the slightest hint!

Simon looked more closely at Binabik's accuser. Sisqinanamook, al-
though as small to Simon's eye as all of her folk, seemed actually a little
taller than Binabik. Her glossy black hair was plaited on either side other
face, the two braids joining beneath her chin into one wide plait interlaced
with a sky-blue ribbon. She wore little jewelry, especially when compared
with her formidable mother, the Huntress. A single deep blue gem spar-
kled on her forehead, held in place by a slender black leather thong.

She had a flush of color in her brown cheeks. Although her gaze was
clouded as though by anger or fright, Simon thought he sensed a strong-
willed, defiant tilt to her jaw, a sharpness to her eye—not her mother
Nunuuika's blade-edged glance, but the look of someone who made up
her own mind. For a moment, Simon felt he could see her as one of her
own would—not a gentle, pliant beauty, but a comely and clever young
woman whose admiration would not be easy to win.

50

Tad Williams

He abruptly realized that this was the one who had stood before Qantaqa's
cave last night—the one who had menaced him with her spear! Something
indefinable in the angle of her face told him so. Remembering, he knew
she was a huntress after all. just like her mother.

Poor Binabik! Her admiration might not be easy to gain, but Simon's
friend had won her over, or so it seemed. However, the wit and determi-
nation that Binabik must have so admired was now bent against him.

"I have no disagreement with Sisqinanamook, daughter of the Line of
the Moon," Binabik finally replied. "That she ever accepted the spear of
so unworthy a one as the Singing Man's apprentice was to me astonishing."

Sisqinanamook curled a lip at this speech, as if in disgust, but Simon did
not think her contempt seemed altogether convincing.

"Great is my shame," Binabik continued. "Nine times nine nights, in
truth, my spear stood before her door. I did not come to be married when
those nights were through. There is no word I can speak that will be
mending the hurt, or be making less of my fault. A choice there was to be
made, as is the way of things once the Walk of Manhood or Womanhood
has been walked. I was in a strange land and my master was dead. I made
my choosing; had I the same to decide once more, I say with regret, I

would make this same choosing again."

The crowd was still buzzing with shock and perturbation as Binabik
Finished interpreting what he had said for his companions. As he finished,
he turned back to the young woman standing before him and said some-
thing to her, quietly and rapidly, calling her "Sisqi" instead of her full
name. She swung her face away quickly, as if she could not stand to look
at him. He did not translate his last speech, but sadly turned back to her

mother and father.

"And what," Nunuuika asked scornfully, "might you have had to

decide about? What choice could have turned you into an oath-breaker—
you, who had already climbed far beyond the snows to which you were
accustomed, whose betrothal-spear had been chosen by one high above

you?"

"My master Ookequk made a promise to Doctor Morgenes of the

Hayholt, a very wise man of Erkynland. With my master dead, I felt it

was my place to keep his promise."

Uammannaq leaned forward, his beard wagging with surprise and
anger. "You thought a promise to a lowlander more important than
wedding a child of the House of the Ancestor—or the bringing of sum-
mer? Truly, Binabik, those who said you had learned madness at fat
Ookequk's knee were right! You turned your back on your people for ...

for Utfeu?"

Binabik shook his head helplessly. "It was more than that, Uammannaq.

Herder of the Qanuc. My master had fears of grave danger, not just to
Yiqanuc but to all the world below the mountains as well. Ookequk

STONE OF FAREWELL

51

feared a winter coming far worse than any we have experienced, one that
would leave the Ice House hard-frozen for a thousand black years. And it
was far more than only evil weather that Ookequk foresaw. Morgenes,
the old man in Erkynland, shared his fears. It was because of these dangers
that the promise seemed important. Because of this, too—because I believe
my master's worries are justified—I would again break my oath if I had no
other choice."

Sisqinanamook had returned her gaze to Binabik once more. Simon
hoped to see a softening of her expression, but her mouth was still
clenched in a firm, bitter line. Her mother Nunuuika slapped a palm on the
butt other spear.

"This is no argument at all!" the Huntress exclaimed. "Not at all. If I
feared loose snow in the upper passes, should I then never leave my cave,
letting my children starve? This is as much as saying that your people and
the mountain home that gave you nurture mean nothing to you. You are
worse than a drunkard, who at least says 'I should not drink,* but falls
again into bad ways by weakness. You stand before us, bold as a robber of
others' saddlebags, and say: 'I will do it again. My oath means noth-
ing.' " She shook her spear in rage. The gathered assembly hissed its
agreement. "You should be put to death immediately. If your madness

infects others, the wind will howl in our empty caves before a generation
passes."

Even as Binabik finished his dull rendering of this last, Simon stood up,
shaking with anger. His face ached where the scar had been burned across
his cheek, and every throb brought back the memory of Binabik clinging
to the frost-worm's back, shouting for Simon to run, to save himself
while the troll fought on alone.

"No!" Simon cried furiously, surprising even Haestan and Sludig, who
had been listening dumbfoundedly to every strange detail of the exchange.
"No!" Simon steadied himself with his stool. His head was whirling-
Binabik, dutifully, turned to his masters and his betrothed and began
explaining the red-haired lowlander's words.

"You don'c understand what is happening," Simon began, "or what
Binabik has done. Here in these mountains, the world is far away—but
there is danger that can reach you. In the castle where I lived once, it
seemed to me that evi] was only something talked about by the priests,
and that even they did not truly believe in it. Now I know better- There
are dangers all around us and they are growing stronger every day! Don't
you see? Binabik and I have been chased, chased by this evil all through
the great forest and across the snows below these mountains. It followed
us even to the dragon-mountain!"

Simon stopped for a moment, dizzied, breathing swiftly. He felt as
though he held some squirming thing that was wriggling out of his grip.
What can I say? I must sound like a madman. Look, Binabik tells them what

52

Tad Williams

I've said and they stare at me as though I'm barking like a dog! I wilt get Binabik

killed for certain!

Simon groaned quietly and began again, trying to marshal his nearly
unmanageable thoughts. "We are all in danger. A terrible power is in the
north—I mean, no, we're in the north now ..." He hung his head and
tried to think for a moment. "To the north, but also to the west of here.
There's a huge mountain of ice. The Storm King lives there—but he's not
alive. Ineluki is his name. Have you heard of him? Ineluki? He is terrible!"

He leaned forward, his balance abruptly uncertain, and goggled at the
alarmed faces ofHerder and Huntress and their daughter Sisqinanamook.

"He is terrible . . ."he said again, staring straight into the troll maiden's

dark eyes.

Binabik called her Sisqi, he thought disjointedly. He must have loved her . . .

Something seemed to grab his mind and shake it, as a hound shakes a
rat. Suddenly he was tumbling forward, down a long, spinning shaft. The
dark eyes of Sisqinanamook deepened and grew, then changed. A moment
later, the troll woman was gone, her parents, Simon's friends, and all of
Chidsik ub Lingit vanished with her. But the eyes remained, transmuted
now into another grave stare that slowly filled his field of vision. These
brown eyes belonged to one of his own kind—the child who had haunted
his dreams ... a child he finally recognized.

Leieth, he thought. The little girl we left in the house in the forest, because her
wounds were so awJul. The girl we left with . . .

"Simon," she said, her voice reverberating oddly in his head, "this is my
last opportunity. My house will soon fall and I will jlee into the forest—but first
there is something I must tell you."

Simon had never heard the girl Leieth speak. The reedy tones seemed
fitting for a child her age—but something about the voice was wrong: it
was too solemn, too articulate and heavy with self-knowledge. The pace
and the phrasing sounded like a grown woman's, like . . .

"Geloe?" he said. Although he did not think he actually spoke, he heard
his voice echo out through some empty place-

"Yes. I have no time left. I could not have reached you, hut the child Leieth has
abilities . . . she is like a burning-glass through which I can narrow my will. She
is a strange child, Simon." Indeed, the nearly expressionless child's face that
spoke the words did seem somehow different than that of any other
mortal child. There was something in the eyes that saw through him,
beyond him, as though he himself were insubstantial as mist.

"Where are you?"

"In my house, but not long. My fences have been thrown down and my lake is
jull of dark things. The powers at my door are too strong. Rather than stand
against such gale winds, I will jlee to fight another day.

"What I have to tell you is this: Naglimund is fallen. Elias has won the
day—but the real victor is He of whom we both know, the dark one in the north.
Josua, however, is alive."

STONE OF FAREWELL

53

Simon felt a chilly twist of fear in his stomach. "And Miriamele?"
"She who was Marya—and also Malachias? I know only that she is gone from
Naglimund: more than that, friendly eyes and ears cannot tell me. Now I must say
something else: you must remember it and think of it, since Binabik ofYiqanuc has
closed himself to me. You must go to the Stone of Farewell. That is the only place
of safety from the growing storm—safety for a little while, anyway. Go to the
Stone of Farewell."

"What? Where is this stone?" Naglimund fallen? Simon felt despair settle
into his heart. Then all was truly lost. "Where is the stone, Geloe?"

Without warning a black wave crashed through him, sudden as a blow
from a giant hand. The little girl's face disappeared, leaving only a gray
void. Geloe's parting words floated in his head.

"It is the only place of safety . . . Flee! . . . the storm is coming ..."

The gray slid away, like waves receding down a beach.

He found himself staring into the shimmering, transparent yellow light
of a pool of blazing oil. He was on his knees in the cavern of Chidsik ub
Lingit. Haestan's fearful face was bent close to his.

"What devils ye, lad?'* the guardsman asked, supporting Simon's heavy
head with a shoulder as he helped him up onto a stool. Simon felt as
though his body were made of rags and green twigs.

"Geloe said ... she said a storm . . . and the Stone of Farewell. We
must go to the Stone of Fare ..." Simon trailed off, looking up to see
Binabik kneeling before the dais. "What's Binabik doing?" he asked.

"Waitin' th' word," Haestan said gruffly. "When y'fell swoonin', he
said would fight no longer. Spoke t'king an' queen some while, now he be
waitin'."

"But that's not right!" Simon tried to rise, but his legs buckled beneath
him. His head hummed like an iron pot struck by a hammer. "Not . . .
right."

" 'Tis th' will o' God," Haestan murmured unhappily.
Uammannaq turned from a whispered colloquy with his wife to stare at
the kneeling Binabik. He said something in the guttural Qanuc-rongue
that sent a windy moan through the spectators. The Herder lifted his
hands to his face, slowly covering his eyes in a stylized gesture. The
Huntress solemnly repeated the gesture. Simon felt a chill descend,
heavier and bleaker even than winter's cold. He knew beyond doubt that
his friend had been given a judgment of death.

4

ABowC
of Cotomint Tea

Sf*   /" J_

UTU-U-jri-C filtered through the swollen clouds, falling mutedly on a
great panyof horses and armored men riding up Main Row toward the
Hayholt. The light of their bright banners was dulled by uneven shadow,
and the click of the horse's hooves died in the muddy road, as though the
brave army rode silently along the bottom of the ocean. Many of the
soldiers held their eyes downcast. Others peered out from the shadow of
their helms like men who feared to be recognized.

Not all appeared so dismayed. Earl Fengbald, soon to be a duke, rode at
the head of the king's party beneath Ellas' green and sable dragon-banner
and his own silver falcon. Fengbald's long black hair spilled down his
back, held only by a scarlet band knotted around his temples. He smiled
and waved a gauntleted fist in the air, eliciting cheers from the several

hundred spectators lining the roadway.

Riding close behind, Guthwulf of Utanyeat restrained a scowl. He, too,
held an earl's title—and supposedly the king's favor—but he knew beyond
doubt that the siege ofNaghmund had changed everything.

He had always envisioned the day when his old comrade Elias would
reign as king and Guthwulf would stand at his side. Well, Elias was king
now, but somehow the rest of the story had gone wrong. Only a fat-
headed young idiot like Fengbald could be either too ignorant to notice

... or too ambitious to let it bother him.

Guthwulf had shorn his graying hair close to his head before the siege
had started. Now his helmet fit loosely. Even chough he was a strong man
still in the prime of his health, he felt almost as though he were shrinking
away inside of his armor, becoming smaller and smaller.

Was he the only one uneasy, he wondered? Perhaps he had grown soft
and womanish in his too many years away from the field of battle.

But that could not be true. It was true that during the siege a fortnight
ago his heart had beaten very swiftly, but that had been the racing pulse of
exhilaration, not of fear. He had laughed as his enemies had swept down

STONE OF  FAREWELL

55

upon him. He had broken a man's back with a single blow of his longsword,
and taken blows in turn without losing his scat, handling his mount as
well as he had twenty years ago—better, if anything. No, he had not
grown soft. Not that way.

He also knew that he was not the only soul who felt a gnawing
disquietude. Though crowds stood by cheering, most of them were young
bravos and drunkards from the town. A goodly number of the windows
facing Erchester's Main Row were shuttered; more than a few others
showed only a stripe of darkness, out of which peered those citizens who
did not care to come down and cheer the king.

Guthwulf turned his head to look for Elias, then experienced an unset-
tling chill when he discovered the king was already staring at him—a rapt,
green stare. Almost against his will. Guthwulf nodded his head. The king
stiffly returned the gesture, then looked sourly out on the welcoming folk
ofErchester. Elias, feeling the pains of some undisclosed but minor illness,
had only left his tented wagon to climb atop his black charger a furlong or
so before their arrival at the city gate. Nevertheless, he was riding well.
concealing any discomfort he might feel. The king was thinner than he
had been in some years; the firm line of his jaw could be seen quite
plainly. Except for his pale skin—not as obvious in the blotchy afternoon
light as it sometimes was—and the distracted glare -of his eyes, Elias
looked slender and strong, as befitted a warrior king returning in triumph
from a successful siege.

Guthwulf stole a worried glance at the double-guarded gray sword
bumping in its scabbard against the king's hip. Cursed thing! How he
wished that Elias would throw the damned blade down a well. There was
something wrong about it, Guthwulf knew that beyond question. Some
among the crowd obviously felt the uneasiness the blade engendered as
well, but only Guthwulf had been in Sorrow's presence often enough to
recognize the true source of their distress.

And the sword was not the only thing troubling the people ofErchester.
Just as the mounted king of the afternoon had been a sick man in a wagon
at mid-moming, so also had the breaking of Naglimund been something
less than a glorious victory over a usurping brother. Guthwulf knew that
even far from the scene, the citizens of Erchcster and the Hayholt had
come to hear something about the odd, terrible fate ofJosua's castle and
people. Even if they had not, the faintly sickened expressions and bowed
posture of what should be an exulting, victorious army proclaimed that all
was not as it should be.

It was more than shame, Guthwulf thought, and it was more than just
feeling unmanned—for him as well as for the soldiers. It was fear they felt
and could not quite hide. Was the king mad? Had he brought evil down
on them all? God did not fear a fight, the earl knew, or a little blood—in
such ink were His intentions written, a philosopher had once said. But.
Usires curse it, this was different, was it not?

56

Tad Williams

He sneaked another look at the king, his stomach churning. Elias was
listening closely to his counselor, red-robed Pryrates. The priest's hairless
head bobbed near the king's car like a skin-covered egg.

Guthwulf had considered killing Pryrates, but had decided it might
only make things worse, like killing the houndkceper when the dogs
waited at one's throat. Pryrates might be the only one left who could
control the king—unless, as the Earl of Utanyeat sometimes felt sure, it
was the meddling priest himself who was leading Elias down the road to
perdition. Who could know, God damn them all? Who could know?

Perhaps in response to something Pryrates said, Elias bared his teeth in a
smile as he looked over the sparseness of the cheering throng. It was not,
Guthwulf saw, the expression of a happy man.

"I am very angry. My patience is strained by this ingratitude."
The king had taken to his throne, his father John's great Dragonbone

Chair.

"Your monarch returns from war, bringing news of a great victory, and
all that greets him is a paltry rabble." Elias curled his lip, staring at
Father Helfcene, a slightly-built priest who was also the chancellor of the
mighty Hayholt. Helfcene kneeled at the king's feet, the top of his bald
head facing the throne like a pitifully inadequate shield. "Why was there
no welcome for me?"

"But there was, my Lord, there was," the chancellor stuttered. "Did I
not meet you at the Nearulagh Gate with all your household who re-
mained at the Hayholt? We are thrilled to have Your Majesty back in good
health, awed by your triumph in the north!"

"My cringing bondsmen of Erchester did not appear to be either very
thrilled or awed." Elias reached for his cup. Ever-vigilant Pryrates handed
it to him, careful not to slosh the dark liquid over the rim. The king took
a long draught and made a face at its bitterness. "Guthwulf, did you feel
that the king's subjects showed him proper fealty?"

The earl took a deep breath before speaking slowly. "Perhaps they were
. . . perhaps they had heard rumors . . ."

"Rumors? Of what? Did we or did we not throw down my treacherous
brother's keep at Naglimund?"

"Of course, my king," Guthwulf felt himself far out on a slender
branch. Elias' sea-green eyes stared at him, as insanely curious as an owl's.
"Of course," the earl repeated, "but our . . . allies . . . were bound to
cause rumor."

Elias turned to Pryrates. The king's pale brow was furrowed, as though
he were genuinely puzzled. "We have acquired mighty friends, have we
not, Pryrates?"

The priest nodded silkily. "Mighty friends, Majesty."

"And yet they have served our will, have they not? They have done
what we wished done?"

STONE OF FAREWELL

57

"To the exact length of your intent, King Elias." Pryrates snuck a glance
at Guthwulf "They have done your will."

"Well, then." Elias turned, satisfied, and regarded Father Helfcene once
more. "Your king has gone away to war and has destroyed his enemies,
returning with the allegiance of a kingdom older even than the long-gone
Imperium of Nabban." His voice wavered dangerously. "Why do my
subjects skulk like whipped dogs?"

"They are ignorant peasants, sire," Helfcene said. A drop of sweat hung
on his nose.

"I think that someone here has been stirring up trouble in my absence,"
Elias said with frightful deliberation. "I would like to know who has been
spreading tales. Do you hear me, Helfcene? I must find out who thinks
they know the good of Osten Ard better than does her High King. Go
now, and when I see you next, have something to tell me." He pulled at
the skin of his face, angrily. "Some of these be-damned, stay-at-home
nobles need to see the shadow of the gibbet, I think. That may remind
them who rules this land."

The bead of sweat finally fell free ofHelfcene's nose, spattering on the tile
floor. The chancellor nodded briskly and several other drops, strangely
numerous on a cool afternoon, leaped from his face.

"Of course, my Lord. It is good, so good, to have you back once
more." He rose to a half crouch, bowed again, then turned and walked
quickly from the throne room.

The thump of the great door closing echoed up amidst the the ceiling
beams and serried banners. Elias leaned back against the vast spreading
cage of yellowed bones, rubbing at his eye sockets with the backs of his
powerful hands.

"Guthwulf, come here," he said, voice muffled. The Earl of Utanyeat
stepped forward, feeling a strange but compelling urge to flee the room.
Pryrates hovered at Elias' elbow, his face smooth and emotionless as marble.

Even as Guthwulf reached the Dragonbone Chair, Elias dropped his
hands to his lap. The blue circles beneath his eyes made it seem as though
the king's gaze had pulled back farther into his head. For a moment it
almost seemed to the earl that the king was peering out of some dark hole,
some trap into which he had fallen.

"You must protect me from treachery, Guthwulf." A ragged fringe of
desperation sounded in Elias' words. "I am vulnerable now, but there are
great things coming. This land will see a Golden Age such as the philoso-
phers and priests have only dreamed of—but I must survive. I must
survive, or all will be ruined. All will be ashes." Elias leaned forward,
grasping Guthwulf s callused hand with fingers cold as fish tails.

"You must help me, Guthwulf." A powerful note ran through his
straining voice. For a moment, the earl heard his companion of many
battles and many taverns the way he remembered him, which only made

58

Tad Williams

the king's words all the more painful. "Fengbald and Godwig and the
rest are fools," Elias said. "Helfcene is a frightened rabbit. You are the
only one in all the world I can trust—besides Pryrates here, that is. You
are the only ones whose loyalty to me is complete."

The king slumped back and covered his eyes again, clenching his teeth
as though in pain. He waved Guthwulfs dismissal. The earl looked up to
Pryrates, but the red priest only shook his head and turned to refill Ellas'

goblet.

As he pushed open the door of the chamber and walked out into the
lamplit hallway, Guthwulf felt a heavy stone of fear settle in his gut.
Slowly, he began to consider the unthinkable.

^

Miriamele pulled away, freeing her hand from Count Streawe's grasp.
She took a sudden step backward and fell into a chair that the man in the
skull mask had slid up behind her. For a moment she only sat, crapped.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked at last. "That I was coming

here?"
The count chuckled, extending a crabbed finger to tap the fox mask he

had discarded. "The strong rely on strength," he said. "The not-so-strong
must be clever and quick."

"You haven't answered my question."

Streiwe raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" He turned to his skull-faced helper.
"You may go. Lend. Wait with your men outside."

"It's raining," Lend said mournfully, bone-white face bobbing, eyes

peering from the black sockets.

"Then wait upstairs, fool!" the count said testily. "I will ring the bell

when I need you."

Lend sketched a bow, then darted a glance at Miriamele and went out.

"Ah, that one," Streawe sighed, "he is like a child somedmes. But still,
he does what he is told. That is more than I can say for many of those
who serve me." The count pushed the decanter of wine toward Brother
Cadrach, who sniffed at it suspiciously, obviously torn. "Oh, drink it,"
the count snapped. "Do you think I would go to all this trouble to drag
you across Ansis Pelippe and then poison you in one of my own resi-
dences? If I had wished you dead, you would have been facedown in the
harbor before you reached the end of the gangplank."

"That doesn't make me any easier," Miriamele said, beginning to feel
like herself again—and more than a little angry. "If your intentions are
honorable. Count, then why were we brought here by the threat of knives?"

"Did Lend tell you he had a knife?" Streawe asked.

"He certainly did," Miriamele responded tartly- "Do you mean that he

doesn't?"

STONE OF FAREWELL

59

The old man chortled. "Blessed Elysia, of course he does' Dozens of
the things, all shapes, all lengths, some sharpened on both sides, some
forked into a double blade—Lend has more knives than you have teeth."
Streawe chuckled again. "No, it's just that I keep telling him not to
announce it constantly. All around the town they call him Lend 'Avi Stetto.' "
Streawe stopped laughing for a moment, wheezing slightly.

Miriamele turned to Cadrach for explanation, but the monk was ab-
sorbed in a goblet of the count's wine, which he had apparently decided
was safe.

"What does . . . 'Avi Stetto' . . . mean?" she finally asked.
"It's Perdruinese for 'I have a knife.' " Streawe shook his head fondly.
"He does know how to use his toys, chough, that one does. ..."

"How did you know about us, sir?" Cadrach asked, wiping his lips with
the back of his hand.

"And what are you going to do to us?" Miriamele demanded.
"As to the first," Streawe said, "as I told you, the weak must have their
ways. My Perdruin is not a country whose might makes others tremble,
so we must instead have very good spies. Every port in Osten Ard is an
open market of knowledge, and all of the best brokers belong to me. 1
knew you had left Naglimund before you reached the River Greenwade; I
have had people taking note of your progress ever since." He picked a
reddish fruit out of a bowl on the table top and began peeling it with
trembling fingers. "As to the second," he said, "well, that is a pretty
question."

He was struggling with the fruit's tough rind. Miriamele, feeling a
sudden and unexpected sympathy for the old count, reached out and
gently took it from him.

"Let me do it," she said.

Streawe raised an eyebrow, surprised. "Thank you, my dear. Very
kind. So, then, the question of what I should do with you. Well, now, I
must admit that when I first got word of your . . . temporarily detached
state . . . ic occurred to me chat there might be more than a few who
would pay for word of your whereabouts. Then, later, when it became
clear you would be changing ship here in Ansis Pelippe, I realized chat
those who would find value in mere tidings might be willing to pay even
more for an actual princess. Your father or uncle, for instance."

Furious, Miriamele dropped the fruit into the bowl, half-peeled. "You
would sell me to my enemies!?"

"Now, now, my dear," the count said soothingly, "whoever said
anything about that? And who are you calling an enemy, in any case?
Your father the king? Your fond uncle Josua? We are not talking of
handing you over to Nascadu slave-merchants for a few coppers. Be-
sides," he hastily added, "that alternative is now closed in any case."

"What do you mean?"

60

Tad Williams

"I mean I am not going to sell you to anyone," Streawe said. "Please,

do not worry about that."

Miriamele picked up the fruit again. Now her hand was tremblmg-

"What is going to happen to us?"

"Perhaps the count will be forced to go locking us up in his deep, dark
wine cellars, for our own protection," Cadrach said, gazing with fondness
at the near-empty decanter. He seemed utterly and splendid drunk. "Ah,

now wouldn't that be a terrible fate!"

She turned away from him in disgust. "So?" she asked Streawe.
The old man took the slippery fruit from her hand and bit it carefully -

"Tell me one thing," he said. "Do you go to Nabban?"

Miriamele hesitated, wrestling with her thoughts. "Yes," she answered

at last. "Yes, I do."
"Why?"
"And why should I tell you? You have not harmed us, but you have not

yet proved yourself a friend, either."

Streawe stared at her. A smile slowly spread across the lower part of his
face. His eyes, red-rimmed, retained their hard edge. "Ah, I like a young
woman who knows what she knows," he said. "Osten Ard is full to brim
with sentiment and imprecise understanding—it is not sin, you know, but
foolish sentiment that sets the angels to moaning in despair. But you,
Miriamele, even when you were a small child you had the look of
someone who would do something in this world." He pulled the decanter
away from Cadrach and refilled his own goblet. The monk looked after it
comically, like a dog whose bone had been stolen.

"I said no one would sell you," Count Streawe said at last. "Well, that
is not quite true—no, do not glare so, mistress! Wait until you have heard
all I have to say. I have a ... friend, I suppose you would say, although
we are not personally close. He is a religious man, but he moves in other
circles as well—the best kind of friend I could ask for, since his knowledge
is wide and his influence great. The only problem is, he is a man of rather
irritating moral rectitude. Still, he has given help to Perdruin and to me
many times, and—to put it simply—I owe him more than a few favors.

"Now, I am not the only one who knew of your departure from
Naglimund. This man, also, the religious fellow, had it through his own

private sources . . ."

"He, too?" Miriamele demanded. She turned to Cadrach in anger-
"What, did you send out a crier to trumpet the news?!"

"Not a word passed my lips, m'lady," the monk said slurringly. Did
she fancy chat he was not as drunk as he pretended to be?

"Please, Princess." Streawe raised a shaking hand. "As I said, this friend
is an influential man. Even those around him do not guess the breadth of
his influence. His network of information, although smaller than mine, is
of a depth and scope that often makes me shake my head in amazement.

STONE OF FAREWELL

61

"What I have been saying, though, is this. When my friend sent word
to me—we each have a little flock of trained birds who carry our letters
back and forth—he told me about you. This was a thing 1 already knew.
He. however, did not know of my plans for you—those plans I spoke of
earlier."

"Selling me, you mean."

Streawe coughed apologetically. For a moment it became a real cough.
When he had regained his breath, he continued. "And, as I have said, I
owe this man several favors. So when he asked me to prevent you going
on to Nabban, I really had no choice ..."

"He asked you what?" Miriamele could not believe her ears- Would she
never escape the meddling and interference of others?

"He does not want you to go to Nabban. It is not the right time."

"Not the right time? Who is this 'he,' and what right. . . ?"

"He? He is a good man—one of the few of whom the term can be used.
I do not have much respect for the type, myself. The 'right,' he says, is the
saving of your life. Or at least your freedom."

The princess felt her hair sticking to her forehead. The room was warm
and humid, and the baffling, irritating old man across the table was
smiling again, happy as a child who has learned a new trick.

"You are going to keep me here?" she said slowly. -"You are going to
imprison me and so protect my freedom?"

Count Streawe reached a hand to his side and tugged at a dark rope that
hung nearly invisible before a rumpled wall hanging. Somewhere in the
building above a bell tolled faintly. "I am afraid chat is true, my dear," he
said. "I must hold you until my friend sends to say ocherwise. A debt is a
debt and a favor must be repaid." There was a sound of booted feet on the
doorstep outside. "It truly is to your advantage. Princess, although you
may not know it yet."

"I'll be the judge of that," Miriamele snarled. "How could you? Don't
you know that there is a war brewing? That I am carrying important news
to Duke Leobardis?" She had to reach the duke, to convince him to join
with Josua. Otherwise, her father would destroy Naglimund and his
madness would never cease.

The count cackled. "Ah, but my child, horses travel so much more
slowly than do birds—even birds who carry the weight of heavy tidings.
You see, Leobardis and his army left for the north nearly a month ago. If
you had not passed so swiftly, skulkingly, and secretively through the
towns of Hemystir, had you but spoken with a few people, you would
have known."

As Miriamele slumped in her chair, dumbstruck, the count rapped his
knuckles loudly on the table. The door swung open and Lenti and his
two henchmen, still wearing their costumes, came into the room. Lenti
had taken off his Death mask; his sullen eyes peered out of a face that

62

Tad Williams

was pinker, but not a great deal livelier, than the one he had doffed.

"Make them comfortable, Lenti," Streawe said. "Then, lock the door
behind you and come back to help me into my litter."

As the nodding Cadrach was rousted from his chair, Miriamcle turned
on the count. "How could you do this?" she sputtered. "I had always
remembered you fondly—you and your treacherous garden!"

"Ah, the garden," Streawe said. "Yes, you would like to see that again.
wouldn't you? Don't be angry, Princess. We will talk more—I have much
to tell you. I am charmed to see you again. To think that pale, shy Hylissa

should have birthed such a fierce child!"

As Lenti and the others hustled them out into the rain, Miriamele
caught a last glimpse of Streawe. The count was staring at the gate. his
white-haired head nodding slowly up and down.

They brought her to a tall house full of dusty hangings and ancient,
creaking chairs. Streawe's castle, perched on a spur of Sta Mirore, was
empty but for a handful of silent servants and a few nervous-looking
messengers who crept in and out like stoats through a fence hole.

Miriamcle had her own room. It might have been pretty once, longi
long ago- Now the faded tapestries showed only dim ghosts of people and
places, and the straw other mattress was so old and brittle and dry that it

whispered in her ears all night.

She dressed every morning with the help of a heavy-faced woman who
smiled tightly and spoke very little. Cadrach was being kept somewhere
else, so she had no one to talk with during the long days and little to do
except read an old Book of the Aedon whose illuminations had faded until
the cavorting animals were mere outlines, as though carved in crystal.

From the moment she was brought to Streawe's house, Miriamele
schemed, dreaming of ways she might get free, but for all its air of stuffy
disuse, the count's decaying palace was harder to escape than the Hayholt's
deepest, dankest cells. The front hallway door of the wing in which she
was housed was kept firmly locked. The rooms along the passageway
were similarly barred. The woman who dressed her and the other servants
were brought in and out by a broad-boned and serious-looking warder.
Of all the potential routes of escape, only the door at the other end of the
long hallway was ever left open. Beyond this door lay Streawe's walled
garden, and that was where Miriamele spent most of her days.

The garden was smaller than she remembered, but that was not surpris-
ing: she had been very young when she had seen it last. It seemed
older, too, as if the bright flowers and greenery had grown a bit weary.

Banks of red and yellow roses lined the garden, but they were being
gradually supplanted by exuberantly snaking vines whose beautiful bell-
shaped flowers shone the color of blood, and whose cloying scent mingled
with a myriad of other sweet, sad odors. Columbine clung to the walls

STONE OF FAREWELL                  63

and door-frames, its spurred blossoms dotting the twilight like softly-
glowing stars. Here and there streaks of even wilder colors flashed among
the tree branches and flowering shrubs—the tails of shrill-voiced, onyx-
eyed birds from the Southern Islands.

The top of the high-walled garden was open to the sky. Her first
morning in the garden Miriamele tried to climb the wall, but quickly
discovered that the stone was too smooth for fingerholds, the vines too
flimsy to offer support. As if to remind her of the proximity of freedom,
tiny hill birds frequently spiraled down through this sky-window, hop-
ping from branch to branch until something startled them and they leaped
away into the air once more. Occasionally a gull, swept far in from the
sea, flapped down to pace and preen before the more colorful denizens of
the garden, keeping an urchin's eye open all the while for scraps from
Miriamele's meals. But even with the unfenced sky churning with clouds
just a short distance away, the brilliantly-plumed island birds stayed where
they were, squawking resentfully in the green shadows.

Some evenings Streawe joined her in the garden, carried in by sullen
Lenti and propped in a high-backed chair, the count's useless, withered
legs covered with a figured lap robe. Unhappy in her captivity, Miriamele
deliberately made little response when he tried to amuse her with funny
stories or sailors' gossip and rumors from the port. Still, she found she
could not truly hate the old man, either.

As the futility of trying to escape became clear to her, and as the passing
days wore away the edge of her bitterness, she came to find an unexpected
comfort in sitting in the garden while late afternoon turned to evening. At
the end of each day, as the sky overhead turned slowly from blue to
pewter to black and the candles burned down in their sconces, Miriamele
mended garments she had torn on her journey south. While the night
birds sang their first hesitant notes, she drank calamint tea and pretended
not to listen to the old count's stories. When the sun had gone down, she
put on her riding cloak. It had been an uncommonly cold Yuven-month,
and even in the sheltered garden the nights were brisk.

When Miriamele had been prisoned for nearly a week in Streawe's
castle, he came to her sadly and told her of the death of her uncle Duke
Leobardis in combat before the walls ofNaglimund. The duke's eldest son
Benigaris—a cousin that she had never much cared for—had returned to
rule Nabban from the throne of the Sancellan Mahistrevis. With help,
Miriamele presumed, from his mother Nessalanta, another relative who
had never been one of Miriamele's favorites. The news upset her: Leobardis
has been a kind man. Also, his death meant Nabban had quit the field,
leaving Josua without allies.

Three days later, as the evening of the first day ofTiyagar-month came
on, Streawe poured her a bowl of tea with his own trembling hand and

64

Tad Williams

told her that Naglimund had fallen. Rumor said there had been great
slaughter, that few had survived.
He held her awkwardly in his dry-stick arms as she sobbed.

^

The light was waning. The patches of sky that showed through the dark
embroidery of leaves were the unwholesome blue of bruised flesh.

Deomoth stumbled on an unseen root and Sangfugol and Isom crashed
to the ground beside him, Isorn losing his grip on the harper's arm as he
fell. Sangfugol rolled to a halt and lay groaning. The bandage around his
calf, strips of thin cloth from one of the ladies' underskirts, reddened with

fresh blood.

"Oh, the poor man," Vorzheva said, limping forward. She squatted,
spreading out the skirt other tattered dress, then took Sangfugol's hand.
The harper's eyes were fixed in an agonized stare on the tree limbs

overhead.

"My lord, we must stop," Deomoth said. "It is growing too dark to

see."
Josua turned slowly. The prince's thin hair was disarranged, his face

distracted. "We should walk until full dark, Deomoth. Every moment of
remaining light is precious."

Deomoth swallowed. It made him feel almost ill to contradict his liege
lord. "We must make a secure place for the night, my prince. It will be
hard to do that after dark. And the wounded are even more at risk if we

continue to travel."

Josua looked down at Sangfugol, his expression distant. Deomoth did
not like the change he was seeing in his prince. Josua had always been
quiet, and many thought him strange, but still he had been a decisive
leader—even in the last terrible weeks before Naglimund fell. Now he
appeared unwilling to do anything, in small matters as well as large.

"Very well," the prince said at last. "If you think so, Deomoth."

"I beg pardon, but might we not move just a little farther up this . . .
this defile?" Father Strangyeard asked. "It is only another few steps, and it
seems safer than making camp in the bottom of a gulley—doesn't it?" He
looked expectantly at Josua, but the prince only grunted. After a moment,
the archivist turned to Deomoth. "Do you think?"

Deornom looked around at the ragged party, at the white, frightened
eyes in the dirt-streaked faces. "That is a good idea. Father," he said. "We
shall do that."

They made a tiny fire in a hastily-dug pit surrounded with stones, more
for light than anything else. Heat would have been most welcome—with
nightfall, the forest air was turning bitterly cold—but they could not risk

STONE OF FAREWELL

65

so much of a display. There was nothing to eat, in any case. Their pace
had been far too hurried for any hunting.

Together, Father Strangyeard and Duchess Gutrun were cleaning
Sangfugol's wound and rewinding the bandage. The white and black
feathered arrow, which had knocked the harper down late yesterday
afternoon, seemed to have struck the bone. Despite the care taken with its
removal, not all the arrowhead had come out. When Sangfugol could talk,
he complained that the feeling in his leg was nearly gone; at the moment,
he was in shallow, uneasy sleep. Vorzheva stood nearby, looking on
sorrowfully. She had been pointedly shunning Josua, who did not seem
much bothered.

Deomoth silently cursed his thin cloak. If I had only known we would be
tramping the open woods, he lamented, / would have brought my jur-hooded
riding cloak. He smiled grimly at his own thoughts and suddenly laughed
aloud, a short bark of amusement that caught the attention of Einskaldir,
squatting nearby.

"What's funny?" the Rimmersman asked, frowning as he worked his
hand-axe up and down a small whetstone. He held it up, testing the blade
with his callused thumb, then laid it back against the stone once more.

"Nothing, really. I was just thinking about how stupid we've been—
how unprepared."

"Waste of time, crying," Einskaldir growled, his eyes never leaving the
blade as he lifted it to the red firelight- "Fight and live, fight and die, God
waits for all."

"It's not chat." Deomoth stopped for a moment and considered. What
had begun as an idle thought had grown into something more; suddenly,
he was afraid to lose his grip on it. "We have been pushed and pulled," he
said slowly, "driven and drawn. We have been chased for three days since
we escaped Naglimund, with barely a moment free from fear."

"What is to fear?" Einskaldir said gruffly, tugging at his dark beard. "If
they catch us, they will kill us. There are worse things than to die."

"But that's just it!" Deomoth said. His heart was pounding. "That's
just the point!" He leaned over, realizing that he had raised his voice
almost to a shout. Einskaldir had stopped scraping his axe-blade to stare.
"That is what I wonder," Deornoth said more quietly. "Why haven't they
killed us?"

Einskaldir looked at him, then grunted. "They tried."

"No." Deomoth was suddenly sure. "The diggers . . . the Bukken as
your people call them . . . they tried. The Noms haven't."

"You are mad, Erkynlander," Einskaldir said in disgust. Deomoth bit
back a retort and crawled around the fire pit toward Josua.

"My prince, I need to speak with you."

Josua did not answer, again in one of his faraway moods. He sat, staring
at Towser. The old jester slept with his back against a tree, bald head

66

Tad Williams

bobbing on his chest. Deornoth did not see anything particularly interest-
ing about the old man's slumber, so he interposed himself between the
prince and the object of his attention. Josua's face was almost invisible, but
enough of a glow escaped the fire pit that Deornoth thought he saw
Josua's eyebrow lift in mild surprise.

"Yes, Deornoth?"
"My prince, your people need you. Why are you so strange?"

"My people are very few now, aren't they?"
"They are your people still—and they need you all the more, since our

danger is so great."

Deornoth heard Josua take a breath, as if in surprise or in preparation

for some angry remark. Instead, when the prince spoke, his voice was
calm. "We are in bad times, Deornoth. Everyone faces them in their own
way. Was this what you wished to discuss with me?"

"Not all, my lord." Deornoth crept a little closer, until he sat within
arm's reach of the prince. "What do the Noms want, Prince Josua?"

Josua chuckled ruefully. "I should think that was obvious enough. To

kill us."

"Then why have they not done so?"

There was a moment of silence. "What do you mean?"

"Just what I asked. Why have they not killed us? They have had many

opportunities."

"We have been fleeing them for . . ."

Deornoth impetuously grasped Josua's arm. The prince was very thin.
"My lord, do you believe chat the Norns—the Storm King's minions who
destroyed Naglimund—could not catch a dozen hungry and wounded

men and women?"

He felt Josua's arm grown taut. "And that signifies. . . ?"
"I don't know!" Deornoth let go of the prince and picked up a stick
from the ground, nervously plucking at the bark with his fingernails. "But
I can't believe they couldn't have brought us to bay if they had wanted

to."

"Usires on the Tree," Josua breathed. "I am ashamed you have had to

take the responsibility that is rightfully mine, Deornoth. You are right. It

makes no sense."

"Perhaps there is something more important than our deaths," Deornoth

said, thinking. "If they want us dead, why did they not surround us? If a
walking corpse could be upon us almost before we knew, why not the

Norns?"
Josua pondered for a moment. "Perhaps they fear MS." Again the prince

was silent. "Call the others," he said finally. "This is Coo grave to keep

between the two of us."

When the rest were gathered, huddling around the small fire, Deornoth
looked over their numbers and shook his head. Josua, himself, Einskaldir

STONE OF FAREWELL

67

and Isorn, Towser—groggy from sleep—and Duchess Gutrun; with
Strangyeard now finding a place, and Vorzheva tending Sangfugol, they
were all accounted for. Only nine left—could that be? They had buried
Hclmfest and the young handmaiden two days ago. Gamwold. an older
guardsman with a gray mustache, had died from a long fall in the attack
that felled Sangfugol. They had not been able to retrieve Gamwold's
body, let alone bury him. Unwillingly, they had left him lying on a ledge
of the open ridge, surrendered to the attentions of wind and rain.

Nine left, he thought, Josua is right—it is a small kingdom, indeed.

The prince had finished explaining. Strangyeard spoke up hesitantly.

"I hate even to say this," he began, "but. . . but perhaps they are only
toying with us, as ... as does a cat with a rat it has cornered."

"What a horrible thought!" Gutrun said. "But they are heathen, so
anything is possible."

"They are more than heathen. Duchess," Josua said. "they are immor-
tal. They have lived, many of them, since before Usires Aedon walked the
hills ofNabban."

"They can die," Einskaldir said. "I know."

"But they are terrible," Isorn said. His wide frame shuddered. "Now I
know that they are the ones who came out of the north when we were
held captive in Elvritshalla. Their very shadows are-cold—like a wind
from Huelheim, the land of death."

"Just a moment," Josua said. "You have reminded me of something.
Isorn, you said once that when you were captive, some of your fellows
were tortured."

"Yes. I will never forget."

"Who did it?"

"The Black Rimmersmen, the ones who live in the shadow of Stonnspike.
They were Skaii of Kaldskryke's allies—although, as I think I told you,
Prince Josua, I don't believe Skali's men got what they bargained for- In
the end, they were almost as terrified as we prisoners."

"But it was the Black Rimmersmen who tortured you. What about the
Noms?"

Isorn thought for a moment, his broad face pensive. "No . . ."he said
slowly, "I don't believe the Norns had anything to do with it. They were
just black shadows in hooded cloaks, passing back and forth to Elvritshalla.
They seemed to take little notice of anything—although we did not see
them much, for which I was very grateful."

"So," said Josua, "it does not seem that the Norns are interested in
torture."

"It does not seem to bother them much," Einskaldir growled. "And
Naglimund showed that they do not love us-"

"Still, I somehow do not think they would follow us all the way
through Aldheorte Forest just for enjoyment." The prince frowned, think-

68

Tad Williams

ing. "I find it hard to think of why they might fear us, straggling lot that

we are. What else could they want?"

"To put us in cages," Towscr said grumpily, rubbing his sore legs. The
long day's walking had been harder on him than on anyone else except
Sangfugol. 'To make us dance for them."

"Quiet, old man," Einskaldir snarled.

"Do not order him," Isorn said, giving fcmskaldir a purposeful look—a

difficult thing to do in near-darkness.

"I think Towser is right," Strangyeard said in his quiet, apologetic way.

"What do you mean?"josua asked.

The archive-master cleared his throat. "It seems to make sense," he
began, "—not that they want us to dance, I mean." He tried to smile.
"But the putting us in cages. They may want to capture us."

Deornoth was excited. "I think Strangyeard has it! They did not kill us
when they might have. They must want us taken alive."

"Or want some of us alive," Josua said carefully. "Perhaps that is why
they used the corpse of that poor young pikcman—to get safely among us

and then spirit one or more of us away."

"No," Deornoth's excitement suddenly dissipated, "for why didn't they
surround us then, when they had the chance? 1 asked myself that earlier

and I still cannot answer."

"If they wanted to ... to capture one of our number," Strangyeard

offered, "perhaps they were afraid that one would be killed in a struggle."
"If so," Duchess Outrun said, "it is surely not me they are after. I am
scarcely of any use, even to myself. They are after Prince Josua." She

made the sign of the Tree over her breast.

"Of course," Isorn said, putting his big arm around his mother's shoul-
der. "Ehas sent them to capture Josua. He wants you alive, my lord."

Josua looked uncomfortable. "Perhaps. But why are they shooting
arrows at us now?" He pointed to where Sangfugol lay, Vorzheva holding
the harper's head as she gave him a drink of water. "It seems that there is
even greater danger of accidentally killing their target, now that we are on

the move."

No one could answer this. They sat uncomfortably for some long

while, listening to the sounds of the damp night.

"Hold a moment," Deornoth said. "We are confusing ourselves, I

think. When have we been attacked by them?"

"Early in the morning after the night that . . . that the young pikeman

came to our fire," Isorn said.
"And was anyone hurt?"
"No," Isorn said, thinking back. "But we were lucky to escape. Many

of the arrows missed by very little."

"One of 'em took my hat off" Towser said querulously. "My best hat!

Lost!"

STONE OF FAREWELL

69

"Pity it wasn't your best head," Einskaidir snapped.

"But the Norns are very good archers," Deornoth continued, ignoring
the Rimmersman and the old jester. "And when has anyone else been
shot?"

"Yesterday!" Isom said, shaking his head. "You should know. Gamwold
dead, Sangfugol badly wounded."

"But Gamwold wasn't shot."

Everyone turned to look at Josua. There was a sudden power in the
prince's voice that sent a thrill up Deomoth's back.

"Gamwold fell," the prince said. "All of our party who've been killed
except for Gamwold died from our battles with the diggers. Deornoth has
it aright! The Norns have been chasing us for three days—three full days—
and have fired upon us many times. Sangfugol is the only one who has
been hit."

The prince stood up, his face disappearing from the fireglow. The
others could hear him pacing. "But why? Why did they risk an arrow
then? We were doing something that frightened them. Doing something—"
He stopped. "Or going somewhere . . ."

"What do you mean. Prince Josua?" Isorn asked.

"We were turning east—Coward the heart of the forest."

"That's true!" Deornoth said, thinking back. "We had been going south
since we came down the Stile from Naglimund. That was the first time
we cried to turn east, in toward the deeper part of the forest. Then, when
the harper was shot and Gamwold fell, we retreated back down the hill
and kept walking south along Aldheorte's outskirts thereafter."

"We are being herded," Josua said slowly. "Like ignorant animals."

"But that is because we tried to do something that worried them,"
Deornoth pointed out. "They are trying to keep us from going east."

"And we still do not really know what for," Isorn said. "Herded
toward capture?"

"More likely to slaughter," Einskaldir said. "They just want to do the
killing at home. Have a feast. Invite guests."

Josua actually smiled as he sat down, the fire catching a quick gleam of
teeth.

"I have decided," he said, "to decline their invitation."

An hour or two before dawn, Father Strangyeard came and tapped
Deornoth on the shoulder. Deornoth had heard the archive-master crawl-
ing about in the darkness, but the touch of a hand on his shoulder still
made him start.

"Only me, Sir Deornoth," Strangyeard said hastily. "It is my cum to
take watch."

"That's not necessary. I don't think I will sleep, anyway."

"Well, then, perhaps we can . . . can share the watch. If my talk will
not irritate you."

70

Tad Williams

Deornoth smiled to himself. "Not at all, Father. And you need not call
me 'Sir.' It is nice to have a calm hour or so—we have had precious little
calm lately."

"It is just as well, I suppose, that I am not left to stand guard alone."
Strangyeard said. "My sight is not good, you know—and that is in my
one remaining eye." He chuckled apologetically. "There is nothing more
frightening than to see the words in my beloved books growing fainter
every day."

"Nothing more frightening?" Deomoth asked gently.

"Nothing." Strangyeard was firm. "Oh, not that 1 do not fear other
things, but death, just for example—well, my Lord will take me when He
knows it is time. But to spend my last years in darkness, unable to see the
writings that are my work on this earth ..." The archivist broke off,
embarrassed. "I am sorry, Deomoth, I am babbling of trivialities. It is this
hour of the night. At home in Naglimund. I often wake at this time, just
before the sun comes up . . ." The priest paused again. Both men thought
silently of what had happened to the place where they had lived.

"When we are safe, Strangyeard," Deomoth began suddenly, "if you
cannot read, I will come and read to you. My eyes are not as quick as
yours, nor my mind, but I am stubborn as an unfed horse. I will grow
better with practice. I will read to you."

The archivist sighed, then was quiet. "That is too kind," he said a
moment later. "But you will have more important things to do when we
are safe again and Josua sits the high throne of Osten Ard—matters far
graver than reading to an old book-shifter."

"No. No, I do not think so."

They sat for a long while and listened to the wind.

"So we will . . . will strike out toward the east today?" Strangyeard
asked.

"Yes. And I think the Norns will not be happy about such a plan. I fear
that more of us will be wounded or killed. But we must seize our destiny
with both hands. Prince Josua recognizes that, thank the Good God."

Strangyeard sighed. "Do you know, I have been thinking. I feel quite
. . . quite ridiculous saying it, but . . ."He trailed into silence.

"What?"

"Perhaps it is not Josua they seek to capture- Perhaps it is ... me."

"Father Strangyeard!" Deornoth was quite surprised. "Why would that

be?"

The priest bobbed his head, ashamed. "I know it seems foolish, but 1
must mention it. You see, I am the one who had studied Morgenes'
manuscript telling of the Three Great Swords—and I am the one carrying it
now." He tapped the pocket of his voluminous robe. "With Jarnauga, I
searched and studied, trying to divine the whereabouts of Fingil's sword
Minneyar. Now that he is dead—well, I hate to sound as if I were

STONE OF FAREWELL

71

shouting my own importance, but. . ."He held out something small that
swung from a chain, just visible in the growing light. "He gave me his
Scroll, the badge of his League. Perhaps that has made me dangerous to
the rest of the party. Maybe if I surrendered, they would let the rest of

you go?"

Deornoth laughed. "If it is you they wish kept alive, Father, then we are
lucky to have you among us, else we would have already been flushed and
slaughtered like doves. Don't go anywhere."

Strangyeard seemed uncertain. "If you say so, Deornoth ..."

"I do. Not to mention that we need your wits more than anything else
we have—except for the prince himself."

The archivist smiled shyly. "That is very kind."

"Of course," Deornoth said, and felt his mood souring, "if we are to
survive the coming day, we will need more than wits. It will take a great
deal of luck as well."

After sitting with the archivist for a while longer, Deornoth decided to
find himself a more comfortable spot to snatch an hour of sleep before
dawn came. He nudged Strangyeard, whose head had sunk to his chest.

"I'll let you finish out, Father."

"Mmmm. . . ? Oh! Yes, Sir Deomoth." The priest nodded vigorously,
demonstrating his alertness. "Certainly. You go and sleep."

"The sun will be up soon. Father."

"Just so." Strangyeard smiled.

Deornoth went only a few dozen paces before settling on a level patch
of ground in the lee of a fallen tree. A bitter wind ranged across the forest
floor as though hunting for warm bodies. Deornoth wrapped his cloak
tightly around himself and tried to find a comfortable position. After a
long, chilly interval, he decided that there was scant chance he would ever
fall asleep. Grumbling quietly, so as not to wake the others who were
sleeping nearby, he rose to his feet and rebuckled his sword belt, then
headed back toward Father Strangyeard's sentry post.

"It's me. Father," he said quietly, as he stepped out of the trees into the
small clearing. He stopped, astonished. A startlingly white face looked
up, black eyes narrowing. Strangyeard was slumped in the arms of this
dark-clad attacker, sleeping or senseless. A knife blade like the thorn of a
great ebony rose lay against the priest's exposed neck.

Even as Deornoth threw himself forward, he saw two more pallid,
slit-eyed faces in the night-shadows and called them by their old name.
"While Foxes!" he shouted. "The Noms! We are attacked!"

Bellowing, he struck the pale-skinned thing and grappled it with his
arms. They toppled, the archivist tangled with them, so that for a moment
Deornoth was lost in a welter of flailing limbs. He felt the thing reach out
for him, its thin limbs full of slithery strength. Hands grasped at his face

72

Tad Williams

and pushed back his chin to expose his neck. Deomoth flung out his fist,
which landed on something hard as bone. He was rewarded by a hissing
cry of pain. Now he could hear crashing and shouting in the trees all
around. He wondered dimly whether it meant more foes, or that his

friends were awake at last.

Sword! he thought. Where's my sword?

But it was caught in the scabbard, twisted around on his belt. The
moonlight seemed to burst into brilliance. The white face rose before him
once more, lips skinned back, teeth bared like a drowning cur. The eyes
that locked with his were as coldly inhuman as sea-stones. Deomoth
fumbled for his dagger. The Nom grasped at his throat with one hand; its
other hand, a pale blur, lifted free.

He has a knife! Curiously, Deomoth felt as though he were floating on a
wide river, carried forward on a slow and generous current, but at the
same moment panicky thoughts flew around his head like grassflies. Damn

me, I forgot his knife!

He stared for another endless instant at the Nom before him, at the thin,
otherworldly features, the white spiderweb hair matted across the brow,
the faint lips drawn right against the red gums. Then Deomoth swung his
head forward, smashing his forehead into the cadaverous face. Before he
had even felt the first shock, he threw himself forward again into yet
another red impact. A great shadow mushroomed inside him. The shrieks
and night wind faded to a muted and diminishing hum and the moon was
drenched with clinging darkness.

When he could think again, he looked up to see Einskaldir, who
seemed to be swimming toward him, arms windmilling, his war-axe a
shimmering smear. The Rimmersman's mouth was open as though he
shouted, but Deomoth heard no sound. Josua came just behind. Deomoth's
two companions flung themselves against another pair of shadowy fig-
ures. Blades whirled and glinted, slicing the darkness with stripes of
reflected moonlight. Deomoth wanted to stand and help them, but a
weight lay upon him, some amorphous, unshakable burden. He strug-
gled, wondering where his strength had gone, until the burden fell away
at last and left him exposed to the rasping wind.

josua and Einskaldir were still moving before him, their faces weird
masks in the blue night. Other two-legged shapes were beginning to
appear from the forest shadows, but Deomoth could not tell if they were
friends or foes. His sight seemed to be obscured—something was in his
eyes, something that stung. He moved his hands questingly over his face.
It was wet and sticky. His fingers, when he held them up to catch the
light, were black with blood.

STONE OF FAREWELL

73

A long, damp tunnel led down through the hillside. A narrow, torchlit
staircase ran through it, half a thousand mossy, centuried steps that snaked
down through the very heart of Sta Mirore, from Count Streawe's great
house to a small, hidden dock. Miriamele guessed that the tunnel had been
the salvation of many an earlier nobleman, forced to flee his stately
quarters by night when the peasantry became unexpectedly frisky or
turned disputatious about the rights of the privileged.

After the end of a foot-wearying journey under the watchful eyes of
Lenti and another of the count's closed-faced servants, Miriamele and
Cadrach found themselves standing on a stone landing beneath an over-
hanging arch of cliff, the slate-colored harbor waters spread before them
like a disheveled carpet, just below, a small rowboat bobbed at the end of
its painter.

A few moments later Streawe himself arrived by another path, carried
down the winding cliff roads in his carved and becurtained litter by four
brawny men wearing sailors' garb. The old count wore a heavy cloak and
muffler against the night fog. Miriamele thought that the sallow light of
dawn made him look ancient.

"So," he said, waving for his bearers to lower him to the stone plat-
form, "our rime together is at an end." He smiled ruefully. "I feel a deep
regret at letting you go—not least because the Victor ofNaglimund, your
beloved father Elias, would pay much for your safe return." He shook his
head and coughed. "Still, I am a honorable man, and an obligation unpaid
is a ghost unshriven, as we say here in Perdruin. Say hello to my friend
when you meet him. Extend my regards."

"You haven't told us who this 'friend' is," Miriamele said tightly. "The
one to whom we are being given."

Streawe waved his hand dismissively. "If he wishes you to know his
true name, he will tell you himself."

"And you will be setting us across to Nabban on the open sea in this
tiny little isgbahta," Cadrach growled, "—this fishing boat?"

"It is scarcely a stone's throw," the count said. "And you will have
Lend and Alespo along to protect you from kilpa and such." He indicated
the two servants with a wave of his trembling hand. Lenti was chewing
sullenly at something. "You don't think I would let you go alone, do
you?" Streawe smiled. "How could I ever be sure you would reach my
friend and resolve my debt?"

He waved for his servants to lift the litter. Miriamele and Cadrach were
herded into the pitching boat, squeezed side by side into the tiny bow.

"Do not think unkindly of me, Miriamele and Padreic, I beg you,"
Streawe called as his servants wrestled him back up the slippery stairs.
"My little island must maintain a delicate balance, a very delicate balance.
Sometimes the adjustments seem cruel." He pulled the curtain closed
before him.

74

Tad Williams

The one whom Streawe had called Alcspo untied the rope and Lenti
reached out with his oar to push the little wooden boat away from the
dock. As they drifted slowly away from the light of the docksidc lanterns,
Miriamele felt her heart sinking. They were going to Nabban, a place that
now held little hope for her. Cadrach, her only ally, had been sullenly
quiet since they had been reunited—and what name had Streawe called
him? Where had she heard that before? Now she herself was being sent to
some unknown friend of Count Streawe's. a pawn in some sort of strange
business arrangement. And everyone, from the local nobles to the hum-
blest peasant, seemed to know her affairs better than she did herself. What

else could go wrong?

Miriamele let out a sigh of grief and frustration.
Lenti, seated across from her, stiffened. "Don't try anything, now," he

growled. "I have a knife."

5

Singing Mon^s House

OlTTmn slapped a hand against the cold stone wall of the cave and felt
a strange satisfaction at the pain. "Bleeding Usires!" he swore. "Bleeding
Usires, Usires bleeding on the Tree!" He raised an arm to strike the wall
again, but instead dropped it to his side and dug furiously at his breeches-
leg with his fingernails.

"Calm y'rself, boy," Haestan said. "Was naught we c'do."

"I won't let them kill him!" He turned to Haestan imploringly. "And
Geloe said we must go to the Stone of Farewell. I don't even know where
that is!"

Haestan shook his head unhappily. "Whatever this stone may be. I've
not understood ye right since fell down and struck y'r head this afternoon.
Y've been talkin' moon-mad. But about th' troll an* Rimmersman—what
can we do?"

"I don't know!" Simon barked. He put out his aching hand to lean
against the wall. The night wind keened beyond the door-flap. "Free
them," he said at last. "Free them both—Binabik and Sludig." The tears he
had felt himself holding back were gone. He suddenly felt cold-minded
and full of strength.

Haestan started to reply, then checked himself. He looked at the youth's
trembling fists and the livid scar striping his cheek. "How, then?" he
asked quietly. "Two 'gainst a mountain?"

Simon stared furiously. "There must be a way!"

"Th'only rope trolls took with Binabik's pack. Down a deep hole they
are, lad. With guards 'round."

After a long moment, Simon turned and slid down to sit on the cave
floor, pushing away the sheepskin rug to bring himself as close as possible
to the unforgiving rock.

"We can't just let them die, Haestan. We can't. Binabik said his people
would throw them from the cliffs. How can they be such . . . such
demons!?"

76

Tad Williams

Haestan squatted and poked the coals with his knife. "I've no under-
standing of heathens and suchlike," the bearded guardsman said. "They be
tricksy folk. Why should they prison them and give us freedom—an' leave

our weapons besides?"

"Because we've got no rope," Simon said bitterly, and shivered. He
was finally beginning to feel the cold. "Besides, even if we killed the
guards, what good would it do us? They'd throw us down the mountain
as well, and no one would ever take Thorn back to Josua." He thought.
"Perhaps we could steal some rope?"

Haestan looked doubtful. "In darkness, in a strange place? Like as not
we'd just rouse guards an' get spear-stabbed."

"Damnation and sin! We must do something, Haestan! Are we cowards?
We can't just stand by." A sharp wind stabbed in past the door curtain. He
hugged his arms tight around his chest. "At the very least, I'm going to
have that Herder's rotten little head off. Then they can kill me, too, and I

won't care."

The guardsman smiled sadly. "Ah, boy, y'r talkin' stupid. Said y'rself
someone must take that black sword t'Prince Josua." He indicated cloth-
wrapped Thorn lying beside the cavern wall. "If the sword be not taken
t'prince, Ethelbearn and Grimmric died for naught. That'd be cruel shame.
Too many hopes, slender 'uns though may be, rest on yon blade."
Haestan chuckled. " 'Sides, lad, d'ye think they'd spare one if th' other
killed their king? Y'r bound t'get me killed, too." Haestan poked at the fire
again. "No, no, ye be green yet an' don't understand th' world. Ye've not
been in war, lad, like me—not seen what I have. Didn't I see two of my
fellows die just since we left Naglimund? The Good God saves his justice
and such for th' Day ofWeighin' Out. 'Til then, we have t'look t'ourselves."
He leaned forward as he began to warm to the topic. "Each 'un must do
his best, but things can't always be made right, Simon ..."

He stopped abruptly, staring at the doorway. Seeing the look of surprise
on the soldier's round face, Simon turned swiftly. A figure had stepped

past the flap of hide.

"Th' troll girl," Haestan breathed softly, as though she might startle
and bolt like a fawn. Sisqinanamook's eyes were wide with apprehension,
but Simon also saw determination in the set of her jaw. He thought she
looked readier to fight than to flee.

"Do you come to gloat?" he asked angrily.

Sisqinanamook steadfastly returned his stare. "Help me," she said at

last.

"Elysia, Mother of God," Haestan gasped, "she can talk!"
The troll maiden shied back at the guardsman's outburst, but held her

ground. Simon clambered up onto his knees before her. Kneeling, he was

still taller than Binabik's once-betrothed.
"Can you speak our tongue?"

77

STONE OF  FAREWELL

She looked at him for a moment as if puzzled, then made a sign with
crossed fingers. "Little," she said. "Little talk. Binabik teach."

"I should have guessed," Simon said. "Binabik has been trying to
pound things into my head as long as I've known him."

Haestan snorted. Simon gestured for Sisqinanamook to enter- She slithered
away from the door-flap, crouching near the cave's entrance with her back
against the wall. A snow serpent carved in relief upon the stone coiled
about her head like a saint's halo-

"Why should we help you?" Simon said. "And help you do what?"

She stared at him uncomprehendingly. He repeated himself more slowly.
"Help Binbinaqegabenik," she replied at last. "Help me, help Binabik."

"Help Binabik?" Haestan hissed in surprise. "Why, y'r what's got him
in trouble!"

"How?" Simon asked. "Help Binabik how?"

"Go away," Sisqinanamook replied. "Binabik go away Mintahoq." She
reached under her thick hide jacket. For a moment Simon feared some
kind of trick—had she understood enough of what they had been saying to
know they were discussing a rescue?—but when her small hand appeared
again it bore a coil of slender gray rope. "Help Binabik," she repeated.
"You help, I help."

"Merciful Aedon," said Simon.

They quickly gathered up all their belongings, throwing them into two
packs with little concern for order. When they were finished and had
donned their fur-lined cloaks, Simon went to the comer of the room
where the black sword Thorn lay—the object, as Haestan had said, of
many hopes, fruitless or otherwise. In the dim firelight it was only a
sword-shaped hole in the furs that cradled it. Simon pressed its cold
surface with his fingers, remembering how it had felt when he raised it
before the onrushing Igjarjuk. For a moment it seemed to grow warm
beneath his hand.

Someone touched him on the shoulder.

"No, no kill," Sisqinanamook said. She pointed frowningly at the
sword, then tugged gently at his arm. Simon wrapped his hand around
Thorn's cord-wrapped hilt and hefted: it was too heavy to lift without
using both arms. As he struggled upright, he turned to the troll maiden.

"I'm not bringing it to kill anybody. This is the reason we went to the
dragon-mountain. No kill."

She stared at him, then nodded.

"Let me carry it, lad," Haestan said. "I'm rested."

Simon bit back a sullen retort and let him take the sword. It seemed no
lighter in the burly guardsman's hands, but no heavier either. Haestan
reached over his head and carefully eased Thorn's black length down
through a pair of thick loops on the back of his pack.

78

Tad Williams

It's not my sword, Simon reminded himself. I knew that already. And
Haestan's right to take it—I'm too weak. He felt his thoughts wandering. /(
doesn't belong lo anyone. It belonged to Sir Camaris once, but he's dead. Seems

almost to have a spirit of its own . . •

Well, if Thorn wanted to leave this God-cursed mountain, it would

have to go down with them.

They extinguished the fire and went silently out past the door-flap. The
chill night air made Simon's head throb. He stopped in the doorway.

"Haestan," he whispered, "you must promise me something."

"What's that, lad?"
"I don't feel very . - . strong. It's going to be a long walk to wherever

we're going. In the snow, too. So if anything happens to me . - ." he
hesitated for a moment, "if anything happens to me, please bury me
someplace warm." He shivered. "I'm tired of being cold."

For a moment Simon had the embarrassing idea that Haestan might cry.
The guardsman's bearded face screwed up in a strange grimace as he
leaned in to look closely at Simon. A moment later he grinned, although
the smile seemed a bit forced, and wrapped one of his bearlike arms
around Simon's quaking shoulders. "Here now, lad, no way t'talk," he
whispered. "It'll be long march, an' cold, too, that's sure—but not as bad
as y'think. We'll all make it through." Haestan snuck a look at Sisqinan-
amook, who was staring impatiently at them from the porch outside the
cavern. "Jiriki left us horses," he hissed into Simon's ear, "at mountain-
bottom, stabled in cave. Told me where. So dunna fear, lad, dunna fear. If
we but knew where 'tis we go—why, we'd be halfway there!"

They pushed out onto the stone track, squinting their eyes against a
fierce wind that scraped the face of Mintahoq like a razor. The mists had
blown away. A cat's-eye sliver of yellow moon glared down on the
mountain and shadow-blanketed valley. Staggering under their heavy
loads, they turned to follow the one small shadow that was Sisqinanamook.

It was a long, silent trek around the edge of Mintahoq, stumbling
through the buffeting wind. After a few hundred paces Simon already felt
his steps slowing. How would he ever climb all the way down the
mountain? And why couldn't he shake off this cursed weakness?

At last the troll maiden gestured them to a halt, then directed them into
a crevice, off the pathway and back into the shadows. It was a tight
squeeze because of their bulky packs, but with the help of Sisqinanamook's
small hands they managed to slide in. A moment later she was gone. They
stood, pinioned, and watched their breath fill the mouth of the crevice,

glittering in the moonlight.

"What d'ye think she's about?" Haestan whispered at last.
"I don't know." Simon was happy just to lean against the stone. Out of
the wind, he suddenly felt flushed and dizzy. The White Arrow given to
him by Jiriki was digging at his spine through the heavy cloth of his pack.

STONE OF  FAREWELL

79

"We be coney-catched, an' no mistake ..." Haestan began, but the
sound of voices on the path silenced him. As the voices grew louder,
Simon caught his breath and held it.

A triumvirate of trolls stumped down the trail past the crevice, dragging
the butts of their sharp spears carelessly along the stone, talking in their
low, grumbling tongue- All three carried shields of stretched hide. One
had a ram's horn dangling from his belt; Simon had no doubt that a call
from that instrument would bring well-armed trolls tumbling out of the
caves all around like ants from a shaken nest.

The horn-bearer said something and the group paused just before the
hiding spot- Simon struggled to hold his breath and felt his head whirl. A
moment later the trolls burst into a fizz of quiet laughter as the story was
completed, then continued their march back around the face of the moun-
tain. In a few moments their quiet chatter had dwindled away.

Simon and Haestan waited a long while before peering out of the
opening in the rock. The moon-painted path stretched on cither side,
untenanted. Haestan wriggled out of the narrow entrance, then helped
Simon to emerge.

4-

The moon had slipped past the mouth of the pit, plunging the prisoners
back into near-complete darkness. Sludig was breathing quietly but not
sleeping. Binabik lay on his back, short legs outstretched, staring up at the
wheeling stars as the wind gusted noisily across the opening of their
prison.

A head appeared at the rim of the pit. A moment later, a coil of rope
hissed down from above to smack onto the stone. Binabik stiffened but
did not stir, staring intently at the shadowy silhouette above.

"What?" Sludig growled in the darkness. "Do they not even wait until
dawn in this barbaric place? Must they kill us at midnight to hide their
deed from the sun? Still God will know." He reached out and gave the
rope a tug. "Why should we climb? Let us sit here. Maybe they will send
a few guards down to get us." The Rimmersman chuckled unpleasantly.
"Then I will break some necks. At the least, they will have to spear us in
our hole like bears."

"Qinkipa's Eyes!" a voice hissed in the troll language. Binabik sat
upright. "Grab the rope, you fool!"

"Sisqi?" Binabik gasped. "What are you doing?"

"Something I will never forgive myself for—as I also would not forgive myself
iff left it undone. Now be silent and climb!"

Binabik pulled gingerly at the rope. "But how can you hold it? There is
nothing to tie it to and the edge is slippery."

"Who are you talking to?" Sludig asked, disconcerted by the Qanuc speech.

80 Tad Williams

"I have brought allies/' Sisqmanamook called softly. "Climb! The guards
will return when Sedda touches on Sikkihoq's peak!"

Binabik, after explaining swiftly, sent Sludig up the line. The Rim-
mersman, weakened by imprisonment, made his slow way to the top and
disappeared over the rim into darkness, but Binabik did not follow-

Sisqi appeared once more at the rim. "Hurry, before I regret my stupidity!
Climb!"

"I cannot. I will not run from the justice of my people." Binabik sat down.

"Are you mad? What do you mean? The guards will be back very soon!" Sisqi
could not keep the fear from her voice. "You will get your lowlander jriends
killed with this foolish trick."

"No, Sisqi, take them. Help them get away. You will have my gratitude. You
already do."

She bounced up and down, shiveringly anxious. "Ah, Binahik, you are a
curse to me! First you humiliate me before our people, now you talk madness jrom
the bottom of a hole! Come out! Come out!"

"I will not break another oath."

Sisqinanamook stared up at the moon. "Qinkipa Snow Maiden save me.
Binbinaqegabenik, why are you so stubborn! Would you die to prove that you are
right!?"

Astonishingly Binabik began to laugh. "Would you save my life just to
prove me wrong?"

Two more heads appeared at the edge of the hole. "Damnation, troll,"
Sludig growled, "why do you wait? Are you hurt?" The Rimmersman
dropped to his knees as though to scramble back down the rope.

"No!" Binabik cried in the Westerling tongue. "Do not be waiting for
me. Sisqinanamook can take you to a place of safeness where you can
begin your trip down-mountain. You can be beyond the Yiqanuc bound-
aries by sunrise."

"What is keeping you here?" Sludig asked, amazed.

"I am condemned by my people," Binabik said. "I broke my oath. I
will not break it for a second time."

Sludig muttered in confusion and anger.

The dark figure beside him leaned out. "Binabik," he said. "It's me,
Simon. We have to go. We have to find the Stone of Farewell. Geloe said
so. We have to take Thom there."

The troll laughed again, but hollowly. "And without me, no going, no
Stone of Farewell?"

"Yes!" Simon's desperation was clear. Time was running short. "We
don't know where it is! Geloe said you must take us there! Naglimund has
fallen- We may beJosua's only hope—and your people's only hope!"

Binabik sat in silence at the bottom of the pit, thinking. At last he
reached out to grasp the dangling rope and began to make his way up the
sheer wall. When he reached the top, he stumbled over into Simon's fierce

STONE OF FAREWELL

81

embrace. Sludig thumped the little man on the shoulder, a comradely
blow that nearly toppled Binabik back into the pit. Haestan stood by,
breath steaming in his beard, thick hands now hurriedly coiling the rope
up from below.

Binabik pulled away from Simon. "You are not looking very well,
friend. Your wounds are troubling you." He sighed. "Ah, this is cruel. I
cannot be leaving you to the mercies of my folk, but I have no wishes to
break another oath. I do not know what I should do." He turned toward
the fourth figure. "So," he said in troll speech, "you have rescued me—or at
least my companions. Why have you changed your mind?"

Sisqinanamook eyed him, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. "/
am not certain I have," she replied. "/ heard what this strange one with the
while streak said," she indicated Simon, watching in bewildered silence. "It
had the ring of truth—that is, I believed there truly was something you thought
more important even than our pledge." She glowered. "I am not a lovesick fool
who will forgive you anything, but neither am 1 a vengeful demon. You are free.
Now go."

Binabik moved uneasily. "This thing that kept me jrom you," he said, "it is
not only important to me, but to everybody. A terrible danger is coming. There is
only slim hope of resistance, but even that hope must be nurtured." He lowered
his eyes for a moment, then raised them and boldly met her gaze. "My
love for you is as strong as the mountain's rocky bones. It has been so since I first
saw you on your Walk of Womanhood, lovely and graceful as a snow otter
beneath the stars ofChugik Mountain. But even for that love I could not stand by
and see the whole world blighted by unending black winter." He took her
jacketed arm. "Now tell me this: what will you do, Sisqi? You sent the guards
away, then the prisoners escaped. You might just as well mark your name-rune in
the snow."

"That will be between me and my father and mother," she said angrily,
pulling free of his grasp- "/ have done what you wanted. You are free. Why do
you waste that jreedom trying to convince me of your innocence? Why do you
throw Chugik up to me? Go!"

Sludig did not speak the language, but he understood Sisqi's gestures.
"If she wants us to leave, Binabik, then she speaks rightly! Aedon! We
must be swift."

Binabik waved a hand. "Go, I soon will catch you." His friends did not
move as he turned again to face his once-intended. "/ will stay," he said.
"Sludig is innocent, and it is a great kindness that you have helped him, but I will
stay and honor my people's will. I have done a good share already in the struggle
against the Storm King . . ."he glanced toward the west, where the moon
had entered a murk of inky clouds, "- . . and others can now carry my load.
Come, let you and I go lead the guards a chase so my friends can make their
escape."

A look of fear animated Sisqi's round face. "Curse you, Binbinaqegabenik,

82

Tad Williams

will you go now?! I do not wish to see you killed!" Angry tears stood in her
eyes. "There, are you pleased!? I still feel for you, although you have torn my
heart into pieces!"

Binabik stepped toward her and caught at her arms again, pulling her .
close. "Then come with me!" he said, his voice suddenly full of wild
possibility. "I will not be separated jrom you again. Run away and come with
me, and my oath be broken and damned! You can see the world—even in these
dark days, there are things beyond our mountains that would fill you with

wonder!"

Sisqi pulled away, turning her back. She seemed to be weeping.

After a long moment, Binabik turned to the others. "Whatever will be
happening," he said in Westerling speech, his face lit with a strange,
unstable smile, "—stay or go, flee or fight—it is first to my master's cave
we must go."

"Why?" asked Simon.

"We have not my casting-bones or other things. They have likely been
thrown into the cave that I shared with Ookequk my master, since my
people would not dare to go destroying things that were the Singing
Man's. But even more of importance, unless I am looking into the scrolls,
little chance there will be that I can find your Stone of Farewell."

"Then move, troll," Haestan growled. "I dunna know how y'r tady-
friend lured guards away, but no doubt they'll be back."

"You are correct." Binabik beckoned to Simon. "Come, Simon-friend,
we must be running again. Such, it is seeming, is the nature of our
companionship." He gestured to the troll maiden. She came without a
word, leading the way up the path.

They followed the main trail back, but after only a few dozen ells Sisqi
suddenly stepped off the track, taking them onto a trail so narrow that it
would have been hard to see even in daylight, a slender defile that
traversed the broad side of Mintahoq at a sharp upward angle. It was little
more than a gouge running between the rocks, and though there were
handholds aplenty, progress was cruelly slow in the near-total darkness.
Simon's booted shin struck painfully on many stones.

The track led upward, cutting across the grain of two more spirals of
the main track, then angled sharply back, still climbing. Pale Sedda was
sliding across the sky toward the dark bulk of one of Mintahoq's neigh-
bors, making Simon wonder how they would see at all when the moon
had vanished for good. He slipped, waving his arms until he regained his
balance, and promptly remembered that they were all clambering up a
narrow track on the face of a very dark mountain. Clutching at a hand-
hold, Simon stood in place and closed his eyes, bringing an instant of true
blackness as he listened to Haestan's laboring breath behind him. He still
felt the weakness that had troubled him all through Yiqanuc. It would be

83

STONE OF  FAREWELL

sweet to He down and sleep, but it was a fruitless hope. After a moment he
made the sign of the Tree and started forward again.

At last they reached level ground, a flat porch before a small cave that
was set back in a deep crevice in the mountainside; Simon thought that
there was something familiar to the moonlight and the shapes of the
stones. Just as he realized that Qantaqa had once led him through the
darkness to this very place, a gray-white shape leaped from the mouth of
the cave-

"Sosa, Qantaqa!" Binabik called quietly; a second later he was bowled
over by an avalanche of fur. His companions stood by awkwardly for a
moment as he was laved by the wolfs steaming tongue. "Muqang, friend,"
the troll gasped at last, "—that's enough! I am sure that you have been
bravely guarding Ookequk's house." He struggled to his feet as Qantaqa
backed away, her entire body aquiver with delight. "I am more in danger
from the greetings of friends than the spears of enemies," Binabik grinned.
"We must hurry to the cave. Sedda is hastening west."

He went in standing up, Sisqi after him. Simon and the others had to
stoop through the low doorway. Qantaqa, determined not to be left
outside, made a jarring rush past Simon's and Haestan's legs, nearly
tripping them.

They stood for a moment in a darkness thick with Qaritaqa's musky scent
and a host of other, stranger odors. Binabik struck sparks from a flint
until a small flower of yellow fire appeared and was quickly set to
growing on the end of an oil-soaked torch.

The Singing Man's cave was a quite singular place. In contrast to the
low door, the curving roof stretched high overhead, up into shadows the
torch could not dispel- Like a beehive, the walls were riddled with a
thousand alcoves that seemed to have been gouged into the very rock of
the cavem. Each niche held something. One contained only the dried
remains of a single small flower, others were crammed with sticks and
bones and covered pots. But most were filled with rolled skins, more than
a few stuffed so full that some of the rolls dangled halfway from the niche,
like the imploring hands of beggars.

Qantaqa's week-long residence had left its mark. In the middle of the
floor, close to the wide fire pit, were the remains of what once had been a
complex circular picture made entirely from small colored stones. The
wolf had apparently used this for scratching her back, since the design
bore the distinct marks of having been rolled upon. All that remained was
part of the rune-wrapped border and an edge of some white thing beneath
a sky filled with twirling red stars.

Numerous other objects showed traces of Qantaqa's attention as well.
She had pulled a great pile of robes into the cave's far corner and poked
the garments into a suitable wolf-nest. Beside this bed lay several much-
chewed articles, including the remains of a few of the rolled skins—the

84

Tad Williams

fragments crawling with writing unfamiliar to Simon—and Binabik's walk-
ing stick.

"I could have wished you were finding something else for chewing,

Qantaqa," the troll said, frowning as he picked it up. The wolf tipped her
head to one side and whined uneasily, then padded over to Sisqi, who was
looking into some of the alcoves, and who distractedly pushed the wolfs
large head away. Qantaqa flopped down on the floor and began disconso-
lately scratching herself. Binabik held his stick up to the torch's light. The

tooth marks were not deep.

"Chewing more for comfort of Binabik-smcll than any other thing,"

the troll smiled. "Fortunately."

"What is it you seek?" Sludig said urgently. "We must be going while

darkness holds."

"Yes, you speak correctly," Binabik said, sliding his stick in beneath his

belt. "Come, Simon, help me as we make a quick searching."

With Haestan and Sludig joining in, Simon pulled down scrolls from
the niches that Binabik himself could not reach. They were made of
thin-pounded hide, so thoroughly greased that they were slimy to the
couch; the runes that covered them were burned directly into the hide, as
though with a hot poker. Simon handed one after another to Binabik,
who perused each quickly before tossing it onto one of several growing

piles.

Looking around at the great rocky honeycomb and all the scrolls,

Simon marveled at what an arduous job it must have been to create such a
library—and it was just that, he realized, as much as Father Strangyeard's
archive at Naglimund or Morgenes' workshop full of heavy volumes, even
though these books were furls of hide, scribed with fire instead of ink.

At last Binabik had a pile of a dozen or so that seemed to interest him.
These he spread flat and rolled together into one heavy bundle, then
dropped the whole mass into his sack, which he had found near the cave's

entrance.

"Now we can go?" Sludig asked. Haestan was rubbing his hands

together, trying to keep them warm. He had taken off his clumsy gloves

to help with the scrolls.

"As soon as we are putting these back into the holes." The troll

indicated the large pile of discarded skins.

"Are ye mad?" Haestan said heatedly. "Why waste precious time doin'

such?"

"Because these are rare, precious things," Binabik said calmly, "and if

we are leaving them here on cold ground, they will be soon ruined. 'He
who is not bringing in his flock at night gives away free mutton'—that is
what we Qanuc say. It will be taking a moment, only."

"S'Bloody Tree," Haestan swore. "Lend me help, Simon-lad," he grunted,
stooping to the pile, "else we'll be here 'til dawn-time."

STONE OF  FAREWELL

85

Binabik directed Simon in the filling of some of the empty upper niches.
Sludig watched impatiently for a moment before joining the effort. Sisqi
had been quietly rummaging through the alcoves until she had amassed
her own pile of rolled skins, which she had then rolled up and slipped
under her hide jacket, but now she suddenly turned and called in rapid
Qanuc. Binabik pushed past a wad of tangled furs to stand at her side.

She held out a scroll tied shut with a black leather thong. The cord was
wrapped not only around the middle of the roll of skin, but around both
ends as well. Binabik. took it from her, touching two fingers to his
forehead in a gesture of seeming reverence.

"This is Ookekuq's knot," he said quietly to Simon. "There is no
doubting of that."

"This is Ookekuq's cave, too, isn't it?" Simon said, puzzled. "Why is a
knot surprising?"

"Because this knot tells it is something of importance." Binabik ex-
plained. "It is also something I have not seen before—something that was
hidden from me, or that my master was making just before we left on the
journey where he died. And this knot, I am thinking, was only used for
things of great power, messages and spells chat were for certain eyes
only." He again ran his fingers over the knot, his brow wrinkled in
thought. Sisqi stared at the scroll, her eyes bright.

"Well, that's last of th'damnable things," Haestan said. "If that be some-
thin' y'want, little man, bring it with. We've no more time for wastin'."

Binabik hesitated for a moment, caressing the knot gently while he
looked once more around the cavern, then slipped the knotted scroll into
his sleeve. "Time it is," he agreed. He gestured the others to the cavern
doorway ahead of him, extinguishing the torch in a depression in the stone
floor as he followed them out.

The rest of the troll's companions had stopped, huddled before the cave
like a herd of wind-rattled sheep. Sedda, the moon, had at last vanished
in the west behind Sikkihoq, but the night was suddenly full of light.

A large troop of trolls was moving toward them. Faces grim in their
hoods, spears and firebrands in their hands, they had fanned out around
Ookequk's cave and now held the path on both sides. Even in force, the
trolls were so quiet that Simon could hear the burning hiss of their torches
before the sound of a single footfall reached him.

"Chukku's Stones," Binabik said bleakly. Sisqi dropped back to take his
arm, her eyes wide in the torchlight, her mouth set in a grim line.

Uammannaq the Herder and Nunuuika the Huntress guided their rams
forward. They both wore belted robes and boots. Their black hair flowed
loose, as though they had dressed hurriedly. As Binabik stepped forward
to meet them, armed trolls moved in behind him, hemming his compan-
ions in a thicket of spears. Sisqinanamook stepped out of the encirclement

86

Tad Williams

to join him, standing at his side with her chin lifted defiantly. Uammannaq
avoided his daughter's eyes, staring down instead at Binabik.

"So, Binbinaqegabenik," he said. "you will not stand and face the justice of
your people? I had thought mare of you than that, however low your birth."

"My friends are innocent." Binabik replied. "I held your daughter as hostage
until the Rimmersman Studio had made it to safety with the others."

Nunuuika rode forward until her mount stood shoulder to shoulder
with her husband's. "Please credit us with some wisdom, Binabik, even though
we are not either of us as clever as your master was. Who sent the guards away?"
She peered down at Sisqi. The Huntress' face was cold, but showed a trace
of harsh pride. "Daughter, I thought you were a fool when you determined to
marry this wizardling. Now—well, I will say at least thai you are a loyal fool,"
She turned to Binabik. "Because you have recharmed my daughter, do not think
you will escape your sentence. The Ice House is unmelted. Winter has killed the
Spring. The Rite of Quickening went unperformed—and instead you return to us
with childish tales. Now you are back hatching devil-tricks in your master's cave
that your pet wolf has guarded for you." Nunuuika was in the grip of a rising
fury. "You have been judged, oath-breaker. You will go to the ice cliffs of
Ogohak Chasm and you will he thrown over!"

"Daughter, go back to our home," Uammannaq growled. "You have done

great wrong."

"No!" Sisqi's cry caused a stir among the watching trolls. "/ have
listened to my heart, yes, but listened to what wisdom I have gained as well. The
wolf has kept us jrom Ookequk's house—but that has not been to Binbiniqegabenik's
benefit." She pulled the thong-tied scroll from Binabik's sleeves and thrust
it forward. "This I found there. None of us thought to see what Ookequk had

left behind."

"Only a fool hurries to rummage in the effects of a Singing Man," Uammannaq
said, but his expression had subtly changed.

"But Sisqi," Binabik said, nonplussed, "we do not know what the scroll
contains! It could be a spell of great peril, or . . ."

"I have a good idea," Sisqi said grimly. "Do you see whose knot this is?"
she asked, handing the scroll to her mother.

The Huntress looked at it briefly and made a dismissive gesture as she
handed it to her husband. "It is Ookequk's knot, yes ..."

"And you know what kind of knot as well, Mother," Sisqi turned to her
father. "Has it been opened?"

Uammannaq frowned. "No - . ."

"Good. Father, open it and read it, please."

"Now?"

"If not now, when? After the one to whom I am pledged has been executed?"
Sisqi's breath hung in the air after her angry rejoinder. Uammannaq
carefully picked the knot and removed the black thong, then slowly unrolled
the sheet of hide, beckoning for one of the torch-bearers to move nearer.

STONE OF FAREWELL

87

"Binabik," Simon shouted from behind a circle of spear-heads, "what is

happening?"

"Stay, all of you, and do nothing for a moment," Binabik called to him
in Westcrling. "I will tell you all when I can."
"Know this," Uammannaq read.

". . . That I am Ookequk, Singing Man of Mintahoq, of Chugik, Tutusik.
Rinsenatuq, Sikkihoq and Namyet, and all other mountains of Yiqanuc."

The Herder read slowly, with long, squint-eyed pauses as he puzzled
out the sense of the blackened runes.

"I go on a long journey, and in such times that I cannot know I will come
hack. So, I lay my death-song on this hide, thai it can he my voice when I
am gone."

"Clever, clever, Sisqi," Binabik said quietly as her father's voice droned,
"it is you who should have been Ookequk's student, not me! How could you know!?"

She waved a hand to quiet him. '7 am a daughter of Chidsik ub Lingit,
where all the petitions for judgment come jrom all the mountajns. Do you think I
would not recognize the knot used on a death testament?"

"I must warn those who remain after me,"
Uammannaq continued with Ookequk's words,

". . . That I have seen the coming of a great cold darkness, the like of which
my people haw never seen. If is a dreadjul winter that will come jrom the
shadow of Vihyuyaq, the mountain of the immortal Cloud Children. It will
blast the lands of Yiqanuc like a black wind jrom the Lands of the Dead,
cracking the very stone of our mountains in cruel fingers ..."

As the Herder read these words, several of the listening trolls cried out,
hoarse voices echoing down the night-shrouded mountainside. Others
swayed, so that the torchlight flickered.

"My student, Binbinaqegahenik, I will bring with me on my journey. In the
time that remains I will instruct him in the small things and long stories that
may help our people in this foul time. There are other ones beyond Yiqanuc
who have prepared lamps against this coming darkness. I go to add my light
to theirs, small as it may shine against the storm that threatens. If I cannot
return, young Binbinaqegabenik will come in my stead. I ask you to honor
him as you would me, for he is eager in his learning. One day he may grow
to be a greater Singing Man than I.

88                         Tad Williams

"Now I end my death song. I give my farewell to mountain and sky. It
has been good to he alire. It has been ^ood to he one of the Children of
Lingit, and to live my life on the beautiful mountain Mintahoq."

Uammannaq lowered the scroll, blinking. A low wail bubbled up
among the watchers in response to the Singing Man Ookekuq's final song.

"He did not have enough time." Binabik murmured. Tears welled in his
eyes. "He was taken away too quickly and told me nothing•—or at least not
enough. Oh, Ookequk, how we will miss you! How could you have left your
people with no wall between them and the Storm King but an untrained weanling
like Binabik!" He dropped to his knees and touched his forehead to the

snow.

An awkward silence fell, pierced only by the lamenting wind.
"Bring the lowlanders," Nunuuika said to the spearmen, then turned a

stiff, painful glance on her daughter. "We will all go to the House of the

Ancestor. There is much to think about."

Simon awakened slowly, and stared at the inconstant shadows on the
craggy ceiling of Chidsik ub Lingit for a long time while he cried to
remember where he was. He felt a little better now, more clearheaded, but
the scar on his cheek stung like fire.

He sat up. Sludig and Haestan were leaning against the wall a short
distance away, sharing a skin of some drink and a muttered conversation.
Simon untangled himself from his cloak and looked around for Binabik.
His friend was near the center of the room, squatting before the Herder
and Huntress as if in supplication. For a moment Simon was fearful, but
others squatted there too, Sisqinanamook among them. As he listened to
the rise and fall of guttural voices, he decided it seemed more a council
than a judgment. Other small groups of trolls were discernible here and
there in the deep shadows, crouched in little circles throughout the vast
stone room. A few scattered lamps burned like bright stars in a sky full of
thunderheads.

Simon curled up again, wriggling to find a smooth place on the floor.
How terribly strange, to be in this place! Would he ever have a home
again, a place where he would wake up every morning in the same bed,
unsurprised to find himself there?

He drifted slowly back into half-sleep, into a dream of cold mountain
passes and red eyes.

"Simon-friend!" It was Binabik, gently shaking him. The troll looked
drawn, the circles under his eyes visible even in the half-light, but he was
smiling. "It is time for waking."

STONE OF FAREWELL

89

"Binabik," Simon said groggily, "what is happening?"

"I have brought for you a bowl of tea and some tidings. It appears I am
no longer bound for an unfortunate plunging," the troll grinned. "No
longer are Sludig and myself to be thrown into Ogohak Chasm."

"But that's wonderful!" Simon gasped. He felt his heart ache inside
him, a fierce wrench of released tension. He leaped to embrace the small
man and his sudden lunge toppled the troll. The tea puddled on the stone.

"You have been too long in the company ofQantaqa," Binabik laughed,
extricating himself. He looked pleased. "You have gained her liking for
the giving of exuberant greetings."

Other heads in the room turned to watch this strange spectacle. Many
Qanuc tongues muttered in amazement at the mad and lanky lowlander
who hugged trolls as if he were a clansman. Simon saw the stares and
ducked his head in embarrassment. "What have they said?" he asked. "Can
we go?"

"Put with simpleness: yes, we can go." Binabik sat down beside him.
He was carrying his bone walking stick, recovered from Ookequk's cave.
He proceeded to examine it as he spoke, frowning at the numerous
toothmarks Qantaqa had added. "But much there is to be decided.
Ookequk's scroll has convinced the Herder and Huntress on the truth of
my tellings."

"But what is there to decide?"

"Many things. If I go with you to take Thorn back to Josua, then my
people are again without a Singing Man. But I am thinking I must accom-
pany you. IfNaglimund has fallen truly, then we should be following the
words of Geloe. She may be the last one of great wisdom that remains.
Besides, it is seeming more certain that our only hope is in the getting of
the other two swords, Minneyar and Sorrow. Not for nothing should
your gallantry on the dragon-mountain be."

Binabik gestured at Thorn, which stood against the wall near where
Haestan and Sludig sat. "If the Storm King's rising is unchecked," he said,
"then no use there will be my staying on Mintahoq, since none of the craft
Ookequk taught me will keep away the winter we fear." The little man
made a broad gesture. "So, 'when the snowslide cakes your house,' as we
troll folk say, 'do not stay to hunt for potshards.' I have told my people
they should be moving down-mountain, to the spring hunting grounds—
even though there will be no spring there, and small hunting."

He stood, tugging down the hem of his thick jacket. "I wanted you to
know that there was no danger now to Sludig and myself." He smirked.
"A bad joke. We are all, it is obvious, in terrible danger. But the danger is
not from my own people any longer." He laid a small hand on Simon's
shoulder. "Sleep again, if you can. We will likely leave at dawn. I will go
and speak to Haestan and Sludig, then there is much planning still ahead
this night." He turned and walked across the cave. Simon watched his
small form pass in and out of the shadows.

90

Tad Williams

A great deal of planning has been done already, he thought grumpily, and I
have not been invited to much of it. Someone always has a plan, and I always
wind up walking along while someone else decides where to go. I feel like a
wagon—an old, faliing-apart wagon at that. When do I get to decide things for

myself?

He thought about this as he waited for sleep.

As it turned out, the sun had risen high in the gray sky before the final
arrangements were finished—a span of time Simon was more than happy
to spend sleeping.

Simon, his companions, and a large number of trolls trooped out onto
the byways of Mintahoq, following the Herder and Huntress in the
strangest parade Simon had ever seen. As they wound in and out through
Mintahoq's most populous sections, hundreds of trolls stopped on the
swinging bridges or came dashing out of their caves to watch the com-
pany pass, standing amazed beneath the swirling smokes of their cooking
fires. Many clambered down the thong ladders and joined the procession.

Much of the journey was uphill, and the vast crowd strung out along
the narrow track made the going slow. It seemed quite a long while before
they made their way around to the northern face. As they trudged on,
Simon found himself slipping into a kind of numbed dreaminess. Snow
flurried in the gray void beyond the pathway; Yiqanuc's other peaks stood
up along the valley's far side like teeth.

The march stopped at last on a long stone porch atop a promontory that
stood out above the northern part of Yiqanuc's valley. Another path
hugged the mountainside below them, then the rock walls of Mintahoq
fell sharply away, down into white obscurity touched with patches of
bright sunsplash. Staring down, Simon was stuck by a memory of dream,
of a dim white tower lapped by flames. He turned away from the unset-
tling view to find the rocky ledge on which he stood dominated by the
tall, egg-shaped snow-building he had seen his first day out of the cave.
Closer this time, he could clearly see the marvelous care with which the
triangular blocks of snow had been cut and fitted together, the bold
carvings that seemed to slice down into the blocks themselves, so that the
Ice House was as multifaceted as a cut diamond, its walls alive with hidden
interior angles, prisms that reflected cyan and pink.

The row of armed trolls who guarded the Ice House stood respectfully
to one side as Nunuuika and Uammanaq moved past them to stand
between the pillars of tight-packed snow that framed the door. Simon
could see nothing of the Ice House's interior but a blue-gray hole beypnd
the doorway. Bmabik and Sisqi took places on the icy step below, mittened
hands clasped. Qangolik the Spirit Caller clambered up beside them.

STONE OF  FAREWELL

91

Though Qangolik's face was hidden by his ram-skull mask, Simon thought
the muscular troll seemed rather subdued. The Spirit Caller, who had
pranced like a courting bird before the judgment in Chidsik ub Lingit. now
stumped like a weary harvest hand.

As the Herder lifted his crook-spear and spoke, Binabik translated for
his lowlander companions.

'Strange days arc upon us." Uammannaq's eyes were deep-shadowed.
"We have known that something was wrong. We live too closely with the
mountain, which is of the bones of the earth, not to sense the unease in the
lands around us. The Ice House is still here. It has not melted." The wind
rose, whistling, as if to underscore his words. "Winter will not leave. At
first we blamed Binabik. The Singing Man or his apprentice has always
sung the Rite of Quickening; Summer has always come- But now we are
told that it is not failure to perform the Rite that keeps Summer hidden.
Strange days- Things are different-" He shook his head heavily, his beard
wagging.

"We must break with tradition," Nunuuika the Huntress added. "The
word of the wise should be law to those of less wisdom. Ookequk has
spoken as if he were here among us. Now we know more of the thing that
we feared, but could not name. My husband speaks truly: strange days are
upon us. Tradition served us, but now it shackles us. Thus, Huntress and
Herder declare that Binbinaqegabenik is free from his punishment. We
would be fools to kill one who has been striving to protect us from the
storm of which Ookequk spoke. We would be worse than fools, it is now
clear, to kill the only one who knew Ookequk's heart."

Nunuuika paused, waiting for Binabik to complete his reinterp relation,
then continued, passing her hand across her forehead in some ritual ges-
ture. "The Rimmersman Sludig is an even stranger problem. He is no
Qanuc, so he was not guilty of oath-breaking, as we declared Binabik.
But he is of an enemy people, and if the tales of our farthest-ranging
hunters are true, Rimmersmen in the east have grown even more savage
than before. However, Binabik assures us that this Sludig is different, that
he fights the same fight as Ookequk. We are not sure, but in these days of
madness we cannot say it is not so. Thus, Sludig is also declared freed
from punishment and may leave Yiqanuc as he wishes—the first Croohok
so pardoned since the Battle ofHuhinka Valley in my great-grandmother's
day, when the snows ran red with blood. We call on the spirits of high
places, pale Sedda and Qinkipa of the Snows, Morag Eyeless, bold Chukku,
and all the rest, to protect the people if our judgment is faulty."

When the Huntress had finished, Uammannaq stood beside her and
made a broad gesture, as though to break something in two and cast it
away. The watching trolls chanted one sharp syllable, then lapsed into
excited whispering-
Simon turned and clasped Sludig's hand. The northerner smiled tightly,

92

Tad Williams

jaw set behind his yellow beard. "The little people speak rightly," he said-
"Strangc times indeed."

U-immannaq raised his hand to still the murmur of conversation. "The
lowlanders shall now leave. Binbinaqegabenik, who if he returns will be
our next Singing Man, may go with them to take this strange, magical
object—" he pointed to Thorn, which Haestan held propped on the
ground before him, "—to the lowlanders, who he says can use it to
frighten away the winter.

"We shall send with them a party of hunters, led by our daughter
Sisqinanamook, who shall be their escort until they leave the lands of the
Qanuc. The hunters will then go to the spring city by Blue Mud Lake and
prepare for the coming of the rest of our clans." Uammannaq made a
gesture and one of the other trolls stepped forward with a skin bag that
had been covered nearly completely in delicate tracings of colored embroi-
dery. "We have gifts we wish to give you."

Binabik brought his friends forward. The Huntress presented Simon
with a sheath of supple hide, the leather subtly tooled and studded with
stone beads the color of a spring moon. The Herder then gave him a knife
to put in it, a beautiful pale blade made from a single piece of bone. The
handle was wrought with smoothed carvings of birds.

"A magical lowlander sword is very good for fighting snow-worms,"
Nunuuika told him, "but a humble Qanuc knife is easier to hide and easier
to use in close quarters."

Simon thanked them politely and stepped aside. Haestan was given a
capacious drinking skin decorated with ribbons and stitchcry, filled to the
stopper with Qanuc liquor. The guardsman, who had drunk enough of
the sour stuff during the previous evening to finally develop a bit of taste
for it, bowed, mumbled some words of gratitude, then withdrew.

Sludig, who had come to Yiqanuc as a prisoner but was now leaving
more or less as a guest, received a spear with a viciously sharp head hewn
from shiny black stone. The haft was uncarved, since it had been hurriedly
constructed—the trolls did not use spears of a length that would have been
appropriate—but it was nicely balanced and could double as a walking
stave.

"We hope you also appreciate the gift of your life," Uammannaq said,
"and will remember that the justice of the Qanuc is stern but not cruel."

Sludig amazed them by dropping quickly to a knee. "I will remember,"
was all he said-

"Binbinaqcgabenik," Nunuuika began, "you have already received the
greatest gift it is in our capacity to bestow. If she will still have you,
we renew our permission for you to marry our youngest daughter.
When the Rite of Quickening can be performed next year, you will, be

joined."

Binabik and Sisqi clasped hands and bowed on the step before the

STONE OF  FAREWELL

93

Hcrder and Huntress as words of blessing were said. The ram-faced Spirit
Caller came forward. He chanted and sang as he daubed their foreheads
with oil, but with what Simon thought was a very dissatisfied air. When
Qangotik finished and stalked grumpily back down the steps of the Ice
House, the betrothal had been reinstated.

The Huntress and Herder said a brief personal farewell to the company,
Binabik interpreting. Though she smiled and touched his hand with her
small, strong fingers, Nunuiika still seemed cold and hard as stone to
Simon, sharp and dangerous as her own spearhead. He had to force
himself to smile back and retreat slowly when she had finished.

Qantaqa was waiting for them, curled in a nest of snow outside of
Chidsik ub Lingit. The noon sun had disappeared behind a spreading fog;

the wind set Simon's teeth to chattering.

"Down the mountain we must now go, friend," Binabik said to him. "I
am wishing you and Haestan and Sludig were not so large, but there are
no rams strong enough for your riding. It will make our going slower
than I would wish."

"But where are we going?" Simon asked. "Where is this Stone of
Farewell?"

"All things in their season," the troll replied. "I will look at my scrolls
when we stop tonight, but we should leave now as soon as we can. The
mountain passes will be treacherous. I smell more snow upon the wind."

"More snow," Simon repeated, shouldering his pack. More snow.

6

Tfte Nameless DeocC

"   . So Drukhi found her,"
Maegwin sang,

"Beloved Nenais'u, wind-footed dancer,

Stretched on the green grass, as silent as stone

Her dark eya sky-watching,

Only her shining blood gave him answer,

Her head lay uncradled, her black hair undone."

Maegwin drew her hand over her eyes, shielding them from the sting-
ing wind, then leaned forward to rearrange the flowers on her father's
cairn. Already the wind had scattered the violets across the stones; only a
few dried petals remained on Gwythinn's grave nearby. Where had the
treacherous summer gone^ And when would the flowers bloom again, so
she could tend her loved ones' resting places as they deserved5

As the wind rattled the skeletal birch trees, she sang again.

"Lone tune he held her,

Through gray-shadowed evening, beneath shamefaced night,

Matching the hours she had lain there alone.

His bright eyes unblinking,

Drukhi sang songs of the East's timeless light.

He whispered to her they would wait for the sun

"Dawn, golden-handed,

Caressed hut could not warm the nightingale's child

Nenais'u's swift spin! had fled unhomed

Close Drukhi clutched her,

His voice echoed out through woods and through wild

Where two hearts had sounded now beat only one .

STONE OF FAREWELL                   95

She broke off, wondering absently if she had once known the rest of the
words She remembered her nurse singing it to her when she was young,
a sad song about the Sithi-folk—"The Peaceful Ones," as her ancestors
had named them Maegwin did not know the legend behind it. She
doubted her old nurse had known, either. It was only that, a sad song
from happier times, from her childhood in the Taig . . . before her father
and brother died.

She stood, brushing the dirt from the knees of her black skirt, and
scattered a few last withered flowers among the slender spears of grass
pushing up from Gwythinn's cairn. As she turned back up the path,
clasping her cloak tight against the gnawing wind, she wondered once
more why she should not join her brother and father Lluth here in peace
on the mountainside. What did life hold for her?

She knew what Eolair would say The Count of Nad Mullach would
tell her that her people had no one else but Maegwin to inspire and guide
them. "Hope," Eolair often said, in that quiet but fox-clever way of his,
"is like the belly-strap on a king's saddle—a slender thing, but if it snaps
the world turns topside-down."

Thinking of the count, she felt a rare flash of anger. What could he
know—what could anyone know about death who was as alive as Eolair,
to whom life seemed a gift from the gods? How could" he understand the
dreadful weight of waking up each day, knowing that the ones she loved
most were gone, that her people were uprooted and friendless, doomed to
a slow, humiliating extinction5 What gift of the gods was worth the gray
burden of pain, the unceasing rut of bleak thoughts3

Eolair of Nad Mullach came to her often these days, speaking to her as
he would to a child. Once, long ago, Maegwin had fallen in love with
him, but she had never been so foolish as to believe he might feel for her
in turn Tall as a man, clumsy and blunt in her words, far more like a
farmer's daughter than a princess—who could ever love Maegwin? But
now that she and her bewildered young stepmother Inahwen were all that
remained of Lluth ubh-Llythmn's house, now Eolair was concerned.

Not out of any base motives, though. She laughed out loud and did not
like the sound of it. Oh, gods, base motives? Not honorable Count Eolair.
That was the thing she hated in him more than anything else. his unrelent-
ing kindness and honor She was sick to death of pity.

Besides, even if—impossibly—he could have thought of profiting at such
a time, how would joining his fate to hers benefit him in any case7 Maegwin
was the last daughter of a broken house, the ruler of a shattered nation
The Hernystin had become wild creatures living in the woodlands of the
Gnanspog Mountains, driven back to their primeval caves by the whirl-
wind of destruction brought down on them by High King Elias and his
Rimmcrsman tool, Skali of Kaldskryke

So perhaps Eolair was right. Perhaps she did owe her life to her people.
She was the last ofLluth's blood—a thin tie to a happier past, but the only

96

Tad Williams

such link that the survivors of Hernysadharc retained. She would live,
then—but whoever would have thought that merely living could become
a burdensome duty!

As Maegwin made her way along the steep trail, something wet touched
her face. She looked up. A hose of tiny spots swarmed against the leaden
sky. Another bit ofwetncss flecked her.

Snow. The realization made her cold heart even colder. Snow in mid-
summer, in Tiyagar-month. Brynioch of the Skies and all the other gods have
truly turned their backs on the Hernystiri.

A single sentry, a boy of perhaps ten summers with a red and dripping
nose, greeted her as she entered the camp. A few fur-wrapped children
played on the mossy rocks before the cavern, trying to catch the now
fast-falling snowflakes on their tongues. They scrambled back, wide-eyed,
as she walked past with her black skirts swirling in the wind.

They know the princess is mad, she thought sourly. Anyone would. The
princess talks to herself, but to no one else/or days at a time. The princess speaks
of nothing but death. Of course the princess is mad.

She thought it might be good to smile for the fearful-looking children,
but as she looked down at their dirty faces and their tattered rags of
clothing, she decided that such an effort might frighten them further.
Instead, Maegwin hurried past into the cave.

Am / mad? she wondered suddenly. Is this crushing weight what madness
feels like? These heavy thoughts that make my head feel like the arms of a
drowning swimmer, struggling, failing. . . ?

The wide cavern was largely empty- Old Craobhan, recovering slowly
from wounds received in the futile defense of Hernysadharc, lay by the
banked fire talking quietly to Arnoran, who had been one of her father
Uuth's favorite harpers. They looked up as she approached. She could see
them both studying her, crying to divine her mood. As Arnoran began to
rise, she waved him back down.

"It's snowing," she said.

Craobhan shrugged. The andent knight was nearly bald but for a few wisps
of white hair, his scalp a puzzle of delicate blue veins. "Not good, Lady.
That's not good. We've little livestock, but we're close-quartered in these
few caves as it is, and chat's with most of us outside during the day."

"More crowding." Arnoran shook his head. He was not nearly as old as
Craobhan, but was even more frail. "More angry folk."

"Do you know 'The Leavetaking Stone'?" Maegwin asked the harper
suddenly. "It's an old song about the Sithi, about someone named Nenais'u
dying."

"I think I knew it once, long ago," Arnoran said, squinting his eyes as he
stared into the fire and tried to think. "It is a very old song—very, very old."

"You don't have to sing the words," Maegwin said- She settled cross-

STONE OF  FAREWELL

97

legged beside him, her skirt tight as a drumhead between her knees. "Just
play the melody for me."

Arnoran scrabbled for his harp, then played a few tentative notes. "I'm
not sure I remember how to . . ."

"It doesn't matter. Try." She wished she could think of something to
say that would bring a smile to their faces, even for a moment. Did her
people deserve to see her always in mourning? "It will be good," she said at
last, "to think of other times."

Amoran nodded and plucked briefly at his strings, eyes closed, his quarry
easiest sought in darkness. He finally began a delicate air, full of strange
notes that quavered just on the edge of dissonance without ever crossing
over. As he played, Maegwin, too, shut her eyes. She could once again
hear the voice other nurse from long ago, telling her the story ofDrukhi
and Nenais'u—what strange names they had in old ballads'—telling of
their love and tragic deaths, their warring families.

The music went on for a long while. Maegwin's thought swirled with
images of the distant and not-so-distant past. She could see pallid Drukhi
bent in grief, swearing vengeance—but he wore her brother Gwythinn's
anguished face. And Nenais'u, sprawled lifeless on the greensward: was
that not Maegwin herself?

Amoran had stopped. Maegwin opened her eyes, -not knowing how
long the music had been silent.

"When Drukhi died avenging his wife," she said as if continuing an earlier
conversation, "his family could not live with Nenais'u's family anymore."

Amoran and Craobhan exchanged glances. She ignored them and went on.

"I remember the story now. My nurse used to sing the song to me.
Drukhi's family fled away from their enemies, went far away to live
apart." After a pause, she turned to look at Craobhan. "When will Eolair
and the others return from their expedition?"

The old man counted on his fingers. "They should be back by the new
moon, in a little less than a fortnight."

Maegwin stood up. "Some of these caverns run deep into the moun-
tain's heart," she said. "Is that not true?"

"There were always deep places in the Grianspog," Craobhan nodded
slowly, trying to understand her. "And some were delved even deeper,
for mining."

"Then we will start exploring tomorrow at dawn. By the time the
count and his men come back, we will be ready to move."

"Move?" Craobhan squinted, surprised. "Move where. Lady Maegwin?"

"Farther into the mountains," she said. "It came to me as Arnoran sang.
We Hernystiri are like Drukhi's family in the song: we cannot live here
anymore." She rubbed her hands together, trying to ward off the chill of
the cavern. "King Elias has destroyed his brother Josua. Now there is
nothing and no one left to drive Skali away."

98

Tad Williams

"But my lady!" Amoran said, startled into interrupting her. "Still there is
Eolair, and with him many other brave Hernystirmen remaining ..."

"—There is no one to drive Skali away," she continued harshly, "and
the Thane of Kaldskryke will doubtless find Hernystir's meadows a more
hospitable home in this freezing summer than his own lands in Rimmersgard.
If we stay here, we shall be trapped eventually, slaughtered before our caves
like rabbits." Her voice grew stronger. "But if we go deeper, they will
never find us. Then Hernystir will survive, far away from the madness of
Elias and Skali and the rest!"

Old Craobhan looked up at her worriedly. She knew he was wondering
what everyone else wondered: had Maegwin been unbalanced by her
losses—by all their losses?

Perhaps I have, she thought, hut not in this. In this, I am sure I am ri^ht.

"But, Lady Maegwin," the old counselor said, "how will we eat? What
will we do for cloth, for grain. . . ?"

"You said it yourself," she responded, "The mountains are shot through
with tunnels. If we learn and explore them, we can live deep in stone and
be safe from Skali. yet come out wherever we wish—to hunt, to gather
stores, even to raid Kaldskryke's own camps if we choose!"

"But . . . but . . ." The old man turned to Arnoran, but the harper
could offer no support. "But what will your mother Inahwen think of
such a plan?" he said at last.

Maegwin snorted in contempt. "My stepmother spends her days sitting
with the other women, complaining about how hungry she is. Inahwen is
less use than a child."

"Then what will Eolair think? What of the brave count?"

Maegwin stared at Craobhan's shaking hands, his rheumy old eyes. For
a moment she felt sorry for him, but that did not quell her anger. "What
the Count of Nad Mullach thinks, he may tell us—but remember,
Craobhan: he does not command me. He has taken the oath to my father's
house. Eolair will do what / say!"

She walked away, leaving the two men whispering beside the fire. The
biting chill outside the cave could not cool her heated face, even though
she stood in the snowy wind for a long time.

Earl Guthwulf of Utanyeat awakened to hear the Hayholt's midnight
bell, high above in Green Angel Tower, shuddering into silence.

Guthwulf closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to return, but slumber was
elusive. Picture after picture appeared before his shuttered gaze, images
of battles and tournaments, the dry repetitions of court etiquette, the
chaos of the hunt. Foremost in every scene was King Elias' face—the flash
of panicky relief, quickly hidden, that had greeted Guthwulf as he broke

STONE OF FAREWELL

99

through a ring of attackers to rescue his friend during the Thrithings wars;

the blank, black stare with which Elias received confirmation of his wife
Hylissa's death; and most disturbing of all, the secretive, gleeful, yet at the
same moment shamefaced stare that the king now wore whenever he and
Guthwulf met.

The earl sat up, cursing. Sleep had fled and would not return soon.

He did not light the lamp, but dressed in darkness, relying on the
sprinkle of starlight from the narrow window to help him step over his
manservant, who lay dozing on the floor at the foot of Guthwulf s bed.
He pulled a cloak over his nightshirt and donned a pair of slippers, then
made his way out into the corridor. Addled with such foolish, troubled
thoughts, he decided he might as well walk for an hour.

The halls of the Hayholt were empty, with not a guard or servant in
sight. Here and there torches burned fitfully in their wall sconces, con-
sumed almost to the socket. The halls were untenanted, but still faint
murmurs swept through the darkened passageways—voice of sentries on
the walls, the earl decided, rendered bodiless and spectral by distance.

Guthwulf shivered. What I need is a woman, he thought. A warm body in
the bed, a prattling voice to silence when I wish and to fill the quiet when I let. This
monkish living would unman anyone.

He turned and strode down the hall, heading for the servant's quarters.
There was a saucy, curly-headed chambermaid who wouldn't say no—hadn't
she told him her intended had died at Bullback Hill, that she was all alone?

If that one is in mourning—hah! Then I will become a monk9.

The great door to the servant's quarters was locked. Guthwulf snarled
and tugged, but the bolt was shot on the inner side. He contemplated
banging on the heavy oak with his fist until someone came to open
it—someone who would swiftly feel Utanyeat's wrath—but decided against
it. Something about Hayholt's silent corridors made him unwilling to
attract attention. Besides, he told himself, the curly-haired wench was not
worth the beating down of doors.

He stepped away, rubbing his bristled chin, and saw something pale
moving at the turning of the hall, near the edge of his vision. He whirled,
startled, but found nothing there. He walked a few steps and leaned
around the corner. The hall beyond was also empty. A breathless whisper
drifted along the passageway—a woman's low voice, muttering as if in
pain. Guthwulf turned on his heel and stalked back toward his chamber.

Niffht tricks, he grumbled to himself. Doors locked, corridors empty—the
whole damnable, Bleeding Usires castle might as well be deserted!

He stopped, suddenly, looking around. What hallway was this? He did
not recognize the polished tiles, the oddly-shaped banners hanging shad-
owed on the dark wall. Unless he had made a wrong turning and lost his
way. this should be the chapel's walking-hall. He retraced his way back to

100

Tad Williams

the forking of the hall and turned, taking the other route. Now, although
this new corridor was featureless but for a few window-slits, he was sure
he had found his way once more.

He grabbed at the base of one of the windows and pulled himself up,
hanging by his strong arms. Outside would be either the front or side of
the chapel courtyard. . . .

Startled, Guthwulflet go and slid the short distance back to the ground.
His knees buckled, dropping him to the floor. He rolled quickly to his feet,
heart pounding, and reached for the window slit to haul himself up again.

It was the chapel courtyard, sunk in deep night, just as it should be.

But what then had he seen the first time? There had been white walls
and the forest of looming spires that he had first taken for trees, then
recognized in an instant later as towers—a forest of slim minarets, ivory
needles that caught the moonlight and glowed as if full-charged with it!
The Hayholt had no such towers!

But there! Again the evidence of his eyes confirmed that all was
right and usual. There was the courtyard, the chapel door and awning, the
shrubs standing beside the pathways like drowsy sheep. Beyond, he could
just make out the moonbathed silhouette of Green Angel Tower—a soli-
tary sky-pointing finger where a moment before he had seen a dozen
hands raised in supplication.

He dropped to his feet and leaned against the cold stone. Then what had
he seen that first time? Night tricks? No, this was more! This was
sickness, or madness ... or witchcraft!

After a moment he collected himself. Steady, you fool. He stood up,
shaking his head. These aren't the ftuits of madness, but of too much pondering, too
much womanish worry. My sire used to sit up at night staring wide-eyed at thejire
and claimed he saw ghosts there. StiSI, he wasjit enough in his head when he died,
and lived a full seventy summers. No, it is all this thought about the king that is
preying on me. Black witchcraft may be all around us—Cod knows, I'm last to
argue against it after what I've seen this cursed year—but not here in the Hayholt.

Guthwulf knew the castle had belonged to the Fair Folk once, many
hundreds of years ago, but now it was so wound about with spells and
charms against them that surely there was no other spot on earth in which
they were less welcome.

No, he thought, it is the way the king has changed that fills my mind with
strange thoughts: how Ellas shifts jrom moment to moment, from lunatic anger to
childish worry.

He walked to the door at the end of the hallway and out into the
courtyard. Everything was as he had last seen it. A solitary light burned in
one of the windows across the garden, in the king's private rooms.

Ellas is awake. He pondered this for a moment. He has not slept well since »
Josua first began plotting against him.

Guthwulf strode across the courtyard toward the king's residence, the

STONE OF  FAREWELL

101

unseasonable breeze frisking about his bare ankles. He would talk to his
old friend Elias, here in the empty hours of night when men told the
truth. He would demand to know about Pryrates and about the horrible
army Elias has summoned, the host that had come down on Naglimund
like a plague of white locusts. Guthwulf and the king had been comrades
in arms too long for the earl to allow their friendship to fall apart like
msting armor. Tonight they would talk. Guthwulf would find out just
what dire troubles caused his old comrade to act so strangely. It would be
their first chance in a year to speak without Pryrates hovering close by,
watching with those black ferret's eyes, listening to every word.

The courtyard doorway was locked, but the great key Elias had given
him on his succession to the throne still hung on a cord around Guthwulf s
neck. His soldier's practicality had not allowed him to cake it off, even
though it had been many months since Elias had called on him to under-
take a secret mission.

The locks had not been changed. The heavy door swung inward without
a sound; Guthwulf was grateful for that, although he did not know why.
As he mounted the stairs toward the king's residence, he was astonished to
find not even a single guard in place before the inner door. Was Elias so
sure of his power that he did not even fear assassination? Surely that did
not accord with his behavior since he had returned from the siege of
Naglimund?

At the top of the stairs Guthwulf heard muffled voices. Suddenly full of
misgivings, he leaned forward, placing his ear near the keyhole.

He frowned. / should've known, he thought sourly. / would recognize
Pryrates' jackal-barking anywhere. Curse the unnatural bastard, can he give the
king no peace?

As he debated whether he should knock, he heard the king's low
murmur. A third voice froze Guthwulfs hand in midair, knuckle"
poised before the doorframe.

This last voice was high-pitched and sweet, but there was something
alien in its tone, something inhuman in its music. It acted on his senses like
a plunge in cold water, bringing up the hair on the back of his arms and
setting a shiver into his breath. He thought he recognized the words
"sword" and "mountains" before the numbing fear overcame him. He
stepped back from the door so quickly he almost tumbled down the stairs.

Have those hell-things come here? he wondered. He wiped his sweating
palms on his nightshirt and retreated a step down from the landing. What
devil's work is this? Has Elias lost his mind? His soul?

The voices rose in volume, then the door squeaked as someone lifted the
inside bolt. All thought of confronting Elias gone, the Earl of Utanyeat
knew only that he did not want to be found listening at the keyhole—did
not want to meet the thing that spoke so strangely. He looked around
distractedly for a place to hide, but the staircase was narrow- He vaulted

102

Tad Williams

down the steps in a rush, but had only just reached the outer door when
he heard footsteps on the landing above. Guthwulf ducked into the alcove
beneath the stairway, pushing himself back into the shadows as the steps
creaked. Two figures, one more distinct than the other, paused in the

doorway.

"The king is pleased with this news," Pryrates was saying. The darker
shape beside him said nothing. A smear of white face gleamed in the
depths of its dark hood. Pryrates stepped through the door, his scarlet
garments showing deep violet-blue in the moonlight as he pivoted his bald
head this way and that, looking carefully. A shadow followed him out

into the garden.

Anger suddenly rose inside Guthwulf, overwhelming even his unrea-
soning fear. That the master of Utanyeat should cower under stairs—and
from something that the cursed priest treated as companionably as a
country uncle!

"Pryrates!" Guthwulf cried, stepping out from beneath the stairway.
"I would have a word with you ..."

The earl's slippered feet crunched to a halt on the gravel. The priest
stood before him, alone in the middle of the path. The wind sighed in the
hedges, but there was no other sound, no other movement but the faint
rippling of leaves.

"Earl Guthwulf," Pryrates said, wrinkling his hairless brow in apparent
surprise, "what are you doing out here? And at such an hour." He looked
Guthwulfs costume up and down. "Have you had trouble sleeping?"

"Yes ... no ... damn you, priest, that's not important! I was just on
my way to see the king!"

Pryrates nodded. "Ah. Well, I've just left His Majesty. He's just taken
his sleeping draught, so whatever you desire to speak of should wait until

morning."

Guthwulf looked up at the mocking moon, then around the courtyard.
It was empty but for the two of them. He felt dizzy, betrayed by his own
senses. "You were alone with the king?" he asked at last.

The priest stared at him for a moment. "But for his new cupbearer,
yes. And a few body-servants in the outer rooms. Why?"

The earl felt the last bit of ground sliding from beneath his feet.
"Cupbearer? That is, I just wanted to know ... I thought..." Guthwulf
struggled to regain his poise. "There's no guard posted on that door." He

pointed.

"With such a doughty warrior as yourself stalking the gardens," Pryrates
smiled, "there is scarce need for one—but you are correct. I will speak to
the chief constable about it. Now, if you'll excuse me, my lord, I must go
to my narrow bed. 1 have had a long, wearying day of statecraft. Good night."

With a swirl of his robe, the priest turned and walked away, vanishing
in a cluster of shadows at the far side of the courtyard.

STONE OF FAREWELL

^

103

The traveler's spirit came back to him as he rode through the endless
snows, but his name did not. He could not remember how he came to be
riding the horse, or if the beast was his. Neither did he know where he
had been, or what had happened to cause the dreadful pain that ran
through his body, twisting and crippling his limbs. He knew only that he
must ride on toward a spot behind the horizon, following a curved seam
of stars that burned in the northwestern skies at night. He could not
remember what place he would find there.

He stopped only seldom for sleep: the ride itself was a kind of waking
dream, a long white tunnel of wind and ice that seemed never-ending.
Ghosts attended him, a vast crowd of homeless dead walking at his
stirrups. Some of these were of his own making—or so it seemed from the
reproach written on their pale faces—others were the importuning spirits
for whom he had killed. But none of them held any power over him now.
Without his name, he was as much a phantom as were they.

So they traveled together, the unnamed man and the nameless dead; a
lone rider and a whispering, insubstantial horde that accompanied him like
foam carried on before an ocean wave.

Each time the sun died and the star-crescent bloomed in the shimmering
northwest sky, he made a slash with his knife in the leather of his saddle.
Sometimes when the sun vanished, the wind filled the dark sky with sleet
and the stars did not appear. Still, he marked his saddle. Seeing the pale
weals in the oil-darkened leather reassured him, proved that something
could change in this eternal sameness of mountains and stones and snowy
plain, and suggested that he was not merely crawling in a pointless circle
like a blind insect on the rim of a cup. The only other measure of time's
passage was his hunger, which now shouted above even the most terrible
of his other pains. And that, too, was a queer comfort. To starve was to
live. Dead, he might find himself condemned to join the throng of
whispering shades that surrounded him, doomed to flitter and sigh in this
lifeless waste forever. While he lived, there was at least a faint, cold
hope—although what it was that he might hope for he could not quite recall.

There were eleven slashes on the saddle when his horse died. One
moment they were striding forward, breasting a drift of new snow; the
next moment his mount sank slowly to its knees, quivering, then toppled
over, a silent spray of white thrown up all around. After a while he pulled
himself free, his pain a voice as distant as the stars he followed. He
clambered to his feet and began, unsteadily, to walk.

Two more suns rose and fell as he trudged on. Even his ghosts disap-
peared at last, scrubbed away by the howling snows. He thought the
weather might be getting colder, but could not remember for certain what
cold was.

104 Tad Williams

When the next sun climbed, it was into a freezing, slate-gray sky. The
wind had subsided and the swirling snows had dropped back down into
feathery drifts. Before him, looming jagged and severe as a shark's tooth
against the horizon, stood the mountain. A grim crown of iron-gray
clouds hung about its shadowed peak, fed by smokes and steam that
issued from cracks along its icy flanks. Seeing it, he fell forward onto his
knees and uttered a silent prayer of thanks- He still did not know his
name, but he knew that this was what he sought.

When another darkness and light had passed, he found himself nearing
the mountain's shadow, walking in a land of icy hills and dark dales.
Mortal men and women lived here, pale-haired, suspicious-eyed, huddling
in clan-houses made of muddied stone and heavy black beams- He did not
pass through their bleak villages, though he thought them dimly familiar.
When the inhabitants hailed him and approached, coming no closer than
superstition allowed, he ignored them and stumbled on.

Another day of painful trudging carried him beyond the dwellings of
the pale-haired folk. Here the mountain blocked the sky so that even the
sun seemed small and remote, and a kind of perpetual evening covered the
land. Sometimes staggering, sometimes crawling, he climbed the steps of
the old, old road through the hills at the mountain's foot, through the
silvery, frost-veiled ruins of a long-dead city. Pillars like broken bones
pushed up through the snowy crust. Arches like the long-vacant eyes of
skulls loomed against the mountain's shadowed ridges.

His strength was fading at last, so near to his goal. The crumbling, icy
road ended at a great gate in the face of the mountain, a gate taller than a
tower, made of chalcedony quartz, shining alabaster, and witchwood,
hung on hinges of black granite and graven with strange shapes and
stranger runes. It was before this gate that he stopped, the last dregs of life
leaking from his tortured frame. As the final blackness began to descend
on him, the mighty gate opened. A flock of white figures came forth,
beautiful as ice in the sun, terrible as winter. They had watched him come.
They had witnessed his every failing step across the white wilderness.
Now, their unfathomable curiosity somehow satisfied, they brought him
at last into the fastness of the mountain.

The nameless traveler awakened in a great pillared chamber within
the mountain's blue-lit heart. Smoke and vapor from the titan well at the
chamber's center rose to mix with the snow that flurried beneath the
impossibly high ceiling. For a long while he could only lie staring up at
the swirling clouds. When he could move his eyes further, he saw before
him a great throne of black rock, covered all over with a patina of frost.
Upon this seat was a white-robed figure whose silver mask glowed like an
azure flame, reflecting the light that spilled from the great well. He was
suddenly filled with exaltation, but also with horrible, horrible shame.

STONE OF  FAREWELL

105

"Mistress," he cried as remembrance came flooding back, "destroy me,
mistress! Destroy me, for I have failed you!"

The silver mask tilted toward him. A wordless chant arose in the
shadows of the chamber, where eyes glittered down at him from a crowd
of watchers, as if the ghosts that had accompanied him through the waste
had come now to judge him and witness his undoing.

"Be silent," said Utuk'ku. Her terrible voice seized him with invis-
ible hands, laying a spell of chill that reached down into his very heart,
making him stone. "/ willjind out what I wish to know."

After his dreadful wounds and his hideous journey across the snows, his
pain had become so general that he had forgotten there was any other kind
of sensation. He had worn his torment as unheedingly as he had his
namelessness, but that had been pain only of the body. Now he was
reminded—as were most who visited Stormspike—that there were agonies
that far outstripped any corporeal injuries, and suffering that was unmiti-
gated by the possibility of death's release.

Utuk'ku, the mountain's mistress, was old beyond comprehension and
had learned many things. She could, perhaps, have gained the knowledge
she sought from him without inflicting terrible torture. If such mercy was
possible, she chose not to exercise it.

He screamed and screamed. The great chamber echoed.

The icy thoughts of the Queen of the Noms crept through him, wrenching
at his very being with cold, heedless claws. It was an agony beyond
anything, beyond fear, or imagination. She emptied him, and he was a
helpless witness. All that had happened, all his experiences, leaped from
him, his inmost thoughts and private self ripped out and exhibited; it felt
as though she had slit him open like a fish and pulled free his struggling soul.

He saw again the pursuit up Urmsheim Mountain, his quarry's discov-
ery of the sword they had sought, his own battle with the mortals and
Sithi. He witnessed once more the coming of the snow-dragon and his
own terrible wounding, how he had been crushed and bloodied, buried
beneath blocks of centuried ice. Then, as if he observed a stranger, he
watched a dying creature struggling across the snows toward Stormspike,
a nameless wretch who had lost his quarry, lost his company, and had
even lost the hound-helm that marked him as the first mortal ever to be
Queen's Huntsman. At last, the spectacle of his shame faded.

Utuk'ku nodded again, her silver mask seeming to stare into the tumult
of fogs above the Well of the Breathing Harp. "It is not for you to say
whether or not you have failed me, mortal," she said at last. "But know this: I
am not unpleased. I have learned many useful things today. The world still spins,
but it spins toward us."

She raised a hand. The chant swelled in the shadows of the chamber.
Something vast seemed to move in the depths of the Well, setting the
vapors to dancing. "I give you hack your name, IngenJegger," Utuk'ku said.

106

Tad Williams

"You are still the Queen's Hunter." From her lap she lifted a new helm of
gleaming white shaped like the head of a questing hound, eyes and lolling
tongued worked in some scarlet gem, the serried teeth daggers of ivory in
the gaping jaw. "And this time I will give to you a quarry such as no mortal has

ever hunted!"

A billow of radiance leaped in the Well of the Harp, splashing the high
pillars; a roar as of thunder rang through the chamber, so deep it seemed
to set the underpinnings of the mountain itself to shaking. Ingen Jegger
felt his spirit surge. He made a thousand silent promises to his wonderful

mistress.

"Butjirst you must sleep deeply and be healed," the silver mask said, "for
you have crossed farther into the realms of death than mortals may usually go and
yet return. You will be made stronger, for your coming task will be a hard one."

The light abruptly vanished, as though a dark cloud had rolled over
him.

^

The forest was still deep in night. After the shouting, the silence seemed
to ring in Deomoth's ears as burly Einskaldir helped him to his feet.

"Usires on the Tree, look there," the Rimmersman said, panting. Still
stunned, Deomoth looked around, wondering what he had done that
would make Einskaldir stare so strangely.

"Josua," the Rimmersman called, "come here!"

The prince slid Naidel back into its sheath and stepped forward. Deomoth
could see the other members of the company pressing in.

"For once they have not just struck and melted away." Josua said
gnmiy. "Deomoth, are you well?"

The knight shook his head, still confused. "My head hurts," he said.
What were they all looking at?

"It... it had a knife to my throat," Father Strangyeard said, wondenngly.
"Sir Deomoth saved me."

Josua bent toward Deomoth, but surprised him by continuing down-
ward until he crouched on one knee. "Aedon save us," the prince said

softly.

Deornoth looked down at last. On the ground by his feet was the
crumpled, black-garbed form of the Nom with whom he had struggled.
The moonlight played over the corpselike face, spatters of blood in dark
relief against the white skin. A wickedly slender knife was still clutched in
the Norn's pallid hand.

"My God!" Deornoth said, and swayed.

Josua leaned nearer to the body. "You struck a strong blow, old friend,"
he said, then his eyes widened and he sprang up. Naidel whicked out of its
scabbard once more.

STONE OF FAREWELL                107

"He moved," Josua said, striving to keep his voice level. "The Nom is
alive."

"Not long," Einskaldir said, raising his axe. Josua's hand shot out, so
that Naidel lay between the Rimmersman and his intended victim.

"No." Josua motioned the others back. "It would be foolish to kill him."

"It tried to kill us!" Isorn hissed. The duke's son had just returned,
bearing a torch he had lit with his flint-stone. "Think of what they did to
Naglimund."

"I do not speak of mercy, "Josua said, dropping the tip of his sword to rest
on the Norn's pale throat. "I speak of the chance to question a prisoner."

As if from the pricking of his flesh, the Nom stirred. Several in the
company gasped.

"You are too close, Josua!" Vorzheva cried. "Step away!"

The prince turned a cold look on her but did not move. He lowered
Naidel's point a little, pushing it against the prisoner's breastbone. The
Norn's eyes fluttered open as he sucked a great rasp of breath past his
blooded lips.

"Ai, Nakkiga," the Norn said hoarsely, flexing his spidery fingers,
"o'do 'tke stazho. . . ."

"But he's heathen, Prince Josua," Isom said. "He can't speak a human
tongue."

Josua said nothing, but prodded again. The Norn's eyes caught the
torchlight, throwing back a strange violet reflection. The slitted gaze slid
up the blade of the sword balanced on his slender chest until it settled at
last on the prince.

"I speak," the Norn said slowly. "I speak your tongue." His voice was
high and cold, brittle as a glass flute. "Soon it will be spoken only by the
dead." The creature sat up and swiveled his head, looking carefully all
around him. The prince's sword followed each movement. The Nom
seemed jointed in strange places, his motions fluid where a mortal's would
be awkward, but elsewhere full of unexpected hitches. Several of those
watching started away, frightened that the stranger was strong enough to
move without show of pain, despite the bleeding ruin that had been his
nose and the marks he bore of numerous other wounds.

"Gutmn, Vorzheva . . ."Josua spoke without looking away from the
prisoner. Beneath the web of drying blood, the Norn's face seemed to
glow like a moon. "You, too, Strangyeard," the prince said. "The harper
and Towser are alone. Go see to them and start a fire. Then make ready to
depart. There is no use in our trying to hide now."

"There never was, mortal man," said the thing on the ground.'

Vorzheva visibly bit back a response to Josua's command. The two
women turned away. Father Strangyeard followed after them, making the
sign of the Tree and clucking worriedly.

"Now, hell-wight, speak. Why do you follow us?" Though his tone

108

Tad Williams

was harsh, Deomoth thought he saw a sort of fascination on the prince's

face.

"[ will tell you nothing." The thin lips parted in a smirk. "Pitiful,

short-lived things. Are you not yet used to dying with your questions

unanswered?"

Infuriated, Deomoth stepped forward and kicked at the thing's side
with his booted foot. The Norm grimaced, but showed no other sign of
pain. "You are a devil-spawn, and devils are masters of lies," Deomoth
snarled. His head hurt fiercely, and the sight of this grinning, bony creature
was almost too much to bear. He remembered them swarming through
Naglimund like maggots and felt his gorge rising.

"Deomoth . . ."Josua said warningly, then addressed the prisoner once
more. "If you are so mighty, why do your fellows not slay us and be done
with it? Why waste your time on ones so much lower than you?"

"We will not wait much longer, never fear." The Norn's taunting voice
took on a note of satisfaction. "You have caught me, but my fellows discov-
ered all that we need to know. You may as well offer up your death-
prayers to that little man-on-a-stick that you worship, for nothing will

stop us now."

Now it was Einskaldir who moved with a growl toward the Norn.

"Dog! Blaspheming dog!"

"Silence," Josua snapped. "He does it purposefully." Deomoth laid a
cautious hand on Einskaldir's muscled arm. One did not grab heedlessly at
the Rimmersman, who had a cold but swift temper. "Now," Josua said,
"what do you mean, 'discovered what you need to know'? What might
that be? Speak, or I shall let Einskaldir have you."

The Norn laughed, the sound of wind in dry leaves, but Deomoth
thought he had seen a change in the purple eyes when Josua spoke. It seemed
the prince had struck close to some delicate spot. "Kill me, then—swiftly
or slowly," the prisoner taunted. "1 will say no more. Your time—the
time of all mortals, shifty and annoying as insects—is nearly over. Kill me.
The Lightless Ones will sing of me in the lowest halls of Nakkiga. My
children will remember my name with pride."

"Children?" Isorn's surprise was clear in his voice. The prisoner turned
a look of icy contempt onto the blond northerner, but did not speak.

"But why?" Josua demanded. "Why should you ally yourself with
mortals? And what threat are we to you, far up in your northern home?
What does your Storm King gain from this madness?"

The Nom only stared.

"Speak, damn your pale soul to hell'"

Nothing.

Josua sighed. "Then what do we do with him?" he murmured, almost

to himself.

"This!" Einskaldir stepped away from Deornoth's restraining arm and
lifted his axe. The Norn stared up at him for a silent heartbeat, angled face

STONE OF FAREWELL                 109

like a blood-smeared mask of ivory, before the Rimmersman brought the
hand-axe around, shearing through the skull and smashing the prisoner
back against the earth. The Norn's thin frame began to writhe, doubling
over, straightening, then snapping forward once more as though he were
hinged in the middle. A fine mist of blood sprayed from his head. The
death-throes were as horribly monotonous as the contortions of a smashed
cricket. After several moments, Deomoth had to turn away.

"Curse you, Einskaldir," Josua said at last, voice ragged with rage. "How
dare you? I did not tell you to do that!"

"And if I didn't, then what?" Einskaldir said. "Take him with us? Wake
up with that grinning corpse-face over yours some night?" He seemed a
little less sure than he sounded, but his words were stiff with anger.

"By the Good God, Rimmersman, can you never wait before you
strike? If you have no respect for me, what of your Master Isgrimnur,
who bade you obey me?" The prince leaned forward until his agonized
face was only a hand's breadth from Einskaldir's bristling dark beard- The
prince held Einskaldir's eye, as though trying to see something hidden.
Neither man spoke.

Staring at his prince's profile, at Josua's moon-painted face so full of
fierceness and sorrow, Deomoth was reminded of a painting of Sir Camaris
riding to the first Battle of the Thrichings. KingJohn's-greatest knight had
worn just such a look, proud and desperate as a starving hawk. Deomoth
shook his head, trying to clear the shadows away. What a night of
madness this had become!

Einskaldir turned aside first. "It was a monster," he grumbled. "Now it
is dead. Two of its fellows are wounded and driven away. I will go clean
the fairy blood from my sword."

"First you will bury the body," Josua said, "Isorn, help Einskaldir.
Search the Norn's clothing for anything that might tell us more. God help
us, we know so "little."

"Bury it?" Isorn was respectful but dubious.

"Let us not give away anything that might save us—including informa-
tion. "Josua sounded tired of talking. "If the Norn's fellows do not find
the body, they may not know he is dead. They may wonder what he is
telling us."

Isom nodded without much conviction and bent to the unpleasant task.
Josua turned and took Deomoth by the arm.

"Come," the prince said. "We must talk."

They walked a little way from the clearing, staying within hearing of
the campsite. The shards of night sky visible through the thick trees had
gone dark blue, beginning to warm to dawn. A solitary bird whistled.

"Einskaldir means well. Prince Josua," Deomoth said, breaking the
stillness between the two men. "He is fiery, impatient—but not a traitor."
Josua turned to him in surprise. "Heaven save us, Deomoth, do you

110 Tad Williams

think I do not know5 Why do you think I said so little111 But Emskaldir
acted rashly—I would have wished to hear more from the Norn, though
the end would have to have been the same I hate cold-blooded killing, but
what would we have done with the murderous creature3 Still. Emskaldir
considers me too much a thinker to be a good warrior " His laugh was
melancholy "He is probably correct " The prince raised his hand Co still
Ueomoth's response "But that is not why I wanted to speak alone Emskaldir
is my affair No, I wanted to hear your thoughts on the Norn's words "

"Which, Highness5"

Josua sighed "He said that his fellows had found what they wanted Or
learned what they wished to know What could that mean3"

Dcornoth shrugged "My skull is still rattling. Prince Josua "

"But you said yourself that there must be a reason that they haven't
killed us " The prince sat down on the mossy trunk of a toppled tree,
motioning the knight to join him The bowl of sky was turning lavender
overhead "They send a walking dead man to come among us, they shoot
arrows but don't kill us, to prevent us from turning east—and now they
send a few of their creatures to sneak into our camp like thieves What do
they want3"

No answer would come, no matter how hard Deornoth thought He
could not shake his memory free from the Norn's mocking smile But there
had been another look, too, that momentary glimmer of unease

"They fear    " Deornoth said, feeling the idea very close, "    they
fear    "

"The swords," Josua hissed "Of course' What else would they fear5"

"But we have no magical sword," Deornoth said

"Perhaps they do not know that," Josua said "Perhaps that is one of the
virtues of Thorn and Mmneyar—that they are invisible to the Norns'
magic " He slapped at his thigh "Of course' They must be, or the Storm
King would have found them and destroyed them' How else could weap-
ons deadly to him still exist'5"

"But why have they tried to prevent our going east7"

The prince shrugged "Who can say5 We must think on this more, but I
believe it is the answer They fear we already have one or both of the
swords and they are afraid to come against us until they know "

Deornoth felt his heart sinking "But you heard what the creature said
They know now "

josua's smile faded "True Or at least they must be fairly sure Still, it
is a piece of knowledge that might still work in our favor, somehow
Somehow " He stood "But they are no longer afraid to approach us We
must travel even more swiftly Come "

Wondering how a company so injured and dispirited could make any
greater haste, Deornoth followed the prince back through the dawn light
to camp

Spreading Fires

± Hi/ OeUUUUS wheeling in the gray morning sky hatefully echoed
the creaking ofThe oarlocks The rhythmic squeak, squeak, squeak of the
oars was like an insistent finger digging at her side Minamele felt her
anger building At last, she turned on Cadrach m a fury

"You    you traitor'" she spat

The monk goggled at her, his round face growing pale with alarm

"What5" Cadrach looked as though he would have liked to move away,
and quickly, but they were cramped together m the rowboat's narrow
stern Lenti, Streawe's sullen servitor, watched them m irritation from the
rowing bench where he and the other servant pulled languidly at the
handles "My lady    " Cadrach began, "I don't

His feeble denials only made her angrier "Do you think I'm a fool5"
she snarled "I am slow to realize, but if I think long enough, I get there.
The count called you Padreic—and he's not the first to call you by chat

name'

"A confusion, lady The other was a dying man, if you remember—
maddened by pain, his life leaking out on the Inmscnch . "

"You swine' And I suppose it's a coincidence that Streawe knew I had
left the castle—practically before I knew I was going myself You have
had a fine time, haven't you5 Pulling both ends of the rope, that's what
you've been doing, isn't it5 First you took Vorzheva's gold to escort me.
then you've taken mine while we were on the road, borrowing for ajug of
wine here, cadging a meal there

"I am only a poor man of God, my lady," tried Cadrach gamely

"Be quiet, you    you treacherous drunkard' And you took gold from
Count Streawe, too, didn't you5 You let him know I was coming—I
wondered why you kept sneaking away when we were first in Ansis
Pellipe And while I was prisoner, where were you5 Run of che castle5
Suppers with the count5" She was so upset she could hardly speak "And
and you probably also passed the word on to whoever it is I'm being

112

Tad Williams

sent to now, didn't you? Didn't you! How can you wear religious robes?
Why doesn't God just . . . just kill you for your blasphemy? Why don't
you just burst into flames on the spot?" She stopped, choking on angry

tears, and tried to catch her breath.

"Here now," Lenti said ominously, his single eyebrow creasing down-
ward toward his nose, "stop all this shouting. And don't you try any

tricks!"

"Shut your mouth!" Miriamele told him.

Cadrach thought he saw his chance. "That's right, sirrah, don't you get
to insulting the lady. By Saint Muirfath, 1 can't believe ..."

The monk never got to finish his sentence. With an inarticulate shout of
rage, Miriamele leaned into him and pushed hard. Cadrach huffed out a
surprised breath, waved his arms briefly trying to keep his balance, then

toppled into the Bay ofEmettin's green waves.

"Are -you mad?" Lend roared, dropping his oar and leaping upright.
Cadrach disappeared under a wash of jade water.

Miriamele stood to shout after him. The boat rocked, dropping Lenti
back down into his seat; one of his blades slipped from his hands, diving
into the bay like a silvery fish. "You faithless rogue!" she screamed at the
monk, who was not currently in view. "Damn you to hell!"

Cadrach broke the surface, spewing a great plume of salty water. "I'll
drown!" he gurgled. "Drown! Help me!" He slid back under.

"5o drown, you traitor!" Miriamele shouted, then shrieked as Lenti grabbed
her arm and dragged her down onto her seat, twisting it cruelly in the

process.

"Mad bitch!" he shouted.

"Let him die," she panted, struggling to pull free. "What do you care?"

He reached out and slapped her on the side of the head, bringing fresh
tears to her eyes- "Master said carry two to Nabban-side, you mad bitch.
Show up with one, that's the end of me."

Meanwhile, Cadrach had bobbed up spluttering once more, thrashing
and making noises that indeed sounded as though they came from a
drowning man. Streawe's other servant, wide-eyed, had continued to pull
at his oar, so that by lucky accident the little boat was now coming about,
turning toward where Cadrach splashed and shouted.

The monk saw them coming, panic in his bulging eyes. He began to
strain coward them, but his untutored movements dipped him forward so
that his head sank beneath the waves once more. A moment later-he was
up again, the look of panic on his face even more raw.

"Help!" he screeched breathlessly, flinging his arms about in a parox-
ysm of horror. "Something's, . . ! Something's in here. . . f"

"Aedon and the saints!" Lend snarled, leaning over the side, fighting to
keep his own balance. "What now, sharks?"

Miriamele huddled sobbing in the bow, uncaring. Lenti snatched up the

STONE OF FAREWELL

113

tie-rope and flung it toward the monk. Cadrach did not see it at first as he
beat wildly against the water, but in a few moments his arm had become
tangled in one of the coils.

"Grab it, you fool!" Lenti shouted. "Grab hold!"

At last the monk did, grasping the rope with both hands. He was
hauled through the water toward the boat, legs kicking like a frog's. When
Lenti had pulled him close enough, the other servant let go of his oar and
leaned forward to help. After a couple of failed attempts and a great deal
of cursing they managed to heave his sodden weight up over the wale.
The rowboat pitched. Cadrach lay in the bottom, choking and vomiting
bay water.

"Take your cloak and dry him off," Lend told Miriamele as the monk
subsided at last into hoarse breathing. "If he goes and dies, I'll have you
swimming all the way to shore."

She grudgingly complied.

The brown and sable hills of Nabban's northeastern coast rose steadily
before them. The sun was climbing toward noon, burnishing the surface
of the bay with a fierce, coppery glare. The two men rowed, the boat
rocked back and forth, and the oarlocks creaked and creaked and creaked-

Miriamele was still furious, but it had become a flat, hopeless anger.
The eruption was over, the fires burning down to ashen coals.

How could I have been so foolish? she wondered. / trusted him—worse, I was
even beginning to like him! I enjoyed his company, half-drunken though it usually
was.

Only a few moments before, as she had shifted position on the bench,
she had heard something clinking in the pocket of Cadrach's robe. When
removed, this proved to be a purse embossed with the seal of Count
Streawe, half full of silver quints-pieces and a pair of gold Imperators. This
indisputable proof of the monk's treachery momentarily brought back her
rage. She considered pushing him back overboard, suffering Lend's pun-
ishment if necessary, but after a little deliberation she decided that she was
no longer angry enough to kill him. In fact, Miriamele was a little
surprised that her earlier fury had burned as hotly as it had.

She looked down at the monk, who lay curled in exhausted, fitful sleep,
his head propped on the bench beside her. Cadrach's mouth was open, his
breath coming in little gasps as though even in his dreams he battled for
air. His pink face was becoming even pinker. Miriamele lifted her hand
and peered upward at the sun through shielding fingers. It had been a cold
summer, but here in the middle of the water the sun beat down mercilessly.

Without thinking about it too much, she took her threadbare cloak and
draped it over Cadrach's forehead, shading his face. Lend, watching
silently from the rowing bench, scowled and shook his head. In the bay
beyond his shoulder, Miriamele saw something smooth break the water,
then slip sinuously back into the deeps.

114

Tad Williams

For a while she watched the gulls and pelicans whirling through the air,
returning to the coastal rocks to land with a great back-flapping of wings.
The gulls' cold cries reminded her of Meremund, her childhood home on

the coast of Erkynland.

I could stand on the southern wall there and watch the rivermen pushing up and
down the Gleniwent. From the western wall I could see the ocean. I was a
princess, trapped by my position, yet I had every thing I wanted. Now look at me.
She snorted in disgust, occasioning another unpleasant stare from Lenti.
Now I'mft'ee to adventure, she thought, and I'm more a prisoner than ever. I
go about in disguise, yet thanks to this traitorous monk, I am better-announced than
I ever was at court. People I hardly know deliver me ftom hand to hand like a
favorite trinket. And Meremund is lost to me forever, unless . . .
The wind ruffled her shorn hair. She felt quite hollow.
Unless what? Unless my father changes? He will never change. He has
destroyed Uncle Josua—killed Josua! Why should he ever turn back? Nothing
will ever he as it was. The only hope of things getting better died with Naglimund.
All their plans, the old Rimmersman Jamauga's legends, the talk of magical
swords . . . and all the people who lived there—-gone. So what is left? Unless
Father changes or dies, I will be a jugitive forever.
But he will never change. And if he dies—what is left of me, I'll die, too.
Staring out at the Bay of Emettin's metallic sheen, she thought about
her father as he once had been, remembering the time when she had been
three years of age and he had first lifted her onto a horse. Miriamele could
picture that moment as clearly as if it had been only days ago instead of
her whole life. Elias had grinned with pride as she clung, terrified, to what
seemed a monster's back. She had not fallen, and she had stopped crying
as soon as he swung her back down.

How can one person, even a king, let such ugliness loose on the land as my
father has? He loved me, once. Perhaps he still does—but he has poisoned my life.

Now he seeks to poison all the world.
The waves slapped as the rocks drew nearer, gold-capped by the late

morning sun.

Lend and the other servitor unshipped the oars, using them to guide the
boat between the craggy rocks that thrust up on every side. As they came
close to the shore and the water became more translucent, Miriamele again
saw something break the surface close by. There was a brief shimmer of
glossy gray before it vanished with a splash, then reappeared a moment
later on the far side of the boat, a long stone's throw away.

Lenti saw her staring and turned to look over his shoulder. What he saw
brought a look of fear to his stolid face. After a muttered exchange, he and
his companion redoubled their efforts, hurrying the boat in toward shore.

"What is it," the princess asked, "a shark?"

Lenti did not look up. "Kilpa," he snapped, rowing hard.

STONE OF FAREWELL

115

Miriamele stared, but now saw only low waves breaking into spray
against the rocks. "Kilpa in the Bay ofEmettin?" she said incredulously.
"Kilpa never come in so far' They are deep-sea dwellers."

"Not nowadays," Lenti growled. "Been deviling ships all along the
coast. Any fool knows so- Now be quiet!" He panted, pulling at the oars.
Disquieted, Miriamele continued to stare- Nothing else disturbed the bay's
placid surface.

When the keel rasped on sand, Lenti and the other rower leaped out and
quickly dragged the boat up onto the beach. Together they lifted Cadrach
out and dumped him unceremoniously onto the ground, where he lay,
quietly moaning. Miriamele was left to shift for herself. She waded the
half-dozen steps with her monk's robe held high.

