As she reined up again to examine the castle, she could still hear the faint rattle of the retreating soldiers and the golden girl’s voice, no words now but just a musical burble rising from the forest below. The wind changed, and the stink of mortals, of unwashed bodies and unchanged garments abruptly deepened; it was all she could do not to turn around and retreat. She would have to accustom herself, she knew.
Tanahaya had never liked the squat, cheerless look of men’s buildings any more than she cared for men’s odor, and the Hayholt, this great castle of theirs, was no different. Despite its size, it seemed nothing more than a collection of carelessly built dwellings hiding behind brutish stone walls, one wall set inside another like a succession of mushroom rings. The entire awkward structure perched on a high headland above the wide bay known as Kynslagh, as though it were the nest of some slovenly seabird. Even the red tiles that roofed many of the buildings seemed dull to her as dried blood, and Tanahaya thought the famous castle looked more like a place to be imprisoned than anything else. It was astounding to realize that a few mortal decades earlier—an eyeblink of time to her people—the Storm King’s attack on the living had ended just here, only moments from success. She thought she could still hear the great crying-out of that day and feel the countless shadows that would not disperse, the torment and terror of so many. Even Time itself had almost been overthrown here. How could the mortals continue to live in such a place? Could they not feel the uneasy dead all around them?
Watching the girl had brought her a moment of good cheer, but now it blew away like dust on a hot, dry wind. For a moment Tanahaya’s hand strayed to the Witness in her belt-pouch, the sacred, timeworn mirror that would allow her to speak across great earthly distances to those who had sent her. She didn’t belong here—it was hard to believe that any of her race could in these fallen times. It was not too late, after all: she could beg her loved ones in Jao é-Tinukai’i to find someone else for this task.
Tanahaya’s impulse did not last. It was not her place to judge these short-lived creatures, but to do what she had been bid for the good of her own people.
After all, she reminded herself, a year does not dance itself into being. Everything is sacrifice.
She lifted her hand from the hidden mirror and caught up the reins once more. Even from this distance, the stench of mortals seemed unbearably strong, so fierce she could barely stand it. How much worse would it be when she was out of the heights and riding through their cramped streets?
Something struck her hard in the back. Tanahaya gasped, but could not get her breath. She tried to turn to see what had hit her, simultaneously reaching to draw her sword, but before it cleared the scabbard another arrow struck her, this time in the chest.
The Sitha tried to crouch low in the saddle but that only pressed the second arrow more agonizingly into her body. She could feel something like a cool breath on her back and knew it must be blood soaking her jerkin. She reached down and broke the second shaft off close to her ribs. Free of that obstruction but still pulsing blood around the broken shaft, she threw herself against Spidersilk’s neck and clung tightly, aiming now only for escape. But even as she clapped her heels against the horse’s side a new arrow hissed into the animal’s neck just a handspan from Tanahaya’s fingers. The horse reared, shrilling in pain and terror. As Tanahaya struggled to hang on, a fourth arrow took her high in her back and spun her out of the saddle. She fell into air, and for a mad moment it seemed almost like flight. Then something struck her all over and at once, a great, flat blow, and a soundless darkness rushed over her like a river.
PART ONE
Widows
Locusts laid their eggs in the corpse
Of a soldier. When the worms were
Mature, they took wing. Their drone
Was ominous, their shells hard.
Anyone could tell they had hatched
From an unsatisfied anger.
They flew swiftly toward the North.
They hid the sky like a curtain.
When the wife of the soldier
Saw them, she turned pale, her breath
Failed her. She knew he was dead
In battle, his corpse lost in the desert.
That night she dreamed
She rode a white horse, so swift
It left no footprints, and came
To where he lay in the sand.
She looked at his face, eaten
By the locusts, and tears of
Blood filled her eyes. Ever after
She would not let her children
Injure any insect that
Might have fed on the dead. She
Would lift her face to the sky
And say, “O locusts, if you
Are seeking a place to winter,
You can find shelter in my heart.”
