The Stone of Farewell (38 page)

She shook her head. “No. I spoke to him through the girl, Leleth. It is hard to explain, but she helped make me stronger so I could reach out all the way to Yiqanuc and tell Simon of the Stone of Farewell.” She began scratching away her map with the toe of her 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.

Geloë 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 Leleth. The little girl was walking aimlessly along the rim of the clearing, pale lips moving as though in silent song. “There is something or someone close to Miriamele that prevented my reaching her—a wall 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.

“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 Geloë thinks we can find sanctuary in this place . . .”

“—And strike a blow at the king,” Isorn 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?”

Geloë, 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 Thrithings-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. Besides, if we do not venture far from the forest's edge, we may never see another soul. The Thrithings are vast.”

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 Geloë to answer the questions of those who had not heard her earlier explanation of Sesuad'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, taking 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 though 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 furiously at her raggedness.

Josua smiled sourly. “This is foolish. Look at me, the son of High King Prester John! I am a scarecrow! What does it matter? I doubt we shall see any of your people, but even if we did, what does it matter? Are 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? I 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 Thrithings. 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 Geloe 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 on Josua's belt. “I will die before I go back to the Thrithings.”

Josua grabbed her wrist and pulled her upright. She squirmed in his grip, kicking at his shins with feet clad in muddy, threadbare slippers. “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 in 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 of her 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 are 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 of her 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.

Princess Miriamele 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, Miriamele 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 Dinivan's questioning glance, offering no further remarks.

The plumes of smoke reminded Miriamele of something. “How many of those Fire Dancers we saw in Teligure 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 Dinivan. “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 lie, Padreic, ” Dinivan said hotly. “Or Cadrach, or whatever 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 Dinivan, as though trying 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?”