Morgan had not wanted to go on this journey into the wilderness, not at all; but as time had passed he had begun to feel differently. He had been proud to discover that he could sound the ancient Sithi horn when even noble Count Eolair could not; later he had been excited because he, of all people, had drawn out the Sithi with it. That pleasure made it all the more galling now that not only were the Hand of the Throne and the heir-apparent being ignored and dismissed by the immortals, but evil-tempered Protector Khendraja’aro had even kept the horn.
As Jiriki led them back through the forest toward the Erkynguard camp, toward Porto and the trolls and the waiting soldiers, Morgan’s anger grew. Not only had the Sithi first frightened him, then snubbed him, they had all but made his entire journey pointless. Several weeks riding and sleeping out of doors and many nights’ merriment back home missed, and his only reward was to be treated like a beggar by the glorious immortals he had heard so much about.
Back at home they will say the whole trip was wasted, he thought bitterly. And no doubt my grandparents will blame me, since they would never blame their magical Sithi friends or their old comrade Count Eolair. But who are the Sithi, after all is said? They live in the forest without houses, as poor as trappers or charcoal burners.
Morgan looked over at Jiriki and his certainty suffered a little. The Sitha moved like a true wild creature, his strides long, even, and completely silent, while Morgan and Eolair clattered and rustled with each step as they struggled to keep up.
As they followed Jiriki, the afternoon passed its crest and began to fail. The forest air that had sparkled with dust motes bright as tiny stars now grew more opaque, and as the sun dropped lower the first mists rising from the earth gave the Aldheorte the look of a streambed seen through moving water. Morgan paid little attention, though: He was full of angry thoughts, with a heaviness in his chest that felt like grief, though no one had died.
“Why did we leave the horn?” he demanded suddenly. “My grandparents gave that horn to us! It belonged to Sir Camaris, and he wasn’t any Sithi!”
“It was made by them in the first place, long, long ago,” said Eolair, frowning as he struggled over a log that blocked their path. “It was simple courtesy to let them have it again, Highness. And in any case, Ti-tuno is the least of our problems.”
“I would apologize for my uncle,” Jiriki said, “but I think there is blame enough for all, including an ample share for my sister and myself. Even Seoman and Miriamele did not understand what they sought when they tried to make a new peace with my people. We do not change so easily, nor so lightly, and neither do the mortals who fear and hate us. Years of care and much attention were needed, and both were lacking. Now it is likely too late.”
“Too late?” Eolair asked. “Why?”
“When Khendraja’aro and our mother were attacked by the mortals we had favored, our clan—the House of Year Dancing—lost favor among the rest of the Zida’ya. Khendraja’aro, as eldest of the clan, declared himself the house’s protector until the threat was finished. All the clans still work together in . . . well, in certain important ways, let us say, but our old shared home, Jao é-Tinukai’i, is now gone. It’s name means ‘Boat on the Ocean of Trees,’ as I think my sister told you. Our clans have now dispersed into many Little Boats instead. By our ancient traditions, it was the right thing to do.”
“What I fear—” Count Eolair began, but Morgan was tired of listening to other people talk.
“Why do all you Sithi let your uncle tell you what to do?” he demanded of Jiriki’s back. “How do we know that whatever-his-name—Khendararo, Khenjadaro—didn’t do all this himself and blame it on mortals?”
“Prince Morgan!” The count seemed shocked by this, but Morgan didn’t care. Hadn’t the old man even considered it? After all, Eolair was the diplomat, supposedly wise in the world’s ways.
“Well, he was the only one who came back to tell the story, wasn’t he? And now he’s in power, when it used to be the queen.” Morgan thought it seemed quite obvious. “All he’d need is a purse full of new gold pieces so he could claim that these supposed attackers were carrying them.”
“I apologize for the prince,” Eolair said to Jiriki, which only made Morgan angrier. “We came a long way for this meeting, and of course we are disappointed . . .”
The Sitha waved his hand. “Peace, Count. We Zida’ya are not complete strangers to deceit—in fact, if you know the story of Ineluki’s murder of his own father, you know we are no strangers to treachery among our own people either. But I think Prince Morgan speaks before he understands us well enough to judge us.”
