Tad Williams - Memory Sorrow & Thorn 4 - To Green Angel Tower 2

Memory Sorrow & Thorn

Book 4

To Green Angel Tower, part 2

Tad Williams

PART ONE

A

The

Turning WfteeC

End of PART ONE

Tears and Smoke

Ttona^- fowvt the empty treelessness of the High

Thrithing oppressive- Kwanitupul was strange, too, but he

had been visiting that place since childhood, and its tum-

bledown buildings and ubiquitous waterways at least re-

minded him a little of his marshy home. Even Perdruin,

where he had spent time in lonely exile, was so filled

with close-leaning walls and narrow pathways, so riddled

with shadowy hiding places and blanketed in the salt

smell of the sea, that Tiamak had been able to live with

his homesickness. But here on (jhe grasslands he felt tre-

mendously exposed and utterly out of place. It was not a

comforting feeling.

They Who Watch and Shape have indeed made a

strange life for me, he often reflected. The strangest, per-

haps, of any they have made for my people since Nuobdig

married the Fire Sister.

Sometimes there was solace in this thought. To have

been marked out for such unusual events was, after all, a

sort of repayment for the years of misunderstanding that

his own people and the drylanders on Perdruin had shown

him. Of course he was not understood-he was special:

what other Wrannaman could speak and read the dryland-

er tongues as he could? But lately, surrounded again by

strangers, and with no knowledge of what had happened

to his own folk, it filled him with loneliness. At such

times, disturbed by the emptiness of these queer northern

surroundings, he would walk down to the river that ran

34

Tad Williams

through the middle of the camp to sit and listen to the

calming, familiar sounds of the water-world.

He had been doing just that, dangling his brown feet in

the Stefflod despite the chill of water and wind, and was

returning to camp a little heartened, when a shape flashed

past him. It was someone running, pale hair streaming,

but whoever it was seemed to move as swiftly as a drag-

onfly, far faster than anyone human should travel. Tiamak

had only a moment to stare after the fleeing form before

another dark shape swept past. It was a bird, a large one,

flying low to the ground as though the first figure was its

prey.

As both shapes vanished up the slope toward the heart

of the prince's encampment, Tiamak stood in stunned

amazement. It took some moments for him to realize who

the first shape had been.

The Sitha-woman! he thought. Chased by a hawk or an

owl?

It made no sense, but then she-Aditu was her name-

made little sense to Tiamak either. She was like nothing

he had ever seen and, in fact, frightened him a little- But

what could be chasing her? From the look on her face she

had been running from something dreadful.

Or to something dreadful, he realized, and felt his

stomach clench. She had been heading toward the camp'.

He Who Always Steps on Sand, Tiamak prayed as he

set out, protect me-protect us all from evil. His heart was

beating swiftly now, faster than the pace of his running

feet. This is an ill-omened year!

For a moment, as he reached the nearest edge of the

vast field of tents, he was reassured. It was quiet, and few

campfires burned. But there was too much quiet, he de-

cided a moment later. It was not early, but still well be-

fore midnight. People should be about, or at least there

should be some noise from those not yet asleep. What

could be wrong?

It had been long moments since he had caught his most

recent glimpse of the swooping bird-he was certain now

it was an owl-and he hobbled on in the direction he had

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER 35

last seen it, his breath now coming in harsh gasps. His in-

jured leg was not used to running, and it bumed him,

throbbed. He did his best to ignore it.

Quiet, quiet-it was still as a stagnant pond here. The

tents stood, dark and lifeless as the stones drylanders set

in fields where they buried their dead.

But there' Tiamak felt his stomach turn again. There

was movement! One of the tents not far away shook as

though in a wind, and some light inside it threw strange

moving shadows onto the walls.

Even as he saw it he felt a tickling in his nostrils, a sort

of burning, and with it came a sweet, musky scent. He

sneezed convulsively and almost tripped, but caught him-

self before falling to the ground. He limped toward the

tent, which pulsed with light and shadow as though some

monstrous thing was being born inside. He tried to raise

his voice to cry out that he was coming and to raise an

, alarm, for his fear was rising higher and higher-but he

could not make a sound. Even the painful rasp of his

breathing had become faint and whispery.