A man in a priest's black cassock was picking his way down to the
beach by the steep cliff path. He reached the bottom and came striding
across the sand toward them.

"I suppose this is the slave trader I am to be delivered to?" Miriamele
said in her frostiest tone as she squinted at the approaching figure. Lenti
and his companion, staring nervously at the bay, did not reply.

"Ho, there!" the black-robed man called. His voice was loud and cheerful
above the sea's somnolent roar.

Miriamele looked at him, then looked again, astonished. She took a
couple of steps toward the newcomer. "Father Dinivan?" she asked halt-
ingly. "Could it be you?"

"Princess Miriamele!" he said happily. "Here you are. I am so glad."
His wide, homely smile made him look like a young boy, but the curly
hair around his shaven scalp was touched with gray. He dropped briefly to
a knee before rising to look her over carefully. "I wouldn't have known
you from much farther away than this. I was told you were traveling as a
boy—quite effective. And you've turned your hair black."

Miriameie's mind was awhirl, but a great burden seemed abruptly lifted
from her spirit. Of all those who had visited her father's households in
Meremund and the Hayholt, Dinivan had been one of the few who had
been a real friend, giving her truth where others offered only flattery,
bringing her both outland gossip and good advice. Father Dinivan was
chief secretary to Lector Ranessin, the master of Mother Church, but he
had always been so humble and forthcoming that Miriamele often had to
remind herself of the exalted position he held.

"But . . . what arc you doing here?" she said at last. "Have you come
to ... to what? To save me from the slave traders?"

Dinivan laughed. "I am the slave trader, my lady." He tried to compose
a more serious expression, but had little luck. " 'Slave traders'—Blessed
Usires, what did old Streawe tell you? Well, time for that later." He
turned to Miriamele's captors. "You two. Here is your master's seal." He
held up a parchment with an "S" mark in red wax at the bottom- "You
may go back and give the count my thanks."

116

Tad Williams

Lenti inspected the seal in a cursory way. He looked worried.

"Well?" said the priest impatiently. "Is anything wrong?"

"There's kilpa out there," Lenti declared mournfully.

"There are kilpa everywhere in these evil times," Dmivan said, then
smiled charitably. "But it is midday, and you are two strong men. I think
you have little to fear. Are you armed?"

Streawe's servant drew himself up to his full height and stared imperi-
ously at the priest. "I have a knife," he said sternly.

"Ohe, vo stetto," his companion echoed in Perdrumese-

"Well, I'm sure you'll have no problems," Dmivan said reassuringly.
"The protection of the Aedon be on you." He made a desultory sign of
the Tree in their general direction before turning his back on them to
address Minamele once more. "Let us go. We shall stay here tonight, but
then we must hurry. It is a good two days journey or more to the
Sanccllan Aedomtis, where Lector Ranessin is anxious to hear your news."

"The lector?" she said, astonished. "What does he have to do with
this?"

Dmivan waved a placating hand, looking down on Cadrach, who lay on
his side, face shrouded in his sodden hood. "We will talk about this and
many other things soon. It appears that Streawe told you even less than I
told him—not that I am surprised. He is a clever old jackal." The priest's
eyes narrowed. "What's wrong with your companion—he is your com-
panion, am I right? Streawe said there was a monk traveling with you."

"He almost drowned," Minamele said flatly. "I pushed him overboard."

One of Dmivan's thick eyebrows shot up. "You did? The poor man!
Well, then your Aedonite duty is to help get him on his feet—unless you
fellows would like to lend a hand?" He turned back to the two servants,
who were wading gingerly back to the boat.

"Can't," was Lenti's sullen reply. "Got to get back before night. Before
dark."

"I thought as much. Oh, well, Usires gives us burdens out of His
love." Dmivan bent, catching Cadrach under the armpits. Dinivan's robe
tightened across his broad, muscular back as he wrestled the monk into a
sitting position. "Come now. Princess," he said, then stopped as the
monk groaned- The priest stared at Cadrach's face. An unrecognizable
expression crept onto Dmivan's thick features.

"It's . . . it's Padrcic," he said quietly.

"You, too7!" Minamele exploded. "What has this idiot been doing? Did
he send a crier to every town between Nascadu and Warinsten?"

Dmivan was still staring, as if quite dumbfounded. "What?"

"Streawe knew him also—it was Cadrach here who sold me out to the
count! So he told you of my leaving Naglimund as well?"

"No, princess, no." The priest shook his head. "This is the first I knew
about him being with you. I haven't seen him for years." Reflectively,

STONE OF FAREWELL                137

he made the sign of the Tree. "Truth to tell, I thought he was dead."

"Usires in His suffering!" Minamele swore. "Will someone tell me what
this is all about?'"

'"We must get to shelter—and privacy. The beacon tower on the
cliff top is ours tonight." He pointed to a stone spire on the headland west
of where they stood. "But it will be no festival game getting him there if
he cannot walk."

"I'll make him walk," Miriamele promised grimly. Together they bent
to hoist mumbling Cadrach onto his feet.

The tower was smaller than it looked from the beach, a squat pile of
masonry with a wooden hoarding cobbled around the uppermost story.
The door was tight-swollen by the ocean air, but Dinivan wrenched it
open and they entered, supporting the monk between them. The circular
room was empty but for a rough-hewn table and chair and a ragged carpet
that had been rolled and tied, then left to lie at the base of the stone
staircase. Sea air swirled through the unshuttered window. Cadrach, who
had not spoken during the walk up the cliff path, staggered a few paces
away from the door and sank down onto the wooden floor, laying his
head on the carpet and falling quickly back into sleep.

"He is exhausted, poor man," Dinivan said. He took a lamp from the
table and lit it from another already burning, then stopped to look care-
fully at the monk. "He has changed, but perhaps some of it is the result of
his mishap."

"He was in the water a long rime," Miriamele said, a little guiltily.

"Ah, well, then." Dinivan stood up. "We shall leave him to sleep and
go upstairs. There is much to talk about. Have you eaten?"

"Not since last night." Minamele was suddenly ravenous. "I need
water, too."

"All shall be yours," Dinivan smiled. "Go on up. I am going to get
your companion out of these wet clothes, then I will join you."

The room upstairs was better furnished, with a cot, two chairs, and a
large chest chat stood against the wall. A door, swinging gently, led out
onto the hoarding. On top of the chest sat a plate covered with a kerchief.
Miriamele lifted the cloth to reveal cheese, fruit, and three round loaves of
brown bread.

"The grapes grown over the hill in Teligure are really splendid," the
priest said from the doorway. "Help yourself."

Minamele fell to without having to be invited again. She took a whole
loaf and a lump of cheese, then pulled loose a large bunch of grapes and
retired to one of the chairs. Pleased, Dinivan watched her eat for a
moment, then disappeared down the stairs. He returned shortly with a
sloshing pitcher.

"The well is nearly empty, but the water is good," he said. "Well,

118

Tad Williams

where should we begin? You have heard about Naglimund by now,
haven't you?"

Miriamele nodded, her mouth full.

"Something you may not know. Josua and some others escaped."

In her excitement she choked on a crust of bread. Dnuvan helped hold
the pitcher so she could drink.

"Who went with him?" she asked when she could speak. "Duke
Isgnmnur? Vorzheva?"

Dinivan shook his head. "I do not know. There was terrible destruction
and few survived. All the north is thick-shot with rumors. It is hard to sift
truth from them, butJosua's escape is certain."

"How did you find out?"

"I'm afraid there are some things I may not say—not yet, anyway,
Princess. Please believe that it is for the best. The Lector Ranessm com-
mands me, and 1 am sworn to him—but there are some things I don't even
tell His Sacredness." He grinned. "Which is as it should be. A great man's
secretary must exercise discretion everywhere, even with the great man

himself."

"But why did you have Count Streawe send me to you?"

"I did not know how informed you were. I heard that you were bound
for the Sancellan Mahistrevis to speak to your uncle, Duke Leobardis. I
could not let you go there. You know that Leobardis is dead?"

"Streawe told me." She got up and took a peach from the plate. After a
moment's consideration, she broke off another hunk of cheese.

"But did you know Leobardis died by treachery? By the hand of his

own son?"

"Benigaris?" She was astonished. "But has he not taken the duke's
place? Haven't the nobles resisted?"

"His treachery is nor common knowledge, but there are whispers of it
everywhere. And his mother Nessalanta is his strongest supporter—although
I am sure that she at least suspects what her son did."

"But if you know, why don't you do something!? Why hasn't the lector
done anything?"

Dinivan bowed his head, a look of pain on his face. "Because that is one
of the things I haven't told him. I am sure he has heard the rumors,

however."

Miriamele put her plate on the bed. "Elysia, Mother of God! Why
haven't you told him, Dinivan?"

"Because I cannot prove it, nor can I reveal the source of my informa-
tion. And there is nothing he could do without proof, my lady, except to
upset an already strained situation. There are other grave problems in
Nabban, Princess."

"Please." She waved her hand impatiently. "Here I sit in a monk's robe,
wearing my hair like a boy, and everyone is my enemy but you—or so it

STONE OF FAREWELL                 119

seems, Call me Miriamele. And tell me what is happening in Nabban."

"I will tell you a little, but most should wait. I have not entirely ignored
my secretarial duties: my master the lector would like you to come to see
him in the Sancellan Aedomtis and we will have plenty of time to talk as
we ride." He shook his head. "It is enough to say that people are un-
happy, that the doom-criers who once were scorned in the streets of
Nabban are suddenly the subject of great attention. Mother Church is
under siege." He bent forward, staring at his large hands as he searched
for words. "The people feel a shadow over them. Although they cannot
name it, still it darkens their world. Leobardis' death—and your uncle was
much-beloved, Miriamele—has shaken his subjects, but it is rumor that
truly frightens them: rumor of things worse than war in the north, worse
than any contending of princes."

Dinivan stood and pulled the door all the way open to let in the breeze.
The sea below was flat and glossy. "The doom-shouters say that a force is
arising to cast down Holy Usires Aedon and the kings of men. In the
public squares they cry that all must prepare to bow to a new sovereign,
the rightful master ofOsten Ard."

He came back and stood over Miriamele. Now she could see the signs of
deep worry on his face. "In some dark places a name is even being
whispered—the name of this coming scourge. They whisper of the Storm
King."

Miriamele let out her breath in a great sigh. Even the staring sun of
noon could not disperse the shadows that seemed to come crowding into
the tower room.

"They spoke of these things at Naglimund," Miriamele said later, as
they stood outside on the walkway looking out over the water. "The old
man at Naglimund, Jarnauga, seemed to think the end of the world was
coming, too. But I did not hear everything." She turned to look at
Dinivan, fierce grief upon her slender face. "They kept things from me
because I'm a girl. That's not right—I'm smarter than most of the men I
know!"

Dinivan did not smile. "I've no doubt of that, Miriamele. In fact, I
think you should seek a greater challenge than merely being wiser than
men."

"But I left Naglimund to do something," she continued unhappily.
"Hah! That was smart, wasn't it5 I thought I'd bring Leobardis m on my
uncle's side, but he already was And then he was killed, so what good did
it do Josua anyway?" She trooped a little way around the tower until she
looked out on the spine of the cliff and the backslope that fell away into a
green valley. Rolling hills stretched beyond, brushed with rippling light as
the wind moved among the grasses. She tried to imagine the end of the
world and could not do so. "How do you know Cadrach?" she asked at last.

120

Tad Williams

"Cadrach is a name I never heard until you mentioned it," he replied. "1
knew him as Padreic, long years ago."

"How many years ago could that be?" Minamele smiled. "You're not

that old."

The priest shook his head. "I have a young face, I suppose, but actually
I am nearing forty years—not much younger than your Uncle Josua."

She scowled. "All right, many years ago. Where did you know him?"

"Here and elsewhere. We were members of the same . . . order, I
suppose you would say. But something happened to Padreic. He fell away
from us, and when I later heard tell of him the stories were not good. It
seemed that he had descended into very bad ways."

"I'll say." Minamele made a face.

Dinivan looked at her curiously. "And how did you happen to give him
this unexpected—and no doubt undesired—bath?"

She told him about their trip together, about Cadrach's suspected small
treacheries and her confirmation of his larger one. When she had finished,
Dinivan led her inside again, where Miriamele found her hunger had

returned.

"He has not done right by you, Miriamele, but has not, I think, done

entirely wrong either. There may be hope for him—and not merely the
ultimate hope of salvation, which we all share. I mean that he may move
away from his criminal and drunkard ways." Dinivan walked a few steps
down from the top of the staircase, leaning over to look at Cadrach. Now
wrapped in a coarse blanket, the monk still slept, arms flung out as though
he had only this moment been dragged from the perilous waves. His wet
clothes were hanging in the low rafters.

Dinivan returned to the room. "If he were beyond hope, why would
he have remained with you after he had received his silver from Streawe?"

"So he could sell me to someone else," she responded bitterly. "My
father, my aunt, Naraxi child-merchants—who knows?"

"Perhaps," said the lector's secretary, "but I do not think so. I think he
has conceived a feeling of responsibility to you—although that responsi-
bility does not prevent him from profiting where he thinks you will be
unharmed, as with the master ofPerdruin. But unless the Padreic 1 know
is totally gone, vanished beyond any retrieval, I think he would not harm
you, nor would he willingly let harm come to you."

"Small chance," Miriamele said grimly. "I will trust him again when
stars shine at noontime, but no sooner."

Dinivan looked at her closely, then sketched the sign of the Tree in the
air. "We must be careful of such pronouncements in these strange days,
my lady." A grin came back to his face. "However, this talk of shining
stars reminds me—we have a job to do. When 1 arranged to use this
place to meet you, I promised the tower-keeper that we would light the
beacon tonight. The mariners who ply the coastline expect it to be there,

STONE OF FAREWELL                 121

warning them away from the rocks so they can go cast to the harbor at
Bacea-sa-Repra. i should do it now, before it starts to get dark. Do you
want to come along?" He clattered down the stairs and returned with the
lamp.

Miriamele nodded, following him out onto the hoarding. "I was at
Wentmouth once when they lit the Haycfur there," she said. "It was
huge!"

"Far bigger than our modest candle," Dinivan agreed. "Be careful as
you climb here. This is an old ladder."

The tower's topmost room was little more than a place to hold the
beacon, a very large oil lamp squatting in the middle of the floor. There
was a smoke-hole overhead in the tower's roof and a fence of metal
screens around the wick to slow the wind. A large curved metal shield
hung on the inside wall behind the lamp, facing out toward the sea.

"What does this do?" she asked, running a finger over the shield's
highly polished surface.

"Helps the light travel farther," Dinivan said. "You see how it is curved
away from the flame, like a cup? That collects the lamplight and flings it
out through the window—more or less. Padreic could explain it better."

"You mean Cadrach?" Miriamele asked, puzzled.

"Well, once he could have, anyway. He was very clever about mechani-
cal things when 1 knew him—pulleys and levers and such. He studied a
great deal about Natural Philosophy, before he ... changed." Dinivan
lifted the hand lamp to the large wick and held it there. "The Aedon only
knows how much oil this great thing must burn," he said. After some
moments it caught and the flame rose. The shield on the wall did make it
brighter, even though failing sunlight still streamed in through the wide
windows.

"There are snuffers hanging on the wall," Dinivan said, pointing at a
pair of long staves, each with a metal cup on one end. "We must remem-
ber to put it out in the morning."

When they had returned to the second floor, Dinivan suggested they
look in on Cadrach. Trailing after, Miriamele turned and went back for
the pitcher of water and some grapes. There was really no sense starving
him to death.

The monk was up, sitting on the lone chair, staring out through the
window at the twilit, slate-blue bay. He was withdrawn, and at first did
not respond to Miriamele's offer of food, but at last took a drink of water.
After a moment he accepted the grapes as well.

"Padreic," Dinivan said, leaning close, "do you not remember me? i am
Dinivan. We were friends once."

"I recognize you, Dinivan," Cadrach said at last. His hoarse voice
echoed strangely in the small round room. "But Padreic ec-Crannhyr is
long dead. There is only Cadrach now." The monk avoided Miriamele's eyes.

122

Tad Williams

Dmivan watched him intently "Have you no wish to speak'" he asked
"There is nothing vou can have done that would make me think badiv of

you "

Cadrach looked up. a smirk on his round face, his gray eves full of pain
"Oh, is that true3 Nothing so foul I might have done that Mother Church
and     and our other friends     would not take me back'" He laughed
bitterlv and waved his hand in disgust "You lie, brother Dmivan There
are crimes beyond forgiveness, and a special place prepared for their
perpetrators " Angr\, he turned awav and would not speak any more

Outside the waves murmured as thev struck the rocky coast and fell
back, hushed voices that seemed to welcome the settling night

^

Tiamak watched Older Mogahib, Roahog the Potter, and the other
elders climb into the rocking flatboat Their faces were grave, as befitted
the ceremonial occasion The ritual feather necklaces drooped in the damp

heat

Mogahib stood uneasily in the stern of the boat and turned to look back
"Do not fail us, Tiamak son ofTugumak," he croaked The ancient one
frowned and impatiently brushed the leaves of his headdress out of his
eyes "Tell the drylanders that the Wrannamen arc not their slaves Your
people have given you their greatest trust " Older Mogahib was helped to
sit down by one of his great-nephews The overloaded boat wallowed
away down the watercourse

Tiamak made a sour face and looked down at the Summoning Stick
they had given him. its surface knobby with carvings The Wrannamen
were upset because Benigans. the new master of Nabban, had demanded
greater tithes of gram and jewels, as well as young sons from the houses of
the Wran to come and serve on the holdings of Nabbanai nobles The
elders wanted Tiamak to go and speak for them, to protest this further
meddling by the drylanders in the lives of the Wrannamen

So yet another responsibility was now laid on Tiamak's slender shoul-
ders Had any of his people ever said one respectful word to him about his
learning^ No. they treated him as little more than a madman, someone
who had turned his back on the Wran and his people to follow the ways of
the drylanders—until they needed someone to write or speak to the
Nabbanai or Perdrumesc in their own tongue Then, it was "Tiamak, do

your dutv "

He spat from the porch of his house and watched the green water ripple
below He pulled up his ladder and left it lying in a heap instead of neatly

rolled as was usual He was feeling very bitter
*    *    *•

123

STONE OF FAREWELL

One good thing would come of this, he decided later while waiting for
his water pot to boil If he went to Nabban. as his tribesmen insisted, he
would be able to visit his wise friend who lived there and find out if
anything more could be discovered about Doctor Morgenes' strange
note He had been fretting over it for weeks, yet felt no closer to a
solution His messenger birds to fat Ookequk in Yiqanuc had returned,
their messages unopened That was troubling The birds he had sent to
Doctor Morgenes had returned as well, but that, although disappointing,
was less worrisome than Ookequk's silence, since Morgenes had said m
his last note that he might not be able to communicate for some while
Neither had his messages been answered by the witch woman who lived
m Aldheorte Forest, or bv his friend in Nabban Tiamak had only sent
those last birds out a few weeks ago, however, so they still might reply

But if I am traveling to Nabban, he realized, / will not see any replies for two
months or more

In fact, now that he thought of it, what would he do with his birds3 He
didn't have nearly enough seed to keep them penned for the entire time
he would be gone, and he certainly couldn't take them all with him He
would have to turn them loose to fend for themselves, hoping that they
would stay close to his little house in the banyan tree so he could
recapture them when he returned And if they flew away and did not
come back, what would he do3 He would have to cram more, that was all

Tiamak's sigh was subsumed in the hiss of steam escaping from beneath
the pot lid As he dropped m the yellowroot to steep, the little scholar
tried to remember the prayer for a safe journey that one should make to
He Who Always Steps on Sand, but could only think of the Showmg-the-
Hiding-Places-of-Fish prayer, which was not really appropriate He sighed
again Even though he didn't quite believe in his people's gods anymore, it
never hurt CO pray—but one really ought to say the right prayer

As long as he was pondermg such things, what would he do with that
damnable parchment Morgenes talked about in his letter—or seemed to
talk about, for how could the old doctor know that Tiamak had it3 Should
he take it with him and risk losing it7 But he had to, if he was going to
show it to his friend in Nabban and ask his advice

So many problems They seemed to be crowding his head like black-
flies, buzzing and buzzing He had to think it all through clearly—especially
if he was to leave in the morning for Nabban He had to look at each piece
of this puzzle

First Morgenes' message, which he had read and reread dozens of times
in the four moons or so since he had received it He took it from the top
of the wooden chest and smoothed it, leaving smudges with his yellowroot-
stamed hands He knew the contents by heart

Doctor Morgenes wrote of his fears that "   . the time of the Conqueror
Star" was surely upon them—whatever that might mean—and that Tiamak's

124

Tad Williams

help would be needed ". . . if certain dreadful things which—it is said—are
hinted at in the infamous lost hook of the priest Nisses..." were to be avoided.
But what things? "The infamous lost hook . . ."—that was Nisses' DM

Svardenvyrd, as any scholar knew.

Tiamak reached down into the chest and removed a leaf-wrapped bun-
dle, unrolling it to remove his prized parchment, which he spread on the
floor beside Morgenes' letter. This parchment page, which Tiamak had
stumbled on by luck at the market in Kwanitupul, was of much higher
quality than anything he himself could afford. The rusty brown ink
formed the northern runes of Rimmersgard, but the language itself was
the archaic Nabbanai of five centuries gone.

". . . Bringe jrom Nuanni's Rocke Garden

The Man who tho' Blinded canne See

Discover the Blayde that delivers The Rose

At the foote of the Rimmer's greate Tree

Find the Call whose lowde Claime

Speakes the Call-bearer's name

In a Shippe on the Shallowest Sea—

—Wizen Blayde, Call, and Man

Come to Prince's right Hande

Then the Prisoned shall once more go Free ..."

Below this incomprehensible poem was printed the name "NISSES."

So what was Tiamak to think? Morgenes could not know that Tiamak
had discovered a page of the near-mythical book—the Wrannaman hadn't
told a soul—yet still the doctor had said that Tiamak would have impor-
tant work to do, something to do with Du Svardenvyrd\

His inquiries to Morgenes and the others had gone unanswered. Now
he must go to Nabban to plead his people's cause to the drylanders, yet he
still did not know what it could all mean.

Tiamak poured the tea out of the pan into his third-favorite bowl—he
had dropped and broken his second-favorite bowl that morning, when
Older Mogahib and the others had started braying beneath his window.
He cupped the warm bowl in his slender fingers and blew across the top.
"Hot day, hot tea," his mother had always said. Today was certainly hot.
The air was so still and oppressive that he almost felt he could leap off his
porch and swim through it. Hot weather alone did not make him un-
happy, since he was always less hungry when the heat was fierce, but
nevertheless there was something disconcerting about the air today, as
though the Wran were a smoldering bar of tin on the world-anvil, with a
great hammer trembling above it, ready to smash down and change

everything.
That morning Roahog the Potter, taking a moment to gossip while

STONE OF FAREWELL

125

Older Mogahib was helped up the ladder, had said that a colony ofghants
was building a new nest just a couple of furlongs down the watercourse
from Village Grove. Ghants had never come so close to a human settle-
ment before, and although Roahog had chuckled about how the Wrannamen
would soon put the nest to fire, the story nevertheless left Tiamak unset-
tled, as if some undefined but recognized law had been violated.

As the slow, sweltering afternoon wore on toward evening, Tiamak
kept trying to think about the demands of the Duke of Nabban, and about
Morgenes' letter, but visions of the nest-building ghants pushed in—their
brownish-gray jaws clicking industriously, their mad little black eyes
glittering—and try as he might, he could not rid himself of the ridiculous
notion that somehow all these things were related.

It is the heat, he told himself. If only I had a cool jug of fern heer, these wild
ideas would disappear.

But he did not even have enough yellowroot to make another cup of
tea, let alone any fem beer. His heart was troubled and there was nothing
in the wide, hot Wran that would give him peace.

Tiamak rose with the first light of dawn. By the time he had cooked
and eaten a rice-flour biscuit and drunk a little water, the swamp was
already becoming unpleasantly warm. He grimaced as he began his pack-
ing- This was a day to go splashing and swimming in one of the safe
ponds, not set out on a journey.

There was actually little to pack. He selected a spare breechclout and a
robe and pair of sandals to wear in Nabban—there was no reason to
reinforce the unfortunate opinion of his people's backwardness held by
most Nabbanai. He had no use on this trip, however, for his stretched-
bark writing board, his wooden chest, or most of his other meager lot of
possessions- His precious books and scrolls he dared not take, since there
was a better than average chance he would wind up in the water a few
times before he reached the cities of the drylanders.

He had decided he must take the Nisses parchment, so he wrapped it in
a second layer of leaves and bundled the whole into an oiled skin bag
given to him by Doctor Morgencs when Tiamak had lived in Perdruin.
He put the bag, the Summoning Stick, and his clothes into his flat-
bottomed boat, along with his third-best bow], a handful of cooking
implements, and a throwing-sling with a folded leaf full of round stones.
He hung his knife and his coin-pouch on his belt. Then, having stalled as
long as he couid. he climbed up the banyan tree to the top of the house to
set his birds free.

As he climbed across the thatched roof he could hear the drowsy, muffled
speech of the birds within their small cottage. He had put the remaining
seed in his fourth-best—and last—bowl, setting it out on the windowsill
below. They would at least stay near the house for a while after his departure.

126 Tad Williams

He poked his hand into the little bark-roofed box and delicately re-
moved one of his pigeons, a pretty white-and-gray named So-fast, then
tossed her up into the air She fanned her wings briskly, settling at last on
a hmb above his head Unsettled by this unusual behavior, she hooted
quietly, questioningly Tiamak knew the gnefofa father whose daughter
must be sent to strangers But he had to remove the birds, and the door to
their house, which only opened inward, had to be fastened shut Other-
wise, these birds or their absent kindred would enter and be trapped With
no Tiamak to rescue them, they would soon starve

Feeling very unhappy, he carefully removed Red-eye, Crab-foot, and
Honey-lover Soon there was a disapproving chorus perched above him
Alerted that something unusual was happening, the birds still inside had
fled skittishly to the back of the little house, so that Tiamak had to strain
to reach them As he tried to grasp one of these last recalcitrants, his hands
brushed against a small, cold bundle of feathers that layjust out of sight in
the shadows at the far end

Suddenly full of worry, he closed his hand around the object and lifted
it out It was one of his birds, he saw immediately, and it was dead Eyes
wide, he examined it closely It was Ink-daub, one of the pigeons he had
dispatched to Nabban several days ago Ink-daub had apparently been
injured by some animal, many of his feathers were missing and he was
spotted with dried blood Tiamak was sure the bird hadn't been there
yesterday, so he must have arrived during the night, flying with his last
strength despite his wounds, reaching his home only to die

Tiamak found the world swimming before his eyes as the tears came
Poor Ink-daub He was a fine bird, one of the fastest fliers He had been
very brave, too Everywhere on the bird's body that Tiamak looked,
blood showed beneath the tattered feathers Poor, brave Ink-daub

A slender strip of parchment was curled around the pigeon's twighke
ankle. Tiamak placed the silent bundle aside for a moment and coaxed out
the last two birds, then wedged the small door closed with a notched
stick With Ink-daub's body curled in a gentle hand, Tiamak climbed
down to the window and into the house He set down the pigeon's body
and carefully removed the parchment spreading it out on the floor be-
tween his fingertips, squinting at the tiny characters The message was
from his wise friend in Nabban, whose hand Tiamak recognized even m
bird-writing, but was inexplicably unsigned

The time has come,
it read,

and you are sorely needed Morgenes cannot ask you, but I ask for him Go
to Kivamtupul, stay at the inn we have spoken of, and wait there until I can

STONE OF FAREWELL                 127

tell you more Go there immediately and do not stray More than lives may

depend on you

At the bottom was scribbled a drawing of a feather in a circle—the
symbol of the League of the Scroll

Tiamak sat dumbstruck, staring at the message He read it two more
times, hoping it would miraculously say something different, but the
words remained unchanged Go to Kwamtupul' But the elders had or-
dered him to Nabban1 There was no one else in his tribe who could speak
the drylandcr languages well enough to serve as an emissary And what
would he tell his tribesmen—that some drylander they didn't know had
told him to go wait for instructions at Kwanitupul, that this was reason
enough to turn his back on his people's wishes5 What did the League of
the Scroll mean to Wrannamen3 A circle of drylander scholars who Calked
of old books and older events7 His people would never understand

But how could he ignore the gravity of the summons7 His friend in
Nabban had been explicit—had even said that this was what Morgcnes
wanted him to do Without Morgenes, Tiamak would never have sur-
vived his year m Perdrum, let alone gained the wonderful fellowship to
which the doctor had introduced him How could he not do this one
thing—this, the only favor Morgenes had ever asked of him5

The hot air was pushing in at the windows like a hungry beast Tiamak
folded the note and slipped it into his sheath He must attend to Ink-daub
Then he would think Perhaps it would be cooler as evening drew closer Surely
he could wait one more day before leaving, wherever he was to go3 Surely7

Tiamak wrapped the bird's small body in oil palm leaves, then wound it
in a length of thin cord He stilted through the shallows to a sandbar
behind his house, where he set the bundle of leaves on a rock and
surrounded it with bark and precious strips of old parchment After
uttering a prayer for Ink-daub's spirit to She Who Waits to Take All Back,
he used his flint and steel to set the tiny pyre aflame

As the smoke coiled upward, Tiamak reflected that there was something
to be said for the old ways after all If nothing else, they provided
something to do at a time when the mind was weary and hurting For a
moment, he was even able to push aside the troubling thoughts of duty,
feeling instead a strange sort of peace as he watched Ink-daub's smoke take
flight, rising slowly into the feverish gray sky

Soon, chough, the smoke was gone and the ashes were scattered across
the green water

^

When Minamele and her two companions came down off the hill path
onto the North Coast Road, Cadrach jogged his mount ahead, putting

128

Tad Williams

several lengths between himself and Dmivan and the princess. The morn-
ing sun was at their backs The horse;) Dmivan had brought trotted along
with heads waving, nostrils wide to catch the scents on the early breeze

"Ho, Padrcic'" Dmivan shouted, but the monk did not reply His round
shoulders bounced up and down His hood was lowered as if he hung his
head m thought "Very well, then—Cadrach^ the priest called, "why do
you not ride with us5"

Cadrach, a graceful horseman despite his bulk and short legs, rcmed up.
When the other two had nearly caught him, he turned

"It is a problem with names, brother," he said, showing his teeth in an
angry smile "You call me by one that belongs to a dead man. The
princess, well now, she's given me a new one—"traitor"—and baptized
me with it in Emettm Bay to seal the bargain So you see, don't you, it
would be all too confusing, this—one might say—multiplicity of names."
With an ironic bow of the head, he dug his heels into his horse's ribs and
forged ahead, slowing again to match their pace when he had extended his
lead to a dozen ells or so.

"He is very bitter," Dmivan said as he watched Cadrach's hunched
shoulders.

"What docs he have to be bitter about'" Minamele demanded.

The priest shook his head. "God knows."

Coming from a priest, she decided, it was hard to tell exactly what that
phrase might signify-

Nabban's North Coast Road meandered along between the ridge of hills
and Emettm Bay, sometimes jogging inland so that the hills' tan flanks
rose on the right, blocking all view of the water. Farther on, the hills fell
away again for a short time and the rocky coastline appeared once more.
As the tno approached Teligure, the road began to fill with other traffic:

farm wains shedding streams of loose hay, foot peddlers carrying their
wares hung on poles, small troops of local guardsmen marching offi-
ciously from one place to another. Many travelers, seeing the golden Tree
that hung on Dmivan's black-robed chest and the monkish robes of his
companions, bowed their heads or made the Tree-sign across their breasts.
Beggars ran alongside the priest's horse, crying. "Father, Father! Aedon's
mercy. Father'" If they seemed truly crippled in some way, Dmivan
reached into his robes and produced a cmtis-piece, which he tossed down
to them. Minamele noticed that few of the beggars, no matter how
hobbled or deformed, ever let the coin strike the ground.

They stopped at midday in Teligure itself, a sprawling market town set
in the lap of the hills, where they refreshed themselves with fruit and hard
bread bought from stalls in the town square Here, in the crush of
commerce, three religious travelers drew little notice.
*    *    *

STONE OF FAREWELL                 129

Minamele was basking in the bright sun, hood pushed back so that she
could feel the warmth on her forehead. All around her echoed the cries of
the hawkers and the outraged shrieks of swindled buyers Cadrach and
Dinivan stood nearby, the priest bargaining with a seller of boiled eggs
while his sullen companion eyed a wine-merchant's booth next door
Minamele realized with some surprise that she felt happy.

Just like that7 she chided herself, but the sun felt too nice for self-
vilification. She had been fed, had ridden all morning free as the wind, and
nobody around was paying the slightest attention to her. At the same
time, she felt strangely protected.

She thought suddenly of the kitchen boy Simon and her contented
mood expanded to touch the memory of him as well. He had a nice smile,
Simon had—not practiced, like one other father's courtiers. Father Dmivan
had a good smile, too, but it never looked surprised at itself, as Simon's
almost always did.

In a strange way, she realized, the days spent traveling to Naglimund
with Simon and Bmabik the troll had been some of the best other life. She
laughed at herself, at such a ridiculous notion, and stretched as luxuriously
as a cat on a windowsill. They had faced terror and death, had been chased
by the terrible hunter Ingen and his hounds, and had nearly been killed by
a Hune, a murderous, shaggy giant. But still she had felt very free.
Pretending to be a servant, she had felt more herself than ever before.
Simon and Bmabik talked to her—not to her title, not to her father's
power or their own hopes for reward or advancement.

She missed them both. She felt a sharp and sudden pang thinking of the
little troll and poor, gawky, red-thatched Simon wandering in the snowy
wilderness. In the frustration of her imprisonment in Perdrum she had
almost forgotten them—where were they7 Were they in danger? Were
they even alive5

A shadow fell across her face. She flinched, startled

"I don't think I can keep our friend out of the wine-stalls much longer,"
Umivan said. "Nor am I sure I have a right to. We should take to the road
again. Were you sleeping?"

"No." Minamele pulled her hood forward and stood up. "Just thinking "

^

Duke Isgnmnur sat wheezing before the fire, thinking seriously about
breaking something or hitting someone. His feet hurt, his face had itched
like sin ever since he had shaved off his beard—and what kind of
be-damned madman was he to have agreed to that?'—and he was not one
whit closer to finding Pnncess Minamele than he had been when he left
Naglimund. All that was bad enough, but now things had gotten even
worse.

130 Tad Williams

Isgrimnur had felt sure he was narrowing the gap. When he had fol-
lowed Miriamele's trail to Perdmin, and confirmed with the old tosspot
Gealsgiath that the captain had left her and the criminal monk Cadrach
here in Ansis Pellipe, the duke had been certain it was only a matter of
time. Even hobbled by his monk's disguise, Isgrimnur knew Ansis Pellipe
well, and could find his way through most of its seedier neighborhoods.
Soon, he had felt sure, he would have her in hand and could take her back
to her uncle Josua at Naglimund, where she would be safe from her father
Ellas' doubtful charities.

Then the twin blows had fallen. The first had been slower in effect, the
culmination of many fruitless hours and a small fortune in pointless bribes:

it had gradually become clear to Isgrimnur that Miriamele and her escort
had disappeared from Ansis Pelippe, as completely as if they had sprouted
wings and flown away. Not a single smuggler, cutpurse, or tavern harlot
had seen them since Midsummer's Eve. She and Cadrach were a hard pair
to miss—two monks traveling together, one fat, one young and slender—
but they had vanished. Not a single boatman had seen them carried away,
or even heard of them inquiring after passage at the docks. Gone!

The second blow, falling on top of his personal failure, struck Isgrimnur
like a great stone. He had not been on Perdruin a fortnight before the
wharfside taverns were alive with stories of the fall of Naglimund. The
sailors repeated the rumors cheerfully, talking of the slaughter Elias*
mysterious second army had wreaked on the castle's inhabitants as if
reveling in the twists and turns of an old fireside tale.

Oh, my Outrun, Isgrimnur had prayed, his innards knotted with fear and
rage, Usires protect youjrom harm. Let you come out safe again, wife, and I will
build a cathedral to Him with my bare hands. And Isom, my brave son, andjosua
and all the rest . . .

He had cried that first night, in a dark alley by himself, where no one
would see the huge monk sobbing, where for at least a little while he need
not falsify- He was frightened in a way he had never quite been before.

How could it have happened so swiftly? he wondered. That damnable castle
was built to last out a ten-year sie^e! Was it treachery jrom within?

And how, even if his family had been saved by some miracle and he
could find them again, how would he ever get back his lands that Skali
Sharp-nose had stolen with the High King's help? With Josua broken,
with Leobardis and Lluth dead, there was none who could stand in Elias'
way.

Still, he must find Miriamele. He could at least discover her, rescue her
from the traitor Cadrach and take her somewhere safe. That one piece of
misery still remained which he could prevent Elias from accomplishing.

So, defeated, he had come at last to The Hat and Plover, an inn of the
lowest sort, which was just what his aching spirit craved. His sixth jug of
sour beer sat at his side, as yet untouched. Isgrimnur brooded.

STONE OF FAREWELL

131

He might have dozed, for he had been walking the long waterfront all
day and was very tired. The man who stood before him might have been
there for some time. Isgrimnur did not like his look.

"What are you staring at?" he growled.

The stranger's eyebrows came together over his eyes. His lantern jaw
was set in a contemptuous smirk. He was tall and dressed in black, but the
Duke of Elvritshalla did not find him nearly as impressive as the stranger
obviously felt himself to be.

"Are you the monk who has been asking questions all over the city?"
the stranger demanded.

"Go away," Isgrimnur replied. He reached to take a draught of beer. It
made him feel a little more alert, so he took another swallow.

"Are you the one who has been asking about the other monks?" the
stranger began again. "About the Call and short ones?"

"I might be. Who are you, and what business do you have with me?"
Isgrimnur grunted, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. His
head hurt.

"My name is Lenti," the stranger said. "My master wishes to speak
with you."

"And who is your master?"

"Never mind. Come. We will go now."

Isgrimnur belched. "I do not wish to go meet any nameless masters. He
can come to me if he wishes. Now go away."

Lenti bent forward, his eyes keenly fixed on Isgrimnur's. There were
pimples on his chin.

"You will come now, fat old man, if you don't want to be hurt," he
whispered fiercely. "/ have a knife."

Isgrimnur's hamhock fist struck him right where his eyebrows met.
Lenti pitched backward and dropped bonelessly, as though he had been
struck with a slaughtering-hammer. A few of the other tavern-goers
laughed before turning back to their various unpleasant conversations.

After a while the duke leaned forward, pouring a stream of beer onto
his black-clad victim's face. "Get up, man, get up. I have decided I will go
with you and meet your master." Isgrimnur grinned wickedly as Lenti
spluttered foam. "I was feeling poorly before, but by Aedon's Holy Hand,
I suddenly feel a great deal better!"

Teligure disappeared behind the three riders. They continued west on the
Coast Road, following its winding course through a handful of compact
towns. The work of bringing in the hay was going forward at full speed
on the hillsides and in the valley below, haycocks rising all over the fields

132

Tad Williams

like the heads of wakened sleepers. Miriamele listened to the chanting
voices of the field-masters and the joking cries of the women as they
waded out into the tawny pastures with bottles and wallets containing the
workers' mid-afternoon meals. It seemed a happy, simple life, and she said

as much to Dinivan.

"If you think working each day from before sunup to dark, breaking
your back in the fields is happy and simple work, then you are right," he
answered, narrowing his eyes against the sun. "But there is little rest, and
when the year is bad, little food. And," he said, smiling wickedly, "most
of your crop goes out as tithes to the baron. But that seems to be what
God intended. Certainly, honest labor is better than a life of beggary or
theft—in the eyes of Mother Church, anyway, if not in the eyes of some

beggars and most thieves."

"Father Dinivan!" exclaimed Miriamele, a little shocked. "That sounds
... I don't know . . . heretical, I suppose."

The priest laughed. "God the Highest gifted me with a heretical nature,
my lady, so if He regrets his gift, he will soon gather me back to His
bosom again and make all right. But my old teachers would agree with
you. I was frequently told that my questions were the devil's tongue
speaking in my head. Lector Ranessin, when he offered me the position of
his secretary, Cold my teachers: Better the devil's tongue to argue and
question than a silent tongue and an empty head.' Some of the Church's
more proper priests find Ranessin a difficult master." Here Dinivan frowned.
"But they know nothing. He is the best man on earth."

During the long afternoon Cadrach allowed the distance between him-
self and his companions to diminish gradually, until at last they were
riding nearly side-by-side once more. This concession did not loosen his
lips, however; although he seemed to be listening to Miriamele's questions
and Dinivan's stories of the land through which they passed, he did not in
any way join the conversation.

The cloud-strewn sky had turned orange and the sun was streaming into
their eyes as they approached the walled town of Grants Sacrana, the spot
Dinivan had chosen for them to spend the night. The town sat on a bluff
overlooking the Coast Road. The hills all around, sunset brushed, were

tangled with grape vines.

To the travelers' surprise, a squad of guardsmen sat mounted at the
broad gate questioning those who sought entrance. They were not local-
levied troops, but armored men wearing the gold kingfisher of the royal
Benidrivine House. When Dinivan gave their names—choosing Cadrach's
by default and offering "Malachias" on the princess' behalf—they were
told that they must ride on and harbor elsewhere that night.
"And why should such a thing be?" Dinivan demanded.
The sheepish guardsman could only stubbornly repeat his order.

STONE OF FAREWELL                 133

"Then let me speak to your sergeant."

The sergeant, when produced, echoed his subordinate's words-

"But why, man?" the priest asked hotly. "By whose orders? Is there
plague here, or something like?"

"Something like indeed," the sergeant said, scratching his long nose in a
worried manner. "It's by the orders of Duke Benigaris himself, or so I
Cake it to be. I have his seal on it."

"And I bear the seal of the Lector Ranessin," Dinivan said, producing a
ring from his pocket and waggling its blood-red ruby beneath the startled
sergeant's nose. "Know chat we are on the holy business of the Sancellan
Aedonitis. Is there plague, or what? If there is no dangerous air or diseased
water, we will stay here tonight."

The croop-sergeanc took off his helmet and squinted at Dinivan's signet
ring. When he looked up, his thick face was still troubled.

"As I said, Your Bminence," he begun unhappily, "it's like a plague.
It's those madmen, those Fire Dancers."

"What are Fire Dancers?" Miriamele asked, remembering to imitate a
boy's gruff tones.

"Doom-criers," Dinivan said grimly-

"Ifchat were all," the sergeant said, spreading his hands helplessly. He
was a large man, broad-shouldered and thick-legged, but he looked quite
undone. "They're mad, the lot of them. Duke Benigaris has commanded
that we ... well, keep a watch over them. We are not to interfere, but I
thought that at least we could keep more strangers from coming in ..."
He trailed off, looking uneasily at Dinivan's ring.

"We are not strangers, and as the lector's secretary I am in little danger
of falling under the sway of these people's exhortations," Dinivan said
sternly. "So let us in, that we may find shelter for the night. We have
ridden long. We are tired."

"Very well, Your Eminence," the sergeant said, waving for his troops
Co unblock the gates. "But I take no responsibility ..."

"We all take responsibility in this life, every one of us," the priest
responded seriously, then softened his expression. "But our Lord Usires
understands about difficult burdens." He made the sign of the Tree as they
rode in past the sergeant's jostling men-at-arms.

"That soldier seemed very upset," Miriamele said as they clattered up
the central row. Many houses were shuttered, but pale faces peeped from
doorways, watching the travelers. For a town the size ofGranis Sacrana,
the streets were surprisingly empty. Small groups of soldiers rode back
and forth from the gates, but only a few other folk hurried along the dusty
street, darting uneasy glances at Miriamele and her companions before
dropping their eyes and hustling on.

"The troop-sergeant is not the only one," Dinivan answered as they
rode along in the shadows of the tall houses and shops. "Fear sweeps
through all Nabban like a plague these days."

134

Tad Williams

"Fear goes where it is invited," Cadrach said quietly, but turned away

from their questioning looks.

When they reached the marketplace in the center of town they discov-
ered why Grants Sacrana's streets were so pretcrnaturally empty. A crowd
stood half a dozen deep around the town square, whispering and laughing.
Although the final glimmers of afternoon still warmed the horizon, the
torches had been lit in their sconces all around the square, throwing
quivering shadows into the dark places between houses and illuminating
the white robes of the Fire Dancers, who swayed and shouted in the
middle of the commons.

"There must be a hundred of them or more!" Miriamele said in sur-
prise- Dinivan wore a scowling, worried face. Some in the watching
crowd were shouting derisively or throwing stones and refuse at the
capering dancers, but others stared intently, even fearfully, as if at some
animal upon which they feared to turn their backs.

"Too late for repentance'" one of the robed ones screeched, bounding
away from his fellows to bob up and down like a jumping jack before the
front row of spectators. The crowd eddied away from him as if fearful of
some contagion. Too late," he shouted. His face, that of a young man
with his first beard, split in a grin of glee. "Too late! The dreams told us!
The master's coming!"

Another of the white-clad figures climbed onto a stone in the center of
the commons, waving to silence fellow dancers. The watchers murmured
as this one threw back a capacious hood, revealing the yellow-haired head
of a woman. She would have been very pretty, but for her staring eyes,
white-rimmed in the torchlight, and her huge, ghastly smile.

"The fire is coming!" she cried. The other dancers capered and shouted,
then quieted. A few in the surrounding crowd called out insults, but
quickly fell silent as she turned her burning eyes upon them. "Do not fear
you will be left out," she said, and in the sudden quiet her voice carried
clearly. "The fires are coming for everyone—the fires and the ice that will
bring the Great Change. The master will spare no one who has not

prepared for him."

"You blaspheme against our true Ransomer, demon-lover!" Dinivan
abruptly shouted, standing in his stirrups. His voice was powerful. "You

tell these people lies!"

A few in the crowd repeated his words and their murmuring began to
grow. The woman in white turned and made a sign to some of the robed
ones near her. Several had been kneeling at the stone below her feet, as if
in prayer; one of them now rose and walked across the courtyard as she
stood staring imperiously outward, her mad eyes fixed on the lowering
twilit sky. He returned a moment later with a torch from one of the
sconces, which she took and raised above her head.

"What is Usires Aedon," she screamed, "but a little wooden man on a

STONE OF FAREWELL

135

little wooden tree? What are any of the kings and queens of men but apes
raised far above their station? The master will throw down all that stands
before him and his majesty shall rise above all the oceans and lands of
Osten Ard! The Storm King comes! He brings with him ice to freeze the
heart, deafening thunder—and cleansing fire!"

She threw the brand down at her feet. A fierce sheet of flame leaped up
around the rock. Some of the other dancers shrieked as their robes caught
fire. The crowd pushed back with a shout of surprise as a wall of heat
pushed out at them.

"Elysia, Mother of God!" Dinivan's voice was full of horror.

"So it shall be!" the woman shouted, even as the flames ran up her robe
into her hair, crowning her with fire and smoke. She was still smiling, a
lost, damned smile. "He speaks in dreams! Doom is coming!" The blaze
mounted, obscuring her, bur her last words rang out over and over. "The
master is coming! The master is coming. . . !"

Miriamele leaned over her horse's neck, fighting to keep from being
sick. Dinivan rode forward a short way before dismounting to try and
help some of chose who had been knocked down and trampled in the
crowd's retreat. The princess straightened up, gasping for breath.

Blind to her presence, Cadrach stared at the chamel scene before them.
His face, scarlet in the leaping light, was suffused with an unhappy but
hungering look—as chough an important, terrible thing had come Co pass,
a thing feared for so long that the waiting had become even worse than the
fear.

8

On Sikkiho^s Back

Vrll-C/Tc- are we going, Binabik?" Simon leaned in, moving his
reddened hands nearer the fire. His gloves steamed on a fir trunk nearby.

Binabik looked up from the scroll he and Sisqi were studying "For
now, it is down the mountains. After that, we will be needing guidance.
Now let me continue to look for such guidance, please."

Simon resisted the unmanly urge to stick out his tongue, but the troll's
rebuff did not really bother him very much. He was m a good mood.

Simon's strength was returning He had felt a little more fit each of the
two days ofhardJOumeymg that had brought them down across Mintahoq,
chief mountain of the Trollfells. Now they had left Mintahoq altogether
and had crossed over to the flank other sister-peak Sikkihoq. Tonight, for
the first time, Simon had not wanted simply to fall asleep when the party
had stopped to make camp Instead, he had helped find a scanty supply of
deadwood to build the fire, then dug snow out of the shallow cave where
they would spend the night. It was good to feel himself again. The scar on
his cheek pained him, but it was a quiet ache More than anything else, it
helped him to remember.

The dragon's blood had changed him, he realized. Not m a magical
way, like m one of Shem Horsegroom's old stones—he couldn't under-
stand the speech of animals, or see a hundred leagues. Well, that was not
quite true. When the snow had stopped for a moment today, the white
valleys of the Waste had leaped into clarity, seeming as near as the folds m
a blanket, but stretching all the way to the dark blur of faraway Aldheorte
Forest. For a moment, standing quiet as a statue despite the wind biting
his neck and face, he had felt as though he did possess magical vision. As m
the days when he climbed Green Angel Tower to see all Erkynland spread
below him like a carpet, he had felt as if he could reach out a hand and so
change the world

But moments like that were not what the dragon had brought him.
Pondering as he waited for his damp gloves to dry, he looked to Binabik

STONE OF FAREWELL                 137

and Sisqi, saw the way they touched even when they did not touch, the
long conversations that passed between the two of them in the shortest of
glances Simon realized that he felt and saw things differently than he had
before Urmsheim People and events seemed more clearly connected, each
part of a much larger puzzle—-JUSC as Binabik and Sisqi were They cared
deeply for each other, but at the same time their world of two interlocked
with many other worlds- with Simon's own, with their people's, with
Prince Josua's, and Geloe's ... It was really quite startling, Simon thought,
how everything was part of something else! But chough the world was
vast beyond comprehension, still every mote of life in it fought for its
own continued existence. And each mote mattered.

That was what the dragon's blood had taught him, in some way. He
was not great; he was, in fact, very small. At the same moment, though,
he was important, just as any point of light in a dark sky might be the star
that led a mariner to safety, or the star watched by a lonely child during a
sleepless night-
Simon shook his head, then blew on his chill hands. His ideas were
getting away from him, cavorting like mice m an unlocked pantry. He felt
the gloves again, but they were not yet dried. He tucked his hands into his
armpits and inched a little nearer the fire.

"Are you of great sureness that Geloe said 'Stone of Farewell,' Si-
mon^' Binabik asked "I have been reading Ookequk's scrolls for two
nights and no luck am I having "

"'I told you everything she said." Simon looked out beyond the lip of
the cavern, where the tethered rams huddled, bumping together like an
ambulatory snowdnft. "I could not forget She spoke through the little
girl we saved, Leieth, and she said: 'Go to the Stone of Farewell. That is the
only place of safety jrom the growing storm—safety for a little white, anyway.' "

Binabik pursed his lips, frustrated. He spoke a few quick words of
Qanuc to Sisqi, who nodded solemnly. "I have no doubt of you, Simon.
We have seen too much together And 1 cannot be doubting Geloe, who is
the wisest one I know. It is a problem of my poor understanding " He
waved a small hand at the flattened hide before him. "Perhaps I did not
bring the correct works."

"You think too much, little man," Sludig called from the other side of
the cavern. "Haestan and I are showing your friends how to play 'Con-
queror.' It works nearly as well with your troll throwmg-stones as with
real dice. Come, play, take your mind off these things for a while."

Binabik looked up and smiled, giving Sludig a wave of his hand. "Why
do you notjoin them in this play, Simon?" he asked. "Surely it would be
more interesting than watching my confusion."

"I'm thinking, too," Simon said. "I've been thinking about Urmsheim-
About Igjarjuk and what happened."

"It was not as you were when young imagining it to be, hmmm?"

138

Tad Williams

Binabik said, absorbed in the perusal of his scroll once more. "Things are
not always as old songs tell them to be—especially when it is concerning
dragons. But you, Simon, acted as bravely as any Sir Camaris or Tallistro."

Simon felt a pleasant flush. "I don't know. It didn't seem like bravery. I
mean, what else could I have done? But that isn't what I was thinking
about. I was thinking about the dragon's blood. It did more than this to
me." He indicated his cheek and the white stripe that now ran through his
hair. Binabik did not look up to see his gesture, but Sisqi did. She smiled
shyly, her dark, upturned eyes fixed on him as though on a friendly but
possibly dangerous animal; a moment later, the troll maiden rose and
walked away. "It made me think differently about things," Simon contin-
ued, watching her go. "The whole time you were in that hole, a prisoner,
I was thinking and dreaming."

"And what did you think?" Binabik asked.

"It's hard to say. About the world and how old it is. About how small I
am. Even the Storm King is small, in a way."

Binabik inspected Simon's face. The troll's brown eyes were serious.
"Yes, he is perhaps smalt beneath the stars, Simon—as a mountain is small
in comparing to the whole world. But a mountain is bigger than we, and
if it falls on us, we will still be very dead in a very big hole."

Simon fluttered his hand impatiently. "I know, I know. I'm not saying
that I'm not afraid. It's just . , . it's hard to say." He struggled for the
proper words. "It's like the dragon's blood taught me another language,
another way to see things when I think. How can you explain another

language to someone?"

Binabik started to reply, then stopped, staring just over Simon's shoul-
der. Alarmed, Simon turned, but nothing was there but the oblique stone
of the cavern and a patch of gray, white-flecked sky.

"What's wrong? Are you ill, Binabik?

"I have it," the troll said simply. "I knew there was something of
familiarity in it. But it was a confusion of language. They are translating
differently, you see." He bounced up onto his feet and trotted over to his
bag. A few of his fellow trolls looked up. One started to say something,
but broke off, deterred by Binabik's fixed expression. A few moments
later the little man returned with an armful of new scrolls.

"What's going on?" Simon asked.

"It was language—the difference between tongues. You said: Stone of

Farewell."

"That's what Geloe told me," he answered defensively.
"Of course. But Ookequk's scrolls are not in the language you and I are
now speaking. Some are copied from original Nabbanai, some are in
Qanuc-tongue, and some few in the original speech of the Sithi. I was
looking for 'Stone of Farewell,' but in Sithi language, it would be named
'Leavetaking Stone'—a small difference, but one that makes much differ-
entness in the finding of it. Now wait."

STONE OF FAREWELL

139

He began to read swiftly through the scrolls, his lips moving as he
followed the movement of his stubby finger from one line to another.
Sisqi returned, bearing two bowls of soup. One she sat beside Binabik,
who was too preoccupied to do more than nod his thanks. The other bowl
she offered to Simon- Not knowing what else to do, he bowed his head as
he took it.

"Thank you," he said, wondering if he should call her by name.

Sisqinanamook started to say something in reply, then stopped as if she
could not remember the appropriate words. For a moment she and Simon
stared at each other, an inclination toward friendship hindered by their
inability to converse- At last. Sisqi bowed in return, then snuggled in next
to Binabik, asking him a quiet question.

"Chash," he replied, "that is correct," then went silent again, searching.
"Ho ho!" he cried at last, thumping his palm on his hide-suited leg. "This
is the answer. We have found it!"

"What?" Simon leaned in- The scroll was covered with strange marks,
little drawings like the feet of birds and the tracks of snails. Binabik was
pointing at one symbol, a square with rounded corners, full of dots and
slashes.

"Sesuud'ra," the little man breathed, stretching the word out as if exam-
ining fine cloth. "Sesuad'ra—Leavetaking Stone. Or, as Geloe spoke it, the
Stone of Farewell. A Sithi thing it is, as I guessed."

"But what is it?" Simon stared at the runes, but could not imagine
getting meaning from it as he could from Westerling script.

Binabik squinted at the scroll. "It is the place, this is saying, where
covenant was broken when the Zida'ya and Hikeda'ya—the Sithi and the
Norns—split asunder to be going their separate ways. It is a place of
power and of great sorrow."

"But where is it? How can we go there if we don't know where it is?"

"It was once being part of Enki-e-Shao'saye, the Summer-City of the
Sithi."

"Jiriki told me about that," Simon said, suddenly excited. "He showed
it to me in the mirror. The mirror he gave me. Maybe we could find it
there!" He fumbled in his pack, searching forjiriki's gift.

"No need, Simon, no need!" Binabik laughed. "A fool I would truly
be—and the poorest apprentice Ookequk could ever be having—if I did
not know of Enki-e-Shao'saye. It was one of the Nine Cities, great in
beauty and lore."

"Then you know where the Stone of Farewell is?"

"Enki-e-Shao'saye was at the southeast edge of the great forest Aldheorte."
Binabik frowned. "So it is not near, obviously. Many weeks of journey-
ing we will have. Where the city was standing is on the far side of the
forest from us, above the flat lands of the High Thrithings." His expression
brightened. "But we are knowing now our destination. That is good.

140

Tad Williams

Sesuad'ra." He savored the word again reflectively. "I have never seen it,
but words of Ookequk come to me. It is a strange and grim place, as
legend speaks."

"I wonder why Geloe chose it?" Simon said.

"Perhaps there was no other choosing she could make." Binabik turned
his attention to his cold soup.

^

The rams, understandably enough, did not like to walk with Qantaqa
behind them. Even after several days, the smell of the wolf still troubled
them deeply, so Binabik continued to ride ahead. Qantaqa picked her way
deftly along the steep, narrow trails, the ram-riders following after, calking
or singing quietly among themselves, keeping their voices low so as not to
wake Makuhkuya, the avalanche goddess. Simon, Haestan, and Sludig
trooped along at the rear, trying to stay out of the hoof-ruts and thereby
keep the snow from creeping in over the tops of their well-oiled boots.

Where Mintahoq was rounded like an old man bent by years, Sikkihoq
was all angles and steep sides. The troll-paths clung to the mountain's
back, winding far out to swing around icy columns of rock, then passing
out of the sunlight in the mountain's own shadow, following the inside
line of a vertical crevice that dropped away beyond the path into mist and

snow.

Trudging down the narrow trails hour after hour, constantly wiping the
fluttering snow from his eyes, Simon found himself praying they would
reach the bottom soon. Returning strength or no, he was not meant for
mountain life. The thin air hurt his lungs and made his legs feel heavy and
weak as sodden loaves of bread. When he cried to sleep at the end of the
day, his muscles were so painfully tight they almost seemed to hum-

The very heights in which they traveled also disturbed him. He had
always thought of himself as a fearless climber, but that had been before
he left Hayholt for the wide world. Now, Simon found it much easier to
keep his eyes fastened to the back of Sludig's brown boots as they lifted
and fell than to look elsewhere. When his gaze swung away to the leaning
masses of stone above them or the empty depths below, he found it
difficult to remember level ground. Somewhere, he reminded himself,
there were places where a person could turn and walk in any direction
without risking a death-fall. He had lived in such a place, so they must still
exist. Somewhere mile after flat mile lay like a deep carpet, waiting for
Simon's feet.

They had stopped at a wider place to rest. Simon helped Haestan Cake
off his pack, then watched as the guardsman slumped down onto a
snow-dampened stone, breathing so heavily that he soon surrounded

STONE OF FAREWELL

141

himself with a fog of vapors. Haestan slipped his hood off for a moment,
then shivered as the high wind struck him. He quickly pulled it back on.
Ice crystals glimmered in his dark beard.

"S'cold, lad," he said. "Bitter." He suddenly looked old.

"Do you have a family, Haestan?" Simon asked.

The guardsman paused for a moment as if taken aback, then laughed.
"Of sorts. I've a woman, a wife, but no little'uns. First baby died, we've
gotten none since. I've not seen her since 'fore winter." He shook his
head. "She be safe, though. Gone t'live with folk in Hewenshire—
Naglimund be too dangerous, told her. War comin'." He shook his head.
"Now ify'r witch woman speaks true, war's over an' Prince Josua lost."

"But Geloe said he escaped," Simon put in hurriedly.

"Aye, that be somethin'."

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the wind among the rocks.
Simon looked down at the sword Thorn lying atop Haestan's pack,
gleaming blackly, dotted with melting snowftakes. "Is the sword too
heavy for you? I could carry it for a while."

Haestan considered him for a moment before grinning. "Y'r welcome
to it, Simon-lad- Y'should have sword, what with that first manly beard
an' all. Thing is, hard t'say if it be any good as a sword, if y'take my
meaning."

"I know. I know how it changes." He remembered Thorn in his own
hands. At first it had been cold and heavy as an anvil. Then, as he stood
poised, balanced on the clifFs edge staring into the dragon's milky blue
eyes, it had become light as a birch-staff. The glossy blade had seemed
inspirited, as though it breathed. "It's almost like it's alive. Like an animal
or something. Is it heavy for you now?"

Haestan shook his head, looking up at the flurrying snow- "No, lad.
Seems it wants t'go where we're goin'. Trunks it be goin' home, mayhap."

Simon smiled to hear them both Calking about a sword as though it
were a dog or a horse. Still, there was an undeniable tension to the thing,
like a spider still in a web, or a fish hanging suspended in the cold darkness
of a river bottom. He looked at it again. The sword, if it was alive, was a
wild thing. The blackness of it devoured light, leaving only a thin residue
of reflection, sparkling crumbs in a miser's beard. A wild thing, a dark
thing.

"It's going where we're going," Simon said, then considered for a
moment. "But that's not going to be home. Not my home."

As he lay chat night in a narrow cavern which was little more than a
nick in Sikkihoq's muscular stone back, Simon dreamed of a tapestry. It
was a moving tapestry, hanging on a wall of absolute blackness. In it, as in
the religious pictures of the- Hayholt's chapel, a great tree stood, arms
rising to heaven. This tree was white and smooth as Harcha marble.

142

Tad Williams

Prince Josua hung upon it head down, like Usires Aedon Himself in His

suffering.

A shadowy figure stood before Josua, driving nails into him with a

great, gray hammer. Josua did not speak or cry out, but his followers all
around were moaning. The prince's eyes were wide with patient suffering,
like the carved face of Usires that had hung on the wall of Simon's
boyhood home in the servant's quarters.

Simon could not bear to see any more. He thrust himself through into
the tapestry itself and ran at the shadow-figure. As he ran, he felt a
weighty something dangling in his hand. He lifted his arm to swing it, but
the murky thing reached up and caught his hand, pulling Simon's weapon
away. He had been holding a black hammer. But for its color, it was the

twin of the gray.

"Better," the thing said. It hefted the ebony mallet in its other shadowy
hand and began once more to drive nails. This time Josua screamed with

each blow, screamed and screamed . - .

. - . Simon awakened to find himself shivering in darkness, the raspy
breathing of his traveling companions all around him, vying with the
wind that moaned as it searched the mountain passes outside the cavern.
He wanted to waken Binabik, or Haestan. or Sludig—anybody who
could speak to him in his own tongue—but could not find any of them in
the dark, and knew even in his fear that he should not startle the others

awake.

He lay down once more, listening to the crooning wind. He was afraid to

go back to sleep, afraid he would hear those awful screams once more. He
strained to see in the darkness so he would know his eyes were open, but

there was nothing.

Some time before light returned, exhaustion overmatched his fretting
mind and he at last fell asleep. If more dreams troubled him, he did not
remember them on awakening.

^

They were three more days on heart-freezingly narrow trails before they
made their way down out of Sikkihoq's heights. On the mountain's
shoulders they no longer had to travel single file, so as they came down
onto a broad shelf of snow-dotted granite the company stopped to cele-
brate. It was a rare hour of afternoon sunlight. The light had broken
through the cobweb of clouds and the wind for once seemed playful

instead of predatory.

Binabik rode Qantaqa ahead to scout the terrain, then turned the wolf
loose to hunt. She was gone into a tumble of white-mantled boulders in an
instant. Binabik walked back to the rest of the party, a broad smile on his
face.

143

STONE OF FAREWELL

"It is good to be off the cliffs for a time," he said, sitting next to Simon,
who had removed his boots and was rubbing blood back into his white
toes. "There is little time for thinking of anything else but balancing when
one rides on such narrow and endangering trails."

"Or walks on them," Simon said, looking critically at his toes.

"Or walks," Binabik agreed. "I will be returning in a moment." The
little man got up and walked across the gently curving stone to where most
of the trolls sat in a circle on the ground, passing around a drinking skin.
Several of them had taken off their jackets to sit bare-chested in the thin
sunlight, brown skins acrawl with tattoos of birds, bears, and sinuous
fish. The rams had been unsaddled and turned loose to graze on such
scanty fodder as they might find, moss and clumps of scruffy brush that
had taken root in rocky crevices. One of the troll men watched over them
as shepherd, although his heart did not seem to be in the job. He poked
the ground disconsolately with his crook-spear as he watched the skin go
around the circle. One of his fellows, pointing and laughing at his misery,
at last stumped over and shared the bag with him.

Binabik approached Sisqi, who was sitting with some of the hunting
maidens. He bent to say something, then rubbed her face with his own.
She laughed, pushing him away, but her cheeks reddened. Watching,
Simon felt a faint tremor of jealously at his friend's happiness, but swal-
lowed it down. Someday maybe he, too, would find someone. He thought
sadly of Princess Miriamele, who stood far above any scullion. Nonethe-
less, she was only a girl, like those with whom Simon had bumblingly
conversed in the Hayholt in what seemed far-gone days of old. When he
and Miriamele had stood side by side at the bridge in Da'ai Chikiza, or
before the giant, there had been no difference between them. They had
been friends, facing danger together and equally.

But I didn't know then that she was above me. Now I do, and that is the
difference. But why? Am I different? Is she? Not truly. And she kissed me! And
that was after she was the princess again!

He felt a curious mixture of elation and frustration. Who was to say
what was right, anyway? The order of the world seemed to be changing,
and where was the law written that a heroic kitchen boy could not stand
proudly before a princess—who was at war with her father the king, after
all?

A moment of grand daydreaming followed, Simon envisioned himself
entering a great city as a hero, riding on the back of a proud horse, the
sword Thorn held before him as in a picture of Sir Camaris he had once seen.
Somewhere, he knew, Miriamele was watching and admiring. The day-
dream foundered as he suddenly wondered what city he might enter
heroically into. Naglimund, by Geloe's word, had fallen. The Hayholt,
Simon's only home, was banned to him utterly. The sword Thorn was no
more his than Simon himself was Sir Camaris, the blade's most famous

144

Tad Williams

owner—and what was most important, he realized as he stared at his
blistered heels, he had no horse at all.

"Here, friend Simon." Binabik said, rousing him out of this doleful
reverie, "I have secured you a draught of hunt-wine." He held out a skin
bag, smaller than the one being passed around the circle nearby.

"I already drank some," Simon asked, sniffing suspiciously. "It tasted—
well, Haestan said it tasted like horse piss and I think he's right."

"Ah. It is seeming that Haestan has changed his mind about kangkang."
Binabik chuckled, tilting his head in the direction of the drinking-circle.
The Erkynlander and Sludig had joined the trolls; Haestan was even now
taking a healthy swallow from the bag. "But this is not kangkang,"
Binabik said. pressing the bag into Simon's hand. "It is hunt-wine. The
men of my folk are not allowed to drink it—except for those, like myself,
who are using it sometimes for the purposes of medicine. Our huntresses
drink when they must be awake all the night away from our caves. It is
good especially for tired and hurting limbs and such."

"I feel fine," Simon said, looking doubtfully at the drinking skin.
"That is not being the point of my giving." Binabik was becoming
exasperated. "Be understanding that it is rare for anyone to get this
hunt-wine. We sit here now celebrating luck in having come a difficult
journey with no losses or woundings. We are celebrating a little sun and
hoping for some small luck on the rest of our journey. Also, it is a sort of
gift, Simon. Sisqinanamook wished you to have it."

Simon looked up to the troll maiden, who sat in laughing conversation
with her fellow huntresses. She smiled and hoisted her spear as if in salute.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't understand." He lifted the bag and took a
swig. The sweet, oily fluid slid down his throat. He coughed, but a
moment later felt its soothing warmth in his stomach. He took another
swallow, then held some in his mouth, trying to decide what the taste
reminded him of.

"What's it made from?" he asked.

"Berries from the high meadows of Blue Mud Lake, where my tribesmen
will be going. Berries and teeth."

Simon wasn't sure he had heard correctly. "Berries and what?"
"Teeth." Binabik grinned, showing his own yellow ones. "Teeth of the
snow bear. Made into a powder, of course. That is for strongness and

quietness on the hunt."

"Teeth ..." Simon, remembering that this was a gift, thought for a
moment before saying anything more. There wasn't really anything wrong
with teeth—he had a mouthful himself. The hunt-wine did not taste bad at
all, and made for a comforting tingle in his belly. He carefully lifted the
skin and took a final swallow. "-Berries and teeth," he said, handing the
bag back. "Very good. How do you say thank you in Qanuc?"

Binabik told him.

STONE OF FAREWELL

145

"Guyop!" Simon called to Sisqi, who smiled and nodded her head as her
companions burst into high-pitched laughter once more, hiding their faces
in the fur of their hoods.

For a while Simon and Binabik sat quietly side by side, enjoying the
warmth. Simon felt the hunt-wine creeping pleasantly through his veins,
so that even the daunting lower slopes ofSikkihoq that still awaited them
began to look friendly. The mountain fell away below into a rumpled
quilt of snow-covered hills, leveling out at the bottom into the tree-spiked
monotony of the Waste,

As he turned to survey the terrain, Simon's attention was caught by
Namyet, one of Sikkihoq's sister mountains, which in the momentary
clarity of the bright afternoon seemed to loom only a stone's throw away
on his left side. Namyet's skirts were creased with long blue vertical
shadows. Her white crown sparkled in the sun.

"Do trolls live there, too?" he asked.

Binabik looked up and nodded. "Namyet is also one of the Yiqanuc
mountains. Mintahoq, Chugik, Tutusik, Rinsenatuq, Sikkihoq and Namyet,
Yamok, and the Huudika—the Gray Sisters—those are the troll-country.
Yamok, which means Little Nose, is the place where my parents died.
That is her, out beyond Namyet, do you see?" He pointed at a dim
angular shape limned by the sun.

"How did they die?"

"In dragon snow, as we call it on the Roof of the World—snow that
freezes on its top, then breaks through without warning, jaws closing
swiftly. Like a dragon's jaws are closing. As you know."

Simon scuffed at the ground with a stone, then looked up, squinting at
the faint outline of Yamok in the cast. "Did you cry?"

"With certainty—but in my own secret place. And you . . . but no, you
were not knowing your parents, were you?"

"No. Doctor Morgenes told me about them. A little. My father was a
fisherman and my mother was a chambermaid."

Binabik smiled. "Poor yet honorable forebears. Who could ask for more,
as a place from which to make a starting? Who would be born into the
tight restricting of royal blood? Who could think to be finding their true
selves when all around are bowing and kneeling?"

Simon thought of Miriamele, and even Binabik's betrothed, Sisqinana-
mook, but said nothing.

After a while, the troll stretched and pulled his pack closer. He rum-
maged in it for a few moments, at last producing a clinking leather bag.
"My knuckle bones," he said as he spilled them gently out onto the stone.
"We will be seeing if they are now a more truthful guide than at the
last questioning." He began humming quietly to himself as he scooped
them up in his palms. For long moments he held the handful of bones
before him, eyes closed in concentration while he muttered a song. At

146

Tad Williams

last he dropped them to the ground. Simon could see no discernible

pattern in the jumble.

"Circle of Stones," Binabik said, as calmly as though it were written on

the bones' yellowed smoothness- "That is where we are standing, so to
speak- It means. I am thinking, a council meeting. We are searching for

wisdom, for help in our journeying."

0"The bones you ask for help tell you that you're looking for help?"

Simon grunted. "That's not much of a trick."

"Silence, foolish lowlandcr," Binabik said mock-sevcrely. "There is
more to the bones than you understand. The reading of them is not so
simple," He hummed and cast again. "Torch at the Cave-Mouth," he said,
but cast again without pause for explanation. He frowned and sucked his
lip as he surveyed the scatter. "The Black Crevice. That is the second time
only I have ever seen that patterning, and both have been in the time we
have been together- It is an ominous throw."

"Explain, please." Simon said. He pulled his boots back on, resting his

toes by wiggling.

"The second throwing. Torch at the Cave-Mouth, means we must look

for an advantage in the place we go—Sesuad'ra, I make that, Geloe's
Stone of Farewell. That is not proving we will find luck there, but it is our
chance for advantage. The Black Crevice, the last throwing, I have told you
of before. The third throw is that which should be feared, or that which
we need being aware of. The Black Crevice is a strange, rare pattern that
could mean treachery, or could mean something coming from else-
where . . ."He broke off, staring absently at the littered bones, then swept
them back into his bag.

"So what docs it all mean?"

"Ah, Simon-friend," the troll sighed, "the bones are not simply an-
swering questions, even at the best of times- At a troubled hour like the
one we are living, the understanding becomes more difficult still. I must
think long about these throws. I must perhaps sing a song of slight
differentness, then cast again. This is the first throwing in a long while
that I have not seen The Shadowed Path—but I cannot be thinking that our
path is any less shadowy. There, you see, is the danger of trying to take

simple answers from the bones."

Simon stood up. "I don't understand much of what you're saying, but I
wish we did have a few simple answers. It would make things much easier."

Binabik smiled as one of his folk approached. "Simple answers to life's
questioning. That would be a magic beyond any I have ever been seeing."

The new troll, a stocky, tuft-bearded herder Binabik introduced as
Snenneq, threw a distrustful look up at Simon, as though his very height
was an affront to civilized behavior. He conversed excitedly with Binabik
in Qanuc for a short time, then trudged away. Binabik sprang up and
whistled for Qantaqa.

147

STONE OF FAREWELL

"Snenneq says the rams are acting skittishly," Binabik explained. "He
wanted to know where Qantaqa was, if she had been at stalking their
mounts." A moment later the wolfs gray form appeared on a crag half a
furlong away, head tilted questioningly. "She is down the wind from us,"
the little man said, shaking his head. "If the rams are restless, it is not
Qantaqa's scent that is so making them."

Qantaqa sprang down from the rocky outcropping. A few moments
later she was at her master's side, butting his ribs with her large, broad
head-

"She herself seems disturbed," Binabik said. He kneeled to scratch the
wolfs belly, his arms disappearing into her thick fur up to the shoulder.
Qantaqa did indeed seem distracted, standing still only a moment before
lifting her snout to the breeze. Her ears flicked like the wings of an
alighting bird. She made a low rumbling noise before butting Binabik
with her head again. "Ah," he said, "a snow bear, perhaps. This must be
a season of hungering for them. We should move to a lower place—we
may be in less danger when we are leaving Sikkihoq's heights." He called
to Snenneq and the rest of his fellows. They began striking the makeshift
camp, resaddling their rams and stowing the drinking skins and food bags.

Sludig and Haestan approached. "Ho, lad," Haestan said to Simon,
"back to our boot leather again. Now you know what's like t'be soldier.
March, march, march, 'til feet freeze and lungs go limp."

"I never did want to be a foot soldier," Simon said, shouldering his
pack.

The friendly weather did not hold. By the time they made camp that
night near the edge of the long flat shelf, the stars had disappeared. The
company's cookfires were the only light beneath a wild and snow-spread
sky.

Dawn lightened the dark horizon to a stony gray that oddly mirrored
the granite below their feet. The traveling party made their way carefully
down from the shelf and onto another series of narrow trails that wound
back and forth across the mountain face in steep switchbacks. By midday
they had come to another relatively level place, a long, down-sloping talus
hill, a vast refuse heap of boulders and smaller stones left by the passage of
some ancient glacier. The footing was treacherous: even the rams had to
pick their way carefully, sometimes choosing to leap from one large stone
to another rather than walk across the loose rubble. Simon, Haestan, and
Sludig followed behind. Their trudging footsteps occasionally freed a
fist-sized stone to bound down the slope, eliciting bleats and annoyed
stares from the saddled rams. Such terrain was also hard on the knees and
ankles. Before they had gone far down the slope, Simon and his compan-
ions stopped to wind rags about their boots for support.

Snow fluttered all around, not a heavy fall, but enough to dust the tops

148

Tad Williams

of the larger stones with pale powder and fill the crevices between the
smaller rocks like mortar. As Simon looked back up the long disordered
slope, the upper reaches of Sikkihoq loomed through the mist and squall
like a dark shadow in a doorway. He was amazed by how far they had
come, but on turning found himself disheartened in equal measure by the
length of descent chat still remained before they would reach the doubtful
comforts of the Waste below.

Haestan saw his expression and offered Simon the beribboned wineskin
that had been the trolls' gift to the guardsman. "Two more days t'flat
ground, lad," he said, smiling sourly. "Have some."

Simon warmed himself with a swallow of kangkang before passing it
along to Sludig. A toothy smile showed briefly in the Rimmersman's
yellow beard as he lifted the skin to his mouth. "Good," he said. "It is
not the mead I know, or even southern wine, but it is certainly better than

nothing."

"God's curse if that don't be truth," Haestan said. He took the skin
back, savoring a long swallow before letting the bag drop to his belt once
more. Simon thought the guardsman's voice a little furry, and realized
that Haestan had been drinking all day. Still, what else did they have to
combat the pain in their legs and the monotonous, flurrying snow? Better a
little drunkenness to take off the chill than hours of misery.

Simon squinted against the sleet flying into his face. He could see the
bobbing shapes of the trolls riding just before them, but beyond he could
discern only misty shapes. Somewhere past even the foremost, Binabik
and Qantaqa were searching for the best route off the talus slope. The
guttural exclamations of the ram-riders ahead drifted back to Simon on the
wind, incomprehensible but oddly reassuring.

A stone bounced past his foot and rolled to a halt a few cubits ahead, the
sound of its passage obliterated by the song of the wind. Simon wondered
what would happen if a truly large stone ever began rolling downhill
toward them. Would they even hear it above the clamor of the elements?
Or would it be upon them suddenly, like a hand dropping down to crush
a fly sunning on a windowsill? He turned anxiously to look back, seeing in
his mind's eye a vast, round shape growing larger, a great stone that
would crush all in its path.

There was no great stone, but there were shapes moving on the slope
above. Caught staring open-mouthed, Simon knew a moment's unsureness
as he wondered if some strange snow blindness caused him to see things
that could not be real, huge shadows flailing in the uncertain light.
Following Simon's backward glance, Sludig opened his eyes wide.

"Hunen!" the Rimmersman shouted. " Vaer Hunen! There are giants up
the slope behind us!" Downslope, invisible in the drifting snows, one of
the trolls echoed Sludig's alarm with a harsh cry.

Dim, elongated figures were loping down the rock-strewn hill. Dis-

STONE OF FAREWELL

149

lodged stones rolled before them, bounding past Simon and his compan-
ions as the shouting trolls tried to pull their rams about to face this sudden
danger. The advantage of surprise lost, the charging giants bellowed out
wordless challenges in voices that seemed deep enough to shake down the
very mountain. Several huge figures plunged through the mist, brandish-
ing broad clubs like gnarled tree limbs. The black faces, snarling-mouthed,
seemed to float bodilessly in the flurrying snow, but Simon knew the
strength in those shaggy white forms. He recognized Death's face in the
leathery masks and Death's inescapable clutch in the broad sinews and
lashing arms twice as long as any man's.

"Binabik!" Simon screamed. "Giants are coming!"

One of the Hunen snatched up a boulder and heaved it down the slope.
It struck and spun end over end, bounding downhill like a runaway
wagon. Even as a flurry of troll-spears sliced back through the air toward
the attackers, the great stone crunched past Simon and smashed into the
nearest ranks of the trolls. The shrill, terrified bleating of rams and the
howls of their broken and dying riders echoed across the foggy slope.
Simon found himself gaping in stunned immobility as a towering shape
rose before him, club backflung like the straining arm of a catapult. As the
black bar of shadow whistled down, Simon heard someone call his name,
then something struck him aside and he was flung on his face among
stones and snow.

A moment later he was on his feet, stumbling back through the mist
toward the roaring, contorted shapes of conflict. Hunen loomed and then
disappeared, huge, grasping shadows that at some moments were almost
invisible in the flurrying snow.

Inside Simon's mind a hysterical, terrified voice shouted for him to run
away, to hide, but the voice was muffled, as though his head were stuffed
with cushioning down. There was blood on his hands, but he did not
know whose. He wiped it absently on his shirt front before reaching down
to pull his Qanuc knife from its sheath. The roaring was all around now.

A group of trolls had couched their spears and were spurring their rams
up the slope. Their bellowing target flailed with a shaggy arm broad as a
tree trunk and swept the foremost trolls from their saddles. Men and
mounts together soared back down the rise in a bloody tangle, tumbling
to a boneless halt at flight's end, but their trailing fellows drove home half
a dozen spears, raising a coughing, sputtering roar from the beleaguered
giant.

Simon saw Binabik downslope. The troll dismounted Qantaqa, who
charged off into the swirling shadows of another skirmish. Binabik was
pushing darts into the hollow section of his walking stick—darts with
poison-blacked tips, Simon knew—but before Simon could take even a
step toward his friend another shape pushed hard against him, then fell to
the ground at his feet.

150

Tad Williams

It was Haestan, lying facedown among the stones, the sword Thorn still
hanging from his pack. As Simon stared, something howled so loudly it
cut through the fuzziness in his ears and mind; he whirled to see Sludig
backing toward him down the unstable slope, his long troll-spear jabbing
before him as he retreated from a giant whose angry screams rattled the
sky. The giant's white belly and arms were dotted with crimson blood-
flowers, but Sludig, too, was bloodied; his left arm looked as though ic
had been dipped into a bowl of red paint.

Simon bent and grasped Haestan's cloak, shaking him, but the guardsman
was limp. Grabbing at Thorn's black hilt, Simon pulled it slowly back
through the loop on Haestan's pack. It was cold as frost and heavy as a
suit of horse-armor. Cursing with anger and terror, he tried with all his
strength to lift it, but could not bring the point off the ground. Despite
his ever more panicky exertions, he could not even lift the hilt above his

waist.

"Usires, where are You'?" he railed, letting the blade fall heavily to the
ground like a block of tumbled masonry. "Help me! What use is this
damnable sword!?" He tried again, praying for God's help, but Thorn lay
flat on the ground, beyond his strength.

"Simon!'* Sludig shouted breathlessly. "Flee! I ... cannot. . . !" The
giant's shaggy white arm swung out and the Rimmersman stumbled back,
just out of reach. He opened his mouth to call to Simon once more, but
had Co throw himself to one side to avoid a clawing backswipe. Blood
flecked the northerner's pale beard and matted his yellow hair. His helmet

was gone.

Simon looked around wildly, then spotted a troll-spear lying among the
rocks. He caught it up and circled around the giant, whose reddened eyes
and wide-flaring nostrils were fixed only on Sludig. The creature's shaggy
back loomed before him like a white wall. A moment later, before he
even had time to be surprised at himself, Simon was leaping forward over
the slippery stones, thrusting the spear as hard as he could into the matted
fur. The shock of impact leaped up his arms, rattling his teeth, and for a
moment he slumped strengthlessly against the giant's broad back. The
Hune threw its head up in a howl, weaving from side to side as Sludig
drove in from the front with his spear. Simon saw the Rimmersman
disappear, then saw the beast bend, shuddering, and knock Sludig to the

ground.
Coughing blood, the giant stood over Sludig, feeling for its club with

one arm, clutching at its red-dripping stomach with the other. With a
shout of anger, mad with fury that this horrible thing should strike at his
friends even while its own life leaked out, Simon snatched a handful of its
pelt in one hand and the wagging spear butt protruding from the giant's
back in the other, then dragged himself up onto its back.

Reeking of wet fur and musk and rotting meat, the great, quivering

STONE OF FAREWELL

151

body straightened beneath him. Huge talon-nailed hands came up, smack-
ing sightlessly in search of the insect that had lighted upon it, even as
Simon drove his Qanuc dagger to the hilt in the giant's neck, just below
the contorted jaw. A moment later he felt himself caught up and flung
loose by wrist-wide fingers.

There was a moment of weightlessness; the sky was a cracked swirl of
gray and white and dimmest blue. Then Simon struck down.

He was staring at a round stone, just a hand's breadth beyond his nose.
He could not feel his extremities, his body limp as boned fish, nor could
he hear any sounds but a faint roaring in his ears and thin squeals that
might be voices. The stone lay before him, spherical and solid, unmoving.
It was a chunk of gray granite, banded with white, which might have lain
in this place since Time itself was young. There was nothing special about
it. It was only a piece of the earth's bones, rough comers smoothed by
eons of wind and water.

Simon could not move, but he could see the immobile, magnificently
unimportant stone. He lay staring at it for a long time, feeling nothing but
emptiness where his body had been, until the stone itself began to gleam,
throwing back the faintest pink sheen of sunset.

They came for him at last when Sedda the moon appeared, her pale face
peering down through the mist and twilight. Small, gentle hands lifted
him and laid him on a blanket. He swayed gently as they carried him
downslope and set him down near a roaring fire. Simon stared up at the
moon as she mounted higher in the sky. Binabik came to him and said
many soothing things in a quiet voice, but the words seemed nonsense. As
others helped bind his wounds and laid cool, water-soaked rags on his
head, Binabik crooned strange, circular songs, then gave him a bowl of
something warm to drink, holding up Simon's limp head as the sour
draught trickled down his throat.

/ must be dying, Simon thought. He felt a certain peace in the idea. It
seemed as though his soul had left his body already, for he felt very little
connection with his own flesh. I would have liked to have gotten out of the
snows, jirst. I would have liked to have gone home. . . .

He thought of another stillness such as he now felt: the moment when
he had stood before Igjarjuk, the silence that had seemed to envelop the
whole world, the timeless time before he had brought the sword down,
before the black blood had fountained up.

But this time the sword didn't help me . . . Had he lost some kind of
worthiness since he had left Urmsheim? Or was Thorn merely as incon-
stant as the wind and weather?

Simon remembered a warm summer afternoon back in the Hayholt, when
the sunlight had angled down through the high windows of Doctor Morgenes'
chambers, making the lazily floating dust gleam like drifting sparks.

152

Tad Williams

"Never make your home in a place," the old man had told him that day.

"Make a home for yourself inside your own head. You'll fmd what you need to

jumish it—memory, ^friends you can trust, love of learning, and other such things.

That way it wiil go with you wherever you journey . . ."

Is that what dying is? Simon wondered. Is it going home? That's not so bad.
Binabik was singing again, a drowsy sound like rushing water. Simon

let go and drifted.

When he awakened late the next day, he was not immediately certain
that he was still alive. The survivors had moved during the morning and
Simon had been carried, along with the other wounded, to a cave beneath
a leaning rock. On waking, he saw before him only an open hole into the
gray sky. It was the ragged black birds gliding past the cave-mouth that
taught him at last that he was still in the world—the birds, and the pain in

all his limbs.

He lay for a while testing his hurts, bending his joints one by one. He
ached, but movement had come back with the pain- He was sore but

whole.

After a while Binabik came to him again with another drink of his
healing beverage. The troll himself had not escaped without harm, as long
runnels down his cheek and neck attested. Binabik's look was solemn, but
he seemed to give Simon's wounds only a cursory inspection.

"We have received grievous damaging," the troll said. "I wished I had
not to say this, but . . . Haestan is dead."

"Haestan?!" Simon sat up, forgetting his aching muscles for a moment.
"Haestan?" His stomach seemed to sink away inside him.

Binabik nodded his head. "And of my twice-dozen companions, nine
were killed and six more are being badly wounded."

"What happened to Haestan?" He felt a sickening sense of unreality.
How could Haestan be dead? Had they not spoken only a few moments
before . . . before. . . ?" What about Sludig?"

"Sludig was hurt, but not badly. He is out with my tribesmen, cutting
up wood for building of fires. It is important for healing the injured, do
you see? And Haestan . . ." Binabik thumped his chest with the heel of his
hand—a gesture the Qanuc used, Simon had learned, to ward evil. The
troll looked profoundly unhappy. "Haestan was struck to the head by one
of the giant's clubs. I am told that he pushed you away from danger and
was shortly after himself killed."

"Oh, Haestan," Simon groaned. He expected tears to come, but they
did not. His face felt strangely numb, his sorrow somehow weak. He put
his head in his hands. The big guardsman had been so alive, so hearty. It
was wrong that a life could be taken just that swiftly. Doctor Morgenes,
Grimmric and Ethelbearn, An'nai, now Haestan—all dead, all struck down
because they tried to do what was right. Where were chose powers that
should protect such innocents?

STONE OF FAREWELL                 153

"And Sisqi?" Simon asked, suddenly remembering the troll maiden. He
scanned Binabik's face anxiously, but the troll showed only a distracted
smile.

"She has survived, and with only small wounding."
"Can we take Haestan down off the mountain? He wouldn't want to be
left here."

Binabik reluctantly shook his head. "We cannot carry his body, Simon.
Not on our rams. He was a man of largeness, too much for our mounts.
And we still have a dangerous way to go before we are on flat land. He
must stay here, but his bones will he in honor with the bones of my
people. He will be with other good and brave warriors. That is, I think, as
he would be wishing. Now, you should sleep again—but first there are
two who would speak with you."

Binabik stepped back, Sisqi and the herder Snenneq were there, waiting
at the cave-mouth. They came forward to stand beside Simon. Binabik's
intended spoke to Simon in troll speech. Her dark eyes were grave. Beside
her, Snenneq seemed uncomfortable, shuffling from foot to foot.

"Sisqinanamook says she is sorrowful for you in the losing of your
friend- She also says you showed rare bravery. Now all have seen the
courage that you showed also on the dragon-mountain."

Simon nodded, embarrassed. Snenneq made a throat-clearing noise and
began a speech of his own. Simon waited patiently until Binabik could
explain.

"Snenneq, herd-chief of Lower Chugik, says he, too, is sorry. Many
good lives were lost yesterday. He also wishes to give you something back
which you lost."

The herder produced Simon's bone-handled knife, passing it to him
with a show of reverence.

"It was taken from the neck of a dead giant," Binabik said quietly. "The
gift of the Qanuc has been blooded in defense of Qanuc lives. This means
much to my people."

Simon accepted the knife, sliding it back into the decorated sheath on
his belt. "Guyop," he said. "Please tell them I am glad to have it back. I'm
not quite sure what 'defense of Qanuc lives' means—we all fought the
same enemy. But I don't want to think about killing just now."

"Of course." Binabik turned to Sisqi and the herder, speaking briefly.
They nodded. Sisqi leaned forward to touch Simon's arm in wordless
commiseration, then turned and led awkward Snenneq from the cave.

"Sisqi is leading the others in building the caims of stone," Binabik
said. "And as for you, Simon-friend, there is nothing more to be done by
you this day. Sleep."

After tucking the cloak carefully around Simon's shoulders, Binabik
disappeared out through the opening of the cavern, stepping carefully
around the sleeping forms of the other wounded. Simon watched him go,

154 Tad Williams

thinking of Haestan and the rest of the dead. Were they even now
traveling the road toward the complete stillness that Simon had glimpsed?

As he fell asleep, he thought he saw his Erkynlandish friend's broad
back vanishing down a corridor into white silence- Haestan, Simon thought,
did not seem to walk like a man who bore regrets—but then, it was only
a dream.

^

Next day the noon sun pierced the mists, splashing light on Sikkihoq's
proud slopes. Simon's pain was less than he had thought it would be.
With Sludig's help, he was able to limp down from the cave to the flat shelf
of rock where the cairns were being finished. There were ten, nine small
and one large, the rocks carefully piled so that no wind or weather would
shift them.

Simon saw Haestan's pale face, blood-striped, before Sludig and his troll
helpers finished winding the guardsman's cloak about him. Haestan's eyes
were shut, but his wounds were such that Simon could not maintain any
illusion that his long-time companion only slept. He had been killed by the
Storm King's brutal minions, and that was something to be remembered.
Haestan had been a simple man. He would appreciate the notion of
vengeance.

After Haestan had been laid away and the stones fitted atop his caim.
Binabik's nine tribesmen and tribeswomen were lowered into their own
graves, each with some article particular to him or her—or so Binabik
explained it to Simon. When this was done and the nine caims were
sealed, Binabik stepped forward. He raised his hand. The other trolls
began to chant. There were tears in many eyes, both male and female; one
glimmered on Binabik's own cheek. After some time had passed, the
chanting came to a halt. Sisqi stepped forward, handing Binabik a torch
and a small bag. Binabik sprinkled something from the bag on each
grave, then touched the flame to it. A thin coil of smoke rose from each
caim in his wake, quickly shredded by the mountain wind. When he had
finished the last, he handed the torch to Sisqi and began to sing a long
string ofQanuc words. The melody was like the voice of the wind itself,
rising and falling, rising and falling.

Binabik's wind-song came to an end. He took torch and sack and raised
a plume of smoke on Haestan's barrow as well.

"Sedda told her children,"
he sang in the Westerling speech,

STONE OF FAREWELL                 155

"Lingit and Yana,
Told them to choose their way
Bird's way or moon's way
'Choose now,' she said.

"Bird's way is egg's way
Death is a door then
Egg-children stay behind
Fathers and mothers go beyond
Do you choose this?

"Moon's way is no-death
Live always under stars
Go through no shadowed doors
Find no new land beyond
Do you choose this?

"Swift-blooded Yana
Pale-haired and laughing-eyed
Said: 'I choose moon's way.
I seek no other doors.
This world is my home.'

"Lingit her brother
Slow-footed, dark-eyed,
Said: 'I'll take bird's way.
Walk under unknown skies
Leave world to my young.'

"We children of Lingit all
Share his gift equally
Pass through the lands of stone
Just once, then we are gone,
Out through the door

"We go to walk beyond
Search for stars in the sky
Hunt the caves past the night
Strange lands and different lights
But do not return."

When he had finished singing, Binabik bowed to Haestan's cairn. "Fare-
well, brave man. The trolls will remember your name. We will sing of
you in Mintahoq a hundred springs from now!" He turned to Simon and

156

Tad Williams

Sludig, who stood by solemnly. "Would you like to be saying something?"

Simon shook his head uncomfortably. "Only . . . God bless you, Haestan.
They will sing of you in Erkynland, too, if I have my way."

Sludig stepped forward. "I should say an Acdonitc prayer," he said.
"Your song was very good, Binabik of Mintahoq, but Haestan was an
Aedonite man and must be properly shriven."

"Please," Binabik said. "You have listened to ours."

The Rimmersman took his wooden Tree from beneath his shirt and
stood at the head of Haestan's caim. The smoke continued to waver
upward.

"Our Lord protect you,"
Sludig began,

"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 singjrom the hilltops,

And angels are in the trees,

Speaking joy with God's own voice.

"May the Ransomer protect you
From all evil,

And may your soul jind peace everlasting,
And heart's ease beyond compare."

Sludig laid his Tree atop the stones, then walked back to stand by

Simon.

"One last thing let me say," Binabik called out. raising his voice. He
spoke the same words in Qanuc and his people listened attentively. "This
is the first day in a thousand years chat Qanuc and Utku—troll and
lowlander—have been fighting at each other's side, have been blooded
together and have fallen together. It is the hate and the hating of our
enemy that has been bringing this upon us, but if our peoples can stand
together for the battle that is coming—a greatest, but perhaps also last,
battle—the deaths of all our friends will be even better given than they
now are." He turned and repeated the words for his tribesmen. Many of
them nodded their heads, pounding their spear butts on the ground. From
somewhere up the slope, Qantaqa howled. Her mournful voice echoed all
over the mountain.

"Let us not forget them, Simon," Binabik said as the rest of his fellows
mounted up. "These, or" any of the others who have already died. Let us

STONE OF FAREWELL

157

be taking strength from the gifting of their lives—because if we fail, they
will perhaps be seeming the lucky ones. Are you able to walk?"

"For a while," Simon replied. "Sludig will walk with me."

"We will not ride long today, for the afternoon has far advanced," the
troll said, squinting up at the white spot of sun. "But all speed is necessary.
Half our company, nearly, we have lost in killing five giants. The Storm
King's mountains to the west are full of such creatures, and we cannot
be knowing there are not more nearby."

"How long before your fellow trolls turn their own way," Sludig
asked, "to go to this Blue Mud Lake your master and mistress spoke of?"

"That is another thing for concern," Binabik agreed grimly. "Another
day or two days, then we will be three travelers only in the Waste." He
turned as a large gray shape appeared at his elbow, panting hugely.
Qancaqa nudged him impatiently with her broad nose. "Four travelers, if I
may be pardoned," he amended, but did not smile.

Simon felt himself empty as they started down Sikkihoq's last reaches,
hollowed out, so that if he stood just right the wind might whistle
through him. Another friend was gone, and home was only a word.

9

CoCcC oncC Curses

J. riC (iJtCTTlOOTI- was failing Prince Josua's tattered minions
were tumbled all together beneath a tangle of willows and cypresses in a
moss-carpeted gulley that had once been a riverbed A slender, muddy
trickle ran along in the middle, all that remained of the watercourse
Above them rose a hilly slope whose heights were hidden behind close-
crowding trees

They had hoped to be atop the rise when the sun went down, a
defensive position superior to anything they could hope to find in this
thick-shrouded valley, but twilight was now imminent and the company's
progress had slowed to a crawl

Either they had guessed correctly, Deomoth reflected, and the Noms
were indeed trying to herd them rather than kill them, or else they had
been very lucky Arrows had flown in biting swarms throughout the day
Several had found targets, but none of the wounds had been mortal
Emskaldir had been struck on his helmet, causing a gash above his eye that
wept blood all the long afternoon The back of Isom's neck had been
slashed by another arrow, and Lady Vorzheva had received a long, bloody
weal on her forearm

Surprisingly. Vorzheva had seemed almost unaffected by her injury,
binding it with a strip of her tattered skirt and plodding on without a
word of complaint Deornoth had been impressed by this show of cour-
age, but had also wondered if it might not be an indication of dangerous
and despairing unconcern She and PnnceJosua were pointedly not speaking
with each other Vorzheva's face turned gnm whenever the pnnce was near

Josua, Father Strangyeard, and Duchess Gutrun had so far escaped
damage Ever since their fleeing troop had reached the gulley and had
taken advantage of its scanty protection to fall down exhausted, they had
all been busily engaged in binding of wounds At the moment, the priest
was tending to Towser, who had fallen sick during the march, the other
pair were looking after Sangfugol's injuries

STONE OF FAREWELL                 159

Even if the Norns do not mean to kill us, they obviously intend to stop us,
Deornoth thought, rubbing his aching leg Perhaps they no longer care
whether we have one of the Great Swords, or perhaps their spies told them we do
not But why don't they simply kill us, then7 Do they wish to capture josua?
Trying to understand the Norns was dizzying What should we do, in any
case7 Is it better to be shot to pieces and then captured, or to turn and fight to the
death'

But did they even have a choice3 The Noms were mere shadows in the
forest As long as they had arrows to shoot, the white-faced pursuers
could do as they wished What could Josua's folk do to force them to
fight^

Fog was forming rapidly on the damp ground, turning the trees and
stones indistinct, as though Josua's people were trapped in some becween-
world that straddled life and death An owl flitted silently overhead like a
gray ghost

Deomoth struggled to his feet and went to help Strangyeard The pnnce
came to join them, watching as the priest swabbed Towser's feverish
brow with his kerchief

"It is a pity .   " Strangyeard said without looking up "A pity, I mean,
that the fog is everywhere, but we still have so little clean water Even the
ground is wet, but it does us no good "

"If tonight is as damp and cold as the last," Deomoth said, grasping
Towser's hand as the old man fretfully clutched at the kerchief, "we will
be able to wring out our clothes and fill the Kynslagh "

"We must not spend the night here," Josua said "We must get to high
ground "

Deornoth looked at him carefully The prince was showing no signs of
his earlier lassitude—in fact, Josua's eyes were bright. He seemed to be
coming back to life just as all around him were dying "But how, my
prince^' Deomoth asked "How can we hope to drag our bleeding bodies
up that hill3 We do not even know how high it is."

Josua nodded, but said "Nevertheless, we must climb it before dark
What little ability to resist that we retain will be useless if they can come
down on us from above "

His fierce face daubed with dried blood, Emskaldir came and crouched
beside them "If only they would come within reach " He dandled his axe
and laughed sourly "If we show ourselves, they pick us to pieces They
see better in dark than us "

"We must go up the slope all in a herd," the pnnce said, "—huddled up
like frightened cattle Those on the outside will wrap their legs and arms
in whatever thick clothing we have That way, if they fear to make a fatal
shot, they will be perhaps less likely to let fly into a crowd, where the
missed wounding in the front may take a life in the rear "

Einskaldir grunted "So we make us an unmissable target—cannot shoot
one without shooting more Madness'"

160 Tad Williams

Josua turned on him sharply. "You are not answerable for the lives of
this company, Einskaldir. I am! If you would fight your own way, then
go! If you would remain with us, then be silent and do as I say."

Several among the company who had been talking fell silent, waiting.
The Rimmersman stared at Josua for a moment, his eyes blank, his
bearded jaw twitching. Then he smiled in grim admiration.

"Ho/a—yes. Prince Josua," was all Einskaldir said.

The prince put a hand on Deornoth's shoulder. "We can do nothing
else, even when hope is gone, but struggle on . . ."

"There is still hope, if you will hear it."

Deornoth turned, expecting to find Duchess Gutrun standing by—for it
had seemed an older's woman's voice, deep and a little hoarse—but
Gutrun was tending the harper Sangfugol and was too far away to have
been the source.

"Who speaks?" Josua said, staring away from his companions, out into
the forest. He drew his slender sword from its scabbard. Those around
him fell silent, sensing his alarm. "I said, who speaks?"

*7 do," the voice replied in a matter-of-fact way. The accent was that of
one not native to the Westerling speech. "I did not want to catch you
unaware. There is hope, i said. I come as ajriend."

"Norn tricks!" Einskaldir snarled, hefting his axe as he tilted his head to
locate the source of the voice.

Josua raised his hand to hold him back and called: "If you are a friend,
then why do you not come forward?"

"Because I have not finished changing and I do not want tojrighten you. Your
jriends are my friends—Morgenes of the Hayholt, Binabik o/Yiqanuc."

Deornoth felt the hair stirring on his neck at the invisible being's words.
To hear those names here, in the middle of unknown Aldheorte! "Who are
you?" he cried.

There was a rustling in the shadowed undergrowth. A strangely-shaped
figure stepped toward them through the rising fog. No, Deomoth real-
ized, there were two figures, one large and one small.

"In this part of the world," the taller one said, with what sounded like a
touch of amusement in her harsh voice, "I am known as Geloe."

"Valada Geloe!" Josua breathed. "The wise woman. Binabik spoke of
you."

"Some say wise, some say witch," she answered. "Binabik is small but
polite. Such things we may talk about later, however. Now it grows
dark."

She was not tall or particularly large, but there was something in her
posture that spoke of strength. Her short-cropped hair was mostly gray, her
nose prominent and sharp, with a downward curve. Geloe's most arrest-
ing feature was her eyes: wide and heavy-lidded, they caught the dying
sun with a peculiar yellow gleam, reminding Deornoth of nothing so

STONE OF FAREWELL

161

much as a hawk or owl. So striking were they that it was some time
before he noticed the young girl whose hand she held.

This one was small, perhaps eight or nine years, and pale of face. Her
eyes, although an unexceptional shade of dark brown, had much of the
curious intensity of the older woman's. But where Geloe's gaze seized
attention like an arrow quivering on a drawn string, the little girl looked
starkly into nothingness, her stare as objectless as a blind beggar's.

"Leieth and I are here to join you," Geloe said, "—and to lead you if we
may, at least for a short while. If you try to climb that hill, some of you
will die. None of you will reach the summit."

"What do you know about it?" Isom demanded. He looked confused.
He was not the only one.

"This. The Norns are reluctant to slay you—this is obvious, or a party
like yours on foot would not have gotten a tenth this far into the forest.
But if you cross that hill, you will have crossed over into territory
through which the Hikeda'ya cannot follow. If there are any of you they
do not need alive—and surely not all of you are valuable to them, if that is
even the reason the Noms have let you get so far—they will take the risk
of trying to kill the dispensable ones to frighten the rest off the slopes."

"So what are you telling us, then?" Josua askedr stepping forward.
Their eyes locked. "Over this hill safety lies, but we dare not go there?
What, should we lay down and die?'

"No," Geloe responded calmly. "I only said you should not climb the
hill. There are other ways."

"Fly?" Einskaldir snarled.

"Some do." She smiled as at a quiet joke. "But all you need do is follow
us." Taking the girl's hand again, she started off along the edge of the
gulley.

"Where are you going?" Deornoth cried, and felt a pang of fear at being
left behind as the pair began to fade into the twilit shadows.
"Follow," Geloe called back over her shoulder. "Darkness is growing."
Deornoth turned to stare at the prince, but Josua was already helping
Duchess Gutrun onto her feet. As the rest hurried to pick up their meager
belongings, Josua walked briskly to where Vorzheva sat and extended his
hand. She ignored him and got to her feet, then strode down into the
gulley with head held high, like a queen in procession. The others fol-
lowed limping after her, whispering wearily among themselves.

Geloe stopped to wait for the farthest-trailing stragglers. At her side
Leieth disconcertingly stared off into the forest, as if she expected someone.

"Where are we going?" Deomoth asked as he and Isorn rested, scraping
the slimy mud of the strcambed from their boots. The harper Sangfugol,
who could not walk without someone at either shoulder, was sitting on
his own for a moment, breathing heavily.

162

Tad Williams

"We are not leaving the forest," the witch woman said, inspecting the
bit of purple sky that could be seen through the willow branches "But we
will pass beneath the hill into a part of the old woods once known as
Shisae'ron As I said, the Hikeda'ya are not likely to follow us there "
"Pass under the hilP What can that mean5" Isorn demanded
"We walk in the bed of Re Sun'em, an ancient river," Geloe said
"When I first came here. the forest was a lively country, not the dark
tangle it has become This nver was one of many that spanned the great
woods, carrying all manner of things and all manner of folk from Da'ai
Chikiza to high Asu'a "

"Asu'a7" Deomoth wondered "Was that not the Sithi name for the
Hayholt?"

"Asu'a was more than the Hayholt ever will be," Geloe said sternly, her
eyes searching for the last of the wandering line "Sometimes you men
are like lizards, sunning on the stones of a crumbled house, thinking
'what a nice basking-spot someone built for me ' You stand in the sad
mud of what was a wide, beautiful river, where the boats of the Old Ones
skimmed and flowers grew "

"This was a fairy nver7" horn's attention had been wandering Now,
startlement on his broad face, he peered around as though the streambed
itself might exhibit signs of treachery

"Idiot'" Geloe said scornfully "Yes, it was a *fairy nver ' This entire
land was—as you would put it—a fairy country What sort of creatures do
you think pursue you5"

"I     I knew that," Isom muttered, abashed "But I had not thought
of it that way Their arrows and swords were real, that was all I could
think of "

"As were the arrows and swords of your ancestors, Rimmersmanne,
which accounts for some of the bad blood between your folk and theirs
The difference is, chough King Fingil's reavers killed many Sithi with their
blades of black iron, Fmgil and your other ancestors at last aged and died
The Children of the East do not die—at least, not in such a time as you
can understand—and neither do they forget old wrongs If they are old,
they are all the more patient for it " She stood up, looking about for
Leieth, who had wandered off "Let us go," she called sharply "Time to
nurse wounds when we have passed through "

"Passed through where3" Deornoth asked "How7 You never told us "
"Nor need I waste my breath now," she said "We will be there soon "

The light was fading fast and the footing was treacherous, but Geloe
was an unflagging guide She had increased the pace, waiting only long
enough for the first stragglers to catch up before pushing on again

The sky had taken on night's earliest hues when the riverbed bent again
A darker shape suddenly loomed before them, a shadow tall as the trees

163

STONE OF FAREWELL

and blacker than the surrounding obscurity The walkers stumbled to a
halt, those who could summon the breath moaning in weanness

Geloe took an unlit brand from her bag, handing it to Einskaldir His
sour remark died in his throat as she narrowed her yellow eyes "Take this
and put flint and steel to it," she said "We will at least need some light
where we are going "

A furlong or less from where they stood, the streambed vanished into
darkness as it entered a vast hole in the hillside, an arched mouth whose
dressed stones had been almost completely engulfed by a clinging blanket
of moss

Einskaldir sf-ruck with his axe head, a flint spark jumped, igniting the torch
Its growing yellow light brought forward other stones that shone pale
beneath the overgrown frontage Trees of great size and age had thrust out
from the hillside above the arch, pushing aside the facing in their reach
toward the sun

"A tunnel all the way through the hill7" Deomoth gasped

"The Old Ones were mighty builders," Geloe said, "but never better
than when they built around the things earth had already grown, so that
city lived together with forest or mountain "

Sangfugol coughed "It looks    an abode of ghosts," he whispered

Geloe snorted "Even if so, they are not the dead that you should
fear " She seemed about to say something else when there was a hiss and a
smack Suddenly an arrow was shivering in the trunk of a cypress near
Einskaldir's head

"You who would jlee," a cold voice called, echoing so that it was
impossible to discern its source, "you must surrender now We have spared
you thus far, but we may not allow you to cross through We will destroy you
all"

"Aedon preserve us'" Duchess Gutrun wept, her great courage finally
weakening "Save us. Lord'" She sagged down onto the wet turf

"It is the torch'" Josua said, coming up quickly "Put out the torch,
Einskaldir "

"No," Geloe said, "you will never find your way in the dark " She
raised her voice "Hikeda'yei/' she cned, "do you know who I am7"

"Yes, we know you, old woman," the voice said "But whatever respect you
might deserve was lost the moment you threw in your lot with these mortals The
world could have spun on, leaving you undisturbed in your solitary house—but
you would not let well enough alone Now you also are unbowed, and must go
naked like a crab with no shell You too can die, old woman "

"Douse the torch, Einskaldir," Josua snapped, "we can light another
when we have reached shelter "

The Rimmersman stared at the prince for a moment Darkness had
arrived but for the torch's rippling flame, Josua would never have seen
him smile

164

Tad Williams

"Don't wait too long to follow me," was all Einskaldir said. A moment
later he had dashed away down the riverbed toward the great arch, the
flame held high over his head. Arrow hissed past his companions as the
Rimmersman, now only a leaping spot of light, swerved and dodged.
"Go! Up and run!"Josua cried. "Help the one nearest you. Run!'''
Someone was shouting in an alien tongue—indeed, the whole forest
seemed suddenly alive with noise. Deomoth reached down and caught at
Sanfugol's arm, dragging the wounded harper to his feet, and together
they plunged through the overhanging greenery after the dwindling spark

of Emskaldir's torch.

Branches slapped at their faces and snatched at their eyes with cruel
talons. Another shout of pain rang out before them and the shrill cries
redoubled. Deornoth turned to look briefly over his shoulder. A swarm of
pale shapes were sweeping forward over the misty ground, faces whose
pitchy eyes filled him with despair, even from afar.

Something struck the side ofDeomoth's head violently, staggering him.
He could hear Sangfugol sobbing in pain as the harper tugged at his
elbow. For a long moment it seemed to the knight that it would be easier

just to lie on the ground.

"Merciful Aedon, give me rest," he heard himself praying, "in Your arms
will I sleep, upon Thy bosom I will take my peace ..." but Sangfugol would
not stop pulling at him. Dazed, irritated, he stumbled to his feet once
more and saw a scatter of stars gleaming through the treetops.

Not enough light to see under the hill, he thought, then noticed he was
running again. But running or not, Deornoth thought, he and Sangfugol
were moving very slowly: the dark smear on the hillside didn't seem to be
getting any closer. He put his head down and watched his feet, dim,
shadowy shapes slipping on the muddy streambed.

My head. I've hurt my head again . . .

The next thing Deomoth knew, he had plunged into darkness as abruptly
as if someone had thrown a sack over him. He felt more hands take his
elbows and help him forward. His head felt curiously light and empty.

"There's the torch, ahead," someone said nearby.

That sounds likejosua's voice, Deornoth decided. Is he under the sack, too?

He staggered on a few steps and saw a light glowing. He looked down,
trying to make sense of it all. Einskaldir sat on the ground, leaning against
a stone wall that rose and curved overhead. The Rimmersman held a torch
in his hand. There was blood in his beard.

"Take this," Einskaldir said to no one in particular. "I've got. . . arrow
in ... back. Can't . . . breathe . . ." He sagged slowly forward against
Josua's leg. It looked so odd that Deornoth tried to laugh, but couldn't.
The empty feeling was spreading. He bent forward to help Einskaldir, but
instead found himself down a deep black hole.

"Usires save us, look at Deomoth's head. . . !" someone cried. He

STONE OF FAREWELL                 165

didn't recognize the voice, and wondered who it was they were so upset
about . . . Then the darkness had returned and it was hard to think. The
hole that he had fallen into seemed very deep indeed.

^

Rachel the Dragon, the Hayholt's Mistress of Chambermaids, lifted her
bundle of wet linens higher on her shoulders. Crying to find the balance
least trying to her aching back. It was useless, of course: there would be
no ending to the pain until God the Father gathered her up to Heaven.

Rachel was feeling distinctly un-Dragonlike. The chambermaids who
had given her the name long ago, when the force of Rachel's will had been all
that stood between the age-old Hayholt and the tides of decay, would
have been surprised to see her as she was now—a bent, complaining old
woman. She was surprised herself. A chance reflection in a silver serving
tray one recent morning had shown her a gaunt-faced harridan with
dark-circled eyes. It had been many a long year since she had thought
much about her looks, but still, this seemed a shocking transformation.

Had it been only four months since Simon died? It felt like years. That
had been the day when she felt things beginning to slip away from her.
She had always lorded over the Hayholt's vast household like a tyrant
river-captain, but despite her young charges' whispered complaints, the
work had always gotten done. Mutinous talk had never bothered Rachel
much, in any case: she knew that life was but a long struggle against
disorder, and that disorder was the inevitable winner. Rather than leading
her to accept the futility of her role, however, this knowledge instead had
whipped Rachel on to greater resistance. Her parents' fierce northern
Aedonite faith had taught her that the more hopeless the struggle, the
more crucial it was to struggle valiantly. But some of the life had leaked
out of her when Simon died in the smoking inferno that had been Doctor
Morgenes' chambers.

Not that he had been a well-behaved boy—no, far from it. Simon had
been willful and disobedient, a woolgatherer and a mooncalf. He had,
however, brought a certain irritating liveliness to Rachel's life. She would
have even welcomed the sputtering rages into which he provoked her—if
only he were still here.

In fact, it was still hard to believe he was dead. Nothing could have
survived the firing of the Doctor's quarters—caused when some of Morgenes'
devilish potions had caught flame, or so members of the king's Erkynguards
had informed her. The fused wreckage and shattered beams made it
impossible to suppose anyone in the room could have lived for more than
a few moments. But she could not feel chat he was really dead. She had
been almost a mother to the boy, had she not? Raised him—with the help
other chambermaids, of course—since his first hour, when his mother had

166

Tad Williams

died in childbirth despite all Doctor Morgenes' attempts to save her So
shouldn't Rachel know if he was truly gone5 Shouldn't she feel the final
severing of the cord that had bound her to that stupid, addle-pated, gawky

boy1'

Oh, merciful Rhiap, she thought, are you crying again, old woman7 Your
brains have gone soft as sweetmeats

Rachel knew of other domestics who had lost actual birth-children and
still talked about them as if they were alive, so why should she feel any
differently about Simon5 It didn't change anything The boy was undeni-
ably dead, killed by his love for hanging about with that mad alchemist
Morgenes, and that was that

But things had certainly seemed to go wrong since then A cloud had
descended on her beloved Hayholt, a fog of discomfort that crept into
every corner The battle against untidiness and dirt had swung against her,
becoming lately a thoroughgoing rout All this, despite the fact chat the
castle seemed emptier than it had any time she could remember—at least at
night In daylight, when the clouded sun shone through the high windows
and lit the gardens and commons, the Hayholt was still a not of activity
In fact, with the Thnthmgs mercenaries and South Islanders now flooding
in to replace the soldiers Ehas had lost at Naghmund, the castle's environs
were noisier than ever Several of her girls, frightened by the scarred,
tattooed Thnthings-men and their rough manners, had left the Hayholt
entirely to live with country relatives To Rachel's disgust and increasing
dismay, despite the hordes of hungry mendicants roaming Erchester and
camped around the walls of the Hayholt itself, it was almost impossible to
replace the departing chambermaids

But Rachel knew that it was not JUSC the castle's wild new inhabitants
that made it hard to find new girls Crowded with brawling soldiers and
disdainful nobles as it was during the light of day, by night the Hayholt
seemed as uninhabited as the hch-yard beyond Erchester's walls Echoes
and strange voices floated through the corridors Footfalls sounded where
no one walked Rachel and her remaining wards now locked themselves in
at night Rachel told them it was to keep out the drunken soldiery, but she
and her chambermaids both knew that the carefully-checked door bolt and
shared prayers before retiring did not come from fear of anything as easy
to name as a besotted Thnthmgs-man

Even stranger—although she would never, never admit it to her Blessed-
Rhiap-preserve-them charges—Rachel had found herself lost a few times
in recent weeks, wandering in corridors she did not recognize Rachel
herself She who had bestrode this castle as confidently as any ruler for
decades, now lost in her own home This was either madness or the folly
of age    or some demon's curse

Rachel thumped down the sack of wet sheets and leaned against a wall
A trio of older priests eddied around her in their passage, talking heatedly

167

STONE OF FAREWELL

in Nabbanai They gave her no more of a glance than they would a dog
dead m the road She stared after them as she fought to catch her breath
To think that at her age, after all her years of service, she should be
carrying around sodden bed linens like the lowliest downstairs maid' But
it had to be done Someone had to carry on the fight

Yes, things had been going wrong ever since the day Simon died, and
did not look to get better soon She frowned and hoisted her burden once
more

Rachel had finished hanging out the wet bedding Watching the linen
flap m the late-afternoon breeze, she marveled at such cool weather
Tiyagar-month, the middle of summer, and still the days were as cold as
early spring It was certainly better than the deadly drought that had ended
last year, but even so, she felt herself longing for the hot days and warm
nights that were the yearly summer's-due Herjoints hurt and chill mornings
only made the hurting worse The dampness seemed to slip stealthily into
her very bones

She crossed back across the commons, wondering where her helpers
had gotten to Having a sit-down and a giggling conversation, no doubt,
while the Mistress of Chambermaids labored like a yeoman Rachel was
sore, but there was enough strength still in her good right arm to sting a
few girls into service'

It was too bad, she reflected as she made her way slowly around the
Outer Bailey, that there wasn't somebody who could take a strong hand
to this castle Elias had seemed like the type after blessed old King John
had died, but Rachel had been sorely disappointed The apple, she
thought, had fallen quite a bit farther from the tree than anyone could
have guessed But that was no surprise, really It was just men, was what
it was Swaggering, bragging men—exactly like little boys, when you got
down to it, even the grown ones acting no smarter than young mooncalf
Simon had been They didn't know how to deal with things, men didn't,
and King Elias was no exception

Take this madness with his brother Now, Rachel had never much liked
Prince Josua He was a sight too clever and solemn for her, obviously one
who thought himself pretty blessed smart But to think that he was a
traitor—well, that was just foolishness and anyone could tell it' Josua had
been too bookish and high-minded for such nonsense, but what had his
brother Elias done5 Gone dashing off to the north with an army, and
through some trick pulled down Josua's castle at Naglimund and slaugh-
tered and burned And why5 Some damned man's pnde on King Elias'
part Now a lot of Erkynlandish women were widows, the harvest was
going badly, and all the Hayholt and its inhabitants were—Lord Usires
pardon for her'thmking it, but it was only the truth—going straight to
Hell

168 Tad Williams

The back of the Nearulagh Gate loomed before her, its long shadow
painting the walls on either side with darkness Quarreling birds, kites and
ravens, fought over the few remaining scraps of the ten skeletal heads
fixed on pikes atop the gate

Rachel shuddered despite herself as she made the sign of the Tree This
was something else that had changed Never in all the long years she had
kept house for King John had there been such a show of cruelty as Ellas
had made of these traitors They had all been beaten and quartered in
Battle Square down in Erchester, before a restive and uneasy crowd Not
that any of the executed nobles had been particularly popular—Baron
Godwig, especially, was much hated for his ill-rule of Cellodshire—but
everyone had sensed the wispmess of the king's accusations Godwig and
the rest had gone to their deaths like men astounded, shaking their heads
and protesting their innocence until the cudgels of the Erkynguards had
smashed the life out of them Now their heads had stood above the
Nearulagh Gate for a full [wo weeks while the carrion birds, like clever
little sculptors, slowly brought the skulls to the surface Few of those who
passed beneath them stared for long Most who looked up turned away
quickly, as if they had glimpsed something forbidden instead of the abject
public lesson the king desired

Traitors, the king called them, and as traitors they had died Rachel
thought they would be little missed, but still their deaths brought the fog
of despair down a bit closer

As Rachel hurried past with eyes averted, she was almost knocked
down by a young squire sloshing through the muddy road leading a
horse After she had scrambled to a position of safety against the outer
wall, Rachel turned to see the riders pass

They were all soldiers—all but one Where the armored men wore the
green tunics of the king's Erkynguard, the other wore a robe of flaming
scarlet, a black traveling cloak, and tall black boots

Pryrates' Rachel stiffened Where was that devil going with his honor
guard of soldiers7

The priest seemed to float above his companions As the soldiers laughed
and talked, Pryrates looked neither right or left, his hairless head rigid as a
spearpomt, his black eyes fixed on the gate before him

Things had truly begun to go wrong when the red priest arrived—as if
Pryrates himself had put an evil spell on the Hayholt Rachel had even
wondered for a while if Pryrates, whom she knew had not liked Morgencs.
might have burned down the doctor's rooms Could a man of Mother
Church do such a thing3 Could he kill innocent people—like her Simon—
for a grudge7 But the rumors did say that the priest's father was a demon,
his mother a witch Rachel made the sign of the Tree again, watching his
proud back as the party ambled past

Could one man bring evil down on everyone, she wondered3 And why5

STONE OF FAREWELL                 169

Just to be doing the devil's work3 She looked around carefully, embar-
rassed, then spat in the mud to ward evil What did it matter3 There was
nothing an old woman like her could do, was there3

She watched Pryratcs and the company ofsoidicrs ride out through the
Nearulagh Gate, then turned and began trudging toward the residences,
thinking about curses and cold weather

^

The late afternoon sun slanted m through the trees, making the thin
leaves glow The forest mist had finally burned away A few birds trilled
in the treetops Deornoth, fetlmg the pam in his head diminishing, stood
up

The wise woman Geloe had nursed Einskaldir's terrible wounds all
morning before leaving him at last to the ministrations of Duchess Gutrun
and Isorn The Rimmersman, feverish and raving while Geloe had applied
poultices to the arrow-spites in his back and side, now lay quietly She
could not say if he would live

Geloe had labored the rest of the afternoon on the other members of the
company, treating Sangfugol's festering leg wound and the many injuries
the rest of the party had suffered as well Her knowledge of healing herbs
was wide and her pockets were well-stuffed with useful things She
seemed certain that all except for the Rimmersman would be quickly
improved

The forest on this side of the hill-tunnel was not much different from
that which they had Just left, Deomoth thought—at least in looks The
oaks and elders grew close here, too, and the ground was powdery with
the remains of long-dead trees, but there was something different in the
heart of it, some faint grace or inner liveliness, as if the air were lighter or
the sun shone more warmly Of course, Deornoth realized, it might only
be that he and the others in Prince Josua's party had lived another day
longer than they had expected

Geloe was sitting on a log with Prince Josua Deornoth started to
approach, then hesitated, unsure of his welcome Josua smiled wearily and
waved him over

"Come, Deornoth, sit down How is your head3"

"Sore, Highness "

"It was a cruel blow," Josua said, nodding

Geloe looked up and briefly surveyed Deornoth Earlier she had scanned
the bloody wound in Deornoth's scalp where the tree limb had struck
him, then pronounced it "not serious "

"Deornoth is my right hand,' Josua told her ' It is good that he should
hear all this, against the chance anything should happen to me "

Geloe shrugged "Nothing I will speak of is a secret At least, not the

170

Tad Williams

kind we should keep from each other." She turned for a moment to watch
Leieth. The child sat quietly in Vorzhcva's lap. but her eyes were fixed on
nothing visible, and no words or caresses from Vorzhcva could arouse her

attention.

"Where do you think to go. Prince Josua?" Geloe said at last. "You
have escaped the vengeance of the Norns, at least for a while. Where will

you go?"

The prince frowned. "I have not thought of anything but winning our
way to safety. I suppose if this—" he waved his hand at the forest clearing,
"is a place of refuge against the demons, as you say it is, we should stay

here."

The witch woman shook her head. "Of course, we must stay until all

are well enough to walk. But then?"

"I have no idea yct."Josua looked at Deomoth, as if hoping for some
suggestion. "My brother stands victorious over all the lands of the High
King's Ward. I cannot think of who would hide me under peril of Elias'
anger." He slapped his left hand against the stump of his right. "All our
chances seem to have come to nothing. It was a poor game."

"I did not ask the question innocently," Geloe said, rearranging her seat
upon the log. She wore boots as a man did, Deornoth saw, and well-
traveled boots at that. "Let me tell you of some important things and you
will be better able to see the possibilities. First of all, before Naglimund
fell, you sent out a party in search of something, did you not?"

Josua narrowed his eyes. "How could you know?"

Geloe shook her head impatiently. "I told you when we met that I knew
both Morgenes and Binabik ofYiqanuc. I also knewJarnauga ofTungoldyr.
We were in communication while he was at your castle and he told me

much."

"Poor Jamauga," Josua said. "He died bravely."

"Many of the wise have died; there are few left," she answered him.
"And bravery is by no means the province only of soldiers and nobles.
But since the circle of the wise is growing smaller with each such death, it
has become more than ever important that we share knowledge among
ourselves and with others. So it was thatJarnauga passed on to me all that
he did after reaching Naglimund from his home in the north. Ahl" She sat
up. "I am reminded of something." She raised her voice. "Father

Strangyeard!"

The priest looked up at her call, uncertain. She gestured for him to
come and he rose from the harper Sangfugol's side and approached.

"Jamauga thought highly of you," Geloe said. A smile crossed her
weathered features. "Did he give you anything before he left you?"

Strangyeard nodded. He produced a glittering pendant from beneath his
cassock. "This," he said quietly.

"I thought so. Well, you and I shall speak of it later, but as a member of

STONE OF FAREWELL

171

the League of the Scroll, you should certainly be part of our councils."

"A member ..." Strangyeard seemed astonished. "Me? Of the
League. . . ?"

Geloe smiled again. "Certainly. Knowing Jarnauga. I'm sure it was a
careful choice. But as I said, we shall talk more of this later, you and I."
She turned back to the prince and Deomoth. "You see, I know about the
search for the Great Swords. I do not know if Binabik and the others have
succeeded in their search for Camaris' blade Thorn, but I can tell you that
as of a day or so ago, the troll and the boy Simon were both still alive."

"Aedon be praised," Josua breathed, "that is good news! Good news in
a rime that has been short of it. My heart has been heavy for them ever
since they set out. Where are they?"

"I believe they are in Yiqanuc among the trolls. It is hard to explain
quickly, so I will say only this: my contact with young Simon was brief
and did not allow much discussion. Also, I had a message to give to them
that was most important."

"And what was that?" Deornoth asked. As pleased as he had been at the
witch woman's arrival, he now found himself a little resentful at how she
had stolen the initiative away from Prince Josua. It was a foolish and
presumptuous worry, but he wanted very much to see the prince leading
in the way that Deornoth knew he could.

"The message I gave Simon I will also give to you," Geloe responded,
"but there are other things we must speak of first." She turned to
Strangyeard. "What have you found of the other two swords?"

The priest cleared his throat. "Well," he began, "we ... we know
altogether too well the whereabouts of Sorrow. King Elias wears it—a gift
from the Storm King, if stories we heard are true—and it goes with him
everywhere. Thorn, we think, is somewhere in the north; if the troll and
the others still live, I suppose there is hope they may find it. The last one,
Minneyar, once King Fingil's sword—but dear me, you must have known
that, of course—well, Minneyar seems never to have left the Hayholt. So
two . . . two ..."

"Two of the swords are in my brother's hands," Josua finished, "and
the third is being sought in the trackless north by a troll and a young
boy." He smiled worriedly, shaking his head. "As I said before, it is a
poor game."

Geloe fixed him with her fierce yellow eyes and spoke sharply. "But a
game, Prince Josua, in which surrender is not an alternative, a game which
we must play with the pieces we have drawn. The stakes are very large
indeed."

The prince sat up straighter, raising his hand to silence Deomoth's
angry response. "Your words are well-spoken, Valada Geloe. This is the
only game we can play. We dare not lose. So, is there more you would tell
us?"

172 Tad Williams

"Much you know already, or can guess. Hernystir in the west is fallen,
King Lluth dead and his people taken to the hilts. By treachery, Nabban is
now the dukedom of Ehas' ally Benigans. Skali of Kaldskryke rules
Rimmersgard in Isgnmnur'-i stead. Now Naglimund is cast down and the
Norns haunt it like ghosts." As she spoke she took her walking stick and
drew a map in the dirt before them, marking each place as she spoke of it.
"Aldheorte Forest is free, but it is not a place for men to come together in
resistance, except perhaps in the last hope, when all else is denied them."

"And what is this, if not the last hope?" Josua said. "This is my
kingdom, Geloe, as you see it, all gathered here within a stone's throw.
We may hide, but how could we challenge Elias with so few, let alone his
ally the Storm King?"

"Ah, now we come to what I said should be saved for later," Geloe
answered, "and also where we speak of matters stranger than human
wars." Her gnarled brown hands moved quickly, sketching once more on
the ground beside her boots. "Why are we safe in this part of the forest?
Because it is under the ward of the Sithi, and the Noms dare not attack
them. A fragile peace has stood for countless years between the two
families. Even the soulless Storm King, I should think, is in no hurry to
rouse the remaining Sithi to action."

"They are families?" Deornoth asked. Geloe turned her fierce stare upon
him.

"Did you not listen to what Jamauga told you at Naglimund?" she
demanded- "What use is there m the wise giving up their lives if those for
whom they sacrifice do not listen?"

"Jamauga told us that Ineluki—the Storm King—was once a prince of
the Sithi," Strangyeard said hurriedly, flapping his hands as if to fan away
strife. "That we knew."

"The Norns and Sithi were for eons one people," Geloe said. "When
they went their separate ways, they divided Osten Ard between them and
promised they would not cross over into each other's fields without
warrant."

"And what use is this knowledge to we poor mortals?" Deomoth asked.

Geloe waved her hand. "We are safe here because the Norns tread
carefully along the borders of the Sithi lands. Also, even in these dimin-
ished days there is a power in such places that would make them hesitate
in any case." She looked fixedly at Deomoth. "You have felt it, have you
not? But the problem is that we ten or eleven are not enough to fight
back. We must find some place safe from the Noms, but also a place
where the others who resent your brother Elias' misrule can find us. If
King Elias tightens his control over Osten Ard, if the Hayholt becomes an
unbreachable stronghold, then we will never pry loose the Great Sword
we know he has, or the other that he may have. We do not fight sorcery
only, but also a war of position and placement."

STONE OF FAREWELL                 173

"What are you saying?" Josua asked, his eyes intent on the witch
woman's face.

Geloe pointed at the map with her walking stick. "Out here, beyond the
forest to the east, run the meadows of the High Thnthings. There, near
the site upon which the ancient city ofEnki-e-Shao'saye once stood, along
the border between woods and grassland, is the place where Norns and
Sithi parted ways forever. It is called Sesuad'ra—the Stone of Farewell."

"And . . . and we would be safe there?" Strangyeard asked, excited.

"For a time," Gcloc responded. "It is a place of power, so its heritage
may keep us safe from the Storm King's minions for a short while. But
that is good enough, for time is what we need most—time to gather those
who would fight back against Elias, time to bring our scattered allies
together. But most importantly, we need time to solve the mystery of the
three Great Swords and find a way to fight the menace of the Storm
King."

Josua sat and stared at the line-scratched dirt. "It is a beginning," he said
at last. "Against all despair, it is a small flame of hope."

"That is why I came to you," the witch woman said. "And that is why
I told the boy Simon to come there when he could, bringing any who
were with him."

Father Strangyeard coughed apologetically. "I'm afraid I do not under-
stand, Goodwoman Geloe. How did you speak to the boy? If he is in the
distant north, you would nut have been able to get here in time. Did you
use messenger birds, as Jamauga often did?"

She shook her head. "No. I spoke to him through the girl, Leieth. It is
hard Co explain, but she helped make me stronger so I could reach out all
the way Eo Yiqanuc and tell Simon of the Stone of Farewell." She began
scratching away her map with the toe other boot. "Not smart to leave a
message showing where we're bound," she said and chuckled hoarsely.

"But could you reach out to speak with anyone this way?" Josua asked
keenly.

Geloe shook her head "I have met Simon and touched him. He was in
my house. I do not think I could find and converse with someone I did not
already know."

"But my niece Miriamele was at your house, or so I was told," the
prince said eagerly. "I have been deeply worried about her. Could you
find her for me, speak to her?"

"I have already tried." The witch woman got up, looking again to
Leieth. The little girl was walking aimlessly along the rim of the clearing,
pale lips moving as though in silent song. "There is something or some-
one close to Miriamele that prevented my reaching her—a wail of some
kind. I had very little strength and my time was short, so I did not try
twice."

"Will you try again?" Josua asked.

174

Tad Williams

"Perhaps," she said, turning to look at him once more. "But I must use
my strength carefully. There is a long struggle before us." She turned to
Father Strangyeard. "Now, priest, come with me- There are things we
must speak about. You have been given a responsibility that may prove a
heavy burden."

"I know," Strangyeard answered quietly. The two of them moved
away, leaving josua deep in thought. Deornoth watched his prince for
some long moments, then wandered back to his cloak.

Towser, lying nearby, was tossing and babbling in the throes of a
nightmare. "White faces . . . hands reaching for me, hands ..." The old
man's clawed fingers raked at the air, and for a moment the noise of
birdsong was stilled.

". . . So," Josua finished, "there is a gleam of hope. If Valada Geloe
thinks we can find sanctuary in this place ..."

"—And strike a blow at the king," Isom growled, his pink face scowling.
". . . Yes, and prepare to resume the struggle," josua continued, "then
we must do so. There is nowhere else for us to go, in any case. When all
can walk, we will leave the forest and cross the High Thrithings, heading

east to the Stone of Farewell."

Vorzheva, pale with anger, opened her mouth as if to say something,
but Duchess Gutrun spoke up instead. "Why leave the forest at all, Prince
Josua? Why should we go a longer way just to expose ourselves on the plains?"

Geloe, sitting beside the prince, nodded. "You ask a good question.
One reason is that we can move twice as quickly across open land and
time is precious. Also, we must leave the forest because the same ban that
keeps the Norns at a distance serves for us as well. These are Sithi lands.
We have come here because we have been driven here in peril of our lives,
but to stay long would be to invite their notice. The Sithi do not love

mortals."

"But won't the Norns pursue us?"

"I know ways through the forest that will keep us safe until we reach
the meadowlands beyond," the witch woman responded. "As to the High
Thrithings, I doubt the Norns are already so cocksure that they will cross
over in light of day to open country. They are deadly, but still far, far
fewer than humans. The Storm King has waited centuries; I think he is
patient enough to keep his full power hidden from mortals a little longer.
No, it is likely Elias' armies and the Thri things-men we need to worry
about." She turned to Josua. "You know better than I, perhaps. Do the
Thrithings-dwellers now serve Elias?"

The prince shook his head. "They are never predictable. Many clans live
there and their allegiance even to their own March-thanes is loose. Be-
sides, if we do not venture far from the forest's edge, we may never see
another soul. The Thrithings are vast."

STONE OF FAREWELL                175

As he finished speaking, Vorzheva rose and stalked away, disappearing
from the clearing into a stand of birches. Josua watched her go, then a
moment later stood, leaving Geloe to answer the questions of those who
had not heard her earlier explanation ofSesuad'ra.

Vorzheva was leaning against a birch trunk, angrily peeling away strips
of papery bark. Josua paused for a long moment, watching her. Her gown
was a tattered rag, torn away to just above her knees. Her underslip had
also been shredded for bandages. Like everyone else she was dirty, her
thick black hair full of twigs and tangles, her arms and legs crisscrossed
with scratches. The arrow-wound on her forearm was wrapped in a soiled
and bloody rag.

"Why are you angry?" he asked. His voice was soft.

Vorzheva whirled, eyes wide. "Why am I angry? Why? You are a fool!"

"You have avoided me since we were cast out of Naglimund," Josua
said, caking a step nearer. "When I lie down beside you, you stiffen like a
priest with the stench of sin in his nostrils. Is this the way a lover acts?"

Vorzheva raised her hand as chough to slap at him, but he was too far
away. "Love?" she choked, her accent changing the word into something
heavy and painful. "Who are you, saying love to me? I have lost all for
you and you say this?" She rubbed at her face with her hand, leaving a
dark smear.

"The lives of all are in my hands," the prince said slowly. "And on my
soul. Men, women, children, hundreds dead in the ruins of Naglimund.
Perhaps I have been distant since the castle fell, but it was because of the
darkness of my thoughts, the ghosts who haunt me."

"Since the castle fell, you say," she hissed. "Since the castle fell, you
have treated me like a whore. You do not speak to me, you speak to all
others but me, then at night you come to touch me and hold me! Do you
think you bought me at market like a horse? I came away with you to be
free of the plains-lands . . . and to love you. You never treated me well.
Now you will drag me back—drag me back and show my shame to
everyone!" She burst into angry tears and quickly moved to the other side
of the tree, so that the prince could not see her face.

Josua looked puzzled. "What do you mean? Show your shame to
whom?"

"To my people, you fool!" Vorzheva cried. Her voice echoed dully
through the copse. "To my people!"

"To the Thrithings-people . . ."Josua said slowly. "Of course."

She came around the tree like an angry spirit, eyes bright. "I will not
go. You take your little kingdom and walk where you will, but I will not
return to my homeland in shame, like - . . like this!" She gestured furi-
ously at her raggedness.

Josua smiled sourly. "This is foolish. Look at me, the son of High King

176 Tad Williams

PresterJohn! I am a scarecrow! What does it matter? I doubt we shall see
any of your people, but even if we did, what docs it matter? Arc you so
stiff-necked that you would rather die in the forest than have a few of your
wagon-folk see you in tatters?"

"Yes!" she shouted. "Yes! You think I am a fool' You are right! I left
my home for you and fled my father's lands. Should I come back to them
like a whipped dog? 1 would die a thousand times before that! Everything
else has been taken from me, would you see me crawl, too?" She dropped
to the ground, her white knees sinking into the loam. "Then I will beg
you. Do not go to the High Thnthings. Or if you do, leave me enough
food to live for a while and I will walk to this place through the forest."

"This is madness of the worst sort,"Josua growled. "Did you not hear
what Geloc said^ If the Sithi do not kill you as a trespasser, the Norns will
catch you and do worse."

"Then kill me." She reached up to snatch at Naidel, sheathed onjosua's
belt. "I will die before I go back to the Thnthings."

Josua grabbed her wrist and pulled her upright. She squirmed in his
grip, kicking at his shins with feet clad m muddy, threadbare shppers-
"You are a child," he said angrily, then leaned away as her free hand
struck at his face. "A child with claws." He pulled her around so her back
was to him, then pushed her stumbling ahead of him until they reached a
fallen tree- He sat, pulling her down with him so that she was caught m
his lap, his arms wrapped around hers, pinioning them at her side.

"If you will act like a willful girl, I will treat you like one," he said
through clenched teeth. He swayed backward, avoiding the flailing sweep
other head as she struggled.

"I hate you!" she panted.

"At this moment, I hate you, too," he said, squeezing harder, "—but
that may pass."

At last her writhing slowed until she sagged in his arms, exhausted.
"You are stronger," she moaned, "but you must sleep sometime. Then I
will kill you and kill myself."

Josua, too, was breathing heavily. Vorzheva was not a weak woman
and the prince having but one hand did not make the struggle any easier
for him. "There arc too few of us left for any killing," he muttered. "But
I will sit here and hold you until it is time to walk again, if necessary. We
will go to this Sesuad'ra, and we will all reach there alive if I have any
power to make it so "

Vorzheva again tried to pull free, but gave up quickly when it became
obvious Josua had not relaxed his grip She sat quietly for some time, her
breathing gradually slowing, the trembling other limbs abating.

The shadows grew longer. A lone cricket, anticipating the evening,
began its creaking recitation. "If you only loved me," she said at last,
staring out at the darkening forest, "I would not need to kill anyone."

"I am tired of talking. Lady," the prince said.

STONE OF FAREWELL

^

177

Princess Minamele and her pair of religious companions left the Coast
Road in late morning, riding down into the Commeis Valley, the gateway
to the city of Nabban. As they followed the steep switchbacks down the
face of the hill, Minamele found it hard to watch the road beneath her
horse's hooves. It had been a long time since she had seen the real face of
Nabban, her mother's homeland, and the temptation to gawk was very
strong. Here the farmlands began to give way to the sprawl of the
once-imperial city. The valley floor was crowded with settlements and
towns; even the steep Commeian hills were encrusted with houses of
whitewashed stone that jutted from the hillsides like teeth.

The smoke of countless fires rose up from the valley floor, a grayish
cloud hanging overhead like an awning. Most days, Miriamele knew,
the winds from the sea swept the blue sky clear, but today the breezes
were absent.

"So many people," she marveled. "And more in the city itself."

"But in some ways," Father Dinivan remarked, "that means little.
Erchester is less than a fifth this size, but the Hayholt there is the capital of
the known world. Nabban's glory is only a memory—except for Mother
Church, of course. Nabban is her city now."

"Is it not interesting, then, how those who slew our Lord Usires now
clasp Him to their bosom?" Cadrach said, a little farther down the trail.
"One always makes more friends after one is dead."

"I do not understand your meaning, Cadrach," Dinivan said, his homely
face solemn, "but it sounds like bitterness rather than insight."

"Does it?" said Cadrach. "I speak of the usefulness of heroes who are
not present to speak for themselves." He scowled. "Lord love me, I wish I
had some wine." He turned away from Dimvan's questioning glance,
offering no further remarks.

The plumes of smoke reminded Miriamele of something. "How many
of those Fire Dancers we saw in Tehgure are there? Are they in every
town?"

Dinivan shook his head. "There are some few that come from every
town, I would guess, but they join together and travel from place to place,
preaching their vile message. It is not their numbers that should frighten
you, but the despair they carry with them like a plague. For every one
who joins and follows them to the next town, there are a dozen more who
take the message into their secret hearts, losing faith in God."

"People believe in what they see," Cadrach said, eyes suddenly intent
on Dimvan. "They hear the Storm King's message and see what the
Storm King's hand can inspire. They wait for God to strike down the
heretics. But God does nothing."

"That is a he, Padreic," Dinivan said hotly. "Or Cadrach, or whatever

178

Tad Williams

name you now choose. For choosing is what matters. God allows each
man or woman to choose. He does not compel love."
The monk snorted as if in disgust, but continued to stare at the priest.

"That He certainly does not."

In a strange way, Miriamele thought, Cadrach seemed to be pleading
with Oinivan, as though Crying to show the lector's secretary something
that Dinivan would not recognize.

"God wishes . . ." the priest began.

"But if God does not cajole, and does not force, and does not respond
to challenges from the Storm King or anyone else." Cadrach interrupted,
his voice hoarse with suppressed emotion, "why, why do you find it
surprising that people think there is no God, or that He is helpless?"

Dinivan stared for a moment, then shook his head angrily. "That is
why Mother Church exists. To give out God's word, so that people may

decide."

"People believe what they see," Cadrach replied sadly, then dropped

back into silent thought as they plodded slowly down toward the valley
floor.

At midday they reached the crowded Anitullean Road. Streams of
people moved in each direction, eddying around wagons going to and
from market. Miriamele and her companions attracted little attention. By
sundown they had covered a great distance up the valley.

They stopped for the evening in Bellidan, one of the score of towns that
had grown together along the road until it was nearly impossible to tell
where one left off and the next began. They slept at the local priory,
where Dinivan's lectoral signet ring and exalted status made them the
center of a great deal of interest. Miriamele slipped off early to the small
cell provided for her, not wanting to take the chance of her disguise being
compromised. Dinivan explained to the monks that his companion was ill,
then brought her a satisfying meal of barley soup and bread. When she
blew out the candle to sleep, the image of the Fire Dancer was again
before her eyes, the white-robed woman bursting into flame, but here
behind the priory's thick walls it did not seem quite so frightening. It had
been just another unsettling occurrence in an unsettling world.

By late afternoon of the following day they had reached the spot where
the Anitullean Road began to climb upward through the hill passes that
led to Nabban proper. They passed dozens of pilgrims and merchants who
sat exhausted by the roadside, fanning themselves with wide-brimmed
hats. Some had merely stopped to rest and drink water, but several others
were frustrated peddlers whose donkeys had proved reluctant to pull

overloaded wagons up the steep road.

"If we stop before dark," Dinivan said, "we can stay the night in one of

STONE OF FAREWELL                 179

the hill towns. Then it would be a short ride into the city in the morning.
For some reason, though, I am reluctant to take any longer than necessary.
If we ride past nightfall, we can reach the Sancellan Aedonitis before
midnight."

Miriamele looked back down the road. then ahead, where it wound out
of sight among the dry golden hills. "I wouldn't mind stopping," she said.
"I'm more than a little sore."

Dinivan looked worried. "I understand. I am less used to riding than
you are. Princess, and my rump is smarting, too." He blushed and
laughed. "Your pardon. Lady. But I feel that the sooner we reach the
lector, the better."

Miriamele looked to Cadrach to see if he had something to add, but the
monk was deep in his own private thoughts, swaying from side to side as
his horse plodded uphill. "If you think there is any advantage in it at all,"
she said at last, "then let us ride the night through if necessary. Truthfully,
though, I can't think what I might tell the lector—or that he might Cell
me—that would be spoiled if it waits another day."

"There are many things changing, Miriamele," Dinivan replied, lower-
ing his voice, though the road in this spot was empty but for a farm-
wagon creaking along half a furlong up the road. "In times like these,
when all is uncertain and many dangers are still not completely known, a
chance for speed not taken is often regretted later. This much wisdom I
have. With your permission, I will trust in it."

They rode all through the darkening evening and did not stop when the
stars began to appear above the hills. The road wound through the passes
and then down, past more towns and settlements, until at last they reached
the outskirts of the great city, lit with so many lamps that it outshone the
sky.

The streets of Nabban were crowded, even as midnight approached.
Torches burned on every corner. Jugglers and dancers performed in pools
of flickering light, hoping for a coin or two from drunken passersby. The
taverns, their window shutters up on a cool summer night, spilled lantern
light and noise out into the cobbled streets.

Miriamele was nodding with weariness as they left the Anitullean Road
and followed the track of the Way of the Fountains up the Sancelline Hill.
The Sancellan Aedonitis loomed before them. Its famous spire was only a
slender thread of gold in the lamplight, but a hundred windows glowed
with warm light.

"Someone is always awake in God's house," Dinivan said quietly.

As they climbed through the narrow streets, heading for the great
square, Miriamele could see the pale, curving shapes of the Sancellan
Mahistrevis' towers just beyond the Sancellan Aedonitis to the west. The
ducal castle sat on the rocky promontory at Nabban's outermost point,

180

Tad Williams

commanding the sea view as Nabban itself had once commanded the lands

of men-

The two Sancellans, Miriamele thought, one built to rule the body, the other
to rule the soul. Well, the Sancellan Mahistrevis has fallen already to that
father-murderer Benigaris, but the lector is a godly man—a good one, too, Dinivan
says, and Dinivan is no fool. At least there is hope there.

A seagull keened somewhere in the darkness above. She felt a pang of
regret. If her mother had never married Elias, then Miriamele could have
grown up and lived here, above the ocean. This would have been her.
home. She would be coming back to a place she belonged.

But if my mother had never married my father, she thought sleepily. I
wouldn't be me anyway. Stupid girl.

Their arrival at the doors of the lectoral palace was a confusing blur for
Miriamele, who was finding it difficult to stay awake. Several people
greeted Dinivan warmly—he seemed to have many friends—and the next
thing she knew, she was being shown to a room with a warm, soft bed.
She did not bother to take off anything but her boots, crawling beneath
the blanket while still wrapped in her hooded cloak. Hushed voices spoke
in the corridor outside her room, then a little later she heard the Clavean
bell tolling far above her, striking more times than she could count.

She fell asleep to the sound of distant singing.

Father Dinivan woke her in the morning with berries and milk and
bread. She ate sitting up in bed while the priest lit the candles and paced
back and forth across the windownless room.

"His Sacredness was up early this morning. He was gone before I got to
his chambers, out walking somewhere. He often does that when he has
something to think about, just takes to the corridors in his night robe. He
doesn't take anyone with him—except me, if I'm around." Dinivan flashed
a boyish smile. "This place is nearly as big as the Hayholt. He could be

anywhere."

Miriamele dabbed milk from her chin with a flapping sleeve. "Will he

see us?"

"Of course. As soon as he comes back, I'm sure. I wonder what he
thinks about. Ranessin is a deep man, deep as the sea, and like the sea, it is
often difficult to tell what hides beneath a placid surface."

Miriamele shuddered, thinking of the kilpa in the Bay of Emcttin. She
put her bowl down. "Shall 1 wear men's clothes?" she asked.

"What?" Dinivan stopped, surprised by her question. "Oh. To meet the
lector, you mean. I don't think anyone should know yet that you arc here.
I would like to say that I trust my fellow priests with my life, and I
suppose I do, but I have lived and worked here too long to trust tongues
not to wag. I did bring you some cleaner robes." He gestured to a bundle
of garments lying on a stool, beside a basin of water chat steamed faintly.

181

STONE OF  FAREWELL

"So if you are ready and have finished breaking your fast, let us be off."
He stood, waiting expectantly.

Miriamele stared at the clothes for a moment, then back at Father
Dinivan, whose face wore a distracted half-frown. "Could you turn
around," she asked at last, "so I can change?"

Father Dinivan gaped for a moment, then blushed furiously, much to
Miriamele's secret amusement. "Princess, forgive me! How could I be so
discourteous? Forgive me, I will leave at once. I will be back for you soon.
My apologies. I am thinking of so many other things this morning." He
backed out of the room, closing the door carefully behind him.

When he was gone, Miriamele laughed and rose from bed. She shucked
the old robes over her head and washed herself, shivering, noting with
more interest than dismay how sun-browned her hands and wrists had
become. They were like a barge-man's hands, she thought with some
satisfaction. How her ladies-in-waiting would wince if they could see her!

The water was warm, but the chamber itself was cold, so when she
finished she hurriedly pulled on the clean clothes. Running her hands
through her short-cropped hair, she considered washing it, too, but de-
cided against it, thinking of the drafty corridors. The cold reminded her of
young Simon, walking somewhere in the chilly north. In an impulsive
moment she had given him her favorite blue scarf, "a favor that now
seemed pitifully inadequate. Still, she had meant it well. It was too thin to
keep him warm, but perhaps it would help him remember the frightening
journey they had survived together. Perhaps he would take heart.

She found Dinivan in the hall outside, trying his best to look patient.
Back in his familiar home, the priest seemed like a war-horse awaiting
battle, full of trembling need to go, to do. He took her elbow and led her
gently down the corridor.

