To Green Angel Tower Volume 2 Read online

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

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

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

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

  He was hurt, but tried not to show it. “I’m here, though. So tell me—where are we going?”

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

  He nodded. “I guessed that. It wasn’t hard, listening to you at the Raed. But where in Erkynland? And what are we going to do there?”

  “We’re going to the Hayholt.” She looked at him intently, as if daring him to disagree.

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

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

  Miriamele was still looking at him intently. “Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps?” He scowled. “What does that mean?”

  “I said I would tell you where we were going,” she responded. “I didn’t say I would tell you everything in my head.”

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

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

  Simon was still angry, but he couldn’t suppress a bark of laughter. “You probably are going back for shoes or a dress or something. That would be just my luck—to get killed by the Erkynguard in the middle of a war for trying to steal shoes.”

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

  “Stole? Me?”

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

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

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

  “How did you know about that?”

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

  “You did, didn’t you.” Simon was impressed. “What else did you see me do?”

  “Mostly sneak off and sit around mooning when you were supposed to be working,” she snapped. “No wonder Rachel had to pinch your ears blue.”

  Offended, Simon straightened his back. “I only sneaked off to have some time to myself. You don’t know what it’s like living in the servants’ quarters.”

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

  “Maybe,” Simon said stubbornly. “But I’ll bet the food was better in your part of the Hayholt.”

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

  Simon laughed aloud. “Ah! So the difference between a scullion and a princess is clean hands. I hate to disappoint you, Miriamele, but after spending a day up to my elbows in the washing tub, my hands were very clean.”

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

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

  Sensing that something had changed, she fell silent.

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

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

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

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

  “Miriamele?”

  “Yes?”

  “I meant what I said the night we left. I will be your protector, even if you don’t tell me exactly what I’m protecting you from.”

  “I know, Simon. Thank you.”

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

  “What song is that?”

  She stirred and turned toward him. “What?”

  “What song is that you were humming?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “In Cathyn Dair there lived a maid, ”

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

  “In Cathyn Dair, by Si
lversea,

  The fairest girl, was ever born

  And I loved her and she loved me.

  “By Silversea the wind is cold

  The grass is long, the stones are old

  And hearts are bought, and love is sold

  And time and time the same tale told

  In cruel Cathyn Dair.

  “We met when autumn moon was high

  In Cathyn Dair, by Silversea,

  In silver dress and golden shoon

  She danced and gave her smile to me.

  “When winter’s ice was on the roof

  In Cathyn Dair, by Silversea,

  We sang beside the fiery hearth

  She smiled and gave her lips to me.

  “By Silversea the wind is cold

  The grass is long, the stones are old

  And hearts are bought, and love is sold

  And time and time the same tale told

  In cruel Cathyn Dair.

  “When spring was dreaming in the fields

  In Cathyn Dair, by Silversea,

  In Mircha’s shrine where candles burned

  She stood and pledged her troth to me.

  “When summer burned upon the hills

  In Cathyn Dair, by Silversea,

  The banns were posted in the town

  But she came not to marry me.

  “By Silversea the wind is cold

  The grass is long, the stones are old

  And hearts are bought, and love is sold

  And time and time the same tale told

  In cruel Cathyn Dair.

  “When Autumn’s moon had come again

  In Cathyn Dair, by Silversea,

  I saw her dance in silver dress

  The man she danced for was not me.

  “When winter showed its cruel claws

  In Cathyn Dair, by Silversea,

  I walked out from the city walls

  No more will that place torment me.

  “By Silversea the wind is cold

  The grass is long, the stones are old

  And hearts are bought, and love is sold

  And time and time the same tale told

  In cruel Cathyn Dair ... ”

  “That’s a pretty song,” Simon said when she had finished. “A sad song.” The haunting tune still floated through his head; he understood why Miriamele had been humming it all unawares.

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

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

  “I never knew my mother,” Simon said at last. “She died when I was born. I never knew either of my parents.”

  “Neither did I.”

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

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

  3

  Windows Like Eyes

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

  “Sisqi,” he called. “I need to speak to you.”

  She was sitting cross-legged, retying the knots of her ram’s harness. Around her several of the other troll men and women were seeing to final tasks before the prince’s company resumed its march into Nabban. “I am here,” she said.

  Binabik looked around. “Would you come with me somewhere more quiet?”

  She nodded and set the harness down on the ground. “I will.”

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

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

  Binabik sighed and nodded. “That is true. The loss of Geloë is a hard one, and not only because of her wisdom. I miss her, too, Sisqi. We will not see anyone like her again.”

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

  “That is the root of it. Look—I will show you something.” He pulled apart the sections of his walking stick. A long white shaft tipped with blue-gray stone slid out.

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

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

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

  He stared at the arrow miserably. “Ookequk promised help to Morgenes. I took on that oath. I swore to help protect young Simon, Sisqi.”

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

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

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

  “If they are caught, they will eventually be taken to Pryrates, King Elias’ advisor. You do not know him, Sisqi, but I do, at least from tales. He is powerful, and reckless in his use of that power. And he is cruel. He will learn from them whatever they know about us, and Simon and Miriamele both know a great deal—about our plans, about the swords, everything. And Pryrates will kill them, or at least Simon, in the getting of that knowledge.”

  “So you are going to find them?” she asked slowly.

  He hung his head. “I feel I must.”

  “But why you? Josua has an entire army!”

  “There are reasons, my beloved. Come with me when I speak to Josua and you will hear the reasons. You should be there, in any case.”

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

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

  Tears were forming in Sisqi’s eyes. “Is there no other way?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “I will come back,” he repeated, then fell silent. They stayed that way for a long time, locked in a miserable embrace.

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

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

  “Perhaps. But what about discovering the use of the swords? We still have much to learn.”

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

  Josua looked at Sisqi. “This is another great loss.”

  She bowed her head.

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

  “Of course,” said the prince. “We will always be grateful that your people came to our aid. We will never forget, Binabik.” He frowned. “So you are determined to go?”

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