The tent, too, was strangely silent. Pushing down his

fright, he caught at the flap and- threw it back.

At first he could see nothing more than dark shapes and

bright light, almost an exact reflection of the shadow pup-

pets on the outside walls of the tent. Within a few in-

stants, the moving images began to come clear.

At the tent's far wall stood Camaris. He seemed to have

been struck, for blood rilled from some cut on his head,

staining his cheek and hair black, and he reeled as though

his wits had been addled. Still, bowed and leaning against

the fabric for support, he was yet fierce, like a bear beset

by hounds. He had no blade, but held a piece of firewood

clenched in one fist and waved it back and forth, holding

off a menacing shape that was almost all black but for a

flash of white hands and something that glinted in one of

those hands.

Kicking near Camaris' feet was an even less decipher-

able muddle, although Tiamak thought he saw more

black-clothed limbs, as well as the pale nimbus of Aditu's

Tad Williams

hair. A third dark-clad attacker huddled in the corner,

warding off a swooping, fluttering shadow.

Terrified, Tiamak tried to raise his voice to call for

help, but could make no sound. Indeed, despite what

seemed to be life-or-death struggles, the entire tent was

silent but for the muffled sounds of the two combatants

on the floor and the hectic flapping of wings.

Why can't I hear? Tiamak thought desperately. Why

can't I make a sound?

Frantic, he searched the floor for something to use as a

weapon, cursing himself that he had carelessly left his

knife behind in the sleeping-place he shared with

Strangyeard. No knife, no sling-stones, no blow-darts-

nothing! She Who Waits to Take All Back had surely

sung his song tonight.

Something vast and soft seemed to strike him in the

head, sending Tiamak to his knees, but when he looked

up, the several battles still raged, none of them near him.

His skull was throbbing even more painfully than his leg

and the sweet smell was chokingly strong- Dizzy, Tiamak

crawled forward and his hand encountered something

hard. It was the knight's sword, black Thorn, still

sheathed. Tiamak knew it was far too heavy for him to

use, but he dragged it out from beneath the tangle of bed-

ding and stood, as unsteady now on his feet as Camaris.

What was in the air?

The sword, unexpectedly, seemed light in his hands,

despite the heavy scabbard and dangling belt. He raised it

high and took a few steps forward, then swung it as hard

as he could at what he thought was the head of Camaris'

attacker. The impact shivered up his arm, but the thing

did not fall. Instead, the head turned slowly. Two eyes,

shining black, stared out of the corpse-white face.

Tiamak's throat moved convulsively. Even had his voice

remained, he could not have made a sound. He lifted his

shaking arms, holding the sword up to strike again, but

the thing's white hand flashed out and Tiamak was

knocked backward. The room whirled away from him; the

sword flew from his nerveless fingers and tumbled to the

grass that was the tent's only floor.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER

37

Tiamak's head was as heavy as stone, but he could not

otherwise feel the pain of the blow. What he could feel

were his wits slipping away. He tried to lift himself to his

feet once more but only got as far as his knees. He

crouched, shaking like a sick dog.

He could not speak but, cursedly, could still see.

Camaris was stumbling, wagging his head-as damaged,

seemingly, as Tiamak. The old man was trying to hold off

his attacker long enough to reach something on the

ground-the sword, the Wrannaman realized groggily, the

black sword. Camaris was prevented from reaching it as

much by the dark, contorted forms of Aditu and her en-

emy rolling on the ground beneath him as by the foe he

was trying to keep at bay with his firelog club.

In the other corner, something glittered in the hand of

one of the pale-faced things, a shining something red as

a crescent of firelight. The scarlet gleam moved, swift as

a striking snake, and a tiny cloud of dark shapes exploded

outward, then drifted to the ground, slower than snow-

flakes. Tiamak squinted helplessly as one settled on his

hand. It was a feather. An owl's feather.

Help. Tiamak's skull felt as though it had been staved

in. We need help. We will die if no one helps us.

Camaris at last bent and caught up the sword, almost

over-balancing, then managed to lift Thorn in time to

hold off a strike by his enemy. The two of them circled

each other, Camaris stumbling, the black-clad attacker

moving with cautious grace. They fell together once

more, and one of the old knight's hands shot out and

pushed away a dagger blow, but the blade left a trail of

blood down his arm. Camaris fell back clumsily, trying to

find room to swing his sword. His eyes were half-closed

with pain or fatigue.