"Where is Cadrach?" she asked. "Is he going with us to see the lector?"

Dinivan shook his head. "I am not sure of him anymore. I said that 1
think there is no great harm in him, but I also think he is a man who has
given in to many weaknesses. That is sad, because the man he once was
would have been valuable counsel indeed. Still, I thought it best to expose
him to no temptations. He is having a pleasant meal with some of my
brother priests. He will be quietly and discreetly watched."

"What was Cadrach?" she asked, craning her head to stare at the ceiling-
high tapestries that lined the corridor, scenes of Aedon's Elevation, the
Renunciation of Saint Vilderivis, the chastising of Imperator Crexis. She
thought of these frozen figures, eyes wide and white-rimmed, and of all
the centuries they had hung here while the world spun on. Would her
uncle and father someday be the subjects of murals and tapestries, long
after she and all she knew were dust?

"Cadrach? He was a holy man, once, and not just in dress." Dinivan
appeared to consider for a moment before speaking again. "We will speak

182 Tad Williams

of your companion another time. Princess, if you will pardon my rude-
ness Now you might be thinking of what things you would tell the
lector "

"What does he want to know7"

"Everything " Dimvan smiled, the harried edge to his voice softening
"The lector wishes to know everything about everything He says it is
because the weight and responsibility of Mother Church are upon his
shoulders and his decisions must be informed ones—but I think that he is .
also a vcrv curious fellow " He laughed "He knows more about book-
keeping than most of the Writing-Priests in the Sanccllan chancelry, and I
have heard him talk for hours about milking with a Lakelands farmer "
Dmivan's expression became more serious "But these are truly grave
times As I said before, some of my sources of knowledge cannot be
revealed even to the lector, so your words and the witness of your own
eyes will be of great help in telling him things he must know. You need
fear to tell him nothing Ranessm is a wise man He knows more of what
spins the world than anyone else I know "

To Mmamelc. the walk though the dark corridors of the Sanccllan
Acdonids seemed to take an hour But for the tapestries and the occasional
flock of priests hurrying by, each corridor seemed identical to the last, so
that before long she was hopelessly lost The great stone hallways were
also damp and poorly-lit When they at last reached a large wooden door,
delicately carved with a spreading Tree, she was grateful that their journey
had ended

Dimvan, about to push the door open, stopped "We should continue to
exercise caution," he said. leading her to a smaller door a few ells down
the corridor He pushed this open and they went through into a small
chamber hung with velvet cloth A fire burned in a brazier against the
wall. The wide table that filled much of the room was scattered with
parchments and heavy books. The priest left Minamele to warm her hands
before the flames

"I will return in a moment," he said, pushing aside a curtain in the wall
beside the table When the curtain fell back, he was gone

When her fingers were tingling satisfactorily, she left the brazier to
examine some of the parchments lying unrolled on the table They seemed
quite uninteresting, full of numbers and descriptions of property bound-
aries The books were uniformly religious, except for one strange volume
full of woodcuts of strange creatures and unfathomable ceremonies that
lay open atop the rest As she flipped carefully through the pages, she
found one that had been marked with a ribbon of cloth It was a crude
illustration of an antlcred man with staring eyes and black hands Terrified
people huddled at the horned one's feet, above his head, a single dazzling
star hung in a black sky The eyes seemed to stare out of the page and
directly into her own

STONE OF  FAREWELL

183

Sa Asdndan Condiqmiles, she read from the caption below the picture.
The Conqueror Star

A fit of shivering came over her The picture chilled her in a way that
the Sancellan's dank corridors never could. It seemed something she had
seen in a nightmare, or a story told her m childhood whose evil she only
now recognized Minamele hastily restored the book to its original posi-
tion and moved away, rubbing her fingers up and down her cloak as
though she had touched something unclean.

Soft voices were coming from behind the arras through which Dimvan
had disappeared She moved closer, straining to make out the words, but
they were too faint. She cautiously pulled the hanging aside to expose a
silver of light from the room beyond

It seemed to be the lector's audience room, for it was ornate beyond
anything she had seen since the entry chamber which she had sleepily
traversed the night before The ceilings were high, painted with hundreds
of scenes from the Book of the Aedon. The windows were slices from the
gray morning sky. Behind a chair at the room's center hung a great azure
banner embroidered with the Pillar and Tree of Mother Church.

Lector Ranessm, a slender man in a tall hat, was sitting on the chair
listening to a fat man who wore the tenthke golden robes of an escntor.
Dimvan stood to one side, scuffing his foot back and forth impatiently m
the deep carpet

". . But that is the point, Your Sacredness," the fat one said, his face
shiny, his tone beautifully measured. "Of all times to avoid offending the
High King . . . well, he is not in the most receptive mood just now. We
must think carefully of our lofty position, as well as the welfare of all who
look to Mother Church for moderation and good influence." He pulled a
small box from his sleeve and popped something into his mouth His
round cheeks flattened briefly as he sucked at it.

"I understand, Velligis," the lector responded, raising his hand with a
gentle smile "Your counsel is always good I am eternally grateful that
God brought us together "

Velligis tilted his round head in a bow of acknowledgment.

"Now, if you will be so good," Ranessm continued, "I really should
give some time to poor Dimvan here. He has been riding for days and I
am anxious for his news."

The escntor dropped to his knees—not an easy feat for a man his
size—and kissed the hem of the lector's blue robe "If you need me for
anything. Your Sacredness, I will be in the chancelry until afternoon " He
rose and left the room in a graceful waddle, prying another sugar-sweet
from his box

"Are you truly grateful God brought you together?" Dimvan asked
with a smile

The lector nodded "Indeed Velligis is a living reminder to me of why

184 Tad Williams

men should not take themselves seriously. He means well, but he is so
blessedly pompous."

Dimvan shook his head. "I am willing to believe he means well, but his
advice is criminal. If there is ever a time when Mother Church must show
herself a living force for good, this is the time."

"I know your feelings, Dinivan," the lector said gently. "But this is not
a time in which decisions may be hastily made, lest they be repented later
at tragic length. Did you bring the princess?"

Ranessm's secretary nodded. "I'll fetch her. I left her in my work-
room." He turned and headed across the Audience Chamber. Miriamele
hurriedly dropped the hanging back into place; when Dimvan came through,
she was standing before tlie brazier once more.

"Come with me," he said. "The lector is free now."

When she reached the chair, Minamele curtseyed, then kissed Ranessin's
hem. The old man reached down a surprisingly strong hand and helped
her to her feet.

"Please, sit beside me." he said as he gestured for Dimvan to bring her a
chair. "On second thought," he told his secretary, "fetch one for yourself
as well."

While Dinivan was getting the chairs, Miriamele had her first chance
Eo look at the lector. She had not seen him for over a year, but he seemed
little different. His thm gray hair hung down beside his pale, handsome
face. His eyes were as alert as a child's, with an air almost of hidden
mischief. Miriamele could not help comparing him to Count Streawe, the
lord of Perdruin. Streawe's lined face had been suffused with cunning.
Ranessin looked much more innocent, but Miriamele did not need Dinivan's
assurances to believe that a great deal went on behind the lector's gentle
exterior.

"Well, my dear princess," Ranessin said when they had seated them-
selves, "I have not seen you since your grandfather's funeral. My, you
have grown—but what odd clothes you wear, my lady." He smiled.
"Welcome to God's house. Do you lack for anything?"

"Not in the way of food or drink, Your Sacredness."

Ranessin frowned. "I am not a lover of titles, and mine is particularly
awkward upon the tongue. When I was a young man in Stanshire, I never
dreamed I would end out my life in far Nabban, being called 'Sacred* and
'Exalted' and never hearing my birth name again."

"Isn't Ranessin your real name?" Miriamele asked.

The lector laughed. "Oh, no. I was born an Erkynlander, hight Oswine.
But since Erkynlanders are seldom elevated to such heights, it seemed
politic to take a Nabbanai name." He reached out to pat softly at her hand.
"Now, speaking of assumed names, Dinivan tells me you have traveled
far and seen much since you left your father's house. Will you tell me
something of your Journeys?"

STONE OF FAREWELL                 185

Dinivan nodded encouragingly, so Miriamele took a deep breath and
began to talk.

As the lector listened attentively, she spoke of her father's growing
madness and how it had at last driven her from the Hayholt, of the evil
counsels of Pryrates, and of the imprisoning ofJosua. Brighter sunlight
began to creep in through the windows high overhead. Dinivan got up
to have someone bring them some food, as the noon hour was fast
approaching.

"This is fascinating," the lector said as they waited for his secretary to
return. "It confirms many rumors that I have heard." He rubbed his finger
along the side of his thin nose. "Lord Usires grant us wisdom. Why can
men not be content with what they have?"

Dinivan soon returned, followed by a priest with a heaping salver of
cheese and fruit, as well as a posset of mulled wine. Miriamele began
again. As she talked and ate, and as Ranessin plied her with gentle yet
shrewd questions, she began to feel almost as though she spoke with some
kindly old grandfather. She told him of the Nom hounds that had pursued
her and the maidservant Leieth, then of their rescue by Simon and Binabik.
As she told of the revelations in the house of the witch woman Geloe, and
related Jamauga's dire warnings at Naglimund, Dinivan and the lector
exchanged glances.

When she had finished, the lector pushed his tall hat back into place—i£
had slipped down several times during the course of the audience—and sac
back in his chair with a sigh. His bright eyes were sad.

"So much to think about, so many dreadful questions unanswered. Oh,
God, You have seen fit to test Your children sternly. I have a premonition
of dire evil coming." He turned to Miriamele. "Thank you for your news,
Princess. It is none of it happy, but only a fool desires cheerful ignorance
and I try not to be a fool. That is my heaviest burden." He pursed his lips
in thought. "Well, Dimvan," he said at last, "this lends an even more
ominous air to the news I received yesterday."

"What news is that, Sacredness?" Dinivan asked. "We have had little
chance to talk since I returned."

The lector took a sip of wine. "Elias is sending Pryrates to see me. His
ship arrives tomorrow from the Hayholt. His mission, the message said, is
an important one from the High King."

"Pryrates is coming?" Miriamele asked, alarmed. "Does my father
know I'm here?"

"No, no, do not fear," the lector said soothingly. He patted her hand
again. "It is Mother Church with whom he would trade words. No one
knows you are here but Dinivan and myself."

"He's a devil," she said harshly. "Do not trust him."

Ranessin nodded gravely. "Your warning is well taken, Princess

186

Tad Williams

Minamele, but sometimes it is my duty to speak with devils." He lowered
his eves to stare at his hands, as if hoping to find clutched therein a
solution to all problems When Dmivan took Minamele out, the lector bid
her good-bye courteously, but he seemed wrapped in melancholy.

10

The Mirror

OTTlUJTl' found himself in the grip of a stubborn anger that would not
go away As he and Sludig followed the mounted trolls away down the
mountain, away from the solemn piles of stone lying nakedly beneath the
sky, he felt a rage seeping through him that muddled all his thoughts, so
that he could scarcely think of anything for more than a moment at a time

He walked stiffly, his body still bruised and sore, his stomach churning
with anger As he walked, he brooded Haestan was dead Another friend
was dead There was nothing he could do about it He couldn't change it
He couldn't even cry over it That was the most infuriating thing he
could do nothing Nothing

Sludig, pale-faced and shadow-eyed, did not seem anxious to break the
silence The two lowlanders trudged along side by side down broad, flat
sheets of weathered granite and waded through drifts of snow churned
into a white froth by rams' hooves

The foothills seemed to be growing up to meet them At each bend in
the trail the snowy-shouldered hills emerged once more into the travelers'
view, each time larger than before Sikkihoq, in turn, seemed Co be
stretching away into the sky behind them as they steadily descended, ever
taller, as though the mountain had finished its business with these mortals
and now returned to the loftier and more congenial company of the sky
and clouds

I won't forget you, Simon warned Sikkihoq as he looked back up the
great dagger of scone He fought the urge to shout it aloud If he squinted,
he thought he could still see the spot where the cairns stood I won't forget
that my jriend is buried on your slopes I'll never forget

Afternoon passed swiftly They made faster time as the mountain broad-
ened and the paths began to level out, with longer stretches between
switchbacks Simon noticed signs of the mountain's life that he had not
seen higher up a family of white and brown rabbits grazing between

188

Tad Williams

patches of snow, jays and squirrels bickering in the stunted, wind-curled
trees. This evidence of life on what had seemed a barren and heartless rock
should have made him feel better; instead, it served only to fuel his
directionless anger. What right to exist did all these small and insignificant
things have, when others were dying? He wondered why they should
bother, when anv moment a hawk or snake or hunter's arrow might snuff
out their lives- The thought of life scrabbling pointlessly beneath the
shadow of death filled him with an oddly exhilarating disgust.

When evening came, the company chose a gently sloping expanse of
stone and brush in which to make camp, sheltered by Sikkihoq's body
from the worst of the snow-laden wind. Simon shed his pack and began
picking up dcadwood for the fire, but stopped to watch the sun slip down
behind the mountains to the west—one of which, he knew, was Urmsheim,
the dragon-mountain. The horizon was streaked with light, as richly
colored as any rose grown in the Hayholt's gardens.

An'nai, jiriki's Sithi kinsman, who had been killed while fighting for the
lives of his companions, was buried there on Urmsheim; the soldier
Grimmric, a wiry, quiet man, had been interred beside him. Simon
remembered Grimmric whistling as they rode north from Naglimund, a
thin trill of sound alternately annoying and reassuring. Now he would be
eternally silent. He and An'nai would never see a sunset like the one that
painted the sky before Simon, beautiful and meaningless.

Where were they? Heaven? How could Sithi go to heaven when they
didn't believe in it—and where did they think they went when they died?
They were pagans, Simon supposed, which meant they were different—
but An'nai had been loyal and brave. More than that, he had been kind to
Simon, very kind in his strange Sithi way. How could An'nai not go to
heaven? How could heaven be such a stupid place?

The anger, which had abated for a moment, returned. Simon flung one
of the sticks he had gathered as hard as he could. It whirled through the
air, then struck and cartwheeled down the long stony hill, disappearing at
last into the underbrush below.

"Come, Simon," Sludig called from behind him. "We need your wood
for the fire. Aren't you hungry now?"

Simon ignored him, staring out at the reddening sky as he ground his
teeth in frustration. He felt a hand on his arm and angrily shrugged it off.
'Tieasc, come," the Rimmersman said kindly. "Supper will be ready

soon."

"Where is Haestan?" Simon asked through tight lips.

"What do you mean?" Sludig cocked his head. "You know where we
left him, Simon."

"No, I mean where is Haestan? The real Haestan."

"Ah." Sludig smiled. His beard had grown very thick. "His soul is in
heaven, with Usircs and the Lord God."

STONE OF FAREWELL                 189

"No." Simon turned to look at the sky again, darkening now with the
first mortal blues of night.

"What? Why do you say that?"

"He's not in heaven. There is no heaven. How can there be a heaven,
when everyone thinks it's different?"

"You are being foolish." Sludig stared at him for a moment, trying to
sense Simon's thought. "Perhaps everyone goes to their own heaven," the
soldier said, then placed his hand again on Simon's shoulder. "God knows
what He knows. Come and sit down."

"How could God let people die for no reason?" Simon demanded,
hugging himself as though trying to keep something inside. "If God can
do that, then He is cruel. If He isn't cruel, well . . . well, then. He just
can't do anything. Like an old man who sits at the window, but can't go
out. He's old and stupid."

"Do not talk against God the Father," Sludig said, his voice chilly.
"God will not be mocked by an ungrateful boy. He has given you all the
gifts of life ..."

"It's a lie!" Simon shouted. The soldier's eyes widened in surprise.
Heads turned from the campfire, looking to the sudden noise. "It's a lie, a
lie! What gifts? To crawl around like a bug, here and there, trying to find
something to eat, somewhere to sleep—and then without warning some-
thing smashes you? What kind of gift is that!? To do the right thing, and
. . . and fight against evil, like the Book of the Aedon says—if you do that
you get killed! Just like Haestan! just like Morgenes! The bad ones live
on—live on and grow rich and laugh at the good ones! It's a stupid lie!"

"That is terrible, Simon!" Sludig said, his voice also rising. "You speak
from madness and grief. . ."

"It's a lie—and you are an idiot to believe it!" Simon yelled, throwing
his wood down at Sludig's feet. He turned and ran down the mountain
path with a great, grieving pain in his middle that almost took his breath
away, following the twisting course until the camp had disappeared from
view. Qantaqa's bark wafted after him, faint and percussive as someone
clapping in another room.

At last he sank down on a stone beside the path, rubbing his hands back
and forth over the worn cloth of his breeches. There was moss growing
on the stone, burnt brown by frost and wind, but still somehow vital and
alive. He stared at it, wondering why he could not cry and whether he
even wanted to.

After some time he heard a clicking noise and looked up to see Qantaqa
pacing toward him over the sloping rocks above the path. The wolfs nose
hovered low, sniffing close to the stone. She hopped down onto the path,
and regarded him quizzically for a moment with her head cocked to one
side, then walked past, brushing against his leg. Simon trailed his fingers
along the thick pelt of her flank as she went by. Qantaqa continued on
down the path, a dim gray shape in the growing darkness.

190

Tad Williams

"Simon-friend." Binabik appeared around the bend in the track. "Qantaqa
is off to hunt," he said, watching her disappearing form. "It is hard for a
wolf to be walking all day where I ask her. She is a good companion to
make such sacrifice for my sake."

When Simon did not respond, the troll came forward and squatted at his
side, his walking stick balanced on his knees.

"You are much upset," he said.

Simon took a deep breath, then let it out. "Everything is a lie," he

sighed.

Binabik raised an eyebrow. "What is 'everything'? And what is making

it a lie?"

"I don't think we can do anything at all. Anything to make things
better. We're going to die."

"At some time," the troll nodded.

"We're going to die fighting the Storm King. It's a lie if we say we're
not. God's not going to save us, or even help us." Simon picked up a
loose stone and flung it across the path, where it went rattling into
darkness- "Binabik, I couldn't even pick up Thorn. What good is the
sword going to be if we can't even use it? How is a sword—even three
Great Swords or whatever they're called—going to kill an enemy like
him? Kill someone who's already dead?"

"These are questions that need answering," the little man replied. "I do
not know. How do you know that the sword is for killing? And if it is for
that, what makes you think any of us is to be the killer?"

Simon chose another rock and threw it. "I don't know anything, either.
I'm just a kitchen boy, Binabik." He felt immensely sorry for himself. "I
just want to go home." The word caught in his throat.

The troll stood, brushing off his seat. "You are not a boy, Simon. You
are a man in all the ways for measuring. A young man, true, but a
man—or with great nearness."

Simon shook his head. "It doesn't matter, anyway. I thought ... I
don't know. I thought that it would be like a story. That we would find
the sword and it would be a powerful weapon, that we would destroy our
enemies and things would be right again. 1 didn't think any more people
would die! How could there be a God who would let good people die, no
matter what they do?"

"Another question I cannot be answering." Binabik smiled, but gently,
mindful of Simon's pain. "And I cannot be telling you what is right for
belief. The truths that became our stories of gods are far away in the past.
Even the Sithi, who live for eons, do not know how the world began or
what began it—at least not for certain, I am chinking. But / can tell you
something important ..."

The troll leaned forward, touching Simon's arm, waiting until his
young friend had raised his eyes from the moss once more. "Gods in the

191

STONE OF FAREWELL

heaven or in the stone are distant, and we can guess only at what they
intend." He squeezed Simon's forearm. "But you and I, we are living in a
time when a god walks the earth once more. He is not a god who intends
kindness. Men may fight and die, they may build walls and break stone,
but Ineluki has died and come back; that is something no one else has ever
been doing, not even your LJsires Aedon. Forgive me, because I am not
meaning blasphemy, but is not what Ineluki has done a thing like a god
can do?" Binabik gave Simon a little shake, staring into his eyes. "He is
jealous and terrible, and the world he can make will be a terrible place. We
are having a task of great fear and very great difficulty, Simon—it may
even be that there is no possibility of succeeding—but it is not a task we
can be fleeing."

Simon tore his gaze from Binabik's. "That's what I said. How do you
fight a god? We'll be crushed like ants." Another stone went flying out
into darkness.

"Perhaps. But if we are not trying, then there is no chance of anything
but this antlike crushing, so we must try. There is always something
beyond even the worst of bad times. We may die, but the dying of some
may mean living for others. That is not much to cling to, but it is a true
thing in any case."

The troll moved a little way down the path and took a seat on another
stone. The sky was darkening swiftly. "Also," Binabik said gravely, "it
may or may not be foolishness to pray to the gods, but there is certainly
being no wisdom in cursing them."

Simon said nothing. They passed some time in silence- At last Binabik
twisted loose the knife end of his walking stick, allowing the bone flute
inside the hollow stick to slide free. He blew a few experimental notes, then
began to play a slow, melancholy air. The dissonant music, echoing down
the mountainside in darkness, seemed to sing with the voice of Simon's
own loneliness. He shivered, feeling the wind through his tattered cloak.
His dragon-scar stung fiercely.

"Are you still my friend, Binabik?" he said at last.

The troll took the flute from his lips. "To death and beyond, Simon-
friend." He began to play once more.

When the flutesong was finished, Binabik whistled for Qantaqa and
walked back up the path toward camp. Simon followed him.

The fire had burned low and the wineskin was making the last of many
trips around the circle when Simon finally worked up the courage to
approach Sludig. The Rimmersman was sharpening the head of his Qanuc
spear with a whetstone; he continued for some while as Simon stood
before him. At last he looked up.

"Yes?" His voice was gruff.

"I'm sorry, Sludig. I should not have said what I did. You were only
being kind."

192

Tad Williams

The Rimmersman stared at him for a moment, a certain cold look in his
eyes. At last his expression softened. "You may think as you like, Simon,
but do not speak such blasphemy of the One God before me."

"I'm sorry. I'm only a kitchen boy."

"Kitchen boy!" Sludig's laugh was harsh. He looked searchingly into
Simon's eyes, then laughed again with better humor. "You really think
so, don't you! You're a fool, Simon." He stood up, chuckling and shaking
his head. "A kitchen boy! A kitchen boy who swords dragons and slays
giants. Look at you! You arc taller than I am, and Sludig is not small!"

Simon stared at the Rimmersman, surprised. It was true, of course: he
stood half a hand taller than Sludig. "But you're strong!" Simon pro-
tested. "You're a grown man."

"As you are fast becoming- And you are stronger than you know. You
must see the truth, Simon. You are a boy no more. You cannot act as
though you are one still." The Rimmersman contemplated him for a long
moment. "As a matter of fact, it is dangerous not to train you better. You
have been lucky to survive several bad fights, but luck is fickle. You need
sword and spear teaching; I will give them to you. Haestan would have
wanted it, and it will give us something to work at on our long trip to

your Stone of Farewell."

"Then you forgive me?" Simon was embarrassed by this talk of manhood.
"If I must." The Rimmersman sat down again. "Now go and sleep. We

have a long walk again tomorrow, then you and I will drill for some time

after we make camp."

Simon felt more than a little resentful about being sent to bed, but did
not want to risk another argument. As it was, it had been difficult for him
to come back to the campfire and eat with the others. He knew they had
all been watching him, wondering if he would have another outburst.

He retreated to the bed he had made of springy branches and leaves and
wrapped himself tightly in his cloak. He would be happy to be in a cave,
or down off the mountain entirely, where they would not be exposed so

nakedly to the wind.

The bright, cold stars seemed to quiver in the sky overhead. Simon
stared up at them through unfathomable distances, letting thoughts chase
themselves through his head until sleep came at last.

The sound of the trolls singing to their rams woke Simon from a
dream. He dimly remembered a little gray cat and a feeling of being
trapped by someone or something, but the dream was fading fast. He
opened his eyes to the thin morning light, then closed them quickly. He
did not want to get up and face .the day.

The singing went on, accompanied by the clinking of harnesses. He had
seen this ritual so many times since leaving Mintahoq that he could picture
it in his head as vividly as if he was watching. The trolls were cinching

193

STONE OF  FAREWELL

up the straps and filling the saddlebags, guttural yet high-pitched voices
busy with their seemingly endless chant. From time to time they would
pause, stroking their mounts, currying the rams' thick fleeces, leaning in
close to sing softly and intimately while the sheep blinked their yellow,
slotted eyes. Soon it would be time for salty tea and dried meat and quiet,
laughing conversation.

Except, of course, there would not be as much laughter today, the third
morning since the hillside battle with the giants. Binabik's folk were a
cheerful people, but a little bit of the frost lodged in Simon's heart seemed
to have touched them, too. A folk that laughed at cold and at dizzying,
breakneck falls at every turning of every trail had been chilled by a shadow
they could not understand—not that Simon understood much himself.

He had spoken truly to Binabik: somehow, he had thought things
would get better once they found the great sword Thorn. The blade's
power and strangcness was so palpable it seemed impossible that it would
not make a change in the struggle against King Elias and his dark ally. But
perhaps the sword by itself was not enough. Perhaps whatever the rhyme
had spoken of would not happen until all three swords had been brought
together.

Simon groaned. Even worse, perhaps the queer rhyme from Nisses'
book meant nothing at all. Didn't people say Nisses was a madman? Even
Morgenes had not known what the rhyme truly meant.

Whenjrost doth grow on Cloves' hell
And Shadows walk upon the road
When water blackens in the Well
Three Swords must come again

When Bukken from the Earth do creep
And Hunen jrom 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 . . .

Well, Bukken had certainly crept from the earth, but the memory of the
squealing diggers was not one he wanted to pursue. Ever since the night
of their attack on Isgrimnur's camp near St. Hoderund's, Simon had never
felt the same way about the solid earth beneath his feet. That was the only
advantage he could think of to traveling over Sikkihoq's unforgiving
stone.

194 Tad Williams

As for the rhyme's mention of giants, with Hacstan's death so fresh in
his mind that seemed like a cruel joke The monsters hadn't even needed
to descend from the heights, because Simon and his friends had been
foolish enough to venture into their mountain territory But the Huncn
had left their high refuges which Simon knew as well as anybody He and
Minamctc—the thought other brought a sudden yearning—had faced one
in Aldheorte Forest, only a week's ride from the very gates of Erchester

The rest did not make much sense to him, but none of it seemed
impossible Simon did not know who Oaves was, or where his bell might
be, but it seemed that soon there would he frost everywhere Even so
what could the three swords do3

/ wielded Thorn, he thought For a moment he felt the power of it once
more In that instant. I uw a ^real km^hl    wasn'f P

But had it been Thorn, or had it only been that he had stood up and put
fear aside3 If he had done the same with a less mighty sword, would he
have been any less brave3 He would have been dead, of course    just
like Hacstan, just like An nai, Morgcncs Gnmmric     but did that
matter3 Didn't great heroes die3 Hadn't Camans, Thorn's true master,
died m the angry seas    3

Simon's thoughts were wandering He felt himself sliding back toward
sleep He almost let it happen, but he knew it would only be a short while
before Binabik or Sludig would be shaking him awake Last night they
had both said he was a man or nearly so Just for once he didn't want to
be awakened last, a child allowed to sleep while the grown-ups talked

He opened his eyes, letting the light in, and groaned again Uncurling
himself from the cloak he picked loose twigs and clusters of pine needles
from his clothing, then shook the cloak out before quickly wrapping it
around himself once more Suddenly unwilling to be parted even for a
short while from his few miserable possessions, he picked up his pack,
which had pillowed his head, and took it with him

The morning was chilly, a light scatter of snow in the air Stretching the
kinks out of his muscles, he walked slowly to the fire, where Binabik sat
talking to Sisqi The pair were seated side by side before the low, translu-
cent Harries, their hands clasped Thorn lay propped on a tree stump beside
them, a dull black bar that reflected no light From behind, the two trolls
looked like children talking earnestly about a game they might play or an
interesting hole they might explore, and Simon felt a strong protective
urge toward them A moment later, as he realized they were probably
discussing how to keep Binabik's people alive if the winter did not abate,
or what they should do if more giants found them, the illusion shredded
and blew awav Thcv were not children, and if not for their bravery he
would be dead

Binabik turned and saw him staring The little man smiled a greeting as
he listened intently to Sisql's rapid Qanuc words Simon grunted, bending

STONE OF FAREWELL                 195

to take the lump of cheese and heel of bread that Binabik pointed out, set
on a stone near the fire He took his meal and went to sit by himself

The sun, still hidden from view behind Sikkihoq, was not visible The
mountain's shadow lay over the campsite but the tops of the mountains in
the west glowed with the sun's rising light The White Waste below was
sunk in gray dawn-shadow Simon took a bite of dry bread and chewed as
he stared out across the Waste at the distant line of forest which lay on the
horizon like dark cream in a milk pail

Qantaqa, who had been lying at Binabik's side, got up, stretched, and
padded silently toward Simon Her muzzle was red-flecked with the
hfeblood of whatever poor animal had surrendered itself for her morning
feeding, but the last traces were even now being scoured away by her long
pink tongue She approached Simon briskly, ears up, as if on some
clearly-defined errand, but when she arrived she only stood for a moment
to Ice him scratch her, then curled up beside him, exchanging one napping
spot for another Her bulk was such that when it pushed against his leg he
was almost forced off his stone seat

He finished his meal and opened the flap of his pack, rooting for his
water bottle A bright tangle of blue came up with it, wound on the
carrying cord

It was the scarf Minamele had given him, the one he had worn around
his neck on the way up the dragon-mountain Jinki had removed it while
nursing him back to health, but had thoughtfully stowed it with the rest of
Simon's meager belongings Now it lay in his hands like a stripe of sky,
the sight brought the sting of almost-tears to his eyes Where in the great
world was Minamele3 Geloe, in their brief moment of contact, had not
known Where in Osten Ard was the princess wandering3 Did she ever
think of Simon3 And if she did, what did she think3

Probably Why did I yve my nice scar/to a dirty kitchen boy^ He enjoyed a
brief twinge of self-pity Well, he was not just any scullion As Sludig
said, he was a kitchen boy who sworded dragons and slew giants Just at
this moment, however, he would rather be a kitchen boy in a nice warm
kitchen in the Hayholt and nothing more

Simon tied Minamelc's scarf about his neck, tucking the ends under the
collar of his tattered shirt He took a swallow of water, then rummaged in
the pack again, but could not find what he was looking for He remem-
bered after a moment that he had put it in his cloak pocket and felt a
moment of panic When would he learn to be more careful3 It could have
easily fallen out a hundred times He was happily reassured to feel its
outline through the cloth After some digging, he lifted it out into the
morning light

Jinki's mirror was icy cold He buffed it on his sleeve, then held it up,
stanng at his reflection His beard had come in more thickly since he had
last surveyed himself The reddish hairs, almost brown in the dim light,

196

Tad Williams

were beginning to obscure the line of his jaw—but the same old nose
poked out above the beard, and the same blue eyes stared back at him.
Becoming a man, it seemed, would not mean becoming anything other
than a slightly different type of Simon, which was a faintly saddening

thought.

The beard did hide most of his spots, so there was something for whith
to be grateful. But for a blemish or two on his forehead, he thought he
looked like a reasonable approximation of a young man. He tilted the
glass, staring at the white streak burned into his reddish locks by the
dragon's blood. Did it make him look older? More manly? It was hard to
tell. His hair was curling on his shoulders, though. He should ask Sludig
or someone to cut it shorter, as many of the king's knights had worn
theirs- But why bother? They would probably all be dead at the hands of
giants before it grew long enough to get in his way.

He lowered the mirror to his lap, staring down into ic as chough it were
a pool of water. The frame was finally beginning to warm beneath his
fingers. What was it jiriki had told him? That the mirror would be no
more than a mere looking glass unless Simon needed him? That was it.
Jiriki had said that Simon could talk to him . . . with the mirror? In the
mirror? Through the mirror? It had not been clear at all, but for a moment
Simon very much wanted to call for Jiriki's help. The thought crept over
him unbidden, but its claws were not easily dislodged. He would call Jiriki
and tell him that they needed help. The Storm King was an enemy chat
mortals alone could not defeat.

But the Storm King is not here, Simon thought, and Jiriki knows everything
about the situation that he needs to. What would I tell him? That he should come
running back to the mountains because a kitchen boy is scared and wants to go

home?

Simon stared into the mirror, remembering when it had shown him
Miriamele. The princess had been on a ship, scaring out over the railing at
cloudy skies, gray and cloudy skies . . .

As he watched his own face in the upturned mirror, it suddenly
seemed that he could again see that misty sky, tatters of cloud floating
across the mirror's surface obscuring his features. A fog seemed to
be drifting past him, and he could no longer separate himself from
the image in the looking glass. He wavered dizzily, as though he were
falling into the reflection. The noises of the camp diminished and then
disappeared as the mist became a solid and featureless curtain of gray. It
was all around him, shutting away the light . . .

The gray mist slowly dissolved, like steam escaping from beneath a pot
lid, but as it cleared he saw that the face before him was no longer his
own. Staring back at him through narrowed eyes was a woman—a beauti-
ful woman who was both old and young at the same time. The lines of
her face were shifting, as though she gazed up through rippling water. Her

STONE OF FAREWELL                 197

hair was white beneath a circlet of gemlike flowers; her stare burned like
molten gold, the eyes bright and reflective as a cat's. She was old, he
somehow knew, very old, but there was little about her face that spoke of
age. only a tightness in the line of her jaw and mouth, a brittleness to her
features as though the skin was stretched close against [he bone. Her eyes
were glorious with ancient knowledge and imprisoned memory. Her high
cheekbones and smooth forehead made her look like a statue . . .

A statue. . . ? His thoughts were a jumble, but Simon knew he had seen
a statue that looked like this woman ... he had seen such a face . . . seen
it in ... in ...

"Please answer me," she said. "7 come to you a second time. Do not ignore me
again! Please forget your ancient grievances, however justified. Ill will has stood
too long between our house and that of Ruyan Ve. Now we have a common
enemy. I need your help!"

Her voice was faint in his head, as though it echoed down a long
corridor, but even so, she wielded a commanding power—like Valada
Geloe's, but in some way deeper, smoother, with none of the witch
Woman's rough but reassuring edges. This one was as different from
Geloe as the forest-woman herself was from Simon.

"I do not hare the strength I once wielded," the woman pleaded. "And what
little I have may be needed against the Shadow in the North—and you must know
of that shadow. Tinukeda'yei! Children of the Garden, please answer!" The
woman's voice faded on an imploring note. There was a long moment of
silence, but if reply was made, Simon did not hear it. Suddenly, the
flake-gold eyes seemed to see him for the first time. The musical voice
abruptly took on a note of suspicion and concern. "Who is this? A mortal
child?"

Frozen in alarm, Simon said nothing. The face in the mirror stared, then
Simon could feel something reaching out to him through the mist, a force
as diffuse but powerful as the sun hidden behind clouds.

"Tell me. Who are you?"

Simon tried to answer, not because he wanted to, but because it was
impossible not to try with such compelling words echoing in his head.
Something prevented him.

"You are traveling in places not mean! for you," the voice said. "You do not
belong here. Who are you?"

He struggled, but found that something was throttling his responses as
surely as fingers on his throat would choke off words. The face before him
rippled as a pallid blue light began to shine through it, fraying the image
of the beautiful old woman. A wave of cold passed through him that it
seemed might turn his very innards to black ice.

A new voice spoke, harsh, chilling.

"Who is he? He is a meddler, Amerasu."

The first face was now entirely gone. A gleam of silver swam upward

198

Tad Williams

through the mirror's gray depths. A face appeared, all gleaming metal,
expressionless and immobile. He had seen that face on the Dream Road
and had felt the same sick dread. He knew the name: Utuk'ku, Queen of
the Norns. Try as he might to look away, he could not. He was held in an
unshakable grip. Utuk'ku's eyes were invisible in the mask's black depths,
but he felt their stare on his face like freezing breath.

"The manchild is a meddler." Each word came sharp and cold as an icicle.
"As are you, granddaughter. And meddlers will not prosper when the Storm King

comes . . ."

The thing in the silver mask laughed. Simon felt hammerblows of frost
against his heart. A poisonous cold began climbing inexorably upward,
from fingers to hand to arm- Soon it would reach his face, like a deadly
kiss from silvery, frost-glittering lips . . .

Simon dropped the mirror, tumbling after it. The ground seemed a
league away, the fall endless. Somebody was screaming. He was screaming.

Sludig helped Simon to his feet, where he swayed, panting. After a
moment he shook off the Rimmersman's hands. He felt wobbly, but
wanted to stand on his own. The trolls had gathered around and were
muttering among themselves, clearly confused.

"What has happened, Simon?" Binabik asked, pushing his way through
to his side. "Are you hurt by something?" Sisqi, still holding Binabik's
hand, stared up at the strange lowlander as though trying to read his

malady in his eyes.

"I saw faces in Jiriki's mirror," Simon said, shivering uncontrollably.

Sisqi held up his cloak, which he took gratefully. "One of them was the
Norn Queen. She could see me, too, I think."

Binabik spoke to the other ram-riders, gesturing with his hands. They
turned and wandered back to the fire. Stocky Snenneq waved his spear at
the sky as though taunting an enemy.

Binabik fixed Simon with his brows. "Tell it to me."

Simon related all that had happened from the moment he first lifted the
mirror. As he described the first face Binabik frowned in concentration,
but when the recitation was finished the troll only shook his head.

"The Norn Queen we are knowing all too well," Binabik growled. "It
was her hunters who arrowed me at Da'ai Chikiza and I have not been
forgetting that gift. But thinking of who the other might be, I have
unsureness. You say that Utuk'ku called her 'granddaughter'?"

"I think so. And the Norn Queen called her something else, too. A
name—but I can't remember it." Some of the details, once spoken aloud,
were not so sure in his mind as they had been moments before.

"Then it is someone of one of the ruling houses, Sithi or Norn. IfJiriki
were now with us, he would be knowing in an instant who it was and
what her words meant. You say she seemed to be at pleading with someone?"

STONE OF FAREWELL                 199

"I think so. But Binabik, Jiriki told me that the mirror was nothing but
a mirror now! He said the magic was gone, unless I wanted to call
him—and I didn't try to call him! I truly didn't!"

"Calm, Simon, is how you must be. I am having no doubts of what
you say. Jinki himself may have misunderstood the nature of the mirror's
powers—or, it is being possible, many things may be changing just since
Jiriki has gone from us. In either way, I think it best you arc leaving the
mirror, or at the least not using it more. That is a suggestion, only—it is
your gift to do as you like. Remember, please, it may bring danger for
all."

Simon looked at the mirror, which lay facedown on the rock- He picked
it up and brushed dust from its surface without looking at it, then slid it
into his cloak pocket. "I won't leave it," he said, "because it was a gift.
Also, we may need Jiriki someday." He patted it. The frame was still
warm. "But I won't use it until then."

Binabik shrugged. "The deciding is yours. Come back to the fire and
make yourself warm. Tomorrow we are riding with dawn's appearance."

After an early start, the ragged troop reached Blue Mud Lake in the late
afternoon of the following day. Nestled among the foothills of Sikkihoq,
the lake was a dark blue mirror, flat as the glass in Simon's pocket, fed by
two cataracts that spilled from the icy heights. The noise of their falling
was deep and sonorous as the breathing of gods.

As the party crossed through the last pass above the lake and the quiet
rumble of the water rose, the trolls reined up their mounts. The wind had
abated. The steaming breath of rams and riders hung in the air. Simon
could see fear written in every trollish face-

"What's wrong?" he asked nervously, expecting at any moment to hear
the bellowing voices of giants.

"I think they had hoped Binabik was wrong," Sludig said. "Perhaps
they were hoping to find springtime hidden here."

Simon saw little that was unusual. The sheltering hills were thatched
with snow and many of the trees that surrounded the lake were bare of
leaf. The evergreens were mantled in white, like cottonwool spears.

Many of the trolls brought the heels of their hands to their chests, as if
what they saw spoke more eloquently of trouble than any words of
Binabik or his master Ookequk. As they spurred their mounts along the
narrow trail, Simon and Sludig trudged forward once more, following the
tracks of the rams into the lake valley. Another flurry of snow came
sifting down from Sikkihoq.

They made camp at a great cavern on the lake's northwestern banks.
The cave was surrounded by well-worn pathways- The massive stone fire
pit, nearly brimful with frozen ash, testified to the generations of trolls
who had camped there- Soon a huge fire, the biggest they had made since

200

Tad Williams

leaving Mmtahoq, was burning by the lakeside. As darkness fell and the
stars began to kindle, the flames threw wild shadows on the rocky faces of
the hills.

Simon was sitting near the fire oiling his boots when Bmabik found
him. At the troll's bidding, he put the boots back on and took a burning
brand from the blaze, then followed Bmabik away into the darkness. They
walked along the edge of the hillside for a furlong, circling around the
lakeshorc until they reached another cave, its high cntranceway almost
hidden behind a stand of spruces. A strange whistling noise came from
within. Simon knitted his brows in apprehension, but Bmabik only smiled
and waved at him to follow, pushing back a low-hanging branch with his
walking stick so taller Simon could enter without catching his torch in the
trees.

The cavern was thick with the smell of animals, but it was a familiar
smell. Simon lifted the brand so the light splashed the farthest depths of
the cavern. Six horses looked back, whinnying nervously. The cavern
floor was piled high with dried grass.

"Good that is," Bmabik said, coming up beside him. "I had been
fearing they might have run away, or the food might not have been of
sufficiency."

"Are they ours?" Simon asked, approaching slowly. The nearest horse
fluttered its lips and danced back a step; Simon held out his hand for it to
smell. "I think they are."

"Of course," Bmabik chuckled. "We Qanuc are not horse-murderers.
My folk put them here for safety when we were all taken up-mountain.
We also keep this place for our rams when they are birthing and the
weather is cold. From now on, Simon-fnend, you need be walking no
more."

After stroking the nearest horse, which submitted grudgingly but did
not pull away, Simon saw the gray and black spotted mare he had ridden
from Naglimund. He moved toward her, wishing he had something to
give her.

"Simon," Binabik called, "catch!"

He turned in time to receive something small and hard, which crumbled
slightly as he clutched it in his palm.

"Salt," Bmabik said. "I brought it from Mintahoq- I have brought one
lump for each. The rams have a great fondness for salt and I am guessing
your horses will, too."

Simon offered it to the gray-and-black. She took it, her mouth tickling
his hand. He stroked her powerful neck, feeling it tremble beneath his
fingers. "I don't remember her name," he whispered sadly. "Haestan told
me, but I forgot."

Bmabik shrugged and began distributing the salt among the other
horses.

201

STONE OF  FAREWELL

"It's good to see you again," Simon told the mare. "I'll give you
a new name. How about 'Homefinder'?"

Names did not seem to be very important to her. She flicked her tail
and nosed Simon's pockets for more salt.

When Simon and Binabik got back to the fire the kangkang was flowing
vigorously and the trolls were singing, rocking back and forth before the
flames. As they approached, Sisql detached herself from the group and
came to take Binabik's hand, silently laying her hooded head upon his
shoulder. From a distance the trolls sounded as though they were having a
hilarious time of it, but as Simon drew nearer the expressions on their
faces told differently.

"Why do they look so sad, Binabik?"

"We are having a saying on Mintahoq," the little man explained,
"—'Mourning is for home.' When we are losing one of our folk on the
trail we bury them in that place, but we save our [ears until we are safe in
our caves once more. Nine of our folk died on Sikkihoq."

"But you said 'mourn at home.' These people are not home yet."

Binabik shook his head, then answered a quiet question from Sisqi
before returning his attention to Simon. "These hunters and herders are
making ready for the coming of the rest of Yiqanuc's folk. The word is
even now flying from one mountain to another: the highlands are not a
place of safety and spring is not coming." The little man smiled wearily.
"They are home, Simon-friend."

Binabik patted Simon's hand, then he and Sisqi veered off toward the
fire to join the chorus. The blaze was fed and the flames leaped higher, so
that all the lake valley seemed to glow with orange light. The mourning
songs of the Qanuc echoed out across the still waters, carrying even above
the bitter voice of the wind and the rush of the falls.

Simon went off in search ofSludig. He found the Rimmersman bundled
in his cloak a short distance from the fire, sitting on a rock with a skin full
of kangkang between his knees. Simon sat down beside him and took a
long swallow from the offered wineskin, sucking cold air afterward. He
wiped his mouth with his sleeve and handed it back.

"Have I told you of the Skipphavven, Simon?" Sludig asked, staring at
the fire and the swaying trolls. "You have not seen beauty until you have
seen the maidens who gather mistletoe from the mast of Sotfengsel,
Elvnt's buried ship." He took a drink and passed it to Simon. "Ah, sweet
God, I hope Skali ofKaldskryke at least has enough Rimmersman pride to
tend to the graves of the longships at the Skipphavven. May he rot in
hell."

Simon took two more long pulls on the wineskin, hiding the faces he
made from Sludig. The kangkang tasted awful, but it warmed him. "Skali
is the one who took Duke Isgnmnur's land?" he asked.

202

Tad Williams

Sludig looked over, a little blearily. He had been working at the skin for
some time. "He is. Black-hearted, treacherous son of a wolf-bitch and a
carrion crow- May he rot in Hell. It is blood feud now." The Rimmersman
pulled meditatively at his beard and turned his gaze upward to the stars
"It is blood feud all over the world, these days."

Simon looked up with him and saw an advancing line of dark clouds
out of the northwest obscuring the stars along the horizon. For a moment
he thought he could see the Storm King's dark hand reaching out, blotting
light and warmth- He trembled, pulling his cloak tighter, but the cold did
not go away. He reached for the skin again. Sludig was still staring

upward.

"We are very small," Simon said between swallows. The kangkang
seemed to be flowing in his veins like blood.

"So are the stars, kunde-manne," Sludig murmured. "But they each one
bum as bright as they can. Have another drink."

Later—in truth, Simon was not sure exactly how much time had passed,
or what had become of Sludig—he found himself seated on a log beside
the fire, Sisql on one side of him, the bearded herder Snenneq on the
Other. They were all holding hands. Simon reminded himself to be gentle
with the small, rough palms folded in his own. All around him the trolls
swayed and he swayed with them. They sang, and although he did not
understand the words of their song, he added his voice to theirs, listening
to the brave roar they all made beneath the night sky, feeling his heart
beating in his chest like a drum.

^

"Do we really have to go today?" Simon asked, struggling to hold the
saddle in place while Sludig tightened the belly-strap. The single torch did
not throw much light in the darkened cave that served as a stable. Beyond
the wall of spruces dawn was unfolding.

"It is seeming a good thought to me," Binabik said, voice muffled, his
head hidden by a leather flap as he inspected the saddlebags. "Chukku's
Stones! Why am I not waiting until we are outside in the light? Like
hunting white weasels in deep snow, this is."

"I would have liked a day to rest," Simon said. In fact, he was not
feeling too badly, considering all the Qanuc liquor he had drunk the mght
before; but for a faint hammering m his temples and a certain weakness in
his joints, he was doing fairly well.

"As would I. As also, no doubt, would Sludig ..." the troll replied.
"Ah! Kikkaksut! There is something sharp in here!"

"Hold that damned thing!" Sludig growled as the saddle jerked free of
Simon's grasp. The horse nickered in irritation and jogged a step to the
side before Simon grasped the saddle again.

STONE OF FAREWELL                 203

"But, you are seeing," Binabik continued, "we have no knowledge
how long it will take to cross the Waste. If winter is spreading, the sooner
this is done will make the better for us. There are others, too, who may be
carrying word of us to ears that are not friendly. We are not knowing who
survived Urmshcim from the huntsman's troop. They saw Thorn, I am
thinking." He patted the sword, which was now wrapped in hides and
strapped to the back of Simon's saddle.

The mention of Ingcn Jegger made Simon's stomach—already uneasy
after a morning meal of dried fish—twist. He did not like to think of the
terrible Queen's Huntsman in his snarlmg-muzzled helm, who had pur-
sued them like an avenging ghost.

Please, God, Simon thought, let him be dead on the dragon-mountain. We
don't need any more enemies, especially one like him.

"I suppose you're right," he said heavily. "But I don't like it."

"What was it that Haestan used to say?" Sludig asked, straightening up.
" 'Now you know what it is like to be a soldier'?"

"That's what he used to say." Simon smiled sadly.

Sisqinanamook and her folk gathered around as Simon and his compan-
ions brought out their saddled mounts. The Qanuc men and women
seemed torn between the ceremonies of leavetakmg and the fascination
inspired by the horses, whose legs were longer than the herders and
huntresses were tall. The horses shuffled nervously at first as the little
people stroked and patted them, but the trolls seemed to have learned
more than a little in their generations of sheepherding; the horses soon
gentled, pluming the frosty air with their breath as the Qanuc admired
them.

At last Sisql waved for order, then spoke rapidly to Simon and Sludig m
the language of the Trollfells. Binabik smiled and said: "Sisqinanamook
bids you farewell on behalf of the Mmtahoq Qanuc and our Herder and
Huntress. She says that the Qanuc people have seen many new things in
late days, and though the world is changing for worse, not all the changes
are being for bad." He nodded to Sisql and she spoke again, now fixing
her eyes on Sludig.

"Good-bye, Rimmersman," Binabik translated- "You are the kindest
Croohok she has ever heard about, and none of the folk who stand here
are now afraid of you any more. Tell your Herder and Huntress—" he
grinned, perhaps imagining Duke Isgnmnur answering to either title,
"—that the Qanuc arc being a brave folk, too, but also ajust folk who do
not like pointless fighting."

Sludig nodded "I will "

Sisqi turned her attention to Simon. "And you, Snowlock, do not be
afraid. She will tell any of the Qanuc back on Mmtahoq who wonder at
the story of your dragon-lashing about the bravery she has been able to

204 Tad Williams

witness. Any others here will be doing the same." He listened carefully for
a moment, then grinned. "She also urges you for being careful of her
intended—who is me—and for using your bravery to keep him safe. This
she is asking in the name of new friendship."

Simon was touched. "Tell her," he said slowly, "that I will protect her
intended—who is also my friend—to death and beyond."

As Binabik relayed his words, Sisqi stared at Simon, her eyes intent and
serious. When the troll had finished, Sisqi bowed her head toward them,
stiff and pndcful. Simon and Sludig did the same. The other Qanuc
pressed forward, touching those who were about to leave as though to
send something with them- Simon found himself surrounded by small,
black-haired heads, and again had to remind himself that the trolls were
not children, but mortal men and women who loved and fought and died
just as bravely and seriously as any knight of Erkynland. Calluscd fingers
squeezed his hand and many things that sounded kind were said to him in
words he could not understand.

Sisqi and Binabik had wandered off from the others, back toward the
sleeping cave. When they got there, Sisqi ducked m, emerging a moment
later with a long spear in her hands, its shaft busy with carvings.

"Here," she said. "You will need this where you are going, beloved, and it
will be longer than nine times nine days before you return. Take it. I know we
will be together once more—if the gods are kind."

"Even if they are not." Binabik tried to smile, but could not. He took the
spear from her and rested it against the facing of the cave. "When we meet
again, may it be granted that it is beneath no shadow. I will hold you m my heart,
Sisqi."

"Hold me against you now," she said quietly, and they stepped forward
into each other's arms. "Blue Mud Lake is cold this year "

"I will be back ..." Binabik began.

"No more talk. Our time is short."

Their faces came together, vanishing as their hoods touched each other,
and they stood chat way for a long time. They were both trembling.

PART TWO

Storm's Hand




11

Bones of tfte Eortft-

J-l/ was often said that of all the lands of men in Osten Ard, secrets ran
deepest in Hernystir. Not that the land itself was hidden, like the fabled
Trollfells lurking beyond the icy fence of the White Waste, or the land of
the Wrannamen, shrouded in treacherous swamps. The secrets Hernystir
kept were hidden in the hearts of its people, or below its sunny meadows,
deep in the earth.

Of all mortal men, the Hernystiri once had known and loved the Sithi
best. They learned much from them—although the things they had learned
were now mentioned only in old ballads. They had also traded with the
Sithi, bringing back to their own grassy country articles of workmanship
beyond anything the finest smiths and craftsmen of Imperial Nabban
could produce. In return, the Hernystirmen offered their immortal allies
the fruits of the earth—nightblack malachite, ilenite and bright opal,
sapphire, cinnabar, and soft, shiny gold—all painstakingly mined from the
thousand tunnels of the Grianspog Mountains.

The Sithi were gone now, vanished absolutely from the earth as far as
most men knew or cared. Some of the Hernystiri knew better. It had been
centuries since the Fair Ones had fled their castle Asu'a, deserting the last
of the Nine Cities accessible to mortal man- Most mortals had forgotten
the Sithi entirely, or saw them only through the distorting veil of old
stories. But among the Hernystiri, an open-hearted and yet secretive folk,
there were still a few who looked at the dark holes that pitted the
Grianspog and remembered.

^

Eolair was not particularly fond of caves. His childhood had been spent
upon the grasslands in the meadows of western Hernystir, at the conjoin-
ing of the Inniscrich and the Cuimnhe rivers. As Count of Nad Mullach,
he had ruled over that territory; later, in service to his king, Lluth ubh-

208 Tad Williams

Llythmn, he had traveled to all the great cities and courts of Osten Ard,
carrying out Hernystir's wishes beneath the lights of countless lamps and
the skies of every nation.

Thus, although his bravery was questioned by no one, and chough his
oath to King Lluth meant he would follow Lluth's daughter Maegwin to
the fires of perdition if that were his duty, he was not altogether pleased to
find himself and his people living deep in the rock of the mighty Grianspog.

"Bagba bite me!" Eolair cursed. A drop of burning pitch had fallen on
his sleeve, scorching his arm through the thm cloth in the time it took him
to put it out. The torch was guttering and would not last much longer. He
considered lighting the second, but that would mean it was time to turn
back; he was not ready to do that. He briefly weighed the risks of finding
himself stuck without light in an unfamiliar tunnel deep in the bowels of
the earth, then cursed again, quietly. If he had not been such a hasty idiot,
he might have remembered to bring his flints with him. Eolair did not like
making that sort of mistake. Too many errors of such an obvious sort and
one's luck would at last run out.

His sleeve extinguished, he turned his attention back to the forking of
the tunnel, squinting at the floor in the vain hope of seeing something that
would help him decide which way to go. Seeing nothing, he hissed in
exasperation.

"Maegwm!" he called, and heard his voice go rolling out into darkness,
echoing down the tunnels. "My lady, are you there?"

The echoes died. Eolair stood in silence with a dying torch and won-
dered what to do.

It was painfully evident chat Maegwin knew her way about this under-
ground maze far better than he did, so perhaps his concern was misplaced.
Surely there were no bears or other animals dwelling this far m the depths,
or they would have made themselves apparent by now- The tattered
remainder of Hernysadharc's citizens had already spent a fortnight in the
mountain deeps, building a new home for an unhomed people among the
bones of the earth. But there were other things to fear down here beside
wild beasts; Eolair could not so lightly dismiss danger. Strange creatures
walked in the heights of the mountains, and there had been mysterious
deaths and disappearances all across the face of the land long before Skali
of Kaldskryke's army came at King Elias' bidding to put down the
rebellious Hernystirmen.

Other, more prosaic dangers might await as well: Maegwin could fall
and break a leg, or tumble into an underground river or lake. Or she
might overestimate her own knowledge of the caverns and wander lost
and lightless until she died from starvation.

There was nothing to do but go on. He would walk a short way farther,
but turn to go back before his torch was half-consumed. That way, by the

209

STONE OF FAREWELL

time darkness overcame him he should be within hailing distance of the
caverns that now housed the greatest remnant of the Hemyscin nation-in-
exile.

Eolair lit his second torch with the smoldering remains of the first, then
used the smoking butt of the expired brand to mark the wall at the forking
of the tunnels with the signature runes of Nad Mullach. After a moment's
consideration he chose the wider of the two ways and started forward.

This tunnel, like the one he had just left, had once been part of the
mines that crisscrossed the Grianspog. At this depth within the mountains
it knifed through solid rock. A moment's thought brought home the
unimaginable labor that must have gone into its making. The cross-
timbers that braced it up were broad as the trunks of the greatest trees!
Eolair could not help admiring the careful but heroic work of the vanished
workmen—his and Maegwin's ancestors—who had burrowed their way
through the very stuff of the world to bring beautiful things back to the
light.

The old tunnel slanted downward. The bobbing torch shone on strange,
dim marks scratched into the walls. These tunnels were long-deserted, but
still there seemed an expectant air to them, as though they waited for
some imminent return. The sound of Eolair's boots on the stone seemed
loud as a god's heartbeat, so that the Count of Nad Mullach could not
help but think of Black Cuamh, the master of deep places. The earth-god
suddenly seemed very real and very near, here in a darkness the sun had
never touched since Time's beginning.

Slowing to look more closely at the shallow carvings, Eolair suddenly
realized that many of the curious shapes scratched on the walls were crude
pictures of hounds. He nodded as understanding came. Old Criobhan had
once told him that the miners of elder days called Black Cuamh "Earthdog,"
and left him offerings in the farthest tunnels so that he would grant his
protection against falling rocks or bad air. These carvings were pictures of
Cuamh surrounded by the runes of miner's names, tokens that begged the
god's favor. Other offerings implored the help of Cuamh's servants, the
deep-delving dwarrows, supernatural beings presumed to grant favors and
wealthy ore-veins to lucky miners.

Eolair took the snuffed torch and made his initials again beneath a
round-eyed hound.

Master Cuamh, he thought, if you still watch these tunnels, bring Maegwin
and our people through to safety. We are sorely, sorely pressed.

Maegwin. Now there was a distressing thought. Had she no feeling for
her responsibilities? Her father and brother were dead. The late king's wife
Inahwen was little older than Maegwin herself and far less capable. Lluth's
heritage was in the princess' hands—and what was she doing with it?

Eolair had not objected so much to the idea of moving deeper into the

210

Tad Williams

caverns: summer had brought no respite from the cold or from Skali's
armies, and the slopes of the Grianspog Mountains were not the kind of
place to last out a siege of either sort. The Hernysciri who had survived
the war were scattered throughout the farthest wildernesses of Hernystir
and the Frostmarch, but a large and important part was here with the
shreds of the king's household. This was indeed where the kingdom
would endure or fail: it was time to make it a more permanent and

defensible home.

What had worried Eolair, though, was Maegwin's wild fascination with
the depths of the earth, with moving ever deeper into the mountain's
heart. For days now, long after the shifting of the camps was finished,
Maegwin had been wandering away on unspecified errands, disappearing
into remote and unexplored caverns for hours at a stretch, returning at
sleeping-time with her face and hands dirty and her eyes full of a preoccu-
pation that looked much like madness. Old Criobhan and the others asked
her not to go, but Maegwin only drew herself up and coldly declaimed
that they had no right to question Lluth's daughter. If she was needed to
lead the people in defense of their new home, she said, or to tend the
wounded, or to make decisions of policy, she would be there. The rest of
the time was her own. She would use it as she saw fit.

Concerned with her safety, Eolair also asked her where she went,
suggesting that she should not go wandering in the depths again without him
or some other companions. Maegwin, unmoved, would only speak mys-
teriously of "help from the gods," and the "tunnels that led back into the
days of the Peaceful Ones"—as much as saying that small-minded idiots
like the Count of Nad Mullach should not concern themselves with things

they could not understand.

Eolair thought she was going mad. He was frightened for Maegwin and
her people—and also for himself. The count had watched her long slide.
Lluth's mortal injury and the treacherous slaying other brother Gwythinn
had wounded something inside her, but the wound was in a place Eolair
could not reach and all his best efforts seemed only to make things worse.
He did not know why his attempts to help her in her sorrow should
distress her so, but he understood that the king's daughter feared being
pitied more than she feared death.

Unable to ease her pain, or his own hurt at the sight other suffering, he
could at least help keep her alive. But how could he do even that when the
king's daughter did not want to be saved?

Today had been the worst yet. Maegwin had risen before the first gleam
of dawn bled through the chink in the cavern root, then had taken torches
and ropes and a collection of other ominous things before vanishing into
the tunnels. She had not returned by the end of the afternoon. After
supper, Eolair—tired himself from a day's patrolling through the Circoille
Woods—had set out after her. If he did not find her soon, he would return
and raise a search party.

STONE OF FAREWELL                 211

For the better part of an hour he followed the meandering tunnels
downward, marking his progress on the walls, watching his torch dwin-
dle. He had gone beyond the point where he could pretend to himself he
would be able to walk all the way back in light. He was unwilling to give
up, but if he waited much longer there would be two lost in the cata-
combs, and what benefit was that to anybody?

He stopped at last in a place where the way opened out into a rough-
hewn chamber, with black tunnel mouths leading away in three more
directions. He swore, realizing that the time had come to stop fooling
himself. Maegwin could be anywhere; he might even have passed her. He
would return to the jibes of the others, the princess back safely an hour
before. Eolair smiled grimly and bound up his horsetail of black hair,
which had come unbraided as he walked. Jokes would not be so bad.
Better to suffer a little humiliation than . . .

A thin voice whispered into the rock chamber, a trace of melody faint as
an old memory.

". . . His voice echoed out through woods and through wild.
Where two hearts had sounded now beat only one ..."

Eolair's heart sped. He walked into the chamber's center and cupped his
hands around his mouth.

"Maegwin!" he cried. "Where are you. Lady? Maegwin!"

The walls boomed with echoes. When they had died he listened care-
fully, but there was no answering cry.

"Maegwin, it is Eolair!" he called. Again he waited for the chorus of
shouting voices to quiet. This time the stillness was broken by another
tenuous strand of song.

". . - Her dark eyes sky-watching,

Only her shining blood gave him answer,

Her head lay uncradled, her black hair undone . • ."

He moved his head from side to side, determining at last that the
singing seemed loudest from the left-hand opening. He ducked his head
through and shouted in surprise as he almost tumbled into blackness. He
pushed outward at the craggy walls to steady himself, then bent to pick up
the torch he had dropped, but even as he reached down, the flame sizzled and
vanished. His hand felt water by the torch's haft and empty space beyond.
Dancing before his blinded eyes was the last thing he had seen before the
light went out, a crude but discernible image painted on black nothing. He
was standing at the top of a rough stone staircase that fell away down the
steep tunnel, a parade of steps that seemed to lead to the center of the world.

212 Tad Williams

Blackness. Trapped in absolute darkness. Eclair felt a spasm of fear
beginning and choked it off. It had been Macgwm's voice he had heard, he
was nearly certain Of course it had been! Who else would be singing old
Hernystin songs m the deeps of creation!

A quiet, childish fear of something that might hide in the dark and
summon its prey with familiar voices struggled inside him. Bagba's Herd,
what kind of man was he?

He touched the walls on cither side. They were damp. The step below
him, when he kneeled to inspect it with his fingers, was sunken in the
middle; water had pooled there. At a reasonable distance below it lay
another step. His probing foot found another lying a similar length below
the second.

"Maegwm?" he called again, but no one was singing.

Stepping down cautiously, keeping his hands above his shoulders so he
could grab at the walls, Eolair began to make his way down the coarse-
hewn stairway. The last flash of light and the picture it had painted had
vanished from his eyes. He strained, but could see only darkness. The
noise of dripping water, running steadily from the walls on all sides, was
the only sound beside his own scuffling feet.

After many cautiously negotiated steps and a drift of time that could
have been hours, the stairway ended. As far as he inched his foot ahead,
the ground stayed level. Eolair took a few cautious steps forward, cursing
himself once more for not bringing his flints. Who would ever have
guessed that this short search for a wandering princess would have turned
into a struggle for life? And where was the one who had sung, whether
Maegwm or some less friendly cavern-dweller?

The tunnel seemed level. He pushed on slowly, following the pathway's
twists with one hand dragging on the wall and the other held before him,
probing in blackness. After he had gone a few hundred paces the tunnel
turned once more. To his immense relief, he found that here he could
actually see something: a faint glow outlined the tunnel's interior, brighter
at its turning a dozen ells ahead.

As he came around the corner, he was splashed with a strong light
welling up from an opening in the tunnel wall. The stone corridor itself
continued on until it bent to the right and he could see no farther, but the
hole in the wall now drew all his attention. Apprehension speeding his
heart more than a little, Eolair got down on his knees and stared through,
starting up again with such surprise that he grazed his head on the stone.
A moment later he had dangled his legs through the opening, letting
himself slide off the floor of the tunnel down into the hole. He landed,
bending his knees to keep from falling over, then slowly stood upright.

He was in a wide cavern whose fluted ceilings, ornate with hanging
spikes of stone, seemed to waver m the light from a pair of flickering oil
lamps. At the far end of the cavern stood a great door, twice as tall as a

213

STONE OF FAREWELL

man, flush with the very face of the rock. The door joined the stone lintel
as closely as if it had grown there, its mighty hinges bolted directly to the
wall of the cavern. Sitting against the door in a clutter of ropes and Cools

was .

"Maegwin!" he cried, running forward, tripping on the uneven ground.
The princess' head rested upon on her knees, unmoving. "Maegwin, are
you.. . ?"

She raised her head as he approached. Something in her eyes caught him
up short. "Princess. . . ?"

'T was sleeping." She shook her head slowly and ran her hands through
her sorrel hair. "Sleeping, and dreaming . . ." Maegwin paused and stared
at him. Her face was almost black with dirt; her eyes gleamed eerily.
"Who. . . ?" she began, ther shook her head again. "Eolair! I was having
the oddest dream . . . you were calling me ..."

He sprang forward, squatting at her side. She seemed to have suffered
no injury. He quickly ran his hands through her hair, feeling her head for
the mark of a fall.

"What are you doing?" she asked, but did not seem overly concerned.
"And what are you doing here?"

He leaned away so he could look at her face. "I must ask you that
question, Lady. What are you doing here? Your people are sick with
worry."

She smiled lazily. "I knew I would find it," she said. "1 knew it."

"What are you Calking about?" Eolair said angrily. "Come, we must go
back. Thanks to the gods that you have lamps, otherwise we would be
trapped here forever!"

"Do you mean you didn't bring a torch? Foolish Eolair! I have brought
many things with me, since it is such a long way back to the upper
caverns." She gestured at her scattered tools. "I have some bread, I think.
Are you hungry?"

Eolair sat back on his heels, baffled. Was this what happened when
someone went irretrievably mad? The princess seemed quite happy, here
in a hole far beneath the earth. What had happened to her?

"I ask you again," he said as calmly as he could. "What are you doing
here?"

Maegwin laughed. "Exploring. At least at first. It is our only hope, you
know. To go deeper, that is. We must always keep going deeper, or our
enemies will find us."

Eolair let out a hiss of exasperation. "We have done as you wish
already. Princess. The people have taken to the caves, as you directed.
Now they wonder where the king's daughter has gone."

"But I also knew I would find this," she said, continuing as if Eolair had
not spoken. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "The gods have not deserted
us," she said, looking around as though she feared eavesdroppers, "—for

214 Tad Williams

they have spoken to me in dreams. They have not deserted us." She
pointed at the great door behind them. "And neither have our old allies
the Sithi—for that is what we need, do we not. Eolair? Allies?" Her eyes
were fearfully bright. "I have thought about this until my head is splitting
and I know I am right! Hernystir needs help in this terrible hour—and
what better allies than the Sithi, who stood with us once before?! Every-
one thinks the Peaceful Ones have disappeared from the earth. But they
haven't! 1 am sure they have only^one deeper."

"This is more than I can stand," Eolair said, taking her arm. "This is
madness, Lady, and it tears my heart in my chest to see you so. Come. Let
us go back."

Maegwin pulled away, eyes bright with anger. "You are the one who
speaks madness, Count! Go back?! I have spent more hours than I can
count cutting the bolt. I had to sleep for a little when I had finished, but
I have done it! It is done, and I am going to go through the door! Do not
speak to me of going back!"

Eolair looked up to see that the princess spoke truthfully. The bolt, big
as a man's wrist, had been chipped through. A hammer and dented chisel
lay nearby.

"What is this door?" he asked suspiciously. "It is part of the old mines,
surely."

"I told you," she responded coldly. "It is the door to the past—the door
that leads to the Peaceful Ones. To the Sithi." As she faced him, her iron
gaze seemed to soften and melt. Another emotion pushed its way to the
surface, bringing confusion and longing to Maegwin's face; the Count of
Nad Mullach felt a deep, helpless pang of sorrow. "Oh, Eolair," she said,
pleading now, "don't you see? We can be safe! Come, help me! Please,
Eolair, I know you think I am a fool, a plainfaced horse of a woman, but
you loved my father! Please, help me open the door!"

Eolair could not meet her gaze. He turned away to stare up at the great
door, tears welling in his eyes. Wretched girl! What could have tormented
her so? The death of a father and brother? The loss of a kingdom?
Tragedies, all—but others who had suffered the same did not fall into such
pitiable notions. The Sithi had been real once, certainly—real as rain and
stone. But five long centuries had passed since even a rumor of the Fair
Folk had made its way to Hemystir. And the idea that the gods were
leading Maegwin to these long-vanished Sithi . . . even Eolair, with his
respect for the unknown, could still see that this was clearly the madness
other loss speaking.

He wiped his face with his sleeve. The stone facing around the door was
covered with strange, intricate symbols and minutely detailed carvings of
faces and figures, mostly worn down by dripping water. It was true that
they were constructions of exquisite subtlety, seemingly far above even
the most ambitious work ofHemystiri miners. What could this place have

215

STONE OF FAREWELL

been? Some ancient temple, from the earliest days? Had strange rituals
been performed here for Black Cuamh, away from the simple shrines of
other gods that dotted the face of the land above?

Eolair took a breath and wondered if he was making a foolish decision.
"I do not wish to hear you malign yourself untruthfully any longer,
Princess, and I do not want to carry you back by force. If I help you open
the door," he said slowly, not daring to see the painful look of hope on
her face, "will you return with me afterward?"

"Oh, yes, whatever you want'" She was childlike in her eagerness. "I
will let you decide, because I know when you see the land where the Sithi
still live, you will not want to hurry back to any sooty cavern. Yes!"

"Very well, then. I have your word, Maegwin." He stood up and
grasped the handle of the door, giving it a sharp tug. There was no
movement at all.

"Eolair," Maegwin said quietly.

He pulled again, harder, until he could feel the cords of his neck
standing out, but the door did not budge.

"Count Eolair," Maegwin said.

He gave the door another futile pull, then turned. "What?"

She gestured at the door with a broken-nailed finger. "1 sawed the bolt
through, but the pieces are still there. Shouldn't we take them out?"

"That would make no difference ..." he began, then looked more
closely. Part of the severed bolt had fallen into the door loop, effectively
preventing the door's opening. Eolair hissed, then pushed the pieces out.
They fell clinking to the damp stone.

This time, as Eolair pulled, the hinges creaked protestingly. Maegwin
came forward, curling her hands around the door handle beside the count's,
adding her strength to his. The hinges spoke louder. As he kept up the
pressure, he distractedly watched the muscles in her forearms. She was
strong, this young woman—but then, she never had been a weak or
retiring type. Except around him, where he had often noticed her sharp
tongue suddenly blunted.

Straining, Eolair sucked in a chestful of air and could not help noticing
Maegwin's scent. Sweaty and covered with dirt, the princess did not smell
like a perfumed lady from the court in Nabban, but there was something
raw and warm and lively about her that was not unpleasant at all. Eolair
shook his head at such musings and redoubled his effort, watching
Maegwin's determined face as the noise of the hinges rose to a shriek. The
door began to grate open—an inch, then a few inches more, then a foot,
protesting loudly all the way. When a cubit of blackness was exposed they
stopped, leaning against the heavy timbers to catch their breath.

Maegwin bent and picked up a lamp, then slipped through the opening
while Eolair was still gasping.

"Princess!" he called breathlessly, then edged through after her. "Wait!

216

Tad Williams

The air may be bad'" Even as he spoke he realized that the air was fine, if
a little heavy "Just . ." he began, then stopped short at Maegwin's
shoulder The lamp she held threw light all around

"I told you'" Her voice was full of satisfied awe "This is where our
friends live'"

"Brynioch of the Skies'" Eolair murmured, stunned

A great city lay before them, stretched along the bottom of a wide
canyon As they stood at the canyon's edge, gazing down, the vast
expanse of buildings seemed to be hewed directly from the mountain's
heart, as though the entire city were one seamless, incalculably immense
piece of living stone. Every window and door had been cut into solid
rock, every tower carved out of pillars of pre-existing stone, pillars that
stretched up Coward the cavern's ceiling far overhead But for all its size,
the city also looked to be surprisingly close, as though it were in truth
only a miniature, made to trick the eye From where they stood on the top
steps of a broad staircase that wound down into the canyon, it seemed
they could almost reach out and touch the domed roofs

"The city of the Peaceful Ones . . " Maegwin said happily.

If it was a Sithi city, Eolair thought, then its immortal inhabitants must
have decided their declining years would be better spent on the sunny
surface, for this spread of delicately hewn and shaded stone was empty—or
so it certainly seemed. Shaken by the discovery of such an uncanny place,
the count found himself fervently hoping that it was indeed as deserted as
it looked.

-s.-

The small cell was cold. Duke Isgnmnur snorted miserably, rubbing his
hands together.

Mother Church would do better to fake a few of those damned offerings and use
them to heat her greatest house, he thought. The tapestries and gold candlesticks
are all well and good—but how can anyone admire them when he's freezing to
death7

He had stayed long in the common room the night before, sitting
quietly before the great fireplace as he listened to the stories of other
traveling monks, most of whom had come to the Sanceilan Aedonitis on
some sort of business with the lectoral establishment When friendly
questions were directed toward him, Isgnmnur had replied tersely and
infrequently, knowing that here—among others of the same guild, so to
speak—the danger of his masquerade being detected was greatest.

Now, as he sat listening to the Clavean bell tolling for morning prayer,
he felt himself strongly inclined to go back to the common room again
The risk of exposure was great, but how else could be help to uncover the
news he so urgently sought?

S rONE OF FAREWELL                 217

If only that damnable Count Streawe spoke straig fitly Why should he bring me
all the way across Ansis Pelippe just to tell me Minamele was at the Sanceilan
Aedomtis7 How could he know that7 And why should he telt me, about whom he
knew only that I was asking questions about two monks, an old one and a young7

Isgnmnur considered briefly the possibility that Streawe had known
who he was, and worse, that the count had set him to some kind of wild
chase on purpose, when Mmamele was in reality nowhere near the lector's
palace. But if that was the case, why should Perdrum's master speak to
him personally^ They had sat there, the count and monkishly-disguised
Isgnmnur, drinking wine in the count's own sitting room Did Streawe
know who he was^ What did the man have to gain by sending Isgnmnur
to the Sanceilan Aedonitis7

Trying to puzzle out Count Streawe's game made Isgnmnur's head
ache What choice did he have, anyway, but to take the count's word at its
face value^ He had been at a complete dead end, combing the alleyways of
Perdrum's greatest city for word of the princess and the monk Cadrach
with little result So here he was, a mendicant monk taking a little charity
in Mother Church's bosom, hoping to find out if Streawe was correct.

He stamped his feet. The soles of his boots were worn thin and the chill
seemed to crawl up through the dank stone floors right into the bottoms
of his feet This was foolishness, this hiding in his ceH, it would not help
him in his quest He must get out and mix with the Sancellan's swarming
throngs Besides, when he sat too long by himself, the faces of his wife
Gutrun and his children came to him, filling him with despair and helpless
rage He remembered the joy when Isorn had come back to him out of
captivity, the bursting pride, the exhilaration of fear defeated. Would he
live to have another such reunion with them alP God grant that he would.
It was his fondest hope, but one that seemed so tenuous that, like a spider
web, to handle it unnecessarily might spell its ruin.

But in any case, hope alone was not a fit diet for a knight—even an old
one like the duke, with his best days behind him. There was also duty.
Now that Naglimund was fallen and Isgnmnur's folk were all scattered
God knew where, the only duty he had left was to Minamele, and to
Prince Josua who had sent him after her. Indeed, he was grateful there was
something left for him to do.

Isgnmnur stood in the hallway stroking his chin. Praise Usires, the
beard stubble was not too pronounced. He had not been able to force
himself to shave this morning The bowl of water had been nearly frozen,
and even after several weeks of traveling as a monk he was still not
reconciled to running a sharp blade over his face every day He had worn a
beard since his first year as a man He mourned it now the way he would
have a missing hand or foot.

The duke was trying to decide which direction might lead him back

218 Tad Williams

toward the common room—and toward its blazing fire—when he felt a
hand on his arm He turned quickly, startled and found himself sur-
rounded by a trio of priests The one who had touched him. an old man
with a harelip, smiled

"Did 1 not see \ou in the room last night, brother5" he asked He spoke
the Wcsterling tongue carefully, hampered by a strong Nabbanai accent
"You have just come from the north, no5 Come and Join us for the
morning meal Are vou hungrv3"

Isgnmnur shrugged and nodded

"Good " The old man patted his arm "I am Brother Septcs These are
Rovallcs and Ncylm, two others ofmv order," He indicated the younger
monks "You willjoin us. yes7"

"Thank you " Isgnmnur smiled uncertainly, wondering if there was
some monkish etiquette known only to initiates "God bless you," he

added

"And you," Septcs said, taking Isgnmnur's large arm with his thin
fingers, leading him up the corridor The other two monks fell in behind,
talking quietly

"Have you seen the Elysia Chapel yet5" the old man asked
Isgnmnur shook his head "I only arrived last night "
"It is beautiful Beautiful Our abbev is near Lake Myrme, to the east,
but I try to come here once a year I always bring a few of the younger
ones with me, to show them the glory that God has built for us here "

Isgnmnur nodded piously They walked on in silence for a while, their
path joining that of other monks and priests who converged from criss-
crossing hallways onto the main thoroughfare, blending together like
shoals of drab fish, being drawn as though by a current toward the dining

hall

The mass migration slowed at the hall's wide doors As Isgnmnur and
his new companions joined the pressing throng, Septes asked the duke a
question Isgnmnur could not hear above the clamor of voices, so the old
man stood on tiptoe to speak into his ear

"I said, how are things in the north5" Septcs almost shouted "We have
heard terrible stones Famine, wolves, deadiv blizzards "

Isgnmnur nodded, frowning "Things arc very bad," he called back As
he spoke, he and the others were propelled through the door like a stopper
from the neck of a bottle, and found themselves milling inside the dining
hall entrance The roar of conversation seemed enough to shake the
roofbeams

"I thought it was custom to have silence at mealtimes'" Isgnmnur
shouted Septes' young followers, like the duke, stared goggle-eyed at the
scores of tables that stretched end to end across the wide room There
were some dozen or so rows, and each table in each row was crowded
with the hunched backs of cassocked men, their tonsured heads a profu-

STONE OF FAREWELL                 219

sion of pink spots, like the fingernails of some hundred-handed ogre Each
man seemed to be engaged in loud conversation with his neighbors, some
waving their spoons for attention The sound was as vast as the ocean that
surrounded Nabban

Septes laughed, the sound subsumed in the greater roaring He stood on
tiptoe again "It is silent in our abbey at home and in many others—as no
doubt it is in your Rimmersgard monasteries, yes7 But here at the Sancellan
Aedonitis are those who are doing God's business they must speak and
listen just like merchants "

"Speculating on the price of souls3" Isgnmnur gnnned sourly, but the
old man did not hear him

"If you prefer silence," Septes shouted, "you should go down to the
archives The priests there are silent as the tomb and a whisper sounds like
a thunderclap Come' Bread and soup can be got over there, where that
door is, then you will tell me more about what happens in the north,
yes7"

Isgnmnur tried not to watch the old man eat, but it was difficult
Because of his harelip, Septes dnbbled soup constantly, and soon had a
little river of it running down the front of his robe

"I am sorry," the old man said at last, mumbling at a crust of bread, he
did not seem to have many teeth, either "I have not asked your name
What are you called3"

"Isbeom," the duke said It was his father's name and fairly common

"Ah, Isbeorn Well, I am Septes    but I told you that, no7 Tell us
more of what happens in the north That is another reason I come to
Nabban—for news we do not get in the Lakelands "

Isgnmnur told him something of what had happened north of the
Frostmarch, of the killing storms and evil times Choking down his
bitterness, he told ofSkali ofKaldskryke's usurpation of his own power in
Elvntshalla and the devastation and kmslaymg that had resulted

"We had heard that Duke Isgnmnur was proved a traitor to the High
King," Septes said, mopping the last of the soup from his bowl with a
nnd of bread "Travelers told us that Elias found out the duke was in
league with the king's brother josua to take the throne "

"That's a lie'" Isgnmnur said angrily, smacking his hand on the table so
that young Neylm's bowl almost overtipped Heads turned on all sides

Septes raised an eyebrow "Forgive us," he said, "for we only speak of
rumors we have heard Perhaps we have touched on a painful subject Was
Isgnmnur a patron of your order3"

"Duke Isgnmnur is an honest man," the duke said, cursing himself for
letting his temper get the best of him "I hate to hear him slandered "

"Of course," Septes spoke as soothingly as he could while still being
heard above the ruckus "But we have heard other stones from the north

220 Tad Williams

as well, very frightening, yes3 Rovalles, tell him what the traveler told to
you "

Young Rovalles started to speak, but broke into a fit of coughing as he
choked on a crust Neylm the other acolyte, pounded him on the back
until he got his breath, then continued pounding, perhaps a little overexcited
at being in Nabban for the first time

"A man we meet when we are coming here," Rovalles said when
Neyhn had been restrained, "he is from Hewenshire, or some place up
in Erkynland " The young monk did not speak Westerling as well as
Septes, he had to stop and chink carefully before choosing words "He say
that when Lhas' siege cannot throw down Josua's castle, the High King
raise up white demons from the earth, and by magic they kill everyone m
the keep He swear it is so, that he sees it himself "

Scptcs, who had been dabbing at the front of his robe while Rovalles
spoke, now leaned forward "Like me, Isbeorn, you know how full of
superstition people can be, yes7 If only this man told the story, I would
call him madman and have done But many are speaking quietly here in
the Sancellan, many who say Elias has trafficked with demons and evil
spirits " He touched Isgnmnur's hand with his bent fingers, the duke
fought an urge to recoil "You must have heard of the siege, even though
you say you kft the north before it ended What is the truth behind these
stones7"

Isgnmnur stared at the old monk for a moment, wondering if there was
more to this question than met the eye At last he sighed This was a
kindly old man with a harelip, nothing more These were frightening
times—why should Septes not try to cadge information from someone
who had come from the heartland of rumor7

"I have heard little more than you," he said at last, "but I can tell you
chat evil things are afoot—things that godly men would rather not know
about, but damn me if that makes them go away " Septes' eyebrow
twitched upward again at Isgnmnur's language, but he did not interrupt
Isgnmnur, warming to the subject, spoke on "Sides are forming, you
could say, and some that look prettier are really the fouler I can't say
more than that Don't believe everything you hear, but don't be too quick
to cry 'superstition,' either    " He broke off, realizing that he was
entering dangerous territory There was little more he could say without
attracting attention as a source of substantiation for the gossip that was
doubtless flying through the Sancellan Aedomtis He could not afford to
be the subject of attention until he had learned if Princess Minamele was
indeed here

The bits and pieces he had doled out, however, seemed to satisfy Septes
The old man leaned back, still scratching idly at the drying soup stain on
his breast "Ah," he nodded His voice just carried above the tabletalk
"Weliaday, we have heard enough fearsome stones to take what you say

STONE OF FAREWELL                  22]

senously, yes7 Very seriously " He gestured for the nearest acolyte to help
him up "Thank you for sharing our meal, Isbeorn," he said "God keep
you I hope we can speak more in the common room tonight How long
do you stay7"

"I'm not sure yet," Isgnmnur replied "My thanks to you, too "

The old man and his two companions disappeared into the crush of
retreating monks, leaving Isgnmnur to sort out his thoughts After a
moment he gave up and rose from the table

I can't even hear myself think in here He shook his head grimly, pushing
toward the doorway His large size helped him make rapid progress and
he reached the main hallway swiftly Now I've gone and spouted my own
piece, but I'm not a whit closer to finding poor Minamele, he thought sourly
And how can I find out her whereabouts, anyway7 just ask someone if E{ias1
missing daughter if anywhere in the place7 Oh, and she's traveling as a boy,
besides That'f even better Perhaps HI just ask around, jind out if any young
monks have shown up at the Sancellan Aedomtis lately

He gave a bitter snort as he watched the river of habited forms swirl
past

Elysia, Mother of God, I wish Eolair was with me That damned Hemystirman
hves this kind of nonsense He'd track her down quick enough, with his smooth
ways What am I doing here7

The Duke ofElvntshalla rubbed his fingers along his unnaturally smooth
jaw Then, startling even himself, he began to laugh at his own hopeless
foolishness

Passing priests eddied nervously around the big-bellied northern monk,
who was evidently caught up in some kind of religious fit Isgnmnur
roared and bellowed with laughter until the tears coursed down his chafed
pink cheeks

^

Thunderstorm weather lay on the swamp like a blanket, damp and
oppressively hot Tiamak could feel the storm's yearning hunger to exist,
its prickly breath made the hair stand up on his arms What he would not
give for the storm to break and a little cool ram to fall' The thought of
raindrops splashing on his face and bending the leaves of the mangroves
seemed like a dream of the most benevolent magic

Tiamak sighed as he lifted his pole from the water and laid it across the
thwarts of his flatboat He stretched, trying without success to unkmk the
muscles of his back He had been poling for three days and had suffered
two near-sleepless nights filled with worry about what he should do If he
went to Kwanitupul and stayed there, would he be betraying his tnbesmen7
Could they ever understand a debt he owed to drylanders—or owed to a
few drylanders, anyway7

222

Tad Williams

Of course they wouldn't understand. Tiamak frowned and reached for
his waterskm, sloshing a generous mouthful around before swallowing it.
He had always been thought of as strange. If he did not go to Nabban to
plead his people's case with Duke Benigans, he would simply be a strange
traitor. That would be the end of it as far as the elders of Village Grove
were concerned.

He took his kerchief from his head and dipped it over the side of the
boat into the water, then arranged it atop his hair once more. Blessedly
cool water dribbled down his face and neck. The bright, long-tailed birds
perched in the branches overhead stopped screeching for a moment as a
dim rumble rolled across the swamp. Tiamak felt his heart beat faster.

He Who Always Steps on Sand, let the storm come soon!

His boat had begun to slow when he had stopped poling. Now the stem
began to swing gradually out to the middle of the watercourse, turning
him sideways so that he faced the bank—or rather, what would have been
the bank if this were a dryland river. Here in the Wran it was only a tangle
of clustered mangroves whose roots held in just enough sand for the
colony of trees to grow and prosper. Tiamak made a resigned noise and
pushed his pole back into the water once more, straightening the boat
and prodding it forward through a thick clump of lilies which clutched at
his passing hull like the fingers of drowning swimmers. It was several
more days to Kwanitupul, and that was if the storm he was praying for
did not bring heavy winds in its train, winds which might uproot trees
and make this part of the Wran an unpassable snarl of roots and trunks and
broken branches.

He Who Always Steps on Sand, he amended his prayer, let a cooling hut
gentle storm come soon!

His heart felt unutterably heavy. How could he choose between two
such awful possibilities? He could go as far as Kwanitupul before choosing
whether to stay there in accordance with Morgenes' wishes or to go on to
Nabban as Older Mogahib and the rest had ordered. He tned to soothe
himself with that idea, but wondered if such thinking was not m fact just
like allowing a wound to fester, when instead he should gnt his teeth and
clean it out so the healing could start?

Tiamak thought of his mother, who had spent most of her life on her
knees, tending the cookfire, grinding grain in the pestle, working every
day from the darkness before dawn until it was time to crawl into the
hammock at night- He had little respect for the village elders, but now he
felt a sudden fear that his mother's spirit might be watching him. She
would never understand her son turning his back on his people for the
sake of strangers. She would want him to go to Nabban. Serve his own
folk first, then take care of his personal honor, that was what his mother
would say.

Thinking of her made it seem very clear. He was a Wrannaman first:

223

STONE OF FAREWELL

nothing would change that. He must go to Nabban. Morgenes, that kind
old man, would understand his reasons. Afterward, after he had finished
his duties to his people, he would go back to Kwanitupul as his drylander
friends had asked.

The decision lifted part of the load of worry from Tiamak's shoulders.
He decided he might as well stop soon and scare up something for a noon
meal. He reached down and tested his fishing line, tied to the back of the
flatboat. It seemed light; as he pulled it up he saw to his disgust that the
bait had been eaten again, but whatever had dined at his expense had not
waited around to pay respects. At least the hook was still there. Metal
hooks were painfully expensive items—he had paid for this one with an
entire day of work as an interpreter in the market at Kwanitupul. The next
month at market he had found the parchment with Nisses' name on it, and
had paid a full day's wages for that as well. Two expensive purchases, but
the fishook had indeed proved much sturdier than the ones he whittled of
bone, which usually broke on the first snag. The Nisses parchment—he
patted protectively at the oilskin bag lying at his feet—if he was correct
about its origins, was a gem beyond price. Not bad work for two days'
marketing.

Tiamak hauled m the line, wrapping it gently, then steered the boat over
closer to the bank of mangroves. He poled along slowly, waiting until the
mangrove roots gave way for a while to a short stretch of soggy dirt
cluttered with waving reeds. Bringing the boat as close to the edge of the
watercourse as he could, he pulled his knife from his belt and dug in the
wet soil, at last turning up some spitfly roe. He wrapped the shiny things
in his kerchief, saving one only to bait the hook. This done, he tossed the
line back into the water to trail behind the boat. As he poled out into the
middle of the stream once more, thunder grumbled in the distance. It
seemed to be farther away than last time. He shook his head sadly. The
storm was in no hurry.

It was late afternoon when he passed out of the overhanging thicket
of mangroves and emerged into unshadowed sunlight once more. Here
the waterway grew wider and deeper. A sea of reeds rolled out toward the
horizon, all but motionless in the oppressive heat, crisscrossed with
the shining tracks of other watercourses. The sky was gray with threatening
clouds, but the sun burned brightly behind them. and Tiamak could not
help but feel more lighthearted. An ibis rose, white wings flapping slowly,
then settled down into the reeds a short distance away. To the south, past
miles of marsh and swamp forest, he could see the dark line of the
Nascadu Mountains. To the west, invisible beyond an endless prairie of
cattails and mangroves, lay the sea.

Tiamak poled distractedly, momentarily caught up in a correction he
had decided to make in his great work of scholarship, a revision of The

224

Tad Williams

Sovran Remedies of the Wranna Healers. He had suddenly realized that the
shape of the cattait itself might have something to do with its use among
the men of the Meadow Thnthmgs as a marital potion, and was planning
the wording of a footnote that would delicately suggest this connection
without seeming too clever, when he felt a strange vibration against his
back. He turned, startled, and saw that his fishing line was pulled taut,
humming like the plucked string of a lute-

For a moment he was sure it must be a snag—the pull was so strong
that it had imparted some of its tension to the stern of the boat—but as he
leaned over he saw some silver-gray thing rise briefly toward the surface,
wriggling, then dive down into the brackish water again. A fish! As long
as Tiamak's arm! He gave a small cry of delight and began to pull on the
line. The silver thing seemed to leap up at him. For a split instant one pale,
shiny fin appeared above the water, then it vanished beneath the boat,
stretching the line tight. Tiamak heaved and it gave a little, but not much.
It was a strong fish. A sudden image of the line snapping and his next two
days' worth of meals swimming away filled Tiamak's heart with sick
horror. He lessened the tension on the fishing line. He would let the fish
tire itself, then he could reel it in at his leisure. In the meantime, he would
keep an eye open for a dry patch where he could build a fire. He could
wrap the fish in minog leaves, and surely there would be wild quickweed
growing somewhere nearby ... In his thoughts he could already taste it.
The heat, the recalcitrant thunderstorm, his betrayal of Morgcnes (as
he still saw it) and all else receded in the warm glow of the contem-
plated meal. He tested the line again, rejoicing at the firm, steady pull. He
had not had fresh fish in weeks'

A splash impinged on his reverie. Tiamak looked up to see a rainbow of
ripples spreading beside the shoreline, a couple of long stone-throws
away. There was something else as well: a moment later he picked out a
row of low bumps like tiny islands moving smoothly through the water
toward his boat.

Crocodile! Tiamak's heart quailed. His wonderful dinner! He tugged
hard at the line, but the fish was still beneath the flatboat and resisting
fiercely; the line burned his palms as he struggled unsuccessfully to wrestle
the fish to the surface- The crocodile was a dark blur just below the
surface, the motion of its powerful tail sending eddies across the still
water. Its craggy back breached forjust a moment, a hundred cubits from
where Tiamak sat, then it was gone—diving toward his fish!

There was no time to think, no time at all. His dinner, his fishing hook,
his line, all would be lost if he waited a moment longer. Tiamak felt a
black rage flare into life in his empty stomach and a band of pain tighten
itself around his temples. His mother, had she lived to see him at this
moment, would hardly have recognized her shy, clumsy son. If she had
seen what he did next, she would have stumbled to the shrine of She Who

STONE OF FAREWELL                 225

Birthed Mankind at the back wall of the family hut, then fainted dead
away.

Tiamak looped the cord tied to his kmfe-hilt around his wrist, then
flung himself over the stern of the boat. Mumbling inarticulately with
anger and despair, he barely sucked in a hasty breath and closed his mouth
before the green, cloudy water closed over his head.

Flailing, he opened his eyes. The sunlight filtered down through the
watercourse, passing through plumes of drifting silt as through clouds. He
darted a glance up at the rectangular darkness that was the bottom of his
boat and saw a glittering shape hanging there. Despite his wild, heart-
thumping panic, he felt a moment of satisfaction at the size of the fish
lying torpid at the end of his line. Even his father Tugumak would have
had to admit it was a splendid catch!

As he stroked upward, reaching toward his prize, the shimmering thing
darted along the boat-bottom and slipped out of sight along the craft's far
side, rising up out of Tiamak's view. The line pulled taut against the
wooden hull. The Wrannaman snatched at it wildly, but it now hugged
the boat so tightly that his fingers could find no purchase- He gave a little
cough of dread, sending bubbles dancing outward. Hurry, he must hurry!
The crocodile would be upon him in a moment!

His heartbeat boomed in the watery silence of his ears. His scrabbling
fingers could not grip the line. The fish remained out of sight and out of
reach, as if perversely determined that it should not suffer alone, and panic
was making Tiamak clumsy. He finally gave up and pushed himself away
from the bottom of the boat, kicking to bring himself upright. The fish
was lost. He had to save himself.

Too late!

A dark shape slid past him and angled upward, slipping in and out of
the shadow of his boat. The crocodile was not the largest he had ever seen,
but it was certainly the largest he had ever been beneath. Its white belly
passed over him, the tail a diminishing stnpe buffeting him with its wake.

His breath was pressing on his lungs, burning to escape and fill the
murky water with bubbles. He kicked and turned, his eyes feeling as
though they would push from his head, and saw the blunt arrow-shape of
the crocodile skimming toward him. Its jaws parted. There was a glimpse
of red-shadowed darkness and an infinity of teeth. He whirled, swinging
his arm, and watched the horrifyingly slow movement of the knife as he
pushed it against the wall of water. The reptile thumped against his ribs,
rasping him with its horny hide as he struggled out of its way. His knife
bit shallowly into its flank, dragging along the armored skin for a moment
before bouncing off. A thin brown-black cloud trailed the crocodile as it
swam on, circling the boat once more.

Tiamak's lungs felt as though they had grown impossibly large within
his chest, straining at his ribs until spots of blackness began to appear

226 Tad Williams

before his eyes. Why had he been such a fool? He didn't want to die like
this, drowned and eaten!

Even as he tried to struggle upward toward the surface, he felt a
crushing pressure enfold his leg; m the next instant, he was jerked down-
ward. His knife spilled loose from his hand, and his arms and free leg
kicked wildly as he was pulled toward the darkness of the river bottom. A
belch of bubbles escaped his lips. The faces of the elders of his tribe,
Mogahib and Roahog the Potter and others, seemed to press down on his
dimming sight, their expressions full of weary disgust at his idiocy.

His knife-cord still looped his wrist; as he whirled down into river-
darkness he struggled to find the hilt. His hands coiled against it and he
summoned his strength, then leaned forward against the bottomward pull,
finding the hard, rough jaws that clutched his leg. Clinging with one hand
so chat he could feel the crooked teeth beneath his fingers, he set the
knifepoint against the leathery eyelid and pushed. The head jerked beneath
his hands as the crocodile convulsed and bit down harder, which sent a
bolt of scalding pain up his leg and into his heart. Another clutch of
precious bubbles sprang from Tiamak's mouth. He pushed the blade m as
hard as he could, his thoughts a swirling black blur of faces and nonsensi-
cal words. As he twisted at the handle in mad agony, the crocodile
loosened its jaws. He pulled at its upper jaw with desperate strength,
forcing it up just far enough to jerk his leg free before it snapped shut
again. The water was clouding with blood. Tiamak could feel nothing
beneath his knee at all, nothing above it but the fiery pain of his bursting
lungs. Somewhere below him the crocodile was tying itself in dark knots
on the river bottom, swimming in ever-narrowing circles. Tiamak tried to
claw upward toward the remembered sun, even as he felt the spark within
him dying.

He passed through many darknesses, coming at last into the light.

The daystar was in the gray sky; the cattails stood windless and silent
along the edge of the water. He gasped in a lifetime's worth of hot marsh
air, opening his entire body to it, then almost sank beneath the water again
as it rushed into his lungs like a river shattering its dam and spilling down
into a parched valley. Light of every hue gleamed before his eyes, until he
felt as though he had discovered some ultimate secret. A moment later, as
he saw his boat bobbing on the unsettled water a short distance away, the
sense of revelation evaporated. He felt a sick, debilitating blackness again
come crawling up his spine into his skull. He struggled toward the boat,
his body curiously painless, as though he were nothing but a head floating
upon the watercourse. He reached the side of the flatboat and clung,
breathing deeply as he summoned his strength. By sheer will he pulled
himself over into safety, scraping his cheek raw on the thwart, not
caring in the least. The blackness overcame him at last. He stopped
struggling and sank beneath its surface.

227

STONE OF FAREWELL

He awakened to a sky red as blood. A hot wind swept across the
marshland. The blazing sky seemed inside his head as well, for he burned
like a fired pot fresh from the kiln With fingers chat felt awkward as
pieces of wood, he scrabbled his spare breechclout from the bottom of the
boat and tied it tightly around the red ruin of his lower leg, unable to
think much about the bleeding runnels that had been gouged from knee to
heel. Struggling against the oblivion that was reaching out for him, he
wondered absently if he would be able to walk again, then dragged
himself to the edge of the boat and pulled at the fishing line which still
hung over the side, trailing into green depths. With his failing strength he
managed to wrestle the silver fish over the stern, letting it slide wriggling
down next to him in the boat's shallow belly. The fish's eye was open; its
mouth, too, as though it were trying to ask Death a question.

He rolled onto his back, staring up into the violet sky. There was a
resounding crack and rumble from above. A flurry of raindrops danced on
his fevered skin. Tiamak smiled as he once more fell away into darkness.

4-

Isgnmnur got up from the bench and strode to the fireplace, turning to
present his rump to the blaze. He would be off to bed in a short while, so
he might as well soak up all the warmth he could before he had to return
Co thaC be-damned, arse-freezing cell.

He listened to the muted sounds of conversation that filled the common
room, marveling at the diversity of accents and languages. The Sancellan
Aedomtis was like a little world of its own, even more so than the
Hayholt, but varied as the talk had been all evening, he was not an inch
closer to solving any of his problems.

The duke had paced the near-endless halls all morning and afternoon,
keeping an eye open for a suspicious pair of monks or anything else that
might ease his predicament. His search had been fruitless, except to
remind him of the size and power of Mother Church. He had become so
frustrated by his inability to discover whether Mirnmele was here or not
that as the afternoon waned he had left the Sancellan Aedomtis entirely.

He took his supper in an inn partway down the Sancelhne Hill, then
walked quietly in the Hall of Fountains, something he had not done for
many years He and Gutrun had visited the fountains shortly before their
marriage, when they had come to Nabban on a nuptial pilgrimage tradi-
tional in Isgnmnur's family. The glistening play of water and its continual
music had filled him with a kind of pleasant melancholy; although his
longing and worry for his wife were great, for the first time in weeks he
had been able to think of her without being overwhelmed by pain. She
must be safe—and horn, too. He would just believe it, for what else could

228 Tad Williams

he do? The rest of the family, his other son and two daughters, were in the
capable hands of old Thane Tonnrud in Skoggey. Sometimes, when all
was uncertain, a man just had to crust in the goodness of God.

After his walk, Isgrimnur had returned to the Sancellan, his mind
calmed and ready to turn to his task once more. His companions from the
morning meal had come in for a while but had left early, old Septes
explaining that they kept "country hours." The duke had sat and listened
long to the talk of others, but to no avail.

Much of the gossip, although couched in careful terms, seemed to be
about whether Lector Ranessin would legitimize Benigaris' succession to
Nabban's ducal seat. Not that anything Lector Ranessin might say would
actually lift Benigaris' hind end from the throne, but the Benidrivine
House and Mother Church had long ago reached a delicate balance con-
cerning Nabban's governance. There was much worry that the lector
would do something rash, like denounce Benigaris on the basis of the
rumors that the new duke had betrayed his father, or had not defended
him properly in the battle before Naglimund, but most of the Nabbanai
priests—the Sancellan's home-grown men—were quick to assure their
foreign brethren that Ranessin was an honorable and diplomatic man. The
lector, they promised, would certainly do the right thing.

Duke Isgrimnur flapped the hem of his cassock, trying to force a little
warm air up beneath the garment. If only the lector's honor and diplo-
macy could solve everybody's problems . . .

Of course! That's it! Damn my ignorant eyes/or not seeing it before! Isgrimnur
smacked a broad hand on his thigh and chuckled fruitily. I'll talk to the
lector. Whatever he thinks, my secret will be safe with him. I'm sure Miriamele's
will, too. If anyone has the authority to jind her here without raising a fuss, it's
His Sacredness.

The duke felt much better after this solution had presented itself. He
turned and rubbed his hands before the flames a few more times, then set
out across the polished wooden floor of the common room.

A small crowd at one of the arched doorways caught his attention.
Several monks were standing in the open door; several others stood on the
balcony outside, cold air bleeding in past them. Many of the common
room's Other inhabitants were protesting, or had already given up and
moved nearer the fire. Isgrimnur wandered over, his hands tucked up in
his voluminous sleeves as he peered over the shoulder of the hindmost monk.

"What is it?" he asked. He could see a couple of dozen men milling in
the courtyard below, half of them on horseback. It seemed nothing un-
usual: the figures moved calmly and unhurriedly, those on foot apparently
the Sancellan's guards, greeting new arrivals.

"It's the High King's counselor," the monk standing before him said.
"That Pryrates fellow. He used to be here once—in the Sancellan Aedonitis,
I mean. They say he's a clever one."

STONE OF FAREWELL                 229

Isgrimnur clenched his teeth, choking down a shout of anger and
surprise. He felt a hot breath of fury moving within him and stood up on
his toes to see. There indeed was the priest's tiny, hairless head bobbing
atop a scarlet cloak that looked orange in the gateyard torchlight. The
duke found himself wondering how he could get close enough to stick a
knife into the sneaking traitor. Ah, sweet God, but that would be satisfying!

But what good would it do,foof, besides the admittedgood of removing Pryrates
from this earth? It would not fmd Miriamele, and I would never escape to search
for her after the deed was done. Not to mention what would happen if Pryrates did
not die—p'raps he has some sorcerous shield.

No. it would not do. But if he could get in to see the lector, he would
give Ranessin an earful about that devil's bastard of a red priest and his
hellish counseling of the High King. But what was Pryrates doing here of
all places?

Isgrimnur tramped off to bed, thoughts of mayhem denied swim-
ming through his mind.

Twenty cubits below, Pryrates looked up to the common room balcony
as though he had heard someone calling his name, his black eyes glitter-
ingly intent, his pale head gleaming like a toadstool in the shadows of the
gateyard. The spectators in the common room, separated by distance and
darkness, could not see the smile that curled across the priest's gaunt face,
but they could feel the sudden draught of chill air that swept down on the
Sancellan Aedonitis, setting the guards' cloaks to billowing. Goosefleshed,
the monks on the balcony quickly made their way inside, pushing the
door shut behind them before hastening back to the fire.

12

OlTTlOTI- and his companions left Binabik's people behind and rode
southeast along the base of the Trollfells, dinging to the foothills like a
nervous child unwilling to wade into deeper water On their right, the
white emptiness of the Waste stretched away into the distance

In the middle of the gray afternoon, as they walked their horses across a
thin trail of stones that made an uncertain crossing over one of Blue Mud
Lake's inlet streams, a wedge of cranes flew overhead, gabbling and
honking until it seemed they would rattle the sky The birds swerved
above the riders' heads, wings thrusting, then banked as one and flew
into the south

"Three months it is before they should be making that journey,"
Binabik said ruefully "It is wrong, very wrong Spring and summer have
been retreated like a beaten army "

"It doesn't seem much colder than it did when we were on our way to
Urmsheim," Simon offered, clutching at Homefinder's reins

"That was in late spring," Sludig grunted, working to keep his footing
on the water-slicked stones "Now we are in midsummer "

Simon thought about that "Oh," he said

They stopped on the stream's far bank to share a few of the provisions
that Binabik's folk had sent with them The sun was gray and remote
Simon wondered where he would be when another summer came—if
another summer came

"Can the Storm King make it winter forever7" he asked

Binabik shrugged "That is not in my knowledge He has been making
winter very well during these Yuven- and Tiyagar-months Let us not
think of it, Simon It will not be making our task any easier to worry over
such things Either the Master of Storms will triumph or he will not
There is nothing else for doing with what we have been given "

Simon swung himself clumsily into his saddle He envied Sludig's
practiced grace "I'm not talking about stopping it," he said testily "ljust
wondered what he was going to do "

STONE OF FAREWELL                 231

"If I could know," Binabik sighed, "I would not be cursing myself for
an unfit student of my good master " He whistled for Qantaqa

They stopped again that afternoon while some daylight still remained
to scavenge for firewood and give Sludig some time to instruct Simon
The Rimmcrsman found a long tree limb beneath the snow and broke it in
half, binding a strip of rag around one end of each piece for an easier grip

"Can't we use real swords3" Simon asked "I'm not going to be fight-
ing anyone with wood "

Sludig raised a skeptical eyebrow "So5 You would prefer slipping and
sliding on wet ground while fighting a trained swordsman with real
blades3 Using this black sword, perhaps, that you cannot lift half the
time3" He indicated Thorn with a jerk of his head "I know it is cold and
dreary on this journey, Simon, but are you really so anxious to die3"

Simon stared hard "I'm not so clumsy You told me so yourself And
Haestan taught me some things "

"In a fortnight3" Sludig's look turned to amusement "You are brave,
Simon, and lucky, too—a trait not to be overlooked—but I am trying to
make you a better fighter The next thing you fight against may not be a
brutish Hune but an armored man Now, take your new sword and hit

me.

He kicked the branch to Simon and lifted his own weapon Simon held
the tree limb before him and circled slowly The Rimmersman was right
the snowy ground was treacherous Before he could even take a swing at
his instructor, his feet went out from under him and he toppled heavily
onto his rump He remained there, scowling furiously

"Don't be embarrassed," Sludig said, taking a step forward and laying
the end of his cudgel against Simon's chest "When you fall down—and
men do trip and stumble in battle—make sure and keep your blade up or
you may not live to resume the fight "

Seeing the sense in this, Simon grunted and shoved the Rimmersman's
branch away with his hand before getting onto his knees He then rose to
his feet once more and resumed his crablike circling

"Why are you doing that7" Sludig said "Why do you not swing at

me'

"Because you're faster than I am "

"Good You are right " As he finished speaking, Sludig snapped his
cudgel out, landing a smarting blow below Simon's ribs "But you must
stay balanced at all times I caught you with your feet crossed one over the
other " He aimed another blow, but this time Simon was able to twist his
body out of the way, then return a swing of his own which Sludig
deflected toward the ground

"Now you are learning, Warnor Simon'" Binabik called He sat beside
the young fire, scratching Qantaqa's neck as he watched the cudgel-play
It was hard to tell whether it was due to the scratching or to the spectacle

232

Tad Williams

of Simon being thrashed, but the wolf seemed to be enjoying herself
immensely: her tongue hung from her grinning mouth and her brushy tail

twitched in pleasure.

Simon and the Rimmcrsman worked for about an hour. Simon did not
land a single blow, but received quite a few in return. When he at last
flopped down to rest on a flat stone by the fire-circle, he was more than
willing to cake a swallow ofkangkang from Binabik's bag. He was willing
to take a second swallow as well, and would have taken a third, but

Binabik retrieved the skin bag.

"I would be doing no friendliness if I let you drink yourself drunken,

Simon," the troll said firmly.

"It's just because my ribs ache."

"You have youth and will be fast healing," Binabik replied. "I am, in a
way, in responsibility for your care."

Simon made a face but did not argue- It was nice that someone cared
about him, he supposed, even if he did not entirely agree with the form
that caring took.

Two more days of cold riding along the skirts of the Trollfells—as well
as two more evenings of what the recipient began to think of as "scullion
smacking"—did not do much to brighten Simon's view of the world.
Many times during his instruction, as he sat on the soggy ground feeling
some new pan of his body throb into painful prominence, he considered
telling Sludig he was no longer interested, but the memory of Haestan's
pale face inside his winding cloth forced him onto his feet once more. The
guardsman had wanted Simon to learn these things, to be able to defend
himself and also to help defend others. Haestan had never been able to
quite explain the way he felt—the Erkynlander had not been a man given
to aimless talking—but he had often said that "strong folk a-bullyin'

th'weak" was not right.

Simon thought back on Fengbald, Elias' ally. He had taken a troop of
armored men and burned down a district of his own earldom, slaughter-
ing with a free hand because the guild of weavers had flouted his will. It
made Simon feet a little sick to remember how he had admired Fengbald
and his handsome armor. Bullies, that was the proper name for the Earl of
Falshire and his like—Pryrates, too, although the red priest was a bully of
a subtler and more frightening sort. Simon sensed that Pryrates did not so
much revel in his ability to crush those who opposed him, as Duke
Fengbald and others like him did; rather, the priest used his strength with
a kind of thoughtless cruelty, heeding no obstacles between himself and
his unknown goals. But whichever was true, it was bullying all the same.

On more than one occasion the memory of the hairless priest was
enough to bring Simon back up from the ground, swinging fiercely.
Sludig would back off, eyes narrowed in concentration, until he could

STONE OF FAREWELL                 233

control Simon's fury in -a way that would force the youth back into the
lesson once more. The thought of Pryrates reminded Simon of why he must
learn to fight—not chat sword skill would be of use against the alchemist,
but it might keep him alive long enough to get at Pryrates once more.
The priest had many crimes to answer for, but the death of Doctor Morgenes
and Simon's banishment from his own home were reasons enough
to keep Pryrates' face before Simon's eyes, even as he crossed staves
with Sludig in the snows of the White Waste.

Shortly after the dawning of the fourth day since they had left Blue
Mud Lake, Simon awakened shivering beneath the flimsy shelter oflashed-
together branches in which the foursome had spent the night. Qantaqa,
who had been lying across his legs, had gone out to rejoin Binabik. The
loss other furry warmth was enough to bring Simon out into the crystal-
line morning light, teeth chattering as he brushed pine needles from his
hair.

Sludig was nowhere in sight, but Binabik sat on a snowy stone beside
the remains of the previous night's fire, staring into the eastern sky as
though contemplating the direct light of the sun. Simon turned to
follow the line of Binabik's gaze, but could see nothing but the pale sun
itself crawling up past the last peaks of the Trollfells.

Qantaqa, lying at the troll's feet, raised her head briefly as Simon
approached crunchingly through the snow, then lay her shaggy head back
down on her paws once more.

"Binabik? Are you well?" Simon asked.

The troll seemed not to hear him for a moment, then turned slowly, a
slight smile creasing his face. '*A good morning to you, Simon-friend," he
said. "I am feeling completely well."

"Oh. I just . . . you were staring."

"Look." Binabik extended a stubby finger from the sleeve of his jacket,
pointing into the east.

Simon turned to look once more, shading his eyes. "I don't see anything."

"Be looking more closely. Look to the last peak, standing on your right
hand. There." He indicated an icy slope, thrown into shadow by the sun
behind it.

Simon stared for some time, unwilling to admit failure. A moment
before he gave up in despair, he at last saw something: dark lines running
beneath the glassy face of the mountain like facets in a gcmstone. He
squinted, trying to make out the details.

"Do you mean chose shadows?" he asked at last. Binabik nodded, a rape
expression on his face. "Well," Simon demanded, "what are they?"

"More than shadows," Binabik said quietly. "What you are there seeing
are the towers of lost Tumet'ai."

"Towers inside the mountain? And what's 'Tooma-de'?"

234 Tad Williams

Bmabik frowned mockingly "Simon You have been hearing its name
several times What kind of student did Doctor Morgenes take on' Are
you remembering when I spoke with Jmki of the 'Ua'kiza rumet'ai
nei-R'i'ams'^'

"Sort of," Simon said uncomfortably "What is it5"

"The song of the fall of the city of Tumet'ai, one of the great Nine
Cities of the Sithi That song is Celling the tale of Tumet'ai's abandon-
ment Those shadows you see are its towers, imprisoned in many thou-
sand years of ice "

"Truly5" Simon stared at the dark vertical blurs that ran like stains
beneath the milky ice He tried to see them as towers, but could not
"Why did they abandon it5" he asked

Bmabik ran his hand along the fur of Qantaqa's back "A number of
reasons there are, Simon If you like, I will tell you part of its story later,
when we are riding It will be a help for passing the time "

"Why did they build their city on an icy mountain in the first place5"
Simon asked "That seems stupid "

Bmabik looked up peevishly "You are speaking, Simon, to one raised
in the mountains, as you are no doubt able to recall Part of manhood, I
am thinking, is to ponder one's words before opening one's mouth "

"I'm sorry " Simon tried to suppress a mischievous smile "I didn't
realize that trolls actually liked living where they do "

"Simon," Bmabik said sternly, "I think it would be a good thing if you
went to gather up the horses "

"So, Bmabik," Simon said at last, "what are the Nine Cities'"

They had been riding for an hour, tilting away at last from the base of
the mountains and out onto the vast white sea of the Waste, following the
line of what Bmabik called the Old Tumet'ai Road, a broad causeway that
had once linked the ice-bound city with its sisters to the south There was
little to see of any road now, only a few large stones still standing on
either side of the trail and an occasional patch of cobbles still in place
beneath the covering snow

Simon had not asked the question out of any real eagerness to learn
more history—his head was already crammed so full of strange names and
places he could scarcely hold a thought—but the featureless terrain, the
endless field of snow dotted with forlorn stands of trees, made him
hungry for a story

Binabik, who had ridden slightly ahead, whispered something to Qantaqa
Leaking plumes of vaporous breath, the wolf stopped in her wide tracks
until Simon had caught up Simon's mare shied and pranced away As
Qantaqa crunched inoffensively alongside, Simon patted the horse's neck,
speaking low words of encouragement After a few head-swinging paces,
she was able to continue her progress with nothing more than an occa-

STONE OF FAREWELL                 235

sional nervous snort For her part, the wolf paid no attention to the horse
at all, her head held low as she sniffed at the snow

"Good, Homefindcr, good " Simon ran his hand down her shoulder,
feeling the tremendous muscles moving beneath his fingers He had named
her and now she obeyed him' He felt himself filled with quietjoy She was
his horse now

Binabik smiled at Simon's pndeful expression "You show her respect
That is a good thing," he said "Too often it is that men think those who
serve are doing it from infenomess or weakness " He chuckled "Folk
who have chose beliefs should ride a mount like Qantaqa, who could eat
them if she chose They would then be learning humbleness " He scratched
the ridge of fur between Qantaqa's shoulders, the wolf stopped pacing for
a moment to appreciate the attention, then dug forward through the snow
once more

Sludig, riding JUSC ahead, turned to look back "Hah' You will be a
horseman as well as a fighter, is that right' Our friend Snowlock is the
boldest kitchen boy in the world'"

Simon scowled, embarrassed, and felt his skin wrinkling around his
cheek-scar "That's not my name "

Sludig laughed at his discomfiture "And what is wrong with 'Simon
Snowlock' for a name5 It is a true name, honorably won "

"If it is displeasing, Simon-fnend," Binabik said kindly, "we will call
you some other thing But Sludig speaks rightly your name was gamed
with honor, given to you byJinki of the highest Sichi house The Sithi are
seemg more clearly than mortals—at least in some ways Like any of their
other gifts, a name is not to be discarded with easiness Do you remember
when you held the White Arrow above the river3"

Simon did not have to think hard The moment when he had fallen into
the turbulent Aelfwent, despite all the strange adventures he had suffered
since, remained a black spot in his memory It had been his idiot pnde, of
course—the other side of his mooncalf nature—that had sent him down
into the swirling depths He had been trying to show Minamele how
lightly he regarded even the gifts of the Sithi The very thought of his
foolishness made him feel ill What an ass he was' How could he ever hope
Minamele could care about him5

"I remember," was all he said, but the joy of his moment was gone
Anyone could ride a horse, even a mooncalf Why should he grow so
large in his own estimation just because he had kept an already battle-
hardened mare from balking5 "You were going to tell me about the Nine
Cities, Binabik," he said heavily

The troll lifted an eyebrow at Simon's despainng tone, but did not
pursue the subject Instead, he brought Qantaqa to a halt

"Turn for a moment and be looking back," the troll said, gesturing to

236

Tad Williams

both Simon and Sludig The Rimmersman made an impatient noise, but
did as Binabik asked

The sun had pulled free from the mountain's embrace Its slanting rays
now blazed along the face of the easternmost peak, laying fire along its icy
cheek and throwing deep shadows in the crevices The imprisoned towers,
dark streaks at dawn, now seemed to glow with warm reddish light, like
blood running through the mountain's cold arteries

"Look will," Binabik said "We may none of us be ever seeing that
sight again Tumet'ai was a place of highest magic, as were all the great
cities of the Sithi Their like will never again come to the light " The troll
took a deep breath, then suddenly and startlmgly burst out into song

"T'senei mezu y'eru,
Iku'do saju-rha,
0 do'mi he-hum
Tumet'at' Zi'mu asuna1
Shemisayu, nun'ai temuy'a    "

Bmabik's voice carried out through the windless morning, disappearing
with no answering echo "That is the beginning of the song ofTumet'ai's
fall," he said solemnly "A very old song, and one of which I am knowing
only a few verses That one 1 have sung means this

"Towers of scarlet and silver,

The daystar's herald,

You have dipped wto cold shadows

Tumet'ai1 Hall ofDawn1

First mourned and last forgotten    "

The troll shook his head "It is so much difficulty for me to make things
of Sithi craft into proper words—especially in a tongue not of my birth-
place You can be forgiving, I hope " He grinned sourly "In any case,
most Sithi songs have as their root thoughts of loss and long memory, so
how is a person of my short years to make their words sing5"

Simon was staring at the almost invisible towers, fading streaks m the
prisoning ice

"Where did the Sithi go who lived there5" he asked The mournful
words of Bmabik's songs echoed m his thoughts You have slipped into cold
shadows He could feel those shadows tightening around his heart like
bands of ice You have slipped mto cold shadows His face throbbed where the
dragon s blood had marked him

"Wln-rc the Sithi always go," the troll replied "Away To lesser places
They die or pass into shade, or live and become less than they were " He
stopped, eyeb downcast as he strove to find the proper words "They were

STONE OF FAREWELL                 237

bringing much that had beauty into the world, Simon, and much that was
beautiful in the world was admired by them It has been many times said
that the world grows less fair because of their diminishing I do not
have the knowledge to tell if that is so " He thrust his hands into
Qantaqa's thick pelt and urged her about once more, cantering away from
the mountains "I wanted you to remember that place, Simon . but do
not grieve Still there is being much of beauty m this world "

Sludig made the sign of the Tree above his cloaked breast "I cannot say
I share your love of these magical places, troll " He snapped his reins,
urging his horse into a walk "The good Lord Usires came to free us from
paganism It is no accident that the heathen demons who threaten our
world are cousins to these Sithi you mourn for "

Simon felt a surge of anger. "That's stupid, Sludig What about Jinki5 Is
he a demon5"

The Rimmersman turned to him, an unhappy smile flashing m his
blond beard. "No, youngling, but neither is he a magical playmate and
protector, as you seem to think him. Jinki is older and deeper than any of
us can know Like many such things, he is also more dangerous than
mortals can know God knew what He did when he aided mankind to
scourge the Sithi from this land Jinki has been fair, but his people and
ours can never live together We are too different "

Simon choked back a furious response, turning his eyes to the snowy
path before them Sometimes he did not like Sludig very much at all

They rode on for a while, silent but for the chuffing of breath and the
scraping of their horses' hooves, before Binabik spoke again

"You have been having luck of great rarity, Simon," he said.

"Being chased by demons, you mean1'" Simon growled "Or seeing my
friends killed?"

"Please." The troll raised his small hand in a calming gesture "I do not
refer to luckiness of that sort. Clearly, it has been a terrible road we have
walked No, I meant only that you have seen three of the nine great cities
Few if any mortals can be making such a statement with truthfulness "

"Which three?"

"Tumet'ai, of which you havejust seen all that is left to see, now chat
ice has buried her " The troll spread his fingers, counting "Da'ai Chikiza,
in Aldheorte Forest, where I received my unfortunate arrowing And
Asu'a itself, whose bones are the underpinnings of the Hayholt where you
had your birth "

"The Sithi built Green Angel Tower there, and it's still standing,"
Simon said, remembering its pale sweep, like a white finger pointing at
the sky "1 used to climb in it all the time." He thought for a moment.
"Was that other place    the one called Enki   . Enki

?"

"Enki-e-Shao'saye5" Binabik prompted

"Yes Was Enki-e-Shao'saye one of" the great cities5"

238

Tad Williams

"It was And we shall see its rums, too, one day—if any remain—for it
is near to where we will be finding the Stone of Farewell " He leaned low
as Qantaqa leaped up and over a small nse

"I've seen it already," Simon said "Jinki showed it to me m the mirror
It was beautiful—all green and gold He called it the Summer City "

Bmabik smiled "Then you have seen four, Simon Few of even the
wisest ones can say as much after a whole length of life "

Simon considered this Who would ever have dreamed that Morgenes'
history lessons would be so important7 Old cities and old stories were
now part of his very life It was strange how the future seemed tied
inseparably to the past, so that both revolved through the present, like a
great wheel

The wheel The shadoiv of the wheel

An image from a dream rose before him, a great black circle pushing
relentlessly downward, a huge wheel that drove everything before it
Somehow the past was forcing its way nght into this very moment.
casting a long shadow across the what-would-be

Something was there in his mind, but just beyond reach, some occult
shape chat he could feel but not recognize It was something about his
dreams, something about Past and Future

"I think I need to know more, Binabik," he said at last "But there are
so many things to understand, I'll never remember them all What were
the other cities^' He was momentarily distracted by a movement in the
sky before him, a scatter of dark, moving shapes like breeze-blown leaves
He squinted, but saw that it was only a Oock of high-soaring birds

"About the past is a good thing to know, Simon," said the little man,
"but it is deciding which things are important chat separates a wise one
from others Still, although it is my guessing that the names of the Nine
Cities will be little use, it is good to know of them Once their names
were known to every child in its cradle

"Asu'a, Da'ai Chikiza, Enki-e-Shao'saye, and Tumet'ai you are knowing
Jhmd T'senei lies drowned beneath the southern seas The rums ofKementan
stand somewhere on Wannsten Island, birth-home of your king Prester
John, but no one, I think, has seen them for years and years Also long
unseen are Mezutu'a and Hikehikayo, both lost beneath Osten Ard's
northwestern mountains The last, Nakkiga, now that my thought is upon
it, you have already seen as well—or you have in a way . ."
"What does that mean5"

"Nakkiga was the city the Noms built long ago in the shadow of
Stormspike, before they were retreating into the great ice mountain itself
On the dream-road with Geloe and myself you visited it, but doubtless
you overlooked its crumbling remains beside the mountain's immensity
So m a way, then, you have visited Nakkiga also "

Simon shuddered, remembering a vision of the endless icy halls within

STONE OF FAREWELL                 239

Stormspike, of the ghost-white faces and burning eyes that shone in its
depths "That was as close as I ever want to be," he said He squinted his
eyes, staring at the sky The birds still circled lazily overhead "Are those
ravens5" he asked Binabik, pointing "They've been staying just above
our heads for some time "

The troll looked upward "Ravens, yes, and large ones they are as
well " He grinned wickedly "Perhaps they are waiting for us to fall down
very dead, and so aid them in their searching for sustenance A pity it is to
disappoint them, is it not7"

Simon grunted "Maybe they can tell I'm starving—that 1 won't last
much longer "

Binabik nodded solemnly "How thoughtless I am being Of course,
Simon, it is indeed true that you have had no food since breaking your
fast, and—Chukku's Stones' You poor fellow' That has been an hour ago'
You must be fast approaching the awful moment of fmalness " Finished
with this bit of sarcasm, he began to rummage in his pack, steadying
himself against Qantaqa's back with his other hand "Perhaps I can dis-
cover for you some dried fish "

"Thank you " Simon tried to sound enthusiastic—after all, any food
was better than no food

As Binabik performed his laborious search, Simon looked up at the sky
once more The swarm of black birds still hovered silently, wind-tossed
beneath the somber clouds like tattered rags

The raven strutted on the wmdowsill, feathers fluffed against the chill
air Others of his kind, grown fat and insolent on gibbet-leavings, crowed
raucously in the leafless branches beyond the window No other sounds
drifted up from the silent, deserted courtyard

Even as it preened its shiny black feathers, the raven kept a bright
yellow eye cocked, when the goblet came flying toward it like a sling-
stone, it had more than enough time to drop from the sill with a harsh
cry, spreading its wings to flutter up andjom its kin m the barren treetop
The dented goblet rolled in an uneven circle on the stone floor before
lurching to a halt A thin wisp of steam rose from the dark liquor that had
splattered beneath the wmdowsill

"I hate their eyes," King Elias said He reached for a fresh goblet, but
used this one for its proper and intended purpose "Those damned sneak-
ing yellow eyes " He wiped his lip "I think they're spying on me "

"Spying, Majesty3" Guthwulf said slowly He did not want to send
Elias into one of his thunderstorm rages "Why would birds spy5"

The high king fixed him with a green stare, then a grin split his pale
face "Oh, Guthwulf you are so innocent, so undefiled'" He chuckled

240 Tad Williams

harshly "Come. pull that chair closer. It is good to speak with an honest
man once more "

The Earl ofUtanycat did as his king bade him, sliding forward until less
than an ell separated his stool from the yellowing mass of the Dragonbonc
Chair. He kept his eyes averted from the black-scabbarded sword that
hung at the High King's side.

"I do not know what you mean by 'innocent,' Elias," he said, inwardly
cursing the stiffness he heard in his own voice. "God knows, we have
both of us labored mightily in the Chapel of Sin in our time However, if
you mean innocent of any treachery toward my king and friend, then I
accept the name gladly." He hoped he sounded more certain than he felt.
The very word "treachery" made his heart gallop these days, and the
rotting fruit hanging from the distant gibbet was only one reason.

Elias seemed to sense none of Guthwulfs misgivings "No, old friend,
no I meant the word kindly." He took another swig of the dark liquid.
"There are so few I can Crust these days. I have a thousand, thousand
enemies." The king's face took on a brooding cast which only accentuated
his pallor, the lines of weariness and strain. "Pryrates is gone to Nabban,
as you know," he said at last. "You may speak freely."

Guthwulf felt a sudden spark of hope. "Do you suspect Pryrates of
treachery, sire?"

The spark was quickly extinguished.

"No, Guthwulf, you misunderstand me. I meant that I know you are
not comfortable around the priest That is not surprising; I once found his
company difficult as well But I am a different man, now. A different
man." The king laughed oddly, then raised his voice to a shout. "Hangfish!
Bring me more—and be swift, damn you!"

The king's new cupbearer appeared from the next room, a sloshing
ewer in his pink hands. Guthwulf watched him sourly. Not only was he
positive that this pop-eyed Brother Hengfisk was a spy for Pryrates, but
there was something else gravely wrong with him as well. The monk's
face seemed forever fixed in an idiot grin, as though he were burning up
inside with some splendid joke he could not share. The Earl of Utanycat
had tried to speak to him once in the hallway, but Hengfisk had only
stared at him unspeaking, his smile so wide it seemed his face might split
m half. With any other servitor but the king's cupbearer, Guthwulf would
have struck him for such insolence, but he was uneasy about what Elias
might take offense at these days. Also, there was an unpleasant look to the
half-witted monk, his skin slightly raw, as though the upper layer had
burned and peeled away. Guthwulf was m no hurry to touch him.

As Hengfisk poured the dark liquid into the king's goblet, a few
smoking drops spattered onto the monk's hands, but the cupbearer did not
flinch. A moment later he scuttled out, still wearing his lunatic grin.
Guthwulf restrained a shudder. Insanity! What had the kingdom come to?

^TONE OF FAREWELL                 241

Elias had ignored the whole episode, his eyes fixed on something
beyond the window "Pryrates does have . .  secrets," he said at last,
slowly, as though carefully considering each word

The ear! forced himself to pay attention.

"But he has none from me," the king continued, "—whether he realizes
it or not. One thing he thinks I do not know is that my brother Josua
survived the fall of Naglimund." He raised a hand to still Guthwulfs
exclamation of surprise. "Another secret-that-is-no-secret he plans to do
away with you."

"Me7" Guthwulf was caught by surprise "Pryrates plans to kill me?"
The anger that welled within him had a core of sudden fear.

The king smiled, lips pulling back from his teeth like the grin of a
cornered dog "I do not know if he plans to kill you, Wolf, but he wishes
you out of the way Pryrates thinks I place too much trust in you when he
deserves all my attention." He laughed, a harsh bark.

"But ... but Elias .  " Guthwulf was caught offstnde. "What will
you do7"

"Me7" The king's gaze was unnervingly calm. "I will do nothing. And
neither will you "

"What!7"

Elias leaned back into his throne, so that for a moment his face vanished
m the shadow beneath the great dragon's skull. "You may protect your-
self, of course," he said cheerfully. "I merely mean I cannot allow you to
kill Pryrates—assuming you could, which isn't something I'm too certain
of- Quite frankly, old friend, at this moment he is more important to me
than you are "

The king's words hung in the air, seeming so much the stuff of madness
that for a moment Guthwulf felt sure he was dreaming. As moments
passed and the chill room did not waver into some other shape, he had to
force himself to speak once more

"I don't understand."

"Nor should you. Not yet." Elias leaned forward, his eyes bright as
lamps burning behind thin green glass. "But someday you will, Guthwulf
I hope you live to understand everything. At this time, though, I cannot
let you interfere with Pryrates, so if you feel you must leave the castle, I
will understand You are the only friend I have left. Your life is important
to me "

The Earl of Utanyeat wanted to laugh at such a bizarre statement, but
the sense of sick unreality would not leave him. "But not as important to
you as Pryrates5"

The king's hand leaped out like a striking serpent, fastening on Guthwulfs
sleeve. "Don't be a fool!" he rasped. "Pryrates is nothing' It is what
Pryrates is helping me to do that matters. I told you that there were great
things coming! But there will be a time first when things are ... changing."

242 Tad Williams

Guthwulf stared at the king's feverish face and felt something die within
him "I have sensed some of the changes, Elias." he said grimly "I have
seen others "

His old friend looked back at him, then smiled oddly "Ah The castle.
you mean Yes some of the changes arc happening right here But you
still do not understand "

Guthwulf was not practiced in patience He fought to hold down his
rage "Help me to understand Tell me what you do'"

The king shook his head "You could not possibly make sense of
it—not now, not this way " He sat back again, his face sliding into
shadow once more, so that it almost seemed as though the great tanged
and black-socketed head was his own A stretching silence followed
Guthwulf listened to the bleak voices of ravens in the courtyard

"Come here, old friend " Elias said at last, voice slow and measured As
Guthwulf looked up, the king slid his double-hiked sword part way from
its scabbard The metal gleamed darkly, black and crawling gray like the
mottled belly of some ancient reptile The ravens abruptly fell silent
"Come here," the king repeated

The Earl ofUtanyeat could not tear his eyes from the sword The rest of
the room became gray and insubstantial, the sword itself seemed to glow
without hght, to make the very air heavy as stone "Will you kill me now,
Elias5" Guthwulf felt his words grow weighty, each one an effort to use
"Will you save Pryrates his trouble5"

"Touch the sword, Gutbwulf," Elias said His eyes seemed to shine
more brightly as the room darkened "Come and touch the sword Then
you will understand "

"No," Guthwulf said weakly, but watched with horror as his arm
moved forward as if by its own will "I don't want to touch the damned
thing    " Now his hand hovered just above the ugly, slow-shinimenng
blade

"Damned thing7" Elias laughed, his voice seeming far away He reached
out and took his friend's hand, gentle as a lover "You can't begin to
guess Do you know what its name is5"

Guthwulf watched his fingers slowly flatten against the bruised surface
of the sword A deadening chill crept up his arm, countless icy needles
pricking his flesh Close behind the cold came a fiery blackness Elias'
voice seemed to be falling away into the distance

jingizu is its name    " the king called "Its name is Sorrow

And in the midst of the dreadful fog that enwrapped his heart, through the
blanket of frost that covered and then entered his eyes and ears and mouth,
Guthwulf felt the sword's dreadful song of triumph It hummed right through him,
softly at first hut growing ever stronger, a terrible, potent music that matched and
then devoured hfs rhythms, that drowned out his weak and artless notes, until

243

STONE OF FAREWELL

it had absorbed the entire song of his sou! into its darkly triumphant tune

Sorrow sang inside him, filling him He heard it cry out with his voice, as
though he had become the ^word, or the sword had somehow become Cuthwulf
Sorrow was alive and looking for something Guthwulf was looking, too he had
now been subwmed in the alien melody He and the blade were one

Sorrow reached for its brothers

He found them.

Two shining forms were there, just beyond his reach Guthwulf longed to be
wsth them, to join his proud melody to theirs, so that together they would make a
music greater still He yearned, a bloodless, warmthless desire, like a cracked bell
ftraining to toll, like a lodestone aching for true north They were three of a kind,
he and these other two, three songs unlike any the world had heard—but each was
incomplete without its fellows He stretched toward his brothers as though to touch
them, but they were too far away Mere distance still separated them No matter
how he strained, Guthwulf could not bring them closer, could not join with them

At last the delicate balance collapsed, sending him plunging down into an
infinite nothingness, falling, falling, falling

Slowly he came to himself again—Guthwulf, a man born of woman—but still
he fell through blackness He was terrified

Time sped He felt graveworms eating his flesh, felt himself coming apart deep
within the black earth, rendered into innumerable particles that ached to scream
without voices to do so, at the same moment, like a rushing wind, he flew laughing
past the stars and into the endless places between life and death For a moment the
very door of Mystery swung open and a dark shadow stood beckoning in the
doorway

Long after Elias had sheathed the sword, Guthwulf still lay choking on
the steps before the Dragonbone Chair, his eyes burning with tears, his
fingers helplessly flexing

"Now can you understand7" The king said, beaming with pleasure as
though he had just given his friend a taste of a singularly splendid wine
"Do you understand why I must not fail5"

The Earl of Utanyeat got slowly to his feet His clothes were soiled and
spattered He turned wordlessly from his liege lord and staggered across
the throne room floor, pushing through the door and into the hallway
without looking back

"Do you see5" Elias shouted after him

A trio of ravens fluttered down to the wmdowsill They stood close
together, their yellow eyes intent

"GuthwulP" Elias was no longer shouting, but still his voice carried
through the silent room like a tolling bell "Come back, old friend "

^

244 Tad Williams

"Look, Binabik!" Simon cried. "What are those birds doing?!"

The troll followed Simon's pointing finger. The ravens were wheeling
madly about the sky overhead, flying in long, looping circles.

"They are upset, perhaps," Binabik shrugged. "I do not have much
knowledge of the ways of such things ..."

"No, they're looking for something!" Simon said, excited. "They're
looking for something! I know it! Just look at them!"

"But they arc not leaving the air above us." Binabik raised his voice as
the ravens began to call back and forth, their croaking voices sharp as
blades in the still air.

Sludig had reined up his horse, too, and was staring up at the strange
exhibition. He narrowed his eyes. "If this is not some deviltry," he said,
"then I am not an Aedonite. The raven was Old One-Eye's bird, back in
the dark days . . ." He trailed off as he saw something new. "There!" he
said, pointing. "Is that not some other bird they are chasing?"

Now Simon could see it too: a smaller gray shape that flitted among the
black ones, darting wildly, now this way, now that. At every turn it
seemed to find one of the larger birds already there. It was tiring, Simon
could see plainly, its loops becoming ever more ragged, its escapes narrower.

"It's a sparrow!" Simon cried. "Like the ones Morgenes had! They're
going to kill it!"

Even as he spoke, the swooping circle of ravens seemed to sense that the
quarry was nearing its limits. The whirling funnel contracted and the
croaking voices rose as if in triumph. Then, just when it seemed the hunt
was over, the sparrow found an open space and burst free of the black
ring, darting unevenly toward a stand of fir trees half a furlong away. The
ravens, shrieking, whirled in pursuit.

"I do not think it chance that such a bird should be here," Binabik
said, unscrewing his walking stick to shake free his pouch of darts. "Or
that the ravens would be waiting with such patientness just where we
are." He grabbed Qantaqa's hackles. "Chok, Qantaqa!" he cried. "Ummu
chok!"

The wolf sprang away, churning the snow beneath her broad paws.
Sludig dug in his heels and his mount leaped after her. Simon, cursing
beneath his breath, wrestled for a moment with Homefinder's reins. By
the time he had them sorted out, she had decided to follow Sludig's horse
anyway. Simon clung to her neck as they pounded over the uneven snow,
hoof-churned sleet burning his eyes.

The ravens were circling the copse like a swarm of black bees. Binabik,
in the lead, vanished among the close-standing trunks. Sludig went just
after, his spear now in his hand. Simon had a moment to wonder how the
Rimmersman would kill birds with a heavy spear, then the line of trees
was looming before him as well. He pulled up on the reins, slowing his
horse. He ducked his head beneath a low-hanging branch, but was not fast

STONE OF FAREWELL

245

enough to avoid a clump of snow falling into the loose hood of his cloak
and slithering down his neck.

Binabik stood beside Qantaqa at the center of the copse, the hollow tube
to his mouth. The troll's cheeks puffed; a moment later a large black
bundle fell down through the branches overhead, flapping in a slow circle
on the white ground before it died.

"There!" Binabik said, gesturing. Sludig poked upward with his spear,
rattling its point among the tree limbs as Qantaqa gave vent to a sharp,
excited bark.

A black wing skimmed by Simon's face. The raven struck at the back of
Sludig's head, its claws scrabbling impotently against the metal of his
helm. Another one swooped down from above, squawking, whirling
about the Rimmersman's arms as he plied the spear.

Why aren't I wearing a helmet? Simon thought disgustedly as he raised his
hand before his suddenly vulnerable eyes.

The little copse raged with the angry voices of birds. Qantaqa had her
front paws up on a tree trunk, shaking her head from side to side as if she
had already caught one of them.

Something small and still as a tiny snowball dropped from the tree
overhead. Binabik fell to his knees at the Rimmersman's feet and cupped it
in his hands.

"I have it!" he cried. "Let us be going into the open! Sosa, QantaqaF' He
clambered onto the wolfs back, his hand now lucked inside his jacket. He
had to duck beneath the onslaught of one of the ravens; the haft ofSludig's
spear whistled through the space his head had just vacated, smacking the
bird like a club, shattering it into a puff of dark feathers. A moment later
the wolf had earned Binabik out from beneath the trees. Simon and Sludig
quickly followed.

Despite the angry voices of the birds behind them, the open ground
outside seemed remarkably still to Simon. He turned to look back. Hard
yellow eyes stared from the uppermost branches, but the ravens did not
follow.

"You saved the bird?" he asked.

"Let us be nding farther away," Binabik said. "Then we will look to
what we have."

When they stopped, the troll took his hand from beneath his skin jacket.
He opened it slowly, as though not sure what he might find there. The
bird nestled inside was dead, or nearly so. It lay on its side unstirnng, its
ragged wounds striped with blood. There was a shred of parchment about
its leg.

"I was thinking this could be," Binabik said, looking over his shoulder.
The dark silhouettes of a dozen ravens sat like hunch-shouldered inquisi-
tors in the nearest tree. "I am afraid that we arc more late than we should
have been."

246 Tad Williams

His small finger unfurled the parchment It had been chewed or torn
until but a part of it remained "A fragment, only," Binabik said sadly

Simon looked at the tiny runes dotting the ragged strip. "We could go
back to the trees and look for the rest," he said, disliking the idea mightily
even as he said it

The troll shook his head "I have a sureness that the rest has found its
way down a raven gullet—as would this scrap, too, and the messenger, if
we had been later still " He squinted at it "Few words am I making out,
but I feel no doubt it was meant for us See7" He pointed at a minute
squiggle "The circle and feather of the League of the Scroll It was sent by
a Scrollbearer "

"Who5" Simon asked

"Patience, Simon-fnend Perhaps the remaining message will tell " He
held the curling strip as flat as he could "Two bits only can I read,"
he said "This, saying '    ry of false messengers,' and this 'Make haste The
Storm is spr    ' Then it is signed below with the League's mark "

"False messenger," Simon breathed, dread creeping through him "That
was the dream I had in Geloe's house. Doctor Morgenes told me to
beware the false messenger " He tried to push away the memory of that
dream In it the doctor had been a charred corpse

" 'Be wary of false messengers' is then what it is likely meaning,"
Bmabik said, nodding his head. " 'Make haste. The Storm is spr
Spreading, I am supposing "

The great fear Simon had kept suppressed for several days came crawl-
ing back. "False messenger," he repeated helplessly "What can it mean7
Who wrote it, Bmabik7"

The troll shook his head He tucked the silver of parchment in his bag
and then kneeled, scraping a hole in the snow. "It is a Scrollbearer, and
there are not many now alive It might beJarnauga, if he still lives There
is also Dmivan in Nabban " He laid the little gray bird in the hole and
tenderly covered it over

"Dinivan7" Simon asked

"He is the helper of the Lector Ranessin, the head of your Mother
Church," Bmabik said "A very good man "

Sludig, who had stood silent, suddenly spoke "The lector is part of
your heathen circle7" he said wondenngly "With trolls and such7"

Bmabik smiled a tiny smile "Not the lector Father Dmivan, his helper.
And it is not a 'heathen circle,' Sludig, bur a band of those who wished the
preserving of important knowledge—forjust such times as these are " He
frowned "I am thinking of who else it might be who was writing this
message to us—or to me, rather, for it is my master's arts that likely drew
the bird here to me If not one of the two 1 mentioned, then I cannot be
saying, for Morgenes and my master Ookequk are dead There are no
other Scrollbearers I know of, unless new ones have been chosen "

STONE OF FAREWELL                 247

"Could it be Geloc7" Simon asked

Bmabik thought for a moment, then shook his head "She is one of the
wisest of the wise, but she has never been a true Scrotfbcarcr, and I am
doubting she would use the League's rune in place of her own " He
mounted up onto Qantaqa's back "We will think of the meaning of this
warning as we ride There are many messengers who have led us to this
place, and many others we will doubtlessly be meeting in days and weeks
to come Which are false7 It is a puzzle of great difficulty "

"Look, the ravens arc flying'" Sludig cried Simon and Bmabik turned
to see the birds swarm up from the stand of trees like smoke, swirline in

'                          CT

the gray sky before wheeling away into the northwest, their disdainful
voices echoing

"They have done what they were sent for doing," Bmabik said "Now
they are headed back to Stormspikc, do you suppose7"

Simon's cold fear deepened "You mean    the Storm King sent them
after us7"

"I have little doubt that they were meant to keep chat message from our
eyes," Binabik said. leaning forward to pick his walking stick from the
ground

Simon turned to follow the flight of the vanishing ravens He almost
expected to see a dark figure looming on the northern horizon, a burning
red gaze in a faceless black head

"Those storm clouds on the horizon look very dark," Simon said "A
lot darker than they did before "

"The lad's right " Sludig glowered "That's an ugly storm gathering "

Binabik sighed His round face was grim, too "The last part of the
message we all of us understand The storm is spreading, in more than one
way only We have a long journeying ahead over open and unprotected
country We will need to go with all the speed that we can be making "

Qantaqa started ahead Simon and Sludig spurred their horses forward
Prompted by something he did not understand, Simon looked back once
more, although he knew what he would see

The ravens, now little more than black specks on the wind, were fading
from sight into the dark swell of the gathering storm

13

The StoCfion Clan

JL iTC prUTCC S company came out at last onto the plains after
nearly a month m the vast, ancient forest As they broke through the last
line of trees the grasslands opened before them, a floor of uneven turf
shrouded by morning mist, merging seamlessly with the gray horizon

Father Strangyeard sped his pace to catch up with Geloe The witch
woman was striding purposefully out onto the flatland, wet stems falling
before her approach

"Valada Geloe," Strangyeard said breathlessly, "ah, this is a marvelous
book Morgenes has written. Marvelous1 Valada Geloe, have you read this
passage3" He tried to juggle the loose pages, stumbled over a tussock, and
only barely retained his balance "I think there is something here of
importance Ah, how silly of me, how foolish—there are many things of
importance What a marvelous book!"

Geloe put her hand on Leieth's shoulder, bringing the child to a halt.
The little girl did not look up, but stood where she had stopped, staring
out into the mists

"Strangyeard, you will do yourself an injury," Geloe said brusquely
She looked at him expectantly. "WelP"

"Oh, dear," the archivist said He tugged at his eyepatch self-consciously,
almost losing his armful of pages in the process. "I didn't want you to
stop walking I can read and still keep up "

"I repeat you will do yourself an injury Read"

Before Strangyeard could do so, they were interrupted by new arrivals

"Praise God," Isorn cried He and Deomoth struggled out of the trees
upslope "We are out of the cursed forest and on open ground!" The pair
carefully set down the litter they had been dragging, glad to rest Sangfugol's
weight for a moment Under the witch woman's ministrations, the harper
was healing well and swiftly from what should have been a fatal corruption
of his blood, but he still could not walk more than a few hours at a time

Geloe turned to look back "Praise God all you wish," she warned, "but
we may regret the loss of those sheltering trees before long "

STONE OF FAREWELL                 249

The rest of the party limped down out of the woods Prince Josua was
helping Towser, who walked dazed and unspeakmg, the old man's eyes
were rolled up, as chough he contemplated a distant heaven hidden behind
the fog-blanketed sky Vorzheva and Duchess Gutrun walked a little way
behind them.

"It has been many years since I have seen the Thnthmgs," Josua said,
"even this tamer part. I had almost forgotten its beauty " He closed his
eyes in thought for a moment, then opened them once more to gaze out
toward the indistinct horizon. "It is like no other land in all of Osten
Ard—some call it 'God's tabletop.' "

"If this is indeed God's tabletop," Sangfugol said with a weak smile,
"my prince. He uses us for dice. Aedon save me, I am meant to sing of
Jack Mundwode and his naughty bandits, not ape their forest-traipsing "
He struggled out of the litter. "I need to get out of this thumping,
bouncing torture device and sit down—no, the grass is fine for me. I fear
my sore leg more than the wet "

"Some gratitude," Isorn said, smiling. "I think I shall show you what
thumping really is, harper."

"Very well," Josua said. "We shall rest No one stray far, and if you go
more than a scone's throw, take someone with you."

"So we have escaped the forest," Deornoth sighed. "If only Emskaldir
could have seen it." He thought of the Rimmersman's grave in one of the
quiet glades of Shisae'ron, a simple mound marked only by his helmet and
Strangyeard's wooden Tree. Even Geloe's healing skills had not been
enough to save him from the terrible wounds he had received leading their
escape from the Norns Now, fierce Emskaldir would he forever in a place
of timeless calm. "He was a stem bastard, bless him." Deornoth shook his
head. "He never gave up, either—but I don't think he believed we would
ever get away "

"We wouldn't have, if not for him," Isorn said- "He's another mark on
the list "

"List?"

"The list of what is owed to our enemies—to Skah and Elias and all the
rest." Isorn's broad face was grim. "We owe them a blood feud. Some-
day, they will pay for what they did. And when it happens, Emskaldir
will be watching in heaven And laughing."

Deornoth could think of nothing to say. If Einskaldir could watch
battles from heaven, he would be laughing For all his piety, it seemed a
shame that Einskaldir had missed the old pagan days ofRunmersgard, and
would instead be forced to spend his eternity m the quieter environs of
Aedon's paradise.

As the others milled about, Vorzheva said a quiet word to Duchess
Gutrun, then walked down the short slope and onto the damp meadow.