—HSU CHAO
“The Locust Swarm”
1
The Glorious
The pavilion walls billowed and snapped as the winds rose. Tiamak thought it was like being inside a large drum. Many people in the tent were trying to be heard, but the clear voice of a young minstrel floated above it all, singing a song of heroism:
“Sing ye loud his royal name
Seoman the Glorious!
Spread it far, his royal fame
Seoman the Glorious!”
The king did not look glorious. He looked tired. Tiamak could see it in the lines of Simon’s face, the way his shoulders hunched as if he awaited a blow. But that blow had already fallen. Today was only the grim anniversary.
Limping more than usual because of the cold day, little Tiamak made his way among all the larger men. These courtiers and important officials were gathered around the king, who sat on one of two high-backed wooden chairs at the center of the tent, both draped in the royal colors. A banner with the twin drakes, the red and the white, hung above them. The other chair was empty.
As a makeshift throne room in the middle of a Hernystir field, Tiamak thought, it was more than adequate, but it was also clearly the one place King Seoman did not want to be. Not today.
“With hero’s sword in his right hand
And nought but courage in his heart
Did Seoman make his gallant stand
Though cowards fled apart
“When the hellspawned Norns did bring
Foul war upon the innocent
And giants beat upon the gates
And Norn sails filled the Gleniwent . . .”
“I don’t understand,” said the king loudly to one of the courtiers. “In truth, my good man, I haven’t understood a thing you’ve said, what with all this shouting and caterwauling. Why should they have to lime the bridges? Do they think we are birds that need catching?”
“Line the bridges, sire.”
The king scowled. “I know, Sir Murtach. It was meant as a jest. But it still doesn’t make any sense.”
The courtier’s determined smile faltered. “It is the tradition for the people to line up along the bridges as well as the roads, but King Hugh is concerned that the bridges might not stand under the weight of so many.”
“And so we must give up our wagons and come on foot? All of us?”
Sir Murtach flinched. “It is what King Hugh requests, Your Majesty.”
“When armies of the Stormlord came
Unto the very Swertclif plain
Who stood on Hayholt’s battlements
And bade them all turn back again?
“Sing ye loud his royal name
Seoman the Glorious!
Spread it far, his royal fame
Seoman the Glorious!”
King Simon’s head had tipped to one side. It was not the side from which he was being urgently addressed by another messenger, who had finally worked his way to a place beside the makeshift throne. Something had distracted Simon. Tiamak thought that seeing the king’s temper fray was like watching a swamp flatboat beginning to draw water. It was plain that if someone didn’t do something soon, the whole craft would sink.
“He slew the dragon fierce and cold
And banished winter by his hand
He tamed the Sithi proud and old
And saved the blighted, threatened land . . .”
Murtach was still talking in one royal ear, and the other messenger had started his speech for the third time when Simon suddenly stood. The courtiers fell back swiftly, like hunting hounds when the bear turns at bay. The king’s beard was still partly red, but he had enough gray in it now, as well as the broad white stripe where he had once been splashed by dragon’s blood, that when his anger was up he looked a bit like an Aedonite prophet from the old days.
“That! That!” Simon shouted. “It’s bad enough that I cannot hear myself think, that every man in camp wants me to do something or . . . or not do something . . . but must I listen to such terrible lies and exaggerations as well?” He turned and pointed his finger at the miscreant. “Well? Must I?”
At the far end of the king’s finger, the young minstrel stared back with the round eyes of a quiet, nighttime grazer caught in the sudden glare of a torch. He swallowed. It seemed to take a long time. “Beg pardon, Majesty?” he squeaked.
“That song! That preposterous song! ‘He slew the dragon fierce and cold’—a palpable lie!” The king strode forward until he towered over the thin, dark-haired singer, who seemed to be melting and shrinking like a snowflake caught in a warm hand. “By the Bloody Tree, I never killed that dragon, I just wounded it a bit. I was terrified. And I didn’t tame the Sithi either, for the love of our lord Usires!”