Morgan let himself fall back, and only then realized that he had been clenching all his muscles for so long he could not remember when he started. “Thank God! Oh, brave, clever Snenneq! They would have had me in the dungeon if they found out I even thought about going inside the tower. But what happened to you? I couldn’t find you when I got to the top. Where were you?” A sudden memory jabbed him, dark and cold as a rusted spearpoint. “Did you see the man in red?”
Snenneq shook his head once more, his face puzzled. “I did not see anyone. When I found the doorway open leading down into the tower—”
“So you weren’t the one who opened it?”
“No. With certainty, no. I would not have. I saw that it was open, though, and I was having much interest to take a quick look inside, so I was . . . climbing down into the piles of rocks. It was foolish, because I was not careful to make certain climbing out would also have such easiness. But then, when I was inside, my thoughts began to grow strange.”
“I think that happened to me, too. Do you think it was magic? From the red priest?”
“Another question whose answer I am not knowing. For me, it was like dreaming. I thought I heard your voice, but so far away. And I . . . I saw things. Confusing. Without clearness. Also like dreams—bad dreams . . .” Snenneq shook his head yet again, but this time as if to clear away bad thoughts. “Then I realized I was back beneath the doorway in the roof again and you were lying there above me, with blooding . . .”
“Bleeding.”
“With bleeding from your face. I climbed out and closed the doorway in the roof, then hurried down the rope and went to find others, because I was knowing I could not carry you myself.” Snenneq sighed. “I am sorry if I have brought you trouble. It was not my intending.”
Morgan thought for a moment. “You call me ‘Friend Morgan.’ Do you truly want to be my friend?”
“I am your friend. I am meant to help you find your destiny. It is only your knowing it that we are waiting for,” said Snenneq with a crooked smile.
Morgan couldn’t quite puzzle this out, but he had other concerns. “Then listen carefully. Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone that hatch was open or that you went in! It’s going to be bad enough as things are. Only Heaven knows what punishment they’re going to give me, but if you tell them you went inside Hjeldin’s Tower it’s going to be ten times as bad. Do you understand?”
Snenneq was frowning. “But I was thinking it would be good at least to tell Qina’s father, Binabik. He is having much wiseness about such things, and what happened was very strange.”
“No!” Morgan realized he was almost shouting. “No,” he said more quietly. “Don’t. If you’re my friend, you won’t tell anyone about it. Just keep saying what you said—that we were on the roof, and I slipped and fell and hit my head. Do you understand? Say you understand.”
“Of course I am understanding . . .”
“You’re my friend, aren’t you? You say you’re my friend.”
“That is not being the point, Morgan Prince.”
“Just ‘Morgan’—friends don’t call each other ‘prince.’ You’ll do what I ask, won’t you? After all, there was no harm done.” He gave the troll a look he hoped was sincere. “Please? Please tell me you won’t say anything to anyone.”
Little Snenneq took a deep breath. His face was troubled, his shoulders rounded. At last, he said, “If that is your wish.”
“It is,” said Morgan, relieved. “Oh, it most certainly, definitely, absolutely is. Not a word to anyone.” He raised himself up a little again, despite his painful ribs. “Did you really not see him?”
“I heard you speaking about it when I found you—you too were sounding like someone dreaming. But no, I saw no one but you and myself. Perhaps because you gave your head a hit, you were dreaming.”
“No. I saw him—and it was before I fell. It was horrible,” said Morgan. “He was horrible. Face all shriveled, eyes all black. I think it was the red priest himself, or his ghost. I think it was Pryrates.”
“Then should not someone know of that—your great-parents, or Binabik?”
“No.” Morgan had no doubt about it whatsoever. “No, that would be the worst thing that could happen. The very worst thing.”