250

Tad Williams

She moved as if in a kind of dream, her eyes fixed on nothing, her track
aimless and elliptical as she made her way through the damp grasses

"Vorzheva," Josua called, his voice sharper than usual, "do not go
alone The mist is very thick and you would soon be out of sight "

"She would have to go very far before she would be out of earshot,
Prince Josua," said Duchess Outrun, leading Towser with a gentle hand
on his elbow

"That may be," Josua said, "but I would prefer we were not stumbling
through the fog, shouting our presence to any listening ears Surely you
have not so soon forgotten our escort from Naghmund "

Gutrun shook her head in dismay, conceding the point Vorzheva.
seemingly oblivious to the discussion, was now only a dim upright shape
slipping through the mists like a ghost

"Damn her frowardness," Josua said grimly, staring after her

"I will go with her " Geloe turned to Gutrun "Keep the child close to
you, please " She pointed Leieth in the general direction of the duchess,
then strode off after the fast-fading Vorzheva

Josua watched her go, then laughed unhappily "If this is the way I
command a kingdom of nine or ten," he told Deornoth, "then my brother
can rest easily on the Dragonbone Chair People used to beg to do my
father John's bidding "

Even his queen^ Deornoth wondered, but he did not say it He watched
the dark shape of Geloe catch up to the wraith that was Vorzheva If you
have a proud and headstrong woman, you would be better off not to judge your
success by her obedience

"Please, my lord," he said instead, "do not speak ill of yourself You
are hungry and tired and cold Let me build a fire "

"No, Deornoth "Josua rubbed the stump of his wnst as though it hurt
"We will not stay so long " He turned to look back at the forest fringe and
the gaping shadows that lined it "We must move farther before we do
more than pause to rest We will stop somewhere that puts us in open
ground on all sides At least then, even though we are exposed, anything
that stalks us will be exposed as well "

"A happy thought," grunted Sangfugol from his seat on the turf
"S'truth, but we are a merry band of pilgrims "

"Pilgrims on the road through hell cannot afford too much merriment,"
Josua said He strode a little way out onto the greensward to stand by
himself in thought

"Then why don't you tell him7" There was exasperation in Geloe's
voice, but her hawk-yellow eyes betrayed little emotion. "By bough and
branch, Vorzheva, you are not a young girl, you are a woman Why do
you carry on so5"

Vorzheva's eyes were moist "I do not know I cannot understand him "

STONE OF FAREWELL                 251

Geloe shook her head "I cannot understand any of you I have spent
little of my life with human folk, and it is because of this ridiculous
uncertainty—'I want this, I do not want that    ' The animals are more
sensible, it seems to me They do what they must and do not fret over
what cannot be changed " The witch woman laid a callused hand on
Vorzheva's arm "Why do you worry so about things that do not matter7
Prince Josua obviously cares for you Why do you not tell him the truth3"

Her companion sighed "He thinks me a foolish wagon-girl It makes
him cold to me If I tell him, it will only be worse    I am sorry " She
angrily wiped at her face with her tattered sleeve "It was seeing the
Fetuwelt again—that is what my people call this place, where the meadow
runs in the forest's shadow It brought many memories to my mind, and
made me unhappy

"Valada Geloe7" It was Father Strangyeard's voice, sourceless in the
mist, but quite near "Are you there3 Valada Geloe3"

A little frustration showed itself on Geloe's stem face "Here, Strangyeard
Is anything wrong3"

The archivist appeared, a lanky, flapping shape materializing from gray
obscurity "No, no, ljust wanted to   ." He stopped, staring at Vorzheva's
tear-stained face "Oh Oh, I'm so terribly sorry How rude of me I will
leave you " He turned to lurch off into the mist once more

"Don't go'" Strangely, it was Vorzheva who spoke "Do not leave us,
Father Walk with us "

Strangyeard looked at her, then to Geloe "I do not wish to intrude,
Lady I fear I was thinking only of something I found in Morgenes'
book " Eyepatch askew, thin fringe of reddish hair curling in the damp,
he looked like a startled woodpecker He seemed about to bolt once more,
but the witch woman raised a calming hand

"Walk with us, Strangyeard, as Vorzheva said Perhaps your need is one
for which my talents are better suited " The priest looked at her ner-
vously "Come We will walk back toward the others as we calk "

Strangyeard was still carrying the loose sheaves of Morgenes' book in
his hand, after a few silent paces he began to leaf through them "I'm
afraid I've lost the section," he said, shuffling the parchments "I thought
it might be significant—it was a bit about magic—The Art, chat's what
Morgenes called it I'm amazed by the things he knew, quite amazed . I
would never have dreamt    " A triumphant smile came to his face
"Here it is " He squinted "Wonderful way with words

They walked several more paces in silence "Will you read3" Geloe
asked at last

"Oh' Of course " Strangyeard cleared his throat

"     In (ruth, articles usejul to The Art seem to fall into two broad
categories,"

252
the pnest began,

Tad Williams

"those whose worth is bound in themselves, and those whose worth is bound
in their derivation In contradiction to popular superstition, an herb gathered
in a graveyard is not generally usejul because it came jrom such a place, but
rather because of the herb itself Since a graveyard may be the only place that
herb is found, the connection becomes established and is then almost impossi-
ble to disentangle

"The other category of useful objects are usually 'made' objects, and their
virtue is in their shaping or their raw beginnings The Silhi, who have long
possessed secrets of crafting hidden jrom mortals, made many things whose
creation itself was a practice of The Art—although the Sithi would not
exactly term it so Thus, the virtue of these objects is in their making The
famous arrows of Vindaomeyo are an example carved from common wood
and jletched with the feathers of ordinary birds, yet each one is a talisman of
great worth

"Other objects take their power jrom the stuff of their making The great
swords alluded to in Nisses' lost book are examples here All feem to derive
their worth jrom their materials, although the crafting of each was a mighty
task Minneyar, King Fmgil's sword, was made of the iron keel of his boat,
iron brought to Osten Ard by the Rimmersman sea-raiders out of the lost
west Thorn, most recently the sword of Prester John's noblest knight, Sir
Camans, was forged jrom the glowing metals of a fallen star—like Minneyat 's
iron, something foreign to Osten Ard And Sorrow, the sword that Nisses
claims Ineluks of the Sithi used to slay his own father the Eri-king, was
made of Sithi witchwood and iron, two elements long thought to be
antithetical and unmixable Thus, such objects derive their strength primar-
ily, it would seem, jrom the unearthly origins of their substance Stories tell,
however, that powerful Spells of Making were also wound in the forging of
all these three blades, so the power of the Great Swords may come jrom both
their substance and their making

"Ti-tuno, the hunting horn crafted in fabled Mezu'tuajrom the tooth of
the dragon Hidohehbi, is another clear example of how sometimes an object
of power may be made by both the crafting and the materials crafted    "

Strangyeard broke off "It goes on to talk of other things It is all
fascinating, of course—what a scholar that man was'—but I thought the
section on the swords might be interesting "

Geloe nodded her head slowly "It is I wondered about these three
swords chat have become the object of our hopes Morgenes seems to
make a good argument as to the reason for their value Perhaps they will
indeed be useful against Ineluki It is good that you found that, Strangyeard "

The priest's pink cheeks went a deeper red "Too kind You're too kind "

Geloe cocked her head "I hear the others Are you composed, Vorzheva5"

STONE OF FAREWELL                 253

Vorzheva nodded her head "I am not such a fool as you think me," she
said quietly

The witch woman laughed "I do not think you a fool, particularly 1
think most people are foolish—and I count myself as well, for here I am
without a roof, wandering over the grasslands like a stray heifer Some-
times obvious foolishness is the only answer to grave problems "

"Hmmm," said Strangyeard, baffled "Hmmm "

The ragged band continued out onto the fog-ridden meadowlands,
heading south Coward the river Ymstrecca, which meandered along the
breadth of the High Thnthmgs. They made camp on the open plain,
shivering in the rain-sodden wind, huddling close to their small fire Geloe
made a soup of herbs and roots she had gathered It was filling and
warmed the stomach, but Deomoth mourned the absence of something
more toothsome

"Tomorrow let me go farther afield, my lord," he implored Josua as
they sat by the fire All the others but Geloe had wrapped themselves in
their cloaks to sleep, bundled close together like a family of sleeping
kittens The witch woman had gone a-wandenng "1 know I could find a
hare or two, and the underbrush must be full of grouse, even m this cold
summer We have had no meat for several days'"

Josua permitted himself a chilly smile "I wish I could say yes, faithful
fnend, but I need your strong arms and good wit close by These people
can scarcely walk another step—those who can still walk, that is No, a
brace of hares would be tasty indeed, but I must keep you here. Besides,
Valada Geloe tells me that one can live years without tasting meat "

Deornoth grimaced "But who would want Co5" He studied his prince
carefully Josua's already slender frame had grown even thinner, the play
of his bones was plain beneath the skin With what little fat he had worn
long gone, the prince's high forehead and pale eyes made him seem a
statue of some ancient philosopher-monk, his gaze fixed always upon the
infinite while the busy world spun on before him, ignored

The fire hissed, working away at the damp wood "One other question,
then, my lord," Deornoth said softly "Are we so sure of this Stone of
Farewell that we should drag these sick, wounded people across the
Thnthings in search of it5 I speak no ill of Geloe, who is plainly a
good-hearted soul, but to go so far5 The edge of Erkynland is only a few
leagues to the west Surely we could find a loyal heart in one of the towns
of the Hasu Vale—even if they were too frightened of your brother the
king to give us shelter, we could find food and drink and warmer clothing
for our wounded, surely "

Josua sighed and rubbed his eyes "Perhaps, Deornoth, perhaps Believe
me, the thought has occurred to me " He stretched his long legs before
him, nudging at the edge of the coals with his boot heel "But we cannot

254 Tad Williams

risk it, nor can we spare the time. Every hour we walk in the open means
more time for one of Ellas' patrols to find us, or something worse to catch
us unprotected. No. the only place that it seems we can go is Gcloc's
Stone of Farewell, so the sooner we do, the better. Erkynland is lost to
us—at least for now, perhaps forever."

The prince shook his head and fell into thought once more. Deornoth
sighed and poked at the fire.

They reached the banks of the Ymstrecca in the morning of their third day
on the grasslands, The wide river shone faintly beneath the gray sky, a
dim streak of silver passing like a dream through the dark, damp mead-
ows. The water's voice was as muted as its sheen, a famt murmur like
distant conversation.

Josua's people were content to pause and rest a while on the nverbanks,
enjoying the sound and sight of the first swiftly-moving waters they had
seen since deep in Aldheorte Forest. When Gutrun and Vorzheva made
known their plan to follow the river downstream a short distance to where
they could bathe their limbs in privacy, Josua was quick to object, worried
for their safety. When Geloe offered to go with them, the prince reluc-
tantly consented. It was difficult to think of a situation beyond the witch
woman's enormous competence.

"Ah, it is somehow as if I never left," Vorzheva said, dangling her feet in
the current. They had chosen a sandy bank where a stand of birch trees in
midstream widened the nvercourse, shielding them from the view of their
distant fellow travelers. Her voice was careless, though her face belied her.
"It is like when I was a little girl." She frowned as she splashed water on
the numerous scratches covering her legs. "But it is so cold!"

Duchess Gutrun had loosened the neck other garment. She stood a little
way out from the bank, the river eddying around her plump calves as she
splashed water on her throat and scrubbed at her face. "It is not so bad,"
she laughed. "The river Gratuvask that runs by our home in Elvritshalla—
now that is cold water! Every year at spring the maidens of the town go
down to the river to bathe—I did when I was young." She straightened
up, staring at nothing. "The men must stay inside all morning, on penalty
of a beating, so the maidens can splash in the Gratuvask. And cold! The
river is born from the snows of the northern mountains! You have not
heard shrieking until you hear a hundred young girls plunge into a chilly
river on an Avrel morning!" She laughed again. "There is a story, you
know, about one young man who was determined to see the Gratuvask
maidens—it is a famous tale in Rimmersland, perhaps you have heard
it. . . ?" She broke off, water sluicing from her cupped hands. "Vorzheva?
Are you ill?"

The Thnthings-woman was bent over, her face pale as milk. "Just a
pain," she said harshly, straightening up. "It will go away soon. See, I am
better now. Tell your story."

255

STONE OF FAREWELL

Gutrun looked at her suspiciously. Before the duchess could say any-
thing, Geloe spoke up from her seat on the bank nearby, where she had
been tidying Leieth's hair with a comb made from fishbone.

"The story must wait." The witch woman's tone was sharp. "See—we
are not alone."

Vorzheva and the duchess turned to follow Geloe's pointing finger.
Across the meadows, some three or four furlongs away to the south, a
mounted rider stood poised on a hillock. He was much too far away for
his face to be discernible, but there was little doubt he was looking in their
direction. All the women stared back, even Leieth, her strange eyes wide.
After several silent moments in which it seemed that no hearts beat, the
solitary figure turned his horse and rode down the hillock, vanishing from
sight.

"How . . . how frightening," the duchess said, clutching the neck of
her dress closed with a damp hand. "Who is it? Those horrible Morns?"

"I cannot say," Geloe rasped. "But we should return to tell the others,
in case Josua did not see. We must be concerned with any strangers now,
be they friend or foe."

Vorzheva shuddered. Her face was still pale. "There are no friendly
strangers on these grasslands," she said.

The women's news was enough to convince Josua chat they could dally
no longer. Unhappily, the company shouldered their few possessions and
set off again, following the course of the Ymstrecca east alongside the
border of the now-distant forest, a thin dark strip on the misty northern
horizon.

They saw no one else all afternoon.

"These seem like fertile lands," Deornoth said as they searched for a
spot to camp. "Isn't it strange that we have seen no people beside that lone
nder?"

"One rider is enough." Josua was grim.

"My people have never liked it here, so near to the old forest," Vorzheva
said, and shivered. "There are spirits of the dead beneath the trees."

Josua sighed. "These are things I would have laughed at a year ago.
Now I have seen them, or things even worse. God save me, what a world
this has become!"

Geloe looked up from where she was making a bed of grass for young
Leieth. "It has always been the same world, Prince Josua," she said. "It is
only that in these troubled hours things are seen more clearly. The lamps
of cities blur many shadows that are plain beneath the moon."

Deornoth awoke in the deeps of night, his heart beating swiftly. He had
been dreaming. King Elias had become a spindly thing of grasping claws
and red eyes clinging to Pnnce Josua's back. Josua could not see him and
did not even seem to know that his brother was there. In the dream

256 Tad Williams

Deornoth tried to tell him, but Josua did not listen, only smiled as he
walked through the streets ofErchester with the terrible Ellas-thing riding
his back like a deformed baby. Every time Josua bent to pat the head of a
child or give a coin to a beggar, Elias reached out to undo the good work
when Josua had passed, snatching the coin back or scratching the child's
face with dirty nails. Soon an angry crowd followed behind Josua, shouting
for his punishment, but the prince went blithely on, unknowing, even as
Deomoth screamed and pointed at the evil thing riding the prince's shoulders.

Awake on the benighted grasslands, Deomoth shook his head, trying to
pull free from the clinging sense of disquiet. Elias' dream-face, wizened
and spiteful, would not leave his mind- He sat up and looked around. All
the camp was sleeping but for Valada Geloe, who sat dreaming or ponder-
ing over the last coals of the dying fire.

He lay back and tried to sleep, but could not for fear the dream would
return. At last disgusted by his own weak-heartedness, he got up and
quietly shook out his cloak, then walked to the fire and sat down near Geloe.

The witch woman did not look up at his approach. Her face was
red-splashed by firelight, eyes staring unblinkingly into the embers as
chough nothing else existed. Her lips were moving but no sound came
forth; Deornoth felt a chill creep up the back of his neck. What was she
doing? Should he wake her?

Geloe's mouth continued to work. Her voice rose to a whisper.
". . . Amerasu, where are you? Your spirit is dim . . . and I am weak ..."

Deornoth's hand stopped an inch from the witch woman's rough sleeve.

". . . If ever you share, let it he now ..." Geloe's voice hissed like the
wind. "Oh, please . . ."A tear, scarlet-shot, trickled down her weathered
cheek.

Her despairing whisper drove Deornoth back to his makeshift bed. He
did not fall back into sleep for some time, but lay staring up at the
blue-white stars.

He was awakened once more before dawn—this time by Josua. The
prince shook Deornoth's arm, then lifted his handless right wrist to his
lips, gesturing for silence. The knight looked up to see a clot of darkness
to the west, thicker even than the general obscurity of night, approaching
along the line of the river. The muffled sound ofhoofbeats rolled toward
them over the grass. Deornoth's heart raced. He felt on the ground for his
scabbard, and was soothed only a little by the feeling of his sword hilt
beneath his fingers. Josua crawled away to wake the others.

"Where is the witch woman?" Deornoth whispered urgently, but the
prince was too far away to hear, so he crawled over to where Strangyeard
lay. The older man, sleeping lightly, was awake in a moment.

"Be still," the knight murmured. "There are riders coming."

"Who?" Strangyeard asked. Deornoth shook his head.

STONE OF FAREWELL

257

The oncoming riders, still little more than shadows, split almost noise-
lessly into several groups, sweeping wide around the encampment. Deomoth
had to marvel at their silent horsemanship even as he cursed his party's
lack of bows and arrows. A folly, to fight with swords against mounted
men—if men they were. He thought he could count count two dozen
attackers, although any estimate was dubious in this half-light.

Deornoth got to his feet, even as a few shadowy figures around him did
the same. Josua, nearby, drew Naidel from its sheath; the sudden hiss of
metal against leather seemed as loud as a shout. The surrounding figures
reined up, and for a moment utter silence fell once more. Someone passing
a scone's throw away would never have suspected the presence of a single
soul, let alone two forces at battle-ready.

A voice broke the stillness.

"Trespassers! You walk on the land of Clan Mehrdon! Lay down your

arms.

Flint rang on steel, then a torch blossomed behind the nearest figures,
throwing long shadows across the campsite. Mounted men, hooded and
cloaked, surrounded Josua's band with a ring of spears.

"Lay down your weapons!" the voice said again in thickly-accented
Westerling. "You are prisoners of the randwarders. We will kill you if you
resist." Several more torches flared alight. The night was suddenly full of
armed shadows.

"Merciful Aedon!" Duchess Gutrun said from somewhere nearby. "Sweet
Elysia, what now?"

A large shape pushed toward her—Isom, going to comfort his mother.

"Do not move!" the disembodied voice barked out; a moment later one
of the riders walked his horse forward, his spear point lowering, catching
a glint of torchlight. "I hear women," the rider said. "Do nothing foolish
and they will be spared. We are not beasts."

"And what about the rest?" Josua said, stepping forward into the light.
"We have many here wounded and sick. What will you do with us?"

The rider leaned down to stare at Josua, momentarily exposing his
hooded features. He had a rough face, with a shaggy, braided beard and
scarred cheeks. Heavy bracelets clinked on his wrists. Deomoth felt his
tension ease somewhat. At least their enemies were mortal men.

The rider spat into the dark grass. "You are prisoners. You ask no
questions. The March-thane will decide." He turned to his fellows.
"Ozhbern! Kunret! Round them in a circle to march!" He wheeled his
horse to supervise as Josua, Deomoth, and the others were herded at
spearpoint into the ring of torchlight.

"Your March-thane will be unhappy if you mistreat us," Josua said.

The leader laughed. "He will be more unhappy with me if you are not
at the wagons by sun-high." He turned to one of the other riders. "All?"

"All, Hotvig. Six men, two women, one child. Only one cannot walk."
He indicated Sangfugol with the butt of his spear.

258 Tad Williams

"Put him on a horse," Hotvig said. "Over the saddle, no matter. We
must ride fast."

Even as they were prodded into movement, Deornoth sidled closer to
Josua. "It could be worse," he whispered to the prince. "It could have
been the Norns who caught us instead of Thrithings-men."

The prince did not reply. Deornoth touched his arm, feeling the muscles
tense as barrel staves beneath his fingers. "What's wrong, Prince Josua?
Have the Thrithings-men thrown in with Elias? My lord?"

One of the riders looked down, mouth set in a humorless, gap-toothed
grin. "Quiet, stone-dwellers," he snarled. "Save your breath for walking."

Josua turned a haunted face toward Deornoth. "Didn't you hear him?"
the prince whispered. "Didn't you hear him?"

Deornoth was alarmed. "What?"

"Six men, two women, and a child," Josua hissed, looking from side to
side. "Two women! Where is Vorzheva?"

The rider slapped a spear butt against his shoulder and the prince lapsed
into anguished silence. They trudged on between the horsemen as dawn
began to smolder in the eastern sky.

^

As she lay on her hard bed in the darkened servant's quarters, Rachel the
Dragon imagined she could hear the gibbet creaking, even above the
howling wind that skirled through the battlements. Nine more bodies, the
chancellor Helfcene's among them, were swaying above the Nearulagh
Gate tonight, dancing helplessly to the wind's fierce music.

Nearer at hand, somebody was crying.

"Sarrah? Is that you?" Rachel hissed. "Sarrah?"

The moaning of the gale died down. "Y-yes, mistress," came the
muffled reply.

"Blessed Rhiap, what are you sobbing about? You'll wake the others!"
Beside Sarrah and Rachel, there were only three other women now sleep-
ing in the maid's quarters, but all five cots were huddled together to
conserve heat in the large, chilly room.

Sarrah seemed to struggle to compose herself, but when she answered
her voice was still shaken by sobs. "I'm . . . I'm afraid, M-mistress
Rachel."

"Of what, fool girl, the wind?" Rachel sat up, holding the thin blanket
closely around her- "It's blowing up a storm, but you've heard wind
before." Torchlight bleeding beneath the doorway revealed the faint shape
ofSarrah's pale face.

"It's . . . my gammer used to say ..." The maid coughed wetly.
"Gammer said that nights like this ... are when dead spirits walk. That
you . . . you can hear the voices m the w-wmd."

STONE OF FAREWELL                 259

Rachel was grateful for the darkness that hid her own discomforted
shiver. If there ever would be such a night, tonight seemed a likely choice.
The wind had been raging like a wounded animal since sundown, wailing
among the Hayholt's chimneys and scratching at the doors and windows
with insistent, twiggy fingers.

She made her voice firm. "The dead don't walk in my castle, idiot girl.
Now go back to sleep before you give the others nightmares." Rachel
lowered herself back down onto her pallet, trying to find a position that
would ease her knotted back. "Go to sleep. Sarrah," she said. "The wind
can't hurt you, and there'll be work in plenty tomorrow, the Good Lord
knows, just a-pickmg up what the wind's blown down."

"I'm sorry." The pale face sank. After a few sniffling minutes, Sarrah
was silent once more. Rachel stared upward into the blackness and listened
to the night's restless voices.

She might have slept—it was hard to tell when all was in darkness—but
Rachel knew that she had been listening to a sound beneath the windsong
for some time. It was a quiet, stealthy scratching, a dry sound like bird
claws on a slate roof.

Something was at the door.

She might have been sleeping, but now, suddenly, she was terribly
awake. When she turned her head to the side she could see a shadow
slipping along the strip of light below the door. The scratching became
louder, and with it came the sound of someone crying.

"Sarrah?" Rachel whispered, thinking that the noise had awakened the
maid. but there was no response. As she listened wide-eyed in the dark she
knew that the strange, thin sound was coming from the hallway—from
whatever stood outside her locked door.

"Please," someone whispered there, "please ..."

Blood pounding in her head, Rachel sat up, then silently placed her bare
feet on the cold stone floor. Could she be dreaming? She seemed so very
wide awake, but it sounded like a boy's voice, like . . .

The scratching took on an impatient quality which quickly began to
sound like tearfulness—whatever it was, she thought, it must be fright-
ened, to scratch so ... A wandering spirit, a homeless thing walking lone
and lorn on this blustery night, looking for its long-vanished bed?

Rachel crept closer to the door, silent as snow. Her heart labored. The
wind in the battlements stilled. She was alone in the dark with the
breathing of the slumbering maids and the pitiful scraping of what stood
beyond the door.

"Please," the voice said again, softly, weakly. "I'm scared , - -"

She traced the sign of the Tree on her breast, then grasped the bolt and
drew it back. Though the moment of choosing was past, she drew the door
open slowly: even with the choice made, she feared what she would see.

260 Tad Williams

The solitary torch against the far corridor outlined the faint figure, its
thatch of hair, its scarecrow-thin limbs. The face that turned to her,
startled eyes showing their whites, was blackened as though burnt.

"Help me," it said, staggering through the doorway into her arms.

"Simon'" Rachel cried, and beyond all sense felt her heart overflowing
He had come back, through fire, through death . . .

"Si . . . Simon?" the boy said, his eyes sagging closed from exhaustion
and pain "Simon's dead. He ... he died . . . m the fire. Pryrates killed
him. ..."

He went limp m her arms Head whirling, she pulled his sagging form
through the doorway, letting him slide to the floor, then shot the bolt
firmly home and went looking for a candle. The wind cned mockingly; if
other voices cried within it, there were none that Rachel recognized.

"It's Jeremias, the chandler's boy," Sarrah said wondermgly as Rachel
washed the dried blood from his face. In the candlelight, Jeremias' dark-
socketed eyes and scratched cheeks made him seem almost a wizened old man

"But he was a chubby thing," Rachel said. Her mind was boiling with
the boy's words, but things must be done one at a time. What would these
useless girls think if she let herself go all to pieces? "What's happened to
him5" she growled. "He's thin as a stave.'*

The maids had all gathered around, blankets wrapped as cloaks around
their nightdresses. Jael, no longer as stout as she had once been, owing to
the greater burden of work all the remaining girls shared, stared at the
senseless youth.

"I thought someone said Jeremias ran away7" she said, frowning. "Why
did he come back5"

"Don't be foolish," Rachel said, trying to tug Jeremias' tattered shirt
over his head without waking him. "If he had run away, how would he
have gotten back into Hayholt at the middle of night? Flown?"

"Then tell us where he has been," one of the other girls said. It was a
measure of Rachel's shock at Jeremias' entrance that this near-impertinence
went completely unremarked-upon by the Mistress of Chambermaids.

"Help me turn him over," she said, working the shirt free. "We'll put
him to sleep in ... Oh! Elysia, Mother of God!" She fell into astonished
silence Sarrah burst into tears beside her.

The youth's back was crisscrossed with deep, bloody weals.

"I feel    I feel sick!" Jael mumbled, then lurched away.

"Don't be a fool," Rachel said, regaining her composure once more
"Splash some water on your face, then bring me the rest of the basin. This
wet cloth alone won't do And take that sheet from the bed Hepizibah
used to sleep in and tear strips for bandages. Rhiap's Pain, do I have to do
everything myselP"

It took the whole sheet and part of another one. His legs had been
scourged, too.

STONE OF FAREWELL                 261

Jeremias awoke JUSC before dawn. His eyes at first roamed the room
without seeing anything, but after a time he seemed to regain his wits
Sarrah, sadness and pity shining through her homely face as though it
were glass, gave him some water to drink.

"Where am I?" he asked at last.

"You're in the servant's quarters, boy," Rachel said briskly. "As you
should know. Now, what sort of mischief have you been up to?"

He stared at her groggily for a moment, "You're Rachel the Dragon,"
he said at last. Despite their weariness and fnght, and the lateness of the
hour, the chambermaids were hard put to suppress their smiles. Rachel,
strangely, did not seem angered in the slightest.

"I'm Rachel," she agreed. "Now, where have you been, boy? We heard
that you ran away."

"You thought I was Simon, "Jeremias said, wondenngly, staring around
the chamber. "He was my friend—but he's dead, isn't he5 Am I dead?"

"You're not dead. What happened to you?" Rachel leaned forward to
brush Jeremias' tangled hair out of his eyes; her hand lingered for an
instant on his cheek. "You*re safe now. Talk to us."

He seemed about to slide back into sleep, but after a moment he opened
his eyes again. When he spoke it was more plainly than before. "I did try
to run away," he said. "When the king's soldiers beat my master Jakob and
drove him out the gate. I tried to run away that night, but the guards
caught me. They gave me to Inch."

Rachel frowned. "That animal."

Jeremias' eyes widened. "He's worse than any animal. He's a devil. He
said I would be his apprentice, down in the furnaces ... in the forges. He
thinks he's a king down there ..." The boy's face screwed up, and he
suddenly burst into tears. "He says he's . . . he's Doctor Inch, now. He
beat me and ... he used me."

Rachel leaned forward to blot his cheeks with her kerchief. The girls
made the sign of the Tree.

Jeremias' sobbing diminished. "It's worse than anything . . . down
there "

"You said something, boy," Rachel said briskly. "Something about the
king's counselor. About Simon. Say it again."

The boy opened his brimming eyes wide. "Pryrates killed him. Simon
and Morgenes. The priest went there with troops. Morgenes fought with
him, but the chamber burned down and Simon and the doctor died."

"And how could you know that?" she snapped, a little harshly. "How
could such as you know that?"

"Pryrates said so himself! He comes down to see Inch. Sometimes he
just brags, like about killing Morgenes Other times he helps Inch . . .
h-hurt people "Jeremias was having trouble. "Sometimes . . . sometimes

262 Tad Williams

the pnest takes people away with him . . . takes them when he goes. They
don't come b-back." He fought to catch his breath. "And there's . . .
other things. Other things down there. Terrible things. Oh, God, please
don't send me back." He grasped Rachel's wrist with his hand. "Please
hide me!"

Rachel tried to mask her shock. She deliberately closed off her thoughts
about Simon and this new revelation until she could consider it all in
privacy. But despite her firm self-control, Rachel felt a cold hatred run-
ning through her, a hatred unlike anything she had ever felt.

"We won't let them have you," she said. Her straightforward tone
made it clear that any gainsaying other will would bring great risk to the
gamsayer. "We'll . . . we'll ..." She broke off for a moment, non-
plussed. What would they do? They could not hide the boy for long here in
the servant's quarters, especially if he had run away from the king's forges
below the Hayholt.

"What 'other things' were there?" Jael asked. Her brown, calfhke eyes
were puzzled.

"Hush, now," Rachel said sharply, butJeremias was already answering.

"I d-don't know," he said. "There are ... shadows that move. Shadows
without people. And things that are there—and then they aren't., And
voices ..." he shivered, and his eyes stared past the candleflame to the
darkness in the room's comer. "Voices that cry, and sing, and - . .
and . . ." Tears formed in his eyes once more.

"That's enough," Rachel said sternly, displeased with herself for letting
the boy talk so long. Her charges darted glances among themselves,
nervous as startled sheep.

Elysia! she thought, that's all I need—to have the last of my girls frightened
out of the castle.

"Too much talking," she said aloud. "The boy needs rest. He's so worn
and beaten he has the vapors. Let him sleep."

Jeremias shook his head weakly. "I'm telling the truth," he said. "Don't
let them have me!"

"We won't," Rachel said. "Go to sleep. If we can't hide you, we'll
think of some way to get you out of the Hayholt. You can go to your kin,
wherever they may be. We'll keep you away from that one-eyed devil
Inch."

". . . And Pryrates," Jeremias said slurredly, succumbing to drowsi-
ness. "He . . . talks ... to the Voices . . ."

A moment later the boy was slumbering. A little of the fear seemed to lift
from his hunger-thinned features. Rachel looked down at him and felt her
heart grown hard as a stone in her breast. That devil-priest, Pryrates! That
murderer! What kind of plague had he brought down on their house, what
foulness to her beloved Hayholt?

And what had he done to her Simon?

STONE OF FAREWELL                 263

She turned to look sternly at her wide-eyed maids. "You had all better
get what sleep you can," she growled. "A little excitement doesn't mean
the floors won't need scrubbing when the sun is up."

As they crawled into their beds, Rachel snuffed the candle, then lay
down with her cold thoughts. Outside, the wind was still searching for a

way in.

The morning sun rose above the gray blanket of clouds. It brought a
diffuse light to the rolling grasslands of the High Thrithings, but could not
lift the damp from the endless leagues of prairie grass and heather. Deornoth
was soaked to the thighs and tired of marching.

The Thnthings-men did not stop for a meal, instead eating dried meat
and fruits from their saddlebags as they rode. The prisoners were not
offered any food, and were only allowed to pause for a short rest at
mid-morning, during which time Deomoth and Josua quietly questioned
the rest of their party about Vorzheva's whereabouts. No one had seen her
leave, although Geloe said she had awakened Vorzheva at the first sound
of the approaching riders.

"She was born on this land," the witch woman'told the prince. "I
would not worry for her too much." Geloe's own face, however, showed
more than a trace of concern.

Hotvig and his men roused Josua's band after a too-short rest and the
march began anew. A wind sprang up from the northwest, soft at first,
then blowing stronger, until the ribbons on the Thnthings-men's saddles
whipped like tournament pennants and the long grasses bent double. The
prisoners labored on, shivering in their wet clothing.

Soon they began to see signs of habitation: small herds of cattle grazing
on the low hills, watched over by solitary horsemen. As the sun rose
closer to its noon apogee, the cattle herds they passed grew larger and
closer together, until at last the prisoners found themselves following the
snaking course of one of the Ymstrecca's tributaries through the very
midst of an immense throng of animals. The vast herd seemed to run from
horizon to horizon and contained mostly cattle of the ordinary sort, but
shaggy bison and bulls with long, curving horns also grazed among them,
lifting their heads to stare bleanly at the passing prisoners, mouths sol-
emnly chewing.

"It is obvious that these folk do not follow Geloe's advice on vegetable-
eating," Ueornoth said. "There is enough meat on the hoof here to feed
all Osten Ard." He looked hopefully to his prince, but Josua's smile was a
weary one.

"Many of them are sickly," Gutrun pronounced. In her husband's
frequent absences, she ran the duke's household at Elvritshalla with a firm

264 Tad Williams

hand, and rightly considered herself a good judge of livestock "See, and
there are not many calves for such a huge herd "

One of the riders who had been listening made a noise of disgust, as if
to show his disdain for the opinions of prisoners, but one of his mounted
companions nodded his head and said "It is a bad year Many cows die
birthing Others eat but do not grow fat " The Thnthings-man's beard
fluttered in the wind "It is a bad year," he repeated

Here and there among the great herd were circles of wagons, each circle
surrounded with fences of hastily-driven posts The wagons themselves
were all wooden, with large, high wheels, but otherwise were quite
different from each other Some were tall as two or three men, wheeled
cottages with wooden roofs and shuttered windows Others were little
more than a wagon-bed topped with a cloth-covered shelter, the fabric
npphng and snapping in the stiff breeze Children played in many of the
enclosures or darted in and out among the milling, amiable cattle Horses
grazed in some of the paddlocks—and not just dray horses and wagon-
pullers Many were slender-limbed and wild-maned, with something
light and strong as forged steel to be seen in their step even from a
distance

"Ah, God, if only we had a few beasts like those," Deomoth said
wistfully "But we have nothing to trade I am mightily tired of walking "

Josua looked at him with a trace of sour humor "We will be lucky if we
walk away from here with our lives, Deomoth. and you are hoping for a
brace of battle steeds3 I would rather I had your optimism than their
horses "

As the prisoners and their captors continued south, the sprawl of sepa-
rate wagon-camps began to come together, clumped like mushrooms after
an autumn rain Other groups of mounted men rode in and out among the
settlements, Josua's escorts exchanged shouted remarks with some of
them Soon the wagons stood so near each other that it began to seem that
the prisoners traversed a city without roads

At last they reached a large stockade, its fence posts hung with orna-
ments of bright metal and polished wood that clattered in the wind Most
of the nders sheared off, but Hotvig the leader and six or seven others
ushered the prince's party through a swinging gate There were several
compounds within the stockade, one of them containing a score of fine
horses, another a half-dozen fat and glossy heifers In an enclosure by
himself stood a huge stallion, his shaggy mane twined with red and gold
nbbons The great horse nosed the ground as they passed and did not look
up—he was a monarch more used to being stared at than staring The men
escorting Josua's party touched their hands to their eyes reverently as they
passed

"It is their clan beast," Geloe said to no one m particular

At the far end of the encampment stood a great wagon with wide,

STONE OF FAREWELL                 265

heavy-spoked wheels and a banner bearing a golden horse billowing from
the roof-peak Before it were two figures, a large man and a young girl
The girl was knotting the man's long beard into two thick braids that
hung down onto his chest Despite his age—he looked to have passed
some sixty summers on the grasslands—his black hair was only faintly
striped with silver and his wide frame was still knotted with muscle He
held a bowl upon his lap in his huge bennged and braceleted hands

The riders stopped and dismounted Hotvig strode forward to stand
before him

"We have captured several trespassers who walked the Feluwelt without
your leave, March-thane six men, two women, and a child "

The March-thane stared the prisoners up and down His face split m a
wide, crooked-toothed grin "Prince Josua Lackhand," he said, without
the least trace of surprise m his voice "Now that your stone house is
fallen, have you come to live beneath the sky like men do7" He took a
long swallow from his bowl, draining it dry, then handed it to the girl and
waved her away

"Fikolmy," Josua said, bleakly amused "So you are March-thane now "
"When the Choosing came, of all the chieftains there was only Blehmunt
who would stand against me I broke his head like an egg " Fikolmij
laughed, patting at his new-braided beard, then stopped, lowering his
eyebrows like a nettled bull "Where is my daughter7"

"If that young one was yours, youjust sent her away," Josua said
Fikolmij clenched a fist in anger, then laughed again "Stupid tncks,
Josua You know who I mean Where is she7"

"I will tell you the truth," Josua said "I do not know where Vorzheva is "
The March-thane looked him over speculatively "So," he said at last
"You are not so high in the world today, stone-dweller You are a
trespasser in the Free Thnthmgs now, as well as a daughter-stealer Per-
haps you will seem better to me with your other hand cut off, too I will
think on it " He lifted his hairy paw and gestured carelessly Co Hotvig
"Put them in one of the bull runs until I decide which ones to cut up and
which to keep "

"Merciful Aedon preserve us," Father Strangyard murmured
The March-thane chuckled, flicking a wind-blown curl of hair from his
eye "And give these city-rats a blanket or two and some food, Hotvig
Otherwise, the night air may kill them and rob my sport "

As Josua and the others were led away at spearpomt, Fikolmij turned
and shouted for the girl to bring him more wine

14

A Crown of Fire

J.t was a dream, Simon knew even as he dreamed it. It started in an
ordinary enough fashion: he was lying in the Hayholt's great loft, hidden
in tickling hay. watching the familiar figures of Shem Horsegroom and
castle smith Ruben the Bear talking quietly below. Ruben, his broad arms
glimmering with sweat, was hammering clankmgly away at a scarlet-hot

horseshoe-

Suddenly the dream took on a strange cast. Ruben's and Shem's voices
changed, until they sounded nothing like their real selves- Simon could
now hear the conversation perfectly well, but the smith's hammer was
silent as it struck the gleaming iron.

". . . But I have done all you asked for," Shem abruptly said in a queer,
rasping tone. "/ brought King Elias to you."

"You presume too much," Ruben replied. His voice was like nothing
Simon had ever heard, cold and remote as the wind in a high mountain
pass. "You know nothing of what we want. . . of what He wants." There was
more wrong with the blacksmith than just his voice: a feeling of wrong-
ness emanated from him, a black and bottomless lake hidden beneath a
crust of thin ice. How could Ruben seem so evil, even m a dream—kind,
slow-talking Ruben?

Shem's lined face smiled cheerfully, but his words sounded strained. "/
do not care. I will do anything He wishes. I ask little in return."

"You ask a great deal more than any other mortal would," Reuben replied.
"No( only do you dare to call on the Red Hand, you have the temerity to demand
favors." He was chill and uncaring as graveyard dirt. "You do not even know
what you ask You are a child, priest, and you grasp at gleaming things because
they seem pretty You may cut yourself on something jagged and find that you

bleed to death."

"I don't care." Shem spoke with a lunatic firmness. "I don't care. Teach me the
Words of Changing. The Dark One owes me ... he is obligated ..."

Ruben threw back his head in wild laughter. A crown of flames seemed to

STONE OF FAREWELL                 267

blaze about his head. "Obligated?" he gasped- The sound of his amuse-
ment was terrifying. "Our master? To you?" He laughed again, and sud-
denly the blacksmith's skin began blistering. Little gouts of smoke jetted
into the air as Ruben's flesh burned away, peeling back to reveal a shifting
kernel of flame beneath, pulsating with reddish light like a coal fanned by
wind. "You will live to see His final triumph. That is more reward than most
mortals can expect!"

"Please!" Even as Ruben flared, Shem had begun to shrink, becoming
small and gray as a charred parchment. His tiny arm waved, crumbling.
"Please, undying one, please." His voice was oddly light, fraught with a
kind ofslyness. "I will ask nothing further—I will not speak of the Dark One
again. Forgive a mortal fool. Teach me the Word!"

Where Ruben had stood, a living flame glowed. "Very well, priest. There
is, perhaps, little risk in giving you this dangerous hut final toy. The Lord of All
will be taking this world back soon enough—there is nothing you can do that He
cannot make undone. Very welt. I will teach you the Word, but the pain will be
great. No Change is without some cost." Laughter bubbled again in the
unearthly voice. "You will scream ..."

"/ don't care!" Shem said, his ashy form swirling away now into dark-
ness, as did the shadowed smithy and then the hayloft itself. "/ don't care! I
must know. . . !" Finally, even the glowing thing that had been Ruben
became only a bright point in the blackness ... a star. . . .

Simon awakened, breathless as a drowning man, his heart thudding in
his chest. There was a single star overhead, peeping through the hole in the
top of their sleeping shelter like a blue-white eye. He gasped.

Binabik lifted his head from Qantaqa's shaggy neck. The troll was
half-asleep, but struggling toward full wakefulness. "What is wrong,
Simon?" he asked. "Were you having a dream that frightened?"

Simon shook his head. The tide of fear was ebbing a little, but he was
sure it had been more than just a night fantasy. It had seemed that an
actual conversation was taking place nearby, a conversation that his sleep-
ing mind had woven neatly into the stuff of his dream—a mundane
happening that he had experienced many times. What was strange and
frightening was that there were no other speakers anywhere about: Sludig
was snoring, Binabik obviously new-wakened.

"It's nothing," Simon said, struggling to speak evenly. He crawled to
the front of their lean-to, mindful of the bruises from the evening's
stave-practice, and pushed his head out to look around. The first star he
had seen had a great deal of company—a spatter of tiny white lights across
the night sky. The clouds had been driven away by the brisk wind, the
night was clear and cold, and the unrelieved monotony of the White Waste
stretched away on every side. There was not another living thing to be
seen anywhere beneath the ivory moon.

268 Tad Williams

So it had only been a dream, a dream of how old Shem Horsegroom
might speak with Pryrates' croaking tongue, and how Ruben the Bear
might speak with the sepulchral tones of nothing on God's living earth. . . .

"Simon?" Binabik asked sleepily. "Are you. . . ?"

He was frightened, but if he was to be a man he could not run to cry on
someone's shoulder every time he had a bad dream. "It's nothing." He
crawled shivering back to his cloak. "I'm well."

But it seemed so real. The branches of their flimsy shelter creaked,
wind-handled. So real. Like they were talking in my head . . .

Taking the silver sparrow's fragmentary message to heart, they rode
from first light to last every day, trying to outpace the coming storm.
Simon's mock-combats with Sludig now took place by firelight, so that he
had scarcely a moment to spend alone from the moment he rose until he
tumbled into exhausted sleep at the end of each day. The days of riding
passed in a procession of sameness: the endless, humped fields of white, the
dark tangles of stunted trees, the numbing insistence of the wind. Simon
was grateful for his thickening beard: without it, he often thought, the
relentless wind might rub away his face, down to the very bones.

It seemed that the wind had already worn away the face of the land,
leaving behind little that was remarkable or distinct. Had it not been for
the widening line of forest on the horizon, he could have supposed that
every morning found them back at the same cold, bleak starting place.
Thinking morosely about his own warm bed in the Hayholt, he decided
that even if the Storm King himself were to move into the castle, his
minions numerous as snowflakes, Simon could still live happily in the
servant's quarters. He wanted a home desperately. He was close to the
point where he would take a mattress in Hell if the Devil would lend him
a pillow.

As days wore by, the storm continued to grow behind them, a black
pillar rising ominously in the northwestern sky. Great cloudy arms clutched
at the firmament like the branches of a heaven-spanning tree. Lightning
flickered between them.

"It's not moving very fast," Simon said one day as they ate a sparse
noontime meal. There was more nervousness in his voice than he would
have liked.

Binabik nodded. "It grows, but its spreading is slow. That is something
for being thankful about." He wore an unusually dispirited expression.
"The slower it is moving, the longer we are not beneath it—for I am
thinking that when it comes, it will bring a darkness with ic that will not
be passing away, as with storms of the ordinary type."

"What do you mean?" Now the tremor was plain to hear.

"It is not a storm with just snow and rain," Binabik said carefully. "My
thought is that it is exactly meant to bring fear where it goes. It rises from

STONE OF FAREWELL                 269

Stormspike. It has the look of something full ofunnaturalness." He raised
his palms apologetically. "It is spreading, but as you said, not with great
swiftness."

I do not know about such things," Sludig said, "but I must admit I'm
happy we will be off the Waste soon. I wouldn't want to get caught in the
open in any storm, and that one looks truly nasty." He turned toward the
south and squinted. "Two days until we reach Aldheorte," he said.
"That will be some protection."

Binabik sighed. "I hope you are right, but I am fearing that there will be
no protection against this storm—or that the protection must be some-
thing other than forest trees or roofs."

"Do you mean the swords?" Simon asked quietly.

The little man shrugged. "Perhaps. If we are finding all three, perhaps
winter can be kept at spear-length—or even pushed back. But first we
must go to where Geloe tells us. Otherwise, it is only worrying about
things we cannot be changing; that is foolishness." He mustered a smile.
" 'When your teeth are gone,' we Qanuc say, 'leam to like mush.' "

The next morning, their seventh on the Waste, came laden with foul
weather. Although the storm in the north was still only an inky blotch
defacing the far horizon, steely gray clouds had gathered overhead, their
edges stripped into sooty tatters by the rising wind. By noon, when the
sun had vanished from view entirely behind the dismal pall, the snow
began to fly.

"This is terrible," Simon shouted, eyes narrowed against the stinging
sleet. Despite his heavy leather gloves, his fingers were swiftly growing
numb. "We're blinded! Shouldn't we stop and make shelter?"

Binabik, a small, snow-covered shadow atop Qantaqa's back, turned
and called back to him: "If we go a little farther, we will reach the
crossroads!"

"Crossroads!" Sludig bellowed. "In this wilderness?!"

"Ride nearer," Binabik cried. "I will be explaining."

Simon and the Rimmersman brought their mounts closer to the striding
wolf. Binabik lifted his hand to his mouth, but still the wind's roar
threatened to carry off his words. "Not far beyond here, I am thinking,
this Old Tumet'ai Road meets the White Way, that is running along the
northern edge of the forest. At the crossroad may be shelter, or at least the
trees should be of more thickness there, closer to the woods. Let us go
nding on a while longer. If there is nothing in chat spot, we will make our
camp there despite it."

"As long as we stop well before dark, troll," Sludig bellowed. "You are
clever, but your cleverness may not be enough to make a decent camp in
darkness in this blizzard. Having lived through all the madness I have
seen, I do not want to die in the snow like a lost cow!"

270

Tad Williams

Simon said nothing, saving his strength so he could more fully appreci-
ate his misery. Aedon, it was cold! Would there never be an end to snow?

They rode on through the bleak, icy afternoon. Simon's mare plodded
slowly, ankling through the new drifts. Simon leaned his head close to her
mane, trying to stay out of the wind. The world seemed as formless and
white as the inside of a flour cask, and only slightly more habitable.

The sun was quite invisible, but a dimming of the already scarce light
,ested that the afternoon was fading fast. Binabik, however, did not

su

seem inclined to stop. As they passed yet one more unprepossessing stand
of evergreens, Simon could stand it no longer-

"I'm freezing, Binabik!" he shouted angrily above the wind. "And it's
getting dark! There's another bunch of trees gone and we're still riding.
Well, it's almost night! By God's bloody Tree, I'm not going to go any

farther!"

"Simon ..." Binabik began, striving to assume a placating tone while
yelling at the top of his lungs.

"There's something in the road!" Sludig cried hoarsely. "Vaer! Some-
thing ahead! A troll!"

Binabik squinted. "It is being no such thing," he shouted indignantly.
"No Qanuc would be foolish enough to go wandering alone in such

weather!"

Simon stared into the swirling gray dimness before them. "I don't see

anything."

"As neither do I." Binabik brushed snow from his hood lining.
"I saw something," Sludig growled. "I may be snow-blinded, but I am

not mad."

"An animal, that is most likely," the troll said. "Or, if we are unlucky,
one of the diggers as a scout. Perhaps it is time to make shelter and fire, as
you said, Simon. There is a stand of trees that looks to make better
sheltering just ahead. There, over the rise."

The companions chose the most protected spot they could find. Simon
and Sludig wove branches among the tree trunks for a windbreak while
Binabik, with the help of his yellow fire-powder, set flame to damp wood
and began to boil water for broth. The weather was so unremittingly foul
and cold that after sharing the thin soup, they all curled up in their cloaks
and lay shivering. The wind was Coo loud for any but shouted conversa-
tion. Despite the proximity of his friends, Simon was alone with his
cheerless thoughts until sleep came.

Simon woke with Qantaqa's steaming breath on his face. The wolf
whined and nudged him with her great head, rolling him halfway over.
He sat up, blinking in the weak rays of morning sun filtering into the
copse. Snow drifts had piled against the woven branches, making a wall
that kept the wind at bay, so the smoke from Binabik's campfire rose
almost undisturbed.

STONE OF FAREWELL

271

"Good morning, Simon-friend," Binabik said. "We have survived through
the storm."

Simon gently pushed Qantaqa's head out of his side. She made a noise
of frustration, then backed away. Her muzzle was red-daubed.

"She has been unsettled all the morning," Binabik laughed. "I am
thinking that the many frozen squirrels and birds and such who have
tumbled from the trees have fed her well, however."

"Where's Sludig?"

"He is seeing to the horses." Binabik poked at the fire. "I convinced
him to take them downslope in the open, so the horses would not be
stepping on my morning meal or your face." He lifted a bowl. "This is
the last of the broth. Since our dried meat is now almost finished, I
suggest you enjoy it- Meals may be scarce if our own hunting must be
relied on."

Simon shivered as he wiped a handful of snow on his face. "But won't
we reach the forest soon?"

Binabik patiently offered the bow] again. "Just so, but we will be
traveling along it rather than through. It is a route more circuitous but less
time-consuming, since we will not be cutting through undcrbrush. Also,
in this frozen summer there may be few animals who are not sleeping in
their dens and nests. Thus, if you are not soon taking this soup from my
hands, I will drink it myself. I am no more interested in starving than you,
as well as a great deal more sensible."

"Sorry. Thank you." Simon hunched over the bowl, enjoying a deep
breath of the rising scent before he drank.

"You may be washing the bowl when you have finished," the troll
sniffed. "A nice bowl is a luxurious thing to have on a journey of such
dangerousness."

Simon smiled. "You sound like Rachel the Dragon."

"I have not met this Dragon-Rachel," Binabik said as he stood up,
brushing snow from his breeches, "but if she was given charge of you, she
must have been a person of great patientness and kindness."

Simon chortled.

They reached the crossroads in late morning. The meeting of the two
roads was marked only by a gaunt finger of stone set upright in the frozen
ground. Gray-green lichen, seemingly impervious to frost, clung to it grimly.

"The Old Tumet'ai Road runs through the forest." Binabik gestured to
the barely distinguishable path of the south road, which coiled away
through a stand of firs. "Since I am thinking it is nevermore used and
likely quite overgrown, we should instead follow the White Way. Perhaps
we will find some deserted habitations where we may be finding supplies."

The White Way proved a slightly newer road than the one leading
from the ancient sice of Tumet'ai. There were a few marks of recent

272 Tad Williams

human visitation—a rusted and broken iron wheel-rim dangling from a
roadside branch, where it had doubtless been thrown by an irate wagon
owner, a sharpened spoke perhaps used as a tent-spike, discarded by the
shoulder, a circle of charred stones half-covered in snow.

"Who lives out here^' Simon asked "Why is there a road at all?"

"There were once several small settlements east of St. Skendi's monas-
tery," Sludig said "You remember Skendi's—the snow-buned place we
passed on our way to the dragon-mountain. There were even a few towns
here—Sovebek, Gnnsaby, some others, as I remember 1 think also that a
century or so ago, people traveled this way around the great forest when
they came north from the Thnthings, so there may have been a few mns.'1

"In days more than a century gone," Bmabik intoned, "this part of the
world was being much traveled We Qanuc—some of us, that is to
say—traveled farther south in summer, sometimes to the edges of the
lowlander countries. Also, the Sithi themselves were everywhere in their
wandering It is only in these late and sad days that all this land has
become empty of voices."

"It does seem empty now," Simon said "It seems like no one could live
here anymore."

They followed the winding course of the road through the short after-
noon. The trees were gradually becoming thicker here at the forest's edge,
in spots growing so closely about the road that it seemed as if the
companions had already entered Aldheorte, whether they wished Co or
not. At last they came to another standing stone, this one leaning for-
lornly by the roadside, with no crossing or other possible landmark m
sight Sludig dismounted to take a closer look.

"There are runes on it, but faint and weathered " He peeled back some
of the fiozcn moss "I think they say that Gnnsaby is nearby." He looked
up, smiling in his frosty beard. "Someplace with a roof or two, perhaps,
even if nothing else. That would be a nice change." His step a little
springier, the Rimmersman vaulted back into his saddle. Simon, too, was
heartened- Even a deserted town would be a vast improvement over the
comfortless waste

The words of Bmabik's song came back to him You have slipped into
cold shadows ... He felt a moment's pang of loneliness. Perhaps the town
would not be deserted, after all. Maybe there would be an inn with a fire,
and food . . .

As Simon yearned for the comforts of civilization, the sun vanished for
good behind the forest. The wind rose and the early northern twilight
came down upon them.

There was still light in the sky, but the snowy landscape had turned blue
and gray, soaking up shadow like a rag dipped m ink. Simon and his
companions were nearly ready to stop and make camp, and were discuss-

273

STONE OF FAREWELL

ing the subject in loud voices over the monotonous wind when they came
upon the first outbuildings of Gnnsaby.

As if to disappoint even Sludig's modest hopes, the roofs of these
abandoned cottages had collapsed under the weight of snow. The pad-
docks and gardens were also long untended, knee-deep in swirling white.
Simon had seen so many emptied towns m his northern sojourn that it
was hard to believe that the Frostmarch and the Waste had once been
inhabited, that people had led their lives herejust as they did in the green
fields of Erkynland. He ached for his own home, for familiar places and
familiar weather. Or had winter already crawled over the entire land?

They rode on. Soon Gnnsaby's deserted houses began to appear m
greater profusion on either side of the road Bmabik had named the White
Way. Some still bore traces of their once-residents—a rusted axe with a
rotted handle standing in a chopping block before a snow-buned front
door; an upright broom sticking out of the roadside drifts like a flag or
the tail of a frozen animal—but most of the dwellings were as empty and
desolate as skulls.

"Where do we stop?" Sludig called. "I think we may not find a roof after
all."

"We may not, so let us be looking for good walls," Bmabik replied. He
was about to say more when Simon tugged at his arm.

"Look! It u a troll! Sludig was right!" Simon pointed off to the side of
the road, where a short figure stood motionless but for its wmd-flung
cloak- The last rays of sunlight had found a thin spot m the forest fringe
behind Gnnsaby, throwing the stranger into relief.

"Be looking yourself," Bmabik said grumpily, but his eyes were fixed
warily on the stranger. "It is no troll.*' The figure beside the road was
very small, weanng a thin hooded cloak. Bare, bluish skin showed where
the breeches-legs failed to meet the top of his boots.

"It's a little boy." After amending his earlier identification, Simon
steered Homefinder toward the edge of the road. His two companions
followed. "He must be freezing to death!"

As they rode toward him, the child looked up, snow flecking his dark
brows and lashes. He stared at the approaching trio, then turned and
began to run.

"Stop," Simon called, "we won't hurt you!"

"Hatad, kunde!" Sludig shouted. The retreating form stopped and turned,
staring. Sludig rode a few ells closer, then climbed down from his horse
and walked forward slowly. "Vjer sommen marroven, kunde," he said,
extending a hand. The boy stared at him suspiciously, but made no further
move toward flight. The child seemed to be no more than seven or eight
years old and thin as the handle of a butter churn, judging by the bits of
him showing. His hands were full of acorns.

"I'm cold," the boy said in fair Westerling.

274 Tad Williams

Sludig looked surprised, but smiled and nodded "Come on, then, lad "
He gently took the acorns and poured them into his cloak pocket, then
gathered up the unresisting child in his strong arms "It's all right, then
We'll help you " The Rimmersman placed the dark-haired stranger on the
front of his saddle, wrapping his cloak around him so that the boy's head
seemed to grow from Sludig's now-broad belly "Can we find a place to
make camp now, troll3" he growled

Binabik nodded. "Of course "

He urged Qantaqa ahead The boy watched the wolf with wide but
unworned eyes as Simon and Sludig spurred after Snow was rapidly
filling in the hollow where the boy had stood

As they rode on through the empty town, Sludig brought out his skin of
kangkang and let the newcomer have a short drink The boy coughed, but
otherwise seemed unsurprised by the bitter Qanuc liquor Simon decided
he might be older than first appearance made him seem there was a
precision to his movements that made him seem less like a child Some of
his apparent youth, Simon guessed, might be due to his large eyes and
slender frame

"What's your name, lad5" Sludig asked at last

The boy looked him over calmly "Vren," he said at last, the word
fluidly and oddly accented He tugged at the drinking skin, but Sludig
shook his head and put it back in his saddle bag

" 'Fnend'3" Simon asked, puzzled

" 'Vren,' I am thinking he said," Bmabik replied "It is 3 Hyrkaman
name, and I am thinking he might be a Hyrka "

"Look at that black hair," Sludig said "The color of his skin, too He is
a Hyrka, or I am no Rimmersman But what is he doing alone in the snow3"

The Hyrkas, Simon knew, were a footloose people accounted good
with horses and skilled in games at which other people lost money He
had seen many at the great market in Erchester "Do the Hyrkas live out
here, in the White Waste7"

Sludig frowned "I've never heard of such—but I have seen many things
of late I would have have believed in Elvntshalla I thought they lived
mainly in the cities and on the grasslands with the Thnthings-folk "

Bmabik reached up and patted the boy with a small hand "So have I
been taught, although there are some who also are living beyond the
Waste, in the empty steppe-lands to the east "

After they had ridden farther, Sludig dismounted again to search for
signs of habitation He returned, shaking his head, and went to Vren The
child's brown eyes gazed unflinchingly back at him "Where do you live3"
the Rimmersman asked

"With Skodi," was the reply

"Is that near5" Binabik asked The boy shrugged "Where are your
parents5" The gesture was repeated.

275

STONE OF  FAREWELL

The troll turned to his companions "Perhaps Skodi is the name of his
mother Or it might be a name of some other town name near to
Gnnsaby-village It is also being possible he has strayed from a caravan of
wagons—although these roads, I have sureness, are not much used at the
best of times How could he survive long in fearful winter days like
these    ;" He shrugged a movement oddly similar to the child's

"Will he stay with us5 ' Simon asked Sludig made an exasperated noise
but said nothing Simon turned on the Rimmersman angrily "We can't
leave him here to die'"

Bmabik waved a placating finger "No, do not fear that we would In
any case, I suspect that there must be more people than Vren who are
living here "

Sludig stood up "The troll is right there must be folk here Anyway,
the idea of taking a child with us is foolish "

"That is what some were saying of Simon," Binabik responded quietly
"But I am having agreement with your first statement Let us find his home "

"He can ride with me for a while," Simon said The Rimmersman made
a wry face, but handed over the unresisting child Simon wrapped the boy
in his cloak as Sludig had done

"Sleep now, Vren," he whispered The wind moaned through the
ruined houses "You're with friends, now We'll take you home "

The boy stared back at him, solemn as a petty cleric at a public
ceremony A small hand snaked out from beneath the jacket to pat
Homefmder's back With Vren's slender form resting against his chest,
Simon took his reins in one hand so he could drape an arm around the
boy's midsection He felt very old and very responsible

Will I ever be a father7 he wondered as they cramped on through the
gathering dark Have sons7 He thought about it for a moment Daughters1'

All the people he knew, it seemed, had lost their fathers—Bmabik's in a
snowslide. Prince Josua's to old age Jeremias the chandler's boy, Simon
remembered, had lost his to the chest-fever. Princess Minamele's sire
might as well be dead He thought about his own father, drowned before
he was born Were fathers just that way, like cats and dogs, making
children and then going away3

"Siudigi" he called, "do you have a father3"

The Rimmersman turned, an irritated expression on his face "What do
you mean by that, boy3"

"I mean is he alive3"

"For all I know," the Rimmersman snorted "And little I care, either
The old devil could be in Hell and it would not bother me " He turned
back to the snow-shrouded road

I will not be a father tike that, Simon decided clutching the child a little
closer Vren moved uneasily beneath Simon's cloak /'// stay with my son
We'll have a home, and I won't go away

276

Tad Williams

But who would be the mother? A series of confusing images, random as
snowflakes, flurried before his mind's eye Minamele distanc on her tower
balcony at the Hayholc, the maid Hepzibah, cross old Rachel, and angry-
eyed Lady Vorzheva And where would his home be7 He looked around
at the vast whiteness of the Waste and the approaching shadow ofAldheorte
How could anyone hope to stay m one place in this mad world5 To
promise that to a child would be a he. Home3 He would be lucky to find a
place to get out of the wind for a night

His unhappy laugh set Vren to squirming, Simon pulled the cloak
tighter around them both.

As they approached the eastern outskirts ofGnnsaby they still had not
seen a living soul. Neither had there been any evidence of recent habita-
tion They had questioned Vren closely, but had been unable to elicit any
information other than the name "Skodi "

"Is Skodi your father7" Simon asked

"It is a woman's name," Sludig offered. "A Rimmerswoman's name "

Simon tried again. "Is Skodi your mother7"

The boy shook his head. "I live with Skodi," he said, his words so clear
despite the accent that Simon wondered again if the boy was not older
than they had guessed.

There were still a few desolate settlements perched among the low hills
along the White Way, but they were appearing more and more infre-
quently. Night had come on, filling the spaces between trees with inky
shadows. The company had ridden too long—and too far past eating-time
by Simon's reckoning Darkness now made their search impractical Bmabik
was just setting a pitchy pine limb alight to use as a torch when Simon
saw a gleam of light through the forest, some distance from the road.

"Look there'" he cried. "I think it's a fire'" The distant white-blanketed
trees seemed to glow redly.

"Skodi's house! Skodi's house'" the boy said, bouncing so that Simon
had to restrain him. "She'll be happy!"

The company sac for a moment, eyeing the flickering light.

"We go carefully," Sludig said, flexing the fingers that clutched his
Qanuc spear. "It is a damned odd place to live We have no assurance
these folks will be friendly."

Simon felt a sudden inner chill at Sludig's words If only Thorn were
reliable enough for him to carry at his side! He felt his bone knife in its
scabbard and was reassured.

"I will ride ahead," Binabik said. "I am smaller and Qantaqa is more
quiet We will go to have a look." He murmured a word, the wolf slid off
the road through the long shadows, her tail waving like a puff of smoke

A few minutes passed. Simon and Sludig rode slowly along the snowy
downs, not talking Staring at the warm light that shimmered in the

STONE OF FAREWELL                 277

trcctops, Simon had fallen into a sort of shallow dream when he was
startled by the troll's abrupt reappearance Qantaqa grinned hugely, her red
tongue hanging from her mouth

"It is an old abbey, I am thinking," Binabik said, his face almost hidden
in the darkness of his hood. "There is a bonfire in the dooryard and
several people who are around it, but they look to be children. I was
seeing no horses, no sign of anyone waiting to ambush "

They rode quietly forward to the crest of a low hill The fire burned
before them at the bottom of a tree-lined clearing, surrounded by small,
dancing silhouettes Behind them loomed the red-tinted stone walls and
cracked mortar of the abbey It was an old building that had suffered
beneath the weather's rough handling, the long roof had collapsed in
several places, the holes gaping at the stars like mouths Many of the
surrounding trees also seemed to have pushed their limbs right through
the small windows, as chough trying to escape the cold

As they sat looking, Vren slithered free beneath Simon's arm and
hopped down from the saddle, tumbling into the show He stood, shaking
like a dog, then pelted down the hill toward the bonfire. Some of the
small shapes turned at his approach with glad cries Vren stood among
them for a moment, waving his arms excitedly, then pushed through the
abbey's front door and disappeared into the warm glow.

When long moments had passed and no one came back out again,
Simon looked inquiringly at Binabik and Sludig-

"It is certainly seeming to be his home," Binabik said.

"Should we go on our way7" Simon asked, hoping [hey would say no
Sludig looked him over, then grunted in exasperation.

"It would be foolish to pass the chance of a warm night." the
Rimmersman said grudgingly. "And we are ready to make camp. But no
word of who we are or what we do We are soldiers run away from the
garrison at Skoggey, should any ask."

Binabik smiled. "I approve of your logic, although I am doubting I can
be mistaken for a Rimmserman warrior Let us go and see Vren's home "

They cantered down into the dell The small figures, perhaps half a
dozen m all, had resumed their dancing game, but as Simon and the others
approached they paused and fell silent. They were only raggedly-dressed
children, as Binabik had suggested

All eyes now turned to the new arrivals Simon felt himself subjected to
a thorough scrutiny. The children seemed Co range in age from three or
four up to Vren's age or a little older, and seemed to be of no one type
There was a little girl who shared Vren's black hair and dark eyes, but also
two or three others so fair they could be nothing but Rimmersgarders. All
wore expressions of wide-eyed caution As Simon and his friends dis-
mounted, heads turned almost m unison to watch. No one spoke.

"Hello," Simon said. The boy nearest him stared sullenly, his face lapped
m firelight. "Is your mother here7" The boy continued to stare

278 Tad Williams

"The child we brought went inside," Sludig said "That is undoubtedly
where the grown folk are " He hcfted his spear thoughtfully and a half-
dozen pairs of eyes warily followed his movement The Rimmcrsn-ian
took the spear with him toward the abbey door which Vren had swung
shut behind him, then propped it against the pitted mortar of the wall

He gave his silent audience a meaningful look "No one may touch
this " he said "Understood' Gjal es, kunden'"' He patted his scabbarded
sword, then lifted a fist and thumped on the door Simon looked back at
Thorn, a hide-wrapped bundle on one of the packhorses He wondered
whether he should bring it with him, but decided that would draw more
attention than was best Still, it rankled So many sacrifices to get the black
sword, just to leave it strapped to the saddle like an old broomstick

"Binabik." he said quietly, pointing at the concealed sword "Do you
think    5"

The troll shook his head "Little need for concern, I am certain," the
troll whispered "In any case, even if these children were to steal it, I am
guessing they would have a difficult time carrying it away "

The heavy door swung slowly open Little Vren stood in the doorwav

"Come in, you men Skodi says come in "

Bmabik dismounted Qantaqa sniffed the air for a moment, then bounded
away in the direction they had come The children by the fire watched her
departure raptly

"Let her hunt," Bmabik said "She is not happy walking inside a
people-house Come, Simon, we have been offered some hospitality " He
stepped past Sludig and followed Vren inside

A fire nearly as large as the bonfire in the dooryard was roaring and
crackling in the grate, throwing wild, flickering shadows on the cob-
webbed plaster Simon's first impression of the room was of some kind of
animal nest Great piles of clothes and straw and other more unusual
articles were piled haphazardly on every dirty surface

"Welcome, strangers," someone said "I'm Skodi Do you have any
food5 The children are very hungry "

She was sitting in a chair close to the fire, with several children younger
than those in the yard clambering over her lap or sitting at her feet
Simon's first thought was that she was another child herself—albeit a very
large one—but after a moment's inspection he could see that she was his
own age or even a little older Her white-blonde hair, colorless as spider
silk. framed a round face that might have been quite pretty, despite a few
blemishes, if she had not been so fat Her pale blue eyes stared avidly at
the new arrivals

Sludig looked at her suspiciously, uncomfortable in such close sur-
roundings "Food7 We have little, mistress .   " he considered for a
moment, "    but you are welcome to share "

She waved her hand airily Her chubby pink arm nearly dislodged a

STONE OF FAREWELL                 279

sleeping toddler "It's not important We always get by " As Sludig had
predicted, she spoke Westerhng with a heavy Rimmcrsgard accent "Sit
down and tell me the news of the world " She frowned, pursing her red
lips "There may be some beer somewhere You men like beer, don't
you7 Vren, go find some beer And where are those oak-nuts I sent you
for'"

Sludig looked up suddenly "Oh " Sheepishly, he produced Vren's acorns
from his cloak pocket

"Good," Skodi said "Now beer "

"Yes, Skodi " Vren scuttled off down an aisle of stacked stools, vanish-
ing into the shadows

"How is it, if we may be asking, that you can live out here5" Bmabik
said "It seems a place of great isolation "

Skodi had been staring at him avidly Now her eyebrows lifted in
surprise "I thought you were a child'" She sounded disappointed. "But
you are a little man "

"Qanuc, my lady " Bmabik sketched a bow "What your people call
'[rolls ' "

"A troll'" She clapped her hands in excitement This time, one of the
children did slither off her rounded lap into the blankets coiled at her feet
The little one did not wake, and another quickly crawled up to take the
spot the first had vacated "So wonderful! We have never had a troll here'"
She turned and called into the darkness. "Vren1 Where is the beer for these
men3"

"Where did all these children come from5" Simon asked wondenngly.
"Are they all yours5"

A defensive look came to the girl's face "Yes They are now Their
parents did not want them, so Skodi keeps them instead "

"Well.  " Simon was nonplussed "Well, that's very kind of you But
how do you feed them3 You said they were hungry "

"Yes, it 15 kind," Skodi said, smiling now "It is kind of me, but that is
how I was caught Lord Usires said to shelter the children "

"Aye," Siudig grumbled 'That's so "

Vren came back into the firelight balancing a Jar of beer and several
cracked bowls The pile swayed dangerously, but with help he was able to
set them down and pour beer for all three travelers The wind had risen,
making the flames billow m the grate

"This is a very good fire," Sludig said as he wiped froth from his
mustache "You must have had a difficult time finding dry wood in
yesterday's storm "

'Oh, Vren chopped for me early in the spring " She reached out and
patted the boy's head with her plump hand "He butchers and cooks, too.
He is my good boy, Vren is "

"Is there no one here who is older5" Bmabik asked "I am meaning

280

Tad Williams

nothing discourteous, but you seem young to raise these children m

solitude."

Skodi looked at him carefully before answering. "I told you. Their
mothers and fathers have gone away. There is no one here but us. But we
do very well, don't we, Vren?"

"Yes, Skodi." The little boy's eyes were growing heavy. He snuggled
himself against her leg, basking in the warmth of the fire.

"So," she said at last, "you said that you had some food. Why do you
not get it, then we can share. We can find the makings of a meal
somewhere here. Wake up, Vren, you lazy thing!" She cuffed him lightly
on the side of the head. "Wake up! It's time to make supper!"

"Don't wake him," Simon said, feeling sorry for the little black-haired
boy. "We'll take care of the meal."

"Nonsense," Skodi said. She gave the protesting Vren a gentle shake.
"He loves to make supper. You go and get what you have. You will stay
the night, yes? Then you should stable your horses. 1 think the stable is
around the side of the courtyard. Vren, get up, you lazy lump! Where is
the stable?"

The forest had grown close around the back of the abbey where the stables
were located. The old trees, dusted with snow, swayed mournfully as
Simon and his companions threw dry straw onto the floor of one of the
stalls and dumped snow into the trough to melt. The stable seemed to
have been used occasionally—there were blackened torches in the cres-
sets, and the crumbling walls had been haphazardly patched—but it was
hard to guess when the most recent occasion might have been.

"Shall we bring all our things inside?" Simon asked.

"I am chinking so," Binabik replied, loosening the belly-strap on one of
the packhorses. "I doubt the children would steal anything that was not
food, but who can say what might become mislaid?"

The smell of wet horses was strong. Simon rubbed Homefinder's hard
flank. "Don't you chink it's strange that no one lives here but children?"

Sludig laughed shortly. "The young woman is older than you,
Snowlock—and quite a lot of woman at that. Girls her age often have
children of their own."

Simon blushed, but his irritated reply was forestalled by Binabik. "I am
thinking," the troll said, "that Simon speaks with good sense. There are
things unclear about this place. It will do no harm to ask more questions
of our hostess."

Simon wrapped Thorn in his cloak before carrying it back through the
snow to the abbey. The changeable sword was at this moment quite light.
It also seemed to throb slightly, although Simon knew that might be no more
than his chilled, trembling hands. When little Vren let them back inside,
Simon placed Thorn near the hearth where they would sleep and piled

STONE OF FAREWELL                 281

several of their saddlebags atop it, as though to immobilize a sleeping
beast that might wake and flail about.

Supper was an odd mixture of unusual food and strange conversation.
Beside the remains of dried fruit and meat provided by the three travelers,
Skodi and her young charges put out bowls of bitter acoms and sour
berries. Scavenging, Vren found a molding but edible cheese somewhere in
the abbey's ruined larder, along with several more jars of musky Rimmersgard
beer. With this they managed to make a meal that served the whole
company, albeit meagerly: the children all assembled numbered a dozen or
more.

Binabik found little time to ask questions during the meal. Those of
Skodi's charges who were old enough to go outside stood up to relate
fanciful stories of various adventures they had encountered that day,
stories so exaggerated as to be obviously untrue. One little girl told of
flying to the top of a mighty pine tree to steal a feather from a magical
jaybird. Another, one of the older boys, swore that he had found a chest
of ogre's gold in a cave in the forest. Vren, when his turn came, calmly
informed his listeners that while gathering acoms he had been pursued by
an icy demon with glinting blue eyes, and that Simon and his two
companions had saved him from the frosty menace's .clutches, smiting it
with their swords until it shattered into icicles.

Skodi held the smaller children on her lap as she ate, each in its rum,
and listened to each story with an expression of envious fascination. She
rewarded those she enjoyed most by giving the teller an extra morsel of
food, which was eagerly accepted—indeed, Simon decided, the reward
was probably the main reason for the fabulous nature of the stories.

There was something about Skodi's face that Simon found captivating.
Despite her great size, there was a delicacy to her girlish features and a
brightness to her eyes and smile that transfixed him. At certain moments,
as she laughed breathlessly at one of the children's inventions, or turned so
that the firelight played glinting in her flaxen hair, she seemed quite
beautiful; at others, when she greedily snatched a handful of berries from
one of the smaller the children and stuffed her wide mouth, or when her
spellbound appreciation of the story-telling for a moment resembled mere
idiocy, he found her repellent.

A few times she caught Simon staring. The glances she returned to him
frightened him a little, even as they made him blush. Skodi, for all her
bulk, wore a hungering look chat would not have been out of place on a
starveling beggar.

"So," she said when Vren had finished his wild tale, "you are even
braver men than I guessed." She smiled hugely at Simon. "We will sleep
well tonight, knowing you are under our roof. You do not chink Vren's
ice-demon has brothers, do you?"

'I am thinking it is not likely," Binabik said with a gentle smile. "You

282 Tad Williams

need not be fearing any such demon while we are staying here in your
home. In return, we have much gratitude for a roof and a hearth for
warming."

"Oh, no," Skodi said, her eyes wide, "it is me who is grateful. We do
not get many visitors. Vren, help clear a place for the men to sleep. Vren,
do you hear me?"

Vren was staring intently at Simon, an unfathomable expression in his
dark eyes.

"Your mentioning of guests, my lady," Binabik began, "—it brings to
my mind a question 1 had meant to be asking you. How is it that you and
these children have come to be in such a place of isolation. . . ?"

"The storms came. Others ran away. We had nowhere else to go." Her
brisk words poorly concealed her wounded tone. "None of us were
wanted—none of the children, nor Skodi either." The subject discussed,
her voice warmed again. "Now it is time for the little ones to sleep.
Come, alt of you, help me up." Several of her wards scurried to assist
Skodi in levering her large body up out of the chair. As she moved slowly
toward the door at the back of the room, a pair of sleeping children
clinging to her like baby bats, she called: "Vren will help you find your
way. Bring the candle when you come, Vren." She disappeared into the
shadows.

Simon awakened from an uneasy sleep in the depths of night, filled with
confused panic by the red-touched and starless darkness, and also by a
faint thread of sound that wove itself in and out of the muted tapestry of
windsong. It took some moments to remember that they slept near the
hearth of the old abbey, warmed by dreaming coals and sheltered from the
elements by the roof and decaying walls. The noise was Qantaqa's lonely
howl, floating distantly. Simon's fear faded a little, but did not disappear.

Was that a dream I had last night? Shem and Ruben and the voices? Was it truly
just a mad fancy, or was it as real as it seemed . . . as it sounded?

Ever since the night of his escape from the Hayholt, he had not felt a
master of his own destiny. That same Stoning Night, when he had
somehow felt Pryrates' repellent thoughts and had unwillingly shared in
the ritual as Elias received the terrible gift of the sword Sorrow, Simon
had wondered if he was even a master of his own mind. His dreams had
become vivid far beyond the realms of mere night-wandering. The
dream at Geloe's house, in which a cadaverous Morgenes had warned
him of a false messenger, and the repeated visitations of the great, all-
crushing wheel and of the tree-that-was-a-tower, white among the stars—
these seemed too insistent, too powerful to be just unsettled sleep. And
now, in his dreams the night before, he heard heard Pryrates talking to
some unearthly thing as clearly as if Simon listened at a keyhole. These
were not anything like the dreams of his life before this last terrible year.

283

STONE OF FAREWELL

When Binabik and Geloe had taken him on the Road of Dreams, the
vision he experienced there had felt much like these others—like dream-
ing, but with a wild and indescribable potency of vision. Perhaps some-
how, because of Pryrates on the hilltop or something else, a door had
opened in him that sometimes led to the dream-road. That seemed like
madness, but what did not in this topsy-turvy age? The dreams must be
important—when he awoke, it was with the sense of something infinitely
crucial slipping away—but terrifyingly, he had no idea what they might
mean-

Qantaqa's mournful cry sounded again through the storm that blew
beyond the abbey's walls. Simon wondered that the troll did to get up to
soothe his mount, but the sound ofBinabik's and Sludig's snoring contin-
ued unabated. Simon tried to rise, determined to at least offer her the
chance to come in—she sounded so lone and lom, and it was so very cold
outside—but found that a heavy languor clutched his limbs, so that he
could not force himself up. He struggled, but to no avail. His limbs were
no more responsive than if they had been carved of ash-wood.

Simon suddenly felt terribly sleepy. He fought his drowsiness, but it
pulled him relentlessly downward; Qantaqa's distant howl faded and he
went sliding as though down a long slope, back coward unknowingness. . . .

When he woke again, the last coals had burned black and the abbey was
in utter darkness. A cold hand was touching his face. He gasped with
horror, but air barely rilled his lungs. His body still felt heavy as stone,
without the power of movement.

"Pretty," Skodi whispered, a deeper shadow, sensed rather than seen,
looming tall and wide above him. She stroked his cheek. "Just got your
beard, too- You are a pretty one. I will keep you."

Simon strove helplessly to wriggle from beneath her touch.

"They don't want you, cither, do they?" Skodi said, crooning as chough
to a baby. "I can feel it. Skodi knows. Cast out, you were- I can hear it in
your head. But that is not why I had Vren bring you."

She settled down beside him in the dark, folding into a crouch like a
tent pulling loose from its stakes. "Skodi knows what you have. I heard it
singing in my ears, saw it in my dreams. Lady Silver Mask wants it. Her
Lord Red Eyes does, too. They want the sword, the black sword, and
when I give it to them they will be nice to me. They will love Skodi and
give her presents." She caught a lock of his hair between her plump fingers
and gave it a sharp pull. The twinge of pain seemed far away. A moment
later, as if in recompense, she ran her hand carefully over Simon's head
and face.

"Pretty," she said at last. "A friend for me—a friend my age. That is
what I have waited for. I will take away those dreams that are bothering
you. I will take away all your dreams- I can do that, you know." She
lowered her whispering voice even further, and Simon realized for the first

284 Tad Williams

time that the heavy breathing of his two friends had ceased. He wondered
if they were lying silent in the darkness, waiting to save him. If that was
so, he prayed they would act soon His heart seemed as nerveless as his
leaden limbs, but fear beat through him, aching like a secret pulse "They
drove me out of Haethstad," Skodi muttered "My own family and
neighbors. Said I was a witch Said I put curses on people. Drove me
out " Horribly, she began to snuffle. When she spoke again, her words
were garbled by tears "I sh-sh-showed them When Father was drunk
and hteepmg, I stabbed Mother with his knife and then put it back in his
hand He killed himself." Her laugh was bitter but remorseless. "I could
always sec things others could not, think of things they would not Then,
when the deep winter came and would not go away, I began to be able to
do things Now I can do things no one else can do." Her voice rose
triumphantly "i am growing stronger all the time Stronger and stronger.
When 1 give Lady Silver Mask and Lord Red Eyes the sword they're
looking for, the singing black sword I heard in my dreams, then I'll be like
they arc Then the children and I will make everyone sorry."

As she spoke, she absently slid her cold hand from Simon's forehead
down into his shirt, letting it play over his naked chest as if she petted a
dog The wind had stilled, and in the dreadful silence of its abatement he
suddenly knew that his friends had been taken away. There was no one in
the lightless room but Skodi and Simon.

"But I will keep you," she said. "I will keep you for myself."

15

Within God's Watts

Jnl-UU/l Dmivan toyed with his food, staring into his bowl as though
some helpful message might be written there in olive pits and breadcrumbs.
Candles burned fiercely the length of the table Pryrates' voice was loud
and harsh as a brazen gong.

".    So you see. Your Sacredness, all that King Ehas wishes is your
acceptance of one fact Mother Church's provenance may be men's souls,
but she has no right to interfere m the disposition of men's corporeal
forms by their legitimate monarch." The hairless priest grinned in self-
satisfaction Dimvan's heart sank to see the lector smile dully m return.
Surely Ranessin must know that Ehas was as much as declaring that
God's shepherd on earth had less right to power than an earthly king?
Why did he sit and say nothing?

The lector slowly nodded his head. He looked across the table Co
Pryrates, then briefly to Duke Bemgans, new master of Nabban, who
appeared a trifle nervous beneath the lector's scrutiny, hurriedly wiping
grease from his chin with the back of a brocaded sleeve This Feast of
Hiafmansa Eve was usually only a religious and ceremonial occasion.
Although Dimvan knew him to be utterly the creature of Pryrates' master
Ehas, at this moment the duke seemed to be wishing for more ceremony
and less confrontation

"The High King and his emissary Pryrates wish only the best for Mother
Church, Sacredness," Bemgans said gruffly, unable to hold Ranessm's
gaze, as though he saw his rumored murder of his father mirrored there.
"We should listen to what Pryrates says." He addressed his trencher once
more, wherein he found more convivial company.

"We are considering all that Pryrates has to say," the lector responded
mildly Silence fell upon the table once more. Fat Velhgis and the other
escntors present returned to their own meals, obviously pleased that the
long-feared confrontation seemed to have been averted

Dimvan lowered his eyes to the remains of his supper. A young priest

286

Tad Williams

who hovered at his elbow refilled Dinivan's goblet with water—it had
seemed a good night to avoid wine—and reached forward to take his
bowl, but Dinivan waved him back. It was better to have something to
concentrate on, if only to avoid looking at viperous Pryrates, who was not
bothering to hide his immense pleasure at discomfiting the church hierarchy.

Absently pushing breadcrumbs with his knife, Dinivan marveled at how
inseparably the great and the mundane were linked. This ultimatum from
King Elias and the lector's response might one day seem an event of
unforgettable magnitude, like that day long ago when the third Larexes
had declared Lord Sulis heretic and apostate, sending that magnificent and
troubled man into exile. But even during that momentous event, Dinivan
reflected, there had probably been priests who scratched their noses, or
stared at the ceiling, or silently bemoaned their aching joints as they sat
within the very crucible of history—even as Dinivan now poked at his
own supper-leavings and Duke Benigaris belched and loosened his belt. So
men always would be, ape and angel mixed, their animal nature chafing at
the restraints of civilization even as they reached for Heaven or for Hell. It
was amusing, really ... or should have been.

As Escritor Velligis tried to initiate a more soothing supper-table con-
versation, Dinivan suddenly felt an odd trembling in his fingers: the table
was shuddering gently beneath his hands. Earthquake was his first thought,
but then the olive pits in his bowl began to slide together slowly, forming
themselves into runes before his astonished eyes. He looked up, startled,
but no one else at the banquet table appeared to notice anything amiss.
Velligis droned on, his chubby face gleaming with sweat; the other guests
watched him, politely feigning interest.

Creeping like insects, the leavings in Dinivan's bowl had merged to
form two sneering words: "SCROLL PIG." Sickened, he looked up to
meet Pryrates' shark-black eyes. The alchemist wore a look of vast amuse-
ment. One of his white fingers was waving above the tablecloth, as if
sketching upon the insubstantial air. Then, as Dinivan watched, Pryrates
waggled all his digits at once. The crumbs and olive stones in Dinivan's
bowl abruptly tumbled apart, whatever forces that had bound them now

dispersed.

Dinivan's hand rose defensively to grasp the chain that lay beneath his
cassock, feeling for the hidden scroll; Pryrates' grin widened in almost
childish glee. Dinivan found his usual optimism melting before the red
priest's unmistakable confidence. He suddenly realized what a thin and
breakable reed his own life actually was.

". . . They are not, I suppose, truly dangerous - - ." Velligis was
blathering, "but it is a dreadful blow to the dignity of Mother Church,
these barbarians settling themselves afire in public squares, a dreadful
blow—as much as danng the church to stop them! It is a kind of contagious
madness, I am told, carried by bad airs. I no longer go out without a
kerchief to wear over my nose and mouth ..."

STONE OF  FAREWELL

287

"But perhaps the Fire Dancers are not mad," Pryrates said lightly.
"Perhaps their dreams are more . . . real . . . than you would like to
believe."

"That is ... that is . . ." Velligis spluttered, but Pryrates ignored him,
his obscenely empty eyes still fixed on Dinivan.

He fears no excess now, Dinivan thought. The realization seemed an
unbearable burden. Nothing binds him any longer. His terrible curiosity has
become a heedless and insatiable hunger.

Had that been when the world had begun to go wrong? When Dinivan
and his fellow Scrollbearers had brought Pryrates into their secret coun-
cils? They had opened their hearts and treasured archives to the young
priest, respecting the honed sharpness of Pryrates' mind for a long time
before the rot at the center of him could no longer be mistaken. They had
driven him from their midst, then—but too late, it seemed. Far, far too
late. Like Dinivan, the priest sat at the tables of the mighty, but Pryrates'
red star was now ascending, while Dinivan's track seemed murky and
obscured.

Was there anything more he could do? He had sent messages to the two
Scrollbearers still living, Jarnauga and Ookequk's apprentice, chough he
had heard from neither in some time. He had also sent suggestions or
instructions to others of good faith, like the forest-woman Geloe and little
Tiamak in the marshy Wran. He had brought Princess Miriamele safely to
the Sancellan Aedonitis and made her tell her story to the lector. He had
tended all the trees as Morgenes would have wished: all he could do now
was wait and see what fruit might come- . . .

Slipping Pryrates' troubling gaze, Dinivan looked around the lector's
dining hall, crying to take note of details. If this was to be a momentous
night, for good or ill, he might as well try to remember all he could.
Perhaps in some future—a brighter one than he could now envision—he
would be an old man standing at the shoulder of some young artisan,
offering corrections: "No, it wasn't like that at all! I was there . . ." He
smiled, forgetting his worries for a moment. What a happy thought—to
survive the cares of these dark days, to live with no greater responsibility
than being an annoyance to some poor artist laboring to complete a
commission!

His moment of reverie ended abruptly, arrested by the sight of a
familiar face in the arched doorway that led to the kitchens. What was
Cadrach doing here? He had been in the Sancellan Aedonitis scarcely a
week and would have no business that could bring him near the lector's
private quarters, so he could only be spying on the lector's supper guests.
Was it only curiosity, or was Cadrach . . . Padreic . . . feeling the tug of
old loyalties? Of conflicting loyalties?

Even as these thoughts flashed through Dinivan's head, the monk's face
fell back into the shadows of the door and was gone from sight. A

288 Tad Williams

moment later a server marched through with a wide salver, making it
obvious that Cadrach had vanished from the archway entirely.

Now, as if in counterpoint to Dinivan's confusion, the lector rose
suddenly from his tall chair at the head of the table Ranessin's kind face
was somber, the shadows thrown by the bright candlelight made him
seem ancient and bowed with troubles.

He silenced prattling Velligis with a single wave of his hand. "We have
thought," the lector said slowly His white-haired head seemed remote as
a snow-capped mountain. "The world as you speak of it, Pryrates, makes
a certain kind of sense. There is weight to its logic. We have heard similar
things from Duke Bemgans and his frequent envoy, Count Aspitis "

"Earl Aspitis," Bemgans said abruptly, his heavy face flushed. He had
drunk a great deal of the lector's wine. "Earl," he continued heedlessly.
"King Elias made him an earl at my request As a gesture of his friendship
to Nabban."

Ranessin's slender features curled in a poorly-concealed look of disgust.
"We know you and the High King are close, Bemgans. And we know that
you yourself rule Nabban. But you are at our table now, m God's
house—my table—and we bid you to remain silent until Mother Church's
highest pnest finishes speaking."

Dimvan was shocked by the lector's angry tone—Ranessm was ordi-
narily the mildest of men—but found himself heartened by such unex-
pected strength Bemgans' mustache quivered angrily, but he reached for
his wine-cup with the clumsiness of an embarrassed child.

Ranessin's blue eyes were now fixed on Pryrates He continued in the
stately manner he so seldom used, but which seemed so natural when he
did. "As we said, the world which you and Elias and Bemgans preach
makes a certain kind of sense It is a world where alchemists and monarchs
decide the fate not only of men's corporeal forms, but of their souls as
well, and where the king's minions encourage deluded souls to burn
themselves for the glory of false idols if it suits their purposes. A world
where the uncertainty of an invisible God is replaced by the certainty of a
black, burning spint who dwells on this earth, in the heart of a mountain
of ice."

Pryrates' hairless brows shot up at this; Dimvan felt a moment of cold
joy. Good. So the creature could still be surpnsed

"Hear me1" Ranessin's voice gained force, so chat for a moment it
seemed that not only the room had fallen silent, but the whole world with
it, as though in that instant the candlelit cable rode the very cusp of
Creation- "This world—your world, the world you preach to us with your
sly words—is not the world of Mother Church. We have long known of a
dark angel who stndes the earth, whose bleak hand reaches out to trouble
all the hearts ofOsten Ard—but our scourge is the Arch-fiend himself, the
implacable foe of God's light. Whether your ally is truly our Enemy of

STONE OF FAREWELL                 289

countless millennia or just another vicious minion of darkness. Mother
Church has always stood against his like . . . and always shall "

Everyone in the room seemed to hold their breath for an endless
moment.

"You do not know what you say, old man " Pryrates' voice was a
sulfurous hiss. "You grow feeble and your mind wanders . . ."

Shockingly, not one of the escritors raised their voices in protest or
dissent They stared, wide-eyed, as Ranessin leaned across the table and
calmly engaged the priest's angry stare Light seemed to quail and almost
die throughout the banquet hall, leaving only the two illuminated, one
scarlet, one white, their shadows stretching, stretching . . .

"Lies, hatred, and greed," the lector said softly. "They are familiar,
age-old enemies It matters not beneath whose banner they march." He
stood up, a slim, pale shape, and lifted a hand. Dinivan felt again the
fierce, uncontrollable love that had driven him to bend his back in suppli-
cation before the mystery of Man's divine purpose, to bind his life over
into the service of this humble and wonderful man, and to the church that
lived in his person.

With cold deliberation, Ranessin drew the sign of the Tree m the air
before him. The table seemed to shudder again beneath Dinivan's hand;

this time he could not believe it the alchemist's doing '"YOU have opened
doors that should have remained closed for all time, Pryrates," the lector
proclaimed. "In your pride and folly, you and the High King have
brought a ponderous evil into a world which already groaned beneath a
mighty burden of suffering. Our church—my church—will fight you for
every soul, until the very Day of Weighing-Out dawns. I declare you
excommunicate, and King Elias with you, and also banish from the arms of
Mother Church any who follow you into darkness and error." His arm
swept down, once, twice. "DMOS Onenpodensis, Feala Vorum Lexeran. Duos
Onenpodensis, Feata Vorum Lexeran!"

No clap of thunder ofhom of judgment followed the Lector's booming
words, only the distant peal of the Clavean bell tolling the hour. Pryrates
stood slowly, his face pale as wax, his mouth twisted in a trembling
grimace

"You have made a horrible mistake," he rasped. "You are a foolish old
man and your great Mother Church is a child's toy made of parchment
and glue " He was quivenng with surprised fury. "We shall put a torch to
it ere long. The howling will be great when it bums You have made a mistake "

He turned and stalked from the dining hall, his bootheels clocking on
the tiled floor, his robes billowing like flame Dinivan thought he heard a
terrible intimation of holocaust in the priest's departing footsteps, of a
great and final conflagration, a black scorching of the pages of history.

290

Tad Williams

Minamcle was sewing a wooden button onto her cloak when someone
rapped on the door Startled, she slid off the cot and padded to answer,
her bare feet chill against the cold floor

"Who is it'"

"Open the door. Pnn     Malachias Please open the door "

She drew the bolt Cadrach stood in the poorly lit hall-way, his sweaty
face gleaming in the candlelight He pushed past her into the small cell and
elbowed the door shut so abruptly that Minainele felt a breeze as it swept
by her nose

"Arc you mad7" she demanded "You cannot just push in like this'"

"Please. Princess    "

"Get out' Now'"

"Lady    " Astonishingly, Cadrach fell to his knees His normally
ruddy face was quite pale "We must flee the Sancellan Aedomtis Tonight

She stared down "You have gone mad " Her tone was imperious
"What are you talking about7 Have you stolen something3 1 don't know if
I should protect you any longer, and I certainly will not go charging out

of   "

He cut her off m mid-speech "No It is nothing I have done—at least,

nothing I have done tonight—and the danger is not to me so much as
to you But that danger is very great We must flee'"

For several moments Minamele could not think of a thing to say
Cadrach indeed looked very frightened, a change from his usual veiled
expression

He broke the silence at last "Please, my lady, I know I have been a
faithless companion, but I have done some good, as well Please trust me
this once You are in terrible danger'"

"Danger from what3"

"Pry rates is here "

She felt a wave of relief wash over her Cadrach's wild words had
frightened her after all "Idiot I know that I spoke to the lector yester-
day I know all about Pryrates "

The stocky monk rose to his feet His jaw was set in a very determined
way "That is one of the most foolish things you have ever said, Princess
You know very little about him, and you should be grateful for that
Grateful'" He reached out and seized her arm

"Stop that' How dare you'" She tried to slap at his face, but Cadrach
leaned away from the blow, maintaining his grip He was surprisingly

strong

"Saint Mmrfath's Bones'" he hissed "Don't be such a fool, Minamele'"
He leaned toward her, holding her gaze with his own wide eyes There
was, she fleetingly noticed, no smell of wine about him "If I must treat
you like a child, I will," the monk growled He pushed her backward until
she toppled onto the cot, then stood over her, angry yet fearful "The

STONE OP FAREWELL                  291

lector has declared Pryrates and your father excommunicate Do you
know what that means7"

"Yes'" she said, her voice almost a shout "I'm glad'"

"But Pryrates is not glad and something bad will happen It will happen
very soon You should not be here when it does "

"Bad7 What do you mean7 Pryrates is alone in the Sancellan He came
with half a dozen of my father's guardsmen What can he do7"

"And you claim to know all about him " Cadrach shook his head in
disgust, then turned and began scooping Minamele's loose clothing and
few possessions into her traveling bag "I, for one," he said, "do not want
to see whatever he will be getting up to "

She watched him for a moment, dumbfounded Who was this person
who looked like Cadrach, but shouted and ordered and grabbed her arm
like a nver-barge bravo7 "1 will not go anywhere until I talk to Father
Dimvan," she said at last Some of the edge had disappeared from her
voice

"Splendid," Cadrach said "Whatever you wish Just prepare yourself to
go I'm sure that Dmivan will agree with me—if we can find him at all "

Reluctantly, she bent to help him "Just tell me this," she said "Do you
swear that we're in danger7 And that it's not something you did7"

He stopped For the first time since he had entered the room, Cadrach's
odd half-smile appeared, but this one twisted his face into a mask of
terrible sorrow "We have all done things that we regret, Minamele I
have made mistakes that set God the Highest to weeping on His great
throne " He shook his head, angry at wasting time with talk "But this
danger is real and immediate, and there is nothing we can either of us do
to make it less Thus, we shall flee Cowards always survive "

Seeing his face, Minamele suddenly did not ever want to know what
Cadrach had done to make him hate himself so much She shuddered and
turned away, looking for her boots

The Sancellan Aedomtis seemed strangely deserted, even for the late
evening hour A few priests had gathered in the various common rooms
where they sat gossiping in hushed tones, a handful more strode the
comdors with lighted candles, on errands of one sort or another Except
for these few, the halls were empty The torches burned fitfully in their
sockets, as though troubled by restless breezes

Minamele and Cadrach were in a deserted upstairs gallery, passing from
the chambers where visiting churchmen stayed and into the administrative
and ceremonial heart of God's House, when the monk pulled Minamele
over to a shadowed window alcove

"Put the candle down and come look," he said quietly She wedged the
taper m a crevice between two tiles and leaned forward The cold air
struck her face like a slap

292

Tad Williams

"What should I look at?"
"There, below. Do you see all those men with torches?" He tried to

point within the confines of the narrow window. Miriamele could see at
least a score of men in the courtyard below, amored and cloaked, bearing

spears on their shoulders.

"Yes," she said slowly. The soldiers did not appear to be doing much

more than warming their hands at the courtyard fire-cairns. "So?"

"Those are from Duke Benigaris' household guard," Cadrach said grimly.
"Someone is expecting trouble tonight, and expecting it to be here."

"But I thought soldiers were never allowed to bear arms in the Sancellan
Aedonitis." The spearpoinis caught the torchlight like tongues of flame.

"Ah, but Duke Benigaris himself is a guest here tonight, since he

attended the lector's banquet."

"Why didn't he go back to the Sancellan Mahistrevis?" She stepped

away from the drafty window. "It's not very far."

"An excellent question," Cadrach replied, a sour smile playing over his
shadow-striped face. "Why indeed?"

Duke Isgrimnur tested Kvalnir's keen edge with his thumb and nod-
ded with satisfaction. He slipped his whetstone and jar of oil back into his
bag. There was something very calming about sharpening his sword. A
pity he had to leave it behind. He sighed and wrapped it in rags once

more, then pushed it underneath his pallet.

It wouldn't do to go see the lector carrying a sword, he thought, no matter how
much better it'd make me feel. I doubt his guards would take kindly to it.

Not that Isgrimnur was going to see the lector directly. It was very
unlikely that a strange monk would be allowed into the Shepherd of
Mother Church's bedchamber, but Dinivan's chambers were close by.
The lector's secretary had no guards. Also, Dinivan knew Isgrimnur and
thought highly of him. When the priest realized who his late-night visitor
really was, he would listen carefully to what the duke had to say.

Still, Isgrimnur felt his stomach fluttering, as it had before countless
battles. That had been the reason he'd brought out his sword: Kvalnir
hadn't been unsheathed more than twice since he'd left Naglimund, and
certainly hadn't seen any duty that would have dulled her Dverning-
forged blade, but honing his sword gave a man something to do when the
waiting became difficult. There was something in the air tonight, a queasy
expectancy that reminded Isgrimnur of the shores of Clodu during the

Battle of the Lakelands.

Even King John, blooded war-hawk that he was, had been nervous that

night, knowing that ten thousand Thrithings-men waited somewhere in the
darkness beyond the sentry fires, and knowing also that the plains-dwellers

STONE OF  FAREWELL

293

were no adherents of orderly dawn starting-times for battles or any other
such conventions of civilized warfare.

Prester John had come to the fire that night, joining his young
Rimmersman friend—Isgrimnur had not yet inherited his father's dukedom—
for a jug of wine and a bit of conversation. As they talked, the king had
taken stone and polishing rag to fabled Bright-Nail. They spent the night
yarning away. a little self-consciously at first, with many a pause to listen
for unusual noises, then with increasing ease as dawn approached and it
became obvious the Thrithings-men planned no nighttime raids.

John told Isgrimnur tales of his youth on Warinsten—which he de-
scribed as an island of backward and superstition-plagued bumpkins—
and of his early travels on the mainland of Oscen Ard. Isgrimnur was
fascinated by these unexpected glimpses of the king's early life: PresterJohn
was already nearly fifty years old as they sat by the fire at Lake Clodu, and
to the young Rimmersman might as well have been king since the begin-
ning of time- But when asked about his legendary destruction of the red
worm Shurakai, John had waved the question away like an irritating fly.
He proved no more willing to discuss how he had received Bright-Nail,
saying that those stories were overtold and tiresome.

Now, forty years later, in a monk's cell at the Sancellan Aedonitis,
Isgrimnur remembered and smiled. John's nervous whetting of Bright-
Nail was the closest the duke had ever seen his lord come to anything
approaching fear—fear about combat, at least.

The duke snorted. Now, with that good old man two years in his
grave, here sat his friend Isgrimnur, moping about when there were tasks
to be done for the good of John's kingdom.

Lord willing, Dinivan will he my herald. He's a clever man. He'll put Lector
Ranessin on my side and we'll track Miriamele down.

He pulled his hood low on his head, then opened the doorway, letting
the torchlight spill in from the corridor. He recrossed the room to put
out the candle. It wouldn't do to have it fall over on his pallet and catch
the place on fire.

Cadrach was becoming increasingly agitated. They had been waiting
inside Dinivan's study for some time; high above, the Clavean bell had
just sounded the eleventh hour.

"He is not returning, Princess, and I do not know where his private
chambers are. We must go."

Miriamele was peering into the lector's great audience hall through the
curtain at the back of the secretary's work room. Lit by only a single
torch, the painted figures on the high ceiling seemed to swim in muddy
water. "Knowing Dinivan, his private chambers are probably close to

294 Tad Williams

where he works," she said. The monk's worried tone made her feel a little
superior once more. "He'll come back here. He left all his candles bum-
ing, didn't he5 Why are you so worried?"

Cadrach looked up from Dimvan's papers, which he had been surrepti-
tiously examining. "/ was at the banquet tonight. 1 saw Pryrates' face He
is a man not accustomed to being balked."

"How do you know that^ And what were you doing at the banquet?"

"Doing what was necessary. Keeping an eye open."

Mmamele let the drapery slide back into place "You are full of hidden
talents, aren't you? Where did you leam to open a door without a key, like
you did to this room?"

Cadrach looked stung. "You said you wanted to see him, my lady. You
insisted on coming here. I thought it was better we came inside than stand
around in the halls waiting for the lector's guards to go by, or one of the
other priests who might want to know what we were doing in this part of
the Sancellan."

"Lock-pick, spy, kidnapper—unusual talents for a monk."

"You may make fun if you wish, Princess." He seemed almost ashamed.
"1 have not had the life of my choice, or rather, I suppose, my choices
have not been good ones. But spare me your nasty jibes until we are out
of here and safe."

She slid into Dimvan's chair and rubbed her cold hands together, fixing
the monk with her best level gaze. "Where do you come from, Cadrach?"

He shook his head. "I do not wish to talk of such things. I grow
increasingly doubtful that Dmivan will return. We must go."

"No. And if you don't stop saying that, I will scream. Then we'll see
how that will go down with the lector's guards, won't we?"

Cadrach peeked out into the hallway, then quickly closed the door again.
For all the chill, his tonsured hair hung on the side of his head m sweaty
strands "My lady, I beg you, I am beseeching you, for your own life and
safety, please let us leave noy It is approaching midnight and the danger
is increasing every moment. Just . . . believe me!" Now he sounded truly
desperate. "We cannot wait any longer ..."

"You're wrong." Mmamele was enjoying the way that things had
shifted back in her direction. She put her booted feet up on Dimvan's
cluttered table. "I can wait all night if need be." She tried to fix Cadrach
with a stern eye once more, but he was pacing behind her, out of sight.
"And we are not going to go fleeing into the night like idiots without
talking to Dmivan first. I trust him a great deal more than I trust you."

"As you should, I suppose," Cadrach sighed. He sketched the sign of
the Tree in the air, then lifted one of Dimvan's heavy books and smashed
it down on top of her head, tumbling her senseless to the carpeted floor.
Cursing himself, he bent to lift her, then stopped as he heard voices in the
corridor.

STONE OF FAREWELL

^

295

"You really must go," the lector said sleepily He was propped up in his
wide bed, a copy of En Semblis Aedonitis open on his lap "I shall read for a
short while You really must get some rest yourself. Dmivan It has been a
very trying day for all "

His secretary turned from his inspection of the painted panels on the
wall "Very well, but don't read long, Sacredness "

"I won't My eyes tire very quickly by candlelight."

Dinivan stared at the old man for a moment, then impulsively knelt and
took the lector's right hand, kissing the ilenite ring he wore "Bless you,
Your Sacredness "

Ranessm looked at him with worried fondness "You must indeed be
overtired, dear friend. Your behavior is quite unusual "

Dinivan stood "You havejust excommunicated the High King, Sacred-
ness That makes for a somewhat unusual day, does it not^"

The lector waved his hand dismissively "Not chat it will do anything.
The king and Pryrates will do as they please. The people will wait to see
what happens. Ellas is not the first ruler to suffer Mother Church's
censure "

"Then why do it5 Why pit ourselves against him?"

Ranessin stared at him shrewdly. "You speak as though this excom-
munication was not your own fondest hope You of all people know why,
Dimvan- we must speak out when evil shows itself, whether there is any
hope of changing it or not." He closed the book before him. "I really am
too tired even to read. Tell the truth, Dmivan Is there much hope^'

The priest looked at him, surprised. "Why do you ask me, Sacredness^"

"Again you are ingenuous, my son I know that there are many things
with which you do not trouble a weary old man I also know that there
are good reasons for your secrecy. But tell me, from your own know-
ledge—is there hope?"

"There is always hope, Sacredness. You taught me that."

"Ah." Ranessin's smile was oddly satisfied He settled down into his
cushions.

Dinivan turned to the young acolyte who slept at the foot of the lector's
bed. "Make sure you bolt the door behind me when I go." The youth,
who had been dozing, nodded his head. "And do not let anyone into your
master's chamber this night."

"No, Father, I won't."

"Good." Dinivan stepped to the heavy door. "Good night, Sacredness
God be with you."

"And you," Ranessin said, muffled in his pillows. As Dinivan stepped
out into the hallway the acolyte shuffled over to push the door closed.

The hall was even more poorly lit than the lector's bedchamber. Dmivan

296

Tad Williams

squinted anxiously until he spotted the lector's four guards standing at
attention against the shadowed wall, swords scabbarded at their sides,
pikes m their mailed fists He let out his breath in relief, then walked
toward them down the long, high-arched corridor Perhaps he should ask
for another two pairs to join these He wouldn't be sure of the lector's
safety until Pryrates had gone back to the Hayholt and treacherous Benigans
had returned to the ducal palace

He rubbed his eyes as he approached the guards He did indeed feel very
tired, wrung out and hung up to dry He would just stop and get some
things from his workroom, then go to bed. Morning services were only a
few hours away

"Ho, Captain," he said to the one whose helmet bore the white plume,
"I think it might be best if you called . . . called ..." He broke off,
staring The guard's eyes gleamed like pinpoints in the depth of his helm,
but they were fixed on some point beyond Dmivan, as were the eyes of
his companions They were all as motionless as statues "Captain5" He
touched the man's arm, which was rigid as stone. "In the name of Usires
Aedon," he muttered, "what has happened here?"
"They do not see or hear you "

It was a familiar rasping voice Dmivan whirled to see a glint of red at
the far end of the hallway

"Devil' What have you done171"

"They are sleeping," Pryrates laughed "In the morning, they will
remember nothing How the villains got past them to kill the lector will
be a mystery Perhaps it will be viewed by some—the Fire Dancers, for
instance—as a kind of... black miracle "

Poisonous fear crawled up from Dmivan's stomach, mixing with his
anger. "You will not harm the lector "

"And who will stop me? You3" Pryrates' laugh turned scornful "You
can try anything you wish, little man Scream if you like—no one will
hear anything that happens in this hallway until I leave."

"Then I will prevent you myself" Dmivan reached into his robe and
pulled forth the Tree that hung around his neck ^

"Oh, Dmivan, you have missed your calling " The alchemist stepped
forward, the torch light burnishing the arc of his hairless head "Instead of
lector's secretary, you should have sought a position as God's own fool
You cannot stop me You have no idea of the wisdom I have discovered,
the powers I command "

Dmivan stood his ground as Pryrates advanced, bootheels echoing through
the corridor "If selling your immortal soul on the cheap is wisdom, 1 am
happy to have none of it " His fear mounting, he fought to keep his voice

steady.

Pryrates' reptilian smile widened "That is your mistake—you and all
those timid fools who call themselves Scrollbearers The League of the

STONE OF FAREWELL                297

Scroll' A gossip society for whimpering, quibbling, would-be scholars.
And you, Dmivan, are the worst of all You have sold your own soul for
superstitions and reassurances Instead of opening your eyes to the myster-
ies of the infinite, you have hidden yourself among the callus-kneed
nng-kissers of the church "

Rage flooded through Dmivan's frame, momentarily reversing the tide
of terror. "Stand hack'" he shouted, lifting his Tree before him. It seemed
to glow, as though the wood itself smoldered "You will go no farther,
servant of evil masters, unless you kill me first."

Pryrates eyes widened in mock-astonishment "Ah So the little priest
has teeth! Well, then, we shall play the game your way . . . and I will
show you some teeth of my own." He lifted his hands over his head. The
alchemist's scarlet robes billowed as though a wild wind gusted through
the hallway. The torches rippled in their sockets, then blew out.

"And remember this ..." Pryrates hissed in darkness. "I command the
Words of Changing now! / am no one's servant!"

The Tree m Dmivan's hand flared more brightly, but Pryrates remained
sunken in shadow. The alchemist's voice rose, chanting in a language
whose very sound made Dmivan's ears ache and wrapped a band of
agony about his throat.

"In the name of God the Highest..." Dmivan shouted, but as Pryrates'
chant mounted toward a triumphant climax it seemed to tear the words of
prayer from his mouth almost before they were spoken. Dmivan choked.
"In the name of. . ." His voice fell silent. In the shadows before him,
Pryrates' spell had become a grunting, gasping parody of speech as the
alchemist suffered through some agonizing transformation

Where Pryrates had stood a roiling, unrecognizable shadow now flailed,
writhing in knotted loops that grew larger and larger until even the starlight
was blotted out and the hallway sank into unbreachable blackness. Pon-
derous lungs wheezed like a blacksmith's bellows. A deadening, ancient
cold filled the corridor with unseen frost.

Dmivan flung himself forward with a shout of terrified rage, trying to
strike the invisible thing with his Holy Tree, but instead found himself
caught up like a doll by some massive yet horribly insubstantial appendage.
They struggled, lost in the freezing darkness. Dmivan gasped as he felt
something pushing its way into his terrified thoughts, scraping inside his
head with burning fingers, trying to pry open his very mind like a jam jar.
He fought back with all his strength, struggling to hold the image of Holy
Aedon in his flickering thoughts, he thought he heard the thing that held
him gasp in pain

But the shadow only seemed to grow more substantial. Its grip tight-
ened around him, a horrible bone-cracking fist of jelly and lead Sour, cold
breath fluttered against his cheek like the kiss of nightmare.

"In the name of God . . . and the League . . " Dmivan groaned. The

298 Tad Williams

animal noises and terrible labored breathing began to fade away Angels
of painful, burning light filled his head, dancing to welcome the darkness,
deafening him with their silent song

Cadrach dragged Minamele's limp form out into the hallway, swearing
panicky oaths to various saints, gods, and demons The only light was the
thin blue of starlight bleeding in through the windows high overhead, but
it was difficult not to see the huddled figure of the pnest laying like a
discarded puppet in the center of the corridor a few steps away It was
equally impossible to ignore the ghastly cries and shrieks coming from the
lector's chamber at the end of the hall, where the thick wooden door lay
splintered across the floor

The noises ceased abruptly, ending on a drawn-out wail of despair that
dwindled at last to a gurgling hiss Cadrach's face filled with horror He
bent and swept up the princess, heaving her over his shoulder, then
crouched awkwardly to pick up their bag of possessions He straightened
and staggered away from the destruction at the far end of the hall, fighting
to stay on his feet

Around the corner the passageway widened, but there also the torches
had been extinguished He thought he could see the shadowy forms of
armored men standing sentry, but they were motionless as relics The
unhurried echo of booted feet sounded in the arched hall behind him
Cadrach hurried forward, cursing the slippery tiles

The passage turned once more, opening into the great entrance cham-
ber, but as he scurried through the arch he struck something solid as a wall
of adamant, although he had seen nothing in the doorway but air Stunned,
he tripped and tumbled backward Minamele slid from his shoulder to
the hard floor

The sound of approaching bootheels grew louder Cadrach reached
forward m a fit of panic, encountering an unnatural wall, an invisible but
unyielding something More transparent than crystal, it showed clearly
every detail of the torchht chamber beyond

"Ah, please, don't let him have her," the monk murmured, clawing
with desperate fingers, searching for some flaw in the invisible barrier
"Please'"

His questing was in vain The wall was seamless

Cadrach kneeled before the doorway, head slowly sinking to his chest as
the approaching footfalls grew louder The unmovmg monk might have
been a prisoner waiting at the executioner's block Suddenly, he looked
up

"Wait'" he hissed "Think, idiot man, think'" He shook his head and
took a deep breath, then released it and took one more He held his palm

STONE OF FAREWELL                 299

before the archway and spoke a single quiet word A wash of cold air blew
past him, ruffling the tapestries in the entrance chamber The barrier was
gone

He dragged Minamele through, pulling her across the floor and into
one of the archways opening off the grand chamber They disappeared
from sight JUSE as Pryrates' red-robed figure appeared m the doorway
where the unseen impediment had been Dim sounds of alarm were
beginning to filter through the halls

The red pnest paused as though surprised to find his barrier gone
Nevertheless, he turned and sketched a gesture in the direction from
which he had come, as though to sweep away whatever traces of his
handiwork might remain

His voice boomed, reverberating down the corridors in all directions
"Murder'" he cried "Murderers are in God's house'" As the echoes died
away he smiled briefly and set off toward the chambers where he stayed as
the lector's guest

Struck by a thought, Pryrates stopped suddenly in the archway and
turned to survey the chamber He lifted his hand once more, fingers
flexing One of the torches gouted sparks, then spat out a tongue of flame
which leaped across to a row of tapestries lining the wall The ancient
weavings blazed, fire licking upward at the great ceiling beams and spread-
ing rapidly from wail to wall In the hallway beyond, other fires were also
blooming

The alchemist grinned "One must give omens their due," he said to no
one present, then departed chuckling All around, the babble of confused
and frightened voices began to fill the byways of the Sancellan Aedonitis

Duke Isgnmnur congratulated himself for bringing a candle The hall-
way was black as tar Where were the sentries? Why weren't the torches
lit?

Whatever the problem was, the Sancellan was awakening all around
him He heard someone shout boldly of murder, which set his heart
swiftly beating, this was followed by other, more distant cries For a few
moments he considered returning to his tiny room, but decided that
perhaps the confusion was for the best Whatever the cause of the alarm
really \\as—and he doubted it was murder—it might mean he would be
able to find the lector's secretary without having to answer wearisome
questions from the lector's guards

The candle in its \\ooden holder threw Isgnmnur's shadow high against
the walls of the great entrance hall As the sounds of approaching discov-
ery grew, he wracked his brain for the proper exit from the chamber He
chose the archway that seemed likeliest

300 Tad Williams

A short distance past the second turning of the hallway, he found
himself in a wide gallery. A robed figure lay sprawled on the floor amid a
tangle of draperies, beneath the unperturbed stare of several armed guards

Are they statues, then7 he wondered. But, damn me, statuary never looked
like that See, that one there is leaning as though he were whispering to the other.
He stared up at the unseeing eyes that gleamed within the helms and felt
his skin crawling. Aedon save us. Black sorcery, that's what tt is

To his despair, he recognized the body on the floor the moment he
turned it over Dmivan's face seemed bluish, even by the dim candlelight.
Thin stripes of blood had run forward from his ears, drying on his cheek
like red tears- His body felt like a sack of broken twigs

"Elysia, Mother of God, what's happened here?" the duke groaned
aloud.

Dimvan's eyes fluttered open, startling Isgimnur so that he almost let
the priest's head fall back against the tiles Dimvan's gaze wandered for a
moment before fixing on him. It might have been the candle Isgnmnur
awkwardly held, but the priest's eyes seemed to burn with a strange spark.
Whatever the case, Isgnmnur knew it was a spark that would not last long

"Lector ..." Dimvan breathed. Isgnmnur leaned closer. "Look ... to
. . . lector."

"Dmivan, it's me," he said. "Duke Isgnmnur. I've come looking for
Minamele."

"Lector," the pnest said stubbornly, his bloodied lips struggling to form
the word. Isgnmnur sat up.

"Very well." He looked helplessly for something to cushion the priest's
wounded head, but could find nothing. He let Dimvan down, then rose
and walked to the end of the hallway. There was little doubt which room
was the lector's—the door lay in great shards, and even the marble around
the door-frame was scorched and crumbled. There was even less doubt
about Lector Ranessm's fate. Isgnmnur took one look around the ruined
chamber, then turned and retreated hurriedly into the corridor. Blood, had
been smeared across the walls as if by a huge brush. The mangled forms of
Mother Church's leader and his young servant were barely recognizable as
human: their corpses had been spared no indignities. Even Isgnmnur's old
soldier's heart quailed at the sight of so much blood.

Flames were fhckenng in the far archway when the duke returned, but
he steeled himself to ignore them for a moment. Time for thought of
escape later. He took Dimvan's cold hand.

"The lector is dead. Can you help me find Princess Minamele?"

The priest breathed raggedly for a moment. The light in his eyes was
fading. "She's . . . here," he said slowly. "Called . . Malachias. Ask
room-warden." He gasped for air. "Take her ... to ... Kwamtupul . .
to Pelippa's Boivl Tiamak is ... there."

Isgnmnur's eyes filled with tears. This man should be dead. There could

SrONE OF FAREWELL

301

be nothing keeping him alive but sheer will "I'll find her," he said. "I'll
keep her safe."

Dimvan suddenly seemed to recognize him "Tell Josua," he panted
"I fear . . . false me^sen^ers "

"What does that mean?" Isgnmnur asked, but Dimvan was silent, his free
hand crawling across his chest like a dying spider, fumbling hopelessly at
the neck of his robe. Isgnmnur gently pulled out Dmivan's Holy Tree and
laid it on his chest, but the pnest shook his head feebly, trying once more
to reach inside his robe. Isgnmnur lifted out a golden scroll and quill
pendant on a chain The catch broke as he held it, the chain spilled out into
the damp hair at Dimvan's neck like a tiny, gleaming snake.

"Give . . . Tiamak," Dimvan rasped Isgnmnur could barely hear him
over the clamor of approaching voices and the crackle of flames in the
corridor beyond. The duke slipped it into the pocket of his monk's robe,
then looked up, startled by a sudden movement nearby. One of the
immobile guards, illuminated by pulsing fireglow, was swaying in place
A moment later he fell forward with a crash, his helmet skittering across
the tiles The toppled soldier groaned.

When Isgnmnur looked down again, the light had fled Dimvan's eyes

16

The Unhomed

-'••

J. nC CUtTRyiCSS in the abbey was complete, the silence marred
only by Simon's ragged breath Then Skodi spoke again, her voice no
longer whispcnngly sweet

"Stand up "

Some force seemed to tug at him, a pressure delicate as a cobweb but
strong as iron His muscles flexed against his will. but he resisted A short
time before he had struggled to rise—now, he strained to lie still

"Why do you fight me7" Skodi asked petulantly Her chilly hand
brushed across his chest and down onto the quivering skin of his stomach
He flinched, and control of his limbs slipped away as the girl's will closed
on him like a fist A forceful but intangible pull brought him to his feet
He swayed in the darkness, unable to find his balance "We will give them
the sword,' Skodi crooned, "the black sword—oh, we will get such
lovely presents

"Where     are     my friends7" Simon croaked

"Hush, silly Go out to the yard "

He stumbled helplessly through the darkened room, barking his thins
on hidden obstacles, lurching like a clumsily manipulated puppet

"Here,' Skodi said The abbey's front door swung open on grating
hinges, filling the room with baleful reddish light She stood in the
doorway, pate hair fluttering in the swirling wind "Come, now, Simon
What a night this is' A wild night "

The bonfire in the dooryard blazed even higher than it had when the
travelers arrived, a beacon ot flame that reached the height of the sloping
roof and threw the abbey's cracked walls into red relief Skodi's children,
the young and old alike, were feeding all manner of strange objects into
the fire broken chairs and other bits of ruined furniture, and dcadwood
from the surrounding forest that burned with a ceaseless hiss of steam In
fact, the bonfire's eager wardens seemed to be throwing everything they
could find into the blaze, without regard for suitability—rocks and animal

303

STONfc OF FAREWELL

bones, cracked pottery, and shards of colored glass from the abbey's
decaying windows As the flames roared and leaped in the surging wind,
the children's eyes caught the light, glowing like the yellow orbs of foxes

Simon tottered out onto the snowy courtyard with Skodi following
close behind A keening howl lanced through the night, a wretched,
lonely sound Slow as a sunning tortoise, Simon swiveled his head toward
the green-eyed shape crouched atop the hill that overlooked the clearing
Simon felt an instant of hope as it lifted its muzzle and moaned again

"Qantaqa'" he cried, the name fell strangely from his stiffjaws and slack
ups The wolf came no closer than the hill-crest She howled once more, a
cry of fear and frustration as clear as if it had been spoken with a human
tongue

"Nasty animal," Skodi said with distaste "Child-eater Moon-shouter
It won't come near Skodi's house It won't break my charm " She stared
hard at the green eyes and Qantaqa's baying became a whimper of pain A
moment later the wolf turned and vanished from the nse Simon cursed
inwardly and struggled again to break free, but he was still as helpless as a
kitten dangled by the scruff Only his head seemed his own, and every
movement was painfully difficult He turned slowly, looking for Binabik
and Sludig, then stopped, eyes widening

Two crumpled shapes, one small, one large, lay on the frosty ground
against the abbey's rotted plaster front Simon's tears froze into stinging
ice on his cheek as something tugged his head back around and drew him
another unwilling step toward the fire

"Wait," Skodi said Her voluminous white mghtdress flapped in the
wind Her feet were bare "I do not want you too close You might be
burned and that would spoil you Stand there " She pointed a plump arm
at a spot a couple of paces away As if he were an extension other hand,
Simon found himself trudging unsteadily across the thawing mud to the
spot she had indicated

"Vren1" Skodi cried She seemed gripped by maniacal good cheer
"Where is that rope3 Where are you7"

The dark-haired boy appeared in the abbey's front doorway "Here,
Skodi"

"Tie his pretty wrists "

Vren shot forward, skittering over the icy ground He grasped Simon's
limp hands and pulled them behind his back, then deftly bound him with a
length of rope

"Why are you doing this, Vren3" Simon gasped "We were kind to
you "

The Hyrka boy ignored him, pulling the knots tight When he had
finished, he put his small hands on Simon's hips and pushed him toward
where Binabik and Sludig lay huddled

Like Simon, both had their hands trussed behind their backs Binabik's

304 Tad Williams

eyes rolled to meet Simon's, the whites gleaming in the fire-shadowed
yard. Sludig was breathing but insensible, a strand of spittle frozen on his
blond beard.

"Simon-friend," the troll rasped, each word a labor. The little man
drew breath as if to say more, but instead fell back into silence.

Across the yard, Skodi had bent to draw a circle in the melting snow,
trickling a handful of reddish powder from her fist. When that was
finished, she began to scrape runes into the muddy ground, her tongue
clenched between her teeth like a studious child. Vren stood a short
distance away, swiveling his head from Skodi to Simon and back again,
face empty of all emotion but a sort of animal watchfulness.

Finished stoking the fire, the children were huddled near the wall of the
abbey. One of the youngest girls sat on the ground in her thin shift,
sobbing quietly; an older boy patted her head in a perfunctory way that
seemed meant to comfort her. They all watched Skodi's movements with
fascinated attention. The wind had blown the fire into a rippling pillar,
which painted their sober little faces with vermillion light.

"Now, where is Honsa?" Skodi called, clutching her nightdress closer
to her body as she straightened up. "Honsa!?"

"I'll get her, Skodi," Vren said. He slipped into the shadows at the
comer of the abbey, vanishing from sight, then reappeared a few moments
later with a black-haired Hyrka girl a year or two older than himself. A
heavy basket swung between them, bumping and jostling across the
uneven ground until they set it down by Skodi's swollen feet and scam-
pered back to the crowd of watching children. Once there, Vren squatted
in front of the little group and pulled a knife from his belt, then began to
nervously shred the end of his remaining hank of rope. Simon could feel
the boy's tension from across the yard. He wondered dully what the cause
might be.

Skodi reached into the basket and lifted out a skull whose mandible
clung by only a few knots of dried flesh, so that the eyeless face seemed to
gape in surprise. The bulging basket, Simon now saw, was full of skulls.
He suddenly felt sure he knew what had happened to the parents of all
these children. His numbed body shivered reflexively, but he perceived
the movement only dimly, as though it happened to someone else who
was some distance away. Nearby, dark-eyed Vren picked at the end of
rope with his gleaming blade, his features set in a brooding scowl. Simon
remembered with a sinking heart how Skodi had said that beside his other
chores, Vren butchered and cooked for her.

Skodi held the skull before her, her oddly pretty face utterly absorbed—a
scholar studying a table of high mathematical formulae. She swayed from
side to side like a boat in high wind, nightdress flapping, and began to
sing in her high-pitched, childish voice.

STONE OF FAREWELL                 305

"In a hole, in a hole."
Skodi piped,

". . . in the ground, in a hole, where the wet-nosed mole

sings a song of cold stone, and of mud and gray bone,

a quiet, small song all (he chill, dark night long

as he digs in the deep, where the white worms creep,

and the dead all sleep, with their eyes jull of earth

where the beetles give birth, laying little white eggs,

and their brittle black legs go scrape, scrape, scrape,

and the dark, like a cape, covers all just the same,

darkness hiding their shame as it covered their names,

the names of the dead, all gone, all fled,

empty winds, empty heads,

Above grass grows on stone, fields lie fallow, unsown

all is gone that they've known

so they wail in the deep, crying out in their sleep,

without eyes, still they weep, calling out for what's lost,

in the darkness they toss, under pitweed and moss

in the deeps of the grave, neither master or slave,

has now feature or fame, needs knowledge or name,

but they long to come back, and they stare through the cracks

at the dim sun above, and they curse cruel love,

and the peace lost in life, think of worry and strife,

ruined child or wife,

all the troubles that burned, dreadjul lessons unlearned,

still they long to return, to return, to return,

they long to return.

Return!

In a hole, in the ground, under old harrow-mound,
where skin, bone, and blood turn to jelly-soft mud,
and the rotting world sings . . .

Skodi's song went on and on, circling downward like a black whirlpool
in a weed-strewn and unfrequented pond. Simon felt himself sinking with
it, tugged by its insistent rhythms until the flames and the naked stars and
the gleaming eyes of children blurred together into streaks of light, and his
heart spiraled down into darkness. His mind could feel no connection with
his shackled body, or with the actions of chose around him. A bleak hiss
of idiot noise filled his thoughts. Bleak shapes moved across the snowy
courtyard, unimportant as ants.

306

Tad Williams

Now one of the shapes took the round, pale object in its hand and
tossed it into the fire, throwing a fistful of powder in after it. A plume of
scarlet smoke belched forth, trailing off into the sky and obscuring Si-
mon's view. When it cleared, the fire was burning as brightly as before,
but a heavier darkness seemed to have settled over the courtyard. The red
light that splashed the buildings had become subdued, old as sunset on a
dying world. The wind had failed, but a deeper cold crept through the
abbey's grounds. Though his body was no longer fully his own, still
Simon could feel the intense chill crawling right into his bones.

"Come to me, Lady Silver Mask!" the largest of the figures cried.
"Speak with me. Lord Red Eyes! I want to trade with you! I have a pretty
thing you will like!"

The wind had not returned, but the bonfire began to waver from side to
side, bulging and shuddering like some great animal struggling inside a
sack. The cold intensified. The stars dimmed. A shadowy mouth and two
empty black eye-smudges formed in the flames.

"I have a present for you!" the large one shouted gleefully. Simon,
drifting, remembered that her name was Skodi. Several of the children
were crying, voices muffled despite the curious stillness.

The face in the fire contorted. A low, grumbling roar spilled from the
yawning black mouth, slow and deep as the creaking of a mountain's
roots. If words were part of that drone, they were indistinguishable. A
moment later, the features began to shimmer and fade.

"Stay!" Skodi cried. "Why do you go away?" She looked around
wildly, flapping her large arms; her exhilarated expression was gone. "The
sword!" she shrieked at the covey of children. "Stop crying, you stupid
oxes! Where is the sword? Vren!"

"Inside, Skodi," the little boy said. He was holding one of the smaller
children on his lap. Despite the curious sense of dislocation—or perhaps
because of it—Simon could not help noticing that Vren's arms were bare
and thin beneath his ragged coat.                                 >

"Then get it, you fool!" she cried, hopping up and down in a leviathan
jig of rage. The face in the flames was now barely distinguishable. "Get
it!"

Vren stood up quickly, letting the child in his lap slide to the ground,
where it joined its wails to the general cacophony. Vren sped into the
house and Skodi turned to the billowing flames once more. "Come back,
come back," she coaxed the diminishing face, "I have a present for my
Lord and Lady."

Skodi's grip on him seemed to diminish somewhat. Simon felt himself
slipping back into his body once more—a curious feeling, like donning a
cloak of softly tickling feathers.

Vren appeared in the doorway, pale face solemn. "Too heavy," he
called. "Honsa, Ende, you others, come here! Come and help!" Several of

STONE OF FAREWELL

307

the children came creeping across the snow toward the abbey at his call,
looking over their shoulders at the groaning bonfire and their gesticulating
caretaker. They followed Vren into the shadowed interior like a string of
nervous goslings.

Skodi turned again, her round cheeks flushed, her rosy lips trembling.
"Vren! Bring me the sword, you lazy thing! Hurry!"

He stuck his head out of the doorway. "Heavy, Skodi, it's heavy like a
stone!"

Skodi abruptly turned her mad eyes on Simon. "It's your sword, isn't
it?" The face had vanished from the flames, but the stars, pale as balls of
ice, still barely smoldered in the night sky; the bonfire still rippled and
danced, untouched by any wind. "You know how to move it, don't
you?" Her gaze was almost intolerable.

Simon said nothing, fighting inwardly with all his might to prevent
himself from babbling like a drunkard, from spilling to those compelling
eyes every thought he'd ever had.

"I must give it to them," she hissed. "They are searching for it, I know!
My dreams told me that they are. The Lord and Lady will make me ... a
power." She began to laugh, a girlish trill that frightened him as much as
anything that had happened since the sun had set. "Oh, pretty Simon,"
she giggled, "what a wild night! Go and bring me your black sword." She
turned and shouted at the empty doorway. "Vren! Come untie his hands!"

Vren popped out into the open, glaring furiously. "No!" he screamed.
"He's bad! He'll get away! He'll hurt you!"

Skodi's face froze into an unpleasant mask. "Do what I say, Vren. Untie
him."

The boy loped forward, stiff with rage, tears standing in his eyes. He
roughly pulled Simon's hands out behind and thrust the knife blade
between the cords. Vren's breath came in constricted gasps as he sawed
the ropes away; when Simon's hands fell free, the Hyrka hoy turned and
sped back to the abbey.

Simon stood, rubbing his wrists slowly, and thought about simply
running away. Skodi had turned her back on him and was crooning
imploringly to the bonfire. He looked out of the corner of his eye to
Bmabik and Sludig. The Rimmersman still lay without movement, but
the troll was struggling against his bonds.

"Take . . . take the sword and run, friend Simon!" Bmabik whispered.
"We will be escaping . . . somehow . . ."

Skodi's voice cut through the darkness. "The sword!" Simon felt him-
self turning helplessly from his friend, compelled beyond any possibility
of resistance. He marched toward the abbey as though prodded by an
invisible hand.

Inside, the children were crouched in the darkened hearth-comer, still
tugging without success at Thorn. Vren glared as Simon entered, but

308

Tad Williams

stepped out of his way. Simon kneeled before the sword, a hard, angular
bundle shrouded m rags and hides. He unwrapped it with hands that felt
curiously blunted.

As he grasped the corded hilt, the firelight spilling through the doorway
painted a stripe of glowing red along Thorn's black length. The sword
shuddered beneath his fingers in a way he had not felt before, a tremble
almost of hunger or anticipation. For the first time Simon felt Thorn to
be something unutterably and loathsomely alien, but he could no more
drop it from his hands than he could run away. He lifted it. The blade did
not feel painfully heavy, as it sometimes did, but it still had a strange
weightincss, as though he dragged it up from the muck at the bottom of a
pond.

He found himself compelled toward the doorway. Somehow, even
though she could not see him, Skodi could still move him like a straw
doll. He let himself be tugged back out to the red-lit courtyard.

"Come here, Simon," she said as he emerged, spreading her arms like a
loving mother. "Come stand in the circle with me."

"He has a sword!" Vren shocked from the doorway. "He'll hurt you!"

Skodi laughed dismissively. "He will not. Skodi is too strong. Besides,
he is my new pet- He likes me, don't you?" She reached out her hand
toward Simon. Thorn seemed to be swollen full with some awful, slug-
gish life. "Don't break the circle," she said lightly, as though they played a
game. Skodi clasped his arm and pulled him to her, helping him to lift his
clumsy foot over the circle of reddish dust. "Now they will be able to see
the sword!" She glowed with her triumph. One other warm pink hands
clasped his atop Thorn's hilt, the other coiled around his neck, pulling him
against her pulpy breasts and stomach. The heat of the fire softened him
like wax; the push of Skodi's body against his was like a smothering
fever-dream. He stood half-a-head taller, but had no more power to resist
her than if he had been an infant. What sort of witch was this girl?

Skodi began to shout in piercing Rimmerspakk as she swayed against
him. The lines of a face began to reform in the bonfire. Through tears that
the heat forced from his eyes, Simon saw the unstable black mouth
opening and closing like a shark's. A cold and dreadful presence came
down upon them—questing, questing, sniffing for them with predatory
patience.

The voice roared at them. This time Simon could hear speech in the
jumble of sound, unrecognizable words that made his very teeth ache.

Skodi gasped in excitement. "It is one of Lord Red Eye's highest
servants, just as I hoped! Look, sir, look! The present you want!" She
forced Simon to lift Thorn, then stared eagerly at the shadowy thing
moving in the blaze as it spoke again. Her exhilarated grin soured. "It
does not understand me," she whispered against Simon's neck with the
easy familiarity of a lover. "It cannot find the right road. I feared this. My

STONE OF FAREWELL

309

charm alone is not strong enough. Skodi has to do something she did not
want to do." She turned her head outward. "Vren! We must have blood!
Get the bowl and bring me some of the tall one's blood."

Simon tried to cry out, but could not. The heat within the circle was
lifting Skodi's fine hair like wisps of pale smoke. Her eyes seemed flat and
inhuman as potshards. "Blood, Vren!"

The boy stood over Sludig, an earthenware bowl in one hand, the
blade of the knife—huge in Vren's small fingers—lying against the
Rimmersman's neck. Vren turned to look back at Skodi, ignoring Binabik
as the troll struggled on the ground nearby.

"That is right, the big one!" Skodi cried. "I want to keep the little one!
Hurry, Vren, you stupid squirrel, 1 need blood for the fire now! The
messenger will go away!"

Vren lifted his knife.

"And bring it carefully!" Skodi cried. "Don't spill any inside the circle.
You know how the little ones swarm when charms are spoken, how
hungry they are."

The Hyrka boy suddenly whirled and came stalking toward Skodi and
Simon, his face suffused with anger and fear. "No!" he screamed. For a
moment Simon felt a rush of hope, chinking that the boy meant to strike
Skodi down. "No!" Vren shrieked again, waving the knife in the air as
tears coursed down his cheeks. "Why are you keeping them? Why are you
keeping him!?" He jabbed his blade in Simon's direction. "He's too old,
Skodi! He's bad! Not like me!"

"What are you doing, Vren?" Skodi narrowed her eyes in alarm as the
boy leaped forward toward the circle. The blade swept up, red-gleaming.
Simon's muscles burned as he strove to throw himself out of the boy's
path, but he was clenched in a hand of stone. Sweat sluiced into his eyes.

"You can't like him!" Vren screeched. With a croaking shriek, Simon
managed to squirm just enough for the blade aimed at his ribs to miss and
tear along his back instead, leaving a track of cold silvery pain. Something
m the fire bellowed like a bull, then the darkness fell in on cop of Simon,
blotting out the faded stars.

Eolair had left her alone for a moment while he went back through the
great doorway to fetch another lamp.

As she waited for the Count of Nad Mullach's return, Maegwin gazed
happily down at the vast stone city in the cavern below. A great burden
had been lifted from her. Here was the city of the Sithi, of Hernystir's
allies of old. She had found it' For a while, Maegwin had begun to believe
herself as mad as Eolair and the others thought, but here it stood.

It had come to her at first as a certain disorder in her dreams—troubled

310 Tad Williams

dreams that were already dark and chaotic, full of the suffering faces other
beloved dead Then other images began to seep through. These new
dreams showed her a beautiful city rippling with banners, a city of flowers
and captivating music, hidden from war and bloodshed But these visions
that appeared in the last, fleeting moments of sleep, although preferable to
her nightmares, had not helped to calm her. Rather, in their richness and
exotic wonder, they had inflamed Maegwin with fear for her own trou-
bled mind. Soon, in her wanderings through Gnanspog's tunnels, she had
also begun to hear whispering in the earth's depths, chanting voices unlike
anything she had ever experienced.

The idea of the ancient city had grown and flowered until it became far
more important than anything happening within reach of sunlight. Sun-
light brought evil: the daystar was a beacon for disaster, a lamp that the
enemies of Hernystir could use to seek out and destroy her people. Only
in the deeps did safety lie, down among the roots of the earth where the
heroes and gods of elder days still lived, where the cruel winter could not

Now, as she stood above this fantastic stone city—her city—a vast sense
of satisfaction spread over her. For the first time since her father King
Lluth had gone away to battle Skah Sharp-nose, she felt peace. True, the
stone towers and domes spread across the rock canyon below did not
much resemble the airy summer-city of her dreams, but there seemed
small doubt that this was a place Grafted by inhuman hands, and it stood in
a place where no Hemystin had walked since time out of mind If it was
not the dwelling place of the deathless Sithi, then what was it? Of course it
was their city, that seemed laughably obvious.

"Maegwin?" Eolair called, slipping through the half-open door. "Where
are you?" The worry in his voice brought a tmy smile to her face, but she
hid it from him.

"I am here, of course. Count. Where you bade me stay."

He came and stood at her shoulder, gazing down. "Gods of stocft and
stone," he said, shaking his head, "it is miraculous."

Maegwin's smile came back "What else would you expect of such a
place7 Let's go down and find those who live here. Our people are in great
need, you know."

Eolair looked at her carefully. "Princess, I doubt very much that anyone
is living there. Do you see anything moving7 And no lights are burning
but our own."

"What makes you think that the Peaceful Ones cannot see in darkness3"
she said, laughing at the foolishness of men m general and clever ones like
the count in particular. Her heart was racing so that the laugh threatened
to get away from her Safety! It was a breathtaking thought How could
anything harm them in the lap of Hernyscir's ancient protectors?

"Very well, my lady," Eolair said slowly. "We will go down a short

311

STONE OF FAREWELL

way, if these stairs are to be trusted. But your people are worrying about
you," he grimaced, "—and me, too, before long. We must return quickly
We can always come back again later, with more folk "

"Certainly " She fluttered her hand to show how little such concerns
affected her. They would return with all her people, of course This was
the place they would live forever, out of reach of Skah and Ehas and the
rest of the blood-soaked madmen above ground.

Eolair grasped her elbow, guiding her with almost laughable caution.
She herself felt the urge to skip down the rough-hewn stairs. What could
hurt them here7

They descended like two small stars falling into a great abyss, the flames
of their lamps reflecting from the pale stone roofs below. Their footsteps
echoed out through the great cavern and rebounded from the invisible
ceiling to be repeated m countless reverberations, returning to them as a
rush of pattering sound like the velvet wings of a million bats.

For all its completeness, the city nevertheless seemed skeletal. Its inter-
connected buildings were tiled in a thousand colors of pale stone, ranging
from the white of a first snow through endless wan shades of sand and
pearl and sooty gray. The round windows stared like unseeing eyes. The
polished stone streets gleamed like the tracks of wandering snails.

They were halfway down the stairs when Eolair pulled up short, clasp-
ing Maegwin's arm close against his side. In the lamplight his worried face
seemed almost translucent; she fancied suddenly that she could see every-
thing that was in his mind.

"We have gone far enough. Lady," he said. "Your people will be
hunting for us "

"My people7" she asked, pulling away. "Are they not your people, too3
Or are you now far above a mere tribe of cringing cave-dwellers, Count?"

"That is not what I mean, Maegwin, and you know it," he said harshly.

That looks like pain in your eyes, Eolair, she thought. Does it hurt you so to
be yoked to a madwoman7 How could I have been fool enough to love you when
I coulcf never hope for more than polite forbearance in return7

Aloud, she said: "You are free to go whenever you wish. Count. You
doubted me. Now perhaps you are frightened chat you might have to face
those whose existence you denied. 1, however, am not going anywhere
but down to the city "

Eolair's fine features wrinkled in frustration. As he unknowingly wiped
a smear of lampblack onto his chin, Maegwin wondered suddenly what
she looked like. The long, obsessive hours of searching and digging and
chipping away at the bolt that secured the great door floated in her mind
like a poorly-remembered dream How long had she been down here in
the depths7 She stared at her dirt-caked hands with a growing sense of
horror—she must indeed look the part of madwoman—then pushed the
thought away in disgust What did such things matter at an hour like this?

312 Tad Williams

"I cannot let you lose yourself in this place, Lady," Eolair said at last.

"Then come with me or bully me all the way back to your wretched
camp, noble count." She suddenly did not like the way she sounded, but
it was said and she would not take it back.

Eolair did not show the anger she expected; instead, a weary resignation
crept over his features. The pain she had seen before did not go away, but
rather seemed to sink deeper, spreading into the very lines of his face.
"You made a promise to me, Maegwin. Before I opened the door, you
said you would heed my decision. I did not believe you an oath-breaker. I
know your father never was."

Maegwin pulled back, stung. "Do not throw my father up to me!"

Eolair shook his head. "Still, my lady, you promised me."

Maegwin stared at him. Something in his careful, clever face took hold
other so that she did not hurry away down the stairs as she had intended.
An inner voice mocked her stupidity, but she faced him squarely.

"You are only partly correct, Count Eolair," she said slowly. "You
could not open it yourself, if you remember. I had to help you."

He looked at her closely. "So, then?"

"So, then, a compromise. I know you think me headstrong or worse,
but I do still want your friendship, Eolair. You have been good to my
father's house."

"A bargain. Maegwin?" he asked expressionlessly.

"If you will let us walk down to the bottom of the stairs—just until we
can set foot on the tiles of the city—I will turn around and go back with
you . . . if that is what you wish. I promise."

A weary smile touched Eolair's lips. "You promise, do you?"

"I swear by Bagba's Herd." She touched her soiled hand to her breast.

"Better you should swear by Black Cuamh, down here." He grimaced
in frustration. His long tail of hair had shed its ribbon and lay black across
his shoulders. "Very well- I don't like the idea of trying to carry you back
up these stairs against your will."

"You couldn't," Maegwin said, pleased. "I am too strong. Come, let's
go faster. As you said, people are waiting for us."

They passed down the steps in silence, Maegwin reveling in the safety
of shadows and stone mountains, Eolair lost in his own unvoiced thoughts.
They watched their feet, fearful of a misstep despite the stairway's great
width. The stairs were pitted, crazed with cracks as though the earth had
shifted in uneasy sleep, but the stonecraft was beautiful and subtle. The
lamplight revealed traces of intricate designs that coiled across the steps
and onto the wall above the staircase, scribings delicate as the fronds of
young ferns or the shingled feathers of hummingbirds. Maegwin could
not help turning to Eolair with a smile of satisfaction.

"Do you see!?" She held her lamp up to the wall. "How could this be
work of any mere mortals?"

STONE OF FAREWELL                 313

"I see it. Lady," Eolair responded somberly. "But there is no such wall
on the other side of the stairs." He indicated the drop-off to the canyon
below. Despite the distance they had already traveled downward, it was
still far enough to kill someone handily. "Please don't look at the carvings
so closely that you stumble over the edge."

Maegwin curtseyed. "I will be careful. Count." «wr

Eolair frowned, perhaps at her frivolity, but only ncTdded.

The great stairway opened out at the bottom a like fan, spreading onto
the canyon floor. Away from the overhanging cavern wall, the glow of
their lamps seemed to dimmish, the light not strong enough to dispel the
deep and overwhelming dark. Buildings which had seemed cunning as
carved toys from the height of the canyon rim now loomed above them, a
fantastic array of shadowed domes and spiraling towers that tapered up
into the blackness like impossible stalagmites. Bridges of living stone
stretched from the cavern walls to the towers, winding in and about the
spires like ribbons. Its various parts tied together with narrow integu-
ments of stone, the city seemed more like a single, breathingly vital thing
than an artifact of lifeless rock—but it was surely empty.

"The Sithi are long gone, Lady, if they ever lived here." Eolair was
solemn, but Maegwin thought she heard a certain satisfaction in his tone.
"It is time to return."

Maegwin gave him a look of disgust. Had the man no curiosity at all?
"Then what is that?" she asked, pointing to a faint glow near the center of
of the shadowed city. "If that is not lamplight, then I am a Rimmersman."

The count stared. "It does look like it," he said cautiously. "But it
might be something else. Light leaking down from above."

"I have been in the tunnels a long while," Maegwin said. "Surely it is
well past sunset aboveground." She turned and touched his arm. "Come,
Eolair, please! Don't be such an old man! How could you leave this place
without knowing?"

The Count of Nad Mullach frowned, but she could see other emotions
struggling beneath the surface. He did wish to know, that was plain. It
was just this transparency chat had captured her heart. How could he be an
envoy to all the courts of Osten Ard and yet sometimes be as uncloudedly
obvious as a child?

"Please?" she said.

He checked the oil in the lamps before answering. "Very well. But only
to set your mind at ease, I do not doubt that you have found a place that
once belonged to the Sithi, or to men of old who had skills we have lost,
but they are long vanished. They cannot save us from our fate."

"Whatever you say. Count. Hurry now!"

She tugged him forward, into the city.

Despite her confident words, the stone byways did indeed seem long-
deserted- Dust sifted beneath their feet, eddying listlessly. After they had

314

Tad Williams

walked awhile, Maegwin found her enthusiasm begin to diminish, h&r
thoughts turning melancholy as the lamplight threw the jutting towers
and swooping spans into grotesque relief. She was again reminded of
bones, as though they wandered through the time-scoured rib cage of
some impossible beast Following the twisting streets through the aban-
doned citv. she began to feel herself swallowed up For the first time the
utterncss of these depths, the sheer furlongs of stone between herself and
the sun, seemed oppressive

They passed innumerable empty holes in the carved stone facades, holes
whose smooth edges had once been tight-filled by doors Maegwin imag-
ined eyes staring out at her from the darkened entrances—not malicious
eyes, but sad ones. eyes that gazed at the trespassers with more regret
than anger.

Surrounded by proud ruins, Lluth's daughter felt herself weighted down
by all that her people had not become, all that they could never be. Given
the entirety of the world's sunlit fields in which to run, the Hernystin
tribes had let themselves be driven into caves in the mountain Even their
gods had deserted them At least these Sithi had left their memorial in
magnificently crafted stone Maegwm's people built of wood, and even
the bones of Hemystir's warriors now bleaching on the Inmscnch would
disappear with the passing of years. Soon there would be nothing left of
her people at all.

Unless someone saved them. But surely none but the Sithi could do
that—and where had they gone5 Was Eolair right5 Were they indeed dead?
She had been sure they had gone deep into the earth, but perhaps they had
passed on to some other place

She stole a glance at Eolair The count was walking silently beside her,
staring up at the city's splendid towers like a farmer from the Circoille
fringes on his first visit to Hernysadharc Watching his thin-nosed face, his
bedraggled tail of black hair. she suddenly felt her love for him cyme
surging up from the place where she had thought it prisoned, a helpless
love as painful and undeniable as grief. Maegwin's memory went flying
back almost a score of years to the first day she had seen him.

She had been only a girl, but already tall as a grown woman, she
recalled with disgust. She had been standing behind her father's chair in
the Taig's great hall when the new Count of Nad Mullach arrived for his
ritual pledge of loyalty Eolair had seemed so young that day, slender and
bnght-eyed as a fox, nervous, but almost giddy with pride. Seemed young7
He had been young scarcely more than twenty-two years old, full of the
suppressed laughter of anxious youth. He had caught Maegwin's eye as
she peered cunouslv around the high back of Lluth's chair. She had
blushed scarlet as a berry Eolair had smiled then, showing her those
bright, small, sharp teeth, and it had felt as though he took a gentle bite of
her heart.

STONE OF FAREWELL                 315

It had meant nothing to him, of course. Maegwin knew that. She was
only a girl then, but already fated to become the king's gawky spinster
daughter, a woman who lavished her attention on pigs and horses and
birds with broken wings, and knocked things off tablctops because she
could never remember to walk and sit and carry herself delicately, as a
lady should. No, he had meant nothing more than a fretful smile at a
wide-eyed young girl, but with that unwitting smile Eolair had caught hec
forever in an unbreakable net. . . -                                  >)s]

Her thoughts were interrupted as the walled road they had chosen ended
before a broad, squat tower whose surface crawled with ornate stone vines
and translucent stone flowers. A wide doorway gaped darkly like a tooth-
less mouth. Eolair looked at the shadowed entrance suspiciously before
stepping forward to peer inside.

The interior of the tower seemed oddly spacious, despite the close-
hovermg shadows. A stairway choked with rubble curled away up one
inner wall, and a descending stairway passed around the circumference of
the tower in the opposite direction When they drew their lamps back
outside the door, a glimmer of light—only the faintest of sheens—seemed
to brighten the air where this downward passage disappeared from view

Maegwin took a deep breath. Astonishingly, she felt no fear at being m
such a mad place. "We will turn back whenever you say."

"That staircase is far too treacherous," Eolair replied. "We should go
back now." He hesitated, torn between curiosity and responsibility. There
was indeed an unarguable gleam of light from the downtrack. Maegwin
stared at it, but said nothing. The count sighed. "We will just go a little
way on the other path, instead "

They followed the downward path, spiralmg for what seemed a furlong
into the depths until they leveled out at last in a broad, low-ceilmged
passageway. The walls and roof were carved with tangled vines and
grasses and flowers, a panorama of vegetation that could only grow far
above, beneath sun and sky. The interwoven strands of stem and vine
ran endlessly along the wall beside them in a tapestry of stone- Despite the
immensity of the panels, no part of the wall seemed carved with exactly
the same design as any other The great carvings themselves were com-
posed of many kinds of rock, of an almost infinite variety of hues and
textures, but the panels were no mosaic of individual tiles as was the
patterned floor. Rather, the very stone itself seemed to have grown in
exact and pleasing shapes, as a hedge coaxed and pruned by gardeners
might mimic the form of an animal or bird-

"By the gods of Earth and Sky," she breathed.

"We must turn back, Maegwin." There was little conviction m Eolair's
voice. Here in the deeps, time seemed to have slowed almost to a stop

They walked on, examining the fantastic carvings in silence. Ac last, the
lamplight was supplemented by a more diffuse glow from the tunnel's far

316 Tad Williams

end Maegwin and the count stepped out of the passageway and into the
open, where the shadowed ceiling of the huge cavern once more arched
distantly overhead

They stood on a broad fan of tiles above a great and shallow bowl of
stone

The arena, three stone-throws across, was lined all about with benches
of pale, crumbling chert, as though the deserted bowl had been the site of
worship or vast spectacle A misty white light glowed in the open space of
the bowl's center, like an invalid sun

"Cuamh and Brynioch'" -Eolair swore quietly There was a distant and
anxious edge to his voice "What is it5"

A great, angular crystal stood on an altar of dull granite in the middle of
the arena, shimmering like a corpse-candle The stone was milky white,
smooth-faced but rough-edged as ajagged chunk of quartz Its strange and
subtle light slowly brightened, then died, then brightened again, so that
the ancient benches standing nearest seemed almost to flicker m and out of
existence with every scintillation

Pale light washed over them as they approached the strange object, the
chill air began to seem distinctly warmer Maegwin felt a moment of
breathlessness at the queer splendor of the thing For long moments she
and Eolair stood looking into the snowy glare, watching subtle colors
chase each other through the stone's depths, mangold and coral and shy
lavender, shifting like quicksilver

"It's beautiful," she said at last

"Aye "

They lingered, transfixed At last, with obvious reluctance, the Count of
Nad Mullach turned away "But there is nothing else here, Lady Nothing "

Before Maegwin could speak, the white stone suddenly blazed, radiance
swelling and blossoming like the birth of a heaven-star, until the blinding
glare seemed to fill the cavern Maegwin battled to orient herself in tha^sea
of terrifying brilliance She reached out for the Count of Nad Mullach
Blasted by light, Eolair's face had blurred until his features were almost
indistinguishable His far side had vanished into absolute shadow so that
he seemed but half a man.