He is hurt, Tiamak thought desperately. The throbbing

in his head grew stronger. Maybe dying. Why does no one

come?

The Wrannaman dragged himself toward the wide bra-

zier of coals that provided the only light. His dimming

senses were beginning to wink out like the lamps of

Kwanitupul at dawn. Only a dim fragment of an idea was

38

Tad Williams

in his mind, but it was enough to lift his hand toward the

iron brazier- When he felt-as dimly as a distant echo-

the heat of the thing against his fingers, he pushed. The

brazier tumbled over, scattering coals like a waterfall of

rubies.

As Tiamak collapsed, choking, the last things he saw

were his own soot-blackened hand curled like a spider

and, beyond it, an army of tiny flames licking at the bot-

tom of the tent wall.

A

"We don't need any more damnable questions,"

Isgrimnur grumbled- "We have enough to last three life-

times. What we need are answers."

Binabik made an uncomfortable gesture. "I am agree-

ing with you. Duke Isgrimnur. But answers are not like a

sheep that is coming when a person calls."

Josua sighed and leaned back against the wall of

Isgrimnur's tent. Outside, the wind rose for a moment,

moaning faintly as it vibrated the tent ropes. "I know how

difficult it is, Binabik. But Isgrimnur is right-we need

answers- The things you told us about this Conqueror Star

have only added to the confusion. What we need to know

is how to use the three Great Swords. All that the star

tells us-if you are right-is that our time to wield them

is running out."

"That is what we are giving the largest attention to,

Prince Josua," said the troll. "And we think we may per-

haps be learning something soon, for Strangyeard has

found something that is of importantness."

"What is that?" Josua asked, leaning forward. "Any-

thing, man, anything would be heartening."

Father Strangyeard, who had been sitting quietly,

squirmed a little. "I am not as sure as Binabik, Highness,

that it is of any use. I found the first of it some time

ago, while we were still traveling to Sesuad'ra."

"Strangyeard was finding a passage that is written in

Morgenes' book," Binabik amplified, "something about

the three swords that are so much concerning us."

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER 39

"And?" Isgrimnur tapped his fingers on his muddy

knee. He had spent a long time trying to secure his

tentstakes in the loose, damp ground.

"What Morgenes seems to suggest," the archivist said,

"is that what makes the three swords special-no, more

than special, powerful-is that they are not of Osten Ard.

Each of them, in some way, goes against the laws of God

and Nature."

"How so?" The prince was listening intently. Isgrimnur

saw a little ruefully that these sorts of inquiries would al-

ways interest Josua more than the less exotic business of

being a ruler, such as grain prices and taxes and the laws

of fireeholding.

Strangyeard was hesitant. "Geloe could explain better

than I. She knows more of these things."

"She should have been coming here by now," Binabik

said. "I wonder if we should be waiting for her."

"Tell me what you can," said Josua. "It has been a very

long day and I am growing weary. Also, my wife is ill

and I do not like being away from her."

"Of course. Prince Josua. I'm sorry. Of course."

Strangyeard gathered himself. "Morgenes tells that there

is something in each sword that is not of Osten Ard-not

of our earth. Thom is made from a stone that fell from the

sky. Bright-Nail, which was once Minneyar, was forged

from the iron keel of Elvrit's ship that came over the sea

from the West. Those are lands that our ships can no

longer find." He cleared his throat. "And Sorrow is of

both iron and the Sithi witchwood, two things that are in-

imical. The witchwood itself, Aditu tells me, came over

as seedlings from the place that her people call the Gar-

den. None of these things should be here, and also, none

of them should be workable .. - except perhaps the pure

iron of Elvrit's keel."

"So how were these swords made, then?" asked Josua.

"Or is that the answer you still seek?"

"There is something that Morgenes is mentioning,"

Binabik offered. "It is also written in one of Ookekuq's

scrolls. It is called a Word of Making-a magic spell is

40 Tad Williams

what we might be naming it, although those who are

knowing the Art do not use those words,"

"A Word of Making?" Isgrimnur frowned. "Just a

word?"