34
Feeding the Familiar
They met on Black Water Field, the great square at the edge of the mists, where the mighty waters of Kigarasku the Tearfall, crashed down the broad basalt face of the Heartwall before disappearing into the mountain’s unplumbed depths. No crowd had gathered there, just Viyeki, his troop of Builders, and their escort of Sacrifices. And no cheering throng lined the broad Glinting Passage as they made their way through the city and toward the gates of the mountain. Only war parties marched out openly before the people of Nakkiga, and this was not one of those, but Viyeki was less certain about what kind of company it truly was, and the silence of their departure only made his unease stronger. He had never before led a work party that required such a heavy military guard. His workers and engineers numbered more than a hundred, but twice that many stony-faced Sacrifices accompanied them. Where in the queen’s northern lands would Builders need so much protection, even with their high magister as part of the company?
It was all so strange, so unprecedented, and since his last journey into the depths, the haunting words of Ommu the Whisperer would not leave his thoughts: “To save what you love, you will be forced to kill that which you love even more.” What could that mean? Would he have to murder Tzoja or even his beloved only child Nezeru to save his people? He could not even imagine such a thing without feeling ill. If anyone else had said it he would have thought it nonsense, but Ommu had come back from outside of life itself; he could not easily convince himself she was mistaken.
I am the head of my clan and the high magister of a great order, he told himself. If the life of the Hikeda’ya is truly in my hands, I will have to harden myself to any deed that will save our race . . .
“Your pardon, great master,” said Riugo. Chief of Viyeki’s household guards, he had never before had to deal with quite so many soldiers from the Order of Sacrifice and was having trouble hiding his unease. “Forgive my forwardness, but when are we to know our destination? I ask not from undue curiosity, but only so that I may perform my duty and make certain your august personage will be safe.”
“You will know soon after I know,” Viyeki told him. He could not miss a flicker of eye-white here and there among the other guards as they traded glances, disturbed by such vagueness. Hikeda’ya liked order, and none of them liked it better than Celebrants and Sacrifices.
Rivgo finally seemed to have conquered his troublesome feelings. “Thank you, great master,” he said, face expressionless, then let his horse fall back into line.
Viyeki did not know where they were bound or exactly what they were doing, because that was the way the queen wanted it, but that did not mean he was content in his ignorance. Nobody could hold a position like his without giving at least some thought to precisely what they were told not to think about. But such illicit considerations of course could not be shared, not even with other magisters. To be one of the queen’s chief servitors was in many ways to lead a very lonely life.
Perhaps this solitude is the Garden’s way of keeping me strong for my queen. After all, the Mother of the People has no contemporaries, and there are few who can even remember the early days in this land. It must be far more difficult for her than for any mere minion. How much strength she shows, to put up with such loneliness for all our sakes!
The soldiers at the great front gates of the city stood in respectful silence as Viyeki’s company filed past them and out of the mountain. It was strange to think what a short time had passed since the mountain had collapsed, sealing Nakkiga inside and saving them from destruction at the hands of vengeful mortals. Many seasons had passed before the Builders could dig out the entrances to the city, but for the long-lived Hikeda’ya, that had been the merest moment.
Viyeki did not like to think about the mountain’s fall, though. He still carried secrets from that time—deadly, dangerous secrets.
They crossed the trampled plain that had once been the Field of Banners, then continued down the old Royal Way through the ruins of the old city outside the gates, past dry canals and fallen bridges, until they reached the bank of the Iceflame. Instead of crossing it, they turned to follow the river’s banks toward the crumbled remnants of the walls that had once defended Nakkiga-That-Was, following the river east. Despite the rebuilding of large parts of the old city during the queen’s sleep, this outer section was still largely empty, inhabited only by animals and a few broken slaves, too useless to drag back to the fields or to their masters’ manors. These escapees lived like pigeons, peering down from the roofs at Viyeki’s company, darting in and out of unlocked upper stories. They believed they were avoiding recapture by their own cleverness, but Viyeki knew they were simply not worth the time or effort from the queen’s soldiers that it would take to round them up. It reminded him of a poem from Shun’y’asu’s forbidden book,
We believe that our actions thwart fate, that we extend our lives each day