"What is happening7'" she cried "Is the stone burning up31"

"Lady'" Eolair snatched at her, trying to pull her back from the glare
"Are you hurt7"

"Ruyan's Children'"

Maegwin reeled back in shock, stumbling unaware into Eolair's protec-
tive grasp The stone had spoken with the voice of a woman, a voice that
surrounded them as though mouths spoke from every side

"Why do you not answer me'7 Three times now have I called to you I no
longer have the strength' I will not be able to try again'"

The words were spoken in a tongue Maegwin had never heard, but still

STONE OF FAREWELL                 317

their meaning was somehow as clear as if spoken in her own Hernystin, as
powerful as if the woman's voice were inside her head Was this the
madness she had feared3 But Eolair, too, had clapped his hands over his
ears, beset by the same unnatural voice

"Ruym's Folk' I beg you, forget our old strife, the wrongs that were done'
A greater enemy now threatens u< both'"

The voice spoke as though with a great effort Weariness and sorrow
was m it, but something also of immense power, a strength that set
Maegwin's skin to tingling She held her hands splay-fingered before her
eyes and squinted into the heart of the glare, but could see nothing The
light that beat out at her seemed almost to push like a strong wind Could
some person be standing in the midst of that staggering incandescence3 Or
could it somehow be the stone itself that spoke3 She found herself sorrow-
ing for whoever or whatever should call out so desperately, even as she
fought against the lunatic idea of a shouting stone

"Who arc you3'" Maegwin cried "Why are you in the stone'3 Get out
of my ears'"

"What? Someone if there at last7 Praise to the Garden'" Unexpected hope
flared in the voice, supplanting weariness for a moment "Oh, ancient
kindred, black evil threatens our adopted land' I crave answers to my questions
questions that might save us all'"

"Lady'"

Maegwin at last noticed that Eolair was holding tightly to her waist "It
will not hurt me'" she told him She moved a little closer to the stone,
pulling against his strong arms "What questions3" she shouted "We are
Hernystin I am the daughter of King Lluth-ubh-Llythinn' Who are you3
are you in the stone3 Are you here in the city3"

The light from the stone dimmed and began to flicker There was a
pause before the voice came back, more muted than before "Are you
Tmukeda'ya7 I hear you only faintly," the woman said "It is too late' You are
fading away If you can still hear me, and would give aid against a shared enemy,
come to us m Jao e-Tinukai'i Some among you must know where it is " Her
voice grew softer still, until it was barely a whisper, tickling the insides of
Maegwin's ears The stone had lapsed back into fitful gleaming "Many are
searching for the three Great Swords Listen' This might he the salvation of us all,
or the destruction " The stone pulsed "This is all the Year-Dancmg Grove
could tell me, all the leaves would sing    " Despair welled up in her dying
voice "I have failed I have grown too weak First Grandmother has failed    I
can see only darkness coming     "

The soft words at last were gone The speaking stone dimmed to a
smear of pale light before Maegwin's eyes "I could not help her, Eolair "
She felt quite empty "We did nothing And she was so sad'"

Eolair gently released her from his grasp "We do not understand enough
to help anyone, Lady," he said softly "We are m need of help ourselves "

318

Tad Williams

Maegwin stepped away from him, fighting back angry tears. Hadn't he
felt the woman's goodness, her sorrow? Maegwin felt as though she had
watched a wonderful bird thrashing in a trap just beyond her reach.

Turning to Eclair, she was startled to see moving sparks in the darkness
beyond. She blinked, but it was no phantasm of her dazzled eyes. A
procession of dim lights was moving toward them, wending its way
down the aisles of the shadowed arena.

Eolair followed her stare. "Murhagh's Shield!" he swore, "I knew I was
right to mistrust this place!" He fumbled for his sword hilt. "Behind me,

Maegwin!"

"Hide from those who will save us?" She darted around his restraining

hand as the bobbing lights approached. "It is the Sithi at last!" The
lights, pink and white, wavered like fireflies as she took a step forward.
"Peaceful Ones!" she cried. "Your old allies need you!"

The words that whispered out of the shadows came from no mortal
throat. Maegwin was filled with wild excitement, certain now that her
dreams had spoken truly. The new voice spoke an antique Hernystiri that
had not been heard beneath the sunlight for centuries. Oddly, there

seemed also a touch of fear in its words.

"Our allies are gone to bones and dust, now, as with most of our folk.
What kind of creatures be you, that fear not the Shard?"

The speaker and his fellows slowly came forward into the light. Maegwin,
who had thought herself ready for anything, felt as though the bedrock
swayed beneath her. She clutched at Eolair's sword arm as the Count of
Nad Mullach hissed in surprise.

It was their eyes that seemed so strange at first, great round eyes with
no whites. Blinking in the lampglare, the four newcomers seemed fright-
ened creatures of the forest night. Man-tall but achingly slender, they
clutched shining rods of some translucent gemstone in their long, spidery
fingers. Fine, pale hair hung down around their bony faces; their features
were delicate, but they wore rough clothes of fur and dusty leather,

knobbed at knees and elbows.

Eolair's sword rasped out of the scabbard, gleaming pinkly in the light of

the crystal rods. "Stand back! What are you?"

The being nearest took a step backward, then drew up, its thin face
evidencing nervous surprise. "But it is you who be trespassers here. Ah,
you do be Children of Hern, as we did suspect. Mortals." He turned and
said something to his fellows in a language like a murmur of song. They
nodded gravely, then all four pairs of saucer eyes turned to Maegwin and
Eolair once more. "No, we have spoken on this, and only meet it is that

you make shift to name yourselves."

Marveling at how the dream had turned, Maegwin steadied herself on
Eolair's arm and spoke. "We ... we are ... I am Maegwin, daughter of
King Lluth. This is Eolair, Count of Nad Mullach."

STONE OF FAREWELL                 319

The strange creatures' heads hobbled on their slender necks; they spoke
melodically among themselves once more. Maegwin and the count shared
a look of stunned disbelief, then turned as the one who had spoken before
made a discreet noise in his throat.

"You speak with good grace. So, be you gentlefolk among your kind,
in truth? And promise you mean no harm? Sadly, it has been long since
we have had dealings with Hern's Folk, and we are sore ignorant of their
doings. We were affrighted when you spoke to the Shard."

Eolair swallowed. "Who are you? And what is this place?"

The leader stared at him for a long moment, the reflection of the
lamp-flame bright in his great eyes. "Yis-fidri am I. My companions hight
Sho-vennae, Imai-an, and Yis-hadra, who is my good wife." They bowed
their heads in turn as he named them. "This city is called Mezutu'a."

Maegwin was fascinated by Yis-fidri and his friends, but a nagging
doubt was making itself felt at the back other mind. They were certainly
strange, but they were not what she had expected. . . .

"You cannot be the Sithi." she said. "Where are they? Are you their
servants?"

The strangers looked at her with alarm on their wide-eyed faces, then
took a few pattering steps backward and joined briefly in chiming collo-
quy. After a moment, Yis-fidri turned and spoke a little more harshly than
he had before.

"We served others once, but that was long ages agone. Have they sent
you for us? We will not go back." For all his defiant tone, there was
something tremendously pathetic in Yis-fidri's wagging head and huge,
mournful eyes. ^What did the Shard tell you?"

Eolair shook his head, confused. "Forgive us if we are rude, but we
have never seen any like you. We were not sent to look for you. We did
not even know you existed."

"The Shard? Do you mean the stone?" Maegwin asked. "It said many
things. I will try to remember them. But who are you then, if you are not
the Sithi?"

Yis-fidri did not answer, but slowly lifted his crystal, extending his
spindly hand until the rod's rosy light burned heatlessly beside Maegwin's
face. "By your aspect. Hern's people stand not so much changed since we
Tinukeda'ya of the mountains last knew them," he said wistfully. "How
is it we are forgotten already—have so many generations of mortals come
and gone? Surely it was only a few turnings of the earth since your
northern tribesmen, the bearded ones, did know us?" His thin face grew
distant. "The northerners called us Dvernings, and brought us gifts so we
would craft for them."

Eolair stepped forward. "You are the ones our ancestors called Domhainif
But we thought they were legend only, or at least were long dead. You
are ... the dwarrows?"

320

Tad Williams

Yis-fidri showed a mild frown. "Legend? You do be of Hern's folk, be
you not? Who was it, think you, that taught your ancestors to mine these
mountains in days agone? We did. As to names, what matter? Dwarrow
to some mortals, Dverning or Domhaini to others." He waved his long
fingers, slowly, sadly. "Only words. We are Tinukeda'ya. We came from
the Garden and we can never return."

Eolair sheathed his sword with a clang that echoed through the cavern.
"You sought for the Peaceful Ones, Princess! This is as strange or stranger!
A city in the mountain's heart! The dwarrows out of our oldest legends!
Has the world below gone as mad as the world above?"

Maegwin was scarcely less astonished than Eolair, but found herself
with little to say. As she stared at the dwarrows, she mourned; the black
cloud that had lifted for a while seemed to roll back over her mind.

"But you are not the Sithi," she said at last, voice flat. "They are not
here. They will not help us."

Yis-fidri's companions moved up, so that they formed a semicircle
around the huddled pair. Watching Maegwin and Eolair worriedly, the
wide-eyed dwarrows seemed poised to bolt.

"If you came searching for the Zida'ya—those who you name Sithi,"
Yis-fidri said carefully, "then that is of deep interest to us indeed, since we
brought us here to hide from them." He nodded slowly. "Long ago did
we refuse to bend any longer to their will, to their overweening injustice,
and so we escaped- We thought they had forgotten us, but they have not.
Now that we are weary and few, they seek to capture us once more." A
dim fire was kindled in Yis-fidri's eyes. "They even call to us through the
Shard, the Witness which has been silent for many long years. They mock
us with their tricks, trying to lure us back."

"You are hiding from the Sithi?" Eolair asked, confused. "But why?"
"We did serve them once, Hern's Child. We fled. Now they would
cozen us into coming back. They speak of swords to lure us—for they
know that such Grafting was always our delight, and the Great Swords
some of our highest works. They ask us of mortals we have never met nor
heard of—and what would we have to do with mortals now? You are the
first we have seen in a long age."

The Count of Nad Mullach waited for Yis-Fidri to continue. When it
appeared he would not, Eolair asked: "Mortals? Like us? What mortals do

they name to you?"

"The Zida'ya woman—First Grandmother, as she is called—spoke sev-
eral times of. . ." the dwarrow conferred briefly with his fellows, ". . . of
HandlessJosua.' "

"Handless. . . ! Gods of earth and stream, do you meanjosua Lackhand?r
Eolair stared, astounded. "Oh, heaven, this is madness!" He sat down
heavily on one of the decaying benches.

Maegwin slumped beside him. Her mind was already reeling beneath

321

STONE OF FAREWELL

such weariness and disappointment that she had no strength left to be
surprised, but when she at last turned away from the mild, wide eyes of
the puzzled dwarrows to look to Eolair, the count's face was that of a man
struck by lightning in his own house.

4-

Simon awakened from a flight through black spaces and screaming
winds. The howling continued, but a red light bloomed before his eyes as
the darkness receded.

"Vren, you little fool!" someone was shrieking close by. "There is
blood in the circle!"

When he tried to take a breath, Simon felt something pushing down on
him, so that his lungs had to strain for air. He wondered briefly if a roof
had fallen on him. Fire? The red light danced and billowed. Was the
Hayholt on fire?

He could see a vast shape now, dressed in flapping white. The figure
seemed to have grown tall as the trees, looming far into the sky. It took
long moments before he realized he was lying on the icy ground, that
Skodi was standing over him, screaming at someone. How long. . . ?

The little boy Vren flailed on the ground a few cubits away, his hands
holding his throat, eyes bulging in his dark face. Untouched and unap-
proached, he was kicking his feet wildly, heels drumming on the frozen
mud. Somewhere nearby, Qantaqa was mournfully howling.

"You are bad!" Skodi screamed, her face gone pinkish-purple with rage.
"Bad Vren! Spilled blood! They will swarm! Bad!" She gasped in a great
breath and bellowed. "Punishment!" The little boy writhed like a smashed
snake.

Beyond Skodi, a shadowy face watched from the center of the rippling
fire, its unstable mouth moving in laughter. A moment later the bottom-
less black eyes settled on Simon, their sudden touch like an icy tongue
pressed against his face. He tried to scream, but some great weight was
pushing on his back.

Little fly, a voice whispered in his head, heavy and dark as mud. It was a
voice that had haunted many dreams, a voice of red eyes and burning
darkness. We meet you in the strangest places . • . and you have that sword, as
well. We must tell the master about you. He will he very interested. There was a
pause; the thing in the fire seemed to grow larger, the eyes cold black pits
in the heart of an inferno. Why, look at you, manchild, it purred, you are
bleeding. . . .

Simon drew his shaking hand out from beneath his body, wondering
why it seemed strange that it should respond to his will. When he
disentangled it from Thorn's hilt, he saw that the trembling fingers were
indeed covered with slick red blood.

322

Tad Williams

"Punished!" Skodi was shrieking, her childlike voice cracking. "Every-
one will be punished! We were to give presents to the Lord and Lady!"

The wolf howled again, closer.

Vren had gone limp, facedown in the mud at Skodi's feet. As Simon
stared distractedly, the ground seemed to bulge, obscuring his view of the
boy's pale, crumpled form. A moment later another bulge appeared close
by, quivering; the half-thawed earth parted with a crunching, sucking
sound. A thin dark arm and long-nailed hand lifted from the agitated soil,
reaching toward the dim stars with fingers spread like the petals of a black
flower. Another hand snaked up beside it, followed by a pale-eyed head
scarcely bigger than an apple. A needle-toothed grin split the wizened
face, twitching the scraggly black whiskers.

Simon squirmed, unable to cry out. A dozen bulges blistered the earth
of the courtyard, then a dozen more. In a moment the diggers were
seething up from below like maggots from a burst carcass.

"Bukken!" Skodi shrilled in alarm. "Bukken! Vren, you little fool, I
told you not to spill blood in the charm-circle!" She waved her fat arms at
the diggers, who swarmed over the shrieking children like a plague of
cluttering rats. "I punished him!" she screamed, pointing at the unmoving
child. "Go away!" She turned to the bonfire. "Make them go away, Sir!

Make them go away!"

The fire fluttered in the chill wind, but the face only watched.
"Help! Simon!" Binabik's voice was hoarse with fear. "Help us! We are

still tied!"

Simon rolled over painfully, trying to pull his knees beneath him. His

back was clenched in an immovable knot, as though he had been kicked
by a horse. The air before his eyes seemed full of shining snowflakes.

"Binabik!" he groaned. A wave of squealing black shapes split off from
the main cluster, flowing away from the children and toward the abbey

wall where Sludig and the troll lay.

"Scop! I will make you!" Skodi had clamped her hands over her ears, as

though to shield herself from the children's pitiful screams. A small foot,
pallid as a mushroom, emerged briefly from the knot of diggers, then was

swallowed up again. "Slop!"

The ground suddenly erupted all about her, gouts of gelatinous mud
spattering her nightdress. A flurry of spidery arms wrapped around her
broad calves, then a swarm of diggers were climbing her legs as though
they were tree trunks. Her nightdress bulged as they swarmed up beneath
it in ever-increasing numbers, until at last the thin fabric split like an
overstuffed bag, revealing a squirming mass of eyes and scrawny legs and
taloned hands that almost completely obscured her doughy flesh. Skodi's
mouth pulled wide to scream and a serpentine arm pushed into it, disap-
pearing to the shoulder. The girl's pale eyes bulged.

Simon had finally dragged himself into a half-crouch when a gray shape

STONE OF  FAREWELL

323

flashed past him, bowling into the slithering, squeaking mass that had
been Skodi and tumbling it to the ground. The diggers' mewing cries rose
in pitch, quickly becoming trills of fear as Qantaqa snapped necks and
crushed skulls, throwing small bodies in the air with gleeful abandon. A
moment later she was through and racing toward the throng of creatures
that had descended on Binabik and Sludig.

The fire had flared up to a great height. The unformed thing within it
laughed. Simon's could feel its terrible amusement sapping him, sucking
the life from him.

This is amusing, little jly, is it not? Why don't you come closer and we will
watch together.

Simon tried to ignore the pull of the voice, the insistent power of its
words. He clambered agonizingly to his feet and staggered away from the
fire and the thing that lurked within it. He used Thorn as a crutch,
propping himself, though the hilt slid treacherously beneath his blood-
damped hand. The slash Vren had made across his back was a cold ache, a
numbness that was still somehow painful.

The thing Skodi had summoned continued to taunt him, its voice
echoing inside his head, playing with him like a cruel child with a captured
insect.

Little jly, where are you going? Come here. The master will want to meet
you. . . .

It was a terrible struggle to keep walking in the other direction; life
seemed to be running out of him like sand. The diggers' squeals and
Qantaqa's wet, joyful growl had become no more than a faint roaring in
his ears.

For a long moment he did not even notice the talons grasping at his
legs; when at last he looked down into the spider-egg eyes of the Bukken,
it was as though he stared through a window into some other world, a
horrible place that was fortuitously separated from his own. It was not
until the scrabbling claws began to shred the legs of his breeches and score
the flesh beneath that the dreamlike state fell away. With a shout of
horror, he smashed the wrinkled face with a balled fist. More were
climbing his legs. He kicked them away with moans of disgust, but they
seemed as numberless as termites.

Thorn shivered again in his hands. Without chinking, Simon lifted it
and sent the black blade whistling into a clump of prancing creatures. He
felt it hum, as though it sang silently. Grown marvelously light, Thorn
sheared heads and arms like grass stems until dark ichor ran down the
bladed in streams. Every swing sent fiery pain lancing through Simon's
back, but at the same time he felt mad exhilaration course though him.
Long moments after all the diggers around him had died or fled, he was
still hacking at the tangled corpses.

My, you are a fierce jly, aren't you? Come to us. The voice seemed to reach

324 Tad Williams

into his head as into an open wound, and he squirmed in disgust. Tonight
is a great night, a wild night.

"Simon!" Binabik's muffled cry at last cut through his frenzy of hatred.
"Simon! Unbind us!"

You know we will win, little jly. Even at this instant, far away in the south,
one of your greatest allies falls . . . despairs . . . dies . . .

Simon turned and staggered toward the troll. Qantaqa, her muzzle
blood-washed to the ears, was keeping a hopping, shrilling throng of
diggers at bay. Simon lifted Thorn once more and began to cut his way
through the Bukken, smashing them down in bunches until at last they
scattered from his path. The voice in his head seemed to be crooning
almost wordlessly. The fire-washed courtyard shimmered before his eyes.

He bent to cut the troll's bonds and a great wave of dizziness almost
toppled him to the ground. Binabik rubbed the rope against Thorn's
cutting edge for a moment until the pieces fell aside. The little man tried
briefly to rub life back into his wrists, then turned to Sludig. After picking
at the knot for a moment, he turned to Simon.

"Here, lend your sword to this cutting," he began, then stared. "Chukku's
Stones! Simon, you are all of blood on your back'"
Blood will open the doorway, manchild. Come to us!

Simon tried to speak to Binabik but could not. Instead, he thrust
Thorn forward, clumsily pinking Sludig's back with the point. The
Rimmersman, coming slowly back to wakefulness, groaned.

"While he slept they struck his head with a stone," Binabik said
mournfully. "Because of his bigness, I am thinking. Me they only tied."
He sawed Sludig's bonds against Thorn until they, too, fell slithering to the
snowy ground. "We must be reaching the horses," the troll said to Simon.
"Have you sufficent strength?"

He nodded. His head felt far too heavy for his neck and the roaring in
his thoughts was giving way to a frightening emptiness. For the second
time that night he felt his inner self beginning to float free from its
confining shell, but this time he feared there would be no returning. He
forced himself to remain standing as Binabik coaxed the bleary Rimmersman
to his feet.

The master is waiting in the Chamber of the Well. . . .
"All we may do is run for the stables," Binabik shouted over the wolfs
menacing snarl. She had forced the diggers back, so that several yards of
open ground stood between the ring of Bukken and Simon's friends.
"With Qantaqa leading, we can perhaps be getting there, but we must
not slow or hesitate."

Simon swayed. "Get the saddlebags," he said. "In the abbey."
The little man stared at him incredulously. "Foolishness!"
"No." Simon shook his head drunkenly. "I won't go ... without . . -
White Arrow. She . . . they . . . won't take that." He stared out across the

STONE OF FAREWELL                 325

dooryard at the heaving mass of diggers gathered where Skodi had stood.

You will stand before the Singing Harp, you will hear His sweet voice. . . .

"Simon," Binabik began, then briefly swung his hand in the Qanuc
ward against madmen. "You arc barely able for standing," he grunted. "I
will go."

Before Simon could respond, the troll had vanished through the door
into the abbey's lightless interior. Long moments later he returned, drag-
ging the saddlebags behind him.

"We will hang most on Sludig." Binabik said, eyeing the waiting
diggers apprehensively. "He is too full ofsleepiness to fight, so he will be
our pack-ram."

Come to us!

As the troll draped the bags over the bemused Rimmersman, Simon
looked out at the circle of pale, naked eyes. The waiting diggers clicked
and chittered quietly as though talking among themselves. Many wore
tatters of crude clothing; some had rough, jagged-bladed knives clutched
in their spindly fists. They stared back at him, swaying like rows of black
poppies.

"Are you now ready, Simon?" Binabik whispered. Simon nodded,
lifting Thorn before him. The blade had been light as a switch, but now it
suddenly seemed heavy as stone. It was all he could do to hold it before
him.

"Nihut, Qantaqa!" the troll shouted. The wolf sprang forward, jaws
wide. Diggers piped in fear as Qantaqa plowed a furrow through flailing
arms and gnashing teeth. Simon followed, swinging Thorn heavily from
side to side to side to side.

Come. There are endless cold halls below Nakkiga. The Lightless Ones are
singing, waiting to welcome you. Come to us!

Time seemed to fold in on itself. The world closed down into a tunnel
of red light and white eyes. The throb of pain in his back seemed to grow
as rhythmic as his heartbeat, and the aperture of his vision alternately
spread and shut as he stumbled forward. A roar of voices as continuous as
the sea washed over him, voices both within and without- He swung the
sword, felt it bite, then shook it free and swung again. Things reached for
him as he passed. Some caught and tore at his skin.

The tunnel narrowed to black for a while, then opened up for a few
moments sometime later. Sludig, who was saying words too quiet for
Simon to hear, was helping him up onto Homefmder's back, pushing
Thorn through the saddle-loops. They were surrounded by stone walls,
but as Simon drove his heels into his horse's ribs, the walls were suddenly
gone and he was beneath the tree-slashed night sky, the stars glimmering
overhead.

Now is the time, manchild. The door is opened by blood! Come, join us in our
celebrations!

326

Tad Williams

"No!" Simon heard his own voice shouting. "Leave me alone'"

He spurred ahead, leaping out into the forest. Binabik and Sludig, not
yet mounted, shouted after him. but their words were lost in the din
inside his head.

The door is open! Come to us!

The stars were speaking to him, telling him to sleep, that when he
awoke he would be far away from . . . eyes in the fire . . . from . . .
Skodi . . . from . . . clawing fingers . . . from ... he would be far away

from . . .

The door is open! Come to us!

He rode heedlessly through the snowy woods trying to outrun the
terrible voice. Branches tore at his face. Stars peered coldly down through
the trees. Time passed, perhaps hours, but still he rode wildly onward.
Homefindcr seemed to feel his frenzy. Her hooves flung clouds of snow as
they pounded through the darkness. Simon was alone, his friends far
behind, but still the fire-thing spoke gleefully inside his thoughts.

Come, manchifd! Come, dragon-bumed! It is a wild night! We await you
beneath the ice-mountain. . . .

The words in Simon's head were a swarm of fiery bees. He writhed in
the saddle, striking at himself, slapping at his ears and face as he tried to
drive the voice away. Even as he flailed, something loomed abruptly
before him—a patch of blackness deeper than the night. In a split instant
he felt his heart falter, but it was only a tree. A tree!

His headlong flight was too madly swift to avoid the obstacle. He was
struck as though by a giant hand and thrown from Homefinder's saddle,
tumbling through nothingness. He was falling. The stars were fading.

Black night came down and covered all.

17

A Wager of Littfc Vatue

JL rU^ U^U^TTlOUTl'had worn away. The wind-scoured sky stretched
above the grasslands like a purple awning. The first stars were coming
out. Dcornoth, wrapped in a coarse blanket against the chill, stared up at
the faint points of light and wondered if God had finally turned away His
face.

Josua's people were huddled together in a bull run, a long, narrow pen
of wooden palings driven deep into the earth and lashed together with
rope. For all their seeming flimsiness—in many places there were gaps so
wide that Ueornoth could slip through his entire arm and most of his
shoulder—the walls were strong as mortared stone.

As he looked around at his fellow prisoners, Deornoth's gaze stopped
on Geloe. The witch woman held Leieth in her lap, singing quietly into
the child's ear as they both stared up at the darkening sky.

"It seems madness that we should escape from Norns and diggers to
end here." Ueornoth could not keep an aggrieved Cone from his voice.
"Geloe, you know charms and spells. Could you not have magicked our
captors somehow—put them to sleep, or turned yourself into a ravening
beast and attacked them?"

"Deornoth," Josua said warningly, but the forest woman needed no
defending.

"You understand little. Sir Deornoth, of how The Art works," Geloe
replied sharply. "First of all, what you call 'magic' has its cost. If it could
be easily used to defeat a dozen armed men, the armies of princes would
be full of hired wizards. Secondly, we have not been harmed yet. I am no
Pryrates: I do not waste my strength in puppet plays for the bored and
curious. I have a greater enemy to occupy my thoughts, more dangerous
by far than anyone in this encampment."

As if giving such a long answer exasperated her—and indeed, Geloe
seldom said so much at once—she fell silent, turning away to stare at the
firmament once more.

328 Tad Williams

Frustrated with himself, Deornoth shrugged off his blanket and stood.
Had it come to this? What sort of knight was he, that berated an old
woman for not saving him from danger? A shiver of anger and disgust
traveled through him; he clenched and unclenched his fists helplessly.
What could he do? What strength did any of this ragged band have left to
do anything?

Isorn was comforting his mother. Duchess Gutrun's remarkable courage
had held though any number of horrors, but she seemed to have reached
her limit. Sangfugol was crippled. Towser had virtually given in to
madness. The old man lay curled on the ground, his eyes fixed witlessly
on nothing, seamed lips trembling as Father Strangyeard cried to help him
drink from a bowl of water. Deornoth felt another wave of despair nse
and break within him as he walked slowly to the muddy log on which
Prince Josua sat, chin on hand.

The manacle that had once prisoned him in Elias' dungeon sdll dangled
on the prince's slender wrist. Josua's thin face was painted with deep
shadows, but the whites of his eyes gleamed as he watched Deornoth
slump down beside him. For a long while the two did not speak. The
sounds of lowing cattle and the shout and clatter of horsemen could be
heard all around as the Thrithings-men brought in their herds for the

night.

"Welladay, friend," the prince said at last. "I said it was a poor game at
best, did I not?"

"We have done what we could. Highness. No one could have done
more than you."

"Someone has." For a moment, Josua seemed to regain his dry humor.
"He is sitting his skeletal throne in the Hayholt, drinking and eating
before a roaring fire, while we sit waiting in the slaughter pen."

"He has made a foul bargain, Prince. The king will regret his choice."

"But we, I fear, will not be around when the reckoning comes." Josua
sighed. "I am almost sorriest for you, Deornoth. You have been the most
faithful of knights. If you had only found a better lord to be faithful to . . ."

"Please, Highness." In his present mood, such words brought Deornoth
real pain. "There is no one I would rather serve outside the Kingdom of
Heaven."

Josua looked at him from the sides of his eyes, but did not reply. A
party of horsemen rode past the stockade, the palings rippling as the
horses thundered by.

"We are far from that kingdom, Deornoth," the prince said at last, "but
at the same time only a few breaths away." His face was now hidden in
darkness. "But death frightens me little. It is the hopes I have crushed that
weigh down my soul."

"Josua," Deornoth began, but the prince's hand on his arm stilled him.

"Say nothing. It is no more than the truth. I have been a lodestar for

STONE OF FAREWELL                 329

disaster since the moment I drew breath. My mother died birthing me,
and my father's greatest friend Camans died soon after. My brother's wife
died in my care. Her only child has escaped my guardianship to suffer
Aedon only knows what fate. Naglimund, a keep built to hold siege for
years, fell beneath me in weeks; countless innocents died horribly."

"I cannot listen to this, my pnnce. Would you take all the world's
betrayals on your own back? You did everything that you could!"

"Did I?" Josua asked seriously, as though he debated a point of theology
with the Usirean brothers. "I wonder. If things are fated, then perhaps I
am merely a sorry strand in God the Highest's tapestry. But some say that
one chooses everything, even the bad."

"Foolishness."

"Perhaps. But there is no doubting that an evil star has hung over all I
have undertaken. Hah' How the angels and devils both must have laughed
when I swore I would take back the Dragonbone Chair! Me, with my
ragtag army of priests and jugglers and women!" The prince laughed
bitterly.

Deornoth felt anger boiling inside him once more, but this time it was
his liege lord who was the cause. It was almost breathtaking. He had never
thought he could feel like this.

"My prince," he said between clenched teeth, "you have become a fool,
a damnable fool. Priests, jugglers, and women! An army of mounted
knights could scarcely have done more than your women and jugglers—
and certainly could not have been braver!" Shaking with fury, he rose and
stalked away across the muddy compound. The stars seemed almost to tile
in the sky.

A hand closed on his shoulder, pulling him around with surprising
strength. Josua stood stiffly as he held Deornoth at arm's length. The
pnnce jutted his head forward on his long neck, a bird of prey preparing
to stoop.

"And what have I done to you, Deornoth, that you speak so to me?"
His voice was tight.

At any other moment Deornoth would have fallen to his knees, ashamed
at his own disrespectfulness. Now, he stilled his trembling muscles and
took a breath before he spoke. "I can love you, Joshua, yet hate what you
say."

The prince stared at him, his expression indecipherable in the evening
dark. "I spoke badly of our companions. That was wrong. But I said
nothing ill of you, Sir Deornoth . . ."

"Elysia, Mother of God, Josua!" Deornoth almost sobbed, "I care noth-
ing for myselfl And as for the others, that was only a careless remark that
you made out of weariness. I know you meant nothing by it. No, it is you
who are the victim of your own crudest treatment! That is why you are a
fool!"

330

Tad Williams

Josua stiffened. "What?"

Deornoth threw his arms up in the air, rilled with the sort of giddy
madness felt on Midsummer's Eve, when all wore masks and told the
truth. But here in the bull run there were no masks. "You are a better
enemy to yourself than Elias can ever be," he shouted, not caring anymore
who heard. "Your blame, your guilt, your failed duty! If Usires Aedon
were to return to Nabban today, and again be hung on the Tree in the
temple garden, you would find a way to blame it on yourselfl No matter
who is speaking the evil, I will listen to a fine man slandered no longer!"

Josua stared as if stunned. The terrible silence was broken by the creak
of the wooden gate. Half a dozen men with spears pushed into the
stockade, led by the one named Hotvig who had captured them on the
Ymstrecca's banks. He strode forward, peering around the shadowed pen.

"Josua? Come here."

"What do you want?" the prince asked quietly.

"The March-thane has called for you. Now." Two of Hotvig's men
moved up, lowering their spear points. Deornoth tried to catch Josua's
eye, but the prince turned away and walked out slowly between the two
Thrithings-men. Hotvig pulled the high gate shut behind them. The wooden
bolt creaked back into place.

"You don't think that. . . that they will harm him, do you, Deornoth?"
Strangyeard asked. "They wouldn't hurt the prince, would they?"

Deornoth sank down onto the muddy ground, tears rolling down his
cheeks.

The interior ofFikolmij's wagon smelled of grease and smoke and oiled
leather. The March-thane looked up from his joint of beef to nod Hotvig
back out the door, then returned his attention to his meal, leaving Josua to
stand and wait. They were not alone. The man standing beside Fikolmij
was half a head taller than Josua and only slightly less muscled than the
broad March-thane himself. His face, clean-shaven but for long mus-
taches, was covered with scars too regular to be accidental. He returned
the prince's stare with undisguised contempt. One hand, clatteringly laden
with bracelets, dropped to caress the hilt of his long curved sword.

Josua held this one's narrowed eyes for a moment, then casually allowed
his glance to slide away, taking in the vast array of harnesses and saddles
hanging from the wagon's walls and ceiling, their myriad silver buckles

glittering in the firelight.

"You have discovered some of the virtues of comfort, Fikolmij," Josua
said, eyeing the rugs and stitched cushions scattered over the floor boards.

The March-thane looked up, then spat into the fire-trough. "Pfah. I
sleep beneath stars, as I always have. But I need someplace safe from

STONE OF FAREWELL                 331

listening ears." He bit at the joint and chewed vigorously. "I am no
stone-dweller, who wears a shell like a soft-skinned snail." A piece of
clanking bone rattled into the trough.

"It has been some time since I have slept behind walls or in a bed
myself, Fikolmij. You can see that. Did you bring me here to call me soft?
If so, have done and let me go back to my people. Or did you bring me
here to kill me? The fellow beside you has somewhat the look of a
head-chopper."

Fikolmij dropped the denuded bone into the fire and grinned hugely, his
eyes red as a boar's. "You don't know him? He knows you. Don't you,
Utvart?"

"I know him." He had a deep voice.

The March-thane now leaned forward, peering at the prince intently.
"By the Four-Footed," he laughed, "Prince Josua has more gray hairs
than old Fikolmij! Living in your stone houses makes a man old fast."

Josua smiled thinly. "I have had a difficult spring."

"You have! You have!" Fikolmij was enjoying himself immensely. He
picked up a bowl and tilted it to his mouth-

"What do you want of me, Fikolmij?"

"It is not me chat wants, Josua, despite your sin against me. It is Utvart
here." He nodded at his glowering companion. "We spoke of age. Utvart
has only a few years less than you, but he does not wear a man's beard.
Do you know why?"

Utvart stirred, rubbing his fingers on his pommel. "I have no wife," he
rumbled.

Josua looked from man to man, but said nothing.

"You are a clever man. Prince Josua," Fikolmij said slowly, then took
another long draught. "You see the problem. Utvart's bride was stolen.
He has sworn never to marry until the one who stole her is dead."

"Dead," Utvart echoed.

Josua's lip curled. "I stole no one's bride. Vorzheva came to me after I
had left your camp. She begged to go away with me."

Fikolmij slammed the bowl down, splashing dark beer into the fire
trough, which hissed as if startled. "Curse you, did your father have no
male children!? What true man hides behind a woman, or allows one to
have her way? Her bride-price was set! All was agreed!"

"Vorzheva had not agreed."

The March-thane rose from his stool, staring at Josua as though the
prince were a poisonous serpent. Fikolmij's corded arms trembled. "You
stone-dwellers are a pestilence. One day the men of the Free Thrithings will
drive you into the sea and burn away your rotting cities with clean fire."

Josua eyed him evenly. "The men of the Thrithings have tried that
before. It is how we met, you and I. Or have you forgotten the uncomfort-
able fact of our alliance—an alliance against your own people?"

332 Tad Williams

Fikolmij spat again, and this time did not bother to aim for the trough
"It was a chance to increase my strength It worked I stand today
unquestioned lord of the High Thnchmgs " He stared atJosua as if daring
him to argue "Besides, that treaty was with your father For a stone-
dweller, he was a mighty man You are a thin shadow of him "

Josua's face was empty "I am tired of talking Kill me if you wish, but
do not bore me "

FikolmiJ leaped forward His broad fist crashed against the side of
Josua's head and the prince crumpled to his knees "Proud talk, worm' I
should kill you with my own hands'" The March-thane stood overjosua,
his barrel chest heaving "Where is my daughter17"

"I don't know "

FikolmiJ grabbed Joshua's tattered shirt and pulled the pnnce onto his
feet Watching, Utvart swayed gently from side to side, his eyes dreamy
"And you don't care, either, do you3 By the Grass Thunderer, I have
dreamed of smashing you—dreamed of it' Tell me of my Vorzheva,
child-stealer Did you at least marry her^'

A bleeding welt showed at Josua's temple He stared back "We did not
wish to marry

Another blow rocked the prince's head Blood started from his upper hp
and nose "How you laughed at old FikolmiJ when you sat in your stone
house, eh3" the March-thane hissed "Stole his daughter and made her your
whore, then did not have to pay a single horse for her' You laughed, didn't
you3" He slapped hard at the prince's face, pearls of blood flew through the
air "You thought you could cut off my stones and run away " The
March-thane struck again, but though fresh blood seeped from Josua's
nose, this blow was softer, dealt with a kind of savage affection "You are
clever, backhand Clever But FikolmiJ is no gelding "

"Vorzheva    is    no    whore "

FikolmiJ propelled him back against the wagon's door The pnnce left
his arms dangling, making no attempt to defend himself as he was struck
twice more "You stole what was mine," FikolmiJ snarled, his face so
close to Josua's that his braided beard rubbed on the prince's bloody
shirtfront "What would you call her, then5 What did you use her for3"

Josua's red-smeared face, despite his injuries, had been full of a terrible
calmness Now, it seemed to break apart, dissolving into grief
"I     used her badly    " He hung his head

Utvart strode forv.ard drawing his sword from its tooled and beaded
scabbard The tip clicked against a ceiling beam "Let me kill him," he
breathed "Slow "

Fikolmij looked up, eyes squinting fiercely Sweat dripped from his
face as he looked from Utvart to Josua, then lifted his thick-knuckled fist
over the prmce s head
"Let me,'" Utvart pleaded

333

STONE OF  FAREWELL

The March-thane hammered three times against the wall The harnesses
swayed, tinkling "Hotvig'" he roared

The wagon door opened Hotvig entered pushing a slender figure
before him The pair stopped Just within the doorway

"You heard all'" FikolmiJ bellowed "You betrayed your clan and me

for this'" He gave Josua's shoulder a push The pnnce fell back against
the wall and slid to the floor

Vorzheva burst into tears Hotvig's restraining hand held her back as
she leaned forward to touch the pnnce Josua slowly lifted his head,
staring at her distractedly from eyes that were beginning to swell shut
"You are alive," was all he said.

She tried to pull away from her captor, but Hotvig grasped her close,
ignoring the nails that raked at his arm, leaning his head away when she
tried to reach his eyes

"Randwarders caught her in the outer grazing march," Fikolmy growled
He slapped at her lightly, angered by her struggling "Be still, you
faithless bitch' I should have drowned you m the Umstrejha at birth You
are worse than your mother, and she was the evilest cow I have ever
known Why do you waste your tears on this piece of dung5" He prodded
Josua with his foot

The prince's absorbed look had returned He regarded the March-chane
with dispassionate interest for a moment before turning to Vorzheva "I
am glad you are safe "

"Safe'" Vorzheva laughed shrilly "I love a man who does not want me
The man who does want me would use me like a brood mare and beat me
if I ever left my knees'" She struggled in Hotvig's grasp, turning to face
Utvart, who had lowered his sword to the floor "Oh, I remember you,
Utvart' Why did I run away, except to get away from you, you raper of
children—and of young sheep when you cannot get a child' You, who
love your scars more than you ever could a woman I would rather be
dead than your bride!"

Grim-faced Utvart said nothing, but FikolmiJ snorted in dour amuse-
ment "By the Four-Footed, 1 had almost forgotten that Jagged knife
you have for a tongue, daughter Maybe Josua here is happy to feel the
blows of fists for a change, eh5 As for what you prefer, kill yourself the
moment the marriage ride is over if you wish I only want my bride-price
and the honor of the Stallion Clan made good "

"There are better ways to do that than slaughtering helpless prisoners,"
a new voice said

All heads turned—even Josua's, [hough he moved carefully Geloe stood
m the doorway, arms spread to the lintel, cloak rippling in the wind

"They have escaped from the bull run'" FikolmiJ shouted wrathfully
"Don't move, woman' Hotvig, saddle and bring the rest back Someone
will howl for this'"

334 Tad Williams

Geloe stepped into the wagon, which was rapidly becoming crowded
With a muffled curse, Hotvig pushed past her and out into the darkness
The witch woman calmly pulled the door closed behind him "He will
find them still penned " she said "Only I can come and go as I please "

Utvart lifted his broad blade and held it near her neck Geloe's hooded
yellow eyes touched his and the tall Thnthmgs-man stepped back a pace,
brandishing the sword as though he were menaced

Fikolmij looked her up and down with puzzlement and guarded anger
"What is your business, old woman5"

Released from Hotvig's grip, Vorzheva had dropped to her knees and
crawled past her father to dab at Josua's face with her tattered cloak The
prince gently caught her hand, holding it away as Geloe spoke

"I said, I come and go as I please For now, I choose to be here "

"You are in my wagon, old woman " The March-thane wiped sweat
from his forehead with a hairy arm

"You thought to hold Geloe your prisoner, Fikolmij That was foolish
Still, 1 have come to give you advice, in hopes that you have more sense
than you have shown so far this day.*'

He seemed to fight an urge to strike out once more Seeing his struggle,
his strained look, Geloe nodded her head and smiled grimly

"You have heard of me "

"I have heard of a devil-woman with your name, one who lurks in the
forest and steals the souls of men," Fikolmij grunted. Utvart stood close
behind him, mouth sec in a tight line, but the tall man's eyes were wide,
and shifted as though he made certain of where the doors and windows

were.

"You have heard many false rumors, I am sure," Geloe said, "but there
is some truth behind them, however twisted it may have become That
truth is in the tales that say I make a bad enemy, Fikolmy " She blinked
slowly, as an owl blinks when it catches sight of something small and
helpless "A bad enemy "

The March-thane pulled his beard "I do not fear you, woman, but I do
not trifle with demons needlessly You are no use to me Go away, then,
and I will not trouble you, but do not meddle in what does not concern
you "

"Fool of a horse-lord'" Geloe flung up her arm, cloak trailing like a
black wing The door burst open behind her The wind that swept in
extinguished the lamps and plunged the wagon into near-darkness, leaving
only the fire glowing scarlet in its trough like a door into Hell Somebody
cursed fearfully, barely audible above the moaning inrush "I told you,"
Geloe cried, "I go where I please'" The door swung shut again, although
the witch woman had not moved The wind was gone She leaned
forward so that her yellow eyes reflected restless flames "What happens
to these people does concern me—and concerns you as well, although you

STONE OF FAREWELL                 335

are too ignorant to know it Our enemy is your enemy, and he is greater
than you can understand, Fikolmij When he comes, he will sweep across
your fields like a grassfire "

' Hah'" The March-thanc smirked, but tlic nervous edge was not gone
from his voice "Do not preach to me I know all about your enemy, King
Elias He is no more a man than Josua here The Thnthmgs-men do not
fear him "

Before Geloe could respond there was a rap at the door, which swung
open to reveal Hotvig, bearing his spear and a puzzled expression He was
only a young man. despite his heavy beard, and he regarded the witch
woman with undisguised dismay as he spoke to his chieftain

"The prisoners are still in the bull run None of the men outside saw
this one leave The gate is locked, and there are no holes in the fence "

Fikolmij grunted and waved his hand "I know " The March-thane's
gaze shifted to Geloe for a brooding moment, then he smiled slowly
"Come here," he ordered Hotvig, then whispered into the rider's ear

"It will be done," Hotvig said, darting a nervous glance at Geloe before
going out again

"So," Fikolmij said, and smiled broadly, showing most of his crooked
teeth "You think I should set this dog free to run away " He shoved
Josua with his foot, earning a swift glare of hatred from his daughter
"What if I do not5" he asked cheerfully

Geloe narrowed her eyes "As I told you, March-thane ! make a bad
enemy "

Fikomi] chortled "And what shall you do to me, when I have told my
men to kill the remaining prisoners unless I come to them myself before
the next watch of the night to say otherwise^" He patted his hands on his
belly in contentment "I do not doubt you have charms and spells that can
harm me, but now our blades are at each other's throats, are they not5" In
the corner of the wagon Utvart growled, as if excited by the image
invoked

"Oh, horse-lord, may the world be preserved from such as you," Geloe
said disgustedly "I hoped to convince you to help us, which would be for
your good as much as ours " She shook her head "Now, as you say, our
knives are out Who knows if they may be put away without causing
many deaths5"

"I do not fear your threats," Fikolmy growled

Geloe stared at him for a moment, then looked at Josua, who was still
seated on the floor watching all that transpired with odd placidity Lastly,
she turned her gaze on Utvart The tall man scowled fiercely, not at all
comfortable under her scrutiny "I think there is still one favor I can do for
you, March-thane Fikolmij "

"I need no    "

"Quiet'" Geloe shouted The March-thane fell silent, balling his fists, his

336 Tad Williams

reddened eyes bulging. "You are about to break your own laws," she
said. "The laws of the High Thnthmgs. I will help you avoid that."

"What madness are you speaking, devil-woman?!" he raged. "I am the
lord of the clans!"

"The clan councils honor no man as March-thane who breaks their old
laws," she replied. "I know this. I know many things."

With a sweep of his arm, Fikolmij sent a bowl flying from atop his
stool to clatter against the wagon's far wall. "What law? Tell me what law
or I will throttle you even though you burn me to ashes'"

"The laws of bride-price and betrothal." Geloe pointed atJosua- "You
would kill this man, but he is her betrothed. If another—" she indicated
brooding Utvart, "—wishes to have her, he must fight for her. Is that not
true. Thane?"

Fikolmi) smiled, a great rancid gnn that spread across his face like a
stain. "You have outsmarted yourself, meddler. They are not betrothed.
Josua admitted that from his own lips. I would break no law to kill him.
Utvart stands ready to pay the bride-price."

Geloe looked at him intently. "They are not married and Josua has not
asked her. This is true- But have you forgotten your own customs,
Fikolmy of the Stallion-Clan? There are other forms of betrothal."

He spat. "None but fathering . . ."he broke off, forehead wrinkling m a
sudden thought. "A child?"

Geloe said nothing.

Vorzheva did not look up. Her face was hidden by her dark hair, but
her hand, which had stroked the prince's bloodied cheek, froze like a
snake-startled rabbit.

"It is true," she said finally.

Josua's face was a complicated puzzle of emotions, made even harder to
read by the elaborate tracing of bruises and weals. "You. . . ? How long
have you known. . . ? You said nothing ..."

"I have known since just before Naglimund fell," Vorzheva said. "I
feared to tell you."

Josua watched the tears cutting new tracks along her dusty cheeks. He
lifted his hand to touch her arm briefly before allowing it to drop back
into his lap, then looked from Vorzheva up to Geloe. The witch woman
held his eye for a long moment; some communicated thought seemed to
pass between them.

"By the Four-Footed," Fikolmij growled at last, bemused. "A child-
betrothal, is it? If it's even his, that is."

"It is his, you pig!" Vorzheva said fiercely. "It could be no one else's."

Utvart stepped forward, boot buckles chinking. His swordpoint thumped
down into the floor boards, sinking half an inch into the wood. "A
challenge, then," he said. "To the death we fight." He looked to Geloe
.and his expression became cautious. "Vorzheva, the March-thane's daugh-

STONE OF FAREWELL                337

ter, she is spoils." Turning back to the prince, he tugged his sword free.
The great curved glade came loose as lightly as a feather. "A challenge."
Josua's eyes were hard as he spoke through torn lips. "God hears."

T-

Deornoth stared down at his prince's battered features. "In the morn-
ing!?" he cried, loud enough to draw a scowl from one of the guards. The
Thnthmgs-men, bundled in heavy woolen cloaks against the chill, did not
look pleased with their assignment in the windy bull run. "Why do they
notjust kill you cleanly?"

"It is a chance," Joshua said, then surrendered to a fit of coughing

"What chance?" Deornoth said bitterly. "That a one-handed man who
has been beaten bloody can get up in the morning and outfight a giant?
Merciful Aedon, if I could only get my hands on that snake Fikolmi] . . ."

Josua's only reply was to spit bloodily into the mud.

"The prince is correct," Geloe said. "It is a chance. Anything is better
than nothing."

The witch woman had returned to the bull run to tend the prince. The
guards had stepped back quickly to let her pass: something of her nature
had traveled through the camp in swift whispers. Fikolmy's daughter had
not come with her. Vorzheva had been locked in her father's wagon, tears
of sorrow and anger still damp on her face.

"But you had him at a disadvantage," Deornoth said to the witchwoman.
"Why did you not strike then? Why did you let him send guards?"

Geloe's yellow eyes glittered in the torchlight. "I had no advantage at
all. I told you once. Sir Deornoth, I cannot make warlike magic. I escaped
this stockade, yes, but other than that it was all bluff. Now, if you will be
silent about what you do not know, I will put my true skills to their
proper use." She returned her attention to the pnnce-

How did she escape the stockade? Deornoth could not help wondering.
One moment Geloe had been wandering in the shadows at the far end of
the bull run, the next she had been gone.

He shook his head. It was useless to argue, and he had been little else
but useless of late. He touched Josua's thin arm. "If I may be of any help,
my prince, only ask." He dropped to his knees, then looked briefly to the
witch woman. "I apologize for my unthinking words, Valada Geloe."

She grunted an acknowledgment. Deornoth rose and walked away.

The rest of the starveling band was seated by the other fire. The
Thrithings-men, being not entirely without mercy, had given them brush
and twigs with which to build it. They were not merciless, Deornoth
thought, but not stupid, either: such poor fuel would provide heat—barely—
but could not be used as a weapon, as could a flaming brand. The thought

338

Tad Williams

of weapons set him to musing as he seated himself between Sangfugol and
Father Strangycard.

"This is a foul way to end things," he said. "You have heard what has
happened to Josua3"

Strangyeard swung his slender hands. "They are untutored barbarians,
these grasslandcrs. Mother Elysia, I know all men arc equal in God's eyes.
but this is atrocious! I mean to say, even ignorance is not an excuse for
such . . ."He trailed off fretfully.

Sangfugol sat up. wincing at the pain in his leg. Anyone who knew him
would have been astonished: the harper, previously meticulous in groom-
ing and dress almost to the point of comedy, was as ragged, soiled, and
burr-covered as a haystack vagabond. "And ifjosua dies?" he said quietly.
"He is my master and I love him, I suppose, but if he dies—what happens

to »i?"

"If we are lucky, we will be little better than slaves," Deomoth said,
hearing his own words as if from another's lips. He felt quite hollow.
How had things come to such a point? A year earlier the world had been
as regular as supper bread. "If we are unlucky .   " he continued, but did
not finish his thought—nor did he need to.

"It will be worse on the women," Sangfugol whispered, looking over
to Duchess Outrun, who held sleeping Lcleth on her lap. "These men are
ungodly brutes Have you seen the scars they give themselves5"

"Isorn," Deornoth called suddenly. "Come here, if you please."

Duke Isgnmnur's son crawled around the meager fire to sit near them

"I think," Deomoth said, "that we must prepare ourselves to do some-
thing tomorrow whenJosua is made to fight."

Strangycard looked up, worried. "But we are so few . . . half a dozen in
the midst of thousands "

Isorn nodded, a grim little smile showing on his wide face. "At least we
can choose the way we die. 1 will not let them have my mother." The
smile vanished. "By Usires, I swear I would kill her first."

Sangfugol looked around as if hoping they would reveal their joke.
"But we have no weapons'" he whispered urgently."Are you mad7 Per-
haps we might live if we do nothing, but if we make trouble we will
certainly die."

Deornoth shook his head. "No, harper. If we do not fight, we will
certainly be less than men, whether they kill us or not We will be less
than dogs, who at least np the bear's guts as he kills them." His gaze
traveled from face to face. "Sangfugol." he said at last, "we must plan.
Why don't you sing a song against the chance of any of these cow-herders
wondering why we are gathered or what we speak of."

"A song^ What do you mean?"

"A song. A long, boring song about the virtues of quiet surrender. If it
comes to an end and we are still talking, begin again."

STONE OF FAREWELL                 339

The harper was plainly agitated. "I know no tune like that!"

"Then make one up. Song-bird," Isorn laughed. "We have been too
long without music, anyway. If we die tomorrow, we should live tonight "

"Make it a part of your plans, if you will," Sangfugol said, "that I
would prefer not to die at all." He sat up straighter and began to hum
tunelessly, searching for words. "I am frightened," he said at last.

"So arc we," Deornoth replied. "Sing."

^

Fikolmij swaggered into the bull run soon after dawn touched the gray
sky. The March-thane of the High Thnthmgs wore a heavy embroidered
wool cloak and a rugged gold stallion on a chain around his neck. He
seemed to be m an expansive mood.

"So the reckoning comes," he laughed, then spat upon the ground. His
wnsts were weighty with metal bracelets. "Do you feel fit, Josua Lackhand?"

"I have felt fitter," josua said, tugging on his boot. "Do you have my
sword?"

Fikolmij waved; Hotvig stepped forward bearing Naidel in its sheath.
The young Thrithings-man watched the prince curiously as Josua drew
the sword belt around his hips, managing adroitly despite his missing
hand. When it was buckled, Josua drew Naidel out, holding the slender
blade up to catch the morning light. Hotvig stepped back respectfully. "May
I have a whetstone?" Josua asked. "The edge is dull."

The March-thane chuckled and produced his own kit from a pouch on
his wide belt. "Sharpen it, stone-dweller, sharpen it. We want the only the
best sport, as you have at your city tournaments. But this will not be quite
the same as your castle-games, will it?"

Josua shrugged, smearing a thin film of oil along Naidel's cutting
surface. "I have never cared much for those, either."

Fikolmij's eyes narrowed. "You seem very fit indeed, after the lesson I
gave you last night. Has this witch cast some spell on you? That would be
dishonorable."

Joshua shrugged again to show how little he cared about Fikolmij's
ideas of honor, but Geloe stepped forward. "There have been no charms,
no spells."

Fikolmij eyed her distrustfully for a moment, then turned back to Josua.
"Very well. My men will bring you when you are ready. I am glad to see
you up. It will make for a better fight." The March-thane strutted out of
the paddock, followed closely by three of his guard.

Deornoth, who had watched the whole exchange, cursed quietly. He
knew what effort it had taken his prince to act so unconcerned. He and
Isorn had helped Josua climb to his feet in the hour just before first light.
Even after the healing draught Geloe had given him—an unmagical con-

340

Tad Williams

coction to bolster Josua's strength; Geloe had bitterly regretted the lack of
a sprig of mockfoil to make it truly efficacious—the prince had still found
it difficult to dress himself. The beating Fikolmij had given him had taken
a terrible toll on his undernourished frame. Deornoth secretly doubted
that Josua would even be able to stand after swinging a blade for a short

while.

Father Strangyeard approached the prince- "Your Highness, is there
truly no other way? 1 know the Thrithings-men are barbaric, but God
despises none of His creations. He has put the spark of mercy in every
breast. Perhaps ..."

"It is not the Thrithings-men who wish this," Josua told the one-eyed
priest kindly, "it is Fikolmij. He bears an old hatred for me and my house,
one that even he will not fully admit."

"But I thought the Stallion Clan fought for your father in the Thrithings
War," Isorn said. "Why should he hate you?"

"Because it was with my father's help that he became war-thane of the
High Thrithings. He cannot forgive the fact that it was the stone-dwellers,
as he calls us, who gave him the power his own people would not. Then
his daughter ran from him and I took her with me, losing him a bride-
price of horses. To our friend the March-thane, that is a terrible dishonor.
No, there are no words, priestly or otherwise, that will make Fikolmij
forget."

Josua took a last look at Naidel's keen blade, then slid it back into its
sheath. He gazed around at his assembled people. "Heads high," he said.
The prince seemed strangely clear-eyed and cheerful. "Death is no enemy.
God has prepared a place for us all, I am sure." He walked to the gate in
the fence. Fikolmij's guards opened it, then formed a spear-bristling escort
as Josua walked across the wagon-city.

A swift, cool breeze was blowing across the grasslands, an invisible
hand that ruffled the meadows and thrummed in the tentlines. The low
hills were dotted with grazing cattle. Scores of grimy children who had
been dodging in and out among the wagons left their games to follow
Josua and his makeshift court as they trudged toward the March-thane's
paddock.

Deornoth looked at the faces of children and their parents as they came
to join the swelling procession. Where he expected to see hatred or
bloodlust, he found only eager expectancy—the same eagerness he had
seen as a child on his brothers' and sisters' faces when the High King's
Guard or a painted peddler's wagon had passed their Hewenshire freeholding.
These people hoped only for some excitement. It was unfortunate that it
would take somebody's death, most likely that of his beloved prince, to
provide it.

Golden ribbons flapped on the fenceposts of Fikolmij's enclosure, as if
this were a festival day. The March-thane sat on a stool before his wagon

STONE OF FAREWELL                 341

door. Several more bejewcled Thrithings-men—other clan leaders, Deornoth
guessed—were seated on the ground beside him. Several women of vari-
ous ages stood nearby, and one of them was Vorzheva. The March-thane's
daughter no longer wore the rags other court dress. She had been dressed
in a more traditional clan costume, a hooded wool dress with a heavy belt
studded with colorful stones and a band across her forehead that tied at
the back other hood. Unlike the other women, whose bands were of dark
hues, Vorzheva wore a white ribbon—no doubt indicating, Deornoth
reflected sourly, a bride for sale.

As Josua and his followers stepped through the gate, the prince and
Vorzheva caught each others' eyes. Josua deliberately made the sign of the
Tree on his chest, then kissed his hand and touched it to that spot.
Vorzheva turned away as if to hide tears.

Fikolmij stood and began to speak to the assembled crowd, slipping
back and forth between Westcrling and the harsh Thrithings dialect as he
held forth to the seated dignitaries and the other clanfolk gathered around
the paddock fences. As the March-thane roared on, Deornoth slipped
forward between the half-dozen spearmen who had followed Josua into
the enclosure and moved to his prince's side.

"Highness," he said quietly, laying a hand on his shoulder. The prince
started, as if woken from a dream.

"Ah- It's you."

"I wanted to beg your forgiveness, my prince, before . . . before what-
ever happens. You are the kindest lord a man could want. I had no right
to speak to you as I did yesterday."

Josua smiled sadly. "You had every right. I only wish I had more time
to think about the things you said. I have indeed been far too self-absorbed
of late. It was the act of a friend to point that out."

Deornoth fell to a knee, pulling Josua's hand to his lips. "The Lord bless
you, Josua," he said quickly. "Bless you. And do not close too swiftly
with that brute."

The prince thoughtfully watched Deornoth rise. "I may have to. I fear I
have not the strength to wait long. If I see any chance at all, I must take
it."

Deornoth tried to speak again, but his throat was too tight. He clasped
Josua's hand, then retreated.

A ragged volley of shouts and cheers rose from the crowd as Utvart
climbed over the paddock fence and took his place before Fikolmij. Josua's
adversary stripped off his cowhide vest and displayed his muscular torso,
which had been rubbed with fat until it glistened. Seeing this, Deornoth
frowned: Utvart would be able to move quickly, and the fat would
help him keep warm.

The Thrithing-man's curved sword had been thrust scabbardless through
his broad belt, his long hair pulled into a knot at the back of his head.

342

Tad Williams

Utvart wore a bracelet on each arm, and several earrings dangled against
his jaw. He had daubed his scars with red and black paint, making himself

seem a kind of demon.

Now he pulled his sword from his belt and lifted it over his head,
engendering another chorus of shouts. "Come, Lackhand," he boomed.

"Utvart is waiting."

Father Strangyeard was praying aloud as Josua walked forward across
the enclosure. Deornoth found that rather than soothing or reassuring
him, the priest's words rubbed on his nerves until he had to step away;

after a moment s consideration, he moved to a spot along the fence just to
the side of one of the guards- He looked up and saw Isorn staring.
Deornoth shifted his chin in a virtually undetecrible nod; Isom eased over
toward the wall also, until he stood a few yards from Deornoth.

Josua had left his cloak with Duchess Gutrun, who cradled it like a
child. Beside her stood Leieth, dirty fist clutching the duchess' tattered
skirt. Geloe was a short distance away, her yellow stare hooded.

As Deornoth surveyed the group, other eyes met his and slid away, as if
fearing to maintain too lengthy a contact. Sangfugol quietly began to sing.

"So, son ofPresterjohn, you come before the Free Folk of the Thrithings
a little less great than you once were," Fikolmij grinned. His clansmen
laughed and whispered.

"Only in my possessions," Josua said calmly. "As a matter of fact, I
would like to propose a wager, Fikolmij—between the two of us, you and

me."

The March-thane laughed, surprised. "Brave words, Josua, proud words
coming from a man who knows he will soon die." Fikolmij looked him
over calculatingly. "What kind of wager?"

The prince slapped his scabbard. "I propose to bet on this and my good

left hand."

"Good, since it is your only hand," Fikolmij smirked. His clansmen

roared.

"That is as may be. If Utvart defeats me, he gets Vorzheva and you get

her bride-price, is that not true?"

"Thirteen horses." The March-thane was smug. "What of it?"
"Simply this. Vorzheva is already mine. We are betrothed. If I survive, I
gain nothing new." His eyes met Vorzheva's across the crowd of watch-
ers, then moved back to her father with cold regard.

"You gain your life!" Fikolmij spluttered. "In any case, it is foolish to

talk. You will not survive."

Utvart, waiting impatiently, allowed himself a thin smile at his thane's

words.

STONE OF FAREWELL                 343

"That is why I wish to make a wager with you," Josua said. "With you.
Fikolmij. Between men." Some of the clansmen chuckled at this; Fikolmij
looked around angrily until they fell silent.

"Speak on."

"It will be a wager of little value, Fikolmij, the kind that bold-willed
men make without hesitation in the cities of my people. If / win, you will
give me the same price you are asking from Utvart." Josua smiled. "I will
choose thirteen horses from you."

There was an undertone of anger in Fikolmij's hoarse voice. "Why
should I wager with you at all? A wager is only a wager if both sides risk
something. What could you possibly have that I want?" His expression
turned cunning. "And what do you have that I cannot simply take from
your people when you arc dead?"

"Honor."

Fikolmij drew back in surprise. The whispers around him intensified.
"By the Four-Footed, what does that mean?! I care little for your soft-
hearted, stone-dweller's honor."

"Ah," Josua said with a ghost of a smile, "but your own?"

The prince turned suddenly to face the crowd of Thrithings-folk who
hung over the fences of Fikolmij's great paddock. A ripple of quiet
talk ran through the throng. "Free men and women of the High
Thrithings!" he cried. "You have come to see me killed." A bray of
laughter greeted this statement. A clod of dirt hurtled toward Josua,
missing him by only a few cubits and rolling past Fikolmij's clansmen,
who glared out at the assembly. "I have offered your March-thanc a
wager. I swear that the Aedon, god of the stone-dwellers, will save
me—and that I will beat Utvart."

"That would be something to see!" one of the crowd bellowed in
heavily-accented Westerling. There was more laughter. Fikolmij stood and
moved toward Josua as if to silence him, but after looking around at the
shouting spectators seemed to think better of it. Instead, he crossed his
arms over his broad chest and watched sullenly. "What do you wager,
little man?" one of the clansmen near the front shouted.

"All that remains to me: my honor and the honor of my people." Josua
drew Naidcl from its sheath and lifted it high. His shirt sleeve fell back;

Elias' rusted manacle, which he still wore around his left wrist, caught the
faint morning light like a band of blood. "I am the son ofPresterJohn, the
High King who you remember well. Fikolmij knew him best of all of you."
The crowd murmured- The March-thane growled his discontent at this show.

"Here is my wager," Josua shouted. "If I fall to Utvart, I swear it will
prove that our god Usires Aedon is weak. and that Fikolmij speaks true
when he says that he is stronger than the stone-dwellers. You will know
that your March-thane's Stallion is mightier than the Dragon and Tree of
John's house, which is the greatest house in all the city-lands ofOsten Ard."

344 Tad Williams

A chorus of shouting voices rose. josua calmly surveyed the crowd.
"What does Fikolmi) wager?" someone cried at last. Utvart, standing only
a few ells away, was glowering at josua, obviously furious at how his
thunder had been stolen, butjust as obviously unsure as to whether Josua's
wager could somehow increase his own glory when he slaughtered this
cnppled city-dweller.

"As many horses as Vorzheva's bride-price. And my people and I to go
free and unhmdercd," Josua said. "Not much when matched against the
honor of a prince of Erkynland."

"A prince with no house!" someone catcalled, but a host of other voices
drowned out the heckler, exhorting Fikolmij to take the wager, crying
that he would be a fool to let this stone-dweller show him up. The
March-thane, features twisted in poorly-hidden rage, let the crowd's urg-
ings wash over him like rain. He looked quite ready to grasp Josua's neck
in his hands and throttle the prince himself.

"So. It is done," he snarled at last, lifting his arm in a gesture
of acceptance. The watchers cheered. "By the Grass Thunderer, you
have heard him. The wager is set. My horses against his empty words.
Now, let this foolishness come to a swift end." Much of the March-
thane's enjoyment seemed to have evaporated. He leaned forward,
speaking low so that only Josua could hear. "When you are dead, I
will kill your women and children with my own hands. Slowly. No man
makes me butt of a joke before my clans and steals my rightful horses."
Fikolmij turned and stalked back to his stool, frowning at the jests from
his randwarders.

As Josua unbuckled and cast away his sword belt, Utvart stepped
forward, corded arms gleaming as he lifted his heavy blade.

"You talk and talk and talk, little man," the grasslander snarled. "You
talk too much."

A moment later he bounded across the intervening space in three long
strides, his sword swinging in a great arc. Naidel flashed up, deflecting the
blow with a dull chime, but before Josua could bring his slim blade up for
a cut of his own, Utvart had whirled and begun another powerful,
two-handed sweep. Josua again managed to sidestep Utvart's attack, but
this time the curved sword rang hard against the prince's guard and Naidel
almost flew from his hand- He staggered back a few steps across the
muddy turf before he could regain his balance. Utvart grinned fiercely and
began circling, forcing Josua to turn quickly so the prince could keep his
left shoulder facing the Thnthings-man. Utvart feinted, then lunged. Josua's
boot heel slid on the hoof-trampled ground, forcing him to drop to one
knee. He managed to turn Utvart's thrust, but as the big man pulled his
blade free it sawed back across Josua's sword arm, freeing a ribbon of
blood.

STONE OF FAREWELL                 345

The prince rose carefully. Utvart showed his teeth and continued cir-
cling. A trickle of red dripped from the back of Josua's hand. The prince
wiped it on the leg of his breeches, then raised it again quickly as Utvart
feigned another thrust. Moments later the blood was again dribbling
down Josua's wnst and onto his hilt.

Deornoth thought he understood the strange business of the wager—
Josua was hoping to make Fikolmij and Utvart angry in the hope it would
lead to some sort of mistake—but the prince's idea had all too obviously
not succeeded. The March-thane was indeed furious, but Josua was not
battling Fikolmy, and Utvart did not seem as hot-headed as the prince had
probably hoped. Instead, the Thrithings-man was proving himself a canny
fighter. Rather than relying blindly on his superior strength and reach, he
was wearing Josua down with heavy blows, then springing away before
the prince could counter.

As he watched the one-sided combat, Deornoth felt his heart falling like
a stone. It had been foolish to think anything else could happen. Josua was
a fine swordsman, but he would have had trouble with one like Utvart at
the best of times. Today, the prince was injured and poorly-rested, weak
as a stripling. It was only a matter of time. - . -

Deornoth turned to Isom. The young Rimmersman shook his head
grimly: he, too, understood chat Josua was fighting a defensive action,
putting off the inevitable as long as possible. Isom lifted his eyebrow
inquiringly. Now?

Father Strangyeard's murmured prayers were a counterpoint to the
shouting throng. The guards around them were staring raptly, eyes wide,
spears held only loosely. Deornoth lifted his hand. Wait . . .

Blood was rilling from two more wounds, a slash on Josua's left wrist
and a broad gouge in his leg. The prince wiped sweat from his forehead
and left a broad scarlet smear across his face, as though he sought to match
Utvart's painted scars.

Josua stumbled back, ducking awkwardly beneath another of Utvart's
swinging attacks, then censed and lunged forward. His thrust ended harm-
lessly, well short of Utvart's oiled stomach. The Thrithings-man, silent to
this point, laughed harshly and cut again. Josua blocked, then attacked.
Utvart's eyes widened, and for a moment the paddock echoed with the
percussive sound of steel on steel. Most of the throng were up and
shouting. Slender Naidel and Utvart's long sword spun in and out through
an intricate dance of silver light, ringing their own accompaniment.

The Thnthings-man's mouth stretched in a grimace of wild glee, but
Josua's face was ashen, his bloodless lips pursed and his gray eyes burning
with some last reserve of strength. Two of the Thnthings-man's powerful
swings were clangmgly rebuffed, then Josua's swift lunge drew a bright

346 Tad Williams

red line along Utvart's ribs Some in the watching crowd shouted and
clapped at this evidence that the fight was not yet over, but Utvart
narrowed his eyes in anger and surged forward, raining blows like a
blacksmith hammering at an anvil Staggered, Josua could only retreat,
trying to keep Naidel up before him, the thin strip of steel his only shield
The prince's weak attempt at a counter-thrust was carelessly knocked aside,
then one of Utvart's bludgeoning swipes banged off the prince's guard and
struck his head Josua lurched backward for several loose-jointed steps
before slumping to his knees, blood coursing from a spot just above his
ear He lifted Naidel before him as though to ward off more blows, but
his eyes were bleary and the sword wavered like a willow limb

The noise of the throng rose to a howl Fikolmy was on his feet, beard
blowing in the sharp wind, clenched fist in the air like an angry god
calling down the thunder of the heavens Utvart approached Josua slowly,
still surprisingly cautious, as though he expected some stone-dweller trick,
but the prince was clearly beaten, struggling to rise from his knees, the
stump of his right wrist slipping in the mud

A different kind of noise suddenly arose from the far side of the
paddock The crowd's attention grudgingly turned Coward the source
There was an eddying of bodies near where the prisoners stood, and spears
flailing like grass-stems A woman's shriek of amazement was followed
immediately by a man's cry of pain A moment later a pair of bodies
broke free from the press Deornoth held one of the Thnthmgs guards, his
elbow around the man's throat The knight's other hand clasped the
guard's spear just below the head, its sharp point pushed snug against the

man's belly

"Tell your other riders to stand back, horse-lord, or these men will
die " Deornoth prodded at his captive's belly The man grunted but did
not cry out A spot of blood appeared on his dun-colored shirt

Fikolmij stepped forward, flushed with wrath, his braided beard quiver-
ing on his jaws "Are you mad? Are you madmen5 By The Four-Footed, I
will crush you all'"

"Then your clansmen will die as well We do not like to kill in cold
blood, but we will not stand by and see our prince murdered after you
beat him until he could not fight "

The crowd murmured unhappily, but Fikolmy, seeching with rage, paid
no attention He raised his braceleted arm to call for his warriors, but a
voice lanced out.

"No'" It was Josua, climbing cottenngly to his feet "Let them go,
Deornoth "

The knight stared in amazement "But, Highness

"Let them go " He paused to find breath "I will fight my own battle If
you love me, release them " Josua rubbed blood from his eyes, blinking

Deornoth turned to Isom and Sangfugol, who held spears on three

STONE OF FAREWELL                 347

more guards They returned his astonished stare. "Release them," he said at
last "The prince bids us release them "

Isorn and Sangfugol lowered their spears, allowing the Thnthmgs-men
to step away They promptly did, scrambling out of reach of the spear
points before they remembered their original roles as captors and stopped,
muttering angrily Isom ignored them Beside him, the harper was trembling
like a wounded bird Geloe, who had not moved through all the furor,
shifted her yellow eyes back to Josua

"Come, Utvart," the prince said haltingly, his smile a bitter slash of
white across a bloody mask "Forget them We are not finished "

Fikolmij, who stood close by, champing with his open mouth as though
at a bit, started to say something He never had the chance

Utvart leaped forward, battering atJosua's guard The moment's respite
had not returned Josua's strength he fell backward unsteadily before the
Thrith ings-man's attack, fending off the curved blade only by the slim-
mest of margins At last a swinging blow slid past, nicking Josua's chest,
then the following attack landed the flat of Utvart's blade on Josua's
elbow, springing Naidel from his grasp The prince scuttled after it, but as
his fingers closed on the bloody hilt his feet slipped from beneath him and
he sprawled on the trampled turf

Seeing his advantage, Utvart lunged forward Josua was able to lift his
sword and turn the stroke downward, but his awkward position as he rose
from the ground allowed Utvart to grapple him in a hugely-muscled arm
and begin to pull the prince in toward the cutting edge of the curved
sword Josua brought up his knee and right arm to try to hold his attacker
at bay, then managed to raise his other arm, keeping his blade locked
against Utvart s guard, but the stronger Thnthmgs-man pushed his sword
up slowly against the prince's stiffened wrist, forcing Naidel back as the
crescent blade rose toward Josua's throat The prince's lips skinned back m
a grimace of ultimate exertion and smews knotted along his slender arm
For a moment, his supreme effort halted the rising blade The two men
stood grappling chest to chest Sensing the prince's flagging strength,
Utvart tightened his grip around his smaller foe and smiled, drawing Josua
toward him in a movement almost ntually slow Despite the agonized
play of the prince's muscles, the long edge of the curved blade continued
inexorably upward, coming lovingly to rest against the side of Josua's throat

The crowd stopped shouting Somewhere overhead a crane threw out
its clattering call, then silence swept back over the field

"Now, ' the Thnthmgs-man exulted, breaking his long silence, "Utvart
kills you "

Josua suddenly ceased resisting and flung himself forward into his
enemy's grasp, snapping his head to one side The curved blade slid along
the outside of his neck, slicing the flesh deeply, but in that fractional
instant of freedom the prince drove a knee into Utvart's groin

348                         Tad Williams

As Utvart grunted in painful surprise, Josua hooked a foot around the
Thnthings-man's calf and pushed against him Utvart could not find his
balance and tumbled backward Josua fell with him, the Thnthmgs-man's
blade flailing past his shoulder. When Utvart struck the ground with a hiss
of released breath, Naidel snaked free. A moment later its point slid
beneath the Thnthings-man's chin and was hammered upward a hand's-
width or more, through the Jaw and into the braincase.

Josua rolled himself free of Utvart's spastic clutch and struggled to his
feet, dripping scarlet. He stood for a moment, legs shaking, arms dangling
limp and helpless, and stared at the body on the ground before him

"Tall man," he gasped, "it is ... you . . . who talks too much "

A moment later his eyes rolled up beneath his lids and he fell heavily
across the Thnthings-man's chest. They lay together, their blood com-
mingling, and across the entire grasslands it seemed that nothing spoke or
moved for a long time. Then the shouting began.

PART THREE

Stormy Heart

18

The Lost Garden

A

-/iJ l/C-T a long sojourn in soundless velvet emptiness, Simon returned
at last to the dim borderlands between sleep and waking He came to
awareness in darkness, on the edge of dream, and realized that once again
a voice was speaking within his thoughts, as on the nightmarish flight out
of Skodi's abbey Some door had been opened inside him now it seemed
that anything might enter

But this uninvited guest was not the taunting flame-thing, the Storm
King's minion The new voice was as different from that ghastly other as
the quick from the dead The new voice did not mock or threaten—in
fact, it did not even seem to be speaking to Simon at all

It was a womanly voice, musical yet strong, shining in Simon's lightless
dream like a beacon Though its words were sorrowful, it brought him a
strange sense of comfort Even though Simon knew that he slept, and was
sure that it would only be the work of an instant to wake into the real
world, the voice captivated him so that he did not wish to awaken just
yet Remembering the wise, beautiful face he had seen in Jinki's mirror,
he was content to hover on the edge ofwakefulness and listen, for this was
the same voice, the same person Somehow, when that door into Simon
had been opened, it was the mirror-woman who had come through
Simon was infinitely thankful for that He remembered a little of what the
Red Hand had promised him, and even in the shelter of sleep he felt frost
upon his heart

"Beloved Hakatn, my beautiful son," the woman's voice said, "how I miss
you I know you are beyond hearing or beyond replying, but I cannot help
speaking as though you were before me Too many times have the People danced
the year's end smce you went into the West Hearts grow cold, and the world
grows colder still "

Simon realized that even though the voice sang through his dream,
these words were not meant for his ears He felt like a beggar child spying
on a rich and powerful family through a crack in a wall But just as the

352 Tad Williams

wealthy family might have sorrows a beggar could not understand—miseries
unrelated to hunger or cold or physical pain—so the voice in Simon's
dream, for all its majesty, seemed weighted with quiet anguish

"In some ways, it seems only the turning of a handful of moon-faces since the
Two Families left Venyha Do'sae, the land of our birth across the Great Sea Ah,
Hakatn, if only you could have seen our boats as they swept across the fierce waves'
Ofsilverwood they were crafted, with sails of bright cloth, brave and beautiful as
flying fish As a child I rode in the bow as the waves parted, and I was surrounded
by a cloud ofscmtillant, sparkling seafoam1 Then, when our boats touched the soil
of this land, we cried We had escaped the shadow ofUnbeing and won our way to
freedom

"But instead, Hakatn, we found that we had not truly escaped shadow at all,
but only replaced one sort with another—and this shadow was growing inside us

' Of course, it was long before we realized it The new shadow grew slowly,
first in our hearts, then in our eyes and hands, but now the evil it caused has
become greater than anyone could have suspected It is stretching across all this land
that we loved, the land to which we hastened long ago as to the arms of a lover—or
as a son to the arms of his mother

"Our new land has become as shadowed as the old one, Hakatn, and that is our
fault But now your brother, who was ruined by that shadow, has himself become
an even more terrible darkness He casts a pall over all he once loved
"Oh, by the Garden that is Vanished, it is hard to lose your sons'"
Something else was now competing for his attention, but Simon could
only lie helplessly, unwilling or unable to awaken It seemed that some-
where outside of this dream-that-was-not-a-dream, his name was being
called Did he have friends or family who searched for him5 It did not
matter He could not break away from the woman Her terrible sadness
twisted within him like a sharpened stick or a bit of broken pot it would
be cruel to leave her alone with her sorrow. At last the voices that faintly
called for him vanished

The woman's presence remained It seemed that she wept Simon did
not know her, and could not guess to whom she spoke, but he wept with
her

^

Guthwulf was feeling confused and irritated As he sat polishing his
shield he tried to listen to the report of his castellain, who hadjust ridden
down from Guthwulf s hold in Utanyeat He was not having much luck
with either chore

The earl spat citnl juice into the floor rushes "Say it again, man, you
are making no serse at all "

The castellain, a round-bellied, ferret-eyed fellow, firmly repressed a
sigh of weariness—Guthwulf was not the kind of master before whom one

S1ONE OF FAREWELL                 353

displayed imperfect patience—and started in again on his explanation

"It is simply this, Lord your holdings in Utanyeat are nearly empty
Wulfholt is deserted but for a few servants Almost all the peasants have
left There will be no one to bring in the oats or barley, and harvest can
wait little more than a fortnight "

"My serfs have left'" Guthwulf stared distractedly at the boar and silver
spears that sparkled on his black shield, the spearheads picked out in
mother-of-pearl He had loved that coat of arms, once, loved it as he
would a child "How do they dare leave5 Who but me has fed the ugly
louts all these years5 Well, hire others for harvest, but do not let those
who fled come back again Not ever "

Now the castellain did make the smallest noise of despair "My lord,
Earl Guthwulf, I fear you have not been listening to me There are not
enough free folk left in Utanyeat to hire The barons, your liege men,
have their own problems and few workers to spare Fields everywhere in
eastern and northern Erkynland are going to seed unharvested Skali of
Kaldskryke's army across the river in Hernystir has cut a swath through
all the border towns near Utanyeat, and will probably cross the nver
soon, having exhausted Lluth's country "

"Lluth is dead, I am told," Guthwulf said slowly. He himself had been
in King Lluth's house, the Taig His blood had flowed hot in his veins as
he insulted the shcep-herder king in the midst of Lluth's own court That
had been a few scant months ago Why did he feel so terrible now, so
unmanned3 "Why are all these villains running away from their rightful
homes3"

The castellain looked at him queerly, as though Guthwulf had suddenly
asked which direction was up "Why5 Because of the wars and looting on
their border, the chaos of the Frostmarch And the White Foxes, of
course "

"The White Foxes5"

"Surely you know of the White Foxes, Lord " The castellain was almost
openly skeptical "Surely, since they came to the aid of the army you
commanded at Naghmund "

Guthwulf looked up, pawing reflectively at his upper lip "The Norns,
you mean5"

"Yes, Lord White Foxes is the name the common people give them,
because of their corpse-pale skin and foxy eyes *' He suppressed a shudder
"White Foxes "

"But what of them, man5" the earl demanded When there was no
immediate answer, his voice began to rise "What do they have to do with
my harvest, Aedon shake your soul3"

"Why, they are coming south. Earl Guthwulf," the castellain said,
surprised "They are leaving their nest in Naglimund's ruins People who
must sleep in the open have seen them walking the hills by darkness, like

354

Tad Williams

ghosts. They travel at night, a few at a time, and always moving
southward—heading for the Hayholt." He looked around nervously, as if
only now realizing what he had said. "Coming here."

After the castellam left, Guthwulfsat a long time drinking from a stoup
of wine. He picked up his helm to polish it, staring at the ivory tusks that
lifted from the crest, then put it back down, untouched. His heart was not
in the task, even though the king expected him to lead the Erkynguard
into the field a few days hence and his armor had not been thoroughly
looked-to since the siege of Naglimund. Things had not gone right at all
since the siege. The castle seemed ghost-ridden, and chat damnable gray
sword and its two blade-brothers haunted his dreams until he almost
feared to go to bed, to fall asleep. . - -

He set the wine down and stared at the flickering candle, then felt his
melancholy spirits lift a little. At least he had not been imagining things.
The countless odd night-sounds, the untethered shadows in the halls and
commons, Ellas' vanishing midnight visitors, all these and more had
begun to make the Earl of Utanyeat doubt his own good mind. When the
king had forced him to touch that cursed sword, Guthwulf had become
sure that, whether by sorcery or no, some crack in his thoughts had let
madness in to destroy him. But it was no whim, no fancy—the castellain
had confirmed it. The Norns were coming to the Hayholt. The White
Foxes were coming.

Guthwulf pulled his knife from his sheath and sent it whickering end
over end into the door. It stuck, quivering in the heavy oak. He shuffled
across the chamber and pulled it loose, then threw again, fetching it out
with a swift jerk of his hand. The wind shrilled in the trees outside.
Guthwulf bared his teeth. The knife thumped into the wood once more.

T-

Simon lay suspended in a sleep that was not sleep, and the voice in his

head spoke on.

". . . You see, Hakatri, my quietest son, perhaps that was where our troubles
began. I spoke a moment ago of the Two Families, as though we twain were the
only survivors of Venyha Do'sae, but it was the boats of the Tinukeda'ya that
brought us across the Great Sea. Neither we Zida'ya nor our brethren the
Hikeda'-ya would have lived to reach this land had it not been for Ruyan the
Navigator and his people—but to our shame, we treated the Ocean Children as
badly here as we had in the garden-lands beyond the sea. When most ofRuyan's
folk at last departed, going forth into this new land on their own, that, I think,
was when the shadow first began to grow. Oh, Hakatri, we were mad to bring
those old injustices to this new place, wrongs that should have died with our home
in the Uttermost East. ..."

STONE OF FAREWELL

^

355

The clown mask bobbed before Tiamak's eyes, gleaming with firelight,
covered with strange plumes and horns. For a moment he felt confused.
How had the Wind Festival come so soon? Surely the annual celebration of
He Who Bends the Trees was months away? But here was one of the
wind-clowns bowing and dancing before him—and what other explana-
tion could there be for the way Tiamak's head ached but an excessive
intake of fern beer, a sure sign that Festival Days were here?

The wind-clown made a soft clicking noise as it tugged at something in
Tiamak's hand. What could the clown be doing? Then he remembered. It
wanted his coin, of course: everyone was expected to carry beads or pieces
of money for He Who Bends the Trees. The clowns gathered these glitter-
ing tributes in clay jars to shake at the sky, making a rattling, roaring
noise that was the chief music of the Festival—a noise that brought the
good will of the Tree-Bender, so chat he would keep harmful winds and
floods at bay.

Tiamak knew he should let the clown have his coin—wasn't that what
he had brought it for?—but still, there was something about the insinuat-
ing way the wind-clown pawed at him that made Tiamak uncomfortable.
The clown's mask winked and leered; Tiamak, fighting a growing sense of
unease, clutched the metal more tightly. What was wrong. . . ?

As his vision suddenly cleared, his eyes widened in horror. The bobbing
clown mask became the chitmous face of a ghant, hanging only a scant
cubit above his boat, suspended by a vine from a branch that overhung the
nver. The ghant was prodding gently with its insectile claw, patiently
trying to poke Tiamak's knife loose from his sleep-sweaty grasp.

The little man shouted with disgust and threw himself back toward the
stern of his flatboat. The ghant rasped and clicked its mouth-feelers,
waving a plated foreleg as chough trying to reassure him that it had all
been a mistake. A moment later Tiamak swept up his steering pole,
swinging it broadside so that he caught the ghant before it could scurry
back up the vine. There was a loud clack and the ghant flew out across the
river, legs curled like a singed spider. It made only a small splash as it
disappeared into the green water.

Tiamak shuddered in repugnance as he waited for it to bob back to the
surface. A chorus of dry clacking came from above his head and he looked
up quickly to see half a dozen more ghants, each the size of a large
monkey, staring down at him from the safety of the upper branches. Their
expressionless black eyes glittered. Tiamak had little doubt that if they
guessed he could not stand, they would be upon him in a moment; still, it
seemed strange for ghants to attack any full-grown human, even an
injured one. Strange or not, he could only hope they didn't realize how

356

Tad Williams

weak he really was, or what sort of injuries the bloody bandage on his leg
signified.

"That's right, you ugly bugs!" he shouted, brandishing his steering pole
and knife. Hi'i own cry made his head hurt. Wincing, he prayed silently
that he didn't faint from the exertion; if he did, he felt sure he would never
wake up. "Come on down and I'll give you the same lesson I did your
friend!"

The ghants chittercd at him with offhanded malice, as much as to say
that there was no hurry; if they didn't get him today, some other ghants
would soon enough. Crusty, lichen-dotted carapaces scraped against the
willow branches as the ghants dragged themselves higher up into the tree.
Resisting a fit of shivers, Tiamak calmly but deliberately poled his flatboat
toward the center of the watercourse, out from beneath the low-hanging
limbs.

The sun, which had been only midway up the morning sky when he
noticed it last, had moved shockingly far past the meridian. He must have
fallen asleep sitting up, despite the early hour. His fever had taken a great
deal out of him. It seemed to have abated, at least for the present, but he
was still dreadfully weak, and his injured leg throbbed as if it were aflame.

Tiamak's sudden laugh was raw and unpleasant. To think that two days
ago he had been making grand decisions about where he would go, about
which of the mighty folk clamoring for his services would be lucky
enough to get him and which would have to wait! He remembered that he
had decided to go to Nabban as his tribal elders had requested, and to let
Kwanitupul go for now, a decision that had caused him many hours of
worrying deliberation. Now his careful choice had been reversed in a
freakish instant. He would be lucky if he even made it to Kwanitupul
alive: the long Journey to Nabban was simply inconceivable. He had lost
blood and was sick with wound-spite. None of the proper herbs to treat
such an injury grew in this part of the Wran. Also, just to insure his
continuing misery, a nest of ghants had now spotted him and made him
out as soon-to-be easy pickings!

His heart raced. A gray cloud of weakness was descending on him. He
reached a slender hand down into the nvercourse, then splashed cold
water onto his face. That filthy thing had actually been touching him, sly
as a pickpocket, trying to dislodge his knife so its brethren might drop on
him unresisted. How could anyone think that ghants were only animals?
Some of his tribesmen claimed that they were nothing but the overgrown
bugs or crabs they much resembled, but Tiamak had seen the terrible
intelligence lurking behind those remorseless jet eyes. The ghants might
be products of They Who Breathe Darkness rather than She Who Birthed
Mankind—as Older Mogahib so often proclaimed—but that did not make
them stupid.

He swiftly surveyed the contents of his boat to make sure nothing had

STONE OF FAREWELL                 357

been taken by the ghants before he had awakened. All his meager lot—a
few rags of formal clothing, the Summoning Stick from the tribal elders, a
few cooking things, his throwing-shng, and his Nisses scroll in its oilskin
bag—lay scattered in the bottom of the flatboat. Everything seemed as it
should be.

Lying in the hull nearby were the skeletal remains of the fish whose
capture had begun these latest troubles. Some time during the last two
days of chills and madness he must have eaten most of it, unless birds had
picked the bones naked while he slept. Tiamak tried to remember how the
fever-time had passed, but all he could summon were visions of poling
endlessly down the watercourse while the sky and water bted color like
glaze running from a poorly-fired pot. Had he remembered to make a fire
and boil the marsh-water before washing out his wound? He seemed to
have a vague recollection of crying to lay a spark to some tinder piled in
his clay cooking-bowl, but had no idea whether a fire had ever caught
there.

Trying to remember made Tiamak's head swim. It was useless to fret
over what had or had not happened, he told himself. He was obviously
still sick; his only chance was to make his way to Kwanitupul before the
fever returned. With a regretful head shake he dropped the fish carcass
overboard—the size of the skeleton confirmed that ii: had indeed been a
splendid fish—then donned his shirt as another bout of shivers ran through
him. He slumped back against the stern of the boat, then reached for the
hat he had woven from sand-palm fronds during his journey's first day.
He pulled it down low in an effort to keep the harsh midday sun out of his
smarting eyes. After dabbing a little more water on his eyelids, he began
to push with the pole, laboriously forcing the flatboat along the wide
channel while his aching muscles protested with every stroke.

The fever did return sometime during the night. When Tiamak escaped
its clutches once more, it was to find himself floating in lazy circles, his
flatboat becalmed in a marshy backwater- His leg, although swollen and
tremendously painful, did not seem markedly worse. With luck, if he
could get to Kwamtupul soon he would not lose it.

Shaking loose the cobwebs of sleep, he offered yet another prayer to He
Who Always Steps on Sand—whose existence, despite Tiamak's generally
skeptical nature, had come to seem a great deal more conceivable since the
misadventure with the crocodile. Whether this weakening of his disbelief
was due to the mind-dizzying fever, or to a resurgence of true faith
brought on by the nearness of death, Tiamak did not much care. Neither
did he scrutinize his feelings about the matter very deeply. The fact was,
he did not want to be a one-legged scholar—or worse, a dead scholar. If
the gods did not help him, then there was no resource available to him in
this treacherous marsh other than his own fast-failing resolve. Faced with
those simple alternatives, Tiamak prayed.

358 Tad Williams

He poled himself out of this latest backwater, at last reaching a place
where several waterways came together. It was hard to tell exactly how he
had wandered to this point, but using the newly-kindled stars as a reference—
especially the Loon and the shimng-pawed Otter—he was able to orient
himself toward Kwanitupul and the sea. He kept his barge-pole moving
until dawn, when he could no longer ignore his weary mind and wounded
body crying out for rest. Fighting to keep his eyes open, he floated down
the watercourse a little farther, poking m the muddy bank until at last he
located a large stone which he levered free This he secured to his fishing
line and dumped it over the side to act as an anchor so he could remain
moored in an uncovered section of the waterway as he took his desperately-
needed sleep, safely away from tree-clinging ghants and other unwanted
company.

Now able to preserve the gains made by his poling, Tiamak made better
time. He lost half of the next afternoon (his eighth or ninth since leaving
home, he guessed) to another resurgence of fever, but was able to push on
a bit during the evening, and even continue after dark in order to make up
some of his lost time. He discovered that there were far fewer biting and
stinging insects once the sun had vanished into the western swamp, this
and the oddly pleasant blue glow of twilight made such a nice change
from his sun-battered afternoons that he celebrated by finally eating the
rather forlorn-looking nver-apple he had found on a branch overhanging
the watercourse. River-apples were usually gone by this late in the year,
those which had escaped the birds falling free at last to drift on the
eddying water, bobbing like fisherman's floats until their seeds wound up
at last in some mud-dam or root-tangled clump of soil. Tiamak had
considered the find a good omen. He had put it aside after many expres-
sions of thanks to beneficent deities, knowing he would enjoy it more if he
savored the thought of it for a while.

The first bite through the rind of the nver-apple was sour, but the pale
flesh nearer the middle was wonderfully sweet. Tiamak, who had been
surviving for days on waterbugs and edible grasses and leaves, was so
overcome by the taste of the fruit that he nearly fell into a swoon He had
to put most of it aside for later.

Kwanitupul could have been said to occupy the northern shore of the
upper prong of the Bay ofFirannos, except that there was no real shore in
that location: Kwanitupul lay on the Wran's northernmost fringe, but it
was still very much a part of the greater marsh.

What had once been a minor trading village made up of a few score
tree-houses and stilted huts had grown vast when the merchants ofNabban
and Perdrum and the Southern Islands discovered the array of valuable
things that came from the Wran's unreachable interior—unreachable by

STONE OF FAREWELL                 359

any except the Wrannamen, of course. Exotic feathers for ladies' gowns,
dried mud for dyes, apothecancal powders and minerals of unequaled
rarity and potency, all these things and many more kept the bazaars of
Kwanitupui thriving with merchants and traders from up and down the
coast Since there was no land worthy of the name, pilings were driven
deep into the mud instead, and shallow-drafted boats were laden with
powdered stone and mortar and allowed to sink along the banks of the
swampy waterways Across these foundations countless huts and walk-
ways had sprung up.

As Kwamtupul grew, Nabbanai and Perdrumese drifted in to share its
dilapidated precincts with the native Wrannamen, until the trading city
had spread its way over many miles of canals and swaying bridges,
growing across and clogging the outer byways of the swamp like water-
hyacinth Its ramshackle eminence now dominated the Bay ofFirannos as
its older and larger sister Ansis Pelippe did the Bay ofEmettm and Osten
Ard's north-central coast.

Still dizzy with fever, Tiamak found himself at last drifting up out of
the swamp's wild interior into the increasingly crowded arterial water-
ways of Kwanitupul. At first, only a few other flatboats shared the green
water with him, and these were almost entirely poled by other Wrannamen,
many wearing feathery tribal finery in honor of their first visit to the
grandest marsh-village of all. Farther into Kwamtupul the canals were
choked with a host of other crafts—not only small boats like Tiamak's,
but ships of all size and design, from the beautifully carved and canopied
barks of rich merchants to huge grain ships and barges carrying cut stone
that slid along the waterways like imperious whales, forcing smaller boats
to scatter or risk being swamped in their rolling wake.

Tiamak normally enjoyed the sights of Kwanitupul enormously—
although, unlike his tribesmen, he had seen Ansis Pelippe and the other
port cities of Perdruin, beside which Kwamtupul was only a slightly
shabby copy. Now, however, his fever was upon him once more. The
lapping of water and the shouts of Kwamtupulis seemed curiously distant;

the waterways he had traveled many times before were forbiddingly
unfamiliar

He wracked his wandering mind for the name of the mn to which he
had been directed to go In his letter, the one whose delivery had martyred
Tiamak's gallant pigeon Ink-daub, Father Dinivan had told him . . . told
him .

You are sorely needed Yes, he remembered that part. The fever made it
so hard to think .   Co to Kwamtupul, Dinivan had written, stay at the mn
we have spoken of, and wait there until I can tell you more And what else had
the priest said^ More than tires may depend on you

But what inn had they spoken of? Tiamak, startled by a smear of color

360 Tad Williams

before his unfocused gaze, looked up in time to prevent his boat sliding in
front of a larger vessel with two flaring eyes painted on its hull This
boat's owner jumped up and down in the bow, waving a fist at Tiamak as
he drifted past The man's mouth was moving, but Tiamak heard only a
dull roaring in his ears as he poled out of the wake What inn7

"Pclippa's BowV" The name struck him like lightning out of the sky He
did not realize he had shouted it aloud, but such was the din of the
waterway that his indiscretion mattered little

Petippa's Bowl an inn Dmivan had mentioned in a letter, because it was
run by a woman who had once been a nun of Saint Pelippa's order—
Tiamak could not summon the woman's name—and who still liked to talk
theology and philosophy Morgenes had stayed there whenever he trav-
eled in the Wran, because the old man liked the proprietress and her
irreverent but thoughtful mind

As these memories came back to him, Tiamak felt his weary spirits
lifted Perhaps Dinivan would join him at the inn' Or, even better,
perhaps Morgenes himself was staying there, which would explain why
Tiamak's latest messages to the old man's home at the Hayholt in Erkynland
had gone unanswered Whatever the case, with the names of his Scrollbcarer
friends to offer as currency, he was certain that he would find a bed and a
sympathetic ear at Pelippa's Bow/'

Still fever-addled, but with a more hopeful heart, Tiamak bent his
aching back to the pole once more His frail boat skimmed along
Kwamtupul's greasy green waterways

^

The strange presence in Simon's head spoke on The spell of the wom-
an's voice held him gently prisoned, enwrapped in a charm that seemed to
have no seam or flaw He was m perfect darkness, as in the moment just
before the final tumble into sleep, but his thoughts were as janghngly
active as those of a man who only pretends to slumber while his enemies
scheme across the room He did not awaken, but neither did he pass into
forgetfulness Instead, the voice spoke on, and the words summoned
images of beauty and horror

"    And although you have gone away, Hakatn—to death or the Ultimate
West, I know not which—I shall say these things to you, for in truth, no one
knows the way time jlows on the Road of Dreams, or where it is that thoughts
may wander that have been cast out on the scales of the Greater Worm or on the
other Witnesses It could be that somewhere     or somewhen     you will hear
these words and know of your family and your people

"Also, I have need just to speak with you, my beloved son, though you have
been long absent

"You know that your brother blamed himself for your terrible wounding When

STONE OF FAREWELL                 361

you went away at last into the West in search ofheart's-ease, he became cold and
discontented

"I will not tell you all the ftory of the maraudings of the ship-men, tho^e fierce
mortals from across the sea Some hint of their coming you had before you went
away, and some would say that it was these Rimmersmen who struck the greatest
blow against us, for they threw down Asu'a, our great house, and thow of us who
survived were driven into exile Some would say that the Rimmersmen were our
greatest foes, yet others might say that our most terrible wound came when your
brother Ineluki raised his hand again'.l your father, lyn'imi^ato—your father, my
husband—and slew him there in the great hall of Asu'a

"Still others would say our shadow first grew in the deeps of time, in Venyha
Do'sae, the Lost Garden, and that we brought it with us in our hearts They
would say that even those born here in our new land—like you, my son—came
into the world with that shadow already staining your innermost selves, so that
there has been no innocence anywhere since the world was young

"And that is the problem with shadows, Hakatn At first consideration they
seem to be quite simple—a matter only of something that stands before the light
But that which is shadowed jrom one side may jrom another angle show as a
brilliant reflection What is covered by shadow one day may die in harsh sunlight
another day, and the world will be lessened by its passing Not everything that
thrives in -shadow is bad, my son    "

^

Pelippa's Bowl     Pelippa's Bowl

Tiamak was finding it difficult to think He repeated the name distractedly
a few more times, having momentarily forgotten what it meant, then
realized he was looking at a swinging signboard that bore the painted
image of a golden bowl He squinted at it woozily for a few moments,
unable to remember exactly how he had wound up in this spot, then
began looking around for a place to tie his boat

The sign of the Bowl hung over the door of a large but rather
undistinguished-looking mn in a backwater section of the warehouse dis-
trict The rickety structure seemed to sag between two larger buildings,
like a drunk with a crony at each elbow An armada of small and medium-
sized flatboats bobbed in the waterway below, tied at the building's crude
wharf or lashed directly to the pilings that held the building and its
slovenly fellows above water The inn was surprisingly quiet, as if both
the guests and ostlers were sleeping

Tiamak's fever had returned strongly and his exertions had left him very
little strength He balefully regarded the rope ladder that depended from
the landing It was badly tangled even reaching up with the steering pole
he came short of the lowest rung by a good cubit He considered jumping
to make up the last bit of distance, but even in his diminished state Tiamak

362 Tad Williams

realized that when one was too weak to swim, there would be few things
more foolish than jumping up and down in a small boat At last, stymied,
he called hoarsely for assistance

If this was one of Morgenes' favorite hostclnes, he thought muzzily
some time later then the doctor had a high tolerance for slackness He
renewed his braying crv, marveling at the pained quality of his own voice
as it echoed through this unfrequented area of Kwanitupul At last, a
white-haired head appeared in the doorway above and remained there for
long moments, regarding Tiamak as though he were some interesting but
unsolvable puzzle At last the head's owner left the safety of the doorway
and came forward It was an old Perdruinese or Nabbanai man, tall and
well-built, whose handsome pink face wore the simple expression of a
young child He stopped and squatted at the edge of the landing, looking
down at Tiamak with a pleasant smile

"The ladder " Tiamak waved his steering pole "I can't reach the
ladder "

The old man looked kindly from Tiamak to the ladder, then seemed for
some time to reflect gravely on the whole question At last he nodded, his
smile widening Tiamak, despite extreme weariness and the pain of his
throbbing leg, found himself smiling back at this strange old bird After
this exchange of unspoken good cheer had gone on for some little while,
the man abruptly turned and disappeared back into the doorway

Tiamak howled despairingly, but the old man reappeared a few mo-
ments later with a boat-hook clutched in his long-fingered hand which he
used to Jiggle the ladder free, it uncoiled the rest of the way and the
bottom splashed into the green water Tiamak, after a moment of mud-
died deliberation, took a few things from the boat and began to climb
The Wrannaman found he had to stop twice during the short three-fathom
trip to rest His crocodile-bitten leg was burning with a pain like fire

By the time he reached the top his head was reeling worse than it had all
day The old man had gone, but when Tiamak dragged the heavy door
open and hobbled through he found him again, now sitting in the corner
of an enclosed courtyard on a pile of blankets that looked as chough they
served as his bed, surrounded by skeins of rope and various other tools
Most of the space in the damp courtyard was taken by a pair of upturned
boat-hulls One had been badly slashed, as though by a sharp rock The
other was half-painted

As Tiamak made his way around the jars of white paint that cluttered
the path across the courtyard the old man smiled foolishly at him once
more, then settled back into his blankets as though to fall asleep

The door at the far side of the courtyard led into the inn itself This
bottom floor seemed to contain only a dowdy common room with a hand-
ful of stools and a few long tables A sour-faced Perdruinese woman, heavy-
armed and with grav-shot hair, stood pouring beer from onejug to another

STONE OF FAREWELL                 363

"What do you want5" she said

Tiamak paused in the doorway "Are you    " he at last remembered
the former nun's name, "    Xorastra'"

The woman made a face "Dead three years She was my aunt Mad as a
mudlark Who are you' You're a swamp man, aren't you7 We don't take
beads or feathers here for payment "

"I need a place to stay My leg is injured I am a friend of Father
Dimvan and of Doctor Morgenes Ercestres "

"Never heard of them Blessed Elysia, but you do speak decent
Perdruinese for a savage, don't you' We have no rooms available You can
sleep with old Cealho out there He's simple-minded but he does no harm
Six cintis a night, nine if you want food." She turned away, gesturing
absently at the courtyard beyond

As she finished speaking a tno of children thundered down the stairs,
smacking at each other with switches, laughing and shrieking They
almost knocked Tiamak down as thev pushed past him and went through
into the courtyard

"I must have help with my leg " Tiamak swayed as dizziness washed
over him "Here " He reached into his belt-pouch and pulled out the two
gold Imperators he had been saving for years He had brought them with
him forjust such an emergency, and what good would money be to him if
he died5 "Please, I have gold "

Xorastra's mece turned Her eyes bulged "Rhiappa and her large Pi-
rates!" she swore "Look at that, now'"

"Please, good lady I can bring you back many more of these " He
couldn't, but there was a much better chance this woman would help keep
him alive if she thought he could "just get a barber or a healer to see to
my leg, and give me food and a place to sleep "

Her mouth, still gaping in surprise at the appearance of the glittering
golden coins, widened even further as Tiamak pitched over at her feet,
senseless as a stone

4-

"     But although not everything that thrives in shadow is bad, Hakatn, still
much that hides in darkness does so to keep its evil hidden jrom all eyes "

Simon was beginning to lose himself in this strange dream, to feel as
though it were to him that the patient, pained voice spoke he felt bad for
having been so long absent, for bringing further suffering to such a high
yet afflicted soul

"Your brother has lon^ hidden his plans beneath a cloak of shadow The
year-end was danced countless times after Asu'a's fall before we had even a hint
that he still lived—if his spectral existence can be called life Long he plotted in
darkness, hundreds of years of black-minded deliberation before the first steps were

364 Tad Williams

taken Now, with his plan marching forward, there is so much still hidden in
shadow I think and I watch, I wonder and I guess, but the subtlety of his design
eludes my old eyes I have seen many things since first I saw leaves fall in Osten
Ard, but I cannot make wnse of this What does he plan^ What does your brother
Ineluki mean to do    ?"

-T

The stars seemed very naked over Stormspike, gleaming white as pol-
ished bone, cold as knobs of ice IngenJegger thought them very beautiful,

He stood beside his horse on the road before the mountain The bitter
wind whistled through the ivory muzzle of his snarling, dog-faced helm
Even his Norn-stalhon, bred in the world's blackest, coldest stables, was
doing its best to duck the brutal sleet that the wind flung like arrows—but
IngenJegger was exalted The shrill of the wind was a lullabye, the sting
of freezing sleet a caress. Ingen's mistress had set mm a great task.

"No other Queen's Hunter has ever been granted such a responsibility,"
she had told him as the indigo light of the Well filled the Chamber of the
Harp As she spoke, the groans of the Singing Harp—a great, translucent
and ever-changing thing cloaked by the mists of the Well—had made the
very stones of Stormspike shudder "We have brought you back from the
outlands of Death's Country " Utuk'ku's glittering mask threw back the
Well's blue radiance so fiercely that her face was obscured, as though a
flame burned between shoulders and crown "We have also given you
weapons and wisdom no other Queen's Hunter has ever had. Now we
offer you a task of terrible difficulty, a task like no one, mortal or
immortal, has ever faced "

"1 will do it, Lady," he had said, and his heart had throbbed within him
as though it would burst from joy-
Standing now on the royal roadway, IngenJegger looked at the rums of
the old city that lay all about him, skeletal htter on the lower slopes of the
great ice-mountain When the huntsman's progenitors were scarcely more
than savages, he thought, ancient Nakkiga had stood beneath the night
sky in her full beauty, a needle-forest of alabaster and white witchwood, a
chalcedony necklace around the mountain's throat Before the huntsman's
people had known fire, the Hikeda'ya had built pillared chambers within
the very mountain itself, each chamber blazing with a million crystalline
facets of glittering lamplight, a galaxy of stars burning m the darkness of

the earth

And now he, Ingen Jegger, was their chosen instrument' He wore the
mantle no mortal had ever borne' Even to one of his training, of his
horrifying discipline, it was a maddening thought.

365

STONE  OF  FAREWELL

The wind gentled His steed made a noise of impatience, a large pale
shape beside him in the flurrying snow He stroked the horse with his
gloved hand. letting his touch rest on its powerful neck, feeling the quick
pulse of life He put a boot into the stirrup and lifted himself into the
saddle, then whistled for Niku'a A few moments later the great white
hound appeared on a rise nearby Nearly as large as the huntsman's horse,
Niku'a filled the night with his steaming breath, the dog's short fur was
pearled with mist so that it glowed like moonlit marble

"Come," Ingen Jegger hissed "Great deeds he before us'" The road
stretched before him, leading down from the heights and into the unsus-
pecting lands of sleeping men "Death is behind us "

He spurred his horse forward The hooves fell on the icy road like
hammers

^

"   . And so in a way I am blinded to your brother's machinations " The
voice in Simon's head was growing more and more faint now, withering
hke a rose lingered past its season "I have been forced to my own stratagems—
and poor, weak games they seem when placed against the swarms of Nakkiga and
the enduring, deathless hatred of the Red Hand Worst of all, I do not know what
I am fighting, although I believe I am now discerning the first faint shapes If I
have even a glimmer of the truth, it is horrible Horrible

"Ineluki's game has begun He was the child of my loins, I cannot shirk my
responsibility Two sons I had, Hakatn Two sons I have lost "

The woman's voice was only a whisper, the merest breath, but still
Simon could fee! its bitterness "The eldest are always the loneliest, my quiet
one, but no one should be left behind for so long by those whom they had
loved

And then she was gone.

Simon awakened slowly out of the extended darkness that had held
him His ears seemed to echo strangely, as though the absence of the voice
to which he had listened so long left a greater emptiness When he opened
his eyes, light flowed in, dazzling him, when he closed them, rings of
bright color spun before his shuttered lids He assayed a more careful view
of the world and found that he was in a tiny forest dell blanketed m
new-fallen snow Pale morning light streamed down through the over-
hanging trees, silvering the naked branches and speckling the forest floor

He was very cold He was also completely alone

"Binabik'" he cned "Qantaqa'" A moment later he added "Sludig'" as
an afterthought There was no reply

Simon untangled himself from his cloak and clambered unsteadily to his
feet He shook off a coating of powdery snow, then stood for a moment

366 Tad Williams

rubbing his head to clear the shadows. The dingle mounted up steeply on
either side of him; judging by the array of torn branches piercing his shirt
and breeches, he had tumbled down from above. He felt himself gingerly,
but other than the long, healing wound on his back and some ugly
toothmarks on his leg, he seemed only bruised and scraped and very, very
stiff. He grabbed a protruding root in his hand and clambered painfully up
the side of the dell. His legs were trembling as he scrambled over the edge
and stood up. A monotonous profusion of snow-robed trees stretched
away in all directions. There was no sign of his friends or his horse; in
fact, there was no sign of anything but endless white forest.

Simon tried to remember how he had come to this place, but drew only
a shuddering memory of the last mad hours in Skodi's abbey, of a hateful,
icy voice that had plagued him, and of riding into blackness. Afterward
there had been a gentler, sadder voice that had spoken long in his dreams.

He looked around, hoping at least to find a saddlebag, but with no luck.
His empty scabbard was tied to his leg; after some searching, he finally
spotted the bone knife from Yiqanuc lying at the bottom of the dingle-
With many a self-pitying curse, Simon climbed back down to retrieve it.
He felt a little better to have something sharp close to hand, but it was a
very tiny consolation. When he reached the top once more and looked
around at the inhospitable expanse of wintery woods, a sense of desertion
and fear crept over him that had been absent for a long while. He had lost
everything—everything! The sword Thorn, the White Arrow, the things
that he had won, all were gone! And his friends were gone, too.

"Binabik!" he screamed. Echoes fled and vanished. "Binabik! Sludig!
Help me!" Why had they deserted him? Why?

He shouted for his friends again, over and over as he stumbled back and
forth across the forest clearing.

His voice hoarse, his many cries unanswered, Simon slumped down on
a rock at last and fought back tears. Men shouldn't cry just because they
were lost. Men didn't do that sort of thing. The world seemed to shimmer
a little, but it was only the fierce cold that made his eyes sting so. Men
shouldn't cry, no matter how terrible things had gotten, . . -

He put his hands in his cloak pocket to ease the chill and felt the rough
carvings ofjinki's mirror beneath his fingers. He lifted it out. Gray sky
was reflected there, as though the looking glass were full of clouds.

He held the scale of the Greater Worm before him. "Jiriki," he mur-
mured, breathing on the shiny surface as though his own warmth might
lend the thing a kind of life. "I need help! Help me!" The only face that
looked back was his own, wearing a pale scar and a sparse red beard.
"Help me."

Snow began to fall once more.

19

Children of the Navigator

4s-

iVLlTlUTrU^U/ awakened slowly and unpleasantly. The pounding in
her head was not helped at all by the side-co-side swaying of the floor, and
she was unhappily reminded of a particular Aedonmansa supper at the
palace in Meremund when she was nine years of age. An indulgent servant
had allowed her to drink three goblets of wine; the wine had been
watered, but Minamele had still become very ill. throwing up all over her
new Aedontide frock and spoiling it beyond reclamation.

That tong-ago bout of stomach-sickness had been preceded byjust such
a sway as she was now feeling, as though she were aboard a boat rocking
up and down in the midst of the ocean. The morning following her
drunken adventure she had remained in bed with a horrific headache—a
pain almost as bad as the one she was experiencing now. What grotesque
indulgence had led her to this dreadful pass?

She opened her eyes. The room was fairly dark, the roofbeams over-
head heavy and crudely cut. The mattress on which she was lying was
impossibly uncomfortable, and the room would not stop its terrible tilt-
ing. Had she been so drunk that she had fallen and struck her head badly?
Perhaps she had split her crown and was even now dying. . . ?

Cadrach.

The thought came to her suddenly. In fact, she remembered, she hadn't
been drinking or doing anything of the sort. She had been waiting m
Father Dmivan's workroom, and . . . and . . .

And Cadrach had struck her. He had said they could not wait any
longer. She had said they would. Then he had said something else and hit
her on the head with something heavy. Her poor head! And to think that
for a foolish moment she had regretted trying to drown him!

Minamele struggled to her feet, holding her head between her hands as
though to keep the pieces together. It was Just as well she was bent
double: the ceiling was so low that she could not have stood up. But the
swaying! Elysia, Mother of God, it was worse than being drunk! It

368 Tad WiShams

seemed mad that being cuffed on the head could make things veer and
wobble so. It was indeed just like being on a ship. . . .

She was on a ship. and a ship under sail at that The realization came
suddenly from a subtle amalgam of clues: the movement of the floor, the
faint but definite creaking of timbers, the thin, saltier-than-usual scent of
the air- How had this happened?

It was hard to make out anything m the near-blackness, but as far as
Minameic could tell she was surrounded by casks and barrels. She was m
the hold of a ship, that was certain. As she squinted into the darkness,
another sound began to make itself heard, something that had been there
all along, but was only now becoming clear.

Someone was snoring.

Minamele was immediately filled with a mixture of rage and fear. If it
was Cadrach, she would find him and strangle him. If it was no! Cadrach—
Merciful Aedon, who could say how she had wound up on this boat, or
what the mad monk might have done that had made them both fugitives?
If she revealed herself, it might be to a stowaway's death sentence. But if it
was Cadrach—oh, she so wanted to catch hold of his flabby neck. . . !

She hunkercd down between a pair of casks; the sudden movement sent
a stabbing pain down the back other neck. Slowly and quietly, she began
to crawl toward the source of the rasping noise. Whoever was burring and
mumbling so did not seem apt to be sleeping lightly, but there was no
sense taking unnecessary risks.

A sudden thumping from overhead set her cowering both from possible
discovery and the painful noise itself. When nothing followed but softer
repetitions, Minamele decided it was only the normal business of the ship
going on above. She continued to stalk her snoring prey through the rows
of close-stacked barrels.

By the time she was a few cubits away from the snorer, she no longer
felt even the slightest doubt—she had heard that sodden, drunken rumble
too many nights to mistake it.

At last she crouched over him. Feeling with her hand, she located the
empty jug curled in the crook of his arm with which he'd besotted
himself. Above that, she felt Cadrach's unmistakable round face, the
wme-sour breath piping wetly in and out of his open mouth as he snored
and muttered. The feel of him filled her with fury. It would be so easy just
to crack his sodden skull with the plundered jar, or topple one of the
leaning barrel towers to crush him like a bug. Hadn't he plagued her since
she had met him? He had stolen from her and sold her to her enemies like
a slave, and now he had struck her and dragged her by force out of God's
house. Whatever else she was, whatever her father had become, she was
still a princess of the blood of King PresterJohn and Queen Ebekah. No
drunkard of a monk had a right to lay hands on her! No man! No

one.

STONE OF FAREWELL                 369

Her anger, which had been curling and spiraling higher within her like
the flames of a wind-tortured fire, blazed up and then abruptly vanished.
Tears choked her; sobs thudded painfully in her chest-

Cadrach stopped snoring. His slurred, querulous voice rose from the
darkness before her. "My lady?"

For a moment she did not move; then, sucking m a fierce gasp of
breath, she struck out at the invisible monk. She made only the most
incidental contact, but it was enough to locate him in the darkness. Her
next blow landed stingmgly on something. "You whoreson rogue!" she
hissed, then struck again.

Cadrach let out a muffled cry of pain, scrambling away from her so
that her fingers struck nothing but the hold's damp floorboards. "Why
. . . why do you. . . ?" he muttered. "Lady, I saved your life!"

"Liar!" she spat, and burst into tears once more.

"No, Princess, it is surely the truth. I'm sorry I hit you, but I had no
choice."

"Damnable liar!"

"No!" His voice was surprisingly firm. "And keep quiet. We dare not
be discovered. We must stay down here until we can sneak off at nightfall."

She sniffled angrily and wiped her nose on the back of her sleeve.
"Dullard!" she said. "Fool! Sneak where? We're at sea!"

There was a moment of silence. "We can't be ..." the monk said
weakly. "We can't be. ..."

"Can't you feel that up-and-down dipping? You never did know any-
thing about boats, you treacherous little man. That's no rocking at anchor
in the harbor. That's sea-swell." Her anger was ebbing, leaving her empty
and stupefied. She fought its going. "Now, if you don't tell me how we
wound up on this boat and how we're going to get off, I'm going to make
you wish you had never left Crannhyr—or wherever you truly came
from."

"Oh, gods of my people," Cadrach groaned, "I have been a fool. They
must have cast off while we were asleep. ..."

"While you were asleep, drunkenly asleep. / had been beaten senseless!"

"Ah, you speak the truth, my lady. I wish you didn't. I did drink
myself into forgetfulness, princess, but there was much to forget."

"If you mean hitting me, 1 won't let you forget."

There was another silence in the darkness of the hold. The monk's
voice, when it came at last, was strangely wistful. "Please, Minamele.
Princess. I have done wrong many times, but in this I did only what I
thought best."

She was indignant. "What you thought best! Of all the arrogance. . . !"

"Father Dinivan is dead, Lady." His words spilled out swiftly. "So is
Ranessin, Lector of Mother Church. Pryrates killed them both in the very
heart of the Sancellan Aedomtis."

370 Tad Williams

She tried to speak, but something seemed stuck in her throat
"They're   3"

"Dead, Princess By tomorrow morning the news will be traveling like
wildfire all across the face ofOsten Ard "

It was hard to think about, hard to understand Sweet, homely Father
Dmivan, who had blushed like a boy' And the lector, who was going to
make everything right, somehow Now, nothing would be right Noth-
ing ever again

"Are you telling the truth3" she asked at last

"I wish I were not, Lady I wish this were only another of my long
index of falsehoods, but it is not Pryrates rules Mother Church, or as
good as Your only true friends in Nabban are dead, and that is why we
are hiding in the hold of a ship that was floating at anchor in the docks
below the Sancellan    "

The monk found it hard to finish, but the odd catch in his voice finally
convinced her beyond any doubting The darkness m the ship's belly
seemed to grow In the immeasurable time that followed, when it seemed
that all the tears she had held back since leaving home came welling up at
once, Minamele felt as though that black shroud of despair had grown to
enfold all the world

"So where are we3" she asked at last Clasping her knees, she rocked
slowly back and forth in countermotion to the swaying of the ship

Cadrach's mournful voice whispered out of the darkness "I do not
know, my lady As I told you, I brought us to a boat that was anchored
beneath the Sancellan It was dark "

Minamele strove to compose herself, grateful that no one could see her
tear-reddened face "Yes, but whose ship5 What did it look like5 Whose
mark was on the sail7"

"I know little of boats, Pnncess, you know that It is a boat, a large
one The sails were furled I think there was a bird of prey painted on the
bow, but the lamps burned very low "

"What bird3" she asked urgently

"A fish hawk, I think, or some such Black and gold "

"An osprey " Minamele sat up straight, drumming her fingers agitat-
edly against her leg "That is the Prevan House I wish I knew how they
stood, but it has been so long since I lived here' Perhaps they are support-
ers of my late uncle and would take us to safety " She smiled wryly—for
her own benefit only, since the darkness hid her from the monk "But
where would that be3"

"Believe me, Lady," Cadrach said fervently "At this moment, the
coldest, darkest, inner chambers of Stormspike would be safer for us than
the Sancellan Aedonitis I told you, Lector Ranessm has been thrown
down and murdered' Can you imagine how Pryrates* power must have
grown that he would slay the lector right m God's own house3"

STONE OF FAREWELL                 371

Minamele's fingers suddenly stopped drumming "That was an odd
thing to sav What do you know of Stormspike and its inner chambers,
Cadrach3"

The uneasy truce that shock and horror had built seemed suddenly very
foolish Minamele's quick-flarmg anger masked a sudden fear Who was
this monk, who knew so much and acted so oddly3 And here she was
once more, trusting him, trapped in a dark place into which he himself
had led her "I asked you a question "

"My lady," Cadrach said, hesitant as he searched for words "There are
many things    "

He broke off suddenly A wrenching noise echoed through the hold,
bnght torchlight stabbed down as the hatch door rose Blinking, the
pnncess and Cadrach threw themselves among the piled casks, squirming
for shelter like earthworms in a shovel-turn of soil Minamele caught a
brief glimpse of a cloaked figure climbing backward down the ladder She
curled herself back against the inner wall of the hold and drew her legs up
before her, hiding her face beneath her down-dropping hood

The one who had entered the hold made very little noise, picking
carefully between the stacks of provisions Minamele's speeding heart
seemed to jump in her breast as the footsteps came to a sudden haltjust a
few cubits away She held her breath in her straining lungs until it seemed
she would burst The sound of the surf was as loud in her ears as che
bellowing of a bull, but a strange musical humming floated beneath it like
the drowsy murmur of bees Then the drone abruptly stopped

"Why do you hide here3" a voice asked, a dry finger touched her face
Minamele's pent-up breath flew out explosively and her eyes snapped
open The voice exclaimed "Ah, but you are only a child'"

The one who bent over her had pale golden skin and large, wide-sec
dark eyes that peered from beneath a fnnge of white hair She seemed
aged and frail her hooded robe could not hide the shghtness of her frame

"A Niskie'" Minamele gasped, then lifted her hand to her mouth

"Why should that surprise you3" the other said, thin brows arching
Her skin was netted with fine wnnkles, but her movements were precise
"Where better to find a Niskie than on a deep-water ship3 No, the
question, stranger-girl, is why are you here3" She turned coward the
shadows where the monk still hid "And chat question also goes for you,
man Why are you skulking in the hold3"

When there was no immediate answer from either stowaway, she shook
her head "Then I suppose I must call for the ship's master

"No, please," Minamele said "Cadrach, come out Niskies have sharp
ears " She smiled in what she hoped was a conciliatory manner "If we
had known it was you we would not have bothered It is foolish Co Cry Co
hide from a Niskie "

"Yes " Their discoverer nodded, pleased "Now tell me who are you3"

372 Tad Williams

"Malachias . ." Minamele stopped, realizing that her gender had al-
ready been identified. "Marya, that is That's me Cadrach is my compan-
ion " The monk, crawling out from a bulky fold of sailcloth, grunted.

"Good " The Niskie smiled in tight-lipped satisfaction "My name is
Gan Itai. Eadne Cloud is my ship. I sing the kilpa down "

Cadrach was stanng. "Sing the kilpa down3 What does that mean5"

"You said you were well-traveled," Minamele broke in "Everyone
knows that you can't take a boat out to deep sea without a Niskie to sing
the songs that keep the kilpa away. You know what kilpa are, don't you5"

"I have heard of them, yes," Cadrach said shortly He turned his
cunous gaze back to Gan Itai, who rocked back and forth, listening "You
are of the Tinukeda'ya, are you not?"

The Niskie's mouth widened in a toothless grin. "We are Navigator's
Children, yes. Long ago we came back to the sea, and by the sea we
stayed. Now, tell Gan Itai what you do on this ship."

Minamele looked at Cadrach, but the monk seemed absorbed in thought.
The torchlight showed his pale face beaded with sweat. Whether from the
shock of discovery or something else, the fog of his drunkenness seemed
to have burned away. His small eyes were troubled but clear. "We
cannot tell all," the princess answered. "We have done no wrong, but our
lives are in danger, so we are hiding."

Gan Itai narrowed her long eyes and pursed her lips meditatively "I
must tell the ship's master you are here," she said at last. "If that is wrong,
I am sorry, but 1 owe first allegiance to Eadne Cloud. Stowaways are
always reported No harm must come to my ship."

"We wouldn't hurt the ship," Minamele said desperately, but the Niskie
was moving swiftly toward the ladder, her nimbleness belying her appar-
ent frailty.

"I regret, but I do what I must. Ruyan's Folk have laws that cannot be
overthrown." She shook her head and disappeared through the hatchway.
A splash of dawn-lit sky showed briefly before the hatch door thumped
down once more.

Minamele slumped back against a barrel. "Elysia save us. What will we
do? What if this boat belongs to enemies5"

"As far as I am concerned, it is boats themselves which are the ene-
mies." Cadrach shrugged fatalistically. "My hiding us on one was foolish-
ness beyond understanding. As to discovery ..." he waved his plump
hand dismissively. "It was inevitable once the boat actually put to sea, but
anything is better than staying in the Sancellan Aedomtis " He wiped
sweat from his face. "Ah, me, my stomach feels dreadful. As a wise man
stated, 'There are three kinds of people—the living, the dead, and chose at
sea.' " His expression of disgust changed to one of contemplation. "But
Niskies! I have met the living Tinukeda'ya1 Bones of Anaxos, but the
world is full of odd tales!"

STONE OF FAREWELL

373

Before Minamele could ask him what that meant, they heard the sound
of heavy boots on the deck overhead. Deep voices spoke, then the hatch
door creaked up and the opening was abruptly filled with torchlight and
long shadows.

^

Maegwm sat in a crumbling ancient arena, in the midst of a mysterious
stone city hidden deep in the heart of a mountain, face to face with four
creatures out of the legends of ancient days Before her stood a great,
shining stone that had spoken to her as though it were a person. Still, she
was unutterably disappointed.

"The Sithi," she murmured quietly- "I thought the Sithi would be
here."

Eolair looked at her with seeming dispassion, then turned back to the
saucer-eyed dwarrows once more. "This is very strange. How do you
know the name ofjosua Lackhand5"

Yis-fidn seemed uncomfortable The earth-dweller's bony face bobbed
at the end of his slender neck like a sunflower on its stem. "Why do you
seek the Sithi? What do you want with our old masters?"

Maegwm let out a sigh.

"It was only a thin hope," Eolair said quickly. "The Lady Maegwm
thought they might help us, as they aided our people in days past
Hernystir has been invaded."

"And this Handless Josua of whom the Sithi spoke—is he the invader,
or is he one of Hem's children, like you5" Yis-fidn and his fellows leaned
forward solemnly.

"Josua Lackhand is no Hemystirman, but neither is he an invader He is
one of the chiefs in the great war that rages on the surface." Eolair spoke
carefully. "Our people have been invaded by josua's enemies. Thus, it
could be said Josua fights for us—if he still lives."

"Josua is dead," Maegwm said dully. The weight of earth and stone
around her pressed down, squeezing out her breath What was the point in
all this blather? These spindly creatures were not the Sithi. This was not the
aty of banners and sweet music she had seen in her dreams Her plans had
come to nothing.

"That may not be so, my lady," Eolair said quietly. "When I was last
afield, I heard rumors that he still lived, rumors chat had more than a
slight sound of truth to them." He turned back to the patient dwarrows.
"Please tell us where you heard Josua's name. We are not your enemies "

Yis-fidn was not so easily swayed. "And does this Handless Josua fight
for our old masters the Sithi, or against them?"

Eolair pondered before speaking. "We mortals know nothing of the
Sithi and their battles Josua is probably as ignorant as we."

374

Tad Williams

Yis-fidn pointed to the gleaming, shimmering chunk of stone at the
center of the arena "But it was the First Grandmother of the Zida'ya—the
Sithi—who spoke to you through the Shard'" He sounded perversely
pleased as though he had caught Eoiair m a pointless fib

"We did not know whose voice it was We are strangers here, and we are
strangers to your    your Shard "

"Ah " Yis-iidn and the others huddled and spoke in their own tongue,
the words flying back and forth like rippling chimes At last they

straightened

"We will trust you We believe that you be honorable folk," Yis-fidn
said "Even if we did not, you have seen now where the last dwarrows
live Unless we make an end to you, we can only hope you will not reveal
us to our former masters " He laughed sadly, his dark gaze nervously
roaming the shadows "And we arc not folk who can compel others by
force We are weak, old    " The dwarrow struggled to compose him-
self "No more is saved by holding knowledge back So, all our people
can now return to this place the Site of Witness "

Yis-hadra, the one Yis-fidn had named as his wife, lifted her hand
She beckoned into the darkness at the top of the great bowl, then called
out in the musical dwarrow-tongue.

Lights appeared and came drifting silently down the aisles of the arena,
perhaps three dozen m all, each a gleaming rose crystal clutched m the
hands of a dwarrow Their large heads and wide, solemn eyes made them
seem distorted children, grotesque but not frightening

Unlike Yis-fidn's foursome, these new dwarrows seemed afraid to
approach Maegwm and Eoiair too closely Instead, they passed slowly
down the stone pathways and seated themselves here and there among the
hundreds upon hundreds of benches, faces turned toward the gleaming
Shard, thin fingers clutching their crystals Like a dying galaxy, the vast,
gloomy bowl was pricked with dim stars

"They were cold," Yis-fidn whispered "They are happy to come back
to the warmth "

Macgwin jumped, startled after the long quiet The realization came to
her abruptly that here beneath the world's crust there were no birds
singing, no rustling of wind-tossed trees, the city seemed almost con-
structed of silence

Eoiair looked around at the nng of solemn eyes before turning back to
Yis-fidn "But you and your people seemed afraid of this place "

The dwarrow looked embarrassed "The voices of our old masters
frighten us, yes But the Shard is warm and great Mezutu'a's halls and
streets are cold "

The Count of Nad Mullach took a deep breath "Please, then If you
believe we mean you no harm, explain to us how you know Josua's

name

STONE OF FAREWELL                 375

"Our Witness—the Shard. As we told you. The Sithi have called to us
here at the Site of Witness, asking ofthisJosua, and of the Great Swords
The Shard was long silent, but lately it has begun speaking to us again, for
the first time in recent memory "

"Speaking5" Eoiair asked "As it spoke to us5 What 15 the Shard5"

"Old, it is One of the oldest of all the Witnesses " Yis-fidn's worried
tone returned His cohorts wagged their heads, narrow faces uneasy "Long
has it been silent None did speak to us "

"What do you mean5" The count looked at Maegwm to see if she
shared his puzzlement She avoided his eyes The Shard pulsed with
gentle, milky light as Eoiair tned again "I am afraid I cannot understand
you What is a Witness5"

The dwarrow considered carefully, looking for words to explain some-
thing that had never before needed explaining

"In days long past," he finally said, "we and others of the Gardenbom
did speak through the particular objects that could act as Witnesses Stones
and Scales, Pools and Pyres Through these things—and through some
others, like Nakkiga's great Harp—the world of the Gardenbom was tied
together with strands of thought and speech But we Tmukeda'ya had
forgotten much even before mighty Asu'a fell, and had grown far apart
from those who lived there    those who we had once served "

"Asu'a7" Eoiair said "I have heard that name before

Maegwin, only half-listening, watched the coruscating colors of the
Shard dart like bright fish below the crystal's surface On the benches all
around, the dwarrows watched, too, their faces gnm, as though their
hunger for its radiance shamed them

"When Asu'a fell," Yis-fidn continued, "the seldom-speaking became
silence The Speakfire in Hikehikayo and the Shard here in Mezutu'a were
voiceless Do you see, we dwarrows had lost the Art of their using Thus,
when the Zida'ya spoke to us no more, we Tmukeda'ya could no longer
master the Witnesses, even to speak among ourselves "

Eoiair pondered "How did you forget the art of using these things3" he
asked at last "How could it be lost among even such few as there are of
you7" He gestured to the silent ones sitting around the stone bowl "You
are immortal, are you not5"

Yis-fidn's wife Yis-hadra threw back her head and moaned, startling
both Maegwm and the count Sho-vennae and Imai-an, Yis-fidn's other
two companions, joined her Their lament turned into a kind of eerie,
sorrowful song that rose to the cavern ceiling and echoed in the darkness
above The other dwarrows turned to watch, heads slowly swaying like a
field of gray and white dandelions

Yis-fidn lowered his heavy lids and cupped his chin in trembling fin-
gers When the moaning had died away, he looked up

"No, Hern's Child," he said slowly, "we are not immortal It is true we

376

Tad Williams

are far longer-lived than you mortals be, unless your race has much
changed But unlike Zida'ya and Hikeda'ya—our old overlords, Sithi and
Norn—we do not live on and on, eternal as the mountains Nay, Death
comes for us as for your folk, like a thief and a reaver." Anger touched his
face "Mayhap our once-masters were of somewhat different blood since
back m the Garden of our old stories, whence came all the Firstborn;

mayhap then we arejust of shorter-lived stock. Either that, or there was in
truth some secret kept from us, who were after all deemed only their
servers and vassals " He turned to his wife and gently touched her cheek
Yis-hadra hid her face against his shoulder, her long neck graceful as a
swan's "Some of us died, some left, and The Art of the Witnesses has
escaped us."

Eolair shook his head, confused "I am listening carefully, Yis-fidn, but
I fear I still do not understand all the riddles in what you say The voice
that spoke to us from the stone—the one you called the grandmother of
the Sithi—said that Great Swords are being sought. What does Prince
Josua have to do with any of this5"

Yis-fidn raised his hand. "Come with us to a better place for speaking. I
fear that your presence has bewildered some of our folk It has been
beyond the lives of most of us since Sudhoda'ya were among us." He
stood up with a creak of leather, unfolding his spindly limbs like a locust
climbing a stalk of wheat. "We will continue m the Pattern Hall." His
expression became apologetic "Also, Hern's Folk, I am tired and hun-
gry." He shook his head "I have not calked so much in a long age."

Imai-an and Sho-vennae stayed behind, perhaps to explain to their shy
fellows what sort of creatures the mortals were. Maegwm saw them
gather the other dwarrows together in a solemn group at the center of the
giant bowl, huddling near the inconstant light of the Shard Only an hour
before she had been brimming with anticipation and excitement, but now
Maegwin was glad to see the arena disappearing behind them. Wonder
had turned to unease. A structure like the Site of Witness should stretch
beneath an open sky filled with stars, as did the circuses of Nabban or the
great theater of Erchester, not crouch beneath a firmament of dead black
basalt Anyway, there was no help for the Hernystin here.

Yis-fidn and Yis-hadra led them through Mezutu'a's deserted byways,
crystal rods glowing in the murk like swamp-ghosts as they wound
through the narrow streets, across broad, echoing squares and over icicle-
slender bridges with only shadowed emptiness below.

The lamps that Maegwin and Eolair had brought down to the subterra-
nean city had guttered and gone out. The soft, roseate glow of the
dwarrow's batons cast the only light Mezutu'a's lines seemed softer now
than they had by lamplight, the city's edges gentler, rounded as though by
wind and ram. But Maegwin knew that here in the deeps of the earth no
such weather had troubled the ancient walls

STONE OF FAREWELL

377

She found her thoughts straying even from such wonderfully strange
sights as these, returning instead to the trick chat had been played upon
her The Sithi were not here In fact, if the remaining Peaceful Ones were
calling for the help of a diminished tribe like the dwarrows, they were
probably in worse straits than Maegwin's own folk

So here was the end of her hope of assistance—at least of earthly aid.
There would be no rescue for her people, unless she herself could think of
some way Why had the gods sent Maegwin such dreams, only to dash
them to pieces5 Had Brymoch, Mircha, Rhynn and the rest truly turned
their back on the Hernystin5 Many of her people, crouched in the cave
above, already thought it dangerous even to fight back against Skali's
invading army—as though the gods' will was so clearly against Lluth's
tribe that to resist would be to insult the minions of heaven. Was that the
lesson, both of her dreams about the lost Sithi and the actuality of
Yis-fidn's frightened folk5 Had the gods brought her here only to show
her that the Hernystin, too, would soon diminish and fade, as the proud
Sithi and crafty dwarrows had themselves been brought low5

Maegwin straightened her shoulders. She could not let such qualms
frighten her She was Lluth's daughter . . the king's daughter She would
think of something The error was in relying on the fallible creatures of
earth, men or Sithi The gods would send to her. They would—they
must—give her some further sign, some plan, even in the midst of her
despair.

Her sigh drew a curious glance from Eolair "Lady5 Are you sick5"

She waved away his concerns.

"Once all this city was full-lit," Yis-fidn announced suddenly, waving
an elongated hand. "The mountain-heart all besparkled, yes "

"Who lived here, Yis-fidn5" the count asked.

"Our people Tmukeda'ya But most of our kind are long gone- A few
are here, and some few lived in Hikehikayo in the northern mountains, a
smaller city than this " His face twisted "Until they were made to leave "

"Made to leave5 By what5"

Yis-fidn shook his head, palpating his long chin with his fingers. "That
would be a great wrong to say Unkind it would be to bring our evil on
Hern's innocent children Fear not. Our few remaining folk there fled,
leaving the evil behind them."

His wife Yis-hadra said something m the fluttering dwarrow tongue

"True, that is true," Yis-fidn said regretfully. He blinked his vast eyes
"Our people have left those mountains behind. We hope that they have left
the evil behind as well."

Eolair looked at Maegwin in a way she supposed was somehow signifi-
cant The talk had mostly slipped past her, immersed as she was m the
greater problems of her unhomed people. She smiled sadly, letting the
Count of Nad Mullach know that his laboring after such fruitless details

378

Tad Williams

did not go unnoticed or unappreciated, then lapsed back into silent con-
templation once more.

Count Eolair shifted his disconcerted glance from Lluth's daughter back
to the dwarrows. "Can you tell me of this evil?"

Yis-fidri looked at him speculatively. "No," he said at last. "I have not
the right to share so much, for all you be noble persons among your kind.
Mayhap when I have had a greater while to think, you will hear more.
Content yourself." He would say nothing further concerning the subject.

Silent now but for the quiet noise of footsteps, the odd procession crept
on through the ancient city, lights bobbing like fireflies.

The Pattern Hall was a dome only slightly smaller in circumference than
the Site of Witness, set low in the midst of a forest of towers, surrounded
by a moat of rock sculpted to resemble the waves of a crashing sea. The
dome itself was fluted like a sea shell, constructed of some fair stone that
did not shine like the rose-crystal rods, but nevertheless seemed faintly

radiant.

"The Ocean Indefinite and Eternal," said Yis-fidri with a gesture at the
spiky stone waves. "Our birth-home was an island in the sea that sur-
rounds all. We Tinukeda'ya built those craft that took all the Gardenbom
across that water. Ruyan Ve, the greatest of our folk, steered the ships and
brought us here to this land, safe out of destruction." A light came to the
dwarrow's saucerlike eyes, a note of triumph to his voice. He wagged his
head firmly, as though to emphasize the importance of what he said.
"Without us, no ships would have been. All, both masters and servants,
would have passed into Unbeing." After a moment he blinked and looked
around, the fire abruptly gone. "Come, Hern-folk," he said. "Hie we
down to the Banipha-sha-ze—the Pattern Hall."

His wife Yis-hadra beckoned, then led Maegwin and the count around
the frozen gray ocean to the back of the dome, which sat off-center in the
moat like the yoke of an egg. A ramp curled down into the shadowed

depths.

"This is where my husband and I dwell," Yis-hadra said. She spoke
Hernystiri more haltingly than her husband, "We are keepers of this

place."

The inside of the Pattern Hall was dark, but as Yis-hadra entered before
them, she drew her hands along the walls. Where her long fingers touched,
stones began to glow with a pale light, yellower than that given off by the

rods.

Maegwin saw Eolair's sharp profile hovering beside her, spectral and
dreamlike. She was beginning to feel the burden of her long, strenuous
day; her knees were growing weak, her thoughts furry. How had Eolair
ever let her do such a foolish thing, she wondered? He should have . . .
have . . . have what? Knocked her senseless? Carried her kicking and

STONE OF FAREWELL

379

screeching back to the surface? She would have hated him if he had.
Maegwin ran her hands through her matted hair. If only none of these
terrible things had ever happened, if only life at the Taig had gone on its
small, foolish way, with her father and Gwythinn alive, with winter in its
proper place. - - ,

"Maegwin'" The count took her elbow. "You almost hit your head
against the doorway."

She shook off his hand and bent to pass through. "I saw it."

The room beyond slowly revealed itself as Yis-hadra touched more
stones into radiant life. It was circular, the walls peeked every few paces
by a low doorway. The doors themselves were carved of dressed stone
and hinged with tarnished bronze. Their surfaces were covered with runic
letters unlike anything Maegwin had seen, different even than the great
gates that had led her to Mezutu'a in the first place.

"Seat yourself, if you please," Yis-fidri said, gesturing to a row of
granite stools, solid upcroppings that rose like mushrooms beside a low
stone cable. "We will prepare food. Will you dine with us?"

Eolair looked at her, but Maegwin pretended to be looking in the other
direction. She was desperately tired and confused, full of regret. The Sithi
were not here. These bent, flawed creatures could be no help against the
likes of Skali and King Elias. There was no earthly help coming.

"You are very kind, Yis-fidri," the count said. "We will be pleased to
share your table."

A great show was made of lighting a tiny bed of coals in a trough set
into the stone floor. Yis-fidri's anxious care with them suggested that such
fuel was hard to find, and used only for very special occasions.

Maegwin could not help noticing the strangely graceful way that the
dwarrows moved as they fetched the ingredients of their meal. Despite
their awkward, stifl-limbed gaits, they stepped in and out of the two
doors at the room's opposite end and slid around obstacles with an odd,
dancing fluidity, and seemed almost to caress each other in passing with
their tuneful, pattering speech. She knew she watched a pair of ancient
lovers, both enfeebled, but so accustomed to each other that they had
become two limbs of the same body. Now that the strangeness of the
dwarrows' owl-eyed appearance had worn away, Maegwin observed their
quiet interactions and felt certain that they were just what they seemed—a
couple who might have seen terror and sorrow, but whose happiness with
each other spanned centuries-

"Come now." Yis-fidri said at last, pouring something from a stone
ewer into bowls for Maegwin and the count. "Drink."

"What is it?" Maegwin asked quietly. She sniffed the liquid, but could
discern nothing unusual in its smell.

"Water, Hem-child," Yis-fidri said, puzzlement plain his voice. "Do
your folk no longer drink water?"

380 Tad Williams

"We do," Maegwin smiled, lifting the bowl to her lips. She had forgot-
ten how long it had been since she had last sipped from her water skin, but
it must have been hours The water ran down her throat in gulps, cold and
sweet as iced honey It had a Caste she could not identify, something stony
but clean If it were a color, she decided, it would have been the blue of
new evening

"Wonderful'" She let Yis-fidn pour her another bowl.

The dwarrows next produced a dish piled high with pieces of white,
faintly luminous fungus, and other bowls with things m them that Maegwm
was smkmgly sure were some kind of many-legged bugs These had been
wrapped in leaves and roasted over the coals. The spell cast by the draught
of delicious water abruptly vanished and Maegwm found herself tottering
once more on the edge of a terrible homesickness.

Eolair manfully took a few bites of fungus—it was not by chance that he
was deemed the best court envoy in Osten Ard—and ostentatiously chewed
and swallowed one of the leggy morsels, then settled down to rearranging
his supper in a way that resembled eating. If Maegwm had needed any
additional proof, the expression on his chewing face was enough to keep
the contents other own bowl far from her mouth.

"So, Yis-fidn, why is your house called the Pattern Hall?" the Count of
Nad Mullach asked. He quietly let a few blackened grubs fall from his
fingertips and down into the hem of his cloak.

"We shall show that to you when eating is finished," Yis-hadra said
proudly.

"Then, if it is not impolite, may I ask you of some other things? Our
time here is growing short." Eolair shrugged. "I must return this lady to
our people in the caverns above."

Maegwin bit back a sneering remark. Return this lady, indeed!

"Ask, Hem's child."

"You spoke of a mortal, one we know as Josua Lackhand. And the
voice from the stone said something about Great Swords. What are these
swords, and what do they have to do with Josua?"

Yis-fidn scraped with his spoon-shaped fingers at a fragment of fungus
on his chin "I must begin before the beginning, as we say." He looked
from Eolair to Maegwm and back. "In days agone, our folk made for a
king of the northern men a sword. That king betrayed his bargain. When
the time came to pay, the mortal king instead argued, then slew the leader
of our folk That king hight Elvnt, first master of Rimmersgard. The
sword dwarrow-forged for him, he named Minneyar."

"I have heard this legend," Eolair said.

Yis-fidn held up a spidery hand "You have not heard all. Count Eolair,
if I have recalled your name aright Bitter was our curse on that blade, and
closely did we watch it, though it was far from us. Such is dwarrow-
work, that nothing we have forged is ever far from our hearts or our

381

STONE OF FAREWELL

sight. Minneyar brought much sadness to Fmgil and his tribe, for all it
was a mighty weapon "

He took a swallow of water to clear his throat Yis-hadra tenderly
watched his face, her hand atop his. "We told to you that our Witnesses
have stood unused for centuries of silence. Then, little more than one year
ago, the Shard spoke to us—or rather, something spoke to us through the
Shard, as m the elder days-

"That which spoke was someone or something who we knew not,
something that used the Speakfire in the old dwarrow-home ofHikehikayo,
something that talked to us in gentle and persuasive words. Strange
enough was it to hear Shard and Speakfire talking as of old, but we also
remembered the evil that had driven our fellows from their home—an evil
of which you mortals need not hear, for it would throw you into great
fear—so we trusted this stranger not. Also, as long as it had been since we
had last used the Witnesses, still some for us remembered the elder days
and what it felt like when the Ziday*a did speak to us then.

"This was not the same. Whatever stood before the Speakfire in the north
seemed more like a cold breath of Unbemg than a living creature, for all
its kindly words."

Yis-hadra moaned softly beside him. Maegwm, caught up in the
dwarrow's story despite herself, felt a chill travel through her-

"That which spoke," Yis-fidn continued, "wished to know of the
sword Minneyar. It knew we had been the blade's makers and it knew
that we dwarrows are bound to our work even after it has gone from us,
as one who has lost a hand often feels it still at the end of his arm. The
thing that spoke to us from Witness to Witness asked if the northern king
Fmgil had indeed taken the sword Minneyar into Asu'a when he con-
quered that great place, and was it there still."

"Asu'a," Eolair breathed. "Of course—the Hayholt."

"That is its mortal name," Yis-fidn nodded. "We were frightened by
this strange and fearful voice. You must understand, we have been as
castaways for more years than your people can dream. It was obvious chat
some new power had arisen in the world, but one that nevertheless did
command the old Arts. But we do not wish any of our old masters to find
us and take us back, so at first we made no answer."

The dwarrow leaned forward on his padded elbows. "Then, a short
Cime ago—a few of the Moon-woman's changes, as you would reckon it
beneath the sky—the Shard spoke again. This time it did speak with the
voice of the eldest of the Sithi, Che voice you heard. She also asked us of
Minneyar. Wich her, also, we were silenc."

"Because you fear they will make you their servants again."

"Yes, Hern's man. Unless you have ever fled from bondage, you will
not understand that terror. Our masters are ageless. We are not. They
recam the old lore. We dimmish." Yis-fidn rocked back and forth on his

382 Tad Williams

stool, the ancient leather of his garments rubbing and squeaking like
crickets

"But we knew something neither of our questioners did," he said
finally, there was a gleam m his round eye unlike anything the surface
dwellers had yet seen "Do you see, our masters think the sword Mmneyar
never left Asu'a, and that is true But the one who found the sword there
beneath the castle, the one you call King John Prester, had it reforged and
made new Under the name of Bnght-Nail, he carried it all across the
world and back "

The Count of Nad Mullach whistled, a low, surprised mil "So Bnght-
Nail was the old Scourge of the North, Fmgil's Mmneyar Strange' What
other secrets did Prester John take to his grave above the Kynslagh, I
wonder7" He paused "But, Yis-fidn, still we do not understand

"Patience " The dwarrow showed a wintry smile "You could never
tend and harvest balky stone as we do, you quick-blooded Children
Patience " He took a breath "The mistress of the Zida'ya told us that this
sword, one of the Great Swords, was somehow much concerned with
events now transpiring, and with the fate of the mortal prince named
Handless Josua    "

"Josua Lackhand "

"Yes But we think that is trickery, for she also said that this sword
might be somehow vital against that same evil that had driven our tnbesfolk
out of Hikehikayo, and that the same evil soon might threaten all that
walked above or below ground How could the fate of any mortal man
affect the squabbhngs of immortals3" The dwarrow's voice quavered "It
is another trap, to play on our fear She wishes us to seek her help, so we
will fall into their clutch once more Did you not hear her5 'Come to us at
Jao e-Tinukai'i ' Was ever a trap more cold-bloodedly baited before the
victim's eyes5"

"So," the count said at last, "somehow Josua's survival is tied to this
blade5"

Yis-fidn shot him a worried glance "So she claimed But how could
she say his fate is tied to that of Mmneyar when she did not even know it
had been reforged5 She said that none but us did know this thing, and that
possibly many fates—perhaps the threads of alt fate—were tied to three
great swords, of which Minneyar was one "

Yis-fidn stood, a haunted look upon his face "And I will tell you a
terrible, terrible thing," he said miserably "Even though we cannot trust
our once-masters, we fear that they may be telling the truth Mayhap a
great doom has come into the world If so, we dwarrows may have
brought it on "

Eolair looked around, struggling to make sense of what he had heard
"But why, Yis-fidn5 Bnght-Nail's history might be a deep and dark
secret, but you dwarrows did not tell it to anyone When the Shard spoke

383

STONE OF FAREWELL

to us, we said nothing of it, because we did not know the tale No secrets
have been told What doom have you brought on5"

The dwarrow was deeply pained "I     did not tell you all One last
time before your arrival, the Shard called to us It was the fearsome
stranger from Hikehikayo asking again of the sword Minneyar—that
cursed sword " He slumped bonelessly back onto the stool "This time
there was only one of us at the Site of Witness—young Sho-vennae, who
you have met He was alone and the voice laid a great fear upon him It
threatened, then it promised, then threatened again " Yis-fidn slapped his
wide palm on the table "You must understand, he was afraid' We are all
afraid' We are not what we were " He lowered his eyes as if shamed, then
looked up to find his wife's gaze He seemed to gain courage "At last,
Sho-vennae's terror did overwhelm him He told the stranger the tale of
Minneyar, of how it was reforged and became Bnght-Nail " Yis-fidn's
shook his great head "Poor Sho-vennae We should never have let him
stand watch at the Shard alone May the Garden forgive us Do you see,
you Hern's folk, our former masters may have lied to us, but still we fear
that no good can come out of the darkness in Hikehikayo If the First
Grandmother of the Sithi has told the truth, who knows what power we
have given to evil5"

Maegwin hardly heard him She was losing the thread of Yis-fidn's
speech, dully registering bits and pieces while her weary mind swirled
with thoughts of her own failure She had misunderstood the gods' will
She needed to be free, to have time to herself, time to think

Count Eolair sat thinking for a long while, the room was full of
brooding silence At last, Yis-fidn stood

"You have shared our table," he said "Let us show you our prizes,
then you may go back to the bright, airy surface "

Eolair and Maegwin, still silent, let themselves be led across the round
room and through one of the doors They followed the dwarrows down a
long, sloping hallway before coming at last to a deeper chamber whose
outer walls were as complicated as a maze, angling in and out so that
everywhere Maegwin looked there were surfaces covered with carved
stone

"In this chamber and others below it are the Patterns," Yis-fidn said
"Long the dwarrows have delved, and widely Every tunnel, every deep
place we dug is there This is the history of our folk, and we two are the
keepers of it " He waved his hand proudly "Maps of bright Kementan,
the labyrinth of Jhma-T'senei, the tunnels beneath the mountains Rim-
mersmen call Vesdvegg, and those that honeycomb the mountains above
our heads—all here The catacombs of Zae-y'miritha are long-buried and
silent    but here they live'"

Eolair turned slowly, looking from surface to surface The interior of
the great chamber was as intricate as a many-faceted stone, each facet,

384

Tad Williams

every angle and niche, was covered with delicate maps carved into the
living stone. "And you said that you have maps of the tunnels that run
here, throughout the Gnanspog?" he asked slowly.