“Perhaps.” Morgan was not in the mood to be conciliatory, however highly his grandfather and grandmother thought of the fairy-folk. “Or perhaps we’ve been hoping for help that was never going to come to us from these Sithi anyway.”
“Help?” said Jiriki. “You said something of this before, but I thought you spoke of breaching the distance that yawns between our peoples. What do you mean? What has happened, and why is this the first you have mentioned it?”
“Because your protector, as you call him, did not give me a chance to speak of it,” Eolair said, then told him of the attack on the royal progress along the North Road, and of the message they had found when the battle had ended.
“Witchwood Crown?” Jiriki said. “That is a very old phrase indeed.”
“What does it mean?” asked Eolair. “Is it some weapon or object of power like the swords we sought in the Storm King’s War?”
Jiriki made a gesture with clutching fingers, as though he tried to grasp something invisible. “I wish my sister were here. Aditu is a better student of the elder days than I am and would know more about such things. But ‘witchwood crown’—kei-jáyha in our tongue—has more than one meaning. The most common, at least in elder days, signified all the groves of witchwood trees that were planted when our people first came to the new lands.”
“New lands?” said Eolair.
“This place—Osten Ard, as you mortals call it. ‘New’ because we came here after we fled our old home, the Garden.”
“Are there many groves?” the count asked. “Are they important?”
“Most of the witchwood trees are dead now,” said Jiriki, and even for Morgan, unused to Sithi ways, there was no mistaking the bitterness in his voice. “Even our sacred groves in Jao é-Tinukai’i failed at last, not long after the Storm King was defeated. The living trees that remain are all in Nakkiga with the Hikeda’ya, so Utuk’ku seeking to capture that witchwood crown makes little sense.”
“But you said the words had other meanings as well,” said Eolair.
Jiriki hesitated, and Morgan wondered whether he was hiding something. “We used to bury some of our dead with a crown made of witchwood branches on their caskets or upon their brows. Because of that, it is also the name of a move in the game of shent.”
Eolair was struggling to keep up with Jiriki’s effortless pace, but Morgan could see he was clearly interested. “A move? A piece of strategy, do you mean? Could that be the meaning in the message we received?”
Jiriki seemed intent on the path before them. Morgan had decided he did not trust him at all, and was now certain the immortal was hiding something from them.
“Again,” the Sitha said at last, “I doubt it could be anything to do with Utuk’ku’s goal. In the game of shent, Witchwood Crown is a means to gain by surrendering. And I cannot think the queen of the Hikeda’ya intends surrender.”
“So there is nothing else to be done about the message we received?” Eolair asked. “The Norns’ plans remain a mystery and your people cannot help us? Will not help us?” Morgan thought the old count sounded quite pathetic, like a man begging for money from a wealthy relative. “What will we do if the Norns seek war again?”
“You don’t need to ask him,” Morgan said. “My grandparents will decide what is to be done.”
Jiriki turned toward him, his severe features even more alien in the sharply angled, late-afternoon light. Gaps in the trees overhead displayed the spreading scarlet of sunset in the sky, but to Morgan’s dismay it was once more in completely the opposite direction from what he thought was west. He was struck suddenly by how far he was from everything he knew, and had to fight against a pang of fearful homesickness.
“If so, Prince Morgan, your grandparents will not only have to make their own decisions,” Jiriki answered calmly, “but implement them as well. The Zida’ya can do nothing because we do not agree among ourselves.” He turned to the lord steward. “Count Eolair, we have almost reached our parting, and I must speak of something else while we can.”
“I am listening.”
“My sister and I sent the envoy Tanahaya to you, but it was completely against Khendraja’aro’s wishes and he would have forbidden it if he could. What happened to her is terrible, but a graver problem disturbs me now. As we discussed, Tanahaya carried one of our Witnesses, and so did Sijandi before he was lost. Both those mirrors are now missing. But why would mere Erkynlandish bandits steal such seemingly unimportant trinkets unless they knew their real worth?”