“And some of us still do not,” Aditu added. “Because we know better.”
Jiriki nodded, though Eolair thought he looked less certain than his sister. “But then we sent Sijandi of Kinao Vale,” Jiriki continued, “who had once been a companion of Seoman Snowlock, your King Simon, long ago on the mountain that mortals call Urmsheim. Sijandi was directed to travel to Asu’a—the Hayholt, as you call it—and learn the truth. I confess I still hoped it was all some mistake.”
“Just tell the story, Cousin.” Yeja’aro’s voice was tight with anger. “Tell what happened.” The tale clearly meant something different to him than it did to Jiriki.
“Sijandi was sent to your king and queen,” continued Jiriki, “the mortals who had promised us that things would be different—but we never heard from him again. Some two years later, as you would count it, we found the rotting remains of his saddle and equipment in a meadow south of the forest. The Scale that Sijandi carried, the sacred mirror with which he was to send us the words of the mortals, was gone. There were arrow holes in his saddlebag. No other trace of him has ever been found.”
Eolair could feel the sadness as well as the anger of those gathered around him in this odd, open room made of trees. The Sithi were few, and although their long lives seemed nearly endless by human standards they could die like any other creatures. Also, they bore children only rarely, so each death further diminished the tribe.
“I am sorry to hear about Sijandi,” the count said at last. “I did not know him, but I know of him from King Simon’s stories. Still, I can promise you without hesitation that neither Simon nor Miriamele had anything to do with such a horror, nor know anything about it. I have to believe it is our old enemies the Norns who have the most to gain, as well as the best chance of doing such a thing.”
“Have you not listened, mortal?” Yeja’aro leaped to his feet. By what Eolair had seen of the Sithi, Khendraja’aro’s nephew was practically trembling with rage, dangerous as an angry young god, his hair like a holy flame. “These murderers were mortals—mortals like you! We would have smelled the Hikeda’ya’s touch on any of these crimes. We have never stopped watching them, especially in the Forbidden Hills—”
“Silence!” said Khendraja’aro, and for once his anger was not directed at the intruders. “You are to remain quiet, Yeja’aro. You speak too often without thinking first.”
The younger Sitha dropped back into a crouch, his golden-skinned face studiously empty once more.
This curious exchange finished, Aditu now resumed where her brother had left off. “The disappearance of Sijandi frightened us all,” she explained. “And sharpened the argument about whether we should remain in Jao é-Tinukai’i, a place we all knew was no longer secret. Most disturbingly, because it had been discovered during the war by the Hikeda’ya, it led to the death of our beloved Amerasu, the mother of the Zida’ya.”
The Sithi all made the same fluid hand gesture of sorrow. Eolair knew about the attack and Amerasu’s death because young Simon had been present, still a captive. What a blow that must have been, Eolair thought, to lose the wisdom of so many years in one treacherous blow—a blow directed by Queen Utuk’ku, Amerasu’s own great-grandparent!
“What are they talking about?” Morgan demanded of Eolair. “I don’t know all these names!”
“I’ll explain later,” he said quietly. “Until then, listen and learn as best you can, my prince. This is a history older than mankind.”
“Then, just a short year ago, while they were camped far to the west of this place,” Aditu went on, “our mother Likimeya and S’hue Khendraja’aro and their company were attacked by a troop of mortals.”
“Are you sure it was not merely a group of panicked huntsmen?” Eolair asked. “There are many false rumors about the Sithi that pass for truth among mortals—”
“Impossible,” said Khendraja’aro.
“Our uncle is correct, I fear,” Aditu told the count. “Eighty mortals, more or less, waited for a Zida’ya hunting party of a dozen. They attacked without warning, arrows flying. They chose daytime, clearly knowing the advantage we would have over them in darkness.”
Khendraja’aro pointed at Eolair. The Sitha’s ravaged face made every word terrible. “Know this, Hernystirman. Those killers were prepared for us—taught by someone who knew our ways and skills. The Erkynlanders lay in ambush on a trail we use but seldom, so they must have waited a long time. They had disguised their scent as well. Then they attacked without warning. We lost half our company in the first volley. Does this sound like a chance encounter?”
“No, I agree it does not.” Eolair suddenly felt every one of his many years. The Sithi were right: this was no mere misunderstanding, to be softened by diplomacy and careful words. In fact, it was a puzzle he could not solve here and now, and perhaps never would. Who could have done such a thing? And why, except for this very reason—to sour the friendship between the Sithi and the mortal rulers of the High Throne? “My king and queen are innocent, I promise you, but still I grieve to hear your tale.”
“Grieve?” Khendraja’aro made a gesture as dismissive as the slice of a knife. “You do not know grief, mortal. The mistress of our house—our queen, as you would have it—was cut down before my eyes. My kinsmen died all around me. I alone escaped, carrying Likimeya’s arrow-pierced body across my shoulders, watering the uncaring earth with her blood and my own.”
Morgan stirred at his side again. Eolair knew they were walking a very narrow path now, with disaster close on either side. Once more he grabbed Morgan’s upper arm and gave a warning squeeze, then said, “I hear everything you have said, and it pierces my heart, Protector Khendraja’aro. Do not forget, unlike all but a few other mortals, I have met Likimeya. I know her wisdom and her strength. But why are you so certain that these were Erkynlanders? Did you hear them speak?”
“Hah.” Khendraja’aro’s laugh was pure scorn. “They did not even shout to one another as they killed us. More proof this was an ambush, pure and simple.”
“But in the past the Sithi have had conflict with many mortal races—the Nabbanai of the Imperium, and closer in time the Rimmersmen when they came out of the West. Why are you so certain this attacking band was from Erkynland?”
“Because I found something,” the protector said. “On the leader of our attackers, whom I killed before the rest retreated, dragging his body away.”
“I will get it, Uncle!” said Yeja’aro, then rose and loped from the tree-hall. He returned a few moments later with a leather sack in his hands, which he passed to Khendraja’aro, who took the bag and turned it upside down. A cataract of gold coins slid out, clinking and chiming as it puddled on the ground before his booted feet. “See for yourself,” he said.
Eolair stepped forward with Morgan close behind him. The count picked up a handful of them, felt their heaviness, saw the sharpness of their edges. “Gold thrones,” he said.
“Not just that,” said Jiriki, the first time he had spoken in some while. “Look closely.”
Eolair lifted one up to the light that streamed through the spiderweb walls. “Bagba bite me,” he murmured. “It’s the Lady and the ‘Lock.”
Each new-minted coin had portraits stamped on both sides—Queen Miriamele on one, her husband King Simon Snowlock on the other. This particular issue of gold Thrones had been made in Erkynland under the careful rules of the High Ward, the first of them minted only a few years earlier. The count looked helplessly from Jiriki to Aditu, who could only stare back, then turned at last to Protector Khendraja’aro. “I cannot explain this,” Eolair said. “But that does not mean there is no explanation.”
“No matter. We do not want explanations,” said Khendraja’aro. “Nor anything else your kind can offer. We want you gone from our woods and our ways, mortal. Since you so value their kind, Jiriki, you may be the one to lead them from our lands. And you, mortals, will leave the horn Ti-tuno, which has returned to its makers. That is all.”