"With certainty. Count Eolair," Yis-fidn said. Being among the Pat-
terns seemed to have restored life to his sagging frame. "Those and

more.

"If we could have those, it would be a great help to us in our own
struggle."

Maegwin turned on the count, irritation finally bubbling to the surface.
"What, shall we carry a thousandweight of stone up to our caves? Or
climb down here to this lost place every time we must choose a fork in the
path?"

"No," said Eolair, "but like the Aedomte monks, we could copy them
onto parchment, and so have them where we need them." His eyes shone.
"There must be tunnels we never dreamed of! Our raids on Skah's camps
will truly seem like magic! See, Maegwin. you have brought great assis-
tance to your people after all—a help greater than swords and spears!" He
turned to Yis-fidri. "Would you allow us to do such a thing?"

Worried, the dwarrow turned to his wife. As the sound of their conver-
sation chimed back and forth, Maegwin watched the count. Eolair was
walking from wall to wall, squinting up at the angled walls and their
beetle-busy carvings- She fought a nsing tide of anger. Did he think he
was doing her a kindness when he complimented her on this "discovery?"
She had been looking for help from the shining, legendary Sithi, not a
gaggle of scarecrows with their dusty tunnel-maps. Tunnels! Maegwin
had been the one who had rediscovered the tunnels in the first place! How
dare he try and placate her?

As she felt herself caught between fury and loneliness and loss, a sudden
realization cut through her confused thoughts like a knife.
Eolair must go away.

She could have no peace, she could never understand what the gods
meant her to do, as long as he was around. His presence turned her into a
child, a whining, moody thing unfit to lead her people out of these
dangerous straits.

Yis-fidri turned at last. "My wife and I must speak with our people
before anything can be decided. This would be a new thing, and could not
be done lightly."

"Of course," said Eolair. His voice was calm, but Maegwin could hear
the suppressed excitement. "Of course, whatever may be best for your
people. We will go away now and come back to you in a day or two, or
whenever you say. But tell them that it will perhaps save Hern's folk.
whom the dwarrows often helped before. The Hernystiri have never
thought anything but good of you."

Maegwin had another thought. "Are there tunnels near the Hayholt?"

STONE OF FAREWELL                 385

Yis-hadra nodded. "Yes. Asu'a, as we call it, was delved deep as well as
built high. Now its bones lie beneath the castle of mortal kings, but the
earth underneath that castle is still alive with our diggings."

"And are those maps here, too?"

"Of course," the dwarrow replied proudly.

With a satisfied nod, Maegwin turned on the Count of Nad Mullach.
"There," she said. "That is the final answer I sought. A course lies open
before us: we would be traitors to our own folk not to take it." She lapsed
into grave silence.

Eolair rose to the bait. "What do you mean, Princess?"

"You must fmdjosua, Count Eolair," she said abruptly. She was pleased
at the calm authority in her voice. "You heard what Yis-fidn said at the
table. This matter of the sword is of utmost importance. I was already
thinking that Prince Josua must be informed, in case there is a chance this
knowledge can be used to defeat Elias. You and I know chat as long as the
High King prospers, Skali Sharp-nose will remain at our necks like a
knife. Go find Josua and tell him the secret of the sword. That will be the
deed that saves our people."

In truth, Maegwin did not quite remember all the details of the dwarrow's
tale—she had been occupied with her own dire thoughts—but she remem-
bered that it had something to do with Josua and his father's sword.

Eolair was astonished. "Go to Josua?! What do you say, Lady? We have
no idea where he is, or if he even lives. Do you ask me to leave our people
in their need to go rabbiting off on such a fool's mission?"

"You claimed you heard that he was alive," she responded coldly.
"Only a short while ago you were lecturing me on the chance of his
survival. Can we afford to assume he is dead?"

It was hard Co tell from his practiced expression what he was thinking.
Maegwin took a breath before beginning again. "In any case. Count
Eolair, you fail to see the full importance of what these folk have told us.
Maps of our tunnels are important, yes—but we can now send to Josua
maps of Ellas' stronghold, and of the secret entrances that could be the
High King's undoing." Listening to herself, it did suddenly seem like a
good plan. "You know that Skali will never loosen his grip on our land as
long as Elias rules at his back in the Hayholt."

Eolair shook his head. "To many questions, my lady, too many ques-
tions. There is merit in what you say, certainly. Let us think about it. It
will take us days to make semblances of all these maps. Surely it will be
better if we consider it carefully, if we talk with Criobhan and the other
knights."

Maegwin wanted to set the hook now, while Eolair was hesitating. She
feared that more time would mean time for the count to think of another
solution, and for her to sink back into her mclarity of purpose. Being near
him made her heart heavy as stone. She needed him to go away—she felt

386 Tad Williams

it now as a deep longing She wanted him gone, so the pain and confusion
would stop How was it he could cloud her wits this way5

She made her face cold "I do not like your resistance. Count In fact.
vou seem to be doing precious little here, if you have time to follow me
down holes in the ground You might be better employed on a task that
has some chance of saving us from our current situation " Maegwin
smiled, purposefully mocking She was proud of how well she hid her
true feelings, but this cruelty, however necessary, filled her with horror

What kind of creature am I becoming she wondered even as she carefully
watched Eolair's reaction If this vtatecraft5 She felt a moment of panic Am
I being a fooP No, if is better he goes away—hut if this is how kings and queens
must see their wills accomplished, Bagha's Herd, what a terrible thing'

Aloud, she added, "Besides, Count, you are pledged to my father's
house—just in case you had forgotten If you wish to flaunt the first
request Lluth's daughter has made of you, I cannot prevent you, but the
gods will know andjudgc " Eolair started to speak Maegwin lifted a hand
to stop him—a very dirty hand, she could not help noticing "I will not
argue with vou. Count Eolair Do as you are told, or do not That is all "

Eolair's eyes narrowed, as though he saw her truly for the first time and
did not like what he now saw His contemptuous expression leaned
against her heart like an impossibly heavy stone, but there was no turning
back

The count waited a long time before answering "Very well, Lady," he
said quietly, "I will do as vou command I do not know where this sudden
fancy—fancy' It seems a kind of madness'—has come from If vou had
asked my counsel in this thing and treated me as your family's friend
instead of a vassal. I would have heeded your wish happily Instead you will
have my obedience, but there will be little love with it You thought to act
the queen, but instead you have proved yourself only a callow child after
all"

"Be silent," she said hoarsely

The dwarrows stared at Eolair and Maegwin curiously, as if they
performed a quaint but inscrutable pantomime The lights of the Pattern
Hall dimmed for a moment, and shadows grew monstrously tall among
the labyrinthine walls of stone A moment later the pale light flared once
more, illuminating the darker comers, but a certain shadow had taken up
residence in Maegwm's heart and would not be dismissed

^

The Eadnc Cloud's crew did not handle Minamele and Cadrach gently
as they routed the pair from the hold, but neither were they especially
brutal The sailors seemed more than a little amused by such an unexpected
couple of stowaways As the captives appeared beneath the lightening sky,

STONE OF FAREWELL                 387

the crewmen jeered mockingly, speculating on the vices of monks who
took young women as companions, and on the virtue of young women
who allowed themselves to be so taken

Minamele stared back defiantly, undaunted by their rough manners
Despite the well-known sailor's custom of going bearded, many of the
Cloud's crew were smooth-cheeked, not yet old enough to grow whiskers
she herself had seen more in a year, she felt sure, than these youths had
seen in their whole lives

Still, it was clear the Eadne Cloud was no plodding merchantman, no
carrack bobbing like a washing tub as it carefully hugged the coastline, but
a lithe ocean-rider A child of river-fronted and sea-wrapped Meremund,
Minamele could tell the ship's quality just by the spntely way the deck
rolled beneath her feet and by the sound of the white sails crackling overhead
as they drank deeply of the daybreak wind

An hour earlier, Minamele had despaired Now she found herself taking
great breaths, her heart rising once more Even a whipping from the
captain would be bearable She was alive and upon the open sea The sun
was rising into the morning sky, a beacon of continuing hope

A glance at the standard snapping on the mainmast confirmed that
Cadrach had been correct The Prevan osprey flew there, ocher and black
If only she had found more time to talk to Dimvan, to find out more news
of the Nabbanai court and where the Prevan house and others stood

She turned to whisper a warning to Cadrach about the need for secrecy,
but was brought up sharply before a wooden stairway by the sailor at her
side, who even in the stiff breeze smelled excessively of salt-pork

The man on the quarterdeck turned to look down upon them Minamele,
startled, sucked in a sharply audible breath of air His was not a face she
knew, nor did he seem to recognize her He was, however, very, rery
handsome Dressed in black breeches, jacket, and boots, each minutely
wrought with gilt piping, with a brilliant cloth-of-gold cape swirling
around him and the wind blowing his golden-blond hair, this strange
nobleman seemed a sun god out of ancient legends

"Kneel down, you louts," one of the sailors hissed Cadrach dropped
immediately Minamele, nonplussed, complied more slowly She was un-
able to take her eyes off the golden man's face

"These are they. Lord," the sailor said "The ones the Niskie found As
you see, one's a girl "

"As I see," the man replied dryly "You two remain kneeling," he
directed Minamele and Cadrach "You men, go We need more sail if we
are to make Grenamman tonight "

"Yes, Lord "

As the sailors moved off hurriedly, the one they called lord turned to
finish his conversation with a burly, bearded man that Minamele guessed
was the captain The nobleman glanced at the prisoners once more before

388

Tad Wilbams

making his leonine way off the quarterdeck Minamele thought his eyes
might have lingered on her longer than curiosity alone would dictate, and
felt an unfamiliar tmgle run through her—half fear, half excitement—as
she turned to watch him go A pair of manservants scurried after him,
trying to keep his wind-whipped cloak from snagging on anything. Then,
for a brief instant, the golden-haired man looked back. Catching her eye,

he smiled.

The burly captain stared down at Cadrach and Minamele with poorly
hidden disgust "Earl says he'll decide what to do with you after his
morning meal," he growled, then spat expertly with the wind. "Women
and monks—what could be worse luck, and especially m these times? I'd
throw you over if the master didn't happen to be aboard."

"Who . . . who is the master of this ship5" Minamele asked quietly.

"You don't recognize the crest, doxy? You didn't recognize milord
when he was standing in front of you? Aspitis Preves, Earl of Drina and
Eadne is master of this ship—and you'd better hope he takes a liking to
you or you'll find yourself sleeping in kilpa beds." He spat more gray
citnl juice

Cadrach, already pale, looked ill at the captain's words, but Minamele
barely heard. She was thinking of Aspitis' golden hair and bold eyes, and
wondering how in the midst of such danger she could suddenly feel so
unexpectedly fascinated.

20

A Thousand Steps

J. m/it^* Now you have witnessed for yourself." Binabik gestured
at Qantaqa with helpless disgust. The wolf sat on her haunches, ears
flattened and hackles raised, her gray pelt starred with snowflakes "Qinkipa's
Eyes!" the troll swore, "if I could be making her do it, have assurance that
I would. She will walk back toward the abbey, but only to stay at my side
and no more." He turned to his mount again. "Qantaqa! Simon mosoq'
Ummu!" He shook his head. "She will not "

"What's wrong with her5" Sludig kicked at the ground, lifting a cloud
of snow into the biting wind. "Every hour we do not find him the trail
grows fainter. And if the boy is hurt, every hour leaves him nearer to
death."

"Daughter of the Mountains, Rimmersman," Binabik shouted, "every
hour of every day is leaving alt of us nearer to death " He blinked his
reddened eyes. "Of course we have need for haste. Do you think I do not
care for Simon5 Why have we been at trudging here and there since sunup?
If I could exchange Qantaqa's nose for mine. I would with certainty! But
she was badly frightened by the horror at Skodi's abbey, I am thinking—
see! It is only with reluctance she is even following!"

Qantaqa had again balked. As Binabik looked back, she dipped her
massive head and whined, barely audible against the rising wind.

Sludig slapped his leather-clad hands on his legs with a wet smack.
"Damn me, troll, I know! But we need her nose! We don't even know
where the boy went, or why he won't answer us. We have been shouting
for hours!"

Binabik shook his head morosely. "That is what gives me the most
worry. We did not go far before finding his horse—half of a league at the
most. We have been twice that distantness now, and most of the way
returning, but still no sign of Simon is there to see."

The Rimmersman squinted into the flurrying snow. "Come. If he's
fallen off, he'd probably make his way back down his own cracks . . .

390 Tad Williams

while they lasted Let's drag the wolf a little farther, head back toward the
abbey All the way back this time Maybe if she actually smells the boy
close by, she will do better " He urged his mount and the trailing pack-
horses forward Binabik grimaced and whistled for Qantaqa The wolf
came reluctantly

"I am not liking this storm that comes," the troll called, only a short
distance ahead, the Rimmersman had already become a bulky blur "Not
any bit This is the outrider for the darkness we saw gathering in the
north near Stormspike It is coming down with great swiftness "

"I know it," Sludig shouted over his shoulder "Soon we will have Co
look to our own safety, whether we find the boy or not."

Binabik nodded, then thumped his hand sharply against his jacketed
chest, once, twice, then a third time Unless the gods of his people were
watching, no one saw his anguished gesture

The abbey, lately the scene of such wild horror, had become a quiet,
snow-draped sepulcher The mounds of drifting snow obscured most
signs of what had become ofSkodi and her young charges, but could not
hide all Qantaqa would not approach within an arrow's flight of the silent
walls, Binabik and Sludig themselves only crossed into the abbey's door-
yard long enough to make certain that Simon was not one of the still,
white-shrouded forms, then left hurriedly

when they had put a thousand paces between themselves and the abbey,
they stopped and stood silently for a while, sharing long swallows from a
bottle of kangkang as they listened to the mournful wind Qantaqa,
obviously happy to be heading away from that dire place once more,
sniffed briefly at the air before curling up at Bmabik's feet

"Holy Aedon, troll," Sludig said at last, "what manner of witch was
that girl Skodi, anyway3 I have never seen anything to match it Was she
one of the Storm King's followers5"

"Only in the way that those like her do what the Storm King wishes,
whether they are knowing it or not She had power, but she was hoping
to become a Power—which, I am thinking, is very different A little Nom
Queen with her own little band of followers was what she was wishing to
be Times of war and strife are the arising times of new forces The old order
begins its changing, and those like Skodi appear, seeking to make a mark "

"I only thank blessed God for wiping out the whole nest of them to the
smallest pup " Sludig shivered and scowled "No good could have come
from any of those witchlets surviving "

Binabik looked at him curiously "The innocent can be molded, as those
children were, but sometimes luck is granting that they can be molded
back I have little belief in evil beyond redeeming, Sludig "

"Oh3" The Rimmersman laughed harshly "What about your Storm
King5 What good thing could you possibly say about such a black-hearted
hellspawn as that3"

STONE OF FAREWELL                 391

"Once he loved his people more than his own life," Binabik said
quietly

The sun made a surprisingly swift crossing through the murky sky By
the time they halted again, early twilight was approaching They had
twice more covered the distance between the abbey and the spot in the
deep woods that they had decided on as the outermost point All their
shouting and beating of bushes had been to no avail Simon remained
unfound, and now darkness and fresh storms were fast approaching

"Aedon's Blood," Sludig said in disgust, then patted Simon's gray
mare. which was roped to the train of pack horses "At least we did not
lose the damnable sword as well " He waved a hand at Thorn, but did not
touch it Where the black sword was visible through the loose swaddling,
snowflakes lit upon its surface and slid away, leaving it free of the white
that spattered everything else "It makes our decision more difficult,
though If the lad and the sword were lost together, we would have no
choice but to search "

Binabik looked up with angry eyes "What 'decision' do you speak
about3"

"We can't very well abandon everything for the stripling, troll I'm
fond of him, the good Lord knows, but we have our duty to Prince
Josua You and the other book-readers keep saying chat josua needs this
blade or we are all doomed Should we ignore that to hunt for a lost boy3
Then we would be more foolish than the boy was for getting lost in the
first place "

"Simon is not foolish " Binabik buried his face in the ruffofQantaqa's
neck for a long moment "And I am tired of being an oath-breaker I
swore for his protection " The troll's voice was muffled by the wolfs pelt,
but the straining edge was unmistakable

"We are forced to difficult choices, troll "

Binabik looked up His usually mild brown gaze had turned flinty
"Do not be speaking to me of choices Do not go teaching me about
difficulty Take the sword On my master's grave I swore to protect
Simon To me, nothing else has more importance "

"Then you are the most foolish of all," Sludig growled "We are down
to two left while the world freezes around us Would you send me alone
with the sword that could save your people and mine3 All so you need not
be an oath-breaker to a dead master3"

Binabik straightened His eyes brimmed with angry tears "Do not dare
speak to me of my oath," he hissed "I am taking no advice from a witless
Croohok'"

Sludig raised a gloved fist as though to strike at the little man The
Rimmersman stared at his own trembling hand, then turned and stalked
out of the clearing Binabik did not look up to see him ago, but instead

392 Tad Williams

returned to stroking Qantaqa's shaggy back. A tear ran down his cheek
and vanished into the fur of his hood.

Minutes passed without even a bird's cry.

"Troll?" Sludig stood at the edge of the glade, just beyond the horses.
Binabik still would not look up. "Listen, man," Sludig continued, "you
must listen to me." The Rimmersman still hung back, like an unexpected
guest waiting to be invited indoors. "Once, soon after we first met, I told
you that you knew nothing of honor. I wished to go and kill Storfot,
Thane of Vcstvennby, for his insults to Duke Isgnmnur. You said I
should not go. You said that my lord Isgnmnur had given me a task to
perform, and that putting that task's fulfillment in Jeopardy was neither
brave or honorable, but foolish."

The troll continued to rub distractedly along Qantaqa's back.

"Binabik, I know you arc honorable. You know 1 am the same. We
have a bad choice to make, but it is not right that allies should fight and
throw insults like stones at each other."

The troll still did not reply, but his hands fell from the wolf and into his
lap. He crouched unspeakmg for long moments, chin on chest.

"1 have been disgracing myself, Sludig," he said at last. "You are right
to be hurling my own words back into my face. I beg for your pardon,
although I have done nothing for its deserving." He turned an unhappy
face up to the Rimmersman, who took a few steps back into the clearing.

"We cannot afford to search for Simon forever," Sludig said quietly.
"That is a truth separate from love and friendship."

"You are not wrong," Binabik said. He shook his head slowly. "Not
wrong." He stood and moved toward the bearded soldier, extending a
small hand. "If you can show forgiving of my stupidity ..."

"There is nothing to forgive." His broad palm clasped Bmabik's, en-
gulfing it.

A weary smile flitted across the troll's face. "Then one favor there is I
will ask. Let us be making a fire here during tonight and tomorrow night,
and we will call for Simon. If we are finding no trace of him, then the
morning after tomorrow we will walk on toward the Stone of Farewell.
Otherwise, I will feel as though 1 have deserted him without proper
searching."

Sludig nodded gravely. "Fairly spoken. Now, we should gather wood.
Night is coming on quickly."

"The cold wind is not lessening, either," Binabik said, frowning. "An
unhappy thought for all who are out of doors without shelter."

^

Brother Hengfisk, the king's unpleasant cupbearer, gestured to the
doorway. The monk's grin was as derangedly fixed as ever, as though he

STONE OF FAREWELL                 393

struggled with some monstrous humor only barely held in check. The
Ear] of Utanyeat stepped through the door and silent Hengfisk scuttled
away down the stairs, leaving the earl standmgjust inside the bell chamber.

Guthwulf took a moment to catch his breath. It was a very long climb
up the tower steps and the earl had not been sleeping well lately.

"You called for me. Highness?" he said at last.

The king stood hunched over the sill of one of the high-arched win-
dows, his heavy cloak glinting in the torchlight like a fly's glass-green
back. Although the afternoon was only half gone, the sky outside was
evening-dark, purple and sullen gray. The curve ofElias' shoulders made
Guthwulf think of a vulture. The king wore the heavy gray sword
scabbarded at his side; seeing it, the earl shivered uncontrollably.

"The storm is almost upon us," Elias said without turning. "Have you
been this high in Green Angel Tower before?"

Guthwulf forced himself to speak casually. "I have been m the entry
hall. Perhaps once to the chaplain's rooms on the second floor. Never this
high, sire."

"It is a strange place," the king said, his gaze still fixed on something
beyond the northwestern window. "This place. Green Angel Tower, was
once the center of the greatest kingdom Osten Ard has ever seen. Did you
know that, Guthwulf?" Ehas swung away from the window. His eyes
were bright, but his face was drawn and lined as though his iron crown
were cinched too tightly about his brow.

"Do you mean your father's kingdom, Highness?" the earl asked,
puzzled and more than a little fearful. He had felt only a kind of dread when
he had received this latest summons. This man was no longer his old
friend. At times the king seemed almost unchanged, but Guthwulf could
not ignore the underlying reality: the Elias he had known might as well be
dead. However, the gallows in Battle Square and the spikes atop the
Nearulagh Gate were now crowded with the mortal remains of chose who
had upset this new Elias in some way or other. Guthwulf knew to keep his
mouth well shut and do what he was told—at least for a while longer.

"Not my father's, idiot. For the love of God, my hand stretches over a
far realer kingdom than his ever did. My father had King Uuth on his
very doorstep; now there are no other kings but me." Elias' moment of
bad temper faded as he waved his arm expansively. "No, Guthwulf, there
are more things in this world than such as you can even dream of. This
was once the capital of a mighty empire—vaster than Fingil's Greater
Rimmersgard, older than the Nabban of the Imperators, stronger in lore
than lost Khandia." His voice sank so that it was almost lost in the call of
the wind. "But with his help, I will make this castle [he seat of an even
greater kingdom."

"Whose help, Highness?" Guthwulf could not refrain from asking. He
felt a surge of cold jealousy. "Pryrates?"

394 Tad Williams

Elias looked at him oddly for a moment, then burst into laughter.
"Pryrates! Guthwulf, you are artless as a child!"

The Earl of the Utanyeat bit the inside of his cheek to hold back the
angry—and potentially fatal—words. He clenched and unclenched his
scarred fists. "Yes, my king," he said at last.

The king was once more staring out the window. Above his head, the
great bells slept in dark clusters. Thunder muttered somewhere far away.
"But the priest does keep secrets from me," Elias said. "He knows my
power is growing as my understanding increases, and so he tries to hide
things from me. Do you see that, Guthwulf?" He pointed out the win-
dow. "Well, Fires of Hell, man, how can you see from there?" the king
snarled. "Come closer! Do you fear the wind will freeze you?" He laughed
strangely.

Guthwulf reluctantly stepped forward, thinking of what Elias had been
like before this insanity had begun to creep in: quick-tempered, yes, but
not inconstant as a spring breeze; fond of jokes, but with the bluff humor
of a soldier, not this mocking and incomprehensible wit. It was growing
harder and harder for Guthwulf to recall that other man, his friend.
Ironically, it seemed that the madder Elias became, the more he grew to
resemble his brother Josua.

"There." The king gestured across the damp rooftops of the Hayholt
toward the gray bulk of Hjeldin's Tower, squatting along the Inner
Bailey's northern wall. "I gave that to Pryrates to use for his various
endeavours—his investigations, if you will—and now he keeps it always
locked; he will not even give a key to his king. For my safety, he says."
Elias glared across at the priest's brooding tower, gray as the sky, upper
windows of thick red glass. "He is growing very proud, the alchemist."

"Banish him, Elias—or destroy him!" Guthwulf spoke without think-
ing, then decided to press on- "You know I have always spoken to you as
a friend, blunt when it was needed. And you know I am no craven who
whimpers when a little blood is spilled or a few bones are cracked. But that
man is poisonous as a serpent and far more dangerous. He will stab you in
the back. Only say the word and I will kill him." When he finished he
found that his heart was racing, as in the hour before battle.

The king stared for a moment, then laughed again. "Ah, there is the
Wolf I knew. No, no, old friend, I told you once before: / need Pryrates,
and I will use whatever I need to perform the grand task before me.
Neither will he stab me in the back, for you see, he needs me, too. The
alchemist uses me—or thinks he does."

Thunder pealed again in the distance as Elias stepped away from the
window and laid his hand on Guthwulfs arm. The earl could feel the
radiating cold right through his heavy sleeve. "But I do not want Pryrates
to kill you," the king said, "—and kill you he would, make no mistake.
His courier arrived today from Nabban. The letter tells me that negotia-

STONE OF FAREWELL

395

tions with the lector are going very well, and that Pryrates will be back in
a few days- That is why it was a happy thought to send you out to the
High Thrithings at the head of my knights. Young Fengbald was pressing
for the command, but you have always been of great service to me,
and—more importantly—you will then be out of the red priest's path until
he has done what I need."

"I am grateful for the chance to serve, my king," Guthwulf said slowly,
several kinds of anger and fear swelling venomously within him. To think
that the Earl of Utanyeat had come to such sneaking and bowing!

What if he were to grab Elias, he thought suddenly, wildly—just grab
the king and then fling himself over the window's low railing, both of
them plunging down over a hundred cubits to smash like eggs. Usires the
Ransomer, what a relief it would be to end this festering brain-sickness
that had crept all through the Hayholt and through Guthwulf himself! His
mind reeled. Aloud, he only said: "Are you sure that these rumors of your
brother are not just that? Rumors only, the imaginings of complaining
peasants? I find it hard to believe that anything could have survived . . .
could have survived Naglimund." One step, he thought, just one, then
the two of them would be gliding down through the heavy air. It would
all be over in moments and the long dark sleep would begin. . . .

Elias moved away from the window, breaking the spell. Guthwulf felt
chill sweat beading on his forehead. "I do not heed 'rumors,' my dear
Utanyeat. I am Elias the High King, and I know." He stalked to a window
on the tower's far side, one that faced southeast, into the teeth of the
wind. His hair swirled, black as a crow's wing. "There." He pointed out
across the choppy, leaden-hued Kynslagh into the murky distance. A flash
of lightning briefly illuminated the deep wells of his eyes. "Josua lives,
indeed, and he is somewhere . . . out. . . there. I have received word from a
trusted source." Thunder came, chasing the lightning. "Pryrates tells me
my energies could be better spent. He tells me not to worry about my
brother. Ifl had not seen a thousand kinds of proof of Pryrates' black and
empty heart, I would think he felt sorry for Josua, so strongly does he
argue against this mission. But I will do as I please. I am the king and I
want Josua dead." Another lightning flare etched his face, which was
twisted like a ritual mask. The king's voice strained; for a moment it
seemed that only his white-knuckled grasp upon the stone sill kept him
from toppling. "And I want my daughter back. Back. I want Miriamele
back. She has disobeyed her father, joining with his enemies - . . with my
enemies. She must be punished."

Guthwulf could think of nothing to say. He nodded his head, trying to
dispel the terrible thoughts that now surged within him like a well filling
with black water. The king and his cursed sword! Even now, Guthwulf
felt the blade's presence sickening him. He would go to the Thrithings and
hunt for Josua, if that was what Elias wished. At least he would be out of

396

Tad Williams

this horrible castle with its night sounds, its fearful servants and mad,
mourning king. He would be able to think again. The earl would breathe
unsullied air and keep the company of soldiers once more, men with whose
thoughts and conversation he was comfortable.

Thunder rang through the chamber, setting the bells to humming. "I
will do as you say, my king," he said.

"Of course," Elias nodded, calm again. "Of course."

^

Scowling Guthwulf had gone away, but the king stayed for some time,
staring out into the cloudy sky, listening to the wind as carefully as if he
understood its mournful tongue. Rachel, Mistress of Chambermaids, was
beginning to feel very uncomfortable in her cramped hiding place. Still,
she had learned what she needed to know. Her mind was full of ideas
quite beyond her usual concerns: lately, Rachel the Dragon had found
herself thinking thoughts she had never dreamed possible.

Wrinkling her nose against the harsh but familiar scent of polishing
grease, she peeked out of the crack between the stone doorframe and the
warped wooden door. The king was still as a statue, gazing off into
nothingness. Rachel was again filled with horror at her own transgression.
Spying like the most slatternly, brought-in-just-for-the-holy-days servant
girl! And on the High King! Elias was the son of her beloved King
John—even if he couldn't hope to match up to his father—and Rachel, the
Hayholt's last bastion of rectitude, was spying on him.

The thought make her feel faint and weak; the odoriferous grease did not
help. She leaned against the wall of the bell-ringer's closet and was grateful
for its narrow confines. Between the stacks of rope, the bell hooks and
grease pots and brick walls standing close at either shoulder, she could not
topple over even if she tried-
She had not meant to spy, of course—not really. She had heard the
voices as she was examining the woefully dirty stairs at Green Angel
Tower's third floor. She had stepped quietly out of the spiraling passage-
way into a curtained alcove so as not to seem to be listening to the king's
business, for she had recognized Elias* voice almost immediately. The
king had climbed past, speaking as though to the grinning monk Hengfisk
who accompanied him everywhere, but his words had seemed like bab-
bling nonsense Co Rachel. "Whispers from Nakkiga," he had said, and
"songs of the upper air." He had spoken of "listening for the cry of the
witnesses," and "the day of the hilltop bargain coming soon," and of
things even less understandable.

The pop-eyed monk followed at the king's bootheels, as he always did
these days. The mad words of Elias washed over him, but the monk only

STONE OF FAREWELL

397

nodded ceaselessly as he scrambled along behind—the king's grinning
shadow.

Fascinated and excited in a way she had not felt for some time, Rachel
had found herself following through the shadows a few ells behind the
pair as they climbed what seemed a thousand steps up the tower's long
stairway. The king's litany of incomprehensibles had continued until at
last he and the monk disappeared into the bell chamber. Feeling her age
and the throbbing of her infirm back, she had remained on the floor
below. Leaning against the oddly-tiled stone walls, fighting for breath, she
had wondered again at her own boldness. An open workroom lay before
her. A great pulley had been spread in pieces on top of a sawdust-mantled
block; a sledge lay on the floor nearby, as though its owner had disap-
peared in midswing. There was only the main room and a curtained
alcove beside the stairwell: thus, when the monk suddenly came pattering
back down the steps, there had truly been no choice but to bolt for the
alcove-

At the far end of the niche she had discovered a wooden ladder leading up
into darkness. Knowing she was caught between the king above and
whoever his cupbearer might bring from below, she had seen no other
choice but to climb upward in search of a more secure hiding place:

anyone walking too close to the alcove might brush the curtain aside and
reveal her, delivering Rachel up to humiliation or worse.

Worse. The thought of the heads rotting like black fruit atop Nearulagh
gate spurred her old bones up the ladder, which turned out to lead straight
to the bell-ringer's closet.

So it had not really been her fault, had it? She had not truly meant to
spy—she had been virtually forced to listen to Elias' confusing conversa-
tion with the Earl of Utanyeat. Surely good Saint Rhiap would under-
stand, she told herself, and would intercede on Rachel's behalf when it
came time to read from the Great Scroll in Heaven's anteroom.

She peered out through the door-crack again. The king had moved to
another window—this one facing north, into the churning black heart of
the approaching storm—but otherwise seemed no nearer to leaving. Ra-
chel was beginning to feel panicky- People used to say that Elias spent
many sleepless nights at work with Pryrates in Hjeldin's Tower. Was it
the king's particular madness to walk around in towers until the break of
dawn? It was only afternoon now. Rachel felt another bout of dizziness.
Was she to be trapped in here forever?

Her eyes, wildly darting, lit upon something carved on the inside of the
bolted door and widened in surprise.

Somebody had scratched the name MiriameSe into the wood. The letters
were cut deeply, as though whoever had done it had been trapped like
Rachel, fidgeting away the time. But who would be here in the first place
that might do such a thing?

398 Tad Williams

For a moment she thought of Simon, remembering how the boy would
climb like an ape and get into trouble that others could not even find He
had loved Green Angel Tower—wasn't it just a bit before King John
died that Simon had knocked over Barnabas the sexton downstairs3 Rachel
smiled faintly The boy had been a very devil

Thinking of Simon, she abruptly remembered what the chandler's boy
jeremias had said The smile dissolved from her face Pryrates Pryrates
had killed her boy When she thought of the alchemist, Rachel felt a hatred
that burned and bubbled like quicklime, a hatred quite unlike anything she
had ever felt in her life

Rachel shook her head, dizzied It was horrifying to think about Pryrates
What Jeremias told her about the hairless priest gave her ideas, black
thoughts she had not known she was capable of thinking

Frightened by the power other feelings, she forced her attention back to
the wall carving

Squinting at the careful letters, Rachel decided that, whatever other
mischief Simon had gotten into, this carving was not his doing It was far
too neat Even with Morgenes' instruction, Simon's writing had wandered
across a page like a drunken beetle These letters were made by someone
educated But who would carve the princess' name in such an out of the
way place5 Bamabas the sexton used this closet, no doubt, but the idea of
that sour, juiceless, leathery old lizard carving Mmamele's name labori-
ously into the door beggared even Rachel's imagination, and Rachel could
imagine men committing virtually any evil or stupidity if freed from the
proper influence of women Even so, sexton Barnabas as a pining lover
was too much to conceive

Her thoughts were wandering, Rachel chided herself angrily Was she
indeed so old and fearful that she must distract herself at a time when she
had many important things to think about3 A plan had been forming in
her mind since the night she and the other chambermaids had rescued
Jeremias but a part other wanted to forget about it, wanted things tojust
be the way they once were

Nothing will ever be the same, you old fool Face up to it

It was harder and harder to hide from such decisions these days Con-
fronted with the runaway chandler's lad, Rachel and her charges had
eventually realized that there was no solution but to help him escape, so
they had smuggled him out of the Hayholt one day's end, Jeremias
disguised as a chambermaid returning home to Erchester As she watched
the ill-used boy go limping to safety, Rachel had been seized by a revela-
tion the evil haunting her home could be ignored no longer And, she
now thought grimly, where the Mistress of Chambermaids saw that
which was foul, she must make it clean

Rachel heard the scuffling of heavy boots across the white stone floor of
the bell-chamber and risked a peek through the narrow opening The

STONE OF FAREWELL                 399

king's green-cloaked form was just disappearing through the doorway.
She listened as his steps descended and grew fainter, then waited a long
while after they had passed from her hearing altogether before she clam-
bered back down the ladder She stepped out from behind the curtain into
the ainness of the stairwell, then patted at her forehead and cheeks, which
were damp with perspiration despite the cold stone Stepping carefully and
quietly, she began to descend

The king's conversation had told her much that she needed to know
Now, she must only wait and think Surely planning such a thing could
not be half as complicated as commanding a spring cleaning3 And, m a
way, that was what she planned, was it not3

Her old bones aching, but her face stretched in an odd smile chat would
have sec her chambermaids to shuddering, Rachel walked slowly down
Green Angel Tower's endless stairway

^

Bmabik's eyes would not meet Sludig's across the cookfire Instead, the
troll swept his sad pile of knuckle-bones back into their bag He had cast
them several times that morning The results seemed to give mm little
pleasure

Sighing, the troll pocketed the sack, then turned and poked in the ashes
of the fire with a stick, digging out their breakfast, a cache of nuts that he
had located and dug from the frozen ground It was a bitterly cold day,
and their saddlebags were empty of food Binabik was not above stealing
from squirrels

"Do not speak," the troll said abruptly After an hour of silence, Sludig
had just opened his mouth "Please, Sludig, for a moment be saying
nothing Just the flask ofkangkang from your pocket I am asking for "

The Rimmersman sadly handed over the flask Binabik took a long
swallow, then wiped the sleeve of his jacket across his mouth The sleeve
made another pass across the troll's eyes

"A promise I made," he said quietly "I was asking for two night's fires
and you gave them Now I must be fulfilling the oath that of all I would
be most happily breaking We must take the sword to the Stone of
Farewell "

Sludig began to speak, but instead accepted the flask back from Binabik
and took a deep draught

Qantaqa returned from a hunting foray to discover the troll and the
Rimmersman wordlessly bundling their few belongings onto the pack-
horses The wolf watched them for a moment, then uttered a low moan of
distress and danced away She curled up at the edge of the clearing and
peered solemnly at Binabik and Sludig over the fence of her brushy tail

Binabik lifted the White Arrow out of the saddle bag and held it up, then

400 Tad Williams

pressed its wooden shaft against his cheek, the arrow shone more brightly
than the powdery snow lying all around He tucked the arrow back into
the bag "I will be back for you," the little man said to no one present "I
will find you "

He called for Qantaqa Sludig swung up into his own saddle and they
vanished into the forest, the string of pack horses following The downsiftmg
snow began to fill in their footprints By the time the muffled sounds of
their passage faded, all trace of their presence m the clearing was gone

4^
v

Sitting m one place lamenting his fate wasn't going to do him much
good, Simon decided In any case, the sky was becoming unpleasantly
dark for mid-morning and snow was beginning to fall more heavily He
stared ruefully at the looking glass Whatever Jinki's mirror might be, the
Sithi pnnce had spoken truth when he said that it would not bring him
magically to Simon's side He put it back m his cloak and stood up,
rubbing his hands

It was possible that Bmabik and Sludig were still somewhere close by
perhaps, like Simon, they had also been tumbled from their mounts and
were in need of help He had no idea how long he had lain helplessly in
the gnp of sleep, listening to the Sicha-woman speaking through his
dreams—it might have been hours or days His companions could still be
close by, or they might have given up on him They could be leagues
away.

Pondering the bleak possibilities, he began walking in what he hoped
was an expanding spiral, something he dimly remembered Bmabik sug-
gesting as a good thing to do when people were lost It was difficult to
know if this spiral-walking was exactly the right thing to do, however,
since he was not sure precisely who was lost Also, he had not paid
particularly close attention when the little man had explained how one
calculated this spiral—the troll's woodcraft lecture had concerned the
movement of sun, the coloration of bark and leaves, the direction certain
tree roots sprouted as they lay m running water, but at the time Bmabik
had been explaining these things, Simon had been watching a three-legged
lizard slowly limping along the Aldheorte Forest floor It was a shame
Bmabik had not tried to make his explanation a little more interesting,
Simon thought, but it was too late to do anything about it now

He tramped on through the thickening snowfall as the sun rose invisibly
behind the smother of clouds The brief afternoon arnved, then almost
immediately began preparing to leave The wind blew and the storm
seized Aldheorte in its frosty fingers and squeezed The cold jabbed at
Simon through his cloak, which began to feel as thin as a lady's summer
veil, it had seemed adequate while he was still m the company of friends,

401

STONE OF  FAREWELL

but when he thought about it, he could not remember the last time he had
felt truly warm

As the day of unrewarded snow-trudging dragged on, his stomach
began to ache as well He had last eaten in Skodi's house—the memory of
the meal and its aftermath dislodged one of the few remaining shivers that
the cold wind had not yet discovered Who could say how much time had
passed since then5

Holy Aedon, he prayed, give me food The thought became a sort of verse
chat echoed over and over in his head in time with the crunching of snow
beneath his boots

Unfortunately, this was a problem that would not go away by thinking
of something else Neither had it gotten as bad as it could get Simon
knew he could not get any more lost than he was at that moment, but he
could become a great deal more hungry

In his time with Bmabik and the soldiers he had gotten used to others
doing the hunting and gathering, when he had helped, it was usually at
someone else's direction Suddenly he was as alone as he had been during
those first awful days in Aldheorte after he had fled the Hayholt He had
been dreadfully hungry then, and had survived until the troll found him,
but that had not been winter weather He had also been able to pilfer from
isolated freeholdmgs Now he wandered in a frozen and unpeopled wilder-
ness that made his earlier sojourn in the forest seem an afternoon outing

The storm winds rose m pitch The very air seemed to grow suddenly
colder, sending Simon into a fresh spasm of trembling As the forest
began to darken ever so slightly, sending the first warning that even this
weak daylight could not last forever, Simon found himself fighting back a
rising surge of horror All day long he had tried to ignore the faint
scrabbling of its claws at times he had felt as though he walked along the
edge of an abyss, a pit which had no bottom, no limit

In a situation like this, Simon realized, it would be very easy to go
mad—not to spring suddenly into arm-waving lunacy, like a beggerman
ranting on Tavern Row, but rather to slip over into quiet madness He
would make some unrecognized misstep and topple slowly, helplessly into
the abyss whose nearness seemed at that moment so unarguably clear He
would fall and fall until he did not even remember that he was falling
anymore His real life, his memories, the friends and the home he had
once had, all would dwindle until they were nothing but ancient, dusty
objects inside a head like a boarded-up cottage

Was that what dying was like, he suddenly wondered7 Did a part of you
stay in your body, as in Skodi's ghastly song? Did you lie in the earth and
feel your thoughts dwindling away bit by bit, like a sandbar broken down
and earned off by a flowing stream? And now that he thought of it,
would that be so terrible after all—to lie in the damp and dark and JUSC

402 Tad Williams

slowly cease Co be7 Might it not be better than the frantic concerns of the
living, the useless struggle against impossible odds, the panicky and point-
less flight from death's ultimate vlctory?

To give m Tojust stop fighting . .

It had a pacific sound to it, like a sad but pretty song It seemed a gentle
promise, a kiss before sleeping . . .

Simon was falling forward. Shocked into alertness, he threw out a hand
and steadied himself against the trunk of a skeletal birch. His heart was
beating very swiftly.

He saw with astonishment that snow had gathered thickly on his shoul-
ders and boots, as though he had stood m this place for a long time—but it
had seemed like the merest instant! He shook his head and slapped at his
cheeks with gloved fingers until the stinging brought life surging back
through his body. He growled at himself. To almost fall asleep standing
up' To freeze on your feet' What kind of a mooncalf was he^

No He growled again and shook his head. Binabik and Sludig had said
he was almost a man: he would not prove them wrong so easily. It was
cold and he was hungry, that was all. He would not cry and give up like a
lowly apprentice scullion locked out of the kitchen. Simon had seen and
done many things. He had survived worse than this.

But what should he do?

He couldn't solve the lack of food immediately, he knew, but that
wasn't so bad. One thing Binabik had said that Simon remembered very
well was chat a person could go a long time without food, but could not
survive a single night in the cold without shelter. For this reason, the troll
always said, fire was very, very important.

But Simon had no fire, nor could he make one

As he considered this grim fact, he kept walking Despite the fast-
increasing darkness he hoped to find a better camping place before he
stopped The snow was falling faster now, and at the moment he was
slogging along the bottom of a long, shallow canyon. He wanted to find
higher ground, someplace where he would not have to dig his way out if
he survived the night. Thinking about this, Simon felt a painful smile
form on his cracked lips With the dreadful luck he had been having, the
high place he chose would probably be struck by lightning.

He laughed hoarsely and was momentarily heartened by the sound of
his own mirth, but the wind snatched it away before he could savor it.

The spot he chose was a stand of hemlocks clustered atop a low hill like
white-caped sentries. He would have preferred the shelter of several large
stones—or better still, a cave—but his luck was not so generous. He
ignored the gurghngs of his empty stomach as he briefly surveyed the
little copse, then set to work pressing snow into hard lumps These he
piled between the trees on the windward side, pressing and smoothing

STONE OF FAREWELL                 403

them together until he had a serviceable wall that reached to a little above
his knees

As the last light started to bleed from the sky, Simon began pulling
branches from the surrounding hemlocks He pilled them near the base of
his snow-bulwark until he had made a bed of springy needles nearly as
high as the wall Not yet content, he continued his way around the
clearing, using his Qanuc knife to cut branches by the handful until a pile
of equal size lay beside the first He stopped for a moment, breathing
heavily, and felt the chill air suck the warmth away from his exposed face
as abruptly as if he had been fitted with a mask of sleet

Suddenly aware of the enormity of trying to stay warm during the
wintery night to come—and of the fact that if he decided wrong, he might
not wake up the following morning—he was spurred to a feverish renewal
of his efforts He shored up the snow wall, making it a little taller and
much thicker, then built a lower wall supported by tree trunks on the
other side of the first pile of branches He raced around the copse cutting
more branches—his gloves were now so resinous that he could not sepa-
rate the fingers, and could only remove his hand from his knife by
stepping on the blade first—until the height of both piles equaled that of
his windward wall. By now it was almost too dark to see even the great
trees were rapidly blurring into murky smudges against the near-luminous
snow.

He lay down on his bed of branches, bending his knees and pulling his
long legs up against his body so that they would benefit as much as
possible from being wrapped m his cloak, then began to pull the remain-
ing branches over himself. He tried his best, with clumsy, sticky fingers,
to weave them together so that there were no large exposed areas, and
ended by reaching awkwardly up through the hemlock blanket to drag the
last few branches over his head He then turned his face sideways so that it
was mostly hidden in his hood The position was miserably uncomfort-
able and unnatural in the extreme, but he could feel his own warm breath
whispering in the pocket of the hood, for this little while at least, he
stopped shivering

He had been so exhausted when he lay down that Simon expected to be
asleep in a matter of moments, despite the tickling branches and his
cramped legs Instead, he found himself growing gradually more wakeful
as the first hour of night wore on The cold, while not as sharply biting as
when he had earlier walked through the forest into the teeth of the wind,
nevertheless sneaked through his meager shelter and seeped down into his
bones and flesh It was a dull and relentless sort of cold, patient as stone

The chill was bad enough, but though the thunder of his breathing and
the drumbeat of his heart were loud m his ears, he could hear other,
stranger noises as well He had forgotten how differently the night forest
sounded when no friend slept nearby. The wind moaned achmgly through

404 Tad Williams

the trees; other sounds seemed ominously stealthy, yet were loud enough
to be heard even above the lamenting wind. After all the horrors he had
seen, he harbored no idle hopes that the night was innocent of dangers—
surely he was hearing damned souls crying m the storm, and lumbering
Hunen prowling the forest in search of warm blood!

As the night marched on, Simon felt black dread rising once more. He
was all alone! He was a lost, doomed fool of a mooncalf who should never
have dabbled in the affairs of his betters! Even if he survived the night,
even if he was spared the clutches of some gibbering, faceless mghtwalker,
it would only be to starve m the daylight! Certainly he could last a few
days, perhaps weeks if he was lucky, but from what Binabik had told him
it was many leagues to the Stone of Farewell—and that was assuming that
he knew how to get there at all, and could find his way through Aldheorte's
unsympathetic depths to do so. Simon knew he did not possess the
woodcraft to survive a long exile in the wild: he was no Jack Mundwode,
not even close. Similarly, there was almost no chance that anyone who
could help would pass through this remote part of the northeastern forest,
especially in such hellish weather.

Worst of all, his friends were long gone. In the middle of the afternoon
he had suddenly found himself m a fit of panicky shouting, repeating their
names over and over again until his throat felt rough as a butcher's block.
At the last, just before his voice gave out, he thought he had been
screaming the names of the dead. That was the most frightening thought
of all, a path that ran very close to the abyss: shout for the dead today,
speak to them tomorrow, join them soon after—in a living death of
irredeemeable madness if nothing else, and that might be worse than
actually dying.

He lay beneath the branches and shivered, but no longer from only the
chill. Darkness rose within him and Simon struggled against it. He didn't
want to die yet, that he knew—but did it matter? There seemed to be
nothing he could do about it one way or the other.

But I will not die here, he decided at last, pretending for a moment he had
been offered some choice. He felt for his own desperation and began to
smooth it down and push it back, quieting it like a frightened horse. I've
touched dragon blood. I won a Sithi White Arrow. It all means something, doesn't
^

He didn't know if it did all mean something, but he suddenly wanted
very much to live.

I won't die yet. I want to see Binabik a^ain, andjosua . . . and Mfriamele.
And I want to see Pryrates and Elias suffer for what they did. I want a home
agaw, a warm bed—oh, mercijul fJsires, if you really are real, let me have a home
a^ain! Don't let me die in the cold! Let me find a home . . . a home . . . let me
jind a home. . . !

Sleep was conquering him at last. He seemed to hear his own voice

STONE OF  FAREWELL

405

echoing down an old stone well. At last he slid away from cold and
painful thoughts into a warmer place.

He survived that night and six more nights after it, each followed by a
morning of terrible, frigid stiffness, of solitude and increasing hunger.

The unseasonal cold had killed many of Spring's children in the womb,
but some plants had managed to bud and flower in the brief, false season
of warmth before the deadly winter returned to stay. Binabik and the Sithi
had both given him flowers to eat, but Simon had no idea if there were
right or wrong kinds of flowers. He ate what few he could find. They did
not fill him up, but neither did they kill him. Patches of bitter yellow
grass— very bitter—had survived beneath some of the snow hummocks as
well, and he made full use of all he could find. Once, in a moment of
starved unreason, he even tried to eat a handful of fir needles. They tasted
astoundmgly dreadful, and the sap and his own froth made a sticky,
half-frozen mess of his downy beard.

One day, when his longing for something solid to eat had become a
maddening obsession, a chill-baffled beetle wandered across his path.
Rachel the Dragon had held a very firm line on the almost incalculable
filthmess of such vermin, but Simon's stomach had become a far more
powerful force than even Rachel's training. He could not let this opportu-
nity pass.

Despite his hollow gut, the first one proved very difficult. When he felt
the tiny legs moving within his mouth, he gagged and spit the beetle into
the snow. Its aimless kicking made him want to be sick, but a moment
later he snatched it up again, then chewed and swallowed it as quickly as
he could. The beetle's texture was that of a delicate, slightly flexible
nutshell, the taste little more than a musty tang. When an hour had passed
with none of Rachel's dire predictions coming to pass, Simon began to
watch the ground carefully m hope of a few more such slow-moving
morsels.

Different than his great hunger, and in some ways worse, was the
continuing cold: when he could find and devour a fistful of lutegrass, his
hunger was for a moment made less, and when he had hiked the first
morning hour, his muscles stopped aching for a short time ... but after
that initial moment when he first crawled into his forest-bed, he was never
warm again. When he ceased moving even for a few short moments he
began to shiver uncontrollably. The chill was so relentless that it began to
seem chat it pursued him like an enemy. He cursed at it weakly, swinging
his arms through the air as though the malevolent cold was something he
could strike, as he had struck at the dragon Igjarjuk, but cold was every-
where and nowhere; it had no black blood to spill.

There was nothing that Simon could do but walk. So, during all the

406

Tad Williams

painful hours of daylight, from Ehe rime his cramped limbs forced him
from his makeshift bed each morning to the hour when the sun finally
withdrew from the sodden gray sky, he walked almost ceaselessly south-
ward. The rhythm of his shuffling feet became as much a pan of the cycle
of life as the rise and fall of the wind, the passage of the sun, the settling of
snowflakes. He walked because it kept him warm; he walked south because
he dimly remembered Binabik saying that the Stone of Farewell stood in
the grasslands south of Aldheorte. He knew he could never survive a
journey through the entire forest, a passage across a vast nation of trees
and snow, but he had to have some destination: the endless tramping was
easier if all he had to do was let the occluded sun pass from his left to

his right.

He also walked because when he stood still the cold began to bring
strange, frightening visions. Sometimes he saw faces in the contorted
trunks of trees and heard voices speaking his name and the names of
strangers. Other times the snowy forest seemed a thicket of towers; the
sparse greenery was transformed into leaping flames and his heart tolled in

his ears like a doomful bell-
But most importantly, Simon walked because there was nothing else he
could do. If he did not keep moving, he would die—and Simon was not
ready to die.

"Bug now, don't run, don't flitter
Taste bitter, don't care, don't care
Bug stay, happy day, tasty bite
Don't fight ..."

It was late morning, the seventh day since his awakening. Simon was
stalking. A spotted brown and gray beetle—larger and possibly more
succulent than the small black variety which he had made a staple of his
diet—was picking its way across the trunk of a white cedar. Simon had
snatched at it once, some twenty ells back, but this beetle had wings—and
surely that proved its tastiness. since it had to work so hard to remain
uneaten!—and had gone humming away most ungracefully. It had not
flown far. A second attempt had also failed, which had led to this most

recent landing place.

He was singing to himself; whether he sang out loud or not, he didn't
know. The beetle didn't seem to mind, so Simon kept it up.

"Beetle sleep, don't creep, trust me
Stand stilt, stand still, tasty crumb
Here I come, through the snow, don 'tgo . . ."

Simon, his eyes screwed down in a hunter's squint, was moving as

STONE  OF FAREWELL

407

slowly as his trembling, ill-nourished body would permit. He wanted this
bettle. He needed this beetle. Feeling a shiver beginning to well up inside of
him, a shiver that would spoil his careful approach, he lunged. His palms
slapped eagerly against the bark, but when he brought his cupped hands
up to his face to peer within he saw that he held nothing.

"What do you want it for?" someone asked- Simon, who had carried on
more than a few conversations with strange voices during these last days,
had already opened his mouth to reply when his heart suddenly began
hammering in his chest. He whirled, but no one was there.

Now if's be^un, the ^omg-mad has begun . . . was all he had time to think
before someone tapped him on his shoulder. He spun again and almost fell
down.

"Here. I caught it." The beetle, curiously lifeless, hovered in the air
before him. A moment later he saw that it hung from the fingers of a
white-gloved hand. The hand's owner stepped out from behind the cedar
tree. "I don't know what you will do with it. Do your people eat these
things? I had never heard that."

For a brief instant he thought Jiriki had come—the golden-eyed face was
framed by a cloud of pale lavender hair, Jiriki's own odd shade, and
feathered braids hung beside each up-slanting cheekbone—but after a long,
staring instant he realized it was not his friend.

The stranger's face was very slender, but still slightly rounder than
Jiriki's. As with the prince, the alien architecture made some of this Sitha's
expressions seem cold or cruel or even faintly animalistic, yet still strangely
beautiful. The newcomer seemed younger and more unguarded than Jiriki:

her face—he had just realized that the stranger was female—changed
swiftly from expression to expression even as he watched, like an ex-
change of subtle masks. Despite what seemed the fluidity and energy of
youth, Simon saw that deep in the cat-calm, golden eyes, this stranger
shared with Jiriki the ancient Sithi light.

"Seoman," she said, then laughed whisperingly. Her white-clad finger
touched his brow, light and strong as a bird's wing. "Seoman Snowlock."

Simon was quivering. "Wh . . . wh . . . who. . . ?"

"Aditu." Her eyes were faintly mocking. "My mother named me Aditu
no-Sa'onserei. I have been sent for you."

"S-sent? B-b-by. . . ?"

Aditu tilted her head to one side, stretching her neck sinuously, and
regarded Simon as someone might an untidy but interesting animal that
crouched on the doorstep. "By my brother, manchild. By Jiriki, of
course." She stared as Simon began to sway gently from side to side.
"Why do you look so strange?"

"Were you ... in my dreams?" he asked plaintively.

She continued to watch curiously as he abruptly sat down in the snow
beside her bare feet.

408 Tad Williams

"Certainly I have boots," Aditu said later. Somehow she had built a
fire, scraping away the snow and stacking the wood right beside the spot
where Simon had crumpled, then igniting it with some swift movement
of her slender fingers. Simon stared intently into the flames, trying to
make his mind work properly once more. "I just wanted to take them off
so I could approach more quietly." She eyed him blandly. "I did not
know what it was that could make such a blundering noise, but it was
you, of course. Still, there is something fine about the feel of snow on the
skin."

Simon shuddered, thinking of ice against bare toes. "How did you find
me?"

"The mirror- Its song is very powerful."

"So ... so if I had lost the mirror, you w-wouldn't have found me?"

Aditu looked at him solemnly. "Oh, I would have found you eventu-
ally, but mortals are frail creatures. There might not have been much of
interest left to find." She flashed her teeth in what he guessed was a smile.
She seemed both more and less human than Jiriki—almost childishly
flippant at times, but in other ways far more exotic and alien than her
brother. Many of the traits Simon had observed in Jiriki, the feline grace
and dispassion, seemed even more pronounced in his sister.

As Simon rocked back and forth, still not absolutely sure he was awake
and sane, Aditu reached inside her white coat—which, with her white
breeches, had made her all but indistinguishable against the snow—and
removed a package wrapped in shiny cloth. She handed it to him. He
poked clumsily at the wrappings for some time before he was able to
expose what was inside: a loaf of golden-brown bread that seemed oven-
fresh, and a handful of fat pink berries.

Simon had to eat his meal m very small bites to avoid making himself
ill; even so, each less-than-a-mouthful seemed like time spent in paradise.

"Where did you find these?" he asked through a faceful of berries.

Aidtu looked at him for a long time, as if debating some important
decision. When she spoke, it was with what seemed an air of carelessness.
"You will soon see. I will take you there—but such a thing has never
happened before."

Simon did not pursue this cryptic last remark. Instead, he asked: "But
where are you taking me?"

"To my brother, as he asked me to," Adieu said. She looked solemn,
but a wild light gleamed in her eyes. "To the home of our people—]ao
e-Tinukai'i."

Simon finished chewing and swallowed. "I will go anywhere there is a
fire."

21

Prince of Gross

«3tl'y nothing," Hotvig murmured, "but look to the redcoat there by
the fence."

Deornoth followed the Thrithings-man's subtle gesture until his gaze lit
on a roan stallion. The horse regarded Deornoth wanly, stepping from
side to side as though he might bolt at any moment.

"Ah, yes." Deornoth nodded his head. "He is a proud one." He turned.
"Did you see this one, my prince?"

Josua, who was leaning against the gate at the far side of the paddock,
waved his hand. The prince's head was wrapped in linen bandages, and he
moved as slowly as if all of his bones were broken, but he had insisted on
coming out to assist in claiming the fruits of his wager. Fikolmy, apoplec-
tic with rage at the idea of watching Josua picking thirteen Thnthmgs
horses from the March-thane's own pens, had sent his randwarder Hotvig
in his place. Instead of mirroring his thane's attitude, Hotvig seemed
rather taken with the visitors and with Prince Josua in particular. On the
grasslands a one-handed man did not often kill an opponent half again
his size.

"What's the red's name?" Josua asked Fikolmij's horsekeeper, a wiry,
ancient man with a tiny wisp of hair on the top of his head.

" Vinyafod," this one said shortly, then turned his back.

"It means "Wind-foot" . . . Pnnce Josua." Hotvig pronounced the title
awkwardly. The randwarder went and slipped a rope about the stallion's
neck, then led the balking animal to the prince.

Josua smiled as he looked the horse up and down, then boldly reached
up and pulled at its lower lip, exposing the teeth. The stallion shook his
head and pulled away, but Josua grabbed the lip again. After a few
nervous head-shakes, the horse at last allowed himself to be examined, the
only sign of anxiety his blinking eyes. "Well, he is certainly one we shall
take east with us," Josua said, "—although I doubt that will please Fikolmij."

"It will not," Hotvig said solemnly. "If his honor was not held up

410

Tad Williams

before all the clans, he would kill you just for coming near these horses
This Vin',afod was one that Fikolmi) demanded specially as part of
Blehmunt's boot\ when Fikolmi) became leader of the clans "

losua nodded solemnly "1 don't want the March-thane so angry that he
follows and murders us pledge or no pledge Deornoth I give you leave
to pick the rest. I trust your eye better than mine We -will take Vmyafod,
that is certain—as a matter of fact, I think I will claim him for my own I
am tired of limping from here to there But as I said, let us not cull the
herd so thoroughly that we force Fikolmij to dishonor himself "

"I will choose carefully, sire " Deornoth strode across the paddock The
horsekeeper saw him coming and tried to sidle away, but Deornoth
hooked the old man's elbow and began asking questions The keeper was
hard-pressed to pretend he could not understand

josua watched with a faint smile on his face, shifting his balance from
one foot to another to spare his aching body Hotvig watched the prince
from the corner of his eye for a long time before he spoke

"You said you go east, Josua Why5"

The prince looked at him cunouslv "There are many reasons, some of
which I cannot discuss But mostly it is because I must find a place to
make a stand against mv brother and the evil that he has done "

Hotvig nodded his head with exaggerated seriousness "It seems that
you have kinsmen who feel as you do "

Josua's expression turned to puzzlement "What do you mean5"

"There are others of your kind—other stone-dwellers—who have begun
to settle east of here That is why Fikolmi) brought us so far north of our
usual grazing areas for this season, to make sure that the newcomers were
not crossing onto our lands " A gnn crossed Hotvig's scarred face "There
were other reasons for our clan coming here, too The March-thane of the
Meadow Thnthmgs tried to steal away some of our randwarders at the
last Gathering of Clans, so Fikolmi) wanted his people far away from the
Meadow Thnthmgs Fikolmij is feared, but not well-loved Many wagons
have already left the Stallion Clan

losua waved impatiently The bickering between the Thnthmgs clans
was legendary "What about the stone-dwellers you spoke oP Who are

they5"

Hotvig shrugged and fingered his braided beard "Who can say5 They
came from the west—whole families, some traveling in carts as our people
do, some on foot—but they were not our people, not Thnthmgs-men We
heard of them from our outriders when we were at the second-to-last
Gathering, but they passed through the north of the High Thnthmgs and
were gone "

"How many5"

Again the Thnthmgs-man shrugged "Stories say as many as in two or
three of our small clans "

411

STONE OF FAREWELL

"So, perhaps a hundred or two " The pnnce seemed to momentarily
escape his pain, for his face brightened as he pondered this news

"But that is not all, Prince Josua," Hotvig said earnestly "That was one
group Other companies have trickled past since then I have myself seen
two hand's worth or so all counted They are poor, though, and they have
no horses, so we let them pass out of our lands "

"You did not let my folk pass and we had not a pony between us "
Josua's smile was sardonic

"That is because Fikolmi) knew it was you The randwarders had
watched your people for several days "

Deornoth approached, the grumbling horsekeeper in tow "I have
chosen. Highness Let me show you " He pointed to a long-legged bay
"Since you have picked red Vinyafod for your own, Pnnce Josua, I have
selected this one for myself Vildahx is his name—Wild-shine "

"He is splendid," Josua said, laughing "You see, Deornoth, I remem-
bered what you said about Thnthmgs horses Now you have some, Just as
you asked "

Deornoth looked at Josua's bandages "The price was too high, sire "
His eyes were sorrowful

"Show me the rest of our new herd," said Josua

Vorzheva came out to meet the pnnce as he and the others returned
from the paddock Hotvig took one look at her face and slipped away

"You are foolish to be up walking'" The thane's daughter turned to
Deornoth "How could you keep him out so long5 He is very unwell'"

Deornoth said nothing, but only bowed Josua smiled "Peace, Lady,"
the prince said "The fault is not Sir Deornoth's I wanted to see the
horses, since I am most assuredly going to ride and not walk from here "
He chuckled ruefully "Not that I could walk more than a furlong these
days in any case, even if my life were in the balance But I will get
stronger "

"Not if you stand in the cold " Vorzheva leveled her sharp-eyed glance
at Deornoth as if daring him to argue She took Josua's arm, adjusting her
pace to his halting strides, and together all three went back toward the
camp

The prince's company was still housed m the bull run Fikolmi) had
snarled thatjust because he had lost a wager was no reason that he must
treat miserable stone-dwellers like clansmen, but several of the more
high-minded Thnthings-folk had brought blankets and ropes and tent
stakes Fikolmi] was not a king while the people lending assistance to the
former prisoners gave the March-thane's camp a wide berth, neither were
they ashamed or afraid to go against his wishes

Led by practical Duchess Gutrun, Josua's people had quickly made of
these contributions a secure shelter, closed on three sides and double-

412

Tad Williams

roofed with blankets of heavy wool. This served to keep out the worst of
the cold rains, which seemed to increase m strength daily.

Above the Thnthmgs the gray-black sky hung threateningly close, as
though the very grasslands had been lifted up by giant hands. This spell of
bad weather, which had lasted nearly a week straight and off and on for
over a month, would have been unusual even in early spring. It was now
high summer, however, and the people of the Stallion Clan were openly

worried.

"Come, my lady,"Josua said as they reached the enclosure. "Let you
and I walk a little while longer."

"You should not walk more!" Vorzheva said indignantly. "Not with
your wounds! You must sit and have some hot wine."

"Nevertheless," Josua said firmly, "let us walk. I will look forward to
the wine. Deornoth, if you would pardon us. . . ?"

Deornoth nodded and bowed, turning at the gate in the bull run fence.
He watched the prince's laborious progress for a moment before he went
inside.

Josua's victory over Utvart had brought certain amenities. Like his lady,
the prince had exchanged his rags for newer garb, and now wore the soft
leather breeches, boots, and baggy-sleeved wool shirt of a randwarder, a
bright scarf knotted across his brow in place of his princely diadem.
Vorzheva wore a voluminous gray dress, rolled and belted at the hips in
the Thrithings manner to lift the hem above the wet grass, leaving visible
her thick woolen leggings and low boots. She had discarded her white
bride-band.

"Why do you take me away from the others to Calk?" Vorzheva de-
manded. Her defiant tone was belied by apprehensive eyes. "What do you
say that must be hidden?"

"Not hidden," Josua said, twining his arm around hers. "1 only wished
to speak where we would not be interrupted."

"My people do not hide things," she said. "We cannot, since we live so

close."

Josua nodded his head. "I only wished to say that I am sorry, Lady,
very sorry."

"Sorry?"

"Yes. I have treated you badly, as I admitted in your father's wagon. I
have not given you the respect you deserve."

Vorzheva's face twisted, somewhere between joy and anguish. "Ah,
still you do not understand me, Prince Josua of Erkynland. I do not care
for respect, not if that is all you give me. I want your attention. I want
your heart! If you give me that, then you can give to me all the ... the
not-respect ..."

Quietly: "Disrespect."

". . . All the disrespect you want. Do not treat me like you do the

STONE OF FAREWELL                 413

fanners who come to you for justice- I do not want your careful thinking,
your measuring, your talking, talking, talking ..." An angry tear was
quickly wiped away. "Just give your heart, you damned stone-dweller!"

They stopped, standing in wmd-nppled grass to their knees. "I try," he
said.

"No, you do not," she hissed bitterly. "You have that other woman's
face in your heart, your brother's wife. Men! You arc ail little boys, you
keep old loves m your heart like polished stones you have found. How can
I fight a dead woman!? I cannot grab her, I cannot slap her, I cannot drive
her away or follow you when you go to her!" She stood breathing
heavily, her legs wide-set as though braced for battle- Her hands dropped
to her stomach and her look changed. "But you did not give her a child.
You gave one to me."

Josua looked helplessly at her pale face, at the rosy flush of her checks
and her cloud of black hair. .A movement caught his eye: a rabbit,
emerging from a thatch of tall grass, stopped for a moment and rose on
its hindquarters to look around. Its dark, round eye touched his. A
moment later it sprang forward and was gone, a thin gray shadow skim-
ming the meadow.

"You have done nothing wrong. Lady," he said. "Nothing but attach
yourself to a brooding ghost of a man." He smiled sadly, then laughed.
"But in a way, I suppose, I have been reborn. I have been allowed to live
when surely I ought to have died, so I must take that as an omen and see
my life differently. You will bear our child, and we will be married when
we reach the Stone of Farewell."

A touch of indignation returned to Vorzheva's dark eyes. "We will be
married here, before my people," she said firmly. "We are betrothed: now
they will see and stop speaking behind their hands."

"But Lady," he began, "we have need of haste . . ."

"Have you no honor?" she demanded. "What if you are killed before
we reach this place? The child in me will be a bastard . . . and I will not
even be a widow."

Josua began to speak, but instead broke into laughter once more. He
reached his arm around her and pulled her close, unmindful of his injuries.
She resisted for a moment, then allowed herself to be embraced, but
retained her frown. "Lady, you are right," the prince said, smiling. "It
shall not be put off. Father Strangyeard will marry us and I will be a good
husband to you and keep you safe. And if I die before we reach our
destination, you will be the finest widow on the grasslands." He kissed
her. For a while they stood in the rain, faces pressed close together.

"You are trembling," Vorzheva said at last, but her own voice seemed
the unsteady thing. She pulled free ofJosua's embrace. "You have stood
and walked too long. If you die before we marry, it will spoil every-
thing." Her look was softer, but still some trace of apprehension re-

414 Tad Williams

mained, an edge of fear that would not go away. Josua took her hand and
lifted it to his lips. They turned and walked slowly back toward the
encampment, as carefully as if they were both very, very old.

^

"I must leave," Geloe announced that evening. Josua's people huddled
around the fire as fierce winds strummed at the walls of their makeshift
shelter.

"I hope you do not mean that," Josua said. "We have need of your
wisdom."

Deornoth felt himself both glad and sorry at the thought of the witch
woman leaving.

"We wilt all meet again, and soon," she said. "But I must go ahead to
the Stone of Farewell. Now that you are safe, there are things I must do
there before you come."

"What things?" Deomoth heard the edge of suspicion in his own voice
and was embarrassed by his lack of charity, but no one else seemed to
notice.

"There will be . . ." Geloe searched for words, ". . . shadows there.
And sounds. And faint traces like the ripples left behind when a pebble
drops into a stream. It is vital that I try to read these before people come
tramping around."

"And what will these things tell you?" Josua asked.

Geloe shook her graying head. "I do not know. Perhaps nothing. But
the Stone stands in a special and powerful place; it may be that there are
things 1 can learn. We face an immortal enemy; perhaps we can find some
clue toward his defeat among the vestiges of his immortal people." She
turned to Duchess Gutrun, who cradled sleeping Leieth in her lap. "Will
you keep the child until you see me again?"

Gutrun nodded. "Of course."

"Why do you not take her with you?" Deornoth asked. "You said she
helped to ... to center your skills in some way."

Firelight glinted in Geloe's great eyes. "True. But she cannot travel in
the way I must travel." The witch woman stood, tucking her breeches
into her heavy boots. "And I will do best traveling by night."

"But you will miss our marriage!" Vorzheva exclaimed. "Father
Strangyeard is to marry Josua and me at morning-time."

Those who had not yet heard offered congratulations; Josua received all
as calmly and graciously as if he stood again in his throne room at
Naglimund. Vorzheva's smiles at last dissolved into what were surely
happy tears, which she cried on Gutrun's accommodating shoulder. Leieth,
who had awakened and rolled out of the duchess' lap to stare silently at
the ruckus, was quickly scooped up into the thin arms of Father Strangyeard.

STONE OF FAREWELL                 415

"This is good news Vorzheva, Prince Josua, but I cannot stay," Geloe
said. "I do not think you will miss me I am not much for entertainments
or merrymaking and I am feeling particularly pressed- I had wished to
leave yesterday, but stayed to see that you actually claimed your horses."
She gestured out toward the darkness beyond the shelter, where the
prince's new steeds shifted and snorted in their own enclosure "Now I
can wait no longer."

After brief private conversations with Josua and Strangyeard and a few
words whispered into Leieth's ear—words which the little girl received as
impassively as if listening to the ocean's voice echoing in a sea shell—
Geloe said her brisk farewells and strode out into the night, threadbare
cloak snapping in the brisk wind.

Deornoth, who sat closest to the edge of the shelter, leaned his head out
a short time later. He had heard a mournful echo sweeping down from the
wind-raked sky, but when he looked up he caught only a momentary
glimpse of some shadowy, winged thing passing before the gelid moon.

Deornoth was standing his watch—they had not become so crusting of
the Thrithings-men chat they had lost their sense—when Josua limped out
to join him.

"The stars have barely swung around," Deomoth whispered. "Look,
there is the Lamp, scarcely moved." He pointed to a dim flare in the
cloudy night sky. "It is not your turn for hours, Highness. Go back to
bed."

"I cannot sleep."

Deornoth was sure his smile was invisible in the darkness. "It is not
uncommon to have worries and doubts on the night before a wedding,

sire.

"It's not that, Deornoth. My worries and my self-doubcs, as once you
so correctly pointed out, are trivial. There are larger matters to think of "

Deomoth wrapped the collar of his cloak tighter around his neck during
the moment of silence. The night had grown very chill.

"I am happy to be alive," Josua said at last, "but I do feel a bit like a
mouse chat the cat has allowed to run into the corner. Alive, yes, but for
how long? Far worse than even my brother's evil, now the Hand of the
North is reaching out." He sighed. "Once I nurtured a hope thatJamauga's
talc was untrue, despite all the evidence, but the moment I saw those
white faces staring up at me from before the walls of Naglimund, some-
thing within me died. No, do not worry, good Deomoth," the prince said
hastily, "I am not about to run maundering, as I know you secretly dread.
I have taken your admonitions to heart." He laughed sourly. "But at the
same time, I tell only the truth- There are hatreds that run through this
world like blood, hot and lively. All my studies of evil with the Usirean
brothers, all their learned considerations of the Devil and his work, never

416 Tad Williams

made that so clear as one instant staring into those black eyes. The world
has a dark underbelly, Deornoth. I wonder if maybe it is better not to seek
after knowledge "

"But surely God put such things on the earth to test our faith, Pnnce
Josua," Deornoth ventured at last "If no one ever saw evil, who would
fear HelP"

"Who indeed7" The prince's tone changed. "But this is not why I came
out to speak to you Leave it to Josua to turn any conversation into a dour
and doomful one." He laughed again, this time it seemed more cheerful
"Actually, I came to ask you to stand for me when Vorzheva and I are
married in the morning."

"Prince Josua, I am honored Gladly—1 will do it gladly."

"You have been the most loyal of friends, Deornoth."

"You are the best lord a man could have "

"I did not say 'liege man' or 'knight,' Deornoth." Josua spoke firmly,
but with a hint of good humor in his voice "I said 'friend'—but do not
think that standing for me is an honor bereft of responsibility It is not."
He became serious. "I have not had a splendid history of caring for those
dear to me, Deornoth my friend. You may protest, but it is a simple fact.
Thus, if something happens to me, 1 want your word that you will look
after Vorzheva and our child "

"Of course, my prince."

"Say it." Then, more gently: "Swear it to me."

"I swear by the honor of Blessed Elysia that I will protect the welfare of
Lady Vorzheva and the child she carries as if they were my own family I
will lay down my life without hesitation, if need be."

Josua clasped the knight's wnst and held it for a moment. "Good. Many
thanks. The Lord bless you, Deornoth."

"May He bless you, too, Prince Josua "

The prince sighed "And all the rest as well Did you know, Deornoth,
that tomorrow is the first day of AmtuP That means tomorrow is
Hiafmansa There are many absent friends to whom our blessings should
go this mght—many who no doubt are far closer to the fearful face of
darkness than we are "

Deornoth saw the shadow beside him move abruptly as the pnnce made
the sign of the Tree They shared a long moment of silence before Josua
spoke again "May God bless us all and deliver us from evil "

The men were up with the darkling dawn, saddling the horses and
packing the supplies gained when Josua had traded two of his new steeds
for a quantity of food and clothing Since Leieth would ride with Duchess
Gucrun, and Towser and Sangfugol would share a horse, four horses
remained to carry goods.

STONE OF FAREWELL                 417

When the mounts had been readied, the men returned to the bull run.
They found it surrounded by more than a few curious Thnthmgs-folk.

"What, have you made some announcement?" Josua demanded crossly
Vorzheva eyed him unbhnkmgly. She had donned the white bride-band
once more.

"Do you think my people would not notice you loading the horses?"
she snapped "Besides, what is the use of being married if it is done like
thieves stealing by night?" She strutted away, the wide skirt of her
wedding dress swirling. A moment later she returned, leading the wide-
eyed young girl who had been waiting on Fikolmi) when Josua's folk had
first come as prisoners to the wagon camp. "This is Hyara, my youngest
sister," Vorzheva explained. "She will be married someday, so I want her
to see that it is not always frightful."

"I will do my best to look like a nice person to marry," Josua said,
arching an eyebrow. Hyara stared back at him, anxious as a startled
fawn.

Vorzheva insisted that they be married beneath the open sky and before
the eyes of her clanfolk. The wedding party made its way out from
beneath the roof of blankets. Father Strangyeard mumbling fretfully as he
tned to remember the important sections of the marriage ceremony—he
had not, of course, been able to bring a Book of the Aedon from Naglimund,
and had never performed a marriage before. Of the principals, he was
dearly the most nervous. Young Hyara, sensing a kindred spirit, walked
so close to him that she was almost between his feet, adding to the pnesc's
discomfiture.

It was not surprising to see a cheerful and curious crowd of Thnthmgs-
folk assembled along the edges of the bull run—a crowd not greatly
different in mood, Deornoth reflected, than that which had come to watch
Josua be cut into silvers. It was a little disconcerting to see among them the
mother and sisters of he who had failed to slice Josua up, the late Utvart.
This group of women, dressed identically in dresses and scarves of dark
mourning blue, stared balefully at the emerging stone-dwellers, their
mouths pulled tight in uniform expressions of ill-regard.

If the attendance of Utvart's family was surprising, the appearance of
Fikolmi) on the scene was even more so. The March-thane, who had taken
his foul temper and virtually gone into hiding after Josua's victory, now
came swaggering through the camp to the bull run, trailed by a handful of
scarred randwarders. Although the gray dawn was not an hour passed,
Fikolmy's red-eyed stare had the look of drunkenness.

"By the Grass-Thunderer!" he bellowed, "surely you did not think I
would let my daughter and her horse-nch husband be wedded without
coming to share their happiness!7" He slapped his broad belly and guf-
fawed. "Go on! Go on' We are waiting to see how marriages are done in
the mazes of the stone-dwellers!"

418

Tad WiUiams

At the sound of her father's roar, little Hyara took a step backward and
looked wildly around, preparing to flee. Deomoth reached out and gently
took her elbow, holding it loosely until she gathered courage to move
forward and stand at Vorzheva's side once more. Hopelessly rattled,
Father Strangyeard started the Mansa Connoyis—the Prayer of Joining—
several times without success, each time losing his way after a few lines
and stuttering to a halt like a millwheel whose ox was balking in the
traces. Each failed attempt drew more laughter from Fikolmij and his
randwarders. The archive-master's already pink face grew redder and
redder. At last, Josua leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

"You are a Scrollbearer now, Father, as was your friend Jarnauga." He
spoke so quietly that none but Strangyeard could hear. "Surely a simple
mansa is child's play for you, whatever the distractions."
"One-eye speaks the marriage/or One-hand!" Fikolmij shouted.
Strangyeard tugged self-consciously at his patch, then grimly nodded
his head. "You . . . you are right. Prince Josua. Forgive me. Let us

continue."

Speaking each word carefully, Strangyeard worked his way through the

long ritual as though wading in high and treacherous waters. The March-
thane and his jibing cronies shouted louder and louder, but the priest
would no longer be deterred. At last, the crowd of watching Thrithings-
folk became restive, tiring of Fikolmij's rudeness. Every time another
graceless jest echoed across the bull run, the murmur grew louder.

As Strangyeard neared the end of the prayer, Hotvig appeared on
horseback out of the west. He was windblown and disheveled, as though
he had ridden fast in his return to the wagon-city.

The rider sat dazedly surveying the scene for a moment, then swung
down from the saddle and trotted to his thane's side. He spoke rapidly,
then pointed back in the direction from which he had come. Fikolmij
nodded, grinning hugely, then turned and said something to the other
randwarders which set them rocking with laughter. A look of confusion
came over Hotvig's face—confusion which soon turned to anger. As
Fikolmij and the others continued to chortle over the news he had brought,
the young Thrithings-man strode to the fence around the bull run and
waved for Isom's attention. Hotvig spoke into Isom's ear; the Rimmerman's
eyes widened. When Father Strangyeard paused in his recital a few mo-
ments and bent to look for the bowl of water he had filled earlier and put
by for this moment in the prayer, Isgrimnur's son pushed away from the
fence and marched directly to Prince Josua's side.

"Forgive me, Josua," Isom hissed, "but Hotvig says there are three
score armored riders coming down on the wagon camp. They are less
than a league away and riding hard. The leader's coat is a falcon in scarlet
and silver."

STONE OF FAREWELL

419

Startled, Josua looked up. "Fengbald! What is that whoreson doing
here?!"

"Fengbald?" Deornoth echoed, astounded. It seemed a name from an-
other age. "Fengbald?"

A rustle of wonder went through the crowd at this odd turn to the
ceremony.

"Josua," Vorzheva said tightly, "how can you talk of these things
now?"

"I am truly sorry, my lady, but we have little choice." He turned to
Strangyeard, who stood staring, his increasingly confident rhythms again
disrupted. "Go on to the final part," Josua directed him.

"Wha . . . what?"

"The final part, man. Come, then, hurry to it! I won't have it said I left
my lady unmarried against my promise, but if we stand much longer she
will be a widow before the mansa is over." He gave the priest a gentle
shove. "The end, Strangyeard!"

The archivist's one eye bulged. "May the love of the Ransomer, His mother
Elysia, and His Father the All-Highest bless this joining. May . . . may your
lives be long and your love be longer still. You are married." He waved his
hands anxiously. "That's . . . that's it. You are married, just as it says."

Josua leaned and kissed the astonished Vorzheva, then grabbed her wrist
and pulled her toward the paddock gate while Isorn hurried the rest of
their party after them.

"Are you so anxious for your wedding night, Josua?" Fikolmij smirked.
He and his randwarders pushed toward the gate as the crowd shouted
questions at their thane. "You seem to be in a hurry to leave."

"And you know why," Deornoch shouted at him, his palm itching on
the hilt of his sword. "You knew they were coming, didn't you? You
treacherous dog!"

"Watch your tongue, little man," Fikolmij growled. "I only said I
would not hinder your going. I sent word to the king's men long ago—in
the hour when you first crossed over into my Thrithings." He laughed
heartily. "So I broke no promises. But if you wish to fight my men and
me before the Erkynlanders get here, come ahead. Otherwise, you had
better get on your new ponies and ride away."

Vorzheva pulled away from Josua as they passed through the gate and
into the crush ofThrithings-folk. She reached her father in a few steps and
slapped him stingingly across the face.

"You killed my mother," she shouted, "but someday I will kill you!"
Before he could grab her, she sprang back to Josua's side. Naidel whisked
out of the prince's sheath and swayed menacingly, a flickering tongue of
light beneath the dim sky. Fikolmij stared at Josua, eyes bulging, face
crimson with rage. With a visible effort, the March-thane subdued his
anger and contemptuously turned his back.

420 Tad Williams

"Go, ride for your lives," he growled. "I do not break my word over a
woman's feeble blows."

Hotvig followed as they hustled toward the paddock where the horses
were waiting. "The thane was right about one thing, Josua, Vorzheva,"
he called- "You must indeed ride for your lives You have an hour's start
and your horses are rested, so all is not lost. Some of the others will help
me slow them down."

Deornoth stared. "You'll. . . ? But Fikolmy wants us caught "

Hotvig shook his head roughly. "Not all favor the March-thane. Where
do you go?"

Josua thought for a moment. "Please do not let our enemies hear of this,
Hotvig." He lowered his voice a little. "We go north of where the rivers
meet, to a place called the Stone of Farewell."

The Thnthmgs-man looked at him strangely. "I have heard something
of it," he said. "Go swiftly, then. It is possible we will sec each other
again." Hotvig turned and gave Vorzheva a long look, then bowed his
head briefly. "Make these people know that not all Thnthings-folk are like
your father." Hotvig turned and walked away.

"No more time to talk!" Josua cried. "To horse!"

The outermost grazing lands of the wagon-camp were disappearing
behind them. Despite the injured and inexperienced riders, the long strides
of Vmyafod and his fellows ate up the ground. The grass Hew away
beneath their hooves.

"This is becoming sickenmgly famihar," Josua shouted across to Deomoth
and Isom.

"What?"

"Running' Pursued by supenor forces!" Josua waved his arm "I am
tired of showing my backside, whether to my brother or the Storm King's
minions!"

Deomoth looked up at the clotted sky, then over his shoulder. Only a few
lone cows dotted the rearward horizon: there was no sign of pursuing nders.
"We must find a place to make our stronghold, Pnnce Josua1" he called.

"That's right!" Isom shouted. "People will come flocking to your
banner then, you'll see!"

"And how will they find us?" Josua called back with a mocking smile.
"These people, how will they find us?"

"They will, somehow." Isom shouted, "—everybody else does'" He
whooped with laughter. The pnnce and Deomoth joined in. Vorzheva
and the others stared at them as if they were mad.

"Ride on!" Josua cned. "I am married and an outlaw!"

The sun made no clear appearance all day. When the dim light at last
began to wane and the pall of approaching evening spread across the
stormy sky, the prince's party chose a spot and made camp.

STONE OF FAREWELL                 421

They had ridden due north from the wagon-city until they reached the
Ymstrecca in early afternoon, crossing the river at a muddy ford whose
banks were pockmarked with hoofpnnts. Josua had decided that travel-
ing eastward would be safer on the far side of the Ymstrecca, where they
would be within an hour's swift ride to the forest. If Fengbald continued
to pursue them, they would at least have a chance to spur toward the dark
trees and perhaps evade the superior force in Aldheorte's tangled depths-
Despite this caution, there had been no sign of the High King's horsemen
all afternoon. The night's watches also passed uneventfully. After breaking
their fast at sunrise on dried meat and bread, they were mounted and on
their way. They kept their pace swift, but fear of pursuit was lessening by
the hour: ifHotvig and others had done something to slow Fengbald, they
seemed to have made a good job of it. The only real misfortune was
the suffering of those who were unaccustomed to riding on horseback. The
cold, gray morning was full of regretful noises as they rode on into
the east.

On the second day's journey across the green but comfortless land, the
travelers began to see large roofed wagons and blowsy cottages of mud
and sticks dotted along the Ymstrecca's banks. In two or three places a
few huts had even grown together in a tiny settlement, like slow-moving
beasts seeking each other's company upon the dark plain. The chill grass-
lands were thick with mist and the travelers could not see far or clearly,
but the inhabitants of these huddhng-spots did not seem to be Thnthings-
folk.

"Hotvig spoke aright," Josua mused as they passed by one such settle-
ment. A handful of dim figures bobbed in the gray ribbon of the Ymstrecca
that wound beside the huts—settlers casting their fish nets "I think they
are JErkynIanders. See, that cottage has a holy Tree painted on its side! But
why are they here? Our folk have never lived in this land."

"Upheaval, crops ruined," Strangyeard said. "Goodness, how people
must be suffering in Erchester! Terrible!"

"They are more likely God-feanng folk who know Elias deals with
devils," Gutrun said. She clasped Leieth tighter against her considerable
bosom, as though to protect the child from the High King's communicants.

"Should we not tell them who you are, sire?" Deornoth asked. "There
is safety in numbers, and we have been few for very long. Besides, if they
are Erkynlanders, you are their rightful prince."

Josua gazed at the distant camp, then shook his head. "They may have
come out here to escape all princes, rightful or otherwise. Also, if we are
followed, why put innocents in danger by giving them knowledge of our
names and destination? No, as you said, when we have a stronghold we
will make ourselves known. They can then come to us if they wish, and
not because we have swept down on them with swords and horses."

422 Tad Williams

Deomoth kept his expression carefully neutral, but inside he was disap-
pointed They were in dire need of allies Why did Josua insist on being so
damnably careful and correct3 Some things about his pnnce, it was obvi-
ous, would never change

As the riders continued across the brooding steppe, the weather grew
steadily worse, as though they were abroad at the turning of winter
instead of the earliest days of Anitul-month in what should be high
summer Flurries of snow came riding on the back of the north wind, and
the impossibly broad sky had gone a perpetual gray, dreary as fireplace
ash

Even as the landscape on either side grew more dismal and uninviting,
the travelers began to encounter larger settlements along the Ymstrecca's
banks, settlements that seemed not to have grown so much as accumu-
lated As the river carried brambles and sticks and silt before sloughing
them off at convenient sandbars, so the very substance of these settle-
ments, both people and materials, seemed to have arrived in this strange
and only slightly hospitable place by chance, lodging as in some narrow
spot while the force that had carried them so far swept on without them.

Josua's people rode silently past these tiny, ramshackle hamlets, embry-
onic towns almost as forbidding as the land itself, each made up of perhaps
a dozen crude shelters Few living things could be seen outside the flimsy
walls, but wisps of smoke from their cooking fires twined on the wind

A second, third, and fourth night beneath the cloud-hidden stars took
the prince's exiles to the edge of the Stefflod river-valley The evening of
the fifth day brought more snow and bitter cold, but the darkness also
gleamed with lights torches and campfires, hundreds of fires that filled the
neck of the valley like a bowl of gems. The travelers had found the largest
settlement yet, a near-city of flimsy shelters nestled in the trough of the
shallow valley where the Ymstrecca and the Stefllod came together. After
a long journey across the empty plain, it was a heartening sight.

4-

"Still we go like thieves. Prince josua," Deornoth whispered crossly
"You arc the son of Prester John, my lord. Why must we skulk into this
crofter's clutter acting—and looking—like footpads?"

Josua smiled He had not changed his travel-stained Thnthmgs clothes,
although one of the things he had bartered for had been extra garments
"You arc no longer begging my pardon for your forwardness as once as
you once did, Deornoth No, do not apologize We have been through too
much together for me to disapprove You are right, we are not coming
down into this place as a prince and his court—we make a sorry court, in
any case We shall instead find out what we can and not put our women

STONE OF FAREWELL                 423

and young Leieth and the rest in any unnecessary danger." He turned to
Isorn, who was the third and to this point quietest member of the tno. "If
anything, we will want to allay suspicion that we are anything but ordi-
nary travelers You, Isom, look especially well-fed your size alone might
make some of these poor folk afraid " He chuckled and poked the brawny
young Rimmersman m the side Isorn, taken unawares by the prince's
sudden hghtheartedness, stumbled and almost fell.

"I cannot make myself small, Josua," he grunted. "Be thankful I am not
as big as my father, or your poor folk might run screaming into the night
at the sight of me "

"Ah, how I miss Isgnmnur," Josua said. "May the Aedon indeed look
after your father, that good man, and bring him back to us safely."

"My mother misses him very much and fears for him," Isom said
quietly, "but she does not say so." His good-natured face was solemn.

Josua looked at him keenly. "Yes, your family is not one for breast-
beating."

"All the same," Deornoth suddenly said, "the duke can certainly make a
ruckus when he is displeased! I remember when he first found out that
Skali was coming to KmgJohn's funeral He threw a chair through Bishop
Domitis' screen and broke it to bits' Ouch' Damn me!" Laughing, Deornoth
tripped on a hummock in the darkness. Tonight's misted moon was
stinting with her light. "Hold the torch closer, Isorn. Why are we walking
and leading our horses, in any case?"

"Because if you break a leg, you can ride," the prince said dryly. "If
your new mount Vildahx breaks his, will you carry him?"

Deornoth granted the point grudgingly.

Talking quietly of Isom's father and his legendary temper—the expres-
sion of which was almost always followed, as soon as the duke calmed
down, by horrified apologies—they made their way down the grassy slope
and coward the lights of the nearest fires. The rest of their party had built
camp at the valley's edge; the fire Duchess Gutrun tended was a shrinking
beacon on the high ground behind them.

A gang of shivering, starveling dogs barked and scattered as the three-
some approached the settlement. A few shadowy figures looked up from
their fires or stood cross-armed m the door-flaps of shabby huts, watching
the strangers pass, but if there was any sense that Josua and his comrades
did not belong, no one challenged them- From the snippets of speech they
picked up as they passed, it was clear that these settlers were indeed
mostly Erkynlanders, speaking both the old country speech and Westerlmg.
Here and there a Hemystin burr could be heard as well

A woman stood in the open space between two houses, talking to her
neighbor about the rabbit her son had brought home and how they had
steamed it with sourgrass for Hiafmansa. It was odd, Deomoth thought,
to hear people speaking of such mundane things here in the mist of the

424

Tad Williams

empty grassland, as if [here might be a church hidden behind a rock where
they would go for the morning prayer, or an ostler's shop under a leaf
where they could buy beer to drink with their rabbit stew.

The woman, of middle years, red-faced and raw-boned, turned at their
approach and surveyed them with a look of mixed apprehension and
interest. Deomoth and Isorn stepped to one side to pass around her, but

Josua halted.

"We wish you a pleasant evening, goodwife," the prince said, inclining
his head in a sort of bow. "Do you know where we could get a bit of
food? We are travelers and have good money to pay. Has someone got

something to sell?"

The woman looked him over carefully, then turned an eye on his
companions. "There are no taverns and no inns here," she said grimly.
"Everyone keeps what they have."

Josua nodded slowly, as if sifting particles of purest golden wisdom
from her discourse. "And what is the name of this place?" he asked. "It is

not on any map."

"Shouldn't think so," she snorted, "wasn't here two summers ago. It
doesn't have a name, not truly, but some call it Gadrinsett."

"GadrinsetC," Josua repeated. "Gathering-place."

"Not that anyone's gathering^ anything." She made a face. "Just can't

go any farther."

"And why is that?" Josua asked.

The woman ignored this last question, looking the prince up and down
once more in a calculating manner. "Here," she said at last, "if you want
food and you'll pay for it, I might be able to do something for you. Show

me your money first."

Josua showed her a handful of cintis and quints-pieces that he had
brought in his purse out of Naglimund. The woman shook her head.

"Can't take the bronze. Some folk farther along the river might trade
for the silver, so I'll take a chance on one o' them. D'you have aught else
to trade? Leather straps from broken saddle? Buckles? Extra clothes?" She
looked at Josua's outfit and smirked. "No, I doubt you've got extra
clothes. Come on then, I'll give you some soup and you can tell me any
news." She waved to her friend—who had remained at a safe distance,
watching the whole exchange open-mouthed—then led them back through

the cluster of huts.

The woman's name was lelda, and although she mentioned several
times that her man might return at any moment, Deornoth guessed that
this was mostly to forestall any thoughts of robbery that three strangers
might have; he saw no sign of any living husband around her camp, which
centered around an outdoor fire and small, rickety cottage. She did have
several children, their genders somewhat blurred by dirt and evening
darkness. These came out to watch the prince and his friends with the

425

STONE OF FAREWELL

same wide-eyed attention they might have given to a snake swallowing a
frog.

After receiving a quinis-piece, which immediately vanished into her
dress, lelda poured them each a bowl of thin soup, then procured from
somewhere ajar of beer that she said her man had brought with him from
Falshire where they had previously lived. Seeing that jar hardened in
Deomoth's mind the notion that her husband was dead: what man could
live in this Godforsaken hole, yet leave beer so long undrunk?

Josua thanked her gravely. The three of them passed the jar around
several times before thinking to ask lelda if she would like some herself.
She accepted with a gracious nod and took several healthy swallows. Her
children discussed this among themselves in a strange pidgin language
consisting mostly of grunts, a few recognizable words, and repeated
cuffings to the head and shoulders.

The pleasures of company and conversation soon began to work on
lelda. Reserved at first, before long she was holding forth quite knowl-
edgeably on everything there was to know about Gadrinsett and her
fellow squatters. Untutored, she nevertheless had a sly wit, and although
the travelers were chiefly interested in finding the way to their destination—
Geloe's instructions had not been very precise—they found themselves
enjoying lelda's imitations other various neighbors.

Like many of Gadrinsett's other inhabitants, lelda and her family had
fled Falshire when Fengbald and the Erkynguard had burned down the
city's wool district—a punishment for the resistance of the wool mer-
chants' guild to one of Elias* less popular proclamations. lelda also ex-
plained that Gadrinsett was even larger than Josua's folk had first guessed;

it continued for a way down the valley, she said, but the hills loomed high
enough that the camp fires at the far end were blocked from view.

The reason it was the stopping place for so many, lelda said, was that
the land beyond the spot where the Stefflod and Ymstrecca joined was
ill-omened and dangerous.

"Full of fairy-rings it is," she said earnestly, "and there are mounds
where spirits dance at night. That's why those folk chat live in the
Thrithings leave us in peace—they wouldn't live here anyway." Her voice
dropped and her eyes grew large. "One great hill there is where witches
meet, full of terrible warlock-stones—worse even than Thisterborg by
Erchester, if you've heard tell of that evil place. Not far from it is a city
where devils once lived, an unholy, unnatural city. Terrible magicks is
what that land across the river's full of—some women here have had
children stolen away. One had a changeling left in return, pointed ears and
all!"

"That warlock-hill sounds a fearsome place indeed," Josua said, an
expression of great seriousness on his long face. When the woman looked

426 Tad Williams

down at her lap, where she was mixing flour and water in a bowl, he
caught Deornoth's gaze and winked. "Where is it?"

lelda pointed into the darkness. "Straight that way, up the Stefflod.
You're wise to avoid it." She stopped, frowning. "And where are you
going, sirs?"

Deornoth chimed in before Josua could speak. "Actually, we are travel-
ing knights who hope to lend our swords to a grand task. We have heard
that Prince Josua, the younger son of High King John the Presbyter, has
come here into the eastern lands, where he plots the overthrow of his
wicked brother, King Elias." Trying not to smile, Deornoth ignored
Josua's irritated gestures. "We have come to join that noble cause."

lelda, who had stopped kneading the dough for a moment to stare,
made a snorting noise and resumed her labor. "Prince Josua? Here on the
grasslands? That's a clever joke. Not that I wouldn't like to see something
done. Things just haven't been right since old Prester John died, bless
him." She made a stern face, but her eyes suddenly gleamed wetly. "It's
been hard for us all, so hard ..."

She stood abruptly and laid out the flattened balls of dough on a clean
heated stone at the edge of the fire; they began to quietly sizzle. "I'm just
going to see my friend," lelda said, "and find out if she has a bit more beer
we can borrow. I won't tell her what you said about the prince, because
she'd just laugh. Watch those cakes close now while I go—they're for the
children to eat in the morning." She got up and walked out of the circle of
firelight, dabbing at her eyes with a dirty shawl.

"What kind of foolishness is this, Deornoth?" Josua asked crossly.

"But did you hear? People like this are waiting for you to do some-
thing. You are their prince." It seemed so obvious. Surely Josua could see?

"Prince of what? Prince of rums, prince of empty lands and grass? I
have nothing to offer these folk . . . yet." He got up and walked to the
edge of the camp. lelda's children peered out at him, a cluster of white-
rimmed eyes gleaming in the darkened doorway.

"But how will you gain anything without folk to follow you?" Isom
asked. "Deornoth is right. If Fengbald now knows where we are, it is
only a matter of time until Elias brings his full anger to bear on us."

"Suspicion may keep these people away from the Stone of Farewell, but
it will not keep Earl Guthwulf and the High King's army at bay," said
Deornoth.

"If the king on the Dragonbone Chair is going to bring his armies down
on us," Josua replied hotly, throwing his hand up in a gesture of frustra-
tion, "a few hundred Gadrinsett-folk will be no more than feathers in a
gale against them. That is all the more reason not to drag them in. We few
at least can vanish into Aldheorte once more if we must, but these folk
cannot."

STONE OF FAREWELL

427

"Again we plan to retreat, Prince Josua," Deornoth replied angrily.
"You are tired of it yourself—you said as much!"

The three were still arguing when lelda returned. They broke off into
guilty silence, wondering how much she might have heard. Their conver-
sation, however, was the last thing on her mind.

"My cakes'" she shrieked, then pulled them off the hot rock one after
the other, making little cries of pain as she burned her fingers. Each cake
was charred black as Pryrates' soul. "You monsters' How could you?
Talking all your high-flown nonsense about the prince, then letting my
cakes bum!" She turned and smacked ineffectually at Isom's broad shoulders.

"My apologies, goodwife lelda," Josua said. producing another quinis-
piece. "Please take this and forgive us . . ."

"Money!" she cried, even as she took the coin, "What about my cakes?
Will I give my children money to eat tomorrow morning when they are
crying!?" She snatched up a broom of bound twigs and swung lustily at
Deornoth's head, almost knocking him off the rock on which he sat. He
bounded quickly to his feet and joined Josua and Isorn in full retreat.

"Don't come 'round here any more!" she shouted after them. "Swords-
for-hire indeed! Cake-burners! The prince is dead, my friend said—and
your talk can't bring him back!"

Her angry cries slowly faded into the distance as Josua and his compan-
ions stumbled back to their horses and made their way out past the fringes
of Gadrinsett.

"At least," Josua said after they had walked a while, "we have a good
idea of where the Stone of Farewell lies."

"We learned more than that, Highness," Deornoth said, half-smihng.
"We saw how your name still inspires passion among your subjects."

"You may be the Prince of Grass, Josua," Isom added, "but you are
definitely not the King of Cakes."

Josua looked at them both disgustedly. "I would appreciate," he said
slowly, "going back to camp in silence."

22

Tftrougfi tfte Summer Gate

It IS TlOt a road that takes us there," Aditii said sternly. "It is a

sort of song."

Simon frowned m irritation. He had asked a simple question, but in her
maddening Sithi way, Jiriki's sister had once more given an answer that
was no answer. It was too cold to stand around talking nonsense. He tried

again.

"If there's no road, it must still be in some direction. What direction is

it, then?"

"In. Into the forest's heart."

Simon peered up at the sun to try and orient himself. "So, it's . . . that
way?" He pointed south, the direction in which he had been traveling.

"Not quite. Sometimes. But that would more often be when you
wished to enter through the Gate of Rains. That is not right at this time of
year. No, it is the Summer Gate that we seek, and that is a different song
altogether."

"You keep saying a song. How can you get to a thing by a song?"

"How. . . ?" She appeared to consider this carefully. She inspected
Simon. "You have a strange way of thinking. Do you know how to play
shout7"

"No. What docs that have to do with anything?"

"You might be an interesting player—I wonder if anyone ever has
played with a mortal? None of my folk would ask such a question as you
did. I must teach you the rules."

Simon grumbled his confusion, but Aditu lifted a slim-fmgered hand to
halt his questions. She stood very quietly, her web of lavender hair
trembling in the breeze, everything else still; in her white clothing she
was nearly invisible against the snow drifts. She seemed to have fallen
asleep standing, like a stork swaying on one leg among the reeds, but her
lustrous eyes remained open. At last she began to breathe deeply, letting
the air out again with a chuffmg hiss. The exhalations gradually became a

STONE OF FAREWELL                 429

crooning, humming sound that hardly seemed to come from Aditu at all.
The wind, which had been a cold-fmgered push on Simon's cheek, abruptly
changed direction.

No, he realized a moment later, it was more thanjust an altering of the
wind. Rather, it seemed that the whole of creation had moved ever so
slightly—a frightening sensation that brought on a moment of dizziness.
As a child he had sometimes whirled himself around and around in a
circle; when he stopped, the world would continue to reel about him. This
dizziness felt much like that, yet calmer, as though the world that spun
beneath his feet moved as deliberately as the unfolding petals of a flower.

Aditu's wordless, airy drone solidified into a litany of unfamiliar Sithi
speech, then trailed off into silent breathing once more. The drab light
slipping down through the snowbound trees seemed to have gained some
warmer color, an infinitesimal shift of hue that leavened the gray with
blue and gold. The silence stretched.

"Is this magic?" Simon heard his voice shatter the stillness like the
braying of a donkey. He immediately felt foolish. Aditu swung her head
to look at him, but her expression showed no anger.

"I am not sure what you mean," she said. "It is how we find a hidden
place, and Jao e-Tinukai'i is indeed hidden. But there is no power in the
words themselves, if that is what you ask. They could be spoken in any
language. They help the searcher to remember certain signs, certain paths.
If that is not what you mean by 'magic,' I am sorry to disappoint you."

She did not look very sorry. Her mischievous smile had come back.

"I shouldn't have interrupted," Simon muttered. "I always asked my
friend Doctor Morgenes to show me magic. He never did." The thought
of the old man brought back a memory of a sunny morning in the
doctor's dusty chamber, the sound of Morgenes mumbling and musing
to himself while Simon swept. With that memory came a fierce pang of
regret. All those things were gone.

"Morgenes ..." Aditu said musingly. "I saw him once, when he
visited my uncle in our lodge. He was a pretty young man."

"Young man?" Simon stared again at her thin, waiflike face. "Doctor
Morgenes?"

The Sitha suddenly became serious once more. "We should delay no
longer. Would you like me to sing the song in your tongue? It could cause
no harm that is worse than the trouble we are already brewing, you and
I."

"Trouble?" Confusion was piling on confusion, but Aditu had taken her
odd stance once more. He had a sudden feeling that he must speak
quickly, as though a door were being closed. "Yes, please, in my tongue!"

She settled on the balls of her feet, poised like a cricket on a branch.
After breathing measuredly for a moment, she again began to chant. The

430

Tad Williams

song slowly became recognizable, the clumsy, blocky sounds of Simon's
Westerling speech softening and turning liquid, the words running and
flowing together like melting wax.

"The Serpent's dreaming eye is green,"

she sang, her eyes fixed on the icicles that hung like jeweled pennants
from the branches of a dying hemlock. The fire absent from the muted
sun now burned in their scintillant depths.

"His track is moon-silver.

Only the Woman-with-a-net can see

The secret places that he goes ..."

Aditu's hand drifted out from her side and hung in the air for a long
moment before Simon realized that he was expected to take it. He grasped
her fingers in his gloved hand, but .she pulled free. For a moment he
thought he had guessed wrong, that he had forced some unwanted, oafish
intimacy on this golden-eyed creature, but as her fingers flexed impa-
tiently he realized in a rush of confusing feelings that she wanted his bare
hand. He pulled his leather mitten off with his teeth, then clasped her
slender wrist with fingers warm and moist from their residence in the
glove. She gently but firmly pulled her wrist away, this time sliding her
hand against his own; her cool fingers curled around his. With a head-
shake like a cat awakened from a nap, she repeated the words she had

sunt

"The Serpent's dreaming eye is green,

His trade is moon-silver:

Only the Woman-with-a-nel can see
The secret places that he goes ..."

Aditu led him forward, ducking beneath the hemlock bough and its
burden of icicles. The stiff, snow-salted breeze that clawed at his face
brought tears into his eyes. The forest before him was suddenly distorted,
as chough he were trapped inside one of the icicles, staring out. He heard
his boots crunching in the snow, but it seemed to be happening at a great
distance, as though his head floated treetop-high.

"Wind-child wears an indigo crown,

Aditu crooned. They walked, but if felt more like floating, or swimming.
"His boots are of rabbit skin.

STONE OF FAREWELL                 431

Invisible is he to Moon-mother's stare,
But she can hear his cautious breathing . . ."

They turned and clambered down into what should have been a gulley
lined with evergreens; instead, to Simon's misted eyes the tree limbs
resembled shadowy arms reaching out to enfold the two travelers. Branches
swatted at his thighs as he passed, their scent spicy and strong. Sap-
covered needles clung to his breeches. The wind—which breathed
whisperingiy among the swaying branches—was a little more moist, but
still shivenngly cold.

". . . Yellow is the dust on old Tortoise's shell."

Aditu paused before a bank of umber stone, which thrust from the
snow at the bottom of the gulley like the wall of a ruined house. As she
stood singing before it, the sunlight chat fell through the trees abruptly
shifted its angle; the shadows in the crevices of stone deepened, then
overtopped their clefts like flooding rivers, sliding across the face of the
rock as though the hidden sun were plummeting swiftly toward its eve-
ning berth.

"He goes in deep places,"
she chanted,

"Bedded beneath the dry rock,
He counts his own heartbeats in chalky shadow ..."

They curved around the massive stone and suddenly found themselves
on a down-slanting bank. Smaller outcroppings of dusky rock, pale pink
and sandy brown, pushed up through the snowy ground. The trees that
loomed against the sky were a darker green here, and full of quiet birdsong.
Winter's bite was noticeably less.

They had traveled, but it seemed they had also passed from one kind of
day to another, as though they somehow walked at right angles to the
normal world, moving unrestrainedly as the angels that Simon had been
told flew here and there at God's bidding. How could that be?

Staring up past the trees into the featureless gray sky. Adieu's hand
clutched in his, Simon wondered if he might indeed have died. Might this
solemn creature beside him—whose eyes seemed fixed on things he could
not see—be escorting his soul to some final destination, while his lifeless
body lay somewhere in the forest, slowly vanishing beneath a blanket of
drifting snow?

Is it warm in Heaven? he wondered absently.

432 Tad Williams

He rubbed at his face with his free hand and felt the reassuring pain of
his chapped skin. In any case, it mattered little: he was going where this
one led him. His contented helplessness was such that he felt he could no
more remove his hand from hers than remove his head from his body.

". . . Cloud-song waves a scarlet torch:

A ruby beneath a gray sea.

She smells of cedar bark,

And wears ivory at her breast ..."

Adieu's voice rose and fell, her song's slow, thoughtful cadence blend-
ing with the birdsong as the waters of one river would meld indistinguish-
ably into the flow of another. Each verse in the endless stream, each cycle
of names and colors, was a jeweled puzzle whose solution always seemed
to be at Simon's fingertips but never revealed itself. By the time he
thought he might be making sense of something, it was gone, and some-
thing new was dancing on the forest air.

The two travelers passed from the bank of stones into deep shade,
entering a thicket of dark green hedges pearled with tiny white flowers.
The foliage was damp, the snow underfoot soggy and unstable. Simon
clasped Aditu's hand more firmly. He tried to wipe his eyes, which had
blurred again. The little white flowers smelled of wax and cinnamon.

". . . The Otter's eye is pebble-brown.
He slides beneath ten wet leaves;

When he dances in diamond streams,
The Lantern-bearer laughs ..."

And now, joining with the rising and falling melody of Aditu's song
and the delicate trill of birds, came the sound of water splashing in shallow
pools, tuneful as a musical instrument made of fragile glass. Shimmering
light sparkled on melting snowdrops; as he listened in wonderment,
Simon looked all around at the starry gleam of sun through water. The
tree branches seemed to be dripping light.

They walked beside a small but active stream whose joyful voice rever-
berated through the tree-pillared forest halls. Melting snow lay atop the
stones and rich black earth lay beneath the damp leaves. Simon's head was
whirling. Aditu's melody ran through all his thoughts, just as the stream
slid around and over the polished stones that made its bed. How long had
they been walking? It had seemed only a few steps at first, but now it
suddenly seemed they had marched for hours—days! And why was the
snow vanishing away? Just moments ago it had covered everything!

Spring! he thought, and felt a nervous but exultant laughter bubbling
inside him / think we're walking into Spring!

433

STONE OF  FAREWELL

They strode on beside the stream. Aditu's music chimed on and on like
the water. The sun had vanished. Sunset was blooming in the sky like a
rose, singeing all ofAldheorte's leaves and branches and trunks with fiery
light, touching the stones with crimson. As Simon watched, the blaze
flared and died in the sky, then was swiftly supplanted by spreading
purple, which itself was devoured in turn by sable darkness. The world
seemed to be spinning faster beneath him, but he still felt firmly grounded:

one foot followed the other, and Aditu's hand was firm in his.

". . . Stone-listener's mantle is black as jet,
His rings shine like stars,

As she sang these words, a scattering of white stars indeed appeared
against the vault of the heavens. They blossomed and faded in a succession
of shifting patterns. Half-realized faces and forms coalesced, pricked in
starlight against the blackness, then dissolved again just as rapidly.

Nine he wears; but his naked finger
Lifts and tastes the southerly breeze ..."

As he walked beneath the velvet-black sky and wheeling stars, Simon
felt as if an entire lifetime might be passing with incredible swiftness;

simultaneously, the night journey seemed but a single moment of near-
infinite duration. Time itself seemed to sweep through him, leaving be-
hind a wild mixture of scents and sounds- Aldheorte had become a single
living thing that changed all around him as the deathly chill melted away
and the warmth came pushing through. Even in darkness he could sense
the immense, almost convulsive alterations.

As they walked in bright starlight beside the chattering, laughing river,
Simon thought he could sense green leaves springing from bare boughs
and vibrant flowers forcing their way out of the frozen ground, fragile
petals unfurling like the wings of butterflies. The forest seemed to be
shaking off winter like a snake shrugging its old, useless skin.

Adieu's song wound through everything like a single golden thread in a
tapestry woven of muted colors.

". . . Violet are the shadows in Lynx's ears.
He hears the sun rising;

His tread sends the cricket to sleep,
And wakes the white rose ..."

Morning light began to permeate Aldheorte, spreading evenly, as chough
it had no single source. The forest seemed alive, every leaf and branch
poised, waiting. The air was filled with a thousand sounds and numberless

434

Tad Williams

scents, with birdsong and bee-drone, the musk of living earth, the sweet
rot of toadstools, the dry charm of pollen. Unmuffled by clouds, the sun
climbed into a sky that showed purest pale blue between the towering
treetops.

". . . Sky-singer's cape is buckled in ^oM,"

Aditu sang triumphantly, and the forest seemed to throb around them
as though it had one vast and indivisible pulse.

"His hair isjuJI of nightingale feathers.
Every three paces he casts pearls behind,
And saffron flowers before him . . "

She stopped in her tracks and released Simon's hand; his arm fell to his
side, limp as a boned fish. Aditu stood on her toes and stretched, lifting
her upraised palms to the sun. Her waist was very slender.

It took a long time before Simon could speak. "Arc we . . ." he tried at

last, "are we. . - ?"

"No, but we have traveled the most difficult part," she said, then
turned on him with a droll look. "I thought you would break my hand,
you clutched so hard."

Simon remembered her calm, strong grip and thought how unlikely
that was. He smiled dazedly, shaking his head. "I have never ..." He
couldn't make the words come. "How far have we come7"

She seemed to find this a surprising question and thought hard for
a moment. "Quite far into the forest," she said at last. "Quite far in "

"Did you make the winter go away by magic3" he asked, turning in a
stumbling circle. On all sides the snow was gone. The morning light
knifed down through the trees and splashed on the crush of damp leaves
underfoot. A spider web quivered, afire m a column of sunlight.

"The winter has not gone away," she said. "We have gone away from
the winter."

"What?"

"The winter you speak of is false—as you know. Here, in the forest's
true heart is a place the storm and cold have not penetrated."

Simon thought he understood what she was saying. "So you are keep-
ing the winter away by magic."

Aditu frowned- "That word again. Here the world dances its true
dance. That which would change such a truth is 'magic'—dangerous
magic—or so it seems to me." She turned away. obviously tiring of the
subject. There was little of imposture in Aditu's character, at least when it
was a matter other time being wasted in niceties. "We are almost there
now, so there is no need to rest. Are you hungry or thirsty?"

STONE OF FAREWELL                 435

Simon realized that he was ravenous, as if he had not eaten for days.
"Yes! Both."

Without another word, Aditu slipped between the trees and vanished,
leaving Simon standing alone by the stream. "Stay," she called, her voice
echoing so that it seemed to come from every side at once. A few
moments later she reappeared with a reddish sphere held delicately m each
hand. "Kraile," she said. "Sunfruifs. Eat them."

The first sunfruit proved sweet and full of yellowy juice, with a spicy
aftertaste that made him quickly bite into the second. By the time he had
finished both, his hunger was pleasantly blunted.

"Now, come," she said. "I would like to reach Shao Irigu by noon
today."

"What's 'Shao Irigu'—and what day is it today, anyway?"

Aditu looked annoyed, if such a mundane expression could be said to
exist on so exotic a face. "Shao Irigu is the Summer Gate, of course. As
for the other, I cannot do all the measurements. That is for those like First
Grandmother. I think you have a moon-span you call 'Ahn-ee-tool'?"

"Anitui is a month, yes."

"That is as much as I can say. It is that 'month,' by your reckoning."

Now it was Simon's turn to be annoyed: he could.have told her that
much himself—although months did tend to sneak past when one was on
the road. What he had been hoping to discover, in a roundabout way, was
how long it had taken them to get here. It would have been easy to ask
straight out, of course, but somehow he knew that the answer Aditu gave
him would not be very satisfying.

The Sitha-woman moved forward. Simon scrambled after her. De-
spite his irritation, he more than half-hoped she would ask for his hand
again, but that part of the journey seemed to be over. Aditu picked her
way down the slope beside the stream without looking back to see if he
was following.

Nearly deafened by the cheerful cacophony of birds in the trees over-
head, bewildered by all that had happened, Simon opened his mouth to
complain about her evasions, then stopped suddenly m his tracks, shamed
by his own short-sightedness. His weariness and crossness abruptly fell
away, as though he had sloughed off a heavy blanket of snow dragged
with him out of winter. This was a wild sort of magic, whatever Aditu
said! To have been m a deadly storm—a storm that covered all the
northern world, as far as he could tell—and then to follow a song into
sunlight and clear skies! This was as good as anything Simon had ever
heard in one of Shem Horsegroom's stories. This was an adventure even
Jack Mundwode never had. Simon the scullion was going to the Kingdom
of the Fair Folk!

He hastened after her, chortling. Aditu looked back at him curiously.

436

Tad Williams

As the weather had changed during their strange journey, so, Coo, had
the vegetation: the evergreens and low shrubs in which Simon had been
snowbound and lost had given way to oak and birch and white ash, their
interlaced branches bound with flowering creepers, making an overhead
canopy colorful as a stained glass ceiling but far more delicate. Ferns and
wood sorrel blanketed the stones and fallen trees, covering Aldheorte's
floor with a bumpy counterpane of green. Mushrooms crouched hiding in
pools of shadow like deserting soldiers, while other pale but oddly beauti-
ful fungi clung to the trunks of trees like the steps of spiraling stair-
cases. The morning sun sprinkled all with a light like fine silver and

gold dust.

The stream had cut a gentle gorge in its passage, winding down into a
valley whose bottom was obscured by close-leaning trees. As Simon and
Aditu picked their way carefully over the slippery rocks that lined the
gorge, the stream filled the air around them with fine spray. The water-
course splashed into a series of narrow ponds that grew successively
larger down the hillside, each one spilling over into the one below. The
ponds were overhung by aspen and drooping willows, the surrounding
stones slickly furred in rich green moss.

Simon sat down on one to rest his ankles and catch his breath.

"We will be there before too much longer," Aditu said, almost kindly.

"I'm fine." He stretched out his legs before him, staring critically at his
cracked boots. Too much snow had ruined the leather—but why should
he worry about that now? "I'm fine," he repeated.

Aditu sat down on the stone beside him and looked up to the skies.
There was something quite marvelous about her face, something that he
had never seen in her brother, despite the distinct familial resemblance:

Jiriki had been very interesting to look at, but Simon thought that Aditu
was lovely.

"Beautiful," he murmured.

"What?" Aditu turned to look at him questioningly, as though she did

not know the word.

"Beautiful," Simon repeated. "Everything is very beautiful here." He
cursed himself for a coward and took a deep breath. "You are beautiful,
Coo, Lady," he finally added.

Aditu stared at him for a moment, her golden eyes puzzled, her mouth
creased in what seemed a tiny frown. Then she abruptly burst into a peal
of hissing laughter. Simon felt himself redden.

"Don't look so angry." She laughed again. "You are a very beautiful
Snowlock, Seoman. I am glad you are happy." Her swift touch on his
hand was like ice on a hot forehead. "Come," Aditu said, "we will go on

now,"

The water, uninterested in their doings, continued on its own way,

STONE OF FAREWELL

437

belling and splashing beside them as they made their way down toward
the valley. Scrambling over the rocks as he struggled to keep up with
light-stepping Aditu, Simon wondered if just this once he might actually
have said the right thing. She certainly didn't seem angry at his forward-
ness. Still, he resolved to continue thinking carefully before he spoke.
These Sithi were damnably unpredictable!

When they had nearly reached level ground, they stopped before a pair
of towering hemlocks whose trunks seemed vast enough to be the col-
umns upholding Heaven. Where these mighty trees thrust up between
their smaller neighbors into unshadowed sunshine, tangled nets of flower-
ing creepers grew like an arbor between the two trunks, trailing blossom-
laden vines that hung almost to the ground and quivered in the wind. The
grumble of bees was loudest from the flowers, but they swarmed every-
where among the creepers,' stolid laborers in gold and black, wings
glistening.

"Stop," Aditu said. "Do not so lightly pass through the Summer
Gate."

Despite the power and beauty of the great hemlocks, Simon was sur-
prised. "This is the gate? Two trees?"

Adieu looked very serious. "We left all monuments of stone behind
when we fled Asu'a the Eastward-Looking, Seoman. Now, Jiriki bade me
tell you something before you entered Shao Irigu. My brother said that
no matter what may occur later, you have been given the rarest of all
honors. You have been brought to a place in which no mortal has ever
set foot. Do you understand that? No mortal has ever walked in beneath
this gate."

"Oh?" Simon was startled by her words. He looked around quickly,
fearing he might see some disapproving audience. "But . . . but I just
wanted someone to help me. I was starving ..."

"Come," she said, "Jiriki will be waiting." Aditu took a step forward,
then turned. "And do not look so worried," she smiled. "It is a great
honor, it is true, but you are Hikka Staja—an Arrow-Bearer. Jiriki does
not break the oldest rules for just anyone."

Simon was passing beneath the great trees before he understood what
Aditu had said. "Break the rules?"

Aditu was moving quickly now, almost skipping, swift and sure-footed
as a deer as she made her way along the path that stretched downhill from
the Summer Gate. The forest here seemed just as wild but more accom-
modating. Trees as old and grand as these could never have known the
touch of an axe, yet they stopped just short of the path; their hanging
branches would not brush the head of any but the tallest traveler.

They followed this winding path for no little way, traveling on a rise
just a short distance above the floor of the valley. The forest was so

438

Tad Williams

thick-shrouded with trees on either side of the path that Simon could
never see more than a stone's throw before him, and began to feel as
though he stood in one place while an endless succession of mossy trunks
marched past him. The air had become positively warm. The wild river—
which, judging from its noisy voice, snaked a parallel course along the
valley floor not a hundred cubits away—filled the forest air with delicate
mist. The sleepy hum of bees and other insects washed over Simon like a
healthy swallow ofBinabik's hunt-liquor.

He had almost forgotten himself entirely, and was dreamily following
Aditu by sheer repetition of left foot, right foot, left foot, when the
Sitha-woman drew him to a halt. To their left the curtain of trees fell
away, revealing the valley floor.

"Turn," she said, suddenly whispering. "Remember, Seoman, you are
the first of your kind to see Jao e-Tinukai'i—the Boat on the Ocean of
Trees,"

It was nothing like a boat, of course, but Simon understood the name in
an instant. Stretched between treetop and ground, and from trunk to
trunk and bough to bough, the billowing sheets of cloth in a thousand
diverse colors resembled at first sight nothing so much as exquisite sails—
indeed, for that first moment the entire valley floor seemed in truth a vast
and incredible ship.

Some of these expanses of brilliantly gleaming cloth had been stretched
and tented to make roofs. Others twined about the trunks of trees, or
spanned from bough to ground to form translucent walls. Some simply
heaved and snapped in the wind, bound to the highest branches with shiny
cords and allowed to wave. The whole city undulated with every shift of
the wind, like a seaweed forest on the ocean floor bowing gracefully with

the tide.

The cloth and binding cords mirrored with subtle differences the hues of
the forest all around, so that in places the additions were barely discernible
from that which had grown naturally. In fact, as Simon peered closer,
overwhelmed with Jao e-Tinukai'i's subtle and fragile beauty, he saw that
in many places the forest and city appeared to have truly been shaped as
one, so that they blended together with unearthly harmony. The river
which meandered along the center of the valley floor was more subdued
here, but still full of relentless, ringing music; the rippling light it reflected
onto the city's shifting facades added to the illusion of watery depth.
Simon thought he could also see the silvery tracks of other streams
weaving in and out through the trees.

The forest floor between the houses—if such they were—was covered
with thick greenery, mostly springy clover. This grew like a carpet
everywhere but on the paths of dark earth that had been lined with

STONE OF FAREWELL                 439

shimmering white stone. A few of the gracefully haphazard bridges that
spanned the waterway were also constructed of this same stone. Beside
these paths, strange birds with fanlike, iridescent tails of green and blue
and yellow strutted or flapped unsteadily back and forth between earth
and the lowest branches of the surrounding trees, all the while uttering
harsh and somewhat foolish-sounding cries. There were other flashes of
incandescent color among the upper branches, birds as brilliantly-feathered
as the fantails but considerably more mellifluous of voice.

Warm, gentle winds lifted an essence of spices and tree sap and summer
grass to Simon's nose; the avian choir fluted a thousand different songs
that somehow fit together like a terrifyingly beautiful puzzle. The marvel-
ous city stretched away before him into the sunlit forest, a Heaven more
welcoming than any he had ever envisioned.

"It's . . . wonderful," Simon breathed.

"Come," Aditu said. "Jiriki awaits you in his house."

She beckoned. When he didn't move, she gently took his hand and led
him. Simon stared around in delight and awe as they followed a cross-trail
down off the rise and onto the outermost path of the valley floor. The
rustling of silken folds and the murmuring river blended their melodies
together beneath the birdsong, creating a new sound .that was altogether
different, but still infinitely satisfying.

There was a long time of looking, smelling, and listening before Simon
ever began thinking once more. "Where is everyone?" he asked at last. In
all of the city within his sight, a space easily twice the size of Battle Square
back in Brchester, he could not see a single living soul.

"We are a solitary folk, Seoman," Aditu said. "We stay largely to
ourselves, except at certain times. Also, it is midday now, when many of
our people like to leave the city and go out walking. I am surprised we
saw no one near the Pools."

Despite her reasonable words, Simon thought he sensed something
troubling the Sitha, as though she herself was not quite sure she spoke the
truth. But he had no way of knowing: expressions or behaviors that
meant something definite among those with whom Simon had grown up
were almost useless as standards by which to judge any of the Sitha he had
met. Nevertheless, he felt fairly sure that something was troubling his
guide, and that it might very well be the emptiness Simon had noticed.

A large wildcat strode imperiously onto the pathway before them. For a
startled moment, Simon felt his heart speed to a frenzied pace. Despite the
creature's size, Aditu did not break stride, walking toward it as calmly as
if it were not there. With a flip of its stubby tail, the wildcat abruptly
bounded away and vanished into the undergrowth, leaving only the bounc-
ing fronds of a fern to show it had existed at all.

Clearly. Simon realized, birds were not the only creatures who roamed

440

Tad Williams

unhindered through Jao e-Tinukai'i. Beside the path, the coats of foxes—
seldom seen at night, let alone bright noon—glimmered like flames in the
tangled brush- Hares and squirrels stared incuriously at the pair as they
passed. Simon felt quite sure that if he leaned down toward any of them
they would move unhurriedly out of his fumbling reach, discommoded
for a moment but utterly unafraid.

They crossed a bridge over one of the river-forks, then turned and
followed the watercourse down a long corridor of willows. A ribbon of
white cloth wound in and out among the trees on their left, wrapped
about trunks and looped over branches. As they passed farther down the
row of willow sentries, the initial ribbon was joined by another. These
two snaked in and out, crossing behind and before each other as though
engaged in a kind of static dance.

Soon more white ribbons of different widths began to appear, woven
into the growing pattern in knots of fantastic intricacy. These weavings at
first made up only simple forms, but soon Simon and Aditu began to pass
increasingly complex pictures that hung in the spaces framed by the
willow trunks: blazing suns, cloudy skies overhanging oceans covered
with jagged waves, leaping animals, figures in flowing robes or filigreed
armor, all formed by interlaced knots. As the first plain pictures became
entire tapestries of tangled light and shadow, Simon understood that he
watched an unfolding story. The ever-growing tapestry of knotted fabric
portrayed people who loved and fought in a gardenlike land of incredible
strangeness, a place where plants and creatures thrived whose forms seemed
obscure even though precisely rendered by the unknown weaver's master-
ful, magical hands.

Then, as the tapestry eloquently showed, something began to go wrong.
Only ribbons of white were used, but still Simon could almost see the
dark stain that began to spread through the people's lives and hearts, the
way it sickened them. Brother fought brother, and what had been a place
of unmatched beauty was blighted beyond hope. Some of the people
began building ships . . .

"Here," Aditu said, startling him. The tapestry had led them to a
whirlpool swirl of pale fabric, an inward-leading spiral that appeared to
lead up a gentle hill. On the right, beside this odd door, the tapestry
leaped away across the river, trembling in the bright air like a bridge of
silk. Where the taut ribbons of the tapestry vaulted the splashing stream,
the knots portrayed eight magnificent ships at sea, cresting woven waves.
The tapestry touched the willows on the far side and turned, winding back
up the watercourse in the direction from which Simon and Adieu had
come, stretching away from tree to tree until it could no longer be seen.

Aditu's hand touched his arm and Simon shivered. Walking in some-
one else's dream, he had forgotten himself. He followed her through

STONE OF FAREWELL

441

the doorway and up a set of stairs carefully cut into the hillside, then
paved with colorful smooth stones. Like everything else, the corridor
through which they walked was made of rippling, translucent cloth: the
walls were white near the door, gradually darkening to pale blue and
turquoise. In her white clothes Aditu reflected this shifting light, so that as
she walked before him, she, too, seemed to change color.

Simon trailed his fingers along the wall and found that it was as exqui-
sitely soft as it looked, but curiously strong; it slid beneath his hand as
smoothly as gold wire, yet was warm to the touch as the down of a baby
bird and quivered with the wind's every breath.

The featureless corridor soon opened up into a large, high-ceilinged
room chat, but for the instability of its walls, looked much like a room in
any fine house. The turquoise hue of the cloth near the entrance shaded
imperceptibly into ultramarine. A low table of dark wood stood near one
wall, with cushions scattered all around it. On the table sat a board painted
in many colors; Simon thought it a map until he recognized it as a place to
play the game called shent, which he had seen Jiriki do in his hunting
lodge. He remembered Aditu's challenge. The pieces, he guessed, were in
the intricate wooden box sitting beside it on the table top. The only other
item on the table was a stone vase containing a single branch from a
flowering apple tree.

"Sit down, Snowlock, please." Aditu waved her hand. "I believe Jiriki
has a visitor."

Before Simon could follow her suggestion, the room's far wall began to
billow. A section flew up as if it had torn free. Someone dressed in bright
green, whose braided hair was a jarringly contrasting shade of red, stepped
through,

Simon was surprised at how quickly he recognized Jiriki's uncle,
Khendraja'aro. The Sitha was muttering gruffly in what seemed to be
fury—seemed, because Simon could see-no discernible emotion on his face
at all. Then Khendraja'aro looked up and spotted Simon. His angular face
blanched, as though the blood had run out of him like water from an
upended pail.

"Sudhoda'ya! hi-isi'ye-a Sudhoda'ya!" he gasped, his voice full of an
anger so astonished as to seem like something else altogether.

Khendraja'aro dragged his slender, beringed hand slowly across his eyes
and face as if trying to wipe away the sight of gangly Simon. Unable to do
so, Jiriki's uncle hissed in almost feline alarm, then turned on Aditu and
began to speak to her in rapid, quietly liquid Sithi that nonetheless strength-
ened the suggestion of spitting rage. Aditu absorbed his tirade expression-
lessly, her deep, gold-shot eyes wide but unfrightened. When Khendraja'aro
had finished, she answered him calmly. Her uncle turned and regarded
Simon once more, making a series of strangely sinuous gestures with his
splayed fingers as he listened to her measured response.

442 Tad Williams

Khendraja'ro took a deep breath, letting a preternatural calm overtake
him until he stood motionless as a pillar of stone. Only his bright eyes
seemed alive, burning in his face like lamps. After several moments of this
overwhelming stillness he walked from the room without a word or
sideways glance, padding silently down the corridor to the door of Jiriki's
house.

Simon was shaken by the unmistakable force ofKhendraja'aro's anger.

"You said something about breaking rules. . . ?" he asked.

Aditu smiled strangely. "Courage, Snowlock. You are Hikka Staja."
She brushed her fingers through her hair, a curiously human gesture, then
pointed to the flap where her uncle had entered. "Let us go in to my
brother."

They stepped through into sunlight. This room, too, was made of
fluttering cloth, but the fabric of one long wall had been rolled and drawn
up to the ceiling; beyond this opening the hill dropped away for some
dozen paces. Below lay a shallow, peaceful backwater of the same river
that passed before Jiriki's front door, a wide pond with a narrow inlet
neck, surrounded by reeds and quivering aspens. Little red-and-brown
birds hopped about on the rocks at the center of the pond, like conquerors
strutting the battlements of a captured stronghold. At pond's edge a bale
of turtles basked in the sun streaming down through the trees.

"In the evening the crickets are quite splendid here."

Simon turned to see Jiriki, who had apparently been standing in the
shadows at the opposite end of the room.

"Welcome toJao e-Tinukai'i, Seoman," he said. "We are well-met."

"Jiriki!" Simon sprang forward. Without thinking, he grasped the slen-
der Sitha in a tight embrace. The prince tensed for a moment, then
relaxed. His firm hand patted Simon's back. "You never said farewell,"
Simon said, then pulled away, embarrassed.

"I did not," Jiriki agreed. He wore a long, loose robe of some thin blue
cloth, belted at the waist with a wide red band; his feet were bare. His
lavender hair descended in braids before either ear, and was gathered atop
his head with a comb of pale, polished wood.

"I would have died in the woods if you had not helped me," Simon said
abruptly, then gave an awkward laugh. "If Aditu had not come, that is."
He turned to look at her; Jiriki's sister was watching intently. She nodded
her head in acknowledgment. "I would have died." He realized as he
spoke that it was absolutely true. He had begun the process of dying when
Aditu had found him, growing more distant each day from the business of
life.

"So." Jiriki folded his arms before him. "I am honored I could help. It
still does not discharge my obligation, however. I owed you two lives.
You are my Hikka Staja, Seoman, and so you will remain." He looked
over to his sister. "The butterflies have gathered."

STONE OF FAREWELL                 443

Aditu replied in their lyric tongue, but Jiriki held up his hand.

"Speak in a way that Seoman can understand. He is my guest."

She stared at him for a moment. "We met Khendraja'aro. He is not
happy."

"Uncle has not been happy since Asu'a fell. No plans of mine are likely
to change that."

"It is more than that. Willow-switch, and you know it." Aditu stared
hard at him, but her face remained dispassionate. She turned to look
briefly at Simon; for a moment, embarrassment seemed to darken her
cheeks. "It is strange to speak this tongue."

"These are strange days, Rabbit—and you know that." Jiriki lifted his
hands toward the sunlight. "Ah, what an afternoon. We must go, now, all
of us. The butterflies have gathered, as I said. I speak lightly of
Khendraja'aro, but my heart is uneasy."

Simon stared at him, completely baffled.

"First allow me to take off this ridiculous clothing," Adieu said. She
slipped away through another hidden door so quickly that she seemed to
melt into shadow.                                            \

Jiriki led Simon toward the front of his house. "We will wait for her
below. You and I have much to speak about, Seoman. but first we must
go to the Yasira."

"Why did she call you . . . Willow-switch?" Of all his countless ques-
tions, this was the only one he could put into words.

"Why do I call you Snowlock?" Jiriki looked closely at Simon's face,
then smiled his charming, feral smile. "It is good to see you well, manchild."

"Let us be off," Aditu said. She had come up behind Simon so sound-
lessly that he gasped in surprise. When he turned a moment later, he
gasped again. Aditu had shed her heavy snow-clothing for a dress that was
little more than a wisp of glimmering, nearly transparent white cloth
belted with a ribbon of sunset orange. Her slim hips and small breasts
were clearly silhouetted beneath the loose garment. Simon felt his face
grow hoc. He had grown up with the chambermaids, but they had moved
him out many years before sending him to sleep with the other scullions.
Such near-nakedness was more than disconcerting. He realized he was
staring and turned hurriedly away, his face coloring. One hand made an
involuntary Tree before his chest.

Aditu's laugh was like rain. "1 am happy to be shed of all that! It was
cold where the manchild was, Jiriki! Cold!"

"You are right, Aditu," Jiriki said grimly. "We find the winter outside
easy to forget when it is still summer in our home. Now, it is off to the
Yasira, where some do not want to believe that winter exists at all."

He led the way out his strange entry hall to the sunsplashed corridor of
willows beside the river. Aditu followed him. Simon brought up the rear,

444

Tad Williams

still blushing furiously, with no choice but to watch her springy, swaying
walk.

With the added distraction of Aditu in her summer finery, Simon did
not think about much of anything for a while, but even Jiriki's lissome
sister and Jao e-Tinukai'i's myriad other glories could not distract him
forever. Several things had been said lately that were beginning to worry
him: Khendraja'aro was angry with him, apparently, and Simon had
distinctly heard Adieu say something about breaking rules. What exactly
was happening?

"Where are we going, Jiriki?" he asked at last.
"The Yasira." The Sitha gestured ahead. "There, do you see?"
Simon stared, shielding his eyes from the strong sunlight. There were
so many distractions here, and the sunlight itself was one of the strongest.
Only a few days before he had been wondering if he would ever be warm
again- Why was he yet again allowing himself to be dragged somewhere
else, when all he wanted to do was flop down on his back in the clover

and sleep. . . ?

At first the Yasira seemed like nothing so much as a grand and oddly-
shaped tent, a tent whose center pole mounted fifty ells into the air, made
of a fabric more shifting and colorful than any of Jao e-Tinukai'i's other
beautiful structures. It took another two dozen paces before Simon real-
ized that the center pole was a gigantic ash tree with wide-spreading
branches, whose crown rose into the forest sky high above the Yasira
itself. He drew another hundred paces closer before he saw why the fabric
of the vast tent shimmered so.

Butterflies.

Trailing to the ground from the ash tree's widest branches were a
thousand threads, so slender chat they seemed little more than parallel
glints of light as they fell a hand-span apart all around the tree. Clinging to
these strands from top to bottom, lazily fanning their iridescent wings,
huddling so closely that they overlapped each other like the shingles on
some impossible roof were ... a million, million butterflies. They were
of every color imaginable, orange and wine-red, oxblood and tangerine,
cerulean blue, daffodil yellow, velvet black as the night sky. The quiet
whisper of their wings was everywhere, as if the warm summer air itself
had been given voice. They moved sluggishly, as though near sleep, but
were otherwise bound in no way that Simon could see. Countless chips of
vibrant moving color, the butterflies shattered the sunlight like an incom-
parable treasury of living gems.

In that moment, as Simon first saw it, the Yasira seemed the breathing,
glowing center of Creation. He stopped and abruptly burst into helpless
tears.

STONE OF FAREWELL

445

Jiriki did not see Simon's overwhelmed response. "The little wings are
restless," he said. "S'hue Khendraja'aro has brought the word."

Simon sniffled and wiped at his eyes. Faced with the Yasira, he sud-
denly thought he could understand the bitterness of Ineluki, the Storm
King's hatred for childish, destructive mankind. Shamed, Simon listened
to Jiriki's words as though from a great distance. The Sitha prince was
saying something about his uncle—was Khendraja'aro talking co the
butterflies? Simon didn't care any longer. This was all just too much
for him. He didn't want to think; he wanted to lie down. He wanted to
sleep.

Jiriki had at last noticed his distress. He took Simon carefully by the
elbow and guided him toward the Yasira. At the front of the mad,
glorious structure, butterfly-laden strands trailed on either side of a wooden
doorway, which was no more than a simple carved frame wound round
with trailing roses. Adieu had already stepped through, and now Jiriki led
Simon in.

If the effect of the butterflies from outside was one of gleaming magnifi-
cence, the view from within was entirely different. The multicolored
shafts of light leaked down through the living roof, as if through stained
glass that had somehow become unstable. The great ash tree that was the"
Yasira's spine stood bathed in a thousand shifting hues; Simon was again
reminded of some strange forest thriving beneath the inconstant ocean.
This time, however, he was beginning to find the thought a little much to
bear. He felt almost as though he were drowning, floundering helplessly
in an opulence he could not entirely understand.

The great chamber had few furnishings. Beautiful rugs lay scattered
everywhere, but in many places the grass grew uncovered. Shallow pools
gleamed here and there, flowering bushes and stones around them, all
things just as they were outside. The only differences were the butterflies
and the Sithi.

The chamber was full of Sithi-folk, male and female, in costumes as
variegated as the wings of the butterflies that quivered overhead. One by
one at first, then in clusters, they turned to look at the new arrivals,
hundreds of calm, catlike eyes agleam in the shifting light. What seemed
to Simon a quiet but malicious hiss rose from the multitude. He wanted to
run away, and actually made a brief, stumbling attempt, but Jiriki's grip
on his arm was gently unbreakable. He found himself led forward to a rise
of earth before the base of the tree. A tall, moss-netted stone stood there
like an admonishing finger sunken in the grassy ground. On low couches
before it sat two Sithi dressed in splendid pale robes, a woman and a man.

The man, who was seated closest, looked up at Simon and Jiriki's
approach. His hair, tied high atop his head, was jet black, and he wore a
crown of carved white birchwood. He had the same angular golden

446 Tad Williams

features as Jiriki, but there was something drawn at the comers of his
narrow eyes and thin mouth that suggested a life of great length filled with
vast but subtle disappointment. The woman who sat beside him on his left
hand had hair of a deep, coppery red; she, too, wore a circlet ofbirchwood
on her brow. Long white feathers hung from her many braids, and she
wore several bracelets and rings as black and shiny as the hair of the man
beside her. Of all the Sithi Simon had seen, her face was the most
immobile, the most rigidly serene. Both man and woman had an air of age
and subtlety and stillness, but it was the quiet of a dark old pond in a
shadowed wood, the calm of a sky tilted with motionless thunderhcads; it
seemed entirely possible that such placidity might hide something
dangerous—dangerous to callow mortals, at least.

"You must bow, Scoman," Jiriki said quietly. Simon, as much because
of his shaking legs as anything else, lowered himself to his knees. The
smell of the warm turf was strong in his nostrils.

"Scoman Snowlock, manchild," Jiriki said loudly, "know you are come
before Shima'onari, King of the Zida'ya, Lord of Jao e-Tinukai'i, and
Likimeya, Queen of the Dawn-Children, Lady of the House of Year-
Dancing."

Still kneeling, Simon looked up dizzily. All eyes were focused on him,
as though he were a singularly inappropriate gift. Shima'onari at last said
something to Jiriki, words as harsh-sounding as anything Simon had yet
heard the Sithi tongue produce.

"No, Father," Jiriki said. "Whatever else, we must not so lightly turn
our backs on our traditions. A guest is a guest. I beg you, speak words
that Seoman can understand."

Shima'onari's thin face pinched in a frown. When he spoke at last,
he proved far less facile with the Wcsterling tongue than his son and
daughter.

"So. You are the manchild that saved Jiriki's life." He nodded his head
slowly, but did not seem very pleased. "I do not know if you can
understand this, but my son has done a very bad thing. He has brought
you here against all laws of our people—you, a mortal." He straightened
up, looking from face to face among the Sithi-folk that surrounded them.
"What is done is done, my people, my family," he called. "No harm can
come to this manchiid: we have not sunk so far. We owe him honor as
Hikka Staja—as bearer of a White Arrow." He turned back to Simon, and
a look of infinite sadness crept over his face. "But neither can you leave,
manchild. We cannot let you leave. So you will stay forever. You will
grow old and die with us, here in Jao e-Tinukai'i."

The wings of a million butterflies murmured and whispered.

"Stay. . . ?" Simon turned, uncomprehending, to Jiriki. The prince's
usually imperturbable face was an ashen mask of shock and sorrow.

STONE OF  FAREWELL

447

Simon was silent as they walked back to Jiriki's house. Afternoon was
slowly fading into twilight; the cooling valley was alive with the smells
and sounds of untainted summer.

The Sitha did nothing to break the silence, guiding Simon along the
tangled paths with nods and gentle touches. As they approached the river
that ran past Jiriki's door, Sithi voices lifted in song somewhere in the
overhanging hills. The melody that spilled echoing over the valley was an
intricately constructed series of descending figures: sweet, but with a
touch of dissonance winding through it, like a fox dodging in and out
among rainy hedgerows. There was something unquestionably liquid
about the song; after a moment, Simon realized that the invisible musi-
cians were in some way singing along with the noise of the river itself.

A flute joined in, ruffling the surface of the music like wind on [he
watercourse. Simon was abruptly and painfully struck by the strangeness
of this place; loneliness welled within him, an aching emptiness that could
not be filled by Jiriki or any of his alien kind. For all its beauty, Jao
e-Tinukai'i was no better than a cage. Caged animals, Simon knew,
languished and soon died.

"What will I do?" he said hopelessly.
Jiriki stared at the glinting river, smiling sadly. "Walk. Think. Leam
how to play shent. In Jao e-Tinukai'i, there are many ways to pass time."

As they walked toward Jiriki's door the water-song cascaded down
from the tree-mantled hillside, surrounding them with mournful music
that seemed ever-changing but unhurried, patient as the river itself.

23

Deep Waters

BV r^tVSUl- the Mother," Aspitis Preves said, "what a terrible
time^ou haveTiad of it, Lady Marya!" The earl lifted his cup to drink but
found it empty. He tapped his fingers on the cloth as his pale squire
hurried forward to pour more wine. "To think that the daughter of a
nobleman should be so ill-treated in our city."

The trio sat around the earl's circular table as the remains of a more than
adequate supper were cleared away by a page. Flickering lamplight threw
distorted shadows on the walls; outside, the wind sawed in the rigging.
Two of the earl's hounds brawled over a bone beneath the table.

"Your Lordship is too kind." Mmamele shook her head. "My father's
barony is very small, just a freeholding, really. One of the smallest
baronies in Cellodshire."

"Ah, then your father must know Godwig?" Aspitis' Westerling was a
little difficult to understand, and not only because it was his second
tongue: the goblet in his hand had been drained and filled several times.

"Of course. He is the most powerful of all the barons there—the king's
strong hand in Cellodshire." Thinking of the despicable, braying Godwig,
Miriamele found it hard to keep her expression pleasant, even while
looking on the goldenly handsome Aspitis. She darted a glance at Cadrach,
who was sunk in some dark mood, his brow furrowed like a thunderhead.

He thinks I'm saying too much, Miriamele decided. She felt a flash of
anger. But who is he to make faces? He got us into this trap; now, thanks to me,
instead of us going over the side as kilpafood, we're at the master's table drinking
wine and eating good Lakeland cheese.

"But I am still astonished by your ill fortune, Lady," Aspitis said. "I
had heard that these Fire Dancers were a problem in the provinces, and I
have seen a few heretical madmen preaching the Fire Dancer creed in
Nabban's public places—but the idea that they would actually dare to lay
hands on a noblewoman!"

"An Erkynlandish noblewoman, a very unimportant one," Miriamele

STONE OF FAREWELL                 449

said hastily, worried she might have gone too far in her improvisation.
"And I was dressed to travel to my new convent home. They had no idea
of my position."

"That is immaterial." Aspitis waved his hand airily, almost knocking
over the candle on the tabletop with his trailing sleeve. He had shed the
finery he wore on the quarterdeck, choosing instead a long, simple robe
like those worn by knights during their vigil. But for a delicate gold Tree
on a chain about his neck, his only adornment was the insignia of the
Prevan House woven on each sleeve; the osprey wings wrapped his
forearms like climbing flames. Miriamele was favorable impressed that a
wealthy young man like Aspitis would greet guests in such modest attire.
"Immaterial," he repeated. "These people are heretics and worse. Besides,
a noblewoman from Erkynland is no different than one of Nabban's own
Fifty Families. Noble blood is the same throughout Osten Ard, and like a
spring of sweet water in an and wilderness, must be protected at all
costs." He leaned forward and gently couched her arm through her sleeve.
"Had I been there, Lady Marya, I would have given my life before letting
one of them mishandle you." He leaned back and patted the hilt of his
scabbarded sword, studiedly casual. "But if I had been forced to make that
ultimate sacrifice, I would have insisted chat a few ^if them accompany
me."

"Oh," said Miriamele. "Oh." She took a deep breath, a little over-
whelmed- "But really, Earl Aspitis, there is no need to worry. We escaped
quite safely—it's just that we had to flee to your boat and hide. It was
dark, you see, and Father Cadrach ..."

"Brother," the monk said sourly from across the table. He took a
draught of wine.

", . . Brother Cadrach said that this would be the safest place. So we hid
ourselves in the cargo hold. We are sorry for the imposition, Earl, and we
thank you for your kindness. If you will only put us ashore at the next
port ..."

"Leave you out among the islands somewhere? Nonsense." Aspitis
leaned forward, fixing her with his brown eyes. He had a dangerous
smile, Mmamele realized, but it did not frighten her as much as she knew
it should. "You will ride out the voyage with us, then we may put you
safe back in Nabban where you belong. It will be little more than a
fortnight, Lady. We will treat you well—both you and your guardian."
He briefly turned his smile on Cadrach, who did not seem to share
Aspitis' good humor. "I think I even have some clothes on board that will
fit you, Lady. They should suit your beauty better than your . . . traveling
clothes."

"How nice'" Miriamele said, then remembered her imposture. "If it
meets with Brother Cadrach's approval."

"You have women's clothes on board?" Cadrach asked, eyebrow raised.

450 Tad Williams

"Left by my sister." Aspitis' smile was untroubled.

"Your sister." He grunted. "Yes. Well, I shall have to think on it."

Miriamele started to raise her voice to the monk, then remembered her
situation. She strove to look obedient, but silently cursed him. Why
shouldn't she be allowed to wear nice clothes for a change?

As the earl began to talk ammatedly of his family's great keep beside
Lake Eadne—ironically, a freehold that Miriamele had visited when a very
young child, although she did not now remember it—there was a rap at
the door. One of Aspitis' pages went to answer it.

"I come to speak with the ship's lord," a breathy voice said.

"Come in, my friend," Aspitis said. "You have all met, of course. Gan
Itai, you were the one who found Lady Marya and her guardian, yes?"

"That is true, Earl Aspitis," the Niskie nodded. Her black eyes twinkled
as they reflected the lamplight.

"If you would be so good as to come back in a while," Aspitis said to
the sea watcher, "then we will talk."

"No, please. Earl Aspitis." Miriamele stood. "You've been very kind,
but we should not keep you any longer. Come, Brother Cadrach."

"Keep me?" Aspitis put a hand to his breast. "Should I complain at
being the victim of such lovely company? Lady Marya, you muse think
me a dullard indeed." He bowed and took her hand, holding it for a
lingering moment against his lips. "I hope you do not think me too
forward, sweet lady." He snapped his fingers for a page. "Young Thures
will show you to your beds. I have put the captain out of his cabin. You
will sleep there."

"Oh, but we couldn't take the captain's ..."

"He spoke out of turn and did not show you proper respect, Lady
Marya. He is lucky I do not hang him—but I am willing to forgive. He is
a simple man, not used to women on his ships. A few nights sleeping at
general quarters with his crew will do him no harm." He dragged fingers
through his curly hair, then waved his hand. "Go on, Thures, lead them."

He bowed to Miriamele again, then smiled politely at Cadrach. This
time Cadrach returned the smile, but it seemed little more than a baring of
teeth. The little page, lantern held carefully before him, led his charges out
the door.

Aspitis stood silent a while in thought, then found the wine ewer and
poured himself another gobletful, which he drank off in a long swallow.
At last he spoke.

"So, Gan Itai, it is unusual for you to come here—and it is even more
unusual for you to leave the bow at night. Are the waters so untroubled
that your song is not needed?"

The Niskie shook her head slowly. "No, Ship's Master. The waters are
very troubled, but for this moment they are safe, and I wished to come
and tell you that I am disturbed."

STONE OF FAREWELL                 451

"Disturbed? By the girl? Surely Niskies are not superstitious like sailors."

"Not like sailors, no." She pulled her hood forward, hiding all but her
bright eyes. "The girl and the monk, even if they are not what they say,
are the least of my worries There is a great storm coming down from the
north."

Aspitis looked up at Gan Itai. "You left the bow to tell me that?" he
asked mockingly- "I have known that since before we set sail. The captain
says we will be out of deep waters before the storm reaches us."

"That may be. but there are great shoals of kilpa moving in from the
northern seas, as if they are swimming before the storm. Their song is
fierce and cold. Earl Aspitis; they seem to come up from the blackest
water, from the deepest trenches. I have never heard the like."

Aspitis stared for a moment, his whole aspect slightly out of kilter, as
though the wine had finally begun to effect him. "Eadne Cloud has many
important tasks to perform for Duke Bemgans," he said. "You must do
what it is your life's work to do." He lowered his head into the palms of
his hands. "I am tired, Gan Itai. Go back to the bow. I need to sleep."

The Niskie watched him for a moment, full of imponderable gravity,
then bowed gracefully and backed out of the door, letting it fall shut
behind her with a quiet thump. Earl Aspitis leaned .forward across the
table, pillowing his head on his forearms in the circle of lamplight.

It is good to be around a nobleman once more," Miriamele said.
"They are full of themselves, yes, but they do understand how to show a
woman respect."

Cadrach snorted from his pallet on the floor. "I find it hard to believe
you could sec any value in that ringleted fop, Princess."

"Hush!" Miriamele hissed. "Idiot! Don't speak so loudly! And don't call
me that I am Lady Marya, remember."

The monk made another noise of disgust. "A noblewoman chased by
Fire Dancers. That was a pretty tale to spin."

"It worked, didn't it?"

"Yes, and now we must spend our time with Earl Aspitis, who will ask
question after question. If you had only said you were a poor tailor's
daughter who had hidden in fear for her virtue, or some such, the earl
would leave us alone and put us off at the first island where they take on
water and provisions."

"And make us work like dogs until then—if he didn't just throw us into
the sea. I, for one, am growing tired of this disguise. It is bad enough I
have been an acolyte monk all this time, now should I be a tailor's
daughter as well?"

Although she could not see him in the darkened cabin, Miriamele knew
by the sound of his voice that Cadrach was shaking his heavy head in
disagreement. "No. no, no. Do you understand nothing, Lady? We are

452

Tad Williams

not choosing parts like a children's game, we are struggling to stay alive.
Umivan, the man who brought us here, has been kitted. Do you under-
stand? Your father and your uncle are at war. The war is spreading. They
have killed the lector, the Ransomer's chief priest on the face of Osten
Ard, and they will stop at nothing. Lady! It is no game!"

Minamele choked back an angry reply, thinking instead about what
Cadrach had said. "Then why didn't Earl Aspitis say anything about the
lector? Surely it's the kind of thing people would talk about. Or did you
make that up as well?"

"Lady, Ranessin was only killed late last night. We left early in the
morning." The monk struggled to keep his patience. "The Sancellan
Aedomtis and the Escntonal Council may not announce what has hap-
pened for a day or two. Please, believe what I say is true, or we will both
come to a terrible end."

"Hmmph." Minamele lay back, pulling the blanket up to her chin. The
feeling of the boat rocking was quite soothing. "It seems that if it weren't
for my inventiveness and the earl's good manners, we might have come to
a terrible end already."

"Think what you like, Lady," Cadrach said heavily, "but do not, I beg
you, extend your trust to others any farther than you have with me."

He fell silent. Minamele waited for sleep. An odd, hauntingly alien
melody floated on the air, timeless and arrhythmic as the roar of the sea,
persistent as the rising and falling wind. Somewhere in the darkness
outside, Gan Itai was singing the kilpa down.

Eolair rode down out of the heights of the Grianspog Mountains in the
midst of the summer's worst snowstorm. The secret trails that he and his
men had so laboriously cut through the forest only weeks before were
now buried beneath three cubits of drifting white. The dismal skies hung
oppressively close, like the ceiling of a tomb. His saddlebags were
crammed with carefully-drawn maps, his head with brooding thoughts.

Eolair knew there was no use pretending that the land was suffenng
only a long bout of freakish weather. A grievous sickness was spreading
over Osten Ard. Perhaps Josua and his father's sword truly were tied up in
something vaster than the wars of men.

The Count of Nad Mullach was suddenly reminded of his own words,
uttered over the King's Great Table a year before—Gods of earth and sky,
he thought, but didn't it seem a lifetime since those relatively peaceful
days! "Evil is abroad . . ."he had told the assembled knights that day. "It is
not only bandits who prey on travelers and cause the disappearance of isolated
jarmers. The people of the North are ajraid . . ."

Not only bandits . . . Eolair shook his head, disgusted with himself. He

STONE OF FAREWELL                 453

had been so caught up in the day-to-day matters of his people's struggle to
survive that he had failed to heed his own warning. There were indeed
greater menaces to fear than Skah of Kaldskryke and his cutthroat army.

Eolair had heard stones told by survivors of the fall of Naglimund, the
bewildered accounts of a ghostly army raised by Elias the High King.
From the days of his childhood Eolair had heard tales of the White Foxes,
demons who lived in the blackest, coldest lands of the uttermost north,
who appeared like a plague, then vanished again. All during this last year
the Frostmarch dwellers had whispered over their night-fires ofjust such
pale demons. How foolish that Eolair of all people should not have
realized the truth behind these tales—had he not spoken of just that at the
Great Table!?

But what could it all mean? If they were truly involved, why should
creatures like these White Foxes side with Elias? Could it have something
to do with that monstrous priest Pryrates?

The Count of Nad Mullach sighed, then leaned far to the side to help
his horse balance as they made their way down a treacherous hill path.
Perhaps for all her foolishness, Maegwin had been right to set this task for
him. But still, that was no justification for the way in which she had done
it. Why should she treat him as she did in the underground city, after all
he had done for her family and the faithful service he had given her father
King Lluth? The terror and strangeness of their situation might be the
reason for such unkindness, but it was no excuse.

Such thoughtlessness was yet another odd change in Maegwin's demea-
nor, the latest of many. He feared for her deeply, but could think of no
way to help. She despised his solicitousness, and seemed to think he was
little more than a sly courtier—Eolair, who hated falsity, yet had been
driven to master it in the loyal service of her father! When he tried to help,
she insulted him and turned her back: he could only watch her sickening as
the land around him had sickened, her mind filling with strange fancies.
He could do nothing.

Eoiair was two days making his way down through the silent valleys of
the Gnanspog, with only his own cold thoughts for company.

It was astonishing to see how quickly Skali was making his occupation
of Hcrnystir permanent. Not content with taking over those houses and
buildings still standing in Hernysadharc and the surrounding villages, the
Thane of Kaldskryke had begun to construct new ones, great longhouses
of rough-hewn timbers. The Circoille Forest fringe was shrinking rapidly,
replaced by a growing expanse of mutilated tree stumps.

Eolair made his way along the ridgetops, watching the antlike figures
swarming over the flatlands below. The clatter of hammer on wedge rang
through the snowy hills.

He could not at first understand why Skali should need to build more
dwelling places: the conqueror's army, while of good size, was hardly so

454 Tad Williams

vast that it could not harbor itself in the Hemystiri's abandoned dwellings.
It was only when Eolair looked away to the lowering northern skies that
he realized what was happening.

All Skali's Rimmersfolk must he coming herejrom the North—old and young,
women and children. He stared down at the tiny, industrious shapes. I/it's
snowing in Hemysadharc in late Tiyagar-month, it must he a jrozen hell up by
Naarved and Sko^gey. Bagba bite me, what a thought! Skali has chased us into
the caves. Now he will move his Rimmersgarders onto our captured lands.

Despite all that his folk had already suffered at the hands of Skali.
Sharp-nose's warriors, despite King Lluth struck down, Prince Gwythinn
tortured and dismembered, and hundreds of Eolair's own brave Mullachi
dead beneath the gray skies of the western meadows, the count found
suddenly and to his surprise that he contained depths of anger and raw
hatred yet unplumbed. Skali's men strutting in the roads of Hemysadharc
was bad enough, but the thought of them bringing their women and
families to live on Hernystiri land filled Eolair with an unchanneled rage
stronger than he had felt since the first Hemystirmen had fallen at the
Inniscrich. Helpless on the ridgetop, he cursed the invaders and promised
himself that he would see Skali's jackals whipped howling back to
Kaldskryke—those who did not die on the precious Hemystiri soil chat
they had usurped.

Suddenly, the Count of Nad Mullach longed for the purity of battle.
The Hemystiri forces had been so savaged at Inniscrich that they had been
unable to fight anything but rearguard actions since. Now they had been
driven into hiding in the Grianspog and there was little they could do but
harrass the victors. Gods, he thought, but it would be fine to swing steel
in the open once more, to line up breast to breast with shields flashing
sunlight and sound the charge! The count knew it was a foolish craving,
knew himself for a careful man who always preferred talking sensibly to
fighting, but just now he craved simplicity. Open warfare, for all its
witless violence and horror, could seem a sort of beautiful idiocy into
which one could throw oneself as into the arms of a lover-
Now the call of that compelling but dangerous lover was growing
stronger. Whole nations seemingly on the march, topsy-turvy weather,
mad men ruling and dire legends come to life—how he suddenly longed
for simple things!

But even as he yearned for unthinking release, Eolair knew that he
would hate its coming to be: the fruits of violence did not necessarily go to
the just or the wise.

Eolair skirted Hernysadharc's westernmost outposts and circled far around
the largest encampments of Skali's Rimmersmen, who had spread across
the meadowlands beneath Hemystir's capital. He rode instead through the
hilly country called the Dillathi, wliich stood like a bulwark along Hemystir's

STONE OF  FAREWELL

455

coast as if to prevent invasion by sea. Indeed, the Dillathi would have
presented a nearly impossible problem for any would-be conqueror, but
the invasion which had undone Hemystir had come from the opposite
direction.

The highland folk were a suspicious lot, but they had grown used to
war-fugitives in the past year, so Eolair was able to find welcome in a few
houses. Those who took him in were far more interested in his news than
the fact that their guest was the Count of Nad Mullach. These were days
when gossip was the most valued coin in the country.

So far from the cities, no one had known much of Prince josua in the
first place, let alone how his struggle with the High King might be
somehow connected to Hemystir's plight. No one in the Dillathi country
had the slightest idea of whether King Ellas' brother Josua was alive or
dead, let alone where he might be. But the highlanders had heard of their
own King Lluth's mortal wounding from the tales of wanderering sol-
diers, survivors of the fighting at the Inniscrich. Thus, Eolair's hosts were
usually heartened to discover from him that Lluth's daughter still lived,
and that a Hemystiri court-in-exile of sorts still existed. Before the war
they had thought little of what the king in the Taig said or did, but he had
been part of their lives nonetheless. Eolair guessed they found it reassuring
that at least a shadow of the old kingdom remained, as chough the
continued existence of Lluth's family somehow assured that the Rimmersmen
would eventually be forced out.

Coming down out of the Dillathi, Eolair steered wide of high-walled
Crannhyr, Hemystir's strangest and most insular city, guiding his horse
instead toward Abaingeat at the mouth of the River Baraillean. He was
unsurprised to find that the Hemystirmen of Abaingeat had found a way to
live under the heavy hands of both Elias and Skali; Abaingeaters had a
reputation for flexibility. It was a common joke in other parts of the
country to refer to the port city as "Extremely North Perdruin" because
of the shared affection for profits and dislike of politics—the kind of
politics that interfered with business, anyway.

It was also in Abaingeat that Eolair received his first real clue tojosua's
whereabouts, and it happened in a very typical Abaingeat way.

Eolair shared a supper table with a Nabbanai priest in an inn along the
waterfront. The wind was howling and rain was beating on the roof,
making the common room rumble like a drum. Under the very eyes of
bearded Rimmersmen and haughty Erkynlanders—Hemystir's new con-
querors—the good father, who had perhaps had one tankard of ale too
many, told Eolair a disjointed but fascinating story. He had just arrived
from the Sancellan Aedonitis in Nabban, and he swore that he had been
told by someone there, someone he characterized as "the most important
priest in the Sancellan," that Josua Lackhand had survived Naglimund.

456

Tad Williams

with seven other survivors, had made his way eastward through the
grasslands to safety. These facts had been told to him, the priest said, only
under the condition of his complete discretion.

Immediately after telling this tale, Eolair's companion, full of drunken
remorse, begged him swear to secrecy—as, the count felt sure, the priest
had begged many other recipients of this same secret. Eclair agreed with a

commendably straight face.

There were several things that interested Eolair about this talc. The
exact number of survivors injosua's party seemed a possible indication of
its authenticity, although he had to admit it sounded almost like a legend
in the making: The One-Handed Prince and his Gallant Seven. Also, the
priest's contrition about blurting out the secret seemed genuine. He had
not told the tale to make himself appear more grand; rather, he was simply
the kind of man who could not keep a confidence to save his soul.

This, of course, raised a question. Why would a man of some impor-
tance to Mother Church, as the priest's informant supposedly was, entrust
such a vital piece of intelligence to a numbwit on whose flushed, foolish
face untrustworthiness was clearly written? Surely no one could expect
this cheerful drunkard to keep anything to himself, let alone keep hidden a
subject of such interest in the war-torn North?

Eolair was puzzled but intrigued. As thunder growled over the
Frostmarch, the Count of Nad Mullach began to consider a journey to the
grassy country beyond Erkynland.

Later chat night, coming back from the stables—Eolair never trusted
others to take proper care of his horse, a habit that had benefited him more
often than not—he stopped outside the inn's front door. A fierce wind
laden with snow blew down the street, banging the shuttered windows.
Beyond the docks the sea murmured uneasily. All of Abaingeat's inhabi-
tants seemed to have vanished. The midnight city was a ghost ship,

floating captainless beneath the moon.

Strange lights played across the northern sky: yellow and indigo and a
violet like the after-image of lightning. The horizon pulsed with rippling,
radiant bands unlike anything Eolair had ever seen, at once chilling and yet
incredibly vital. Compared to silent Abaingeat, the North seemed wildly
alive, and for a mad moment the count wondered if it was worth fighting
any more. The world he had known was gone. and nothing could bring it
back. Perhaps it would be betterjust to accept . . .

He smacked his gloved hands together. The clap echoed dully and
faded. He shook his head, trying to shake the leadenness from his thoughts.

The lights were compelling indeed.

And where would he go now? It was a ride of several weeks to the
meadowlands beyond Hasu Vale of which the priest had spoken. Eolair
knew he could cling to the coastline, passing Meremund and Wentmouth,

STONE OF FAREWELL                 457

but that would mean riding as a lone traveler through an Erkynland that
owed its complete allegiance to the High King. Or, he could let the
shimmering aurora draw him north instead, to his home in Nad Mullach.
His keep was occupied by Skah's reavers, but those of his people who
survived in the countryside would give him shelter and news, and also a
chance to rest and reprovision himself for the remainder of his long
journey. From there he could turn east and pass Erchester to the north,
moving in the protective shadow of the great forest.

Pondering, he stared at the spectral glow in the northern sky. It made
for a very chilly light.

4-

The waves were choppy, the dark sky wild with tattered, ominous
clouds. A zigzag of lightning flared on the blackened horizon.

Cadrach gripped the railing and groaned as the Eadne Cloud lifted high,
then settled once more into the trough of a wave. Overhead the sails
popped in the strong wind, percussive bursts of sound like whipcracks.
"Oh, Brynioch of the Skies," the monk implored, "take this tempest
away!"

"This is barely a storm at all," Miriamele said derisively. "You've never
been in a real sea-storm."

Cadrach made a gulping sound. "Nor do 1 want to be."

"Besides, what are you doing, praying to pagan gods? I thought you
were an Aedonite monk."

"I have been praying for Usires' intercession all afternoon," Cadrach
said, his face pale as fish-flesh. "I thought it time to try something
different." He rose on tiptoes and leaned farther out over the railing.
Miriamele turned her head away. A moment later the monk settled back,
wiping his mouth with his sleeve. A spatter of rain drifted across the deck.

"And you, Lady," he said, "does nothing bother you?"

She bit back a mocking reply. He looked truly pathetic, his few strands
of hair pasted flat, his eyes dark-rimmed. "Many things, but not being on
a boat at sea."

"Count yourself blessed," he mumbled, then turned back to sag against
the rail once more. Instead, his eyes widened. He screeched in shock and
tumbled backward, falling rump-first to the deck.

"Bones ofAnaxos!" he shouted. "Save us! What is it?!"

Miriamele stepped to the rail to see a gray head bobbing in the saddle of
the waves. It was vaguely manlike, hairless yet unsealed, sleek as a
dolphin, with a red-rimmed, toothless mouth and eyes like rotting black-
berries. The flexible mouth rounded into a circle as though it would sing.
It gave out a strange, gurgling hoot, then slipped beneath the waves,

458 Tad Williams

showing a glimpse of long-toed, webbed feet as it dove A moment later
the nub of head appeared again a little closer to the ship It watched them

Minamele's stomach fluttered "Kilpa," she whispered

"It is horrible," Cadrach said, still crouching below the wale "It has the
face of a damned soul "

The empty black eyes followed Miriamcic as she moved a few steps up
the railing She understood the monk clearly The kilpa was far more
horrifying than any mere animal could be, no matter how savage—so
dreadfully near-human, yet so devoid of anything that looked like human
feeling or understanding

"I have not seen one in years," she said slowly, unable to tear her eyes
away "1 don't think I have ever seen one so close " Her thoughts tumbled
back to her childhood, to a trip she had taken with her mother Hyhssa
from Nabban to the island ofVmitta Kilpa had glided in and out of their
wake, and to the younger Minamele they had seemed almost sportive, like
porpoises or flving fish Seeing this one so closely, she now understood
why her mother had hastily dragged her from the rail She shuddered

"You say that you have seen them before, my lady5" a voice asked She
whirled to find Aspitis standing behind her, his hand resting on crouching
Cadrach's shoulder The monk looked quite sick

"On a long-ago visit to    to Wentmouth," she said hastily "They are
terrible, aren't they5"

Aspitis nodded slowly, staring at Minamele rather than the slick gray
thing bobbing off the stern rail "I hadn't realized that kilpa traveled into
cold northern waters," he said

"Doesn't Gan Itai keep them away7" she said, trying to change the
subject "Why has this one come so close5"

"Because the Niskie is exhausted and is sleeping for a while, and also
because the kilpa have become very bold " Aspitis bent and picked a
square-headed iron nail off the deck, then pitched it at the silent watcher
It splashed a foot from the kilpa's noseless, earless head The black eyes
did not blink "They are more active than I have ever heard of, these
days," the earl said "They have swarmed several small craft since the
winter, and even a few large ones " He hurriedly raised a hand on which
gold rings sparkled "But fear not. Lady Marya There is no better singer
than my Gan Itai "

"That thing is a horror and I am ill " Cadrach groaned "I must go and
lie myself down " He ignored Aspitis' proffered hand and clambered to
his feet, then went stumbling away

The earl turned and shouted instructions to the crewmen swarming in
the wind-buffeted rigging ' We must reef the sails,' he said by way of
explanation ' There is a verv fierce storm coming, and we can only ride it
out " As if to underscore his point, lightning flashed once more on the
northern horizon "Perhaps you would be good enough to join me for my

STONE OF FAREWELL                 459

evening meal " Thunder came rolling across the swells, a flurry of rain
swept over them "That way, your guardian can be given some pnvacy to
recuperate, and you need not be without company if the storm grows
frightening " He smiled, showing even teeth

Minamele felt tempted but cautious There was an impression of coiled
strength to Aspitis, as though some potential were being hidden so as not
to frighten In a way, it reminded her of old Duke Isgnmnur, who created
women with gentle, almost excessive deference, as though his blundenng
bluffness might at any time escape his control and burst forth to shock and
offend Aspitis, too, seemed to hold something in check It was a quality
she found intriguing

"Thank you, your Lordship," she said at last "I would be honored—
you will have to excuse me, though, if I must leave from time to time to
see that Brother Cadrach is not suffering too badly for want of aid or
company "

"Did you not," Aspitis said, smoothly taking her arm, "you would not
be the good and gentle lady that you are I can see that you two are as
close as family, that you respect Cadrach as you would a beloved uncle "

Minamele could not help looking over her shoulder as Aspitis led her
across the deck, beneath the crewmen shouting at each other in the rigging
so they could be heard above the wall of the wind The kilpa still floated
m the rough green seas, watching solemnly as a priest, its open mouth a
round black hole

The earl's squire, a thm, whey-faced young man with a resentful frown,
directed the two pages as they loaded the table with fruit and bread and
white cheese Thures, the smaller of the pages, tottered out beneath the
weight of a salver bearing a cold joint of beef The boy stayed to assist,
handing the squire a new carving untensil each time that artist impatiently
waved his hand The little page seemed clever—his dark eyes watched the
pasty-faced squire intently for the slightest sign—but the bad-tempered
older boy nevertheless found several opportunities to cuff him for his
slowness

"You seem very comfortable on a ship. Lady Marva," Aspitis said,
smiling as he filled a wine goblet from a beautiful brass ewer He had his
other page carry it around the table to her "Have you been at sea before7
It is a long way from Cellodsmre to what we in Nabban call the Veir
Mayms—the Great Green "

Minamele silently cursed herself Perhaps Cadrach was right She should
have thought of a simpler story to tell "Yes I mean, no, I haven't Not
really " She took a long, studied sip of wine, forcing herself to smile back
at the earl despite its sourness "We traveled on shipboard down the
Glemwent several times I have been on the Kynslagh as well " She took

460 Tad Wilhams

another long sip and realized she had emptied the goblet. She set it down,
embarrassed What would this man think of her5

"Who is 'we'7"

"I beg your pardon7" She guiltily pushed the goblet away, but Aspitis
took this as a sign and refilled it, pushing it back to her side of the nmmed
table with an understanding smile. As the cabin pitched with the boat's
motion, the wine threatened to overtop the edge of the goblet. Mmamele
picked it up, holding it very gingerly.

"I said, who is 'we', Lady Marya, if I may ask? You and your guardian?
You and your family? You mentioned your father, Baron . . . Baron ..."
He frowned "A thousand apologies, I've forgotten his name."

Mmamele had forgotten also. She covered her moment of panic with
another sip of wine; it became rather a long sip as she struggled with her
memory. The name she had chosen came back at last. She swallowed.

"Baron Seoman."

"Of course—Baron Seoman. Was that who took you down the
Gleniwent?"

She nodded her head, hoping not to get into any further trouble.

"And your mother?"

"Dead."

"Ah." Aspitis' golden face became somber as a cloud-curtained sun.
"Forgive me. I am being rude, asking so many questions. I am terribly
sorry to hear that."

Mmamele had a moment of inspiration. "She died in the plague last
year."

The earl nodded. "So many did. Tell me. Lady Marya—if you will
allow me one last and quite forward question—is there a special man to
whom you are promised?

"No," she answered quickly, then wondered if she could have given a
better and less potentially troublesome answer. She took a deep breath,
holding the earl's gaze The pomander that scented the cabin air was nch
in her nostrils. "No," she repeated. He was very handsome.

"Ah." Aspilis nodded gravely- With his youthful face and head of
bnlhant curls, he seemed almost a child play-acting as an adult. "But see,
you have not eaten anything, Lady. Does the fare displease you?"

"Oh, no. Earl Aspitis!" she said breathlessly, looking for a spot to put
her wine goblet down so she could pick up her knife. She noticed that the
cup was empty. Aspitis saw her look and leaned forward with the ewer.

As she picked at her food, Apitis talked. As if in apology for his earlier
interrogation, he kept his conversation airy as swansdown, speaking mostly
of odd or silly things that happened at the Nabbanai court. To hear him
talk, it was quite a glittering place. He told stones well and soon had her
laughing—in fact, with the rocking of the ship and the walls of the
small, lampht cabin pressing in upon her, she began to wonder if she

STONE OF FAREWELL                 461

was laughing too much The whole thing felt rather dreamlike. She was
having difficulty keeping her eyes squarely on Aspitis* smiling face.

As she suddenly realized chat she could no longer see the earl at all, a
hand came to rest lightly upon her shoulder: Aspitis was behind her, still
talking about the ladies of the court. Through the wine fumes that filled
her head, she could feel his touch, weighty and hot.

". . . But of course their beauty is that rather . . . arranged beauty, if
you know what I mean, Marya. I do not mean to be cruel, but sometimes
when Duchess Nessalanta is caught in a breeze, the powder flies off her
like snow from a mountamtop!" Aspitis' hand squeezed gently, then
moved to her other shoulder as he altered his stance. On the way, his
fingers trailed gently across the nape other neck. She shuddered. "Do not
misunderstand me," he said, "I would defend to the death the honor and
beauty of our courtly Nabbanai women—but in my heart there is nothing
so fine as the unimproved loveliness of a country girl." His hand moved
to her neck again, the touch delicate as a thrush's wing. "You are such a
beauty. Lady Marya I am so pleased to have met you. I had forgotten
what it was to see a face that needed no embellishment ..."

The room spun. Mmamele abruptly straightened and her elbow toppled
the wine cup. A few drops like blood pooled on herJiand towel. "I must
go outside," she said. "1 must have some air."

"My lady," Aspitis said, concern plain in his voice, "are you ill7 I hope
it is not my poor table that has offended your gentle constitution "

She waved a hand, trying to placate him, wanting only to be out of the
glaring lamplight and the stiflingly warm, perfumed air. "No, no. I just
want to go outside "

"But there is a storm, my lady. You would be soaked. I can't allow it."

She stumbled a few steps toward the door. "Please. I'm ill."

The earl shrugged helplessly. "Let me at least get you a warm cloak that
will keep out most of the damp " He clapped for his pages, who were
trapped with the unpleasant squire in the tiny room that served as both
larder and kitchen. One of the pages began to go through a large chest in
search of an appropriate garment while Mmamele stood by miserably. She
was at last outfitted in a musty-smelling wool cloak with a hood, Aspitis,
similarly dressed, took her elbow and guided her up onto the deck.

The wind was blowing in earnest. Torrents of rain sliced down, turning
to cascades of sparkling gold as they passed through the guttering lamp-
light, then vanishing back into blackness. Thunder drummed.

"Let us at least sit beneath the canopy. Lady Marya," Aspitis cried, "or
we will both of us catch some terrible ague!" He led her aft, where a
red-striped sailcloth awning stretched between the wales, humming as it
vibrated in the strong wind A steersman in a flapping cloak bowed his
head as they ducked beneath the cloth, but kept his hands firmly clasped
on the tiller. The pair sat down on a pile of dampened rugs.

462 Tad Williams

"Thank you," Minamele said. "You are kind. I feel very foolish to
trouble you."

"I only worry that this is a cure worse than the illness," Aspitis said,
smiling. "If my physician were to hear of this, he would be leeching me
for brain fever before I could blink."

Minamele laughed and shivered in quick succession. Despite the chill,
the tangy sea air had vastly improved her outlook. She no longer felt as
though she might faint—in fact, she felt so much better that she did not
object when the Earl of Eadne and Drina slipped a solicitous arm around
her shoulders.

"You are a strange but fascinating young woman, Lady Marya," Aspitis
whispered, barely audible above the moan of the wind. His breath was
warm against the chilled flesh of her ear. "I feel there is some mystery
about you- Are all country girls so full of moods?"

Miriamele was very definitely of two minds about the tingling that was
running right through her. Fear and excitement seemed dangerously
intermixed. "Don't," she said at last.

"Don't what, Marya?" Even as the storm roared and flailed outside,
Aspitis' touch was solemn, silken.

A flurry of confusing images seemed to sweep in on the wind—her
father's cold, distant face, young Simon crookedly smiling, the riverbanks
of the Aelfwent flashing past, flickering with light and shadow. Her blood
was warm and loud in her ears.

"No," she said, pulling free of the earl's clinging arm. She scrambled
forward until she was out from under the canopy and could straighten up.
The rain smacked wetly against her face.

"But Marya ..."

"Thank you for the lovely supper, Earl Aspitis. I have been a great deal
of trouble and I beg your forgiveness."

"No forgiveness need be sought, my lady."

"Then I will bid you goodnight." She stood, buffeted by the strong
wind, and made her way unsteadily down to the deck, then followed the
cabin wall to the ladder down into the narrow corridor. She stepped
through the door into the cabin she shared with Cadrach. She stood in
darkness and listened to the monks's even, sonorous breathing, thankful
that he did not wake. A few moments later came the sound of Aspitis'
boots on the ladder rungs; his cabin door opened, then closed behind him.

For a long while Minamele leaned against the door. Her heart beat as
swiftly as if she been hiding for her life's preservation.

Was this love5 Fear? What kind of spell did the golden-haired earl cast
that she should feel so wild, so pursued? She was breathless and confused
as a flushed hare.

The thought of lying on her bed, trying to sleep while her thoughts
raced and Cadrach snored on the floor, was intolerable. She opened the

STONE OF FAREWELL                 463

cabin door a crack and listened, then slipped out into the corridor and onto
the deck once more. Despite the rain pelting down, the storm seemed to
have lessened The deck still pitched so that she could not make her way
forward without keeping a hand on the shrouds, but the sea had calmed
considerably.

A trill of disquieting but curiously seductive melody drew her along.
The song curved and recurved, stitching the stormy night like a thread of
silver-green. By turns it was soft or hearty or piercingly loud, but the
changes unfolded so jomlessly that it was impossible to remember what
had been happening a moment before, or to understand how anything
different than what was happening at this particular moment could even
exist.

Gan Itai sat cross-legged in the forecastle, head thrown back so that her
hood fell loosely on her shoulders and her white hair streamed in the
breeze. Her eyes were closed. She swayed from side to side, as though her
song were a fast-moving river which took every bit of her concentration
to ride.

Minamele drew her own hooded cloak close and settled into the dubi-
ous shelter of the ship's wale to listen.

The Niskie's song went on for what seemed an hour, sliding smoothly
from pitch to pitch and pace to pace. Sometimes her liquid words seemed
arrows that flew outward to spark and sting, other times an array of gems
that dazzled with smoldering colors. Through it all ran a deeper melody
that never entirely disappeared, a melody which seemed to speak of
peaceful green depths, of sleep, and of the coming of a heavy, comforting
silence.

Minamele awakened with a little start. When she lifted her head, it was
to see Gan Itai regarding her curiously from the forecastle. Now that the
Niskie had stopped singing, the roar of the ocean seemed curiously flat
and tuneless

"What are you doing, child?"

Minamele was oddly embarrassed. She had never been so near a singing
Niskie before. It almost seemed that she had been spying on some very
private thing.

"I came out on deck to get some air. I was having supper with Earl
Aspitis and felt sick." She took a breath to still her shaking voice. "You
sing wonderfully."

Gan Itai smiled slyly. "That is true, or the Eadne Cloud would not have
made so many safe voyages. Come, sit by me and talk. I need not sing for
a while, and the late watches are lonely."

Minamele climbed up, seating herself beside the Niskie. "Do you get
tired, singing?" she asked.

Gan Itai laughed quietly. "Does a mother grow tired raising her chil-
dren? Of course, but it is what I do."

464 Tad Williams

Minamele stole a glance at Gan Itai's wrinkled face. The Niskie's eyes
peered our from beneath her white brows, fixed on the spray and swells.

"Why did Cadrach call you Tinook . ." She tried to remember the
word.

"Tmukeda'ya Because that is what we are Ocean Children. Your
guardian is learned."

"But what does it mean5"

"It means we always lived on the ocean. Even in the far-away Garden,
we dwelt always at land's end It has only been since we came to this place
that some of the Navigator's Children have been changed Some have left
the sea entirely, which is as hard for me to understand as if someone were
to stop breathing and claim that was a good way to live " She shook her
head, pursing her thin lips

"Where arc your people from5"

"Far away Osten Ard is only our most recent home."

Minamele sat for a while, thinking. "I always thought that Niskies were
just like Wrannamen. You look very much like Wrannamen "

Gan Itai laughed sibilantly "I have heard," she said, "that though they
are different, some animals grow to look like each other because they do
the same things Perhaps the Wrannamen, like the Tmukcda'ya, have
bowed their heads for too long." She laughed again, but Minamele did
not think it was a happy laugh "And you, child," the Niskie said at last,
"it is your turn to answer questions Why are you here7"

Minamele stared, caught off balance. "What5"

"Why are you here7 I have thought about what you said, and I am not
sure I believe you "

"Earl Aspitis does," Minamele said, a little defiantly

"That may be true, but I am altogether different " Gan Itai turned her
gaze on Minamele. Even in the dim lamplight, the Niskie's eyes glittered
hke anthracite "Speak to me."

Minamele shocked her head and tried to pull away, but a thin, strong
hand closed on her arm. "I am sorry," Gan Itai said. "1 have frightened
you. Let me put your mind at case. I have decided that there is no harm in
you—no harm to the Eadne Chud, at least, which is what I care about. I
am considered peculiar among my folk because I judge quickly. When 1
like something or someone, I like it." She chuckled dryly. "I have decided
that 1 like you, Marya—if that is your name. It shall be your name for
now, if you wish. You need never fear me, not old Gan Itai."

Bewildered by the night, by wine, and by this latest of many unusual
feelings, Minamele began to weep.

"Now, child, now ..." Gan Itai's gentle, spidery hand patted her back.

"I have no home." Minamele fought her tears She felt herself on the
verge of saying things she should not say, no matter how much she
wished to be unburdened. "I am . . a fugitive."

STONE OF FAREWELL                465

"Who pursues you5"

Minamele shook her head Spray arched high over the bow as the ship
nosed down into another trough "I cannot say, but I am in terrible
danger That's why I had to hide on the boat."

"And the monk? Your learned guardian? Is he not in danger, too5"

Minamele was brought up short by Gan Itai's question There was
much she had not had time to think about "Yes, I suppose he is."

The Niskie nodded, as if satisfied. "Fear not. Your secret is safe with
me."

"You won't tell Aspitis . . the earl5"

Gan Itai shook her head "My own allegiances are more complex than
you can know But I cannot promise you he will remain ignorant. He is a
clever one, Endue Cloud's master."

"I know." Minamele's reply was heartfelt.

The mounting storm flung down another wash of ram Gan Itai leaned
forward, staring out into the wmd-tossed sea. "House ofVe, they do not
stay down long! Curse them, but they are strong!" She turned to Minamele
"I think it is time for me to sing once more It would probably be good
for you to get below deck."

Minamele awkwardly thanked the Niskie for her companionship, then
stood and made her way down the slippery ladder and off the forecastle
Thunder growled like a beast hunting them through the darkness. She
wondered suddenly, desperately, if she had been a fool to open her heart
to this strange creature.

At the hatchway she stopped, cocking her head. In the black night
behind her, Gan Itai's song had been lifted against the storm once more, a
slender ribbon offered to hold back the angry sea.

24

Dogs ofErchester

lOSXUl' S company rode north along the banks of the river Stefflod,
heading upstream from the juncture with the Ymstrecca through grassland
rumpled with low hills. Soon the downs began to rise higher on either
side, so that the prince's folk found themselves traveling through a
meadowed river-valley, a wide trough of land with the watercourse at its

center.

The Stefflod wound along beneath the somber sky, shining dully as a
vein of tarnished silver. Like the Ymstrecca, its song at first seemed
muffled, but Deomoth thought this river had a queer undertone to its
murmuring, as though it hid the voices of a great whispering throng.
Sometimes the noise of the water seemed to rise in what was almost a
thread of melody, clear as a succession of pealing bells. A moment later, as
Deornoth strained to hear what it was that had captured his attention,
nothing sounded but the mutter and rush of moving water.

The light playing upon the Stefflod's surface was just as dreamily
inconstant. Despite the overcast, the water glimmered at times as though
cold-burning stars were rolling and bumping along the river's bottom. At
other moments the gleam heightened to a sparkle like a froth of jewels.
-Then—just as suddenly, whether the sun was showing or cloud-hidden—
the waterway would again become dark and unreflective as lead.

"Strange, isn't it?" Father Strangyeard said. "For all the things we've
. my goodness, the world still has more to show us, doesn't it?"

seen

"There's something very . . . alive about it." Deornoth squinted. A curl
of light seemed to wriggle on the river's agitated skin, like a radiant fish
struggling against the current.

"Well, it is all ... hmmm ... all part of God," Strangyeard said,
making the sign of the Tree on his breast, "so of course it 15 alive." He
squinted too, frowning slightly. "But I do know what you mean, Sir
Deornoth."

The valley that had gradually risen around them seemed to take much of

467

STONE OF  FAREWELL

its character from the river. Willow trees stood sleepily beside the water-
course, shivering as they bent to the cold water like women washing their
hair. As the riders traveled farther, the river widened and slowed. Thickets
of reeds appeared along the banks, resplendent with birds who shrieked
from their bowers to warn all their tribe that strangers walked the land.

Strangers, Deornoch thought. That is what we suddenly seem here. As if we
have passed out of the lands meant/or our folk and crossed over into someone else's
domain. He remembered Geloe's words on that night, weeks back, when
they had first met her in the forest:

"Sometimes you men are like lizards, sunning on the stones of a crumbled
house, thinking: 'what a nice basking spot someone built for me.' " The witch
woman had frowned as she spoke.

She told us we were m Sifhi lands, he recalled. Now we are again entering
their fields, that is all. That is why things seem so strange.

Somehow this did not dispel his unsettled feeling.

They made camp in a meadow. The low grass was dotted here and
there with fairy-rings, as the woman lelda had called them, perfect circles
of small white toadstools that shone faintly against the dark turf as twi-
light came on. Duchess Gutrun did not like the idea of sleeping so near to
these rings, but Father Strangyeard sensibly pointed out that the people of
Gadrinsett said the whole of this land belonged to the "faines," so the
proximity of a mushroom ring meant little. Gutrun, more concerned for
the safety of the child Leieth than herself, gave in with reservations.

A small fire, made with willow branches they had gathered during the
journey, helped to dispel some of the strangeness. The prince's party ate
and calked quietly long into the evening. Old Towser, who had been
sleeping so long and so deeply during the journey that he hardly seemed
one of their company anymore, but more like a piece of baggage, awak-
ened and lay staring at the night sky.

"The stars aren't right," he said at last, so quietly that none heard him.
He repeated himself more loudly. Josua came to kneel beside him, caking
the jester's trembling hand in his.

"What is it, Towser?"

"The stars, they aren't right." The old man pulled his fingers free from
the prince's grip and gestured upward. "There's the Lamp, but it's got one
star more than it should. And where's the Crook? It shouldn't be gone 'til
harvest time. And there's others there I don't know at all." His lip
quivered. "We're all dead. We've gone through into the Shadow Land like
my grandmother used to tell of. We're dead."

"Come, now,"Josua said gently. "We are not dead. We are simply in a
different place, and you have been in and out of dreams."

Towser fixed him with a surprisingly sharp eye. "It is Amtul-month, is
it not? Don't think I am crazy-old yet, no matter what I have been

468 Tad Williams

through. I have stared at summer skies for nearly twice your lifetime,
young prince. We may be in a different place, but all Ostcn Ard shares the
same stars—does it not?"

Josua was silent for a while. A thin babble of voices rose from the
campfire behind him. "I did not mean to say you had lost your wits, old
friend. We are in a strange place, and who knows what stars may shine
upon us? In any case, there is nothing to be done about it." He Cook the
old man's hand again- "Why do you not come and sit closer to the fire? I
think it would be comforting to have us all together, at least for a little

while."

Towser nodded and let Josua help him rise. "A little warmth would not
go amiss, my prince. I feel a growing cold in my bones . . . and I don't
like it."

"All the better, then, to sit near the fire on a damp night." He led the
old jester back.

The fire had dimmed to embers and Towser's unfamiliar stars were
wheeling in the sky overhead. Josua looked up when a hand touched his
shoulder. Vorzheva had a blanket draped over her arm.

"Come, Josua, "she said. "Let us go and make our bed by the riverside."

He looked around at the others, all sleeping but Deornoth and
Strangyeard, who Calked quietly on the far side of the fire. "I do not think
I should leave my people alone."

"Leave your people?" she said. There was an edge of anger in her voice,
but a moment later it gave way to a quiet laugh. She shook her head and
her black hair fell across her face. "You will never change. I am your wife
now, do you remember thac? We have gone four nights as if our marriage
had never happened because you feared pursuit by the king's soldiers and
wished to be close to the others. Do you still fear?"

He looked up at her. His lip curled in a smile. "Not tonight." He rose
and put his arm about her slender waist, feeling the strong muscles of her
back. "Let us go down by the river."

Josua left his boots by the fire circle and together they went barefoot
through the damp grass until the glow of the coals had disappeared behind
them. The murmur of the river grew louder as they made their way down
to the sandy verge. Vorzheva unfurled the blanket and sank down upon it-
Josua joined her, pulling his heavy cloak over them both. For a while they
lay in silence beside the dark Stefflod, watching the moon holding court
among her stars. Vorzheva's head rested on Josua's chest, her river-
washed hair against his cheek.

"Do not think that because our wedding was foreshortened, it meant
any less to me," he said finally. "I promise you that one day we will have
our lives back as they were meant to be. You shall be the lady of a great
house, not an exile in the wilderness."

STONE OF FAREWELL                469

"Gods of my clan! You are a fool, Josua," she said. "Do you think that
I care what kind of house I live in?" She turned and kissed him, wriggling
closer against his body. "Fool, fool, fool." Her breath was hot against his
face.

They spoke no more. The stars gleamed in the sky and the river sang
to them.

Deomoth awakened just after dawn to the sound of Leieth crying. It
took him a moment to realize why that seemed so strange. It was the first
sound he had heard the child make.

Even as the last shreds of dream fell away—he had stood before a great
white tree whose leaves were flames—he was clawing for the hilt of his
sword. He sat up to see Duchess Gutrun holding the little girl on her lap.
Beside her, Father Strangyeard had poked his head tortoiselike from be-
neath his cloak; the priest's wispy red hair was dew-dampened.

"What is it?" Deomoth asked.

Gutrun shook her head. "I don't know. She woke me up with her
crying, the poor thing." The duchess tried to cradle Leieth against her
breast, but the child pulled back. She continued to cry, her eyes wide
open, scaring at the sky. "What's the matter, little one, what's the mat-
ter?" Gutrun crooned.

Leieth tugged her hand free from the woman's embrace and tremblingly
pointed toward the northern horizon. Deornoth could see nothing but a
black fist of clouds in the most distant part of the sky. "Is something out
there?" he asked.

The child's cries died away to hiccoughing sobs. She pointed again
at the horizon, then turned away to huddle in Gutrun's lap, face hidden.

"It's just a bad dream, that's all," the duchess soothed- "There now,
little one, just a bad dream. ..."

Josua was suddenly standing before them, Naidel unsheathed in his
hand. The prince wore nothing but his breeches; his slender frame gleamed
pallidly in the dawnlight. "What is it?" he demanded.

Deornoth pointed to the darkened horizon. "The child saw something
there that made her cry."

Josua stared grimly. "We who saw Naglimund's last days would do
well to pay attention. That is an ugly knot of stormciouds." He looked
around at the wet grasslands. "We are all tired," he said, "but we must
make a faster pace. I do not like the look of that storm any more than did
the child. I doubt we will find any shelter on these open plains until we
reach Geloe's Stone of Farewell." He turned and shouted to Isorn and the
others, who were just waking up. "Saddle up- We will break our fast as
we travel. Come, there is no longer such a thing as a simple storm. If I can
help it, we will not be caught by this one."

470 Tad Williams

The river valley continued to deepen The vegetation began to grow
thicker and more lush, the sparse meadowland now broken by freestand-
ing groves of birches and alders, as well as thickets of strange trees with
siKery leaves and slim trunks deep-furred in moss

The prince's party had little time to admire this new greenery They
rode at a fierce pace all day, stopping only for a brief rest in afternoon,
then continuing on until long after the sun had dropped behind the
horizon and twilight had sapped the brightest colors from the land The
threatening stormclouds now obscured much of the northern sky

As the rest made a circle of scones and built a healthy blaze—firewood
was now m broad supply—Deomoth and Isorn took the horses down to
the river

"At least we are no longer on foot," Isorn said, uncmchmg the buckle
on a set of saddlebags, which slid to the grass with a soft thump "That is
something worth thanking Aedon's goodness for "

"True " Dcornoth patted Vildahx The drops of perspiration on the
horse's neck had already chilled m the evening breeze Deomoth rubbed
him dry with a saddle blanket before moving on toJosua's horse Vmyafod
"We have precious little else to be thankful for "

"We are alive," Isorn said reprovingly, his wide face serious "My wife
and children are alive and safe with Tonnrud in Skoggey, and I am here to
protect my mother " He pointedly avoided mentioning his father Isgnmnur,
from whom there had been no word since the duke had left Naglimund

Deomoth said nothing, understanding the worry Isom must feel He
knew well the love his Rimmersman friend felt for the duke In a way, he
envied Isorn, and wished his feelings for his own father could be so
admirable Deomoth was unable to fulfill God's command for sons to
honor their sires Despite his knightly ideals, he had never been able to
feel anything but the most grudging respect and no love whatsoever for
the pmch-souled old tyrant who had made Deomoth's boyhood a misery

"Isorn," he said at last, considering, "someday, when things are as they
were before—before all this happened—and we are celling our grandchil-
dren about it, what will we sav3" The breeze blew harder, making the
willow branches slap together

His friend did not respond After a moment, Deomoth stood up and
looked across Vmyafod's back to where Isom stood a few ells away,
holding the horses' reins as they drank from the river The Rimmersman
was only a faint silhouette against the purple-gray evening sky "Isom5"

"Look to the south, Deornoth " he said. his voice strained "There are
torches "

Away across the grasslands, back down the Stefflod in the direction
from which they had come. a swarm of tiny lights moved across the land

"Merciful Acdon " Dcornoth groaned, "it is Fcngbatd and his men
They have caught us up after all " He turned and gave Vmyafod a light

STONE OF FAREWELL                 471

slap on the flanks, causing the charger to Cake a few prancing steps
forward "No rest for you yet, fellow " He and Isorn sprinted up the bank
toward the wind-whipped flames that marked their camp

And they are less than a league away," Isorn finished breathlessly
"Down by the river we could see the lights clearly "

Josua's face was composed, but noticeably pale in the firelight "God
has given us a hard test, to let us get so far and then pull the trap shut "
He sighed The eyes of all watched him in fearful fascination "Well, at
least we must kick out the fire and ride on Perhaps if we can find a thick
enough copse of trees to hide in, and if they have no hounds, they may
pass us by Then we can think of what other plan might suffice "

As they clambered into their saddles once more, Josua turned to Deomoth
"We brought two bows as part of our booty from Fikolmy's camp, did
we not7"

Deomoth nodded

"Good You and Isorn take them " The prince laughed grimly, bran-
dishing the stump of his right wrist "I am not much of a bowman, but I
think we will have need of a little arrow-play "

Deornoth nodded again, wearily

They rode swiftly, though all the party sensed that they could not do so
for long The Thnthmgs horses ran gamely, but it had already been a long
day's trek before the company had stopped Vmyafod and Vildalix seemed
as though they had several hours left in them, but some of the other
mounts were clearly winded, their riders were scarcely stronger As his
horse moved beneath him and the moonlit grasslands rolled past, Deornoth
could almost feel his will to resist ebbing away, draining like sand through
the neck of an hourglass

We have come ten times as jar as anyone would have dreamed possible, he
thought, clinging tightly to the reins as Vildahx topped one of the meadow
downs and plunged down the opposite slope like a boat breasting a wave
There is no dishonor in failing now What more can God expect than that we gwe
our all7 He looked back The rest of the party was beginning to fall
behind Deornoth pulled up on the reins, slowing his charger until he was
in the midst of the company once more God might be ready to reward
them with a hero's place in Heaven, but he could not give up the struggle
while innocents like the duchess and the child were at risk

Isom was beside him now, clutching Leieth on the saddle before him
The young Rimmersman's face was a gray blur in the moonlight, but
Deornoth did not need to see his friend to know the anger and determina-
tion written on his broad features

He looked back once more For all their haste, the rippling torches had

472

Tad Williams

gained ground on them, closing the distance in the last two hours until
they trailed the prince's folk by less than a dozen furlongs.

"Slow up!" Josua cried behind him in the darkness. "If we run farther,
we will have no strength left to fight. There is a grove of trees atop
the rise there. That is where we will make a stand."

They followed the prince up the slope. The cold wind had risen and
the trees bent and thrashed, branches scraping together. In the dark-
ness the pale, swaying trunks seemed white-robed spirits lamenting some

terrible circumstance.

"Here." The prince ushered them past the outermost circle of trees.
"Where are those bows, Sir Deornoth?" His voice was flat.

"At my saddle. Prince Josua." Deornoth heard the awful formality
echoed in his own tones, as though they all participated in some ritual. He
loosed the two bows and flung one to Isorn, who had handed Leieth over
to his mother to free his hands. As Deornoth and the young Rimmersman
strung the supple ashwood, Father Strangyeard accepted an extra dagger
from Sangfugol. He held it unhappily, as chough he pinched a serpent's
tail. "What will Usires think?" he said mournfully. "What will my God

think of me?"
"He will know you fought to save the lives of women and children,"

Isorn said shortly, nocking one of their few arrows.

"Now we wait," Joshua hissed. "We stay close together, in case I see a
chance for us to run once more, and we wait."

The minutes stretched as taut as the bowstring beneath Deornoth's
fingers. The nightbirds had gone silent in the trees overhead, but for one
whose eerie, whispering call echoed over and over until Deornoth wished
he could put an arrow through its feathered throat. A sound as of distant
and continuous drumming began to separate itself from the droning mur-
mur of the Steffiod, growing ever louder. Deornoth thought he could feel
the ground beginning to shudder beneath his feet. He suddenly wondered
if blood had ever been shed in this seemingly uninhabited land before. Had
the roots of these pale trees ever drunk of things other than water? The
great oaks around the battlefield at the Knock were said to have gorged on
blood until their pith was rosy pink.

The thunder ofhoofbeats rose until it was louder than Deornoth's own
heart drumming in his ears. He lifted his bow but did not bend it, saving
his strength for the moment it would be needed. A swirl of flickering
lights appeared on the meadow below them. The headlong flight of the
horsemen slowed, as though they somehow sensed the prince's folk hiding
in the grove above them. As they reined up, the flames of their streaming
torches bobbed upright once more, blooming like orange flowers.

"They are nearly two dozen," Isorn said unhappily.

"I will take the first," Deornoth whispered. "You take the second."

"Hold," saidJosua quietly. "Not until I say."

STONE OF  FAREWELL

473

The leader got down from his horse, bending to the ground so that he
disappeared out of the glow of torchlight. When he stood his pale,
hooded face turned to look up the slope, so that it almost seemed to
Deornoth he had sighted them in the fastness of the shadows. Deornoch
lowered his arrowhead until it pointed at the cloaked chest beneath the
faint moon of face.

"Steady now," Josua murmured, "a moment more . . ."
There was a rush and clatter in the branches overhead. A dark shape
battered at Deornoth's head, startling him so that the arrow flew free,
high above its intended mark. Deornoth shouted in alarm and staggered
back, raising his hands to protect his eyes, but whatever had struck him
was gone.

"Stop!" a voice cried from the trees above, a creaking, whistlingly
inhuman voice. "Stop!"

Isorn. who had stared in stupefaction as Deornoth swatted at nothing,
turned grimly and lowered his own arrow to the target. "Demons!" he
growled, pulling his bowstring back to his ear.

"Josua?" somebody called from the meadow below. "Prince Josua? Are
you there?"

There was a moment of silence. "Aedon be praised," Josua breathed.
He pushed his way through the crackling undergrowth and strode out into
the full light of the moon, his cloak billowing like a sail in the fierce wind.
"I am here!" he shouted.

"What is he doing?" Isorn hissed frantically. Vorzheva let out a small
cry of anguish, but Deornoth, too, had recognized the voice.

"Josua?" the leader of the horsemen cried. "It is Hotvig of the Stallion
Clan." He pushed back his hood to show his beard and wind-tossed
yellow hair. "We have followed you for days!"

"Hotvig!" Vorzheva shouted anxiously. "Is my father with you?"

The Thrithings-man laughed harshly. "Not him. Lady Vorzheva. The
March-thane is no happier with me than he is with you or your husband!"

As the randwarder and Josua clasped hands, the rest of the prince's party
emerged from the copse of trees, tight-strung muscles trembling, babbling
among themselves with relief.

"There is much to tell, Josua," Hotvig said as his fellow riders came up
the slope to join them. "First, though, we must make a fire. We have been
riding fast as the Grass Thunderer himself. We are cold and very tired."

"Indeed," Josua smiled. "A fire."

Deornoth stepped forward and took Hotvig's hand in his. "Praise
Usires' mercy,'* he said. "We thought you were Fengbald, the High
King's man. I was a moment from loosing an arrow into your heart, but
something struck my hand in the darkness."

"You may praise Usires," a dry voice said, "but I had something to do
with it, too."

474

Tad Williams

Geloe came out of the trees behind them, marching down the slope and
into the circle of torchlight. The witch woman, Deomoth realized with a
start, wore a cloak and breeches that came from his own saddlebag. Her

feet were unshod.

"Valada Geloe!" josua said in wonderment. "You come unlooked-for."

"You may not have looked for me, Prince Josua, but I looked for you.
And a good thing that I did, else this night might have ended in bloodshed."
"It was you that struck me before I could let my arrow fly?" Deornoth

said slowly. "But how. . . ?"

"Time enough for stories later," Geloe said, then kneeled as Leieth

pulled free of Gutrun's clutch to run into the wise woman's arms with a
wordless cry of pleasure. As she embraced the child, Geloe's huge yellow
eyes held Deornoth's gaze; he felt a shiver travel down his backbone.
"Time enough for stories later," she repeated. "Now it is time to make a
fire. The moon is far along in her journey. If you are on your horses by
dawn tomorrow, you will reach the Stone of Farewell before dark." She
looked up at the northern sky. "And perhaps before the storm, as well."

The sky was tar-black with angry clouds. The rain was turning into
sleet. Rachel the Dragon, chilled and storm-battered, stepped into the lee
of a building on Ironmonger's Street for a moment's rest. The byways of
Erchester were empty but for flurrying hailstones and a solitary figure
carrying a large bundle on its back as it trudged away through the mud

toward Main Row.

Probably leaving for the countryside, carrying all his wordly goods, she thought

bitterly. Another one gone, and who could blame him? It's like the plague has run

through this city.

Shivering, she set out once more.
Despite the vicious weather, many of the doors along Ironmonger's

Street swung back and forth unlatched, opening to giving a glimpse of
empty blackness beyond, banging closed with a sound like breaking
bones. It was indeed much as if some pestilence had devastated Erchester,
but it was a scourge of fear rather than disease that was driving out the
city's denizens. This, in turn, had forced the Mistress of Chambermaids to
walk the entire length of the ironmongery district before she could find
someone to sell her what she needed. She carried her new purchase under
her cloak and against her bosom, hidden from the sight of passersby—of
which there were obviously few—and perhaps, she hoped, somehow also

hidden from the eyes of a disapproving God.
The irony was that there had been no necessity to walk through the

savage winds and deserted streets: any of several hundred implements in
the Hayholt's kitchen would have admirably suited her bill of particulars.

STONE OF FAREWELL                 475

But this was her own plan and her own decision. To take what she needed
from Judith's cupboards might put the fat Mistress of Kitchens in jeop-
ardy. and Judith was one of the few castle folk for whom Rachel felt
respect. More importantly, it truly was Rachel's own plan, and in a way it
had been necessary for her to walk one more time through Erchester's
haunted alleyways: it was helping her work up the courage to do what
must be done.

Spring cleaning, she reminded herself grimly. A shrill, un-Rachel-like
laugh escaped her lips. Spring cleaning in midsummer, with snow on the way.
She shook her head, feeling a momentary urge to sit down in the muddy
street and cry. That's enough, old woman, she told herself, as she often did.
There's work to be done, and no rest this side of Heaven.

If there had been any doubts that the Day of Weighing-Out was almost
at hand, just as foretold in the holy Book of the Aedon, Rachel had only
to think back to the comet that had appeared in the sky during the spring
of Elias' regnal year- At the time, with the optimism of those days not
long past, many had thought it a sign of a new age and a new beginning
for Ostcn Ard. Now it was clear as well water that it had instead
prophesied the last days of Trial and Doom. And what-else, she upbraided
herself, could such a hellish red slash in the sky mean? It was only blind
foolishness that could have made anyone think otherwise.

Welladay, she thought, peering from beneath her hood at the desolate
shops of Main Row, we have all made our bed of pain: now God will make us
lie in it. In His anger and wisdom He's given us plague and drought, and now
unnatural storms. And who could ask for a plainer sign than the poor old lector
dying so horribly?

The shocking news had swept through the castle and city below like
flame. Folk had spoken of little else for the last week: Lector Ranessin was
dead, murdered in his bed by some terrible pagans called Fire Dancers.
These godless monsters had also set part of the Sancellan Aedonitis ablaze.
Rachel had seen the lector when he came for John's funeral, a fine and holy
man. Now, in this dreadful year of years, he, too, had been stuck down.

Lord save our souls. The holy lector murdered, and demons and spirits walking
the night, even in the Hayholt itself. She shuddered, thinking of the sight she
had seen from the window of the servant's quarters one night not long
ago. Lured to the window, not by any sound or sight, but rather by some
undefmable feeling, she had silently left her sleeping charges and clam-
bered up onto a stool, leaning on the window casement to look out on the
Hedge Garden below. There, amid the shadowy shapes of the hedge-
animals, had stood a circle of silent, black-robed figures- Almost breath-
less with terror, Rachel had rubbed at her old and treacherous eyes, but
the figures were no dream or illusion. Even as she stared, one of the
hooded shapes had turned to look up at her, its eyes black holes in a

476 Tad Williams

corpse-white face. She had run back and leaped into her hard bed, pulling
the blanket up over her face to lie in sweaty, sleepless fear until dawn.

Before this year of derangement, Rachel had trusted her own judgment
with the same iron faith she extended to her God, her king, and the
sanctity of tidiness. After the comet came, and particularly since Simon's
cruel death, that faith had been badly shaken. The two days following her
midnight vision she wandered through the castle in a daze, mind only half
on her chores, wondering if she had turned into the kind of daft old
woman she had vowed to die before becoming.

But as she quickly discovered, if the Mistress of Chambermaids was
mad, it was a contagious madness. Many others had also seen such
pallid-faced specters. The diminished marketplace along Erchester's Main
Row was full of whispered talk about the things that walked by night in
both countryside and city. Some said that they were ghosts of Ehas'
victims, unable to sleep while their heads were spiked above the Nearulagh
Gate. Others said chat Pryrates and the king had struck a deal with the
Devil himself, that these undead hell-wights had thrown down Naghmund
on Ellas' behalf and now waited upon his bidding for further unholy tasks.

Rachel the Dragon had once believed in nothing that Father Dreosan did
not include in his catalog of churchly acceptabilities, and had doubted that
even the Prince of Demons himself could bar her way in a pinch, since she
had both blessed Usires the Ransomer and common sense on her side.
Rachel was now as much of a believer as her most superstitious chamber-
maid, because she had seen. With her own two eyes, she had seen the hosts
of Hell in her castle's Hedge Garden. There could be little doubt chat the
Day of Weighing-Out was at hand.

Rachel was dragged from her brooding thoughts by a noise in the street
ahead. She looked up, shielding her eyes from the stinging sleet. A pack of
dogs was fighting over something in the muddy road, snarling and baying
as they dragged it back and forth. She moved to the side of the road,
hugging the walls of the buildings. There were always dogs running loose
in Erchester's streets, but with so few people left they had become wild in
a way they had never been before. The ironmonger had told her that
several dogs had leaped through a window in Cooper's Alley and attacked
a woman in her bed, biting her so badly chat she bled to death. Thinking
of this, Rachel felt a tremor of fear run right through her. She stopped,
wondering if she should walk past the creatures or not. She looked up and
down the road, but there was no one else about. A pair of dim figures
moved in the distance a couple of furlongs off, much too far away to be of
any help. She swallowed and moved forward, dragging the fingers of one
hand along the wall, the other clutching her purchase close against her
body. As she edged past the struggling hounds she looked around for an
open doorway, just to be safe.

It was hard to tell just what they were fighting for, since both dogs and

STONE OF FAREWELL                 477

prize were splattered with dark mud. One of the curs looked up from the
roil of lean bellies and bony haunches, mouth stretched in a tongue-
lolling, idiot gnn as it watched Rachel pass. The soiled snout and gaping
jaw suddenly put her in mind of some sinner condemned to the ultimate
pit, a lost soul that had forgotten whatever it had once known of beauty or
happiness. The beast stared silently as hailstones pitted the muddy street.

Its attention caught once more by the struggles of its fellows, the dog
turned away at last. With a snarl, it dove back into the thrashing pile.

Tears starting in her eyes. Rachel lowered her head and struggled
against the wind, hurrying back toward the Hayholt.

Guthwulf stood beside the king on a balcony that overlooked the
courtyard of the Inner Bailey. Elias seemed in an unusually cheerful mood,
considering the unimpressive size of the crowd that had been brought into
the Hayholt to watch the mustering-out of the Erkynguard.

Guthwulf had heard the rumors that passed among his fighting men,
stories of the night-terrors that were emptying the halls of the Hayholt
and the houses of Erchester. Not only had comparatively few folk ap-
peared to see the king, but the mood of those gathered was restive;

Guthwulf did not think he would like to walk unarmed through such a
crowd while wearing the sash that proclaimed him King's Hand.

"Damnable weather, isn't it?" Elias said, his green eyes intent on the
milling riders who labored to hold their horses in place beneath the pelting
hail. "Oddly cold for Anitui, don't you think, Wolf?"

Guthwulf turned in surprise, wondering if the king made a strange joke.
The upside-down weather had been the chief topic of conversation through-
out the castle for months. It was far, far more than *oddly cold.' Such
weather was terrifyingly wrong, and had added in no little part to the
earl's feeling of impending disaster.

"Yes, sire," was all he said. There was no longer any question in his
mind. He would lead the Erkynguard out, as Elias requested, but once he
and the troops were beyond the king's immediate reach, Guthwulf himself
would never return. Let heedless, criminal idiots like Fengbald do the
king's bidding. Guthwulf would take those Erkynguards who were will-
ing, along with his own loyal Utanyeaters, and offer his services to Elias'
brother josua. Or, if the prince's survival were nothing more than rumor,
the earl and those who followed him would go someplace where they
could make their own rules, out of reach of this fever-brained creature
who had once been his fnend.

Elias patted him stiffly on the shoulder, then leaned forward and waved
an imperious hand. Two of the Erkynguard lifted their long horns and
played the muster-call, and the hundred or so guardsmen redoubled their

478 Tad Williams

efforts to form their balking mounts into a line. The king's emerald
dragon-banner whipped in the wind, threatening to pull free from its
bearer's grasp. Only a few of the watching crowd cheered, their voices all
but buried by the noise of wind and pattering sleet.

"Perhaps you should let me go down to them. Majesty," Guthwulfsaid
quietly. "The horses are anxious in this storm. If they bolt, they will be
among the crowd in a moment."

Elias frowned. "What. do you worry about a little blood beneath their
hooves? They arc battle-bred: it will not harm them." He turned his gaze
onto the Earl of Utanyeac. His eyes were so alien that Guthwulf flinched
helplessly. "That is the way it is, you know," Elias continued, lips
spreading in a smile. "You can either grind down that which stands before
you, or else be ground down yourself. There is no middle ground, friend
Guthwulf."

The earl bore the king's glance for a long moment, then looked away,
staring miserably at the crowd below. What did that mean? Did Elias
suspect? Was this whole show only an elaborate setting for the king to
denounce his old comrade and send Guthwulf s head to join the others that
now clustered thick as blackberries atop the Nearulagh Gate?

"Ah, my king," rasped a familiar voice, "are you taking a little air? I
could wish you a better day for it."

Pryates stood in the curtained archway behind the balcony, teeth bared
in a vulpine grin. The priest wore a great hooded cloak over his usual
scarlet robe.

"I am glad to see you here," Elias said. "I hope you are rested after your
long journey yesterday."

"Yes, Highness. It was an unsettling trip, but a night in my own bed in
Hjeldin's Tower has done wonders. I am ready to do your bidding." The
priest made a little mock bow, the top of his pale bald head revealed for a
moment like a new moon before he straightened and looked to Guthwulf.
"And the Earl of Utanyeat. Good momingtide to you. Guthwulf. I hear
you are riding forth in the king's behalf."

Guthwulf looked at Pryrates with cold distaste. "Against your advice, I
am told."

The alchemist shrugged, as if to show that his personal reservations
were of little account. "I do think there are perhaps more important
matters with which His Majesty should concern himself than a search for
his brother. Josua's power was broken at Naglimund: I see little need in
pursuing him. Like a seed on stony ground, I think he will find no
purchase, no place to grow strong. No one would dare flaunt the High
King's Ward by giving such a renegade shelter." He shrugged again. "But
I am only a counselor- The king knows his own mind."

Elias, staring down at the quiet assembly in the courtyard below,
seemed to have ignored the entire conversation. He rubbed absently at the

STONE OF FAREWELL

479

iron crown on his brow, as though it caused him some discomfort.
Guthwulf thought the king's skin had a sickly, transparent look.

"Strange days," Elias said, half to himself. "Strange days . . ."

"Strange days indeed," Guthwulf agreed, drawn to reckless conversa-
tion. "Priest, I hear you were in the Sancellan on the very night of the
lector's assassination."

Pryrates nodded soberly. "A ghastly thing. Some mad cult of heretics, I
hear. I hope Velligis, the new lector, will soon root them out."

"Ranessin will be missed," Guthwulfsaid slowly. "He was a popular
and well-respected man, even among those who do not accept the True
Faith."

"Yes, he was a powerful man," Pryrates said. His black eyes glinted as
he gazed sidelong at the king. Elias still did not look up, but an expression
of pain seemed to flit across his pallid features. "A very powerful man,"
the red priest repeated.

"My people do not seem happy," the king murmured, leaning out
against the stone railing. The scabbard of his massive double-hiked sword
scraped the stone and Guthwulf suppressed a shudder. The dreams that
still haunted him, the dreams of that foul sword and its two brother
blades!

Pryrates moved forward to the king's side. The Earl of Utanyeat edged
away, unwilling to touch even the alchemist's cloak. As he turned, he saw
a blur of movement from the archway—billowing curtains, a pale face, a
dull glint of exposed metal. An instant later a howling shriek echoed
through the courtyard.

"Murderer!"

Pryrates staggered back from the railing, a knife handle standing be-
tween his shoulder blades.

The next moments passed with dreadful slowness: the lassitude of
Guthwulf s movements and the dull, doomed progression of his thoughts
made him feel as though he and all the others on the balcony were
suddenly immersed in choking, clinging mud. The alchemist turned to
face his attacker, a wild-eyed old woman who had been thrown down to
the stone floor behind him by the priest's spasmodic reaction. Pryrates'
lips skinned back from his teeth in a horrible doglike grin of agony and
fury. His naked fist lifted in the air and a weird gray-yellow glow began to
play about it. Smoke seeped from his fingers and around the knife wag-
ging in his back, and for a moment the very light in the sky seemed to
dim. Elias had turned as well, his mouth a black hole of surprise in his
face, his eyes bulging with a panicky horror such as Guthwulf had never
dreamed he would see on the king's face- The woman on the floor was
scrabbling at the stone tiles as if swimming in some thick fluid, trying to
drag herself away from the priest.

Pryrates' black eyes seemed almost to have fallen back into his head. For

480

Tad Williams

a moment, a leering, scarlet-robed skeleton stood over the old woman,
bony hand smoldering into incandescence.

Guthwulf never knew what spurred his next action. A commoner had
attacked the king's counselor, and the Earl of Utanycat was King's Hand;

nevertheless, he found himself suddenly lurching forward. The noise of
the crowd, the storm, his own heartbeat, all swelled together into a single
hammering pulse as Guthwulf grappled with Pryrates. The priest's spindly
form was solid as iron beneath his hands. Pryrates' head turned, agoniz-
ingly slowly. His eyes burned into Guthwulf s. The earl felt himself
abruptly pulled out of his own body and sent spinning down into a dark
pit. There was a flash of fire and a blast of incredible heat, as though he
had fallen into one of the forge-furnaces beneath the great castle, then a
howling blackness took him away.

When Guthwulf awakened, he was still in darkness. His body seemed
one dull ache of pain. Droplets of moisture pattered lightly on his face and
the smell of wet stone was in his nostrils.

"... I did not even see her," a voice was saying- After a moment,
Guthwulf was able to identify it as the king's, although there was a subtle,
chiming tone to it that he had not marked before. "By God's head, to
think that I have become so slow and preoccupied." The king's laugh had
a fearful tinge. "I was sure she had come for me."

Guthwulf tried to respond to Elias, but found that he could not form
the proper sounds. It was dark, so dark that he could not make out the
king's form. He wondered if he had been brought to his own room, and how
long he had been senseless.

"I saw her," Pryrates rasped. His voice, too, had taken on a ringing
sound. "She may have escaped me for a moment, but by the Black Eon,
the scrubbing-bitch will pay."

Guthwulf, still struggling for speech, found himself amazed that Pryrates
should be able to speak at all, let alone be standing while the Earl of
Utanyeat lay on the ground.

"I suppose now I shall have to wait for Fengbald to return before I can
send out the Erkynguard—or perhaps one of the younger lords could lead
them?" The king sighed wearily. "Poor Wolf." There seemed in his
strangely tuneful voice little sympathy.

"He should not have touched me," Pryrates said contemptuously. "He
interfered and the slattern escaped. Perhaps he was in league with her."

"No, no, 1 do not think so. He was always loyal- Always."

Poor Wolf? What, did they think he was dead? Guthwulf strained to
make his muscles work. Had they brought him to some curtained room to
lie in waiting for burial? He fought for mastery of his body, but all his
limbs seemed coldly unresponsive.

A horrible thought came to him suddenly. Perhaps he was dead—for

STONE OF FAREWELL                 481

who, after all, had ever returned to say what it was like? Only Usires
Himself, and he was the son of God. Oh, merciful Aedon, would he have
to stay trapped in his body like a prisoner in a forgotten cell, even as they
laid him in the wormy ground? He felt a scream building within him.
Would it be like the dream when he touched the sword? God save him.
Merciful Aedon . . .

"I am going, Elias. I will find her, even if I must crush the stones of the
servant's quarters into dust and flay the skin off of every chambermaid."
Pryrates spoke with a sort of sweetness, as though the savor of this
thought was as splendid as wine. "I will see that people are punished."

"But surely you should rest," Elias said mildly, as though speaking to a
froward child. "Your injury . . ."

"The pain I inflict on the chamber-mistress will take my own pain
away," the alchemist said shortly. "I am well. I have grown strong, Elias.
It will take more than a single knife thrust to dispatch me."

"Ah." The king's voice was emotionless. "Good. That is good."

Guthwulf heard Pryrates' bootheels clocking against the tiled stone
floor, striding away. There was no sound of a door opening and closing,
but another shower of moisture spattered the Earl ofUtanyeat's face. This
time he felt the chill of the water.

"L ... L ... 'Lias," he managed to say at last.

"Guthwulf!" the king said, gently surprised. "You live?"

"Wh . . . where. . . ?"

"Where is what?"

". . . Me."

"You are on the balcony, where you had your . . . accident."

How could that be? Had it not been morning time when they had
watched the Erkynguard muster? Had he lain here lifelessly until evening?
Why hadn't they moved him to a more comfortable place?

". . . He's right, you know," Elias was saying. "You really shouldn't
have interfered. What did you think you were doing?" The odd ringing
sound was beginning to fade from his voice. "It was very foolish. I told
you to stay away from the priest, didn't I?"

". . . Can't see . . ." Guthwulf managed at last.

"I'm not surprised," Elias said calmly. "Your face is badly burned,
especially around your eyes. They look very bad. I was certain you were
dead—but you're not." The king's voice was distant. "It's a pity, old
comrade, but I told you to watch out for Pryrates."

"Blind?" Guthwulf said, his voice hoarse, throat seizing in a painful
spasm. "Blind?!"

His rasping howl broke across the commons, bouncing from wall to
stone wall until it seemed a hundred Guthwulfs were screaming. As he
vented his agony, the king patted him on the head as though soothing an
old dog.

482

Tad Williams

4-

The nvcr valley waited for the oncoming storm The chilly air warmed
and grew heavv The Stefflod murmured uneasih and the sky was gravid
with angry-looking clouds The travelers found themselves speaking softly,
as if they rode past the sleeping form of some huge beast who might be
awakened by disrespectful loudness or levity

Hotvig and his men had decided to ride back to the rest of their party,
who were nearly four score all told, men, women, and children Hotvig's
clanfolk and their wagons were following as swiftly as they could, but
they were no match for the speed of unencumbered riders

"I am still amazed that your people would uproot themselves to follow
us into an unknown and ill-omened wilderness," Josua said at their parting

Hotvig grinned, showing a gap in his teeth earned in some past brawl
"Uproot3 There is no such word to the folk of the Stallion Clan Our
roots are in our wagons and our saddles "

"But surely vour clansmen are worried about riding into such strange
territory5"

A brief look of concern flickered across the Thnthings-man's face,
quickly supplanted by an expression of disdainful pride "You forget,
Prince Josua that they are mv kmfolk I told them, 4f stone-dwellers can
nde there without fear, can the people of the Free Thnthmgs shy awav5'
They follow me " He pulled at his beard and grinned once more "Be-
sides, it is worth manv risks to get out from under Fikolmij's hand "

"And you are sure he will not pursue you7" the prince asked

Hotvig shook his head "As I told you last night, the March-thane has
lost face because of vou Anyway, our clans often split into smaller
clan-families It is our right as people of the Free Thnthmgs The last
thing Fikolmij can do now is to try to keep us few from leaving the
greater clan That would prove beyond doubt that he is losing his hold on
the reins "

When they had all gathered around the fire after their encounter in the
dark, Hotvig had explained how FikolmiJ's treatment of his daughter and
Prince Josua had caused much disgruntled talk around the wagons of the
Stallion Clan Fikolmy had never been a popular leader, but he had been
respected as a powerful fighter and clever strategist To see him so bedev-
iled by the mere presence of stone-dwellers, to the point where he would
lend aid to Fengbald and others of the High King's men without consult-
ing his clan chiefs, had made many wonder out loud whether FikolmiJ was
still capable of lording it as March-thane of all of the High Thnthmgs

When Earl Fengbald had arrived with his fifty or so armored men,
swaggering into the wagon camp like conquerors, Hotvig and some of the
other randwarders had brought the men of their own clan-families to
FikolmiJ's wagon The March-thanc had wished to set the Erkynlanders

483

STONE OF FAREWELL

quickly on the trail ofJosua's party, but Hotvig and the others had stood
against their leader

"No stone-dwellers go armed across the Stallion Clan's fields without a
gathering of chiefs to say they can," Hotvig had cried, and his fellows had
echoed him Fikolmij had fumed and threatened, but the laws of the Free
Thnthings were the only immutable things in the clan-folk's nomadic
existence The argument had ended with Hotvig and the other randwarders
telling Earl Fengbald—"a foolish, dangerous man who likes himself well,"
as Hotvag described him—that the only way the High King's men could
pursue Josua was to go around the Stallion Clan's territory Fengbald,
outnumbered by ten to one or more, had no choice but to ride away,
taking the shortest route back off the High Thnthmgs The Earl of
Falshire had made many angry threats before departing, promising that
the grasslanders' long days of freedom were over, that High King Ehas
would come soon and knock the wheels off their wagons once and for all

Unsurprisingly, this public thwarting of FikolmiJ's authority brought
on a terrible argument that several times almost erupted into deadly
bloodshed The disputing ceased only when Hotvig and several other
randwarders took their families and followed Josua, leaving Fikolmy be-
hind to curse and lick his wounds, his strength as March-thane weakened
but by no means ended

"No, he will not follow us," Hotvig repeated "That would say to all
the clans that mighty FikolmiJ cannot survive the loss of our few wagons,
and that the stone-dwellers and their feuds are more important to the
March-thane of all the High Thnthmgs than his own people Now, we
clan exiles will live near you for a while at your Farewell Stone and
talk among ourselves about what we will do "

"I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your help," Josua said sol-
emnly "You have saved our lives If Fengbald and his soldiers had caught
us, we would be going back to the Hayholt in chains Then there would
be no one to stop my brother "

Hotvig looked at him keenly "You may think so, but you do not know
the strength of the Free Thnthings if you think we would be so easily
overcome " He hefted his long spear "Already the men of the Meadow
Thnthings are making things very difficult for the stone-dwellers of
Nabban "

Father Strangycard, who had been listening carefully, made a worried
face "The king is not the only one we fear, Hotvig "

The Thnthmgs-man nodded "So you told me And I would hear more,
but now I must go back for the rest of my people If your destination is as
close as the woman says," he indicated Geloe with careful respect, "then
look for us before sunset tomorrow The wagons can go no faster "

"But do not delay," the wise woman said "I did not speak lightly when
I said we must make haste ahead of this storm "

484 Tad Williams

"No one can ride like grasslander horsemen," Hotvig said sternly
"And our wagon-teams are not much slower We will be with you before
tomorrow's night " He laughed, again showing his missing tooth "Leave
it to city folk to find stone in the middle of the meadowlands, then want
to make their home there Still," he said to the prince, "1 knew when you
killed Utvart that things would never be the same for anyone My father
taught me to trust my hand and my heart " He grinned "My luck, too I
bet one of my foals on you, Josua, m your fighting with Utvart My
friends were ashamed to best me so easily, but they took my wager," He
laughed loudly "You won four good horses for me'" He turned his
mount toward the south, waving "Soon we will meet again!"

"And no arrows this time," cried Deornoth

"Go safely," Josua called as Hotvig and his men spurred away across the
green lands

Heartened by the encounter with the Thnthmgs-folk, the travelers rode
cheerfully through the morning despite the threatening skies. When they
stopped briefly to take their midday meal and water the horses, Sangfugol
even convinced Father Strangyeard to sing with him The priest's surpris-
ingly sweet voice blended well with the harper's, and if Father Strangyeard
did not quite understand what "The Ballad of Round-Heeled Moirah" was
about, his enjoyment was the greater for it, and for the laughing praise
given to him after

When they were in the saddle once more, Deomoth found himself
ndmg beside Geloe, who cradled Leieth before her on the saddle She rode
flawlessly, as one of long experience, Deomoth found himself wondering
once more what the wise woman's strange history might be She was also
still wearing the spare clothing he had brought out of the wagon-camp, as
if she had come to that fateful copse of trees naked After thinking for a
while about why that might be, and remembering the clawed thing that
had struck at him in darkness, Deornoth decided that there were some
things about which a God-fearing knight should not inquire

"Forgive me, Valada Geloe," he said, "but you look very gnm Is there
something important you have not told us yet5" He indicated Sangfugol
and Strangyeard, laughing with Duchess Gutrun as they rode. "Are we
singing in the lich-yard, as the old saying goes5"

Geloe continued to watch the sky From her lap, Leieth looked at him as
though he were an interesting rock. "I fear many things. Sir Deomoth,"
Geloe said at last "The problem with being a 'wise woman' is chat
sometimes you knowjust enough to be truly afraid, while still not having
any better answers than might the youngest child I fear this coming
storm. The one who is our true enemy—I will not say his name here m
this land, not in the open—is reaching the summit of his power We have
already seen in this cold summer how his pride and anger speak m the

485

STONE OF  FAREWELL

winds and clouds Now, black weather is swirling out of the north I am
sure it is his storm if I am right, it will bring woe to those who resist
him"

Deornoth found himself following her gaze Suddenly, the ominous
clouds seemed an inky hand stretching across the sky from the north,
blindly but patiently searching The idea of waiting for that hand to find
them sent a poisonous dread twisting through him, so that he had to look
down at his saddle for a moment before he could lift his eyes to Geloe's
yellow stare

"I understand," he said

Sunlight bled fitfully through chinks in the clouds The wind turned,
blowing into their faces, heavy and moist As they followed the line of the
valley, a broad bend in the Stefflod revealed for the first time the old
forest, the Aldheorte The great wood was much nearer than Deomoth
would have guessed—the party's return on horseback had been far swifter
than their straggling march out-across the Thnthings Because of their
descent into the river valley, the forest now stood on the heights above
them, a solid line of vegetation like dark cliffs along the valley's northern

nm

"It is not far now," Geloe said

They rode on through the afternoon as the curtained sun slid down the
sky, glowing behind the gray murk Another turn in the nver's course
brought them around a cluster of shallow hills They stopped short
"Merciful Aedon," Deornoth breathed to himself
"Sesuad'ra," Geloe said "There stands the Stone of Farewell "
"That's no stone," Sangfugol said disbelievmgly "That's a mountain'"
A great hill rose from the valley floor before them Unlike its low,
rounded neighbors, Sesuad'ra thrust up from the meadows like the head of
a buned giant, bearded with trees, crowned with angular stones that stood
along the ndgehne Beyond the spiky stones some shimmering whiteness
lay along the hill's very peak An immense, upward-straining slab of
weathered rock and clinging brush, Sesuad'ra loomed some five hundred
cubits above the nver The uneven sunlight washed across the hill in
wavering bands, so that the entire mass almost seemed to turn and watch
them as they rode slowly down the watercourse.

"It is much like Thisterborg, near the Hayholt," Josua said wondenngly
"That's no stone," Sangfugol repeated stubbornly, shaking his head
Geloe laughed harshly "It is all stone Sesuad'ra is a part of the very
bones of the earth, thrust free other body in the pain of the Days of Fire,
but still reaching down into the very center of the world "

Father Strangyeard was eyeing the massive hill nervously. "And we are
going to ... are going to . . stay there5 Live there5"
The witch woman smiled "We have permission "

486 Tad Williams

As they neared, it became apparent that the Stone was not so sheer as
distance made it seem A path, a lighter streak through the choking trees
and brush, snaked its way around the base of the hill, then appeared again
farther up, spirahng summitward around the circumference of the rock
until it disappeared near the crest

"How can trees live on such a stone, let alone thrive5" Deornoth asked
"Can they grow in the very rock5"

"Sesuad'ra has been broken and worn over the eons of its existence,"
Geloe answered fa Plants will ever find a way, and they themselves help to
further break the stone until it is crumbled to a dirt scarcely less rich than
found on a Hewenshire freeholding "

Deornoth frowned slightly at this reference to his birthplace, then
wondered how the wise woman knew of his father's farm He had
certainly never mentioned it to her

Soon they were walking in the sudden twilight of the hill's long shadow,
whipped by a chilly wind The path that began at Sesuad'ra's base lay
before them, hugging the hillside, a trampled cut of grass and moss
overhung by trees and twining creepers

"And we are going up5" Duchess Gutrun asked in some consternation
"Up into this place3"

"Of course," Geloe said, a touch of impatience in her rough voice "It is
the highest ground for leagues We have need of high ground just now
Besides, there are other reasons—must I explain them all again7"

"No, Valada Geloe, please lead us,"Josua said The prince seemed fired
by some inner flame, his pale face alight with excitement "This is what
we have been searching for This is where we will begin the long road
back " His face slackened somewhat "I do wonder, though, how Hotvig
and his folk will feel about leaving their wagons below It is a pity there is
no way to get them up the hill "

The wise woman waved her callused hand "You worry too soon Step
ahead and you will have a surprise "

They rode forward Beneath the straggling grass the path that wound
up the hillside was as smooth as one of old Naglimund's hallways and
wide enough for any wagon.

"But how can this be5"Josua asked.

"You forget," Geloe responded, "this is a Sithi place Beneath this
bramble is the road they built It takes many, many centuries to destroy
the handiwork of the Zida'ya."

Josua was not cheered "I am ama7ed, but now I am even more
worried What will keep our enemies from climbing as easily as we do5"

Geloe snorted in disgust "First, it is easier to defend a high place than
to take it from below Secondly, the nature of the place itself is against it
Third, and perhaps most importantly, our enemy's own rage may out-
smart him and ensure our survival—at least for a while."

STONE OF FAREWELL

487

"How so5" the pnnce demanded

"You will see " Geloe spurred her horse up the path, Leieth bobbing on
the saddle before her The child's wide brown eyes took in everything
without any show of feeling Josua shrugged and followed

Deornoth turned to see Vorzheva sitting upright on her horse, face set
in lines of grim fear "What is it, my lady'" he asked "Is something
amiss5"

She offered a nervous smile "My people have hated and feared this
valley forever Hotvig is a clan-man and would not show it, but he fears
this place, too " She sighed shakily "Now I must follow my husband up
on this unnatural rock I am afraid "

For the first time since his prince had brought this odd woman to live in
the castle at Naglimund, Deornoth felt his heart opening to her, filling
with admiration "We are all deathly afraid, my lady," he said "The rest
of us arejust not as honest as you "

He tapped gently with his heels at Vildalix's nbs and followed Vorzheva
up the path

The road was overhung with trailing vines and the tangled branches of
trees, forcing the travelers to spend as much time ducking their heads as
they did riding upright As they slowly circled out of the shadow, hke
ants walking the perimeter of a sundial, the mist that clung to the hill lent
an unusual sparkle to the afternoon glow

Deornoth thought that the smell of the place was what seemed strangest
of all Sesuad'ra gave off a scent of timeless growth, of water and roots
and damp earth in a place long undisturbed There was an air of peace
here, of slow, careful thought, but also a disturbing sensation of
watchfulness From time to time the stillness was broken by the trill of
unseen birds whose songs were as somber and hesitant as children whis-
pering in a high-ceilmged hall

As the grassy meadow began to drop away below them, the travelers
passed posts of standing stone, time-smoothed white shapes almost twice
a man's height that had in their unrecognizable outlines some hint of
movement, of life They passed the first as the path brought them around
into direct sunlight for the first time

"Marking pillars." Geloe called over her shoulder "One for each of the
moons in the year We'll pass a dozen every time we circle around the hill
until we reach the summit They were carved to look like animals and
birds once, I think "

Deornoth stared at the rounded nob chat might have been a head and
wondered what beast it had once represented Weathered by wind and
ram, it was now as shapeless as melted wax, faceless as the forgotten dead
He shivered and make the sign of the Tree on his breast

488

Tad Williams

A little while later Geloe stopped and pointed downward toward the
northwest part of the valley, where the rim of the old forest reached out
almost to the very banks of the Stefflod. The river was a tiny streak of
quicksilver along the valley's emerald floor.

"Just beyond the river," she said, "do you see?" She gestured again at
the forest's dark breakfront, which might have been a frozen sea-wave
awaiting only spring's thaw before it swept across the low ground. "There,
in the forest's fringe. Those are the ruins ofEnki-e-Shao'saye, which some
say was the most beautiful city ever built in Osten Ard since the world

began."

As his companions whispered and shaded their eyes, Deomoth moved
to the edge of the path, squinting at the distant forest. He saw nothing but
what might have been a crumbled wall of lavender, a flash of gold.

"There's not much to see," he said quietly-

"Not in this age," Geloe replied.

Up they climbed as the day waned. Each time they circled around to the
hill's northern slope, coming out of shade into ever-decreasing afternoon
light, they could see the spreading knot of blackness on the horizon. The
storm was moving in swiftly. It had now swallowed the far borders of
great Aldheorte, so that all the north seemed a gray uncertainty.

As they finished their twelfth circuit around the hill, passing the one
hundred and forty-fourth of the marking pillars—a small enough diver-
sion, but still Deomoth had kept score—the travelers emerged at last from
the shadowing greenery, clambering up a final slope until they stood on
the hill's windy summit. The sun had fallen away into the west; only a

reddish sliver remained.

The top of the hill was nearly flat and scarcely less wide than Sesuad'ra's
base. All around its perimeter jutted fingers of upright stone, not smoothed
like the marking pillars, but great, raw standing stones, each as tall as four
men, made of the same gray rock veined with white and pink that formed

the hill.

In the center of the plateau, in the midst of a field of waving grass,
stood a vast, low building of opalescent stone, tinged with the sunset's

red glow.

At first it seemed a temple of some sort, like the great old buildings of
Nabban from the days of the Imperium, but its lines were plainer. Its
unassuming but affecting style made it seem almost to spring from the hill
itself. It was plain that this structure belonged on this windy hilltop,
beneath this incredibly wide sky. The grandeur and self-interest that spoke
from every angle of houses of human worship, however finely wrought,
was a language alien to whoever had built this. The passage ofunguessable
years had in places brought its walls to collapse. Unhindered for centuries,

STONE OF FAREWELL

489

trees had thrust up through the building's very roof, or pushed their way
in at the arched doorways like unwanted guests. Still, the simplicity
and beauty of the place were so plain—and at the same time so inhuman—
that for a long time no one ventured to speak.

"We are here,"Josua said at last, his tones solemn but exalted. "After all
our danger and all our suffering, we have found a place where we can stop
and say: we go no farther."

"It is not forever, Prince Josua." Geloe spoke gently, as if unwilling to
break his mood, but the prince was already striding confidently across the
hilltop toward the white walls.

"It need not be forever," he called. "But for now, we will be safe!" He
turned and waved his hand for the others to follow, then continued
turning, gazing around him on all sides. "I take back what I said!" he shouted
to Geloe. "With a few good folk behind me, I could make a stand here and
Sir Camaris himself could not defeat me, not with all the knights of my
father's Great Table at his side!"

He bounded away toward the pale walls that now showed a touch of
blue. Evening was coming on. The others went after him, talking quietly
among themselves as they passed through the swaying grass.

25

Petak in a WuuC Storm

4-

game," Simon said. "It doesn't make any

sense."               A'

Aditu lifted an eyebrow.

"It doesn't!" he insisted, "I mean, look! You could win if you just
moved here . . .*' he pointed, "and there . . -" he pointed again. Looking
up, he found Adieu's golden eyes upon him, laughing, mocking. "Couldn't

you. . . ?" he finished.

"Of course, Seoman." She moved the polished stones across the gaming
board as he had suggested, from one golden island to another over a sea of
sapphire-blue waves. The mock-ocean was surrounded by scarlet flames
and murky gray clouds. "But then the game is over, and only the shallow-
est waters have been explored."

Simon shook his head. He had struggled for days to leam the complex
rules of shent, only to discover that what he had been taught were only
the rudiments- How could he learn a game that people did not play to
win? But Aditu did not try to lose either, as far as Simon could tell.
Instead, it seemed as though the issue was to make the game interesting by
introducing themes and puzzles, most of which were as far beyond Si-
mon's comprehension as the mechanisms of the rainbow.

"If you will not take offense," Adieu said, smiling, "may I instead show
you another way?" She put the markers back in their previous locations.
"If I use these Songs of mine to build a Bridge here . . ."—a quick flurry
of movements—"then you can cross to the Isles of the Cloud of Exile."

"But why do you want to help me?" Somewhere, as if in the very fabric
of the mutable walls, a stringed instrument began to sound; if Simon had
not known that they were quite alone within the airy nectarine halls of
Aditu's house, he would have thought a musician played in the next
wind-shifting room. He had stopped wondering about such things, but
could not still a reflexive shudder; the music felt eerie and delicate as a

491

STONE OF  FAREWELL

small and excessively-legged something walking across his skin. "How
can you win a game when you keep helping the other person?"

Aditu leaned back from the gaming board. In her own home she wore
just as little as she did on the walkways ofjao e-Tinukai'i, if not less.
Simon, who still could not look comfortably on the abundance of her
golden limbs, stared hard at the playing pieces.

"Manchild," she said, "1 think you can learn. I think you are learning.
But remember, we Zida'ya have been playing this game since time before
time. First Grandmother says it came with us from the Garden that is
Lost." She laid a placatory hand on Simon's arm, raising goosebumps
there. "Shent can be played to amuse, only. I have played games that were
nothing but gossip and friendly mockery, and all strategies were turned to
that end. Other games one can only win by almost losing. 1 have also
experienced games where both players truly strove to lose—although it
took years for one to succeed." Some memory brought a flick of smile.
"Do you not see, Snowlock, winning and losing are only the walls within
which the game takes place. Inside the House of Shent..." she paused, a
frown touching her mercurial face like a shadow. "It is hard to say in your
tongue." The frown disappeared. "Perhaps that is why it seems so difficult
for you. The thing is, within the House of Shent it,is the coming and
going, the visitors—friends and enemies both—the births and deaths, all of
these things that matter." She gestured around her at her own habitation,
the floors deep in sweet grass, the rooms tangled with the branches of tiny
flowering trees. Some of the trees, Simon had discovered, had fierce little
thorns. "As with all dwellings," she said, "of mortals and immortals both,
it is the living that makes a house—not the doors, not the walls."

She rose and stretched. Simon watched covertly, struggling to keep his
frowning mask even as her graceful movements caused his heart to leap
painfully. "We will continue our play tomorrow," she said. "I think you
are learning, although you do not know it yet. Shent has lessons even for
Sudhoda'ya, Seoman."

Simon knew that she was bored and that it was time for him to leave.
He was terribly conscious of never overstaying his welcome. He hated it
when the Sithi were kind and understanding with him, as though he were
a stupid animal that did not know better.

"1 should go, Aditu."

She did not ask him to stay. Anger and regret and a sort of deep
physical frustration all struggled within him as he bowed his head briefly,
then turned and made his way out between the swaying blossoms. The
afternoon light glowed through the orange and rose walls, as if he moved
inside the very heart of a sunset.

He stood outside Adieu's house for some time, looking out past the
shimmering mist thrown up from the cataract that played beside her
doorway. The valley was umber and gold, slashed with the darker green

492

Tad Williams

of the tree-covered hills and the bright emerald of tended meadows. To
look at, Jao e-Tinukai'i seemed straightforward as sun and rain. Like any
other place, it had rocks and plants and trees and houses—but it also had
the Sithi, the folk who lived in these houses, and Simon had grown quite
sure that he would never understand them. Like the minute and secret life
that teemed in the black earth beneath the valley's placid grass, Simon
now realized that Jao e-Tinukai'i was crowded with things beyond his
comprehension. He had already found out how little he understood when
he had embarked upon an attempt at escape, soon after being sentenced to
a lifetime's imprisonment among these gentle captors.

He had waited three full days after his sentence had been delivered by
Shima'onari. Such patience, Simon had felt sure, demonstrated a cold-
blooded subtlety of maneuver worthy of the great Camaris. Looking back
a fortnight later, such ignorance was already laughable. What had he
thought he was doing. . . ?

On the fourth day of his sentence, in late afternoon while the
prince was away, Simon walked out of Jiriki's house. He crossed
the river quickly but—he hoped—unobtrusively, clambering over a nar-
row bridge, then headed back toward the spot where Aditu had first
brought him to the valley. The cloth-knotted mural that led to Jiriki's
house continued on the river's far side as well, spanning from tree to tree.
The sections Simon passed seemed to show the survivors of some great
disaster bringing their boats to a new land—the Sithi coming to Osten
Ard?—and building great cities, empires in the forests and mountains.
There were other details, too, signs woven into the tapestry that suggested
strife and sorrow had not been left behind in the blighted homeland, but
Simon was in too much of a hurry to stop and look closely.

After making his way down the river path for some distance he turned
off at last and headed for the heavy undergrowth at the base of the hills,
where he hoped to make up in stealth what he lost in time. There were not
many Sithi about, but he was certain chat any one of them would sound
the alarm at the sight of their prisoner traveling coward the boundaries of
Jao e-Tinukai'i, so he slid through the trees as carefully as he could,
keeping away from the common paths. Despite the exhilaration of escape,
he felt more than a pang of guilt: Jiriki would doubtless suffer some
punishment for letting the mortal captive slip away. Still, Simon owed a
responsibility to his other friends that outweighed even the multimillennial
laws of the Sithi.

No one saw him, or at lease no one made an attempt to stop him. By
the time several hours had passed, he had moved into what seemed a
wilder, less tamed section of the old forest, and was certain he had made
his escape. His entire trip with Adieu, from the Pools to Jiriki's door, had

STONE OF FAREWELL                 493

taken less than two hours. He had now gone easily twice chat, straight
back along the river.

But when Simon crept down from the cover of the thickest vegetation,
it was to find himself still in Jao e-Tinukai'i, albeit in a part he had not yet

seen.

He stood in the middle of a shadowed, dusky clearing. The trees all
around were draped with fine, silky streamers like spiderwebs; the after-
noon sun set them gleaming, so that the forest seemed wound in a fiery
net. In the middle of the clearing an oval door of moss-matted white
wood had been built into the trunk of a huge oak, around which the silk
hung so thickly that the cree itself was barely visible. He paused for a
moment, wondering what undersized hermit would live here, in a tree on
the outskirts of the city. Next to the beautiful, rippling folds of Jiriki's
house or the other graceful constructions of Jao e-Tinukai'i, let alone the
living magnificence of the Yasira, this place seemed backward, as though
whoever dwelled here hid himself from even the slow pace of the Sithi.
But despite its aura of age and isolation, the spidersilk house seemed in no
way menacing. The clearing was empty and peaceful, comfortable in its
unimportance. The air was dusty but pleasant, like the pockets of a
beloved aunt. Here the rest of Jao e-Tinukai'i seemed only a memory of
vibrant life. A person could linger here beneath the silk-draped trees while
the very world crumbled away outside. . . .

As Simon stood watching the undulating strands, a mourning dove
hooted softly. He abruptly remembered his mission. How long had he
stood here, staring like a fool? What if the owner of this strange house had
come out, or returned from some errand? Then the hue and cry would go
up and he would be caught like a rat.

Frustrated by this first error in reckoning, Simon hurried back into the
forest. He had misjudged his time, that was all. Another hour's hiking
would carry him beyond the city's fringe and back through the Summer
Gate. Then, with the hoarded provisions he had quietly stolen from the
prince's generous table, he would head due south until he reached the edge
of the forest. He might die in the attempt, but that was what heroes did.
This he knew.

Simon's willingness to become a dead hero seemed to have little effect
on the subtleties of Jao e-Tinukai'i. When he emerged at last from the
dense brush, the sun now far across the sky toward evening, it was to find
himself up to his knees in the golden grass of open woodland before the
mighty Yisira, where he stood dumbstruck before the shimmering, shift-
ing wings of the butterflies.

How could this be? He had followed the river carefully. It had never
been out of his sight for more than a few steps, and always it had flowed
in the same direction. The sun had seemed to move correctly across the
sky. His journey into this place with Aditu would be printed on his heart

494 Tad Williams

forever—he could not forget a single detail'—but nevertheless, he had
walked more than half the afternoon to travel a distance of a few hundred
paces

With this realization, the strength flowed from his body He fell to the
warm, damp ground and lay with his face against the turf, as though he
had been struck a blow

Jinki's house had many rooms, one of which he had given to Simon to
be his own, but the prince seemed to spend most of his own time in the
open-sided chamber where Simon had first met him on arriving in Jao
e-Tmukai'i As the earliest weeks of his confinement passed it became
Simon's habit to spend each evening there with Jinki, sitting on the gentle
slope above the water while the light gradually dimmed from the sky,
watching the shadows lengthen and the glassy pond grow darker As the
last gleam of the sunset vanished from between the branches the pond
became a somber mirror, stars blooming in its violet depths

Simon had never really listened to the sounds of oncoming night, but
Jinki's often silent company encouraged him to give ear to the songs of
cricket and frog, to begin to hear the sighing of wind in the trees as
something other than a warning to pull his hat down tightly over his ears
At times, as he sank into the swelling evening, he felt he was on the verge
of some great understanding A sense of being more than himself stole
over him, of what it felt like to live in a world that cared little for cities or
castles or the worries of the folk who built them Sometimes he was
frightened by the size of this world, by the limitless depths of the evening
sky salted with cold stars

But for all these unfamiliar insights, he still remained Simon most of
the time he was merely frustrated

"Surely he didn't mean it " He licked thejmce of a just-devoured pear
from his fingers, then peevishly flung the core across the grassy verge
Beside him, Jinki was toying with the stem that remained from his own
This was Simon's fifteenth evening in Jao e-Tmukai'i—or was it the
sixteenth3 "Stay here until I die7 That's madness'" He had not, of course,
told Jinki of his failed attempt at escape, but neither could he pretend to be
satisfied with his captivity

hnki made what Simon had come to recognize as an unhappy face, a
subtle thinning of the lips, a hooding of his upturned, feline eyes "They
are mv parents," the Sitha said "They are Shima'onan and Likimeya,
Lords of the Zida'ya, and what they decide is as unchangeable as the wheel
of seasons

"But then why did vou bring me here5 You broke that rule'"

"There was no rule to break Not truly " Jinki twitched the stem once
more between his long fingers, then flicked it into the pond A tiny circle
spread to show where it had fallen "It was always an unspoken law, but

495

STONE OF FAREWELL

that is different than a Word of Command It is traditional among the
Dawn Children that we may do what we please unless it goes against a
Word of Command, but this business of bringing a mortal here cuts to the
heart of the things that have divided our people since time out of mind I
can only ask you to forgive me, Seoman It was a risk, and I had no right to
gamble with your life However, I have come to believe that for once—
and hear me, only this once—you mortals may be right and my folk may
be wrong This spreading winter threatens many things beside the king-
doms of the Sudhoda'ya "

Simon lay back, staring up at the brightening stars He tried to smother
the feeling of desperation that rose inside him "Might your parents
change their minds7"

"They might," Jinki said slowly "They are wise, and would be kind if
they could But do not let your hopes rise too high We Zida'ya never
hasten to decisions, especially difficult ones What might seem to them a
reasonable time to ponder could be years, and such waiting is hard for
mortals to bear."

"Years'" Simon was horrified He suddenly understood the beast that
would gnaw off its own leg to escape a trap "Years'"

"I am sorry, Seoman " Jinki's voice was hoarse as though with great
pain, but his golden features still showed little emotion "There is one
hopeful sign, but do not read too much into it The butterflies remain "

"What7"

"At the Yasira They gather when great decisions are to be made They
have not flown, so there are things still unresolved "

"What things7" Despite Jinki's warning, Simon felt a surge of hope

"I do not know " He shook his head "Now is the time for me to stay
away At this moment, I am not my father's and mother's favored voice,
so I must wait before I go to them again to make my arguments Fortu-
nately, First Grandmother Amerasu seems to have concerns about my
parents' actions—my father's, especially " He smiled wryly "Her words
carry great weight "

Amerasu Simon knew that name He inhaled deeply of the night
Suddenly it came back to him a face more beautiful and yet undeniably
more ancient than even those ofJinki's ageless parents Simon sat up

"Do you know, Jinki, I saw her face once in the mirror—Amerasu, the
one you call First Grandmother "

"In the mirror7 In the dragon-scale mirror7"

Simon nodded "I know I wasn't supposed to use it unless I was calling
for your help, but what happened    it was an accident " He proceeded
to describe his strange encounter with Amerasu and the terrifying appear-
ance of silver-masked Utuk'ku

Jinki seemed to have entirely forgotten the cnckets, despite the splendor
of their song "I did not forbid you to use the mirror, Seoman," he said

496 Tad Williams

"What is surprising is that you were able to see anything but natural
reflection That is odd." He made an unfamiliar gesture with his hand. "I
must talk to First Grandmother about this. Very odd "

"May I come7" Simon asked.

"No, Seoman Snowlock," Jinki smiled. "No one goes to see Amerasu
the Ship-Born without her invitation. Even Root and Bough—what you
would call her nearest kin—must ask very respectfully for such a favor.
You do not know how astonishing it is that you saw her m my mirror.
You are a menace, manchild "

"A menace? Me7"

The Sitha laughed "Your presence is what I refer to " He touched
Simon lightly on the shoulder. "You are without precedent, Snowlock.
Completely unknown and unforeseen " He rose. "I will move on this I am
anxious myself for something to do "

Simon, who had never been good at waiting, was left alone with the
pond, the crickets, and the unreachable stars.

It all seemed so strange One moment he had been fighting for his life,
perhaps even for the survival of all Osten Ard, struggling against bone-
weanness and dark magic and terrible odds, a moment later he had been
snatched out of winter and dropped headlong into summer, out of hideous
danger and into . - . boredom.

But, Simon realized, it was not even so simple as that Just because he
had been removed from the world did not mean that the problems he had
left behind were solved On the contrary, somewhere out there, living or
dead in the snowy woods beyond Jao e-Tinukai'i, was his horse Homefmder
and its terrible burden—the sword Thorn, for which Simon and his
fnends had crossed hundreds of leagues and shed precious blood. Men and
Sithi alike had died to find that blade for Josua. Now, with the sword
perhaps lost in the forest, Simon had been imprisoned as offhandedly as
Rachel had once locked him in one of the Hayholt's dark pantries for some
trifling misdeed.

Simon had told Jinki about the lost sword, but the Sitha had only
shrugged, mfunatmgly placid There was nothing to be done.

Simon looked up- He had wandered far up the nverbank in the stillness
of early afternoon; Jinki's house, with its tapestry of knots, had fallen out
of sight behind him- He sat down on a stone and watched a white egret
stilt out into one of the river's shallow backwaters, bright eye staring
obliquely, pretending disinterest to allay the fears of any wary fish.

He was sure that at least three weeks had passed since he had come to
the valley For the last few days his imprisonment had seemed almost a
sort of terribly dull joke, one that had gone on too long and now
threatened to spoil everyone's enjoyment.

STONE OF FAREWELL                 497

What can I do7' In frustration, he scrabbled up a twig from the dirt and
sent it spinning out onto the water. There's no way to leave'

Thinking back on the grand failure of his first escape and the other
confirming experiments that had followed, Simon made a noise of disgust
and threw another twig out onto the river. Every attempt to find his way
out had left him back in the center of Jao e-Tinukai'i.

How could I have been such a mooncalf he thought sourly Why should
I think it would he so easy to walk awayjrom here, when Aditu and I had to walk
clear out of winter to arrive7 The stick whirled for a moment, spinning like a
weathervane, then was sucked under by the gentle current.

That's me, he thought That's what I'll be like as far as these Sithi-folk are
concerned I'll be around for a little while, then before they even realize I'm
getting old, I'll be dead The thought brought a lump of terror into his
throat. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to be around his own
short-lived kind—even Rachel the Dragon—rather than these soft-spoken,
cat-eyed immortals.

Filled with restlessness, he sprang up from the nverbank, kicking his
way through the reeds as he pushed back toward the path. He almost
bumped into someone: a Sitha-man, dressed only m a pair of thin, loose-
fitting blue breeches, who stood in the undergrowth and gazed out toward
the nver. For a moment, Simon thought this stranger had been spying on
him, but the fine-boned face showed no expression at Simon's approach.
The Sitha continued to stare out past him as the youth walked by. The
stranger was singing quietly to himself, a breathy melody ofsibilances and
pauses. His attention was fixed on a tree growing out of the nverbank,
half-submerged in the current

Simon could not restrain a grunt of irritation. What was wrong with
these people5 They wandered around like sleepwalkers, said things chat
made no sense—even Jinki sometimes talked mysterious, circular non-
sense, and the pnnce was by far the most direct of this tnbe—and they all
looked at Simon as though he were an insect When they bothered to
notice him at all

Several times Simon had encountered Sithi who he was certain were
Ki'ushapo and Syandi, the pair who had accompanied Jinki and Simon's
company north from the Aldheorte to the base of Urmsheim, but the Sithi
showed no recognition, made no sign of greeting. Simon could not swear
beyond any doubt chat the faces were theirs, but something m the way
they steadfastly avoided his eye assured him that he was correct.

After thejoumey across the northern waste, both Jinki's kinsman An'nai
and the Erkynlandish soldier Grimmnc had died on the dragon-mountain
Urmsheim, beneath the icy waterfall known as the Uduntree They had
been buried together, mortal and immortal, something which Jinki had
said was unprecedented, a binding between their two races unknown for
centunes. Now Simon, a mortal, had come to forbidden Jao e-Tinukai'i.

498

Tad Williams

Ki'ushapo and Sijandi might not approve of his being here, but they knew
he had saved their prince Jiriki, and they knew Simon was Hikka StaJa, an
Arrow-Bearer—so why should they avoid him so completely? If Simon
was wrong in his identification, it should still be simple enough for the
real pair to seek him out, since he was the only one of his kind among
their folk. Were they so angry at his being here that they could not even
greet him? Were they in some way embarrassed for Jiriki, that the prince
should have brought such a creature to their secret valley? Then why did
they not say so, or say something? At least Jiriki's uncle Khendraja'aro
made his dislike of mortals plain and public.

Thinking of these slights put Simon in a foul humor. He muddled his
way up the stream bank, fuming. It Cook all his restraint not to turn back
to the river-watching Sitha and shove his handsome, alien face into the

mud.

Simon struck out across the valley, not with any idea of escape this
time, but rather to walk off some of his restless irritation. His stiff-legged
strides carried him past several more Sithi. Most walked by themselves,
although a few strolled in unspeaking pairs. Some looked at him with
unblinking interest, others did not seem to notice him at all. One group of
four sat quietly listening to the singing of a fifth, their eyes intent on the
delicate gliding movements of the singer's hands.

Mercijul Aedon, he grumbled to himself, what are they thinking about all
the time? They're worse than Doctor Morgenes! Although the doctor, too, had
been prone to long silences, unbroken but for his distracted, tuneless
humming, at least at the end of a day he would unstop a jug of beer and
teach Simon some history, or make suggestions about his apprentice's
rather blobby handwriting.

Simon kicked a fir cone and watched it roll. He did have to admit that
the Sithi were beautiful. Their grace, the flowing line of their garments,
their serene faces, all made him feel like some mud-covered mongrel
bumping against the table linens of a great lord's house. Though his
captivity infuriated him, sometimes a cruel inner voice whispered that it
was only justice. He had no right to be in this place, and having come, an
urchin like Simon should never be allowed to return and sully the immor-
tals with his tales. Like jack Mundwode's man Osgal in the story, he had
gone down into a fairy-mound. The world could never be the same.

Simon's pace slowed from an angry march to a slouch. Before long, he
began to hear the steady ringing of water on stone. He looked up from his
grass-stained boots to discover that he had wandered right across the
valley into the shade of the hills. A stirring of hope made itself felt inside
him. He was near the Pools, as Aditu had called them; the Summer Gate
stood nearby. It seemed that by not thinking about finding his way out, he
had been able to do what he had failed so miserably to accomplish in days

past.

STONE OF FAREWELL

499

Trying to imitate the degree of not-caring that had brought him this far,
Simon wandered off the path, angling toward the sound of splashing
water, staring up into the overarching trees with what he hoped was
suitable nonchalance. Within a few steps he had left the sunlight and
entered the cool shadow of the hills, where he made his way up grass-
tangled slopes carpeted in shy blue gilly-flowers and white starblooms. As
the song of falling water grew louder he had to restrain himself from
breaking into a run; instead, he stopped to rest against a tree, precisely as if
he were in the middle of a contemplative walk. He stared at the stripes of
sunshine lancing down through the leaves and listened to his own grad-
ually slowing breath- Then, just when he had nearly forgotten where he
was going—did he only fancy that he could hear the rush of water
suddenly increase?—he started up the hill once more.

As he reached the summit of this first slope, certain that he would see
the bottommost of the Pools before him, he found himself standing
instead on the rim of a circular valley. The valley's upper slopes were
covered by a host of white birch trees whose leaves were just now turning
summer-yellow- They rattled softly in the breeze, like bits of golden
parchment. Beyond the birches, the next level of the valley was thickly
grown with silvery-leaved trees that trembled as the wind continued its
sweep down toward the valley floor.

At the base of the circular valley, in the depths within the ring of silver
leaves, lay a vegetative darkness that Simon's eyes could not pierce.
Whatever things grew there also took the wind in their turn: a sort of
clattering whisper arose from the valley's shadowed deeps, a sound that
might have been the scraping of breeze-blown leaves and branches, or just
as easily the hiss of a thousand slim knives being drawn from a thousand
delicate sheaths.

Simon let out his pent-up breath. The scent of the valley rose up to him,
musty and bittersweet. He caught the smell of growing things, a pungent
odor like mown grass, but also a deep and intoxicating spiciness reminis-
cent of the bowls ofhippocras Morgenes had mulled on cold evenings. He
took another whiff and felt strangely drunken. There were other scents,
too, a dozen, a hundred—he could smell roses growing against an old stone
wall, stable muck. rain puffing on dusty ground, the salty tang of blood,
and the similar but by no means identical odor of sea-brine. He shivered
like a wet dog and felt himself drawn a few steps down the slope.

"I am sorry. You may not go there."

Simon whirled to see a Sitha-woman standing on the hilltop behind
him. For a moment he thought it was Aditu. This one wore a wisp of
cloth around her loins and nothing else- Her skin was red-golden in the
slanting sunlight.

"What. . . ?"

"You may not go there." She spoke his mortal tongue carefully. There

500

Tad Williams

was no ill humor on her face. "I am sorry, but you may not." She took a
step forward and looked at him curiously. "You are the Sudhoda'ya who

saved Jiriki."

"So? Who are you?" he asked sullenly. He didn't want to look at her

breasts, her slim but well-muscled legs, but it was nearly impossible not

to. He felt himself growing angry.

"My mother named me Maye'sa," she said, making each word too
precisely, as if Simon's language were a trick she had learned but never
before performed. Her white hair was streaked with gold and black.
Staring at her long, coiled tresses—a safe place to let his eyes rest—Simon
suddenly realized that all the Sitha had white hair, that the myriad of
different rainbow colors chat made them seem like outlandish birds were
just dyes. Even Jiriki, with his odd, heather-flower shade—dyes! Artifice!
Just like the harlot-women that Father Dreosan had ranted about during
his sermons in the Hayholt chapel! Simon felt his anger deepening. He
turned his back on the Sicha-woman and started downward into the

valley.

"Come back, Seoman Snowlock," she called. "That is the Year-Dancing

Grove. You may not go there."

"Stop me," he growled. Maybe she would put an arrow in his back. He
had seen Aditu's terrifying facility with a bow just a few mornings before,
whenjiriki's sister had put four arrows side by side into a tree limb a> Fifty
paces. He had little doubt that others of her sex were just as competent,
but at this moment he cared little. "Kill me if you want to," he added,
then wondered if such a remark might strain his luck.

Half-hunching his shoulders, he strode down the slope into the whisper-
ing birches. No arrow came, so he risked a backward look. The one called
Maye'sa still stood where he had left her. Her thin face seemed puzzled.

He began to run down the hillside, past row after row of white,
papery-barked trunks. After a moment, he noticed that the slope was
leveling off. When he found himself beginning to run uphill he stopped,
then walked until he found a spot from which he could look about and
discover where he was. The entirety of the great bowl still lay beneath
him, but he had somehow moved around the valley's rim from the spot
where the Sitha-woman stood, watching.

Swearing in fury, he started down the slope once more, but experienced
the same feeling of leveling, swiftly followed by the resumption of an
upward slant. He had gotten no closer to the bottom—he was still, as far
as he could Cell, only a third of the way through the ring of birch trees.

Attempts to turn away from the uphill slope also met with failure. The
wind sighed in the branches, the birch leaves rustled, and Simon felt
himself struggling as though in a dream, making no headway despite all
his exertions. At last, in a paroxysm of frustration, he closed his eyes and
ran. His terror turned into a moment of heady exhilaration as he felt the

501

STONE OF FAREWELL

ground sloping away beneath his feet. Tree branches slapped at his face,
but some peculiar luck kept him from striking any of the hundreds of
trunks chat lay in the path of his headlong flight.

When he stopped and opened his eyes, he was back at the top of the
hillside once more. Maye'sa stood before him, her gauzy bit of skirt
fluttering in the restless breeze.

"I told you, you may not go into the Year-Dancing Grove," she said,
explaining a painful truth to a child. "Did you think you could?" Stretch-
ing her sinuous neck, she shook her head. Her eyes were wide, inquisitive.
"Strange creature."

She vanished back down the hillside toward Jao e-Tinukai'i. A few
moments later, Simon followed. Head down, watching his boot toes
scuffing through the grass, he soon found himself standing on the path
before Jiriki's house. Evening was coming on and the crickets were
singing by the river-pond.

"Very good, Seoman," Aditu said the next day. She examined the shenc
board, nodding. "Misdirection! To go away from that which you wish to
gain. You are learning."

"It doesn't always work," he said glumly.

Her eyes glittered. "No. Sometimes you need a deeper strategy. But it
is a beginning."

^

Binabik and Sludig had not come far into the forest, only deep enough
to shelter their camp from the bitter wind sweeping down the plains, a
wind whose voice had become a ceaseless howling. The horses shifted
uneasily on their tethers, and even Qantaqa seemed restless. She had just
returned from her third excursion into the forest, and now sat with ears
erect, as though listening for some expected but nonetheless dire warning.
Her eyes gleamed with reflected firelight.

"Do you think we are any safer here, little man?" Sludig asked, sharp-
ening his swore. "I think I would rather face the empty plains than his
forest."

Binabik frowned. "Perhaps, but would you rather also be facing hairy
giants like those we saw?"

The White Way, the great road that spanned the northern borders of
Aldheorte, had turned at last by the forest's easternmost edge, leading them
south for the first time since they had come down off the Old Tumet'ai
Road with Simon many days earlier. Not long after the southward turn,
they had spotted a group of white shapes moving in the distance behind
them—shapes that they both realized could be nothing but Hunen. The
giants, once unwilling to leave their hunting lands at the foot ofStormspike,

502 Tad Williams

now seemed to range the length and breadth of the northland. Remember-
ing the destruction that a band of these creatures had wreaked on their
large traveling party, neither troll nor Rimmersgarder had any false hopes
that the two of them could survive an encounter with the shaggy

monstrosities-

"What makes you sure we are any safer because we have come a few
furlongs into the woods?" demanded Sludig.

"Nothing that is certain," Binabik admitted, "but I know that the
small, creeping diggers are reluctant to tunnel into Aldheorte. Perhaps the
giants may be having similar reluctance."

Sludig snorted and made the blade rasp loudly on the whetstone. "And
the Hune that Josua killed near Naglimund, when the boy Simon was
found? That one was in the forest, was it not?"

"That giant was driven to there," Binabik said irritably. He pushed the
second of the leaf-wrapped birds into the coals. "There are no promises in
life, Sludig. but it seems to me smarter to take fewer chances."

After a short silence, the Rimmersman spoke up. "You speak rightly,
troll. I am only tired. I wish we would get where we are going, to this
Farewell Stone! I would like to give Josua his damnable sword, then sleep
for a week. In a bed."

Binabik smiled. "With certainty. But it is notJosua's sword, or at least 1
am not sure it is meant for him." He stood and took the long bundle from
where it leaned against a tree. "I am not sure what it is for at all."
Binabik's fingers unwrapped the blade, allowing its dark surface to show.
The firelight revealed no more than its dark outlines. "Do you see?"
Binabik said, hefting the bundle in his arms. "Thorn now seems to chink
it is acceptable for a small troll to carry it."

"Don't talk about it as if it were alive," Sludig said, sketching a hasty
Tree in the air. "That is against nature."

Binabik eyed him. "It may not be alive, as a bear or a bird or a man is
alive, but there is something in it chat is more than sword-metal. You
know that, Sludig."

"That may be." The Rimmersman frowned. "No, curse it, I do know.
That is why I do not like speaking of it. I have dreams about the cave
where we found the thing."

"That is not surprising to me," the troll said softly. "That was a
fearsome place."

"But it is not just the place—not even the worm, or Grimmric's death. I
dream of the damnable sword, little man. It was laying there among those
bones as though it waited for us. Cold, cold, like a snake in its den ..."

Sludig trailed off. Binabik watched him, but said nothing.

The Rimmersman sighed. "And I still do not understand what good
having it will do Josua."

"No more do I, but it is a powerful thing. It is good to remember that."

STONE OF  FAREWELL

503

Binabik stroked the glinting surface as he might the back of a cat. "Look
at it, Sludig. We have been so caught up in our trials and losses that we
have almost been forgetting Thorn. This is an object that is making
legends! Perhaps it is the greatest weapon ever to have come to light in
Osten Ard—greater than Hern's spear Oinduth, greater than Chukku's
sling."

"Powerful it may be," Sludig grumbled, "but I have doubts as to how
lucky it is. It didn't save Sir Camaris, did it?"

Binabik showed a small, secretive smile. "But he did not have it when
he was swept over the side in Firannos Bay: Towser the jester Cold that to
us. That is why we were able to discover it on the dragon-mountain.
Otherwise it would be at ocean's bottom—like Camaris."

The wind shrieked, rattling the branches overhead. Sludig waited an
appropriate interval, then moved closer to the comforting fire. "How
could such a great knight fall off a boat? God grant that I die more
honorably, in battle. It only proves to me, if I had any doubts, that boats
are things best left alone."

Binabik's yellow grin widened. "To be hearing such words from one
whose ancestors were the greatest sailors mankind has known!" His ex-
pression grew serious. "Although it must be cold that some doubt Camaris
was swept into the sea. Some there are who say that he was drowning
himself."

"What? Why in Usires' name would he do such a thing?" Sludig poked
at the fire indignantly.

The troll shrugged. "It is only being rumor, but I do not ignore such
things. Morgenes' writings are filled with many strange stories. Qinkipa!
How I wish I had found more time for reading the doctor's book! One
thing Morgenes was telling in his life-story of Prescer John was that Sir
Camaris was much like our Prince Josua: a man of strange, melancholy
moods. Also, he was much in admiration of John's queen, Ebekah. King
Prester John had made Camaris her special protector. When the Rose of
Hernysadharc—as many were naming her—died in the birthing of Josua,
Camaris was said to be much upset. He grew fell and strange, and railed
against his God and Heaven. He gave up sword and armor and other
things, as one who takes up a life of religion—or, as one who knows he
will die. He was making his way back to his home in Vinitta after a
pilgrimage to the Sancellan Aedonitis. In a storm he was lost in the ocean
off Harcha-island."

Binabik leaned forward and began pulling the wrapped birds out of the
fire, exerting caution so as not to burn his stubby fingers. The fire
crackled and the wind moaned.

"Welladay," Sludig said at last. "What you say only makes me more
sure that I will avoid the high and the mighty whenever possible. But for
Duke Isgrimnur, who has a good level head on his shoulders, the rest of

504

Tad Williams

them are drifty and foolish as geese. Your Prince Josua, if you will pardon
my saying it, first among them."

Binabik's grin returned. "He is not my Prince Josua, and he is—what
was your wording?—drifty. But not foolish. Not foolish at all. And he
may be our last hope for staving off the coming storm." As though he had
stumbled into an uncomfortable subject, the troll busied himself with their
supper. He pushed a smoking bird over to the Rimmersman. "Here. Have
something to eat. Perhaps if the Hunen are enjoying the cold weather,
they will be leaving us alone. We can then gain ourselves a good night
sleeping."

"We will need it. We have a long road before we can give away this
damnable sword."

"But we owe it to those who have fallen," Binabik said, staring out into
the dark reaches of the surrounding forest. "We do not have the freedom
of making a failure."

As they ate, Qantaqa rose and paced about the campsite, listening
intently to the wailing wind.

Snow was blowing savagely across the Waste, flung hard enough by the
howling wind to strip the very bark from the trees along the Aldheorte's
ragged north fringe. The great hound, not hindered in the least by such
unfriendly weather, bounded lightly back through the blinding flurries,
stone-hard muscles coiling and uncoiling beneath its short fur. When the
dog reached Ingen's side, the Queen's Huntsman reached into his vest and
produced a length of gnarled, dried meat that had at one end something
suspiciously like a fingernail. The white hound crunched it in a r' ond,
then stood peering out into the darkness, cloudy little eyes full of ager-
ness to be moving once more. Ingen scratched carefully behind the dog's
ears, his gloved fingers trailing across a bulgingly muscled jaw that could
crush rock.

"Yes, Niku'a" the huntsman whispered, voice echoing within his helm.
His own eyes were as madly intent as those of the hound. "You have the
scent now, do you not? Ah, the Queen will be so proud. My name will
be sung until the sun turns black and rotten and drops from the sky."

He lifted his helmet and let the stinging wind batter his face. As
certainly as he knew that frosty stars shone somewhere above the dark-
ness, so, too, he knew that his quarry was still before him, and that he
drew nearer to it with every day that passed. At this moment he did not
feel himself to be the stolid, tireless hound chat was his sigil, and whose
snarling face made the mask of his helm; he was instead some subtler,
more feline predator, a creature of fierce but quiet joy. He felt the freezing

505

STONE OF FAREWELL

night on his face and knew that nothing that lived beneath the black sky
could escape him for long.

Ingen Jegger slid the crystalline dagger from his sleeve and held it before
him, staring at it as though it were a mirror in which he could see himself,
the Ingen who had feared to die in obscurity. Catching some hardy beam
of moonlight or starshine, the translucent blade burned with a chilly blue
fire; its carvings seemed to writhe like serpents beneath his fingers- This
was all he had dreamed, and more. The Queen in the Silver Mask had set
him a great task, a task befitting the making of a legend. Soon—he felt it
with a certainty that made him tremble—soon that task would be accom-
plished. Ingen let the dagger slide back into his sleeve.

"Go, Niku'a," he whispered, as though the hidden stars might betray
him if they heard. "It is time to hunt our prey to ground. We will run."
Ingen vaulted into the saddle. His patient mount stirred as if awakening.

The snow swirled, blowing through the empty night where a moment
before a man, a horse, and a dog had stood.

^

The afternoon light was failing, the translucent walls ofJiriki's house
gradually growing darker. Aditu had brought a meal of fruit and warm
bread to Simon's room, an act of kindness for which he would have been
even more appreciative had she not stayed to annoy him. It was not that
Simon did not enjoy Aditu's company or admire her exotic beauty: it was,
in fact, her very beauty and shamelessness that disturbed him, making it
especially difficult to concentrate on such mundane tasks as eating.

Aditu trailed a finger up his backbone once more. Simon nearly choked
on a mouthful of bread.

"Don't do that!"

The Sitha-woman made an interested face. "Why not? Does it cause you
pain?"

"No! Of course not. It tickles." He turned away sulkily, inwardly
regretting his lack of manners—but not much. He was feeling, as he
usually did around Aditu, quite flummoxed. Jiriki, for all his alien ways,
had never made Simon think of himself as a cloddish mortal: beside Aditu,
Simon felt himself to be made of mud.

She was attired today in little but feathers and jeweled beads and a few
strips of fabric. Her body gleamed with scented oils.

"Tickles? But is that bad?" she asked. "I do not wish to hurt you or
make you uncomfortable, Seoman. It is just that you are so—" she
searched for the proper word, "—so unusual, and I have seldom been near
your kind." She seemed to be enjoying his discomfiture. "You are very
wide here . . ." She ran a finger from one of his shoulders to the other,

506 Tad Williams

sighing as this occasioned another muffled yelp "It is clear you are not
made like our folk "

Simon, who had slid out of reach once more, grunted He was uncom-
fortable around her, that was a simple fact Her presence had begun to
make him feel as though he had some kind of damnable itch. and in his
solitude he had come to both vearn for and vet fear her arrivals Every
time he stole a glance at her slim body, displayed with an immodesty that
still shocked him to the depths of his being, he found himself remember-
ing the thundering sermons of Father Dreosan Simon was astonished to
discover that the priest, whom he had always thought an idiot, had been
right after all—the devil did make snares for the flesh Just watching
Aditu's lissomc, catlike movements filled Simon with a squirming con-
sciousness of sin It was the more terrible, he knew, because Jinki's sister
was not even of his own kind

As the priest had taught, Simon tried to keep the pure face ofElvsia the
Mother of God before him when he was confronted by the temptation of
flesh Back in the Hayholt Simon had seen that face in hundreds of
paintings and sculptures, in countless candlelit shrines, but now he was
alarmed to find his memory turning traitor In recollection, the eyes of
Usires' sainted mother seemed more playful and more     feline     than
could possibly be proper or holy

Despite this discomfort, in his loneliness he was still grateful to Aditu
for all her attentions, however perfunctory he sometimes thought them to
be, and however careless of Simon's feelings her teasing sometimes be-
came He was most grateful for the meals Jinki was seldom at home of
late, and Simon was more than a little uncertain about which of the fruits,
vegetables, and less familiar plants growing in the prince's extensive forest
gardens could be safely eaten There was no one but the prince's sisr on
whom he could rely Even among the first family—the "Root and Bf' -,h"
as Jinki had phrased it—there seemed to be nothing like servants Every-
one fended for themselves, as befitted the Sithi's solitary habits Simon
knew that the Sithi kept animals, or rather, that the valley was full of
animals that came when they were called The goats and sheep must allow
themselves to be milked for the meals Aditu brought him often included
fragrant cheeses, but the Sithi seemed to eat no meat Simon often thought
longingly about all those trusting animals wandering the paths of Jao
e-Tinukai'i He knew he would never dare do anything about it, but—
Aedon'—wouldn't a teg of mutton be a fine thing to have'

Aditu poked him again Simon stolidly ignored her She got up and
walked past the nest of soft blankets that was Simon's bed, stopping
before the billowing blue wall The wall had been scarlet when Jinki first
brought him. but Simon's Sitha host had somehow changed its color to
this more soothing cerulean When Aditu brushed it with her long-

507

STONE OF FAREWELL

fingered hand, the fabric slid away like a drawn curtain, revealing another,
larger room beyond

"Let us return to our game," she said "You are too serious, manchild "

"I will never be able to learn it," Simon muttered

"You do not apply yourself Jinki claims you have a good mind—
although my brother has been wrong before " Aditu reached into a fold in
the wall and produced a crystal sphere which began to glow at her touch
She placed it on « simple tripod of wood, letting its light spread through
the darkened room, then took a carved wooden case from beneath the
colorful shent board and removed the polished stones that served as
playing pieces "I think I had just made myself an acre of Woodlarks
Come, Seoman, play and don't pout You had a good idea the other day, a
very clever idea—fleeing that which you truly sought " She stroked his
arm, making the hairs stand up, and gave him one of her strange Sithi
smiles, full of impenetrable significance

"Seoman has other games to play tonight "

Jinki stood in the doorway, dressed in what appeared to be ceremonial
attire, an intricately embroidered robe in varied shades of yellow and blue
He wore soft gray boots His sword Indreju dangled at his hip in a
scabbard of the same gray stuff, and three long white heron feathers were
braided into his hair "He has received a summons "

Aditu carefully set the pieces on the board "I shall have to play by
myself, then—unless you are staying. Willow-switch " She gazed from
beneath lowered lids

Jinki shook his head "No, sister I must be Seoman's guide "

"Where am I going5" Simon asked "Summoned bv who5"

"By First Grandmother " Jinki lifted his hand and made a brief but
solemn gesture "Amerasu the Ship-Born has asked to see you "

Walking m silence beneath the stars, Simon thought about the things he
had seen since leaving the Hayholt To think that once he had feared he
would live and die a castle-drudge' Was there to be no end to the strange
places he must go, to the strange people he must meet5 Amerasu might be
able to help him, but still he was growing weary of strangeness Then
again, he realized with a flutter of panic, if Amerasu or some other did
not come to his aid, the lovely but limited vistas of Jao e-Tinukai'i might
be all he would ever see again

But the strangest thing, he thought suddenly, was that no matter where
he went or what he saw, he always seemed to remain the same old
Simon—a little less mooncalfish, perhaps, but not very different from the
clumsy kitchen boy who had lived at the Hayholt Those distant, peaceful
days seemed utterly gone, vanished without hope of reclamation, but the
Simon who had lived them was still very much present Morgenes had
told him once to make his home in his own head That way, home could

508

Tad Williams

never be taken from him. Was this what the doctor meant? To be the same
person no matter where you went, no matter what madness occurred?
Somehow, that didn't seem quite right.

"I will not burden you with instructions," Jinki said suddenly, startling
him. "There are special rites to be performed before meeting the First
Grandmother, but you do not know them, nor could you perform all of
them even if they were told to you. I do not think that cause to worry,
however. I believe Amerasu wishes to see you because of who you are and
what you have seen, not because she wishes you to watch you perform the
Six Songs of Respectful Request."

"The six what?"

"It is not important. But remember this: although First Grandmother is
of the same family as Aditu and myself, we are both children of the Last
Days. Amerasu Ship-Born was one of the first speaking creatures to set
foot on Osten Ard I say this not to frighten," he added hurriedly, seeing
Simon's distressed, moonlit expression, "but only to have you know she
is different even than my father and mother."

The silence returned as Simon pondered this. Could the handsome,
sad-faced woman he had seen really be one of the oldest living things in
the world? He did not doubt Jinki, but his own wildest thoughts stretched
to their limits still could not encompass the prince's words.

The winding path led them across a stone bridge. Once over the river,
they made their way into the more heavily wooded part of the valley.
Simon did his best to take note of what paths they took, but found that
the memories quickly melted away, insubstantial as starlight. He remem-
bered only chat they crossed several more streams, each seeming slightly
more melodious than the last, until they finally entered into a part of the
forest that seemed quieter. Among these thickly knotted trees ev/ the
cncket songs were hushed. The tree branches swayed, but the win was
silent.

When they finally stopped, Simon found to his surprise that they stood
before the tall, cobwebbed tree he had found in his first attempt at escape.
Faint lights shone through the tangle of silken threads, as though the great
tree wore a glowing cloak.

"I was here before," Simon said slowly. The warm, still air made him
feel at once drowsy and yet keenly alert.

The prince looked at him and said nothing, but led him toward the oak.
Jinki set his hand to the moss-covered door, set so deeply into the bark
that the tree might have grown around it.

"We have permission." he said quietly. The door swung silently inward.

Beyond the doorway was an impossible thing: a narrow hallway that
stretched away before him, as silk-tangled as the front of the oak-house.
Tiny lights no larger than fireflies burned within the matted threads,
filling the passageway with their flickering light. Simon, who could have

STONE OF FAREWELL                 509

sworn guiltlessly on a holy Tree that nothing lay behind the spreading oak
but more trees, took a step back through the doorframe to see where such
a hallway could possibly be hidden—could it pass down into the ground.
somehow?—but Jinki took his elbow and gently steered him across the
threshold once more. The door fell shut behind them.

They were completely surrounded by lights and silken webs, as though
they moved through the clouds and among the stars. The curious sleepi-
ness was still upon Simon: every detail was sharp and clear, but he had no
idea how long they spent walking in the scintillant passage. They came at
last to a more open place, a chamber that smelled of cedar and plum
blossoms and other scents more difficult to identify. The minute and
inconstant lights were fewer here, and the wide room was full of long,
shuddery shadows. From time to time the walls creaked, as though he and
Jinki stood in the hold of a ship, or inside the trunk of a tree far larger
than any Simon had ever seen. He heard a sound as of water slowly
dripping, like the last drops of a rainstorm trickling from willow branches
into a pool. Half-visible shapes lined the dark walls, things shaped like
people; they might have been statues, for they were certainly very still.

As Simon stared, his eyes not yet adjusted to the diminished light,
something brushed against his leg. He jumped and cried out, but a
moment later the flickering lights showed him a waving tail that could
only belong to a cat; the creature swiftly vanished into the darkness along
the walls. Simon caught his breath.

Strange as the place was, he decided, there was nothing truly frighten-
ing about it. The shadowy chamber had an air of warmth and serenity
unlike anything he had experienced thus far in Jao e-Tinukai'i. Judith, the
Hayholt's plump kitchen mistress, would almost have called it cozy.

"Welcome to my house," a voice said from the darkness. The pinpricks
of light grew brighter around one of the shadowy figures, revealing a
white-haired head and the back of a tall chair. "Come closer, manchild. I
can see you there, but I doubt you can see me."

"First Grandmother has very sharp sight," Jinki said; Simon thought he
could detect a trace of amusement in the Sitha's voice. He stepped for-
ward. The golden light revealed the ancient yet youthful face he had seen
inJiriki's mirror.

"You are m the presence of Amerasu y'Senditu no'e-Sa'onserei, the
Ship-Born," intoned Jiriki from behind him. "Show respect, Seoman
Snowlock."

Simon felt no compunction about doing so. He kneeled on wobbling
legs and lowered his head before her.

"Stand up, mortal boy," she said quietly. Her voice was deep and
smooth. It rugged at Simon's memory. Had their short contact through
the mirror burned itself so deeply on his mind?" "Hmmm," she mur-
mured. "You are taller even than my young Willow-switch. Will you find

510

Tad Williams

the manchild a stool, jiriki, so I do not have to stare up at him? Get

yourself one, too."

When Simon was seated beside Jiriki, Amerasu inspected him carefully.

Simon felt suddenly tongue-tied, but curiosity vied with shyness- He stole
return glances while doing his best to avoid her almost frighteningly deep

eyes.

She was much as he remembered her: shining white hair, skin tight-
Stretched over her fine bones. Other than the measureless depths of her
stare, the only hint of the immense age to which Jiriki had alluded was in
the careful deliberation with which she assayed every movement, as though
her skeleton were fragile as dried parchment. Still, she was very beautiful.
Caught in the web other regard, Simon imagined that in the dawn of the
world Amerasu might have been as terrifyingly, blindingly splendid to

look upon as the face of the sun.

"So," she said finally. "You are out of your depths, little fish."

Simon nodded.
"Are you enjoying your visit toJao e-Tinukai'i? You are one of the first

of your kind to come here."
Jiriki sat up straighter. "One of the first, wise Amerasu? Not the first?"

She ignored him, keeping her gaze fixed on Simon. He felt himself
drawn gently but helplessly into her spell of command, a wriggling fish
pulled inexorably toward the water's blinding surface. "Speak, manchild.

What do you think?"

"I ... 1 am honored to visit," he said at last, then swallowed. His

throat was very dry. "Honored. But . . . but I don't want to stay in this

valley. Not forever."

Amerasu leaned back in her chair. He felt himself held more loosely,

though the power other presence was still strongly upon him. "I/   not
surprised." She took a long breath, smiling sadly. "But you wouk have
to be prisoned here a long while before you would be as weary of this life

as I am."

jiriki stirred. "Should I leave, First Grandmother?"

His question gave Simon a faint tremor of fright. He could feel the
Sitha-woman's great kindness and great pain—but she was so fearfully
strong! He knew that if she wished, she could keep him here forever, just
with the power of her voice and those compelling, labyrinthine eyes.

"Should 1 leave?" Jiriki asked again.

"I know it pains you to hear me speak so. Willow-switch," Amerasu
said. "But you are dearest of all my young ones and you are strong. You
can hear truth." She shifted slowly in her chair, long-fingered hand
settling on the breast of her white robe. "You, too, manchild, have
known loss. That is in your face. But though every loss is grave, the lives
as well as losses of mortals appear and fade as swiftly as the seasons turn
the leaves. I do not mean to be cruel. Neither do I seek pity—but not you

STONE OF FAREWELL

511

or any other mortal has seen the dry centuries roll past, the hungry
millennia, seen the very light and color sucked out of your world until
nothing remains butjuiceless memories." Strangely, as she spoke her face
seemed to grow more youthful, as though her grief were the most vital
thing left in her. Now Simon could see much more than a hint of her
former splendor. He lowered his head, unable to speak.

"Of course you have not," she said, a slight tremor in her voice. "I
have. That is why I am here, in the dark. It is not that I fear the ligfft, or
that I am not strong enough to stand day's brightness." She laughed, a
sound like a whipoorwill's mournful call. "No, it is only that in darkness I
can see the lost days and faces of the past more clearly."

Simon looked up. "You had two sons," he said quietly. He had realized
why her voice seemed so familiar. "One of them went away."

Amerasu's face hardened. "Both of them are gone. What have you told
him, Jiriki? These are not tales for the small hearts of mortals."

"I told him nothing. First Grandmother."

She leaned forward intently. "Tell me of my sons. What old legends do
you know?"

Simon swallowed. "One son was hurt by a dragon. He had to go away.
He was burned—like me." He touched his own scarred cheek. "The other
. . . the other is the Storm King." As he whispered this last, Simon looked
around, as though something might step toward him out of the deep
shadows. The walls creaked and water dripped, but that was all.

"How do you know this?"

"I heard your voice in a dream." Simon searched for words. "You
spoke in my head for a long time when I was sleeping."

The Sitha-woman's beautiful face was grave. She stared at him as
though something hidden within him threatened her. "Do not be afraid,
manchild," she said at last, reaching out with her slender hands. "Do not
fear. And forgive me."

Amerasu's cool, dry fingers couched Simon's face. The lights streamed
like shreds of lightning, then flickered and faded, dropping the chamber
into utter darkness. Her grip seemed to tighten. The blackness sang.

There was no pain, but somehow Amerasu was inside his head, a
forceful presence so intimately connected to him at chat moment that he
felt shockingly, terrifyingly raw, an exposure far more profound than any
merely physical nakedness. Sensing his terror, she calmed him, cradling
his secret self like a panicking bird until he was no longer afraid. First
Grandmother then began to pick delicately through his memories, probing
him with gentle but purposeful thoroughness.

Dizzy snatches of thought and dream fluttered past, swirling like flower
petals in a windstorm—Morgenes and his countless books, Miriamele
singing, seemingly meaningless fragments of conversation from Simon's
days in the Hayholt- The night of Thisterborg and the dreadful gray

512 Tad Williams

sword spread though his mind like a dark stain, followed by the silver face
of Utuk'ku and the three swords from his vision in the house of Geloe.
Plump Skodi and the thing that had laughed in the courtyard flames
whirled and melted into the lunacy of the Uduntree and the emotionless
eyes of the great white worm Igjarjuk. Thorn was there, too, a black slash
across the light of recollection. As the memories flew by, he again felt the
burning pam of the dragon's blood and the fearful sense of connection to
the spinning world, the sickening vastness of the hope and pain of all
living things. At last, like the tatters of a dream, the pictures faded.

The lights came back slowly- Simon's head was cradled in Jinki's lap.
The wound on his cheek was throbbing.

"Forgive me, First Grandmother," jinki said as though from a great
distance, "but was that necessary? He would have told you all he knew."

Amerasu was silent for a long time. When she spoke, it was with great
effort. Her voice seemed older than before. "He could not have told me
all, Willow-switch. Those things that to me seem most important, he is
not even aware that he knows." She turned her eyes down to Simon, her
face full of weary kindness. "I am truly sorry, manchild. I had no right to
plunder you that way, but I am old and frightened and I have little
patience left. Now, I am more frightened than ever."

She tried to pull herself up. Jinki reached out to help, and she rose
unsteadily from her chair and vanished into the shadows. She returned a
moment later with a cup of water, which she held to Simon's lips with her
own hands. He drank thirstily. The water was cold and sweet, withjust a
savor of wood and earth, as though it had been scooped from the trunk of
a hollow tree. In her white robe, Simon thought, Amerasu looked like
some pale and radiant saint from a church picture.

"What . . . did you do?" he asked as he sat up. There was a bua ' ••g
sound in his ears and small shining flecks dancing before his eyes.  I

"Learned what I needed to leam," Amerasu said. "I knew that I' -ad
seen you in Jinki's mirror, but I thought that a fluke, a mischance. The
Road of Dreams has changed much of late, and has become as obscure and
unpredictable to even the experienced as it once was for those who only
traveled it in sleep. I see now that our earlier meeting was no accident of
fate."

"Do you mean that your meeting with Simon was intended by some-
one, First Grandmother?" Jinki said.

"No. I mean only that the boundaries between those worlds and ours
are beginning to weaken. Someone like this manchild, who has been
pulled one way and another, who through true chance or some unimaginable
design has been dragged into many powerful and dangerous connections
between the dream world and the waking ..." She trailed off, seating
herself carefully once more before continuing. "It is as though he lived on
the edge of a great wood. When the trees begin to spread outward, it is his

STONE OF FAREWELL                 513

house chat first has roots across the threshold. When the wolves of the
forest begin to grow hungry, it is beneath his window that they first come
howling."

Simon struggled to speak. "What did you learn . . . from my memo-
ries? About . . . about Ineluki?"

Her face became impassive. "Too much. 1 believe I now understand my
son's terrible, subtle design, but I must think a while longer. Even in this
hour, I must not be frightened into foolish haste." She lifted a hand to her
brow. "If I am correct, our danger is graver than we ever guessed. I must
speak to Shima'onari and Likimeya. I only hope they listen—and that time
has not passed us by. We may be starting to dig the well as our houses
burn down."

jinki helped Simon sit up. "My father and mother must listen. Every-
one knows your wisdom, First Grandmother.'*

Amerasu smiled sadly. "Once, the women of the House Sa'onserei were
the keepers of lore. The final word belonged to the eldest of the house.
WhenJenjiyana of the Nightingales saw the right of things, she spoke and
it was so. Since the Flight, things have changed." Her hand fluttered in the
air like a bird alighting. "1 am certain your mother will listen to reason.
Your father is good. Jiriki, but in some ways he dwells even more deeply
in the past than I do." She shook her head. "Forgive me. I am weary and I
have much to think about. Otherwise, I would not talk so uncarefully, and
especially in front of this boy." She extended her hand toward Simon,
brushing his cheek with her fingertip. The pain of his old burn became
less. As Lc looked at her solemn face and the weight she seemed to carry,
he reached up and touched her retreating hand.

"Jinki spoke to you truthfully, manchild," she said. "For better or for
worse, you have been marked- I only wish I could give you some word to
help you on your journey."

The light faded again. Simon letJirki lead him out in darkness.

26

Painted Eyes

JVLlTTUTTU^te leaned against the railing, watching the bustle and
activity of the docks Vinitta was not a large island, but its ruling Benidnvine
house had provided Nabban's final two Imperators, as well as its three
dukes under Prester John's kingship It had also been the birthplace of the
legendary Camans, but even so great a knight was accorded only a
middling-high place in Vinitta's luminous, hero-studded history The port
was a busy one with Bemgans on the ducal throne, the fortunes ofVimtta
still ran high

Aspitis Preves and his captain had gone down into the town to accom-
plish their business What that might be, Minamele could not say The
earl had intimated that he had some important mission direct from Duke
Bemgans, but that was as far as he would discuss the subject Aspitis had
bade both Minamele and Cadrach stay on board until he returned, suggest-
ing that the port was not the place for a noble lady to wander, and th3  £
had not enough men-at-arms available to handle his own affairs safely | d
still detach a pair of soldiers for their protection

Minamele knew what this meant Whatever Aspitis thought of her,
however he valued her beauty and company, he did not intend to give her
the chance to slip away Perhaps he harbored some doubts about her
story, or simply worried that she might be persuaded to leave by Cadrach,
who had made little attempt to disguise his growing hatred of the Earl of
Eadne and Drma

She sighed, gazing sadly at the rows of tented booths that ran along the
dockfront, each one festooned with flags and crammed with goods for
sale Hawkers cned their wares as they shuffled along the road, carrying
their stock on their backs in huge, overstuffed bags Dancers and musicians
performed for coins, and the sailors ofvanous boats mingled with Vinitta's
residents in a shouting, laughing, swearing throng Despite the dark skies
and intermittent flumes of rain, the crowds that swarmed the waterfront

STONE OF FAREWELL                 515

seemed bent on making a cheerful ruckus Mmamele's heart ached tOJOin
them

Cadrach stood beside her, pink face paler than usual The monk had not
spoken much since Aspitis' pronouncement, he had watched the earl's
party leave the Eadne Cloud with much the same sour expression as he
now leveled on the activity below

"God," he said, "but it makes a man sick to see such heedlessness " It
was not exactly clear what his remark addressed, but Minamele felt it
rankle nonetheless

"And }ou," she snapped "You are better3 A drunkard and coward5"

Cadrach's large head came around, moving as ponderously as a millwheel
"It is my very hecdfulness that makes me so. Lady I have watched too
carefully "

"Watched what5 Oh, never mind I am not in the mood for one of your
roundabout lectures " She shivered with anger, but could nor summon the
sense of righteousness she sought Cadrach had grown more remote over
the last few days, observing her from what seemed a disapproving dis-
tance This irritated her, but the continuing flirtation between herself and
the earl made even Minamele somewhat uncomfortable It was hard to
feel truly Justified m her irritation, but it was harder still to have Cadrach's
gray eyes staring at her as chough she were a child or a misbehaving
animal "Why don't you go and complain to some of the sailors3" she said
at last "See how well they'll listen to you "

The monk folded his arms He spoke patiently, but did not meet her eyes
"Will you not listen to me, Lady3 This last time3 My advice is not half so
bad as you make out and you know it How long will you listen to the
honeyed words of this     this court beauty5 You are like his little bird
that he takes from the cage to play with, then puts back He does not care
for you "

"You are a strange person to talk of that. Brother Cadrach The earl has
given us the captain's cabin, fed us at his own cable, and treated me with
complete respect " Her heart sped a little as she remembered Aspitis'
mouth at her ear, his firm, gentle couch "You, on the other hand, have
lied to me, taken money for my freedom, and struck me senseless Only a
madman could put himself forward as the better friend after all that "

Now Cadrach did lift his eyes, holding her gaze for a long moment He
seemed to be looking for something, and his probing inspection brought
warmth to her cheeks She made a mocking face and turned away

"Very well. Lady," he said From the comer of his eye she saw him
shrug and walk off down the deck "It seems they teach little of kindness
or forgiving m Usires' church these days," he said over his shoulder

Minamele bunked back angry tears "You are the religious man, Cadrach,
not me If that is true, you are the best example'" She did not receive
much pleasure from her own harsh rejoinder

516 Tad Williams

When she had tired of watching the dockyard crowds, Minamcic went
down to her cabin The monk was sitting there, staring resolutely at
nothing Minamele did not want to speak to him, so she turned and made
her way above deck once more, then paced restlessly back and forth along
the length of the Eadne Cloud Those of the ship's crew who had remained
on board were refitting her for the outgoing voyage, some clambering in
the rigging checking the state of the sails, others effecting various small
repairs here and there about the deck. This was to be their only night on
Vinitta, so the crewmen fairly flew through their tasks in a hurry to get
ashore.

Soon Minamele found herself at the rail by the top of the gangplank,
staring down once more at the eddying citizenry of the island As the cool,
moist wind ruffled her hair, she found herself thinking about what Cadrach
had said Could he be right? She knew that Aspitis had a flattering tongue,
but could it be possible he did not care for her at all? Minamele remem-
bered their first night on deck, and the other sweet and secret kisses he had
stolen from her since, and knew chat the monk was wrong. She did not
pretend that Aspitis loved her with all his soul—she doubted that her face
tormented him at sleeping time, as his did to her—but she also knew
beyond question that he was fond other, and that was more than could be
said of the other men she knew. Her father had wanted her to marry that
horrible, drunken braggart Fengbald, and her uncle Josua hadjust wanted
her to sit quietly and not cause him any trouble.

But there was Simon . . she thought, and felt a flicker of warmth cut
through the gray morning. He had been sweet in his foolish way, yet
brave as any of the noblemen she had seen. But he was a scullion and she a
king's daughter  . . and what did it matter anyway? They wee" on
opposite sides of the world. They would never meet again.        (

Something touched her arm, startling her She whirled to fini' the
wrinkled face of Gan Itai gazing up into hers. The Niskie's usual look of
wily good humor was absent.

"Girl, I need to speak to you," the old one said.

"Wh-what5" Something m the Niskie's expression was alarming

"I had a dream. A dream about you—and about bad times." Gan Itai
ducked her head, then turned and looked out to sea before turning back.
"The dream said you were in danger, Min ..."

The Niskie broke off, looking past Minamele's shoulder The princess
leaned forward. Had she misheard, or had Gan Itai been about to call her
by her true name5 But that could not be: no one beside Cadrach knew
who she was, and she doubted chat the monk would have told anyone on
the ship—what such news might bring was too unpredictable, and Cadrach
was trapped out on the ocean just as she was. No, it must have been only
the Niskie's odd way of speaking.

STONE OF FAREWELL

517

"Ho' Lovely lady!" A cheerful voice rang up from dockside "It is a wet
morning, but perhaps you would like to see Vinitta^'

Minamele whirled Aspitis stood at the base of the gangplank with his
men-at-arms. The earl wore a beautiful blue cloak and shiny boots His
hair danced m the wind.

"Oh, yes!" she said, pleased and excited. How wonderful it would be to
get off this ship' "I'll be right down!"

When she turned, Gan Itai had vanished. Minamele frowned slightly,
puzzled She suddenly thought of the monk sitting stone-faced in the cabin
they shared and felt a twinge of pity for him.

"Shall I bring Brother Cadrach7" she called down.

Aspitis laughed. "Certainly' We may find use in having a holy man
with us who can talk us out of temptations! That way we may come back
with a few cintis-pieces left m our purses!"

Minamele ran downstairs to tell Cadrach He looked at her oddly, but
drew on his boots, then carefully chose just the right heavy cloak before
following her back up the ladder.

The wind rose and the ramshowers became heavier. Although at first it
was enough merely to walk along the busy waterfront with the handsome,
sociable earl beside her, soon Minamele's excitement at being off the ship
began to wear away. Despite the pushing crowd, Vinitta's narrow streets
seemed sad and gray. When Aspitis bought her a chain of bluebells from a
flower seller and tenderly hung them around her neck, she found it all she
could do to smile for him

It is the weather, she guessed This unnatural weather has turned hi^h summer
into a dismal yay murk and put the cold n^ht into my bones

She thought of her father sitting alone in his room, of the chilly,
distant face he sometimes wore like a mask—a mask that he had come to
wear more and more frequently in her last months in the Hayholt. Cold
bones and cold hearts, she sang quietly to herself as the Earl of Eadne led his
party down Vinitta's rain-slicked byways.

Cold bones and cold hearts
Lie m the rain m battle's wake,
On chilly beach by Clodu-lake,
'Til Aedon's trumpet calls . .

Just before noon Aspitis took them into an eating hall, where Minamele
immediately felt her flagging spirits begin to revive. The hall had a high
ceiling, but the three large fire pits kept it warm and cheery while at the
same time filling the air with smoke and the smell of roasting meat. Many
others had decided the hall might be a nice place to be on this bitter
morning the rafters echoed with the tumult of diners and drinkers. The

518 Tad Williams

master of the hall and his several assistants were being worked to the
utmost, thumping jugs of beer and bowls of wine onto the wooden tables,
then snatching the proffered coins in a single continuous movement.

A crude stage had been set up at the hall's far end. At the moment a boy
wasJugghng between acts of a puppet play, doing his best to keep several
sticks in the air while suffering the drunken jests of spectators, using
his feet—his only available extremities—to stop the occasional coin chat
came bouncing up onto the stage.

"Will you have something to cat, fair lady?" Aspitis asked. When
Minamele nodded shyly, he dispatched two of his men-at-arms. His other
guardsmen unceremoniously removed a large family from one of the
pitted tables. Soon the original pair of soldiers returned with a crackling
haunch of lamb, bread, onions, and a generous supply of wine.

A bowlful soon drove away much of Minamele's chill, and she found
that the morning's walk had given her a considerable appetite. The noon
bell had scarcely rung before her food was gone. She readjusted her
position on the seat. trying to avoid an unladylike belch.

"Look," she said, "they're starting the puppet play. Can we watch3"

"Certainly." Aspitis said, waving his hand generously. "Certainly. You
will forgive me if I do not come with you. I have not finished my meal.
Besides, it looks like a Usires play. You will not think me disrespectful if I
say that, living in the lap of Mother Church, I see them frequently
enough—in all varieties, from the grandest to the meanest." He turned
and signaled one of his men to accompany her. "It is not a good idea for a
well-dressed gentle lady like yourself to go unprotected among the mill-
ing crowd."

in

"I am done eating," Cadrach said, standing. "I will come too, Lady
Marya." The monk fell m beside the earl's guardsman.              )

The play was in full swing. The spectators, especially the childr i,
shrieked with delight as the puppets capered and smacked each other ~v -th
their slapping-sticks. Minamele, too, laughed as Usires tricked Crexis into
bending over, then delivered a kick in the seat to the evil Imperator, but
her smile soon faded. Instead of his usual horns, Crexis wore what looked
like a crown of antlers. For some reason this filled her with unease. There
was also something panicky and desperate in Usires' high-pitched voice,
and the puppet's painted, upturned eyes seemed unutterably sad. She
turned to find Cadrach looking at her somberly.

"So we labor to build our little dams," the monk said, barely audible
above the shouting throng, "while the waters rise all around us." He made
the sign of the Tree above his gray vestments.

Before she could ask him what he meant, a rising howl from the crowd
drew her attention back to the puppet stage. Usires had been caught and
hung wrongside-up on the Execution Tree, wooden head dangling. As
Crexis the Goat prodded the helpless savior, another puppet appeared,

STONE OF FAREWELL                 519

rising from the darkness. This one was clothed all in orange and red tatters
of cloth; as it swayed from side to side in an eerie dance, the rags swirled,
as though the puppet were covered with licking flames. Its head was a
black, faceless knob, and it carried a small wooden sword the color of
mud.

"Here comes the Fire Dancer to throw you down into the dark earth!" Crexis
squealed. The Imperator did a little dance of joy.

"/ do not live by the sword," the puppet Usires said. "A sword cannot harm
that which is God within me, that which is silence and peace." Miriamele almost
believed she could see its motionless lips mouthing the words.

"You can be silent forever, then—and worship your God in pieces!" the
Imperator shouted triumphantly as the faceless Fire Dancer began to hack
with its sword. The laughing, screaming crowd grew louder, a sound like
hounds at the kill. Minamele felt dizzy, taken as though with a sudden
fever. Fear growing within her, she turned away from the stage.

Cadrach no longer stood beside her.

Miriamele turned to the guardsman on the other side. The soldier,
seeing her questioning look, whirled m search of the monk. Cadrach was
nowhere to be seen.

A search of the eating hall by Aspitis and his men turned up no trace of
the Hernystirman. The earl marched his party back to the Eadne Cloud
through the windswept streets, his furious mood mirroring the angry
skies. He was silent all the long walk back to the ship.

^

Sinetns the fisherman looked the new arrival up and down. The stranger
was a full head taller than him, broad as a gate, and soaking wet from the
rain that hammered on the ceiling of the boat stall. Sinetris weighed the
advantages and disadvantages of circling slowly around this newcomer
until he could address the man from outside the tiny shelter. The disad-
vantages of such a plan were clear: it was the kind of day today that made
even the hardiest shiver by the fire and praise God for roofs. Also, it was
Sinetns' own stall, and it seemed terribly unfair that he should have to go
outside so that this stranger could growl and champ and suck up all the air
while the fisherman stood miserably in the storm.

The advantages, however, were equally clear. If he were outside, Sinetns
could run for his life when this panting madman finally became murderous.

"I don't know what you're saying, Father. There are no boats out
today. You see how it is." Sinetris gestured out at the sheeting rain, flung
almost sideways by the force of the wind.

The religious man stared at him furiously. The gigantic monk, if that
was indeed what he was, had gone quite red and mottled in the face, and

520 Tad Williams

his eyebrows twitched. Strangely enough, Smetns thought the monk
seemed to be growing a beard: his whiskers were longer than even a
week's razorless travel would cause. To the best of the fisherman's knowl-
edge, Aedonite monks did not wear beards. Then, again, this one was
some kind of barbarous northerner by his accent, a Rimmersman or some
such: Smetris supposed that those born beyond the River Gleniwent would
be capable of just about any eccentricity. As he looked at the ragged
whiskers and the chafed pmk skin gleaming beneath, his unwholesome
opinion of the monk grew more pronounced. This was definitely a man
with whom to have as little to do as possible.

"I don't think you understand me, fisherman," the monk hissed, lean-
ing forward and squinting in a truly frightening way. "I have come nearly
through Hell itself to get this far. I'm told that you are the only one who
would Cake his boat out in such bad weather—and that the reason is
because you overcharge." A beefy hand closed on Sinetris' arm, occasion-
ing a squeal of shock. "Splendid. Cheat me, rob me, I don't care. But I'm
going downcoast to Kwanidpul and I'm tired of asking people to take me.
Do you understand?"

"B-but you could go overland!" Semtris squeaked. "This is no weather
to be on the water ..."

"And how long would it take to go overland from here?"

"A day! Two, perhaps! Not long!"

The monk's grip on his arm tightened cruelly. "You he, little man. In
this weather, through that marshy ground, it would take me a solid
fortnight. But you're rather hoping I'll try, though, aren't you? Hoping
I'll go away and sink into the mud somewhere?" An unpleasant smile
flitted across the monk's broad face.

"No, Father! No! I would never think so of a holy man!"        1

"That's strange, because your fellow fishermen tell me you've che ;d
everyone, monks and priests by the score among 'em! Well, you shall L^ve
your chance to help a man of God—and you shall have your just and more
than ample payment."

Sinetris burst into tears, impressing even himself. "But Bminence! We
truly dare not go out in such weather!" As he said it, he realized that for
once he was telling the truth and not merely trying to raise his price. This
was weather that only a fool would brave. His pleading took on a note of
greater desperation. "We will drown—you, God's holiest priest, and poor
Sinetris, hard-working husband and father to seven lovely children!"

"You have no children, and pity the woman who will ever be your
wife. I talked to your fishing-fellows, don't you remember? You are the
scum that even Perdruin the Mercenary has driven from her shores. Now,
name your price, damn you. 1 must get to Kwanitupul as soon as possible."

Sinetris sniffled a bit to give himself time to think. The standard
ferrying charge was one quinis, but with rough weather—and they certainly

STONE OF  FAREWELL

521

had that today, with no exaggeration—three or even four quinis would
not be out of line.

"Three gold Imperators." He waited for the bellow of anger. When none
came, he thought for a delirious moment he might have made his sum-
mer's income in two days. Then he saw the pink face drawing close, until
the monk's breath was hot on his cheeks.

"You worm," the monk said softly. "There is a difference between
simple robbery and rape. I think I should just fold you up like a napkin
and take the damnable boat—leaving a gold Imperator for your imaginary
widow and seven nonexistent brats, which is more than the whole leaky
thing is worth."

"Two gold Imperators, Eminence? One for my imag . . . widow, one
to purchase a mansa for my poor soul at the church?"

"One, and you know that is a gross overpayment. It is only because I
am in a hurry. And we will leave now."

"Now? But the boat is not fitted out. . . ! "

"I'H watch." The monk let go of Sinetns' throbbing wrist and folded
his arms across his broad chest. "Go ahead, now. Hop to it!"

"But kind Father, what about my gold piece. . . ? "

"When we get to Kwanitupul. Do not fear you wril be cheated, as you
have cheated others. Am I not a man of God?" The strange monk
laughed.

Sinetris, snuffling quietly, went looking for his oars.

^

"You said you had more gold!" Charystra, the proprietress of the inn
known as Pelippa's Bowl put on a practiced look of disgust. "I treated you
like a prince—you, a little marsh-man—and you lied to me! I should
have known better than to trust a dirty Wrannaman."

Tiamak struggled to keep his temper. "I think, good lady, that you
have done very well from me. I paid you on arrival with two gold
Imperators."

She snorted. "Well, it's all spent."

"In a fortnight? You accuse me of lying, Charystra, but thai might as
well be theft."

"How dare you speak that way to me! You had the best accommoda-
tions and the services of the best healer in Kwanitupul."

The ache of Tiamak's wounds only added to his anger. "If you are
referring to that drunken person who came to twist my leg and hurt me, I
am sure his fee was scarcely more than a bottle or two of fem beer. As a
matter of fact, he appeared to have enjoyed the payments of a few other
victims before he came here."

The irony! To think that Tiamak, author of the soon-to-be definitive

522

Tad Williams

revision of Sovran Remedys of the Wranna Healers, should be forced into the
care of a dryland butcher!

"Anyway, I am lucky I kept my leg," he growled. "Besides, you
moved me out of the best accommodations quickly enough." Tiamak
waved his thin arm at the nest of blankets he now shared with Cealho, the
simplemmded door keeper.

The innkeeper's frown turned into a smirk. "Aren't you very high and
cocksure for a marsh-man? Well, get on with you, then. Go to some other
inn and see if they'll treat a Wrannaman as kindly as Charystra has."

Tiamak choked back a funous reply. He knew he must not let his anger
get the better of him. He was being dreadfully cheated by this woman, but
that was how things always went when Wrannamen put their fortunes in
the hands of drylanders. He had already failed his tribe, on whose behalf
he had sworn to go to Nabban and argue their case against higher tribute.
If he were thrown out of Pelippa's Bowl, he would fail Morgenes as well,
who had explicitly asked for him to stay at this inn until he was needed.

Tiamak offered a short prayer for patience to He Who Always Steps on
Sand. If his staying in such a place was so important to Dinivan and
Morgenes, couldn't they at least have sent him money with which to pay
for it? He took a deep breath, hating to grovel before this red-faced woman.

"It is foolish to fight, good lady," he said finally. "I am still expecting
that my friend will show up, bringing more gold." Tiamak forced himself
to smile. "Until then, I think I still have some little bit of my two
Imperators remaining. Surely it is not all spent quite yet? If I have to leave,
someone else will be earning gold for giving their best accommodations to
me and my friend."

She stared at him for a moment, weighing the advantages of throwing
him out against the possibility of future money-gouging. "Well..."   '
said grudgingly, "perhaps out of the goodness of my heart I could let -u
stay another three days. But no meals, mind you. You'll have to come ap
with more coins, or else find your own food. I set a lavish table for my
guests and can't afford to give it away."

•u

Tiamak knew that the lavish table consisted mostly of thin soup and
dried bread, but also knew that even such meager fare was better than
nothing. He would have to feed himself somehow. He was used to going
long on little provender, but he was still quite weak from his leg wounds
and resulting illness. How he would love to bounce a sling-stone off this
woman's mocking face!

"Very fair, my lady." He gritted his teeth. "Very fair."

"My friends always say I'm coo good."

Charystra swaggered back into the common room, leaving Tiamak to
cover his head with his odoriferous blanket and contemplate the grim state

of his affairs.

*      *      *

STONE OF FAREWELL                 523

Tiamak lay sleeplessly m the dark. His mind was spinning, but he could
think of no solution to his problems. He could barely walk. He was
stranded without resources in a strange place, among bandit drylanders. It
seemed that They Who Watch and Shape had conspired to torment him.

The old man Ceallio grunted in his sleep and rolled over, his long arm
flopping heavily against Tiamak's face. Painfully thumped, the Wrannaman
moaned and sat up. It was no use being upset with the ancient simpleton:

Cealho was no more to blame for their uncomfortable proximity than was
Tiamak himself. The Wrannaman wondered if Ceallio was upset at having
to share his bed, but somehow he doubted it. The cheerful old man was as
guileless as a child; he seemed to accept everything that came his way—
blows, kicks, and curses included—as acts of fate, unfathomable and un-
avoidable as thunderstorms.

Thinking of evil weather, Tiamak shivered. The hovering storm that
had turned the air of the Wran and all the southern coast hot and sticky as
broth had fallen at last, drenching Kwamtupul in unseasonable rams.
The normally placid canals had turned choppy and unpredictable. Most
ships rode at anchor, slowing the business of the thriving port city to a
crawl. The heavy storm had also nearly choked off the flow of new
visitors, which was another reason for Charystra's unpleasantness.

Tonight the rain had stopped for the first time in several days. Not long
after Tiamak had crawled into his insufficient bed, the constant rattle on
the roof had suddenly gone silent, a silence so deep it seemed almost like
another noise. Perhaps, he thought, it was this unaccustomed silence that
made it so hard to sleep.

Shivering again, Tiamak tried to pull his blanket closer about him, but
the old man beside him had caught up the whole tangle m a death-grip.
Despite his advanced age, the fool seemed to be a great deal stronger than
Tiamak, who even before his unfortunate brush with the crocodile had
never been robust, even by the standards of his small-boned people. The
Wrannaman ceased struggling for the covers; Ceallio gurgled and mur-
mured in the throes of some dream of past happiness. Tiamak frowned.
Why had he ever left his house in the banyan tree, in his beloved, familiar
swamp? It was not much, but it was his. And unlike this drafty, damp
boat-house, it had always been warm. . . .

This was more than Just night-cold, he realized suddenly, wracked by
more shivers. There was a chill in the air that pierced the chest like
daggers. He initiated another doomed struggle for blankets, then sat up
again in despair. Perhaps the door had been left open?

Giving vent to a full-throated groan of anguish, he crawled away from
his bed, forcing himself to stand. His leg throbbed and burned. The
tosspot healer had said that his poultices would take the pain away soon
enough, but Tiamak had little faith in such an obvious drunkard, and so
far his doubts had been borne out. He limped slowly across the rough

524 Tad Williams

wood floor, doing his best to avoid the two upended boats that dominated
the room He managed to stay near the wall and thus evade these large
obstacles, but a hard stool leaped up before him and cruelly battered his
good shin, so that for a moment Tiamak had to stop and bite his lip as he
rubbed the leg, holding in a screech of pain and anger that he feared
would have no ending Why had he and he alone been singled out for such ill
treatment?

When he could walk once more, he continued with even more care, so
that his journey to the door seemed to take hours When he reached it at
last he discovered to his immense disappointment that the door was shut,
there seemed little more he could do to prevent himself from spending a
sleepless and freezing night As he thumped his hand against the frame m
frustration, the door swung open to reveal the empty pier outside, a dim
gray rectangle in the moonlight A blast of chill air rolled over him, but
before he could grasp the elusive handle and pull the door closed again,
something caught his eye Baffled, he took a couple of limping steps out
through the doorway There was something odd about the fine mist that
floated down through the moonlight

A long moment passed before Tiamak realized that it was not rain that
dotted his outstretched palm, but rather nny flakes of white He had never
seen this thing before—no Wrannaman ever had—but he was unusually
well-read, and had also heard it described many times in his student days
It took only a moment for him to understand the significance of the
downy flakes and the vapor that rose from his own lips to drift and
dissipate on the night air

Snow was falling on Kwanitupul, m the heart of summer

^        \

Minamele lav in her bed in darkness and wept until she was too tired to
weep any longer As Eadne Cloud rocked at anchor in Vmitta's harbor, she
felt loneliness pressing down on her like a great weight

It was not so much Cadrach's betrayal despite her moments of weak-
ness toward him, the monk had shown his true colors long ago It was
rather that he was her last link with her true self, with her past life As if
an anchor-rope had been cut, she felt herself suddenly adrift in a sea of
strangers

Cadrach's desertion had not been a complete surprise So little good
feeling remained between the two of them that it seemed only circum-
stance had kept him from deserting her earlier She looked back on the
cool dcliberateness he had shown in selecting his traveling cloak before they
left the boat and saw that he had clearly anticipated this escape, at least
from the moment they had been summoned down to Vimtta In a way, he

STONE OF FAREWELL                 525

had tried to warn her, hadn't he5 On the deck he had asked her to listen,
saying "this last time "

The monk's betrayal was unsurprising, but the pain was no less heavy
for that A long-anticipated blow had fallen at last

Desertion and indifference That seemed to be the thread that ran
through her life Her mother had died, her father had changed into
something cold and uncani , her uncle josua had only wished her out of
his way—he would deny it, no doubt, but it had been plain m his every
word and expression For a while she had thought Dimvan and his master
the lector could shelter her, but they had died and left her friendless
Although she knew it was not even remotely their fault, she still could not
forgive

No one would help her The kinder ones, like Simon and the troll or
dear old Duke Isgnmnur, were absent or powerless Now Cadrach, too,
had left her

There must be something inside other that pushed others away, Minamele
brooded—some stain like the dark discoloration m the white stone canals
of Meremund, hidden until the tide went out Or maybe it was not in her
at all, but in the souls of those around her, those who could not stay
rooted to obligation, who could not remember their duty to a young
woman

And what ofAspitis, the golden earl3 She had little hope that he would
prove more responsible than the others, but at least he cared for her At
least he wanted her for something

Perhaps when all was over, when her father had reshaped the world in
whatever way pleased his corrupt fancy, she would be able to find a home
somewhere She would be happy with a small house by the sea, would
gladly shed her unwanted royalty like an old snakeskm But until then,
what should she do5

Minamele rolled over and pushed her face into the rough blanket,
feeling the bed and the entire ship moving in the sea's gentle but insistent
grip It was all too much, too many thoughts, too many questions She
felt quite strengthless She wanted only to be held, to be protected, to let
time slip away until she could wake into a better world

She cned quietly, fretfully, anchorless on the edge of sleep

The afternoon slipped past Minamele lay in the darkness of her cabin,
wandering m and out of dreams

Somewhere above, the lookout cned sunset, no other sound intruded
but the lap of waves and the muffled cry of sea birds The ship was all but
deserted, the sailing men ashore in Vimtta

Minamele was not surprised when the cabin door quietly opened at last
and a weight pressed down on the bed beside her

Aspitis' finger traced her features Minamele turned away, wishing she

526 Tad Williams

could pull the shadows over her like a blanket, wishing she were a child
again, living beside an ocean that was still innocent of kilpa, an ocean
upon whose waves storms touched only lightly and disappeared at the
sun's golden rising.

"My lady . . ." he whispered. "Ah, I am so sorry. You have been badly
treated."

Minamele said nothing, but his voice seemed a soothing balm to her
painful thoughts. He spoke again, telling her other beauty and kindness.
In her feverish sadness the words were little more than nonsense, but his
voice was sweet and reassuring. She felt calmed by it, gentled like a
nervous horse. When he slid beneath the sheet she felt his skin against
hers, warm and smooth and firm. She murmured in protest, but softly,
with no real strength: in a way, this, too, seemed a kindness.

His mouth was at her neck. His hands moved over her with calm
possessiveness, as though he handled some lovely thing that belonged only
to him. Tears came to her again. Full of loneliness, she let herself be drawn
into his embrace, but she could not suffer his touch unfeelingly. While a
part of her yearned only to be held, to be drawn into a reassuring warmth,
a safe harbor like the one in which Eadne Cloud rocked gently at anchor,
untroubled by the storms that swept the great ocean, a different self
wished to break free and run madly into danger. Still another shadow
huddled deeper within her, a shape of dark regret, tied to her heart with
chains of iron.

The thin light leaking in at the doorframe caught glimmering in his hair
as Aspitis pressed himself against her. What if someone should come in?
There was no latch, no latch on the door. She struggled. Mistaking her
fear, he whispered soothing things about her beauty.

Each curl of his hair was intricate, textured and individual as a trt  His
head seemed a forest, his dark form looming like a distant mountai\ ide.
She cried out softly, unable to resist such implacability.

Time slid by in the shadows and Minamele felt herself drifting away.
Aspitis once more began to speak.

He loved her, her goodness and wit and loveliness.                 ^

His words, like caresses, were blind but enflammg. She did not care for
flattering talk, but felt her resistance melting before his strength and
sureness. He cared for her, at least a little. He could hide her away in
darkness, pull it around her like a cloak. She would disappear into the
deeps of a sheltering forest until the world was right again.

The boat swayed gently on the cradling waters.

He would protect her from those who would harm her, he said. He
would never desert her

She gave herself up to him at last. There was pain, but there were also
promises. Miriamele had hoped for nothing more. In a way, it was a
lesson the world had already Caught her.

STONE OF FAREWELL                 527

Awash with strange new feelings, not completely comfortable with any
of them, Minamele sat quietly across the dining table from Aspitis,
pushing food from one side of her plate to the other. She could not
understand why the earl had forced her to come sit with him in the
brightly candlelit room. She could not understand why she was not even
slightly in love.

A soldier rapped at the doorway, then entered.

"We've caught him, Lord," the guardsman said. His satisfaction at
having redressed the earlier error of the monk's escape was plain in his voice.
Minamele, seated across the table from Earl Aspitis, felt herself stiffen.

The guardsman stepped aside and two of his fellows brought Cadrach
in, slumped between them. The monk seemed to be having trouble
keeping his head up. Had they beaten him? Miriamele felt a sickening
pang of regret. She had half-hoped that Cadrach would just vanish, so
that she would never have to see him again. It was easier to hate him when
he was not around.

"He's drunk, Lord Aspitis," the guardsman said. "Stinking. We found
him m the Feathered Eel, down on the east dock. He'd already bought a
place out on a Perdrumese merchantman, but the fool got pissed and diced
it away."

Cadrach looked up blearily, his face slack with despair. Even from
across the table, Minamele could smell the stink of wine. "Was 'bout
t'win it back, too. Would've." He shook his head. "Maybe not. Luck's
gone bad. Water's rising ..."

Aspitis rose and strode around the table. He reached out a hand and
grasped the monk's chin, pressing with his strong fingers until the flesh
bulged between them. He forced Cadrach's pink face upward until their
eyes met.

The earl turned to Minamele. "Has he tned to do this before, Lady
Marya?"

Minamele nodded helplessly. She wished she were somewhere else.
"More or less."

Aspitis returned his attention to the monk. "What a strange man. Why
does he notjust leave your father's service instead of sneaking away like a
thief?" The earl turned to his squire. "And you are sure nothing is
missing?"

The squire shook his head. "Nothing, Lord."

Cadrach Cried to pull his head free from Aspitis' restraining fingers.
"Had m'own gold. Stole nothing- Need t'gec away ..." His eyes fixed
uncertainly on Minamele, his voice took on a note of added desperation.
"Dangerous . . . storm will get us. Danger."

The Earl of Eadne let go of the monk's chin and wiped his fingers on
the tablecloth. "Afraid of a storm? I knew he was not a good sailor, but

528 Tad Williams

still . . . that is very strange If he were my liege man, his back would be
flayed for this trick Still, the fellow shall certainly not be rewarded for
deserting his innocent ward. Neither shall he share a cabin with you any
more. Lady Marya." The earl's smile was stiffy reassuring "He may have
gone mad, or have conceived some drunken fancy He says danger, but he
is the dangerous one as I see it. He will be confined on the Eadne Cloud
until I return you to Nabban, and we shall then hand him over to Mother
Church for discipline."

"Confine him7" Minamele asked. "That is not ..."

"I may not leave him loose to plague you or worry you, my lady." The
earl turned to his guardsmen. "The hold will do nicely for him. Give him
water and bread, but put the leg irons on him."

"Oh, no'" Minamele was genuinely horrified. However much she
despised the monk and his cowardly treachery, the thought of any living
thing forced to wear a chain, trapped in a dark hold. . . .

"Please, my lady." Aspitis' voice was soft but firm. "I must have order
on my ship- I gave you sanctuary, and this man with you. He was your
guardian. He betrayed your trust. I still am not sure he has not stolen
something from me, or perhaps chinks to sell some intelligence of my
mission here in Vimtta. No, I am afraid you must leave such men's
business to me, pretty Marya." He waved his hand; Cadrach was led out,
staggering between his escorts.

Minamele felt her eyes blurring with tears. They spilled over and she
lurched suddenly from her chair. "Excuse me, Earl Aspuis," she mum-
bled, feeling her way along the table toward the door. "I wish to lie
down."

He caught her before she reached the handle, grasping her arm and
pulling her smoothly around. The heat of him was very close. She a\ ted
her face, conscious of how foolish she must look, eyes red-nmme(\ 'nd
cheeks wet. "Please, my lord. Let the monk go."

"I know you must feel quite lost, pretty Marya," Aspitis said softly.
"Do not fear. I promised that I would keep you safe."

She felt herself yielding, becoming pliant. Her strength seemed to be
draining away. She was so tired of running and hiding. She had only
wanted someone to hold her, to make everything go away. . . .

Minamele shivered and pulled away. "No. It is wrong. Wrong! If you
do not let him go, I will not stay on this ship!" She pushed out through
the door, stumbling blindly.

Aspitis caught her long before she reached the ladder to the deck. The
sea watcher Gan Itai was crooning quietly m the darkness above.

"You are upset, Lady," he said. "You must he down, as you said
yourself."

She struggled, but his grip was firm. "I demand that you release me! I

STONE OF FAREWELL                 529

do not wish to stay here any longer. I will go ashore and find my own
passage from Vinitta."

"No, my lady, you will not."

She gasped "Let go of my arm. You're hurting me."

Somewhere above, Gan Itai's song seemed to falter.

Aspitis leaned forward. His face was very close to hers. "I think there
are things that must be made clear between us " He laughed shortly. "As a
matter of fact, there is much for us to talk about—later. You will go to
your cabin now. I will finish my supper and then come to you."

"I won't go."

"You will."

He said it with such quiet certainty that her angry reply caught in her
throat as fear clutched her. Aspitis pulled her close against him, then
turned and forced her along the passageway.

The sea watcher's song had stopped. Now it began again, rising and
fading as Gan Itai murmured to the night and the quiet sea.

27

The Btocfc Sfctf

They.

more than hs

J, m^y are getting close," Sludig gasped "If your Farewell Stone
is more than half a league from here, little man, we will have to turn and
fight "

Shaking the water from his hood, Bmabik leaned forward across Qantaqa's
neck The wolfs tongue lolled and her sides heaved like a blacksmith's
bellows They had been traveling without a stop since daybreak, fleeing
through the storm-battered forest

"I wish I could be telling you that it is near, Sludig I do not know
how much distance remains, but I fear it is most of a day's riding " The
troll stroked Qantaqa's sodden fur "A brave run, old friend " She ignored
him, absorbed in drinking rainwater from the hollow stump of a tree

"The giants are hunting us," Sludig said grimly "They have developed
a taste for man-meat " He shook his head "When we make our stand at
last, some of them will regret that "

Bmabik frowned "I have too little size to be a satisfying morsel, so I
will not waste their time by being caught That way, no one will be
having regrets "

The Rimmcrsman steered his mount over to the stump Trembling with
the cold, parched despite the pelting rain, the horse was heedless of the
wolf a handsbreadth away

As their steeds drank, a long rumbling howl lifted above the wind,
blood-freezing! y close

"Damn me'" Sludig spat, slapping his palm against his sword-hilt
"They are no farther behind us than they were an hour ago' Do they run
fast as horses7"

"Near to it it is seeming," Bmabik said "I am thinking we should
move deeper into the forest The thicker trees may slow them "

"You thought getting off the flatlands would slow them, too," Slud%
said, reining his reluctant horse away from the hollow stump

"If we live, then you can be telling me all my incorrectness," Bmabik

STONE OF FAREWELL                 531

growled He took a tight grip on the thick fur that mantled Qantaqa's
neck "Now, unless you have been thinking of ways to fly. we should
ride "
Another deep, coughing cry came down the wind

Sludig's sword swished from side to side, clearing the brush as they
pushed their way down the long, wooded slope "My blade will be dull
when I have greatest need," he complained

Bmabik, who was leading the string of balking horses, tnpped and fell to
the muddy earth, then slid a short way down the hillside The horses
milled nervously, confined to the path Sludig had hacked in the swarming
undergrowth Struggling to keep his balance in the mud, the troll got up
and tracked down the bridle of the lead horse

"Qmklpa of the Snows' This storm is never-ending'"

They took most of the noon hour to make their way down the slope It
appeared that Binabik's reliance on the forest cover had been at least
partially correct the occasional howls of the Hunen became a little
fainter, although they never faded completely The forest appeared to be
growing thinner The trees were still huge, but not as monumental as their
kin that grew closer to Aldheorte's center

The trees, alder and oak and tall hemlock, were garlanded in looping
vines The grass and undergrowth grew thick, and even m this queerly
cold season a few yellow and blue wildflowers lifted their heads up from
the mud, bobbing beneath the heavy ram Had it not been for the torrent
and the biting wind, this arm of the southern forest would have been a
place of rare beauty

They reached the base of the slope at last and clambered onto a low shelf
of stone to scrape the worst of the mud from their boots and clothing
before ndmg once more Sludig looked back up the hillside, then lifted a
pointing finger

"Elysia's mercy, little man, look "

Far up the slope but still horribly near, a half-dozen white shapes were
pushing their way through the foliage, long arms swinging like Nascadu
apes One lifted its head, the face a black hole against the pale, shaggy fur
A cry of thundering menace rang down the rainy hillside and Sludig's
horse pranced in terror beneath him

"It is a race," Binabik said His round, browr face had gone quite pale
"For this moment, they are having the best of it "

Qantaqa leaped from the shelf of stone, bearing the troll with her
Sludig and his mount werejust behind, leading the other horses Hooves
drummed on the sodden ground

In their haste and ill-suppressed fear, it was some while before they
noticed that the ground, while still overgrown, had become unusually flat

532 Tad Williams

They rode beside long-empty riverbeds that were now filled anew with
rushing, foaming rainwater Here and there bits of root-gnawed stone
stood along the banks, covered with centuries of moss and clinging vines

"These look like bridges, or the bones of broken buildings," Sludig
called as they rode

"They are," Binabik replied "It means we are nearing our goal, I hope
This is a place where once the Sithi had a great city " He leaned forward,
hugging Qantaqa's neck as she leaped over a fallen trunk.

"Do you think it will keep the giants at bay5" Sludig asked "You said
that the diggers did not like the places that the Sithi lived "

"They do not like the forest and the forest does not like them," the troll
said, gentling Qantaqa to a halt "The giant Hunen seem to be having no
such trouble—perhaps because they are less clever, or less easily fright-
ened Or because they are not digging I do not know " He tilted his head,
listening It was hard to hear anything over the relentless hissing patter of
rain on leaves, but for the moment the surroundings seemed innocent of
danger "We will follow the flowing water " He pointed to the new-
grown river hurrying past them, laden with broken branches knocked
loose by the storm "Sesuad'ra, the Stone of Farewell, is in the valley
beside the forest's ending, very close to the city Enki-e-Shao'saye—on
whose outskirts we are sitting " He gestured around him with his
stubby, mittened hand "The river must be flowing down to the valley, so
it is sense for us to accompany it "

"Less Calking, then—more accompanying," Sludig said

"I have been speaking, in my day," Binabik said with a certain stiffness,
"to more appreciative ears " With a shrug, he urged Qantaqa forward

They rode past countless remnants of the vast and long untenanted city
Fragments of old walls shimmered in the undergrowth, masses of pale,
crumbled brick forlorn as lost sheep, in other spots the foundations of
eroded towers lay exposed, curved and empty as ancient jawbones, choked
with parasitic moss Unlike Da'ai Chikiza, the forest had done more than
grow into Enki-e-Shao'saye there was virtually nothing left of this city
but faint traces The forest, it seemed, had always been a part of the place,
but over the millennia it had become a destroyer, smothering the elaborate
stonework in a mass of snaking foliage, enfolding it with roots and branches
that patiently unmade even the matchless products of the Sithi builders,
returning all to mud and damp sand

There was little inspiration in the crumbling ruins of Enki-e-Shao'saye
They seemed only to demonstiate that even the Sichi were bound within
the sweep of time, that any work of hands, however exalted, must come
at last CO ignoble result

Binabik and Sludig found a clearer path running beside the river bank
and began to make better time, winding their way through the ram-
soaked forest They heard nothing but the sounds of their own passage

STONE OF FAREWELL                 533

and were glad of it Just as the troll had predicted, the land began to slope
more acutely, falling away coward the southwest Despite its swerving
course, the river was moving in that direction as well, the water gaining
speed and becoming possessed of what almost seemed like enthusiasm It
positively threw itself at its banks, as if desiring to be everywhere at once,
the gouts of water that flew up at obstructions in the nver bed seemed to
leap higher than they normally should, as though this watercourse, granted
a temporary life, labored to prove to some stern riverine deities its fitness
for continued survival

"Almost out of the forest," Binabik panted from Qantaqa's bobbing
back "See how the trees are now thinning5 See, there is light between
them ahead'"

Indeed, the stand of trees just before them seemed poised at the outer-
most rim of the earth Instead of more mottled green foliage, beyond
them lay only a wall of fathomless, featureless gray, as though the world's
builders had run short of inspiration

"You are right, little man," Sludig said excitedly "Forest's end' Now,
if we are within a short nde of this sanctuary of yours, we may shake
those whoreson giants after all'"

"Unless my scrolls are none of them correct," Bmabik replied as they
cantered down the last length of slope "It is not much distance from
forest's edge to the Stone of Farewell "

He broke off as they reached the final line of trees Qantaqa stopped
abruptly, head held low, sniffing the air Sludig reined up alongside
"Blessed Usires," the Rimmersman breathed

The slope abruptly fell away before them, dropping at a much steeper
angle to the wide valley below Sesuad'ra loomed there, dark and secretive
in its shroud of trees, a bony thrust of stone standing far above the valley
bottom Its height was particularly apparent because it was entirely sur-
rounded by a flat plain of water

The valley was flooded The Stone of Farewell, a great fist that seemed
to defy the rain-lashed skies, had become an island in a gray and restless
sea Binabik and Sludig were perched at the forest's edge only a half-
league away from their goal, but every cubit of valley floor that lay
between was covered by fathoms of floodwater.

Even as they stared, a roar echoed through the forest behind them,
distant but still fnghtenmgly close Whatever magic remained to Enki-e-
Shao'saye was too weak to discourage the hungry giants

"Aedon, troll, we are caught like flies in a honey jar," Sludig said, a
tremor of fear creeping into his voice for the first time "We are backed
against the edge of the world Even if we fight and stave off their first
attack, there is no escape'"

Binabik stroked Qantaqa's head The wolfs hackles were up, she whim-
pered beneath his touch as though she ached to return the challenge

534

Tad Williams

floating down the wind. "Peace, Sludig, we must be thinking." He
turned to squint down the precipitous slope. "I fear you are right about
one thing. We are never to be leading horses down this grade."

"And what would we do at the bottom, in any case?" Sludig growled.
Rain dnbbled from his beard-braids. "That is no mud puddle! This is an
ocean! Did your scrolls mention that?!"

Binabik waggled his head angrily. His hair hung in his eyes, pasted to
his forehead by the ram. "Look up, Sludig, look up! The sky is full of
water, and it is all being dropped down on us, courtesy of our enemy."
He spat in disgust. "This is perhaps become an ocean now, but a week ago
it was a valley only, just as the scrolls say." A worried look crossed his
face. "I am wondering ifJosua and the rest were caught in low ground!
Daughter of the Snows, what a thought! If so, we might as well make our
stand in this place—at the world's end, as you call it. Thorn's journey will

stop here."

Sludig flung himself down out of the saddle, skidding briefly m the
mud. He strode to the lead packhorse and detached the bundled length of
the black sword. He hefted it easily, carrying it back to Binabik m one
hand. "Your 'living sword' seems eager for battle," he said sourly. 'T am
half-tempted to see what it can do, though it may turn anvil-heavy on me
in midstroke."

"No," Binabik said shortly, "My people are not fond of running from a
fight, but neither is it time for us to be singing Croohok death-songs and
be going happily to glorious defeat. Our quest is not yet given over."

Sludig glowered. "Then what do you say, troll? Shall we fly to that far
rock?"

The little man hissed in frustration. "No, but first we can look for some
other way for getting down." He gestured at me river thundering past
them, which disappeared down the steep wooded slope. "This is not the
only waterway. It could be that others will lead us down in a more
gradual path to the valley."

"And then what?" Sludig demanded. "Swim?"

"If necessary." As Binabik spoke, the hunting cry of their pursuers rose
again, setting the horses to milling and bumping in panic. "Take the
horse, Sludig," Binabik said. "There is still chance we may win free."

"If so, you are a magical troll indeed. I will name you a Sithi and you
can live forever."

"Do not joke here," Binabik said. "Do not mock." He slid from
Qantaqa's back, then whispered something in the wolfs ear. With a
bound, she was away through the dripping vegetation, tracking eastward
along the face of the slope. Sludig and the troll followed as best they
could, cutting a trail that the horses could follow.

Qantaqa, swift as a racing shadow now that the weight other rider had
been lifted from her back, soon found an angled traverse down the chffside.

STONE OF FAREWELL                 535

Despite the sticky, treacherous footing, they were able to make their way
slowly down from the high promontory, gradually approaching the
lowest edge of the forest, now the shore of a wind-tormented sea.

The forest did not come to a sudden ending, but rather disappeared into
the rain-nppled water In some places the tops of submerged trees still
protruded above the surface, little islands of rippling leaves Naked branches
thrust up from the gray flood beside them like the hands of drowning
men.

Sludig's horse pulled up just at the water's edge and the Rimmersman
vaulted down to stand ankle-deep in muddy water. "I am not sure I see
the improvement, troll," he said, surveying the scene. "At least before we
were on high ground."

"Cut branches," Binabik said, clambering through the mud Coward
him. "Long ones, as many as you can be finding. We will build a raft."

"You are mad!" Sludig snapped.

"Perhaps. But you are the strong one, so you must be the cutter. I have
rope m the packs for binding the limbs together, and I can do that.
Hurry!"

Sludig snorted, but set himself to work. Within moments his sword was
smacking dully against wood.

"If my axes had not been lost on this foolish quest," he panted, "I could
build you a whole longhouse in the time it will take me to chop a tree
with this poor blade."

Binabik said nothing, intent on lashing together the rough spars Sludig
had already knocked loose. When he had finished with what was available,
he went searching for loose wood. He discovered another tributary nearby
that dropped down into a narrow gulley before emptying at last into the
greater flood. A treasure trove of loose limbs had accumulated m the
narrowest spot. Binabik grabbed them up by the armful, hurrying back
and forth between the river and the place where Sludig labored.

"Qantaqa cannot swim so far," Binabik grunted as he carried the last
useful batch. His eyes had drifted to the distant bulk ofSesuad'ra. "But I
cannot be leaving her to find her own way. There is no way for knowing
how long this storm will last. She might never find me again." He
dumped the wood, frowning, then bent to his knots once more, his
fingers threading loops of slender cord around the damp wood. "I cannot
make this raft big enough for all three, not and take that of our belongings
which we must be saving. There is no time."

"Then we will take turns being in the water," Sludig said. He shud-
dered, staring at the ram-pocked flood. "Elysia, Mother of God, but I hate
the thought of it."

"Clever Sludig! You are right. We need only make it big enough for
one of us to rest while the other two are swimming, and we will go into
the water one .after the other." Binabik allowed himself a thin smile. "You

536

Tad Williams

Rimmersmen have not lost all your seagoing blood, I see." As he redou-
bled his efforts, a furious groan rolled through the woods. They looked
up, startled, to see a massive white shape on the promontory only a few
short furlongs away-

"God curse them!" Sludig moaned, hacking frenziedly at a slender
trunk. "Why do they pursue us! Do they seek the sword?*'

Bmabik shook his head. "Almost done," he said. "Two more long ones

I am needing.*'

The white figure on the hillside above quickly became several figures, a
pack of furious ghosts that raised their long arms against the storming sky.
The giants' voices rolled and boomed across the water, as though they
threatened notjust the puny creatures below, but the Stone of Farewell
itself, squatting in serene insolence just beyond their reach.

"Done," Bmabik said, tying the last knot. "Let us move it to the water.
If it is not floating, you will have that fight you so desire, Sludig."

It did float, once they had pushed it out past the tangle of drowned
undergrowth. Above the storm came the dull crackling of vegetation
being smashed aside as the giants came pushing their way down the
muddy hillside. Sludig carefully tossed Thorn onto the damp logs. Binabik
hastened back to loot the saddlebags. He dragged one leather sack over
unopened, and Hung it out to Sludig, who stood waist-deep in the murky
water. "Those things are belonging to Simon," the troll called. "They
should not be lost." Sludig shrugged, but pushed the bag on beside the

wrapped sword.

"What about the horses?" Sludig shouted. The howl of their pursuers

was growing louder.

"What can we do?" Binabik said helplessly. "We must set them free!"
He drew his knife and slashed the bridle-traces from Sludig's mount, then
rapidly cut the belly-straps of the packhorses as well, so that their burdens
slid down onto the muddy turf.

"Hurry, troll!" Sludig cried. "They are very close!"

Binabik looked around, his face screwed up m desperate thought. He
bent and rifled one last saddlebag, pulling a few articles out before pelting
down the slope once more and out into the water.

"Get on," growled Sludig.

"Qantaqa!" Binabik shouted. "Come!"

The wolf snarled as she turned to face the ruckus of the oncoming
giants. The horses were rushing in all directions, whinnying with fright.
Suddenly, Sludig's mount broke away through the trees toward the east
and the others swiftly followed. The giants were now quite plain, a few
hundred paces up the hill and descending rapidly, their leathery black faces
gaping as they howled their hunting song. The Huncn carried great clubs
which they whickered back and forth like hollow reeds, smashing a path-
way through the knotted trees and shrubbery.

STONE OF FAREWELL                 537

"Qantaqa!" Binabik shouted, panic in his voice. "Urnmu nimi! Ummu sosa!"

The wolf turned and bounded coward them, breasting the water then
paddling furiously. Sludig pushed off, taking a few more steps down the
submerged slope until his feet no longer touched the bottom. Before they
were thirty cubits from the water's edge, Qantaqa had caught (hem. She
scrambled over Sludig's back onto the raft, setting it rocking treacherously
and almost sinking the Rimmersman.

"No, Qantaqa!" Bmabik cried,

"Let her be!" Sludig gurgled. "Reach down and paddle!"

The first giant burst from the forest behind them, howling with rage.
His shaggy head twisted from side to side as if he sought some other angle
to head off his prey's escape. When none was apparent, he strode forward
into the water. He went several steps before he suddenly fell forward with
a splash, disappearing from view for a moment beneath the water. When
he surfaced an instant later he was thrashing madly, dirty white fur
festooned with branches. He raised his chin and barked thunderously at the
storm, as though demanding help. His fellows swarmed on the shore
behind him, hooting and groaning with frustrated bloodlust.

The first giant swam awkwardly and unhappily back to the shallows.
He stood up, streaming with water, and reached down an apelike arm to
pull loose a massive tree limb thick as a man's leg. Grunting, he flung it
through the air. The limb hit the water beside the raft with a tremendous
splash, tearing Sludig's cheek with a jutting branch and nearly upsetting
the crude boat. Stunned, Sludig foundered. Bmabik disentangled himself
from Qantaqa and leaned forward, hooking the toes of his boots into gaps
between the beams of the pitching raft. The little man clutched the
Rimmersman's wrist with both hands until Sludig recovered. The giants
hurled more missiles, but none came as close as the first. Their thwarted
bellows seemed to rumble across all the flooded valley.

Cursing giants and rafts equally. Sludig pushed off with his long Qanuc
spear until they at last floated free of clinging branches. He began to kick,
pushing the raft and its unlikely cargo out across the chill gray water
toward the shadowy stone.

^

Eolair rode east from his ancestral home of Nad Mullach beneath night
skies a-flicker with strange lights. The countryside around his captured
stronghold had proved less hospitable than he had hoped. Many of his
people had already been driven away by the misfortunes of war and the
terrible weather, and those who remained were reluctant to open their
doors to a stranger—even if that stranger claimed to be the ruling count.
Occupied Hernystir was a land held prisoner more by fear than by enemy
soldiers.

538 Tad Williams

Few others were abroad by night, which was when Eolair did most of
his traveling Even Skali of Kaldskryke's men, despite their conquerors'
crowns, seemed reluctant to stir forth, as if taking on the character of
those they had conquered In this gnm summer of snow and restless
spirits, even the war's victors bowed before a greater power

Eolair was more than ever certain that he must find Josua, if the prince
still lived Maegwm might have sent him on this quest because of some
odd or spiteful notion, but now it seemed laughably apparent that the
north of Osten Ard had fallen beneath a shadow of more than human
ongm, and that the riddle of the sword Bnght-Nail might very well have
something to do with it Why else would the gods have arranged that
Eolair should be in that monstrously strange city beneath the ground, or
that he should meet its even stranger denizens5 The Count of Nad Mullach
was a pragmatist by nature His long years of service to the king had
hardened his heart to fantasy, but at the same time his experience of
diplomacy had also made him mistrustful of excessive coincidence To
suggest that there was no overriding supernatural element to the summer-
that-was-wmter, the reappearance of creatures out of legend, and the
sudden importance of forgotten but near-mythical swords was to close
one's eyes to a reality as plain as the mountains and the seas

Also, despite all his endless days in the court of Erkynland, Nabban,
and Perdrum, and for all his cautious words to Maegwm, Eolair was a
Herynstirman More than any other mortal men, the Hemystin remembered

As Eolair rode into Erkynland, across bleak Utanyeat coward the battle
site of Ach Samrath, the storm grew stronger The snow, however unsea-
sonable, had until now fallen only moderately, as it might in the early
days ofNovander Now the winds were rising, changing the flat country-
side into a flurrying landscape of white nothingness The cold was so
fierce that he was forced to abandon night nding altogether for a few days,
but he worried little about being recognized- the roads and countryside
were all but deserted even at gray, blustery noon He noted with sour
satisfaction that Utanyeat—the earldom of Guthwulf, one of High King
Ellas' favorites—was as storm-wounded as any of Hernystir There was
some justice, after all

Trekking endlessly through white emptiness, he found himself thinking
often of his people left behind, but especially of Maegwm Although m some
ways she had become almost as wild and intractable as a beast since the
death other father and brother, he had always felt great affection toward her
That was not yet gone, but it was hard not to feel betrayed by her treatment
of him, no matter how well he thought he understood its cause Still, he
could not bring himself to hate her He had been a special fnend to her since
she had been a little girl, making a point of speaking with her whenever he
was at court, letting her show him the Taig's gardens, as well as the pigs

STONE OF FAREWELL                 539

and chickens to which she gave names, and which she treated with the
same annoyed fondness a mother might show her reckless children

As she grew, becoming as tall as a man—but none the less comely for
it—Eolair had watched her also become steadily more reserved, only
occasionally showing the flashes ofgirhshness which had so delighted him
before She seemed to turn inward, like a rosebush balked by an over-
hanging roof that coiled in on itself until its own thorns rubbed its stems
raw She still reserved special attention for Eolair, but that attention was
more and more confusing, more and more made up of awkward silences
and her angry self-recnmmations

For a while he had thought she cared for him as more than just a fnend
of her family and distant kinsman He had wondered whether two such
solitary folk could ever find cheir way together—Eolair, for all his easy
speech and cleverness, had always felt that the best part of himself was
hidden far beneath the surface, just as his quiet hill-keep at Nad Mullach
stood remote from the bustle of the Taig But even as he had finally
begun to think m earnest about Maegwm—even as his admiration for her
honesty and for her impatience with nonsense had begun to ripen into
something deeper—she had turned cold to him She seemed to have
decided that Eolair was only another of the legion of idlers and flatterers
that surrounded King Lluth

One long afternoon in eastern Utanyeat, as the snow stung his face and
he wandered far away m thought, he suddenly wondered Was I wrong7
Did she care for me all that time^ It was a horrifying thought, because it
suddenly turned the world he knew on its head and gave vastly different
meaning to everything that had transpired between them since Maegwm
had become a woman

Hav? I been bimd^ But if that were so, why should she act so backwardly to
me7 Have I not always treated her with respect and kindness^

After turning the idea over in his head for a long hour, he put it away
again It was too uncomfortable to consider any longer here in the middle
of nowhere, with months or more between now and when he could see
her again

And she had sent him away in anger, had she not5

The wind picked restlessly at the unsettled snow.

He rode past Ach Samrath on a morning when the storm had abated
somewhat, stopping his horse on a rise above the ancient battlefield where
Prince Sinnach and ten thousand of his Hernystirmen had been destroyed
by Fingil ofRimmersgard and the treachery of the Thnthmgs-lord Niyunort
As on the few other occasions he had visited this site, Eolair felt a shiver
climb through him as he looked down at the great, flat field, but this time
it was not prompted by the gnsly past With the freezing wind on his face
and the cold, blank face of the north stanng down at him, he suddenly

540 Tad Williams

realized that by the time this new and greater war had ended—whether on
a battlefield or beneath a remorseless tide of black winter—it might be in a
frenzy of death that would make Ach Samrath seem a petty dispute.

He rode on, his anger turning to ice inside him. Who had set this great
thing in motion? Who had set this evil wheel to turning? Had it been Ehas,
or his pet serpent Pryrates? If so, there should be a special Hell prepared
for them. Eolair only hoped he would be around to sec them sent there—
maybe on the end of Prester John's Bright-Nail, if the subterranean
dwarrows spoke rightly.

As Eolair came to the edge ofAldheorte, he reverted once more to night
riding. The storm's teeth seemed a little duller here in Ehas' realm, only a
dozen leagues from the outskirts ofErchester, and he also thought it safer
not to count on the mfrequency of meeting other travelers any longer—
here, that infrequent other traveler was likely to be one of the High King's
Erkynguard.

Beneath the shadow of the great wood, the silent, snow-blanketed
farmlands seemed to wait apprehensively for whatever might come next,
as chough this storm were only the precursor of some darker deed. Eolair
knew that these were his own feelings, but also felt strongly that they
were not his alone: a sense of dread hung over Erkynland, filling the
air like a terrible, will-sapping fog. The few lone farmers and woodsmen
whose wagons he saw on the road did not respond to his greetings except to
make the sign of the Tree as they passed him on the moonless roads, as
chough Eolair might be some demon or walking dead man. But their
torches revealed chat ic was their own faces that had gone slack and pale as
the masks of corpses, as though the fearful winds and constant snow had
leached the very life from them.

He approached Thisterborg. The great hill stood only a few leagues
from Erchester's gates, and was the closest he would come to the Hayholt—
from which, on certain of the blackest nights, he could almost feel Ehas'
sleepless malice burning like a torch in a high tower. It was only the High
King, he reminded himself, a mortal man whom he had once respected,
although never liked. Whatever mad plans Elias had made, whatever
dreadful bargains, he was still only a man.

Thisterborg's peak seemed to flicker as the count drew nearer, as though
high on the hillcrest great watchfires burned. Eolair wondered if Elias had
made it a guard post, but could think of no reason why. Did the High
King fear some invasion from the ancient forest, the Aldheorte? It mat-
tered little, in any case. Eolair was firmly resolved to circle Thisterborg on
the far side from Erchester, and felt no urge whatsoever to investigate the
mysterious lights. The black hill had an evil reputation that extended back
far beyond the days of even Elias' father, King John. Stories about
Thisterborg were many, none of them pleasant to hear. In such days as

STONE OF FAREWELL                 541

these, Eolair wished he could avoid coming any closer than a league or so,
but the forest—another dubious place to be at night—and the walls of
Erchester prevented such a judiciously wide swing.

He had just started around the north of the hill, his mount picking its
way through the ever-thickening trees of Aldheorte's fringe, when he felt
a wave of fear sweep over him that was unlike anything he had ever
experienced. His heart hammered and a chill sweat broke out on his face,
then turned almost immediately to fragile ice; Eolair felt like a fieldmouse
that, too late for escape, suddenly perceived the stooping hawk. He had to
restrain himself from digging in his spurs and riding madly in whatever
direction he was already facing. He whirled, looking wildly for whatever
might be the cause of such dreadful terror, but could see nothing.

At last he slapped his horse's flank and rode a short distance farther into
the shielding trees. Whatever had caused him to feel this way, it seemed a
product of the unprotected snows rather than the shadowy forest.

The storm was much less fierce here, as it had been since he had entered
Aldheorte's lee: but for a sprinkling of snow, the sky was clear. A vast
yellow moon hung in the eastern sky, turning all the landscape to a sickly
shade of bone. The Count of Nad Mullach looked up at the looming bulk
of Thisterborg, wondering if that could be the source of his sudden fright,
but could see or hear nothing extraordinary. A part of him wondered if he
had not been nding too long alone with his morbid thoughts, but that part
was easily ignored. Eolair was a Hernystirman. Herynstin remembered.

A thin sound, an unidentifiable but persistent scraping, began to make
itself heard. He looked down from secretive Thisterborg and turned his
gaze westward across the snows, toward the direction from which he had
come. Something was moving slowly across the white plain.

The chill of fear grew deeper, spreading through him like a prickling
frost. As his horse moved uncomfortably, Eolair put a trembling hand on
its neck; the beast, as if it perceived his own terror, suddenly became very
still. Their twin plumes of breath were the only moving things in the
shadow of the trees.

The scraping grew louder. Eolair could now see the shapes moving
closer over the snows, a mass of luminous white followed by a lump of
blackness. Then, with the stark unreality of a nightmare, the gleaming
shapes came clear.

It was a team of white goats, shaggy pelts glowing as though with
captured moonlight. Their eyes were red as embers, and their heads
seemed somehow gravely wrong: when he thought of it afterward he could
never say why, except that the shapes of their hairless muzzles seemed to
suggest some kind of unpleasant intelligence. The goats, nine in all, drew
behind them a great black sled; it was the sound of the runners crunching
through the snow that he had heard. Seated on the sled was a hooded
figure that even across a distance of some hundred cubits seemed too

542 Tad Williams

large Several other, smaller black-robed figures marched solemnly along-
side, hoods tilted downward like monks m meditation

An almost uncontrollable horror ran up Eolair's spine His horse had
turned to stone beneath him, as if fright had stopped its heart and left it
dead upon its feet The ghastly procession scraped past, agonizingly slow,
silent but for the noise of the sled Just as the robed figures were about to
vanish into the darkness ofThistcrborg's lowest slopes, one of the hooded
shapes turned, showing Eolair what he fancied was a flash of skeletal
white face, black holes that might have been eyes The part of his shrieking
thoughts that was still coherent thanked the gods of his and all other
peoples for the shadows of the forest's fringe The hooded eyes turned
away at last The sled and its escort vanished into the snowy woods of
Thisterborg

Eolair stood a long time, allowing himself to tremble, but did not move
from the spot until he was sure it was safe His teeth had been so tightly
clenched that his jaws ached He felt as though he had been stripped raw
and tumbled down a long black hole When he dared to move at last, he
threw himself onto his horse's neck and galloped away into the east as
swiftly as he could His mount, eager as he, needed no spurs, no crop
They whirled away in a cloud of snow

As Eolair fled Thisterborg and its mysteries, running eastward beneath
the mocking moon, he knew that everything he had feared was true, and
that there were things in the world that were worse even than his fears

^

Ingen Jegger stood beneath the spreading arms of a black hemlock,
unmindful of the bitter wind or the frost growing in his close-cropped
beard But for the impatient life in his pale blue eyes, he might have been a
luckless traveler, frozen to death waiting for a morning's warmth that
came too late

The huge white hound crouching in the snow at his feet stirred, then
made an inquiring sound like the scrape of rusty hinges

"Hungry, Niku'a5" A look almost of fondness ran across Ingen's taut
features "Quiet Soon, you will have your fill "

Motionless, Ingen watched and listened, sifting the night like a whisk-
ered beast of prey The moon crept from one gap in the overhanging trees
to another The forest, but for the wind, was silent

"Ah " Satisfied, he took a few steps and shook the snow from his cloak
"Now, Niku'a Call your brothers and sisters Howl up the Stormspike
pack' It is time for the last chase "

Niku'a leaped up, quivering with excitement As if it had understood
Ingen's every word, the great hound trotted out into the middle of the
clearing before settling back on its haunches and lifting its snout to the

543

STONE OF FAREWELI

sky Powerful throat muscles convulsed, and a coughing howl shattered
the night Even as the first echoes died, Niku'a's strident voice burst out
again, hacking and baying The very branches of the trees trembled

They waited, Ingen's gloved hand resting on the dog's wide head Time
passed Niku'a's cloudy white eyes gleamed as the moon slid along be-
tween the trees At last, as night's coldest hour crept in, the faint cnes of
hounds came sweeping down the wind

The belling rose until it filled the forest A host of white shapes ap-
peared from the darkness, filtering into the clearing like four-legged ghosts.
The Stormspike hounds wove in and out among the tree roots, narrow,
sharkhke heads questing and sniffing Starlight gleamed on muzzles smeared
with blood and spittle Niku'a went among them, nipping, snarling, until
at last the whole pack crouched or lay in the snow around Ingen Jegger,
red tongues lolling

The Queen's Huntsman calmly looked over his strange congregation,
then picked his snarling, dog-faced helm from the ground

"Too long have you been roaming free," he hissed, "harrying the forest
fringes, stealing babies like kennel cubs, running down foolish travelers
for the joy of the chase Now your master has come back Now you must
do what you were bred to do " The milky eyes followed him as he moved
to his horse, which waited with supernatural patience beneath the hem-
lock "But this time / will lead, not you It is a strange chase, and Ingen
alone has been taught the scent." He pulled himself up into the saddle
"Run silently " He lowered the helmet onto his head, so that hound
looked at hounds "We take death to the Queen's enemies "

A low growling rose from the dogs as they rose and came together,
sliding against one another, snapping at each other's faces and tails in fierce
anticipation Ingen spurred his horse forward, then turned "Follow'" he
cried "Follow to death and blood'"

He passed swiftly from the clearing The pack ran after, voiceless now,
silent and white as snowfall

^

Huddled deep in his cloak, Isgnmnur sat in the bow of the small boat
and watched stubby Sinetns rowing and sniffling The duke wore a fixed
expression of grim preoccupation, in part because he found the boatman's
company extremely unrewarding, but mostly because he himself hated
boats, especially small boats like the one on which he was now trapped
Smetns had spoken truthfully about one thing, anyway this was no time
to be on the water A great storm was flailing the entire length of the
coast The choppy water of Firannos Bay constantly threatened to swamp
them, and Sinetns had not stopped moaning since their hull had first
touched the water a week before, some thirty leagues northward

544 Tad Williams

The duke had to admit that Sinetns was a talented boatman, if only in
the defense of his own life The Nabban-man had handled his craft well
under terrible conditions If only he would stop sniveling' Isgnmnur was
no happier about the conditions for their journey than Sinetns was, but he
would be damned to the blackest circle of Hell before he made a fool out
of himself by showing it

'•How far to KwamtupuP" he shouted over the noise of wind and waves

"Haifa day, master monk," Sinetns called back, eyes red and stream-
ing "We will stop soon to sleep, then we can be there by midday
tomorrow "

"Sleep'" Signmnur roared. "Are you madP It is not even dark yet'
Besides, you will only try to sneak away again, and this time I will not be
so merciful If you cease your self-pitying nonsense and work, you can
sleep m a bed tonight'"

"Please, holy brother'" Sinetns almost shrieked "Do not force me to
row in darkness' We will run onto the rocks Our only beds will be down
among the kilpa'"

"Don't hand that superstitious nonsense to me I'm paying you well and
I am in a hurry If you are too weak or sore, let me Cake those paddles for
a while "

The oarsman, wet and cold, still managed a convincing look of wounded
pride "You' You would have us under the water in a moment' No, you
cruel monk, if Sinetns must die, let it be with his oars in his hand, as befits
a Firannos boatman If Sinetns must be torn from his home and the
bosom of his family and sacrificed to the whims of a monster in the robes
of a priest, if he must die . . let it be as a guild-man'"

Isgnmnur groaned "Let it be with his mouth closed, for a change And
keep paddling "

"Rowing," Sinetns replied frostily, then burst into tears once more

It was past midnight when the first stilt-houses of Kwamtupul came
into view Sinetns, whose complaining had faded at last to a low, self-
pitying murmur, nosed the boat into the great network of canals Isgnmnur,
who had briefly fallen asleep, rubbed his eyes and craned his head, looking
around Kwanitupul's ramshackle warehouses and inns were all dusted
with a thin coating of snow

If I doubted that the world had gone topsy-turvy, Isgnmnur thought bemus-
ediy, here is all the proof I need a Rimmersman taking a leaky boat to sea in a
storm, and snow in the southland—in high summer Can any doubt the world has
run mad7

Madness He remembered the hideous death of the lector and felt his
stomach gurgle Madness—or something else7 It was a strange coincidence
that Pryraces and Bemgans should both be in the house of Mother Church
on such a dreadful night Only a stroke of rare luck had brought Isgnmnur

STONE OF FAREWELL                 545

to Dinivan in time to hear the pnest's last words, and perhaps to salvage
something from this grim pass

He had escaped from the Sancellan Aedonitis only moments before
Bemgans, Duke of Nabban, had ordered his guardsmen to bar all doors
Isgnmnur could not have afforded capture—even if he had not been
immediately recognized, his story would not have held up long Hiafmansa
Eve, the night of the lector's murder, had been a bad night to be an
unfamiliar guest at the Sancellan

"Do you know of a place here called Pelippa's Bowf" he asked aloud "1
think it is an inn or a hostel "

"I have never heard of the place, master monk," Sinetns said gravely
"It sounds like a low establishment, one in which Sinetns would not be
seen " Now chat they had reached the relatively still waters of the canals,
the boatman had reassumed much of his dignity Isgnmnur decided he
liked him better when he sniveled

"By the Tree, we will never find it at night Take me to some inn you
know, then I must get something under my belt "

Sinetns steered the tittle craft down a series of cnsscrossing canals to the
city's tavern distnct Things seemed quite lively here despite the late hour,
the boardwalks lined with gansh cloth lanterns that swung in the wind,
the alleyways full of drunken revelers

"This is a fine inn, holy brother," Sinetns said as they glided to a stop at
the dock stairs of a well-lit establishment "There is wine to be had, and
food " Sinetns, feeling bold now that their Journey had ended safely, gave
Isgnmnur a chummy, gap-toothed smile "And women, too " His smile
grew uncertain as he surveyed Isgnmnur's face. "—Or boys, if that is
more to your liking "

The duke forced a great hiss of air between his teeth He reached into
his cloak and pulled out a gold Imperator, then placed it gently on the
rowing bench beside Sinetns' skinny leg Isgnmnur next moved to the
bottommost stair "There is your thievish payment, as I promised Now.
I have a suggestion for how you might spend your evening "

Sinetns looked up wanly. "Yes5"

Isgnmnur drew down his eyebrows in a hornble frown "Spend it
doing your very best to make sure that I do not see you again Because if I
do," he lifted his hairy fist, "I will roll your eyeballs around in your
pointy head Understood3"

Sinetns dropped his oar-blades and backed water hastily, so that Isgnmnur
had to quickly swing his other foot up onto the stairs "So this is how you
monks treat Sinetns after all his favors'?" the boatman said indignantly,
puffing up his thin chest like a courting pigeon "No wonder the church is
in bad repute' You . . bearded barbanan'" He splashed off into the
darkened canal

Isgnmnur laughed harshly, then stumped up the stairs to the inn

546 Tad Williams

After several fitful nights in the grasslands—nights in which he had been
forced to keep a careful watch on the treacherous Smetris, who had several
times tried to slip away and leave Isgnmnur standed on the bleak, wind-
swept coast of Firannos Bay—the Duke of Elvirtshalla took his sleep in
full measure. He remained in bed until the sun was high m the sky, then
broke his fast with a manly portion of bread and honey accompanied by a
stoup of ale. It was nearly noontide before he obtained directions to
Pelippa's Bowl from the innkeeper and was out on the rainy canals once
more. His boatman this time was a Wrannaman, who despite the bitter
wind wore only a loincloth and a broad-brimmed hat with a red, drizzle-
soaked feather drooping from the band. The boatman's sullen silence was
a pleasant change from the ceaseless carping of Smetris. Isgnmnur settled
back to fondle his new-sprouted beard and enjoy the sodden sights of
Kwamtupu), a city he had not visited for many years.

The storm had obviously cast a pall over the trading city. Unless things
had changed greatly since his last sojourn, there should be many more
boats out on the water at midday, many more folk wandering Kwamtupul's
exotic byways. Those who were about seemed to be hurrying to their
destinations. Even the ritual cries of greeting and challenge that rang
between canal boats seemed unusually muted. Like insects, the residents
seemed chilled almost to immobility by the snow that melted in patches
on their wooden walkways, and the wind-borne sleet that stung exposed
limbs and filled the canals with circular ripples.

Here and there among the sparse crowds Isgnmnur saw small gather-
ings of Fire Dancers, the religious maniacs who had gained their notoriety
by self-immolation. They had become a familiar sight to the duke since he
had first reached Nabban. These wild-eyed penitents, uncaring of the cold,
stood on the walkways near busy canal intersections and shouted the
praises of their dark master, the Storm King. Isgrimnur wondered where
they had heard that name. He had never heard it spoken south of the
Frostmarch before, even in a children's bogey-story. It was no coinci-
dence, he knew, but he could not help musing on whether these robed
lunatics were the pawns of someone like Pryrates or true visionaries. If the
latter was the case, then the end they foresaw might be real.

Isgrimnur shuddered at this thought and made the sign of the Tree on
his breast. Black times, these were. For all their shouting, though, the Fire
Dancers did not seem to be engaging in their familiar trick of setting
themselves aflame. The duke smiled sourly. Perhaps it was a little too
damp today.

The boatman stopped at last before an unprepossessing structure in the
warehouse district, far from the centers of commerce. When Isgnmnur
had paid him, the little dark man reached up with his gaff hook and pulled
down the rope ladder from the dock. The duke was scarcely halfway up

STONE OF FAREWELL

547

the swinging ladder before the boatman had turned around and was
coasting out of sight down a side-canal.

Huffing and cursing his fat belly, Isgnmnur at last made his way up
onto the more trustworthy footing of the dock. He rapped at the weather-
worn door, then waited a long time in the freezing ram without answer,
growing increasingly cross- At last the door swung open, revealing a
frowning woman of middle age.

"I uon't know where the half-wit is," she told Isgnmnur as though he
had asked. "It's not enough that I have to do every other lick of work
here, but now I have to answer the door as well."

For a moment the duke was so taken aback that he almost apologized.
He struggled with his impulse toward chivalry. "I want a room," he said
at last.

"Well, come in, then," the woman said doubtfully, opening the door
wider. Beyond lay a makeshift boathouse that stank of tar and old fish. A
couple of hulls were laid out like casualties of battle. In the corner, a
brown arm protruded from a huddle of blankets For a moment Isgrimnur
thought it was a corpse that had been carelessly thrown into the doorway;

when the arm moved, pulling the blankets closer, he realized that it was
only someone sleeping. He had a sudden premonition that he might not
find the accommodations here up to the best standards, but he forced the
thought down.

You're getting jussy, old man, he chided himself. On the battlefield, you've
slept m mud and blood and the nests of biting flies.

He had a mission, he reminded himself. His own comfort was secondary.

"By the way," he called after the innkeeper, whose brisk steps had
taken her almost the entire length of the dooryard, "I'm looking for
someone." Suddenly he could not recall the name Dimvan had told him-
He stopped, running his fingers through his damp beard, then remem-
bered- "Tiamak. I'm looking for Tiamak."

When the woman turned, her sour expression had been supplanted by a
look of greedy pleasure. "You?" she said. "You're the one with the gold?"
She opened her arms wide as though to embrace him. Despite the dozen
cubits that separated them, the duke took a step backward, repelled. The
bundle of blankets m the comer began to wiggle like a nest of piglets, then
felt away. A small and very thin Wrannaman sat up, eyes still half-closed
from sleep.

"I am Tiamak," he said, trying to stifle a yawn. As he surveyed
Isgnmnur, the marsh-man's face seemed to show disappointment, as
though he had expected something better. The duke felt his annoyance
returning. Were all these people mad? Who did they think he was, or
expect him to be?

"I bring you tidings," Isgrimnur said stiffly, uncertain of how to pro-
ceed. "But we should talk in private."

548 Tad Williams

"I will show you to your room," the woman said hastily, "the finest in
the house, and the little brown gentleman—another honored guest—can
join you there "

Isgnmnur had just turned back to Tiamak, who seemed to be dressing
awkwardly beneath the blankets, when the inside door of the inn thumped
open and a horde of children barged through, whooping like Thnthmgs-
men at war They were pursued by a tall, white-haired old man, who
grinned from ear to ear as he pretended to stalk them They fled him with
shrieks of delight, and crashed through the door leading out to the dock
Before he could pursue them any further the landlady stepped before him,
fists on hips

"Damn you for a simple ass, Cealho, you are here to answer the door'"
The old man, chough considerably taller, cowered before her as though
expecting a blow "I know you are addled-pated, but you are not deaf
Did you not hear someone knocking at the door5"

The old man moaned wordlessly The landlady turned from him m
disgust "He's as stupid as a stone," she began, then broke off, staring, as
Isgnmnur dropped to his knees

The duke felt the world tilt, as though giant hands had lifted it It took
long moments before he could speak, moments in which the landlady, the
little Wrannaman. and the old doorkeeper looked at him with varying
degrees of uneasy fascination When Isgnmnur spoke, it was to the old
man

"My lord Camans," he said, and felt his voice catch in his throat The
world had gone mad now the dead lived again "Merciful Elysia, Camans,
do you not remember me7 I am Isgnmnur' We fought for Prester John
together—we were fnends' Ah, God, you live' How can that be'"

He reached his hand out to the old man, who took it as a child might
take something shiny or colorful offered by a stranger The old man's grip
was callused, with a great strength that could be felt even as his hand lay
flaccidly in Isgnmnur's own His handsome face showed only smiling
incomprehension

"What are you saying3" the landlady said crossly "That's old Ceallio,
the doorkeeper Been here for years He's a simpleton "

"Camans    " Isgnmnur breathed as he pressed the old man's hand to
his cheek, wetting it with tears He could scarcely speak, "Oh, my good
lord, you live "

28

Sparks

-L/t/Ol/l'l't/ the unceasing loveliness ofJao e-Tunukai'i, or perhaps
because of it, Simon was bored He was also unutterably lonely

His imprisonment was a strange thing the Sithi did not hinder him, but
other than Jinki and Adieu, they continued to show no interest in him,
either Like a queen's lapdog, he was well fed and well cared for, allowed
to roam wherever he could go, but only because the outside world was
beyond his reach Like a prize pet, he amused his masters, but was not
taken seriously When he spoke to them, they responded politely in
Simon's own Westerhng speech, but among themselves they spoke the
liquid Sithi tongue Only a few recognizable words ever reached his ear,
but whole rivers of incomprehensible talk flowed around him The suspi-
cion that they might be discussing him in their private conversations
infuriated him The possibility that they might not, that they might never
think of him except when in his presence, was somehow even worse. IE
made him feel insubstantial as a ghost

Since his interview with Amerasu, the days had begun to flit past even
more rapidly As he lay m his blankets one night, he realized he could no
longer say for certain how long he had been among the Sithi Aditu, when
asked, claimed not to remember Simon Cook the same question to Jinki,
who fixed him with a look of great pity and asked whether he truly
wished to count the days Chilled by the implication, Simon demanded
the truth Jinki told him that a little over a month had passed

That had been some days ago

The nights were the most difficult In his nest of blankets in Jinki's
house, or roaming the soft, damp grass beneath strange stars, Simon
tormented himself with impossible plans for escape, plans that even he
knew were as impractical as they were desperate He became more and
more morose He knew Jinki was worried for him, and even Adieu's
quicksilver laugh seemed forced Simon knew that he was speaking con-
stantly of his misery, but could not hlue it—moreover, he did not want to
hide it Whose fault was it chat he was crapped here?

550 Tad Williams

They had saved his life, of course. Would it truly have been better to die
by freezing or slow starvation, he chided himself, rather than living as a
pampered, if restricted, guest in the most wonderful city in Osten Ard?
But even though such ingratitude might be shameful, he still could not
reconcile himself to his blissful prison.

Every day was much the same. He wandered through the forest alone,
or threw stones into the countless streams and rivers, and thought of his
friends. In the sheltering summer of Jao e-Tmukai'i, it was hard to
imagine how they must all be suffering in the dreadful winter outside.
Where was Bmabik? Miriamele? Prince Josua? Did they even live? Had
they fallen beneath the black storm, or did they still struggle?

Growing ever more frantic, he begged Jiriki to let him speak to Amerasu
again, to plead for her help in setting him free, butJinki declined.

"It is not my place to instruct First Grandmother. She will act in her
own time, when she has thought carefully. I am sorry, Seoman, bur these
matters are too important to hurry."

"Hurry!" Simon raged. "By the time anyone does anything m this
place, I will be dead!"

ButJiriki, although visibly saddened, remained adamant.

Balked at every turn, Simon's anxiousness began to turn to anger. The
reserved Sithi came to seem smug and self-nghteous beyond enduring.
While Simon's friends were fighting and dying, engaged in a dreadful
losing battle with the Storm King as well as with Elias, these foolish
creatures wandered through their sunlit forest singing and contemplating
the trees. And who was the Storm King, anyway, but a Sithi!? No
wonder that his fellows were keeping Simon prisoned while the world
outside withered before Ineluki's cold wrath.

So the days spun by, each more and more like its predecessor, each
increasing Simon's disaffection. He ceased taking his evening meal with
Jiriki, preferring a more solitary appreciation of the songs of crickets and
nightingales. Resentful of Aditu's playfulness, he began to avoid her. He
was sick of being teased and fondled. He meant no more to her, he knew,
than the lapdog did to the queen. He would have no more. If he must be a
prisoner, he would act like one.

Jiriki found him sitting in a copse of larch trees, sullen and prickly as a
hedgehog. The bees were mumbling m the clover and the sun streamed
down through the needles, crosshatchmg the ground with shvers of light.
Simon was chewing on a piece of bark.

"Seoman," the prince said, "may I speak to you?"

Simon frowned. He had learned that Sithi, unlike mortals, would actu-
ally go away if permission was not given. Jinki's folk had a deep respect
for privacy.

"I suppose so," Simon said at last.

STONE OF FAREWELL                 551

"I would like you to come with me," Jiriki said. "We will go to the
Yasira."

Simon felt a quickening of hope, but it was a painful thing. "Why?"

"I do not know. I only know that we are all asked to come, all who live
in Jao e-Tinukai'i. Since you live here now, I think it fitting that you
come."

Simon's hopes sank. "They did not ask for me." For a moment he had
envisioned how it would be: Shima'onari and Likimeya apologizing for
their mistake, sending him back to his own kind bearing presents, laden as
well with the wisdom to help Josua and the others. Another mooncalf
daydream—hadn't he grown out of them yet? "I don't want to go," he
said at last.

Jiriki squatted beside him, poised as gracefully as a hunting bird upon a
branch. "I wish that you would, Seoman," he said at last. "I cannot force
you and I will not plead, but •Amerasu will be there. It is rare indeed for
her to ask to speak to our people, except when it is the Day of
Year-Dancing."

Simon felt his interest quicken. Perhaps Amerasu was going to speak on
his behalf, order them to let him go! But if that was the case, why hadn't
he been asked to come?

He feigned indifference. Whatever else occurred, he was steadily learn-
ing Sithi ways. "There you go about Year-Dancing again, Jinki," he said.
"But you have never told me what it means. I saw the Year-Dancing
grove, you know."

Jiriki appeared to be suppressing a smile. "Not very closely, I think. But
come, Seoman, you are playing a game. Some other time 1 will tell you
what I can of the responsibilities of our family's house, but now I must
go. You, too, if you plan to accompany me."

Simon tossed the piece of chewed-upon bark over his shoulder. 'Tli go
if I can sit near the door. And if I don't have to speak."

"You can sit wherever you please, Snowlock. You are a prisoner,
perhaps, but an honored one. My people are trying to make your time
here endurable. As to the rest, I have no say over what you may be asked.
Come, you are almost grown, manchild. Do not be afraid to stand for
yourself."

Simon frowned, considering. "Lead on, then," he said.

They stopped before the doorway of the great living tent. The butter-
flies were agitated, fluttering their spangled wings so that shifting patterns
colored shadow rippled across the face of the Yasira like wind through a
field of wheat- The papery rustle of their gentle commingling filled the
whole glen. Suddenly unwilling to proceed through the door, Simon
pulled back, shaking himself free ofJinki's companionable arm.

"1 don't want to hear anything bad," he said. There was a cold heaviness

552 Tad Williams

m the pit of his stomach, the same as he had felt when he expected
punishment from Rachel or the Master of Scullions. "I don't want to be
shouted at "

Jinki looked at him quizzically "No one will shout, Seoman That is not
our way, we Zida'ya This may be nothing to do with you at all "

Simon shook his head, embarrassed "Sorry. Of course " He took a
deep breath and shrugged nervously, then waited until Jinki gently took
his arm once more and steered him Coward the Yasira's rose-entwined
doorway A thousand thousand butterfly wings hissed like a dry wind as
Simon and his companion stepped through into the vast bowl of multi-
hued light.

Likimeya and Shima'onan, as before, were seated at the center of the
room on low couches near the jutting finger-stone. Amerasu sat between
them on a higher couch, the hood other pale gray robe thrown back Her
snowy white hair, unbound, spread m a soft cloud upon her shoulders.
She wore a sash of bright blue around her slender waist, but no other
ornamentation or jewelry

As Simon stared, her eyes passed briefly across his. If he hoped for a
helpful smile or a reassuring nod, he was disappointed her gaze slid by as
though he were just one unexceptional tree m a great forest. His heart
sank. If any ideas remained about Amerasu's being concerned with moon-
calf Simon's fate, he decided, it was time to put them away.

Beside Amerasu, on a pedestal of dull gray rock, stood a curious object-
a disk of some pale icy substance, mounted on a broad stand of dark and
shiny witchwood wrought with twining Sttm carvings. Simon thought it
a table-mirror—he had heard that some great ladies possessed them—but,
oddly, it did not seem to reflect The disk's edges were sharp as knives,
like a sugar-sweet that had been sucked to near-transparency Its color was
the frosty near-white of a winter moon, but other, deeper hues seemed to
move sleepily within it. A wide, shallow bowl of the same translucent
substance lay before the stone disk, nestled in the carved stand

Simon could not stare at the thing too long. The changing colors
disturbed him. in some strange manner, the shifting stone reminded him
of the gray sword Sorrow, and that was a memory he did not wish
reawakened He turned his head away and looked slowly around the great
chamber.

As Jinki had suggested, all the residents ofJao e-Tmukai'i seemed to
have come to the Yasira this afternoon. Dressed m their emphatically
colorful manner, plumed like rare birds, still the golden-eyed Sithi seemed
unusually reserved, even by the standards of a retiring folk Many eyes had
turned toward Simon and Jinki upon their entrance, but no one gaze had
lingered long the attention of all assembled seemed fixed on the three
figures at the center of the vast tree-chamber. Glad of the anonymity,
Simon chose a place on the outskirts of the silent crowd for Jinki and

STONE OF FAREWELL                 553

himself to sit He did not see Aditu anywhere, but he knew she would be
hard to pick out in the midst of such an array

For a long time there was no movement or speech, although it seemed
to Simon chat there were hidden currents moving just beneath his own
understanding, subtle communications shared by everyone in the room
but him Still, he was not so insensitive that he failed to perceive the
tension of the quiet Sithi, the clear sense of uneasy anticipation There was
a sharpness to the air, as before a lightning storm

He had begun to wonder if they would go on this way all afternoon,
like a group of cat-rivals gathered on a wall, silently staring each other
down, when at last Shima'onan rose and began to speak This time, the
master ofJao e-Tinukai'i did not bother with Simon's own Westerlmg
tongue, but used the musical Sithi speech He spoke for some while,
accompanying his soliloquy with graceful hand gestures, the sleeves of his
pale yellow robe fluttering as he emphasized his words. To Simon, it was
only confusion piled atop incomprehensibility.

"My father speaks of Amerasu and asks us to listen to her," Jinki
whispered, translating- Simon was dubious Shima'onan seemed to have
spoken a very long timejust to say that He glanced around the Yasira at
the somber, cat-eyed faces Whatever Jinki's father was saying, he had the
undivided and almost fnghtenmgly complete attention of his people

When Shima'onan concluded, Likimeya rose, and all eyes then turned
to her. She, too, spoke for a long time in the language of the Zida'ya

"She says Amerasu is very wise," explained Jinki. Simon frowned.

When Likimeya finished a great, gentle sigh arose, as chough all assem-
bled had released their breath at once. Simon let out his own quiet sigh, one
of relief as the incomprehensible babble of Sithi-tongue went on and on,
he had been finding it harder and harder to concentrate. Even the butter-
flies were moving restlessly above, the colorful sun-patterns made by their
wings swimming back and forth across the great chamber.

At last Amerasu stood She seemed much less frail than she had in her
house. Simon had thought her then like a martyred saint, but now he saw
in her a Couch of the angelic, a power that smoldered low but which
could burst out into pure white light. Her long hair moved in a breeze that
might have come from the careful movement of a million wings

"I see that the mortal child is here," she said, "so I will speak in a way
that he can understand, as much of what I say came from him. He has a
right to hear "

Several Sithi turned their heads to gaze impassively at Simon Caught
by surprise, he dropped his chin and looked down at his chest until they
had turned away once more.

"In fact," Amerasu continued, "strange as this may sound, it is possible
that some of the things I must say are better suited to the languages of the
Sudhoda'ya The mortals have always lived beneath one kind of darkness

554 Tad Williams

or another That is among the reasons we named them 'sunset-children'
when they first came to Osten Ard " She paused "The manchildren, the
mortals, have many ideas of what happens after they die and wrangle
about who is right and who is wrong These disagreements often come to
bloodshed, as if the} wished to dispatch messengers who could discover
the answer to their dispute Such messengers, as far as I know of mortal
philosophy, never return to give their brethren the taste of truth they
yearn for

"But among the mortal peoples there are stones that say that some do
return as bodiless spirits, although they bring no answers with them
These spirits, these ghosts, are mute reminders of that shadow of death
Those who encounter such unhomed spirits call themselves 'haunted
Amerasu took a breath, her immense composure seemed to slip It was a
moment before she resumed "That is a word we Zida'ya do not have, but
perhaps we should "

The silence, but for the murmur of delicate wings, was absolute

"We fled out of the Uttermost East, thinking to escape that Unbemg
that overwhelmed our Garden-land That story is known to all but the
mortal boy—even those of our children born after the Flight from Asu'a
take it in with their mother's milk—and so it will not be told again here

"When we reached this new land, we thought we had escaped that
shadow But a piece of it came with us That stain, that shadow, is part of
us—just as the mortal men and women of Osten Ard cannot escape the
shadow of their own dying

"We are an old people We do not fight the unfightable That is why we
fled Venyha Do'sac, rather than be unmade in a fruitless struggle But the
curse of our race is not that we refuse to throw down our lives in
purposeless defiance of the great shadow, but that we instead clasp the
shadow to ourselves and hug it tightly, gleefully, nursing it as we would a
child

"We brought the shadow with us Perhaps no living, reasoning thing
can be without such shadow, but we Zida'ya—despite our lives, beside
which the spans of mortals are like fireflies—still we cannot ignore that
shadow that is death We cannot ignore the knowledge of Unbemg
Instead, we carry it with us like a brooding secret

"The mortals must die. and they are frightened by that We who were
once of the Garden must also die, although our span is vastly greater, but
we each embrace our death from the moment we first open our eyes,
making it an insoluble part of us We yearn for its complete embrace, even
as the centuries roll bv, while around us the death-fearing mortals breed
and drop like mice We make our death the core of our being, our private
and innermost friend, letting life spin past as we enjoy Unbemg's grave
company

"We would not give Ruyan Ve's children the secret of our near-

r

555

STONE OF FAREWELL

immortality, though they were stock of the same tree We denied eternal
life to Ruyan's folk, the Tmukeda'ya, even as we clasped Death tighter
and tighter to our own bosoms We are haunted, my children The mortal
word is the only correct one We are haunted "

He did not understand most of what First Grandmother said but
Amerasu's voice worked on Simon like the scolding of a loving parent He
felt small and unimportant, but reassured that the voice was there and that
it spoke to him The Sithi around him maintained their careful impassivity

"Then the ship-men came," Amerasu said, her voice deepening, "and
were not content to live and die within the walls of Osten Ard as the
mortal mice before them had been They were not satisfied with the
morsels we tossed to them We Zida'ya could have stopped their depreda-
tions before they became great, but instead we grieved over the loss of
beauty while secretly rejoicing Our death was coming9—a glorious and final
ending that would make the shadows real My husband lyu'unigato was
one such His gentle, poetic heart loved death more than it ever loved his
wife or the sons of his loins "

For the first time a quiet whisper began to travel through the assembly,
an uneasy murmur scarcely louder than the rustle of the butterflies over-
head Amerasu smiled sadly

"It is hard to hear such things," she said, "but this is a time when truth
must be spoken Of all the Zida'ya, only one truly did not yearn for quiet
oblivion He was my son Ineluki, and he burned I do not mean the manner
of his dying—that may be seen as a cruel irony, or as a fated inevitability
No, Ineluki burned with life, and his light dispelled the shadows—at least
some of them

"All know what happened All know that Ineluki slew his gentle father,
that he was then unmade at the last, bringing Asu'a to destruction as he
struggled to save himself and all his folk from oblivion But his fires were
so fierce that he could not go peacefully into the shadows beyond life I
curse him for what he did to my husband and his people and himself, but
my mother's heart is still proud By the Ships that brought us, he burned
then and he bums still' Ineluki wfU not die9"

Amerasu lifted a hand as a fresh spatter of whispering rolled through the
Yasira "Peace children, peace'" she cried, "First Grandmother has not
herself embraced that shadow I do not praise him for what he is now,
only for the fierce spirit that no other showed, when such a spirit was the
only thing that could save us from ourselves And he did save us, for his
resistance and even his madness gave others the will to flee here, to the
house of our exile " She lowered her hand "No, my son embraced
hatred It kept him from dying a true death, but it was a flame even hotter
than his own, and it has consumed him There is nothing left of the bright
blaze that was my son " Her eyes were hooded "Almost nothing "

When she did not speak for a while, Shima'onan rose as if to go to her,

556

Tad Williams

saying something quietly in the Sithi tongue. Amerasu shook her head.
"No, grandson, let me speak." A touch of anger entered her voice. "This
is all I have left, but if I am not heard, a darkness will descend that will be
unlike the loving death which we sing to in our dreams. It will be worse
than the Unbeing that drove us out of our Garden beyond the sea."

Shima'onari, looking curiously shaken, sat down beside stone-eyed
Likimeya.

"Ineluki has changed," Amerasu resumed. "He has become something
the world has not seen before, a smoldering ember of despair and hatred,
surviving only to redress those things which long ago were injustices and
mistakes and tragic underestimations, but now are simply facts. Like
ourselves, Ineluki dwells in the realm of what was. But unlike his living kin,
Ineluki is not content to wallow in memories of the past. He lives, or
exists—here is a place the mortal language is too inexact—to see the
present state of the world obliterated and the injustices made right, but his
only window is anger. His justice will be cruel, his methods even more

horrible."

She moved to stand beside the object on the stone pedestal, letting her
slim fingers rest gently on the disk's rim. Simon feared that she would cut
herself, and felt an abnormal horror at the idea of seeing blood on Amerasu's
thin, golden skin.

"I have long known that Ineluki had returned, as have all of you.
Unlike some, though, I have not pushed it from my mind, or rolled it
over and over in my thoughts only to enjoy the pain of it, as one prods a
bruise or sore spot. I have wondered, I have thought, and I have spoken
with those few who could help me, trying to understand what might be
growing in the shadows of my son's mind. The last of those who brought
me knowledge was the mortal boy Seoman—although he did not realize,
and still does not, half of what I gleaned from him."

Simon again felt eyes upon him, but his own were helplessly fixed to
Amerasu's luminous face, framed in the great white cloud other hair.

"That is just as well," she said. "The manchild has been fate-battered
and chance-led in many curious ways, but he is no spell-wielder or great
hero. He has fulfilled his responsibilities admirably, but needs no more
heaped upon his young shoulders. But what I learned from him has, I
think, taught me the true shape oflneluki's plan." She took a deep breath,
summoning strength. "It is terrible. I could tell you, but words may not
suffice. I am the eldest of this tribe; I am Amerasu the Ship-Bom. Still
there would be some who would secretly doubt, and others who would
continue to turn their faces away. Many of you would prefer to live with
the beauty of imagined shadows instead of the ugly blackness at the core
of this shadow—of the shadow that my son spreads over us all.

"So I will show you what / have seen, then you will see, too. If we can
still turn our heads away, my children, at least we cannot continue to

STONE OF FAREWELL

557

pretend. We may keep out the winter for a while, but at last it will engulf
us, too." Her voice suddenly rose, plaintive but powerful. "If we are
running joyfully into the arms of death, let us at least admit that is what
we do! Let us for this once see ourselves plainly, even at the ending of
things."

Amerasu let her gaze drop, as though great weariness or sorrow had
overtaken her. There was a moment of silence, then just as a few quiet
conversations had begun, she lifted her face to them once more and placed
her hand on the pale moon-disk.

"This is the Mist Lamp, brought by my mother Senditu out ofTumct'ai
as the creeping hoarfrost swallowed that city. As with the scales of the
Greater Worm, as with the Speakfire, the singing Shard, and the Pool in
great Asu'a, it is a door to the Road of Dreams. It has shown me many
things. Now it is time to share those visions."

Amerasu reached down, lightly touching the bowl before the stone
disk. A blue-white flame sprang up and hovered wickless above the
bowl's pale rim. The disk began to gleam with a secretive light. Then,
even as it grew brighter, the entire chamber of the Yasira started to
darken, until it seemed to Simon that the afternoon had truly withered
away and the moon had fallen from the sky to hang there before him.

"These days, the dream-lands have drawn nearer to our own," Amerasu
said, "just as Ineluki's winter has surrounded and worn away the sum-
mer." Her voice, though clear, seemed but a whisper. "The dream-lands
are troubled, and there will be moments when it is difficult to stay upon
the road, so please lend me your thoughts and quiet assistance. The day is
long passed when the daughters ofJenjiyana could speak as effortlessly
through the Witnesses as from ear to ear." She waved a hand over the disk
and the room grew darker still. The tender scraping of butterfly wings
increased, as though the creatures felt change in the air.

The disk glowed. A bluish stain like fog crept across its face; when it
passed, the Mist Lamp had turned black. In that blackness a scattering of
icy stars appeared and a pale shape began to grow, sprouting up from the
base of the Lamp's disk. It was a mountain, white and sharp as a tusk,
bleak as bone.

"Nakkiga," Amerasu said from the darkness. "The mountain the mor-
tals call Stormspike. The home of Utuk'ku, who hides her agedness
behind a silver mask, unwilling to admit that the shadow of death can
touch her, too. She fears Unbeing more than any other of our race,
though she is the eldest who still lives—the last of the Gardenborn."
Amerasu laughed quietly. "Yes, my great-grandmother is very vain." For
a moment there was a flash of metal, but the Mist Lamp blurred and the
mountain reappeared- "1 can feel her," Amerasu said. "Like a spider, she
waits. No fire of justice bums within her as it bums in Ineluki, however
mad he has become. She wishes only to destroy all who remember how

558 Tad Williams

she was humbled in the dim, dim past when our peoples broke asunder.
She gave my son's raging spirit a home; together they have fed each
other's hatred. Now they are ready to do what they have plotted for so
many centuries. Look!"

The Mist Lamp throbbed. The white mountain loomed closer, steaming
beneath the cold black skies. Then, suddenly, it began to fade back into
darkness. A few moments later it was gone, leaving only sable emptiness.

A long interval passed. Simon, who had been hanging on the Sitha
woman's every word, felt suddenly adrift. The crackling tension in the air
was back, stronger than ever.

"Oh!" Amerasu gasped, startled.

All around Simon the Sithi were shifting, murmuring, as questioning
turned to uneasiness and the seeds of fear began to grow inside them. A
gleam of silver appeared m the center of the Mist Lamp, then spread
outward like oil on a pond, filling the darkened silhouette. The silver
smeared and ran until it became a face, a woman's face, unmoving but for
pale eyes that peered from the darkened slits.

Simon watched the silver mask helplessly, his eyes smarting as they
filled with frightened tears. He could not look away. She was so old and
strong ... so strong . . ,

"It has been many turns of the year, Amerasu ic'e-Sa'onserei." The Nom
Queen's voice was surprisingly melodious, but the sweetness could not
entirely hide the vast corruption beneath. "If has been long, granddaughter.
Are you ashamed of your northern km, that you have not invited us back among
you before?"

"You mock me, Utuk'ku Seyt-Hamakha." There was a quaver in
Amerasu's voice, a frightening note of dismay. "All know the reasons for
your exile and the separation of our families."

"You always loved righteousness, little Amerasu." The scorn in the Norn
Queen's voice made Simon feel as though a fever ran through him. "But
the righteous soon become meddlers, and so it has always been with your Song-
reaching clan. You would not scourge the mortals from the Sand, which might have
saved all. And even after they have destroyed the Gardenborn, you cannot leave
the mortals be." Utuk'ku's breath hissed in and out. "Ah. I see, there is one
among you even now!"

Simon's heart seemed to grow, pushing up into his throat until he could
scarcely breathe. Those terrible eyes staring at him—why didn't Amerasu
make her go away?! He wanted to shout, to run, but could not. The
Sithi-folk around him seemed equally nerveless, struck to stone.

"You oversimplify, grandmother," Amerasu said at last. "When do you
not simply lie."

Utuk'ku laughed, and the sound was something that could set stones to
weeping.

"Fool!" she cried. "I oversimplify? You have overreached. You have long

559

STONE OF  FAREWELL

concerned yourself with the doings of mortals, hut you have missed the most
important things. That will prove your death!"

"I know what you plan!" Amerasu said. "You may have taken from me
what remains of my son, but even through death, I have discerned his
mind. I have seen ..."

"Enough'" Utuk'ku's angry cry blew through the Yasira, a chill gust of
wind that bent the grass and set the butterflies to panicky fluttering
"Enough. You have spoken your last and condemned yourself. It is death!"

Ternfymgly, Amerasu began to quiver in the dim light, struggling
against some invisible restraint, her eyes wide, her mouth moving without
sound.

"And you will not interfere further—any of you!" The Norn Queen's voice
was rising to a dreadful pitch. "The false peace is over' Over! Nakkiga
renounces you all!"

All around the Yasira the Sithi were shouting with amazement and
anger. Likemeya rushed forward to the darkened figure of Amerasu, even
as Utuk'ku's face shimmered and vanished from the Mist Lamp. The
Witness fell dark for a moment, but only a moment. A tiny spot of red
kindled in the Lamp's center, a small spark which grew steadily until it
was a rippling blaze that outlined the startled features ofJinki's parents
and mute Amerasu with scarlet light. Two dark holes opened m the flame,
lightless eyes in the face of fire. Simon felt himself seized in a grip of
frozen horror, clutched so tight by it that his muscles quivered. Chill
dread beat outward from that wavering face, as heat would rise from an
ordinary fire. Amerasu stopped struggling, becoming as still as if she had
turned to stone-

Another blackness gaped in the billowing flame, beneath the empty
eyes. Bloodless laughter issued forth. Sickened, Simon struggled desper-
ately to get away—he had seen this horror-mask before.

The Red Hand! He meant it to be a shout, but fear choked his words into
helpless, whistling breath.

Likimeya stepped forward, her husband beside her, helping to shield
Amerasu. She raised her arms before the Mist Lamp and the fiery thing
that surged within it. A kind of silvery glow surrounded her. "Go back to
your shriveled mistress and dead master. Corrupted One," she cried.
"You are not one of us any more."

The flame-thing laughed again. "No. We are more, far morel The Red
Hand and its master have grown strong. Ail of creation must fall beneath the
Storm King's shadow. Those who betrayed us will squeak and chitter in that
darkness!"

"You have no power here!" Shima'onan cned, grasping his wife's
upraised hand. The glow around the two of them intensified, until the fog
of silvery moonlight had grown to encompass the fiery face as well. "This
place is beyond you! Go back to your cold mountain and black emptiness!"

560 Tad Williams

"You do not understand'" the thing exulted "We, of all who ever lived, have
returned jrom UnbeifiQ We have yown strong Grown strong!"

Even as the hollow voice echoed through the Yasira, overwhelming the
Sithi-fblk's cries of rage and alarm, the thing in the Mist Lamp suddenly
billowed outward, expanding into a vast pillar of flame, its shapeless head
flung back in a thundering cry It spread its blazing arms wide, as though
to grasp all before it in a crushing, burning embrace

As the sun-hot fires leaped up, the butterflies clinging to the silken
threads overhead began to puff into flame A million of them seemed to
spring into the air at once, a great cloud of fire and smoking wings
Burning, they flew through the air like cinders, careening into the shout-
ing Sithi, crumbling as they struck the trunk of the great ash tree The
Yasira was in chaos, plunged in a blackness shot with spinning, whirling
sparks

The towering thing at the room's center laughed and blazed, but gave
no light It seemed instead to suck all brightness into its own interior, so
that it fattened and grew taller still A wild, writhing knot of bodies leaped
around it, the heads and waving arms of clamoring Sithi-folk silhouetted
against the red blaze

Simon looked around in panic Jinki was gone

Another sound was now rising through the chaos, swelling until it
equaled the terrible mirth of the Red Hand creature It was the raw-
throated baying of a hunting pack

A horde of pale shapes came flooding into the Yasira White hounds
were suddenly everywhere, their slit eyes reflecting the hellish light of the
thing at the chamber's center, their howling red mouths snapping and
barking

"Ruakha, ruakha Zida'-yei'" Simon heard Jinki shouting somewhere nearby
"T'5i e-isi'ha as-Shao In^u'"

Simon moaned, searching desperately for some weapon A hthe white
shape vaulted past him, carrying something in its dripping mouth

jmgizu

A memory forced itself into Simon's head As though the blaze without
had kindled a blaze within, a burning tongue of remembrance leaped up
inside him the black depths beneath the Hayholt, a dream of tragedy and
ghostly fire

Jmgizu The heart of all Sorrow

The tempest of disorder rose and grew wilder, a thousand throats
wailing in the spark-flurrying darkness, a broil of flailing limbs and
terrified eyes and the maddening voices of the Stormspike pack Simon
tried to stand, then quickly threw himself back to the ground The
scrambling Sithi had found their bows arrows were flying through the
smoky air, visible only as streaks of light

A hound stumbled toward Simon and sagged to the ground at his feet, a

STONE OF FAREWELL                 561

blue-fletched arrow through its neck Revolted, Simon crawled away
from the corpse, feeling the grass and the parchment ashes of butterflies
between his fingers His hand closed upon a rock, which he lifted and
clutched He crept forward like a blind mole toward where the heat and
noise were greatest, driven by nothing he could describe, helplessly reliving
something he might have experienced in a dream, a vision of spectral
figures that ran in fearful panic while their home died in flames

A huge beast, the largest hound Simon had ever seen, had driven
Shnna'onan back toward the trunk of the great ash tree, forcing the lord
of the Sithi up against the blackened and smoldering bark Shima'onan's
robe was smoking Weaponless, Jinki's father held the dog's massive head
in his bare hands, struggling to keep the clashing jaws from his face
Strange lights flickered around them, blue and glaring red

Near where his father struggled, Jinki and several others had sur-
rounded the bellowing fire-creature The prince was a small figure stand-
ing before the beast of the Red Hanc Hs witchwood sword Indreju a
black tongue of shadow held upraised against the shimmering flames

Simon lowered his head and crawled forward, still struggling toward
the center of the Yasira The din was deafening Bodies pushed past him,
some of the Sithi racing forward to help Jinki fight the invader, others
running like maddened creatures, their hair and clothes afire

A sudden blow flung Simon to the turf One of the dogs was upon him,
iiS corpsehke snout thrusting for his throat, blunt claws scraping at his
arms as he tried frantically to twist out from under it He groped unseeing
until he found the stone that had slipped from his grasp, then struck at the
creature's head It yelped wetly and dug its teeth into his shirt, gouging his
shoulder as it tried to reach his neck He struck again, struggled to free his
weary arm, then brought the stone down once more The dog went limp
and slid down his chest Simon rolled over and kicked the body away

A scream abruptly shuddered out, overtopping the tumult, and a wintry
wind howled through the Yasira, a freezing gale that seemed to pass right
through him Fanned by that wind, the fiery figure at the center of the
chamber grew even larger for a moment, then fell back into itself in a
burst of billowing flame There was a sound like thunder, then Simon felt
a great percussive slap against his ears as the creature of the Red Hand
vanished in a rain of hissing sparks Another rush of wind threw Simon
and many others flat on the ground as air hurried to fill the space where
the blazing thing had been After that, a strange sort of quiet came down
over the Yasira

Stunned, Simon lay on his back staring upward The sheen of natural
twilight slowly returned, gleaming through the mighty tree whose limbs
were now empty of living butterflies, but studded with their blackened
remains Groaning, Simon clambered up onto his shaky legs All around
him the inhabitants ofJao e-Tmukai'i were still milling in shocked disor-

562 Tad Williams

der. Those Sithi who had found spears and bows were putting an end to
the remaining dogs.

Had that terrible scream been the fire-creature's death shriek? HadJinki
and the others somehow destroyed it? He stared into the cloudy murk in
the middle of the chamber, trying to see who it was that stood beside the
Mist Lamp. He squinted and took a step forward. Amerasu was there . . .
and someone else. Simon felt his heart lurch.

A figure with a helmet made in the image of a snarling dog stood at
First Grandmother's shoulder, wreathed m the smoke curling up from the
scorched earth. One of this intruder's leather-clad arms was around her
waist, clutching her slight, sagging form as closely as it might hold a
lover. The other hand slowly lifted the hound-helm free, revealing the
tanned mask of Ingen Jegger.

"Niku'a!" he shouted. "Yinva! Come to me!" The huntsman's eyes
gleamed scarlet, reflecting the smoldering bark of the great tree.

Near the trunk of the ash, the huge white hound rose unsteadily. Its fur
was scorched and blackened, its ragged maw all but toothless. Shima'onari
remained unmoving on the ground where the beast had crouched, a blood-
ied arrow clutched in the Sithi-lord's fist. The dog took a step, then fell
clumsily and rolled onto its side. Innards gleamed from the opening in its
belly as Niku'a's broad chest moved slowly up and down.

The huntsman eye's widened. "You've killed him!" Ingen screamed.
"My pride! The best of the kennels!" He earned Amerasu before him as he
cook a few steps toward the dying hound. First Grandmother's head
bobbed limply. "Niku'a!" Ingen hissed, then turned and looked slowly
around the Yasira. The Sithi stood unmoving all around, their faces
blood-stained and ash-smeared as they silently returned the huntsman's
stare.

Ingen Jegger's thin mouth contorted in sorrow. He lifted his eyes to the
scorched limbs of the ash tree and the gray sky above. Amerasu was
pinned against his chest, her white hair curtaining her face.

"Murder!" he cried, then there was a long moment of silence.

"What do you want from First Grandmother, mortal?"

It was Likemeya who spoke so calmly. Her white dress was smeared
with ashes. She had come to kneel beside her fallen husband, and she
held his reddened hand in hers. "You have caused enough heartache. Let
her go. Leave this place. We will not pursue you."

Ingen stared at her as at some long-forgotten landmark seen after a hard
journey. His frown stretched into a ghastly smile and he shook Amerasu's
helpless form until her head wobbled. He lifted his hound-helm—the fist
that clutched it was crimson-drenched—and waved it in mad joy.

"The forest witch is dead!" he howled. "I have done it! Praise me,
mistress, I have done your bidding!" He lifted his other hand to the skies,
letting Amerasu slump to the ground like a discarded sack. Blood shone

STONE OF FAREWELL                 563

dully on her gray robe and golden hands. The translucent hilt of the
crystal dagger stood out from her side. "I am immortal!" cried the
Queen's Huntsman.

Simon's choked gasp echoed in the terrible silence.

Ingen Jegger slowly turned. Recognizing Simon, the huntsman curled
his mouth in a hplcss smile "You led me to her, boy."

An ash-darkened figure rose from the smoking clutter at Ingen's feet.

"Venyha s'anh!" Jinki shouted, and drove Indreju squarely into the
huntsman's midsection.

Driven backward by the impact ofJinki's blow, Ingen at last staggered
to a halt, bending over the length of the blade which had been wrenched
from its owner's hand. He gradually straightened, then coughed. Blood
dnbbled from his mouth and stained his pale beard, but his smile re-
mained. "The time of the Dawn Children ... is over," he rasped. There
was a humming sound. Suddenly, a half-dozen arrows stood in Ingen's
broad trunk, sprouting on all sides like hedgehog quills.

"Murder!"

It was Simon who shouted this time. He leaped to his feet, his heartbeat
sounding loud as war-drums in his ears; he felt the whipsong breath
of the second volley of arrows as he ran forward toward the huntsman. He
swung the heavy stone which he had clutched for so long.

"Seaman! No!" shouted Jinki.

The huntsman slid to his knees, but remained upright. "Your witch . . .
is dead," he panted. He raised a hand toward the approaching Simon.
"The sun is setting ..."

More arrows leaped across the Yasira and Ingen Jegger slowly topped to
the ground.

Hatred burst out like a flame in Simon's heart as he stood over the
huntsman, and he raised the stone high in the air. Ingen Jegger's face was
still frozen in an exultant grin, and for the thinnest moment his pale blue
eyes locked with Simon's. An instant later Ingen's face disappeared in a
smash of red and the huntsman's body was rolled across the ground by the
force of the blow. Simon clambered after him with a wordless cry of rage,
all his pent frustration flooding out in a maddening surge.

They've taken everything jrom me. They laughed at me. Everything.

The fury turned into a kind of wild glee. He felt strength flowing through
him. At last! He brought the rock down upon Ingen's head, lifted it and
smashed it down again, then over and over uncontrollably until hands pulled
him away from the body and he slid down into his own red darkness.

Khendraja'aro brought him toJiriki. The prince's uncle, as all the other
citizens ofJao e-Tunukai'i, was dressed in dark mourning gray. Simon,

564

Tad Williams

too, wore pants and shirt of that color, brought to him by a subdued
Aditu the day after the burning of the Yasira

Jinki was staying m a house not his own, a dwelling of pink, yellow,
and pale brown circular tents that Simon thought looked like giant bee-
hives. The Sitha-woman who lived there was a healer, Aditu had cold
him The healer was taking care thatJinki's bums were given proper care

Kehndraja'aro, his face a stiff, heavy mask, left Simon at the house's
wind-whipped entranceway and departed without a word Simon entered
as Aditu had directed and found himself in a darkened room lit only by a
single dim globe on a wooden stand Jinki was propped up m a great bed
His hands lay upon his chest, bandaged with strips of silky cloth The
Sitha's face was shiny with some oily substance, which served only to
accentuate his otherworldly appearance Jinki's skin was blackened in
many places, and his eyebrows and some of his long hair had been
scorched away, but Simon was relieved to see chat the Prince did not seem
badly scarred

"Seoman," Jinki said, and showed a trace of smile
"How are you?" Simon asked shyly. "Are you hurting7"
The prince shook his head. "I do noc suffer much, not from these bums,
Seoman. In my family we are made of stern stuff—as you may remember
from our first meeting." Jinki looked him up and down "And how is
your own health?"

Simon felt awkward. "I'm well " He paused. "I'm so sorry." Facing the
calm figure before him, he was ashamed by his own ammahty, ashamed to
have become a screaming brute before the eyes of all That memory had
weighed heavily on him in the days just passed. "It was all my fault "

Jinki hastened to raise his hand, then eased it back down, conceding
only a small gnmace of pain. "No, Seoman, no. You have done nothing
for which you should apologize. That was a day of terror, and you have
suffered far too many of those."

"It's not that," Simon said miserably. "He followed me' Ingen Jegger
said he followed me to find First Grandmother' I led her murderer here."

Jinki shook his head. "This was planned for some time, Seoman.
Believe me, the Red Hand could not lightly send one of their own into the
fastness ofJao e-Tunukai'i, even for the few moments it lasted. Ineluki is
not yet so strong. That was a well-conceived attack, one long considered
It took a great deal of power from both Utuk'ku and the Storm King to
accomplish it.

"Do you think it a coincidence that First Grandmother should be
silenced by Utuk'ku just before she could reveal Ineluki's design5 That the
Red Hand creature should force its way through JUSC then, at a tremendous
expense of spell-bought strength5 And do you think the huntsman Ingen
wasjust wandering in the wood and suddenly decided to kill Amerasu the
Ship-Born5 No, I do not think so. either—although it is true that he may

STONE OF FAREWELL                 565

have stumbled on your trail before Aditu brought you here. Ingen Jegger
was no fool, and it would have been far easier for him to track a mortal
than one of us, but he would have found his way into Jao e-Tunukai'i
somehow Who can know how long he waited beyond the Summer Gate
once he had found it, waiting for his mistress to set him upon her enemies
atjust the right moment? It was a war plan, Seoman, precise and more than
a little desperate. They must have feared First Grandmother's wisdom
very much."

Jinki lifted his bandaged hand to his face, touching it for a moment to
his forehead. "Do not take the blame upon yourself, Seoman. Amerasu's
death was ordained in the black pits below Nakkiga—or perhaps even when
the Two Families parted at Sesuad'ra, thousands of years ago. We are a
race that nurses its hurts a long time in silence You were not at fault."

"But why15" Simon wanted to believe Jirki's words, but the horrible
sense of loss that had threatened to overwhelm him several times already
that morning would not go away.

"Why5 Because Amerasu had seen into Ineluki's secret heart—and who
would have been better able to do chat than she? She had discovered his
design at last and was going to reveal it to her people. Now, we may
never know—or perhaps we will understand only when Ineluki sees fit to
display it in all its inevitability." Weanness seemed to wash through him.
"By our Grove, Seoman, we have lost so much! Not only Amerasu's
wisdom, which was great, but we have also lost our last link with the
Garden. We are truly unhomed " He lifted his eyes to the billowing
ceiling, so that his angular face was bathed in pale yellow light. "The
Hernystin had a song of her, you know:

"Snow-white breast, lady of the foaming sea,
She is the light that shines by night
Until even the stars are drunken ..."

Jink) took a careful breath to ease his scorched throat. A look of

surpnsing fury contorted his normally placid face "Even from the place

where Ineluki lives, from beyond death—how could he send a stranger to kill

his mother'?"

"What will we do? How can we fight him?"

"That is not for you to worry about, Seoman Snowlock "

"What do you mean5" Simon restrained his anger. "How can you say

that to me? After all we've both seen?"

"I did not mean it in the way it sounded, Seoman." The Sitha smiled m

self-mockery "I have lost even the basest elements of courtesy. Forgive

me."

Simon saw that he was actually waiting. "Of course, Jinki. Forgiven "
"I mean only that we Zida'ya have our own councils to keep My father

566 Tad Williams

Shima'onari is badly wounded and Likimeya my mother must call the folk
together—but not at che Yasira. I think we will never meet in that place
again. Did you know, Seoman, that the great tree was burned white as
snow? Did you not have a dream once about such a thing?" Jinki cocked
his head, his gaze full of subtle light. "Ah, forgive me again. I wander in
thought and forget the important things Has anyone told you? Likimeya
has decreed that you will go."

"Go? Leave Jao c-Tinukai'i?" The rush of joy was accompanied by an
unexpected current of regret and anger. "Why now?"

"Because it was Amerasu's last wish. She told my parents before the
gathering began. But why do you sound so unsettled? You will go back to
your own people. It is for the best, in any case. We Zida'ya must mourn
the loss of our eldest, our best. This is no place for mortals, now—and it is
what you wanted, is it not? To go back to your folk?"

"But you can't just close yourselves off and turn away! Not this time!
Didn't you hear Amcrasu? We all have to fight the Storm King! It is
cowardice not Co!" Her stern, soft face was suddenly before him again, at
least in memory. Her magnificently knowing eyes . , .

"Calm yourself, young friend," Jinki said with a tight, angry smile.
"You are full of good intentions, but you do not know enough to speak so
forcefully." His expression softened. "Fear not, Seoman. Things are chang-
ing. The Hikeda'ya have killed our eldest, struck her down in our own
sacred house. They have crossed a line that cannot be recrossed. Perhaps
they meant to, but that matters less than the fact that it has happened.
That is another reason for you to leave, manchild. There is no place for
you in the war councils of the Zida'ya."

"Then you're going to fight^" Simon felt a sudden pinch of hope at his
heart.

Jinki shrugged. "Yes, I think so—but how or when is not for me to
say."

"It's all so much," Simon murmured. "So fast."

"You must go, young friend. Aditu will return soon from attending my
parents. She will take you to where you can find your folk. It is best done
swiftly, since it is not usual for Shima'onari or Likimeya to undo their
own Words of Decree. Go. My sister will come to you at my house by the
nver." Jinki leaned down and lifted something from the mossy floor.
"And do not forget to take your mirror, my friend." He smiled slyly.
"You may need to call me again, and I still owe you a life."

Simon took the gleaming thing and slid it into his pocket. He hesitated,
then leaned forward and carefully wrapped his arms around Jinki, trying
not to touch his burns as he gently embraced him- The Sithi prince
touched Simon's check with his cool lips.

"Go in peace, Seoman Snowlock. We will meet again. That is a promise."

"Farewell, Jinki." He turned and marched swiftly away without look-

STONE OF FAREWELL                 567

ing back. He slowed his pace after he stumbled once in the winding
hallway, a long, wmd-nppled tunnel the color of sand.

Outside, immersed in a swirl of confused thoughts, Simon suddenly
realized chat he was feeling a curious chill. Looking up, he saw chat the
summery skies over Jao e-Tinukai'i had darkened, taking on a more
somber hue. The breeze was colder than any he had ever felt there before.

The summer is fading, he thought, and was frightened again. I don't think
they'll ever get it back.

Suddenly all his petty anger toward the Sithi evaporated and a great,
heavy sorrow for them overtook him. Whatever else was here, [here was
also beauty unseen since the world was young, long preserved against the
killing frosts of time. Now the walls were tumbling down before a great,
wmtery wind. Many exquisite things might be ravaged beyond reclaiming.

He hurried along the nverbank toward Jinki's house.

^

The joumey out of Jao e-Tinukai'i passed swiftly for Simon, dim and
slippery as a dream. Adieu sang in her family's tongue and Simon held her
hand tightly as the forest shimmered and changed around them. They
walked out of cool grayish-blue skies into the very jaws of winter, which
had lain in wait like a stalking beast.

Snow covered the forest floor, a blanket so thick and cold that it was
hard for Simon Co remember that Jao e-Tinukai'i itself had not been
covered, that in chat one place winter was still held at bay: here outside
the magical circle of the Zida'ya, the Storm King's handiwork was so
terribly real. But now, he realized, even that circle had been broken.
Blood had been spilled in the very heart of summer.

They walked through the morning and early afternoon, gradually leav-
ing the densest part of the woods and moving toward the forest fringe-
Aditu answered Simon's few questions, but neither had the strength for
much talk, as though the awful cold had withered the affection that had
once flowered between them. As uncomfortable as her presence had often
made him, still Simon was saddened, but the world had changed some-
how and he had no more strength to struggle. He let the winter world
flow over him like a dream, and did not think.

They walked for some hours beside a swift river, following it until they
reached a long gentle slope. Before them lay a vast body of water, as gray
and mysterious as an alchemist's bowl. A shadowed, tree-covered hill
jutted from it like a dark pestle.

"There is your destination, Seoman," Aditu said abruptly. "That is
Sesuad'ra."

"The Stone of Farewell?"

Aditu nodded. "The Leavetaking Stone."

568 Tad Williams

The abstraction finally made real, Simon felt as though he were step-
ping from one dream into another. "But how will I get there? Am I
supposed to swim?"

Aditu said nothing, but led him down the slope to where the river
rushed into the gray water, spilling across the rocks with a roar. A little
distance along the shoreline, out of the way of the river's turbulent inflow,
a small, silvery boat bobbed at anchor. "Once every hundred or so
winters," she said, "when the rams are particularly fierce, the lands around
Sesuad'ra flood—although this is certainly the first time it has ever hap-
pened when Reniku the Summer-Lantern was in the sky." She turned
away, unwilling to share thoughts written on her face so that even a
mortal could understand. "We keep these hiyanha—these boats—here and
there, so that Sesuad'ra will not be denied to those who wish to visit it."

Simon put his hand on the little boat, feeling the smooth grain of the
wood beneath his fingers. A paddle of the same silvery stuff lay in the
hull. "And you're sure that's where I go?" he asked, suddenly unwilling to
say good-bye.

Aditu nodded. "Yes, Seoman." She shrugged off the bag she had been
carrying on her shoulder and handed it to him. "This is for you—no," she
corrected herself, "not for you. It is for you to take to your Prince Josua,
from Amerasu. She said she believed he would know what to do with
it—if not now, then soon."

"Amerasu? She sent this. . . ?"

Aditu put a hand on his cheek. "Not exactly, Seoman. First Grand-
mother had asked me to take it if your imprisonment did not end. Since
you have been released, I give it to you." She stroked his face. "I am glad
for your sake that you are free. It pained me to see you so unhappy. It was
good to know of you—a rare thing." She leaned forward and kissed him-
Despite all that had happened, he still felt a quickening of his heart as her
mouth touched his. Her lips were warm and dry and tasted of mint.

Adieu stepped away. "Farewell, Snowlock. I must go back and mourn."

Before he could even lift his hand to wave, she turned and disappeared
among the trees. He watched for some moments, looking for some sign of
her slender form, but she was gone. He turned and clambered into the
small boat and set the sack she had given him down in the hull. It was of
good weight, but he was too weary and sore-hearted even to look at what
might be inside. He thought it might be peaceful to fall asleep here in the
boat, at the edge of the great forest. It would be a blessing to sleep and not
wake for a year and a day. Instead, he picked up his paddle and pushed
himself out onto the still water.

The afternoon fell away and the deep chill of evening came on. As
Simon floated toward the growing shadow of Sesuad'ra, he felt the
silence of the winter world envelop him, until he thought he might be the
only living, moving thing upon the face ofOsten Ard.

STONE OF FAREWELL

569

For a long time he did not notice that there were torches bobbing before
him on the twilit shoreline. When he saw them at last, he was already
close enough to hear the voices. His arms were cold and numb. He felt as
though he had no more strength left to paddle, but managed to push
himself a few last strokes, until a large, splashing shape—Sludig?—waded
out from the rocky verge and pulled him into shore. He was lifted from
the boat and half-carried up the bank, then surrounded by an army of
torchht, laughing faces. They seemed familiar, but the sensation of dream
was upon him again. It was not until he saw the smallest figure that he
remembered where he was. He staggered forward and swept Binabik into
his arms, crying unashamedly.

"Simon-friend!" Binabik chortled, thumping him on the back with his
small hands. "Qmklpa is good! Joyful! This is joyful! In the days since I
was coming here I had almost lost my hope to see you."

Simon wept, unable to speak. At last, when he had cried himself dry, he set
the little man down. "Binabik," he said, voice raw. "Oh, Binabik. I have
seen terrible things."

"Not now, Simon, not now." The troll took his hand firmly. "Come.
Come up to the hilltop. Fires have been built there and I am sure there is
something cooking. Come."

The little man led him- The crowd of familiar strangers fell in behind,
talking and laughing among themselves. The flames of the torches hissed
beneath a soft fall of snow, and sparks rose into the sky to drift and fade.
Soon one of them began to sing, a good, homely sound. As darkness crept
over the drowned valley, the sweet, clear vo'ce rose •-hi-ough the trees and
echoed out over the black water.

Appendix

^

PEOPLE

ERKYNLANDERS

Bamabas—Hayholt chapel sexton
Breyugar—Count of the Westfold, Lord Constable of the Hayholt under

Elias

Colmund—Camaris' squire, later baron of Rodstanby
Deomoth, Sir—Josua's knight, sometimes called "Prince's Right Hand*'
Eahlstan Fiskerne—Fisher King, first Erkynlandish master of Hayholt
Elias—High King, Prester John's eldest son, Josua's brother
Ethelbearn—soldier, Simon's companion on Journey from Naghmund
Fengbald—Earl of Falshire

Gamwold—soldier dead from Norn attack in Aldheorte
Godwig—Baron of Cellodshirc

Grimmric—soldier, Simon's companion on journey from Naglimund
Guthwulf—Earl of Utanyeat, High King's Hand
Haestan—Naglimund guardsman, Simon's companion
Hclfcene, Father—Chancellor of Hayholt
Helmfest—soldier, part of company that escaped Naglimund
Hepzibah—castle chambermaid
lelda—Falshire woman, Gadrinsett squatter
Inch—foundry-master, once Doctor Morgenes' assistant
Jack Mundwode—mythical forest bandit
Jael—castle chambermaid
Jakob—castle chandler
Jeremias—chandler's boy
[ohn—King John Presbyter, High King

(osua—Prince, John's younger son, lord of Naglimund, called "Lackhand"
Judith—Cook and Kitchen Mistress
Langrian—Hoderundian monk
Leieth—Miriamele's handmaiden

574 Tad Williams

Malachias—one of Minamclc's disguise names

Marya—one of Minamele's disguise names

Master of Scullions—Simon's Hayholt master

Minamcle, Princess—Ellas' only child

Morgenes, Doctor—Scrollbearcr, KingJohn's castle doctor, Simon's friend

Osgal—one ofMundwodc's mythical band

Ostrael—Naglimund pikeman, son ofFirsfram ofRunchester

Rachel—Mistress of Chambermaids, called "The Dragon"

Ruben the Bear—castle smith

Sangfugol—Josua's harper

Sarrah—castle chambermaid

Shem Horscgroom—castle groom

Simon—a castle scullion, given name "Seoman" at birth

Strangycard, Father—Archivist of Naglimund

Towser—jester (original name Cruinh)

HERNYSTIRI

Amoran—Hernystin minstrel
Bagba— Cattle God
Brymoch of the Skies—Sky God

Cadrach-ec-Crannhyr, Brother—monk of indeterminate Order
Craobhan—old knight, advisor to King Lluth
Cuairih Earthdog—Hernystin god of the earth, patron deity of miners
Eolair—Count of Nad Mullach, emissary of King Lluth
Gealsgialh—ship's captain, called "Old"
Gwythmn—Prince, Lluth's son, Macgwin's half-brother
Hern—Founder of Hcrnystir
Inahwen—Lluth's third wife
Lluth-ubh-Llythmn—King of Hernystir
Maegwin, Princess—Lluth's daughter, Gwythmn's half-sister
Mircha—Ram Goddess, wife ofBrynioch
Mullachi—residents ofEolair's holding, Nad Mullach
Murhagh One-Arm—a god
Rhynn of the Cauldron—a god
Smnach—Prince, Battle ofAch Samrath war-leader, also at the Knock

RIMMERSMEN

Einskaldir—Rimmersgard chieftain
Elvnt—First Osten Ard king ofRimmersmcn

STONE OF FAREWELL

575

Ende—child at Skodi's

Fmgil—King, first master ofHayholt, "Bloody King"

Gutrun—Duchess ofElvntshaIla, Isgrumnur's wife, Isorn's mother

Hengfisk—Hodcrundian priest

Hjeldin—King, Fmgil's son, "Mad King"

IngenJegger—Black Rimmersman, master of Norn hounds

Isbeorn—Isgnmnur's father, first Rimmersgard duke under John, also his

son's pseudonym

Isgnmnur—Duke of Elvntshalla, Gutrun's husband
Isorn—Isgnmnur's and Gutrun's son
Jamauga—Scrollbcarer from Tungoldyr
Nisse—(Nisscs) Hjeldm's priest-helper, author ofDu Svardenvyrd
Skali—Thane of Kaldskryke, railed "Sharp-nose"
Skendi—Saint, founder of abbey
Skodi—young Rimmerswoman at Gnnsaby
Sludig—young soldier, Simon's companion
Storfot—Thane of Vestvennby
Tonnrud—Thane of Skoggey, Duchess Gutrun's uncle
Udun—Ancient Sky God

NABBANAI

Amtulles—former Imperator

Antippa, Lady—daughter ofLeobardis and Nessalanta

Ardnvis—last Imperator, uncle ofCamans

Aspitis Preves—Earl ofDnna and Eadne

Bemdnvine—Nabbanai noble house, kingfisher crest

Bemgans—Duke ofNabban, son ofLeobardis and Nessalanta

Camans-sa-Vimtta—brother ofLeobardis, friend ofPresterJohn

Clavean—Nabbanai noble house, pelican crest

Claves—former Imperator

Crexis the Goat—former Imperator

Dimvan—Lector Ranessin's secretary

Domitis—Bishop of Saint Sutnn's cathedral in Erchester

Elysia—mother of Usires

Emettm—legendary knight

Fluiren, Sir—famous Johannme knight of disgraced Sulian House

Hylissa—Minamele's late mother, Ellas' wife, Nessalanta's sister

Ingadanne—noble family, albatross house-crest

Larexes III—former Lector of Mother Church

Leobardis—Duke ofNabban, father ofBenigans, Varellan, Antippa

Nessalanta—Duchess of Nabban, Bemgans' mother, Minamele's aunt

Neylm—Septes' companion

576 Tad Williams

Nuanni (Nuannis)—ancient sea god of Nabban
Pelippa, Saint—noblewoman from Book ofAedon, called "Pelippa of the

Island"

Prevan—noble family, osprey house-crest (ocher and black)
Pryrates, Father—priest, alchemist, wizard, Ellas' counselor
Ranessin, Lector—(born Oswine of Stanshire, an Erkynlander) Head of

Church

Rhiappa—Saint, called "Rhiap" in Erkynland
Rovalles—Septes' companion
Septes—monk from abbey near Lake Myrme
Sulis, Lord—Hayholt's "Heron King" sometimes known as Sulis the

Apostate: Nabbanai nobleman, founder of Sulian House, of which Sir

Flmren is best-known descendenc
Thures—Aspitis' young page
Tiyagaris—first Imperator

Usires Aedon—Aedonite religion's Son of God
Velligis—Escritor

SITHI

Aditu—daughter ofLikimeya and Shima'onari, Jiriki's sister

Amerasu y'Senditu no'e-Sa'onserei—mother oflneluki and Hakatn, Jiriki's
great-grandmother, also known as "Amerasu Ship-Born" and "First
Grandmother"

An'nai—Jiriki's lieutenant, hunting companion

Cloud-song—character in Aditu's song

Gardenborn—all those whose roots can be traced to Venyha Do'sae, the
"Garden"

Hakatri—Ineluki's elder brother, gravely wounded by dragon Hidohebhi,
vanished into West

Ineluki—Prince, now Storm King

lyu'unigaco—Eri-king, Ineluki's father

Jiriki, (i-Sa'onserei)—Prince, son of Shimao'anari and Likimeya   <

Kendhraja'aro—Jiriki's uncle

Kmshapo—companion of Simon and Jiriki on trip to Urmsheim

Lady Silver Mask and Lord Red Eyes—Skodi's names for Utuk'ku and
Ineluki

Lantern-bearer—character in Aditu's song

Likimeya—Queen of the Dawn-Children, Lady of the House of Year-
Dancing

Maye'sa—Sitha woman

Mezumiiru—Sithi Sedda (Moon Goddess)

Nenais'u—Sithi woman from An'nai's song, lived in Enki-e-Shao'saye

S10NE OF FAREWELL                  577

Rabbit—Jiriki's name for Aditu

Senditu—Amerasu's mother

Shima'onari—King of the Zida'ya, Lord ofJao c-Tunukai'i

Sijandi—companion of Simon andJinki on trip to Urmsheim

Sky-singer—character in Aditu's song

Stone-listener—character in Aditu's song

Utuk'ku Seyt-Hamakha—Queen of the Norns, mistress ofNakkiga

Vmdaomeyo the Fletcher—ancient Sithi arrow-maker ofTumet'ai

Willow-switch—Aditu's name forJinki

Wind-child—character in Aditu's song

Woman-with-a-net—character in Aditu's song (probably Mezumiiru)

QANUC

Binabik—(Binbiniqcgabenik) Ookequk's apprentice, Simon's friend

Chukku—legendary troll hero

Kikkasut—king of birds, husband ofScdda

Lmgit—legendary son of Sedda, father ofQanuc and men

Makuhkuya—Qanuc avalanche goddess

Morag Eyeless—Death god

Nunuuika—the Huntress

Ookequk—Singing Man of Mintahoq tribe, Bmabik's master

Qangolik—the Spirit Caller

Qinklpa of the Snows—snow and cold goddess

Sedda—moon goddess, wife of Kikkasut

Sisqi—(Sisqmanamook) youngest daughter of Herdcr and Huntress,

Bmabik's betrothed

Snenneq—herd-chief of Lower Chugik, part ofSisql's party
Uammannaq—the Herder
Yana—legendary daughter of Sedda, mother of Sithi

THRITHINGS-FOLK

Blehmunt—chieftain Fikolmij killed to become March-thane

Clan Mehrdon—Vorzheva's clan (Stallion Clan)

FikolmiJ—Vorzheva's father, March-thane of Clan Mehrdon and all the

High Thnthings

Hotvig—High Thnthings randwarder
Hyara—Vorzheva's young sister
Kunret—High Thn things-man
Ozhbern—High Thnthings-man

578 Tad Williams

The Four-Footed—Thnthmgs clan-oath (refers to the Stalhon)
The Grass Thunderer—Thnthmgs clan-oath (refers to the Stalhon)
Utvart—Thnthings-man who wished to wed Vorzheva
Vorzheva—Josua's companion, daughter of a Thrithmgs-chief

WRANNAMEN

He Who Always Steps on Sand—Wran god

He Who Bends the Trees—Wran weather god

Older Mogahib—Wrannman elder

Roahog—potter, Wrannaman elder

She Who Birched Mankind—goddess

She Who Waits to Take All Back—Wran death goddess

They Who Breathe Darkness—Wran gods

They Who Watch and Shape—Wran gods

Tiamak—scholar, correspondent of Morgenes

Tugumak—Tiamak's father

PERDRUINESE

Alespo—Streawe's servant

Ceallio—door-keeper at inn called Pelippa's Bowl

Charystra—Xorastra's niece, innkeeper of Pelippa's Bowl

Lenti—Streawe's servant, also known as "Avi Stetto"

Middastn—trader, friend of Tiamak

Smetris—boatman living on coast above Wran

Streawe, Count—Lord of Ansis Pehppe and all Perdrum

Talhstro, Sir—Johannme knight of Great Table

Xorastra—proprietress of Peltppa's Bowl

OTHERS

Gan Itai—Niskie, kilpa-smger on Eadne Cloud

Honsa—a Hyrka girl, one of Skodi's children

Imai-an—a dwarrow

Lightless Ones—dwellers in Stormspike

Ruyan Ve—also known as Ruyan the Navigator, led Tmukeda'ya (and

others) to Osten Ard
Sho-vennae—a dwarrow

STONE OF FAREWELL                 579

Vren—Hyrka boy

Yis-fidn—a dwarrow, Yis-hadra's husband, keeper of Pattern Hall

Yis-hadra—a dwarrow, Yis-fidn's wife, keeper of Pattern Hall

PLACES

Abamgeat—Hernystm trading port, on Barraillcan River at coast

Aldheorte—large forest covering much of Central Osten Ard

Amtullean Road—main road into Nabban from east through Commeis

Valley

Ansis Pehppe—capital and largest city of Pcrdruin
Asu'a the Eastward-Looking—Sithi name for Hayholt
Bacea-sa-Repra—harbor town on northern coast of Nabban, in Bay of

Emettin, means "River-mouth "
Bampha-sha-ze—the Pattern Hall in Mezutu'a
Baraillean—river on border ofHcmystir and Erkynland, called "Greenwade"

in Erkynland

Bay of Emettin—bay north of Nabban

Bay ofFirannos—bay south of Nabban, location of "Southern Islands"
Bellidan—Nabannai town on Amtullean Road, in Commeis Valley
Blue Mud Lake—Lake at eastern base ofTrollfells, summer home ofQanuc
Celhdshire—Erkyniandish barony west ofGlemwent
Chidsik Uh Lingit—Qanuc's "House of the Ancestor," on Mintahoq in

Yiqanuc

Commeis Valley—Opening to Nabban
Crannhyr—walled city on Hcrnystin coast
Da'ai Chikiza—"Tree of the Singing Winds," abandoned Sithi city on east

side ofWealdhelm, in Aldheorte

Dillathi—hilly region ofHcmystir, southwest ofHernysadharc
Dnna—former barony ofDevasalles, given to Aspitis Preves by Bcnigans
Enki-e-Shao 'wye—Sithi "Summer-City" east ofAidheortc, long-ruined
Feathered Eel—tavern on Vimtta
Feluwelt—Thnthmgs name for part of northern meadowlands in shadow

of Aldheorte
Gadnnsett—squatter town near juncture ofSteffIod and Ymstrecca, settled

by refugees from Erkynland
Garden that it Vanished—Venyha Do'sae
Gate of Rains—entrance tojao e-Tmukai'i
Grams Sacrana—town in Nabban's Commeis valley

580 Tad Williams

Gratuvask—Rimmersgard river that runs by Elvritshalla

Grenamman—southern island off tip ofNabban

Grinsaby—town in White Waste north of Aldheorte

Harborstone—a rocky promontory in Perdruin's Ansis Pelippe

Hasu Vale—valley on Erkynland's eastern borders

Hewenshire—northern Erkynlandish town west ofNaglimund

Hikehikayo—abandoned dwarrow city beneath Rimmersgard's Vestivegg

Mountains, also one of Sithi Nine Cities
Huelheim—mythical land of the dead from old Rimmersgard religion
Jao e-Tinukai'i—Boat on [the] Ocean [of] Trees", only still-thriving Sithi

settlement, in Aldheorte

jhind-T'senei—one of Sithi Nine Cities, now beneath ocean
Kementari—one of Sithi Nine Cities, apparently on or near Warinsten
Khandia—mythical ancient empire in far south
Kwatiitupu!—large city on edge ofWran
Lake Clodu—Nabbanai lake, scene of Battle of the Lakelands, Thrithings

War

Lake Eadne—Nabbanai lake, part of fiefdom of Prevan House
Lake Myrme—Nabbanai lake
Little Nose—also known as "Yamok," mountain in Yiqanuc where Binabik's

parents died

Mesutu'a—dwarrow-occupied city beneath Hemystir's Grianspog Moun-
tains, one of Sithi Nine Cities
Pelippa's Bowl—inn at Kwanitupul
Naarved—Rimmersgard city
Nakkiga—"Mask of Tears," ruined Nom city beside Stormspike, also

rebuilt Nom city inside mountain. Old version was one of the Nine

Cities

Ogohak Chasm—deep place on Mintahoq where criminals are excecuted
Old Tumet'ai Road—road that runs south across White Waste from ancient

site of Tumet'ai

Pattern Hall—dwarrow place of maps and charts recorded on stone
Pelippa's Bowl—inn at Kwanitupul
Place of Echoes—sacred spot on Mintahoq
Red Dolphin, The—tavern in Ansis Pellipe
Re Suri'eni—Sithi name for river running through Shisae'ron
Sancellan Aedonitis—palace of Lector and chief place ofAedonite Church
Sancellan Mahistrevis—former Imperial palace, now palace of Nabban's

duke

Sanceiline Hill—largest hill in Nabban, site of both Sancellans
Sesuad'ra—Stone of Farewell, site of the parting of Sithi and Nom.
Shao Irigu—Sithi name for Summer Gate
Shisae'ron—Sithi name for southwestern realm of Aldheorte forest
Site of Witness—arena in Mezutu'a where Shard stands

STONE OF FAREWELL                 581

Skoggey—Rimmersgard freehold, home of Thane Tonnrud
Sovebek—abandoned town in White Waste, east of St. Skendi's monastery
Sta Mirore—central mountain ofPerdruin, also called "Streawe's Steeple"
StejJIod—river running beside and within Aldheorte's border, joins with

the Ymstrecca
Stormspike—mountain home of Noms, "Sturmrspeik" to Rimmersmen,

also called "Nakkiga"

Summer Gate—an entrance to Jao e-Tinukai'i, also called "Shao Irigu"
Teligure—grape-growing town in northern Nabban
Tumet'ai—northern Sithi city, buried under ice east of Yiqanuc, one of the

Nine Cities

Umstrejha—Thrithings name for Ymstrecca
Urmsheim—dragon-mountain north of White Waste
Utanyeat—earldom in northwestern Erkynland
Venyha Do'sae—The Garden, legendary home of the Zida'ya (Sithi),

Hikeda'ya (Norns), and Tinukeda'ya (dwarrows and Niskies)
Vihyuyaq—Qanuc name for Stormspike
Village Grove—Tiamak's home village in Wran
Vinitta—southern island, birthplace of Camaris and Benidrivine House
Warinsten—island off coast of Erkynland, birthplace of King John
Way of the Fountains—scenic spot in city ofNabban
White Way—road along northern edge of Aldheorte Forest, in White

Waste

Wuljholt—Guthwulfs freehold in Utanyeat
Yijarjuk—Qanuc name for Urmsheim
Ydsira—Sithi meeting-place in Jao e-Tinukai'i
Ymstrecca—west-east river through Erk. and High Thrithings
Zae-y'miritha, Catacombs of—caverns apparently built or modified by

dwarrows

CREATURES

Alarm—Camaris' horse

Bukken—Rimmersgard name for diggers; also called "Boghanik" (Qanuc)

Crab-foot—one of Tiamak's pigeons

Diggers—small, manlike subterranean creatures

Chants—unpleasant, chitinous, seemingly sentient Wran fauna

Giants—large, shaggy, manlike creatures

Hidohehhi—Black Worm, mother ofShuraka and Igjarjuk, slain by Ineluki;

also called "Drochnathair" (Hernystiri)

582

Tad Williams

Homefmder—Simon's marc
Honey-lover—one ofTiamak's pigeons
Hunen—Rimmersgard name for giants
Igjarjuk—Ice-worm of Urmsheim
Ink-daub—one ofTiamak's pigeons
Khaerukama'o the Golden—dragon, father ofHidohebhi
Kilpa—manlike marine creatures
Niku'a—Ingen Jegger's lead hound
Qantaqa—Binabik's wolf companion
Red-eye—one ofTiamak's pigeons

Rim—plow-horse
Shurakai—Fire-drake slain beneath Hayholt, whose bones are Dragonbone

Chair

So-fast—one ofTiamak's pigeons
Spitfly—small and unpleasant marsh insect
Stormspike Pack—Norn hunting dogs
Vildalix—Deornoth's horse, from Fikolmij
^rnyii/od—josua's horse, from Fikolmij

THINGS

Ballad of Round-Heeled Moirah, The—song of questionable taste sung by

Sangfugol and Father Strangyeard
Battle ofHuhinka Valley—battle between trolls and Rimmersmen
Battle of the Lakelands—pivotal battle ofThrithings War, fought at Lake Clodu

Boar and Spears—emblem of Guthwulf of Utanyeat
Bright-Nail—sword of Prester John, containing nail from the Tree and

finger bone of Saint Eahlstan Fiskerne
Children of Hem—dwarrow name for Hernystiri
Cintis-piece—Nabbanai coin—one hundredth of a gold Imperator
Cilril—sour, aromatic root for chewing
Conqueror—dicing game, popular with soldiers
Conqueror Star, The—a book of occult fact, in Nabbanai: "Sa Asdridan

Condiquilles"

Crook—star (possibly same as Sithi's "Luyasa's Staff')
Day of Weighing-Out—Aedonite day of final justice and end of the mortal

world
Days of Fire—possibly very ancient era of Osten Ard (obscure reference by

Geloe)

STONE OF FAREWELL                 583

Du Svardenvyrd—near-mythical prophetical book by Nisses
Eadne Cloud—Aspitis Preves' ship

Elysia Chapel—famous chapel in Saint Sutrin's church in Erchester
En Semblis Aedonitis—famous religious book about the philosophical un-
derpinnings of Aedonite religion and life of Usires
Fifty Families—Nabbanai noble houses
Great Table—King John's assemblage of knights and heroes
House of Year-Dancing—Westerling translation ofJiriki's family name
Hunt'wine—Qanuc liquor (for special occasions, and mostly for women

only)
Ice House—Qanuc holy spot, where rituals are performed to insure coming

of Spring

Ilenite—a costly, shimmery metal
Indreju—Jiriki's witchwood sword
Kangkang—Qanuc liquor
Kraile—Sithi name for "sunfruits"
Kvalnir—Isgrimnur's sword
Lamp—star (possibly same as Sithi's Reniku)
Leavetaking Stone—Hernystiri song about the Stone of Farewell
Loon, Otter—Wrannamen names for stars
Luyasa's Staff— Sithi name for line of three stars in the sky's northeast

quadrant in early Yuven-month
Lutegrass—a long grass

Mansa Connoyis—"prayer of joining": wedding prayer
Mezumiiru's Net—star cluster; to Qanuc: Sedda's Blanket
Minneyar—iron sword of King Fingil, inherited through line ofElvrit
Minog—edible plant with wide leaves, native to Wran
Mist Lamp—a Witness from Tumet' ai
Mockfoil—a flowering herb
Naidel—Josua's sword

Navigator's Children—Tinukeda'ya's name for themselves
Oinduth—Hern's black spear
Pillar and Tree—emblem of Mother Church
Pool—apparently the Witness in old Asu'a
Quickweed—a spice
Reniku, the Summer-Lantern—Sithi name for star that signals ending of

summer

Rhynn's Cauldron—Hernystiri battle-summoner
Rife of Quickening—Qanuc ritual performed at Ice House to insure coming

of Spring

River-apple—marsh fruit
Sand-palm—marsh tree
Shard—the Witness in Mezutu'a
Shent—Sithi game, reportedly brought from Venyha Do'sae

584

Tad Williams

Silrerwwd—a wood favored by Sithi builders

Singing Harp—the Witness in Nakkiga, in Great Well

Six Son^s of Respectful Request—a Sithi ritual

Sorrow—sword of iron and witchwood smithicd by Ineluki, gift to Elias.

To Sithi: "Jingizu"

Sotfenf;sel—Elvrit's famous ship, buried at Skipphavven
Speakfire—the Witness in Hikehikayo
Starhlooms—small white flowers
Thorn—star-sword of Camaris
Ti-tuno—famed Sithi horn
Traveler's Reward—popular brand of ale
Tree—the Execution Tree, on which Usires was hung upside down before

temple ofYuvcnis in Nabban, now sacred symbol ofAedonite religion
Wind Festival—Wrannaman celebration

Winter Lastday—day in Yiqanuc when Rite of Quickening is performed
Yethu'rool—a common herb used for tea in Wran (and elsewhere in south)

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

Holidays

Feycver 2—Candlemansa
Marris 25—Elysiamansa
Avrel 1—All Fool's Day
Avrel 3f)—Stoning Night
Maia 1—Belthainn Day
Yuven 23—Midsummer's Eve
Tiyagar 15—Saint Sutrin's Day
Anitui 1—Hiafmansa
Scptander 29—Saint Grams' Day
Octander 30—Harrows Eve
Novander 1—Soul's Day
Decandcr 21—Saint Tunath's Day
Decander 24—Aedonmansa

STONE OF FAREWELL

585

Months

Jonever, Feycver, Marris, Avrel, Maia, Yuven, Tiyagar, Anitui, Septander,
Octander, Novander, Decander

Days of the Week

Sunday, Moonday, Tiasday. Udunsday, Drorsday, Frayday, Satrinsday

A GUIDE TO PRONUNCIATION

ERKYNLANDISH

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 island of Warinsten (mostly the names of castle servants or
John's immediate family) have been represented as variants on Biblical
names (Elias—Elijah, Ebekah—Rebecca, etc.) Old Erkynlandish names
should be pronounced like modern 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^, as in "glad"

h—hard h of "help"

i—short i of "in"

j—hardj" of "jaw"

o—long but soft o, as in "orb"

u—oo sound of "wood," never yoo as in "music"

HERNYSTIRI

The Hernystiri names and words can be pronounced in largely the same
way as the O.E., with a few exceptions:

586

Tad Williams

th—always the th in "other," never as in "thing"

ch—a guttural, as in Scottish "loch"

y—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. pronunciation in the

following:

j—pronounced y: Jamauga—Yarnauga; Hjeldin—Hyeldin (H nearly si-
lent here)

ei—long i as in "crime"
e—ee, as in "sweet"
o—oo, as m "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 arc all

sounded, etc. There are some exceptions.

i—most names take emphasis on second to last syllable: Ben-i-GAR-is.
When this syllable has an i, it is sounded long (Ardrivis: Ar-DRY-vis)
unless it comes before a double consonant (Antippa; An-TIHP-pa)

e—at end of name, es is sounded long: Gelles—Gel-leez

y—is pronounced as a long i, as in "mild"

QANUC

Troll-language is considerably different than the other human languages.
There are three hard "k" sounds, signified by: c, cj, 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 pronouncing phonetically.

STONE OF FAREWELL                 587

SITHI

Even more than the language of Yiqanuc, the language of the Zida'ya is
virtually unpronounceable by untrained 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.

t—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 (", as in "time"

' (apostrophe)—represents a clicking sound, and should not be voiced
by mortal readers.

EXCEPTIONAL NAMES

Geloe—Her origins arc unknown, and so is the source of her name. It is
pronounced "Juh-LO-ee" or "Juh-LOY." Both are correct.

Ingenje^ger—He is a Black Rimmersman, and the "J" inJegger 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-rce-uh-M EL."

Vorzhew—A Thrithings-woman, her name is pronounced "Vor-SHAY-va,"
with the zh sounding harshly, like the Hungarian 2-5-

WORDS AND PHRASES

HERNYSTIRI

Domhaini—"dwarrows"
Goirach—"mad" or "wild'

588                        Tad Williams

Isgbahta—"fishing boat"
Sithi—"Peaceful Ones"

NABBANAI

Duos Onenpondensis, Feata Voruin Lexeran!—"God All-Powerful, let

this be Your law!"
Duos wulstei—"God willing"

En Semblis Aedonitis—"In the likeness of the Aedon"
Escritor—"Writer": one of a group of advisors to lector
Lector—"Speaker": head of Church
Sa Asdridan Condiquilles—"The Conqueror Star"
Veir Maynis—"Great Green," the ocean

PERDRUINESE

Avi stetto—"I have a knife."
Ohe, vo stetto—"Yes, he has a knife."

QANUC

Aia—"back" (Hinik Aia=get back)
Boghanik—"diggers" (Bukken)
Chash—"true" or "correct"
Chok—"run"

Crookhok—"Rimmersman"
Croohokuq—plural of Croohok—"Rimmersmen"
Guyop—"Thank you"
Hinik—"go" or "get away"
Mosoq—"find"
Muqang—"enough"
Nihut—"attack"
Ninit—"come"

Sosa—"come" (stronger than "Ninit")
Ummu—"now"
Utku—"lowlanders"

RIMMERSPAKK

Dverning—'' dwarrow"

Gjal es, kunden!—roughly "Leave it alone, children!"

Haja—"yes"

Halad, kunde!—"Stop, child!"

Kunde-manne—"man-child"

STONE OF FAREWELL                 589

Rimmersmanne—"Rimmersman"

Vacr—"beware"

Vjer sommen marroven—"We arc friends"

SITHI (AND NORN)

Ai, Nakkiga, o'do 'tkc stazho—(Norn) "Ah, Nakkiga, I've failed you"

Asu'a—"Looking eastward"

Hiyanha—"pilgrimage boats"

Hikcda'ya—"Children of Cloud": Norns

Hikeda'yei—second-person plural of'Hikeda'ya"—"You Norns!"

Hikka—"Bearer"

Isi-isi'ye-a Sudhoda'ya—"It is indeed a mortal"

J'asu pra-pcroihin!—"shame of my house'"

Ras—term of respect: "sir" or "noble sir"

Ruakha—"dying"

S'huc—roughly "lord"

Ske'i—"stop"

Staja Ame—"White Arrow"

Sudhoda'ya—"Sunset-children": Mortals

Venyha s'anh!—"By the Garden!"

Yinva—(Norn) "come"

Zida'ya—"Children of Dawn": Sithi