"Yes .. . and no," Strangyeard said unhappily. "In

truth, we are not sure. But Minneyar we know was made

by the dwarrows-the dvemings as you would call them

in your own tongue. Duke Isgrimnur-and Sorrow was

made by Ineluki in the dwarrow forges beneath Asu'a.

The dwarrows alone had the lore to make such mighty

things, although Ineluki learned it. Perhaps they had a

hand in Thorn's forging as well, or their lore was used

somehow. In any case, it is possible that if we knew the

way in which the swords were created, how the binding

of forces was accomplished, it might teach us something

about how we can use them against the Storm King."

"I wish I had thought to question Count Eolair more

carefully when he was here," said Josua, frowning. "He

had met the dwarrows."

"Yes, and they told him of their part in the history of

Bright-Nail," Father Strangyeard added. "It is also possi-

ble, however, that it is not the making of them that is im-

portant for our purpose, but just the fact that they exist.

Still, if we have some chance in the future to send word

to the dwarrows, and if they will speak with us, I for one

would have many questions."

Josua looked at the archivist speculatively. "This chore

suits you, Strangyeard. I always thought you were wasted

dusting books and searching out the most obscure points

of canon law."

The priest reddened. "Thank you. Prince Josua. What-

ever I can do is because of your kindness."

The prince waved his hand, dismissing the compliment.

"Still, as much as you and Binabik and the rest have ac-

complished, there is still far more to do. We remain afloat

in deep waters, praying for a sight of land . . ." He

paused. "What is that noise?"

Isgrimnur had noticed it, too, a rising murmur that had

slowly grown louder than the wind. "It sounds like an ar-

gument," he said, then waited for a moment, listening.

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER 4!

"No, it is more than that-there are too many voices." He

stood. "Dror's Hammer, I hope that someone has not

started a rebellion." He reached for Kvalnir and was

calmed by its reassuring heft. "I had hoped for a quiet

day tomorrow before we are to ride again."

Josua clambered to his feet. "Let us not sit here and

wonder,"

As Isgrimnur stepped out of the door flap, his eyes

were abruptly drawn across the vast camp. It was plain in

an instant what was happening.

"Fire!" he called to the others as they spilled out after

him. "At least one tent burning badly, but it looks like a

few more have caught, too." People were now rushing

about between the tents, shadowy figures that shouted

and gesticulated. Men dragged on their sword belts, curs-

ing in confusion. Mothers dragged screaming children out

of their blankets and carried them into the open air. All

the pathways were full of terrified, milling campfolk.

Isgrimnur saw one old woman fall to her knees, crying, al-

though she was only a few paces from where he stood, a

long distance from the nearest flames.

"Aedon save us!" said Josua. "Binabik, Strangyeard,

call for buckets and waterskins, then take some of these

mad-wandering folk and head for the river-we need wa-

ter! Better yet, pull down some of the oiled tents and see

how much water you can carry in them!" He sprang away

toward the conflagration; Isgrimnur hastened after him.

The flames were leaping high now, filling the night sky

with a hellish orange light. As he and Josua approached

the fire, a flurry of dancing sparks sailed out, hissing as

they caught in Isgrimnur's beard. He beat them out, curs-

ing.

*

Tiamak awakened and promptly threw up, then strug-

gled to catch his breath. His head was hammering like a

Perdruinese church bell.

There were flames all around him, beating hot against

his skin, sucking away the air. In a blind panic, he

42

Tad Williams

dragged himself across the crisping grass of the tent floor

toward what looked like a patch of cool darkness, only to

find his face pushed up against some black, slippery fab-

ric. He struggled with it for a moment, dimly noting its

strange resistance; then it flopped aside, exposing a white

face buried in the black hood. The eyes were turned up,

and blood slicked the lips. Tiamak tried to scream, but his

mouth was full of burning smoke and his own bile. He

rolled away, choking.

Suddenly, something grabbed at his arm and he was

yanked forward violently, dragged across the pale-skinned

corpse and through a wall of flame. For a moment he

thought he was dead. Something was thrown over him,

and he was rolled and pummeled with the same swift vi-

olence that had carried him away, then whatever covered

him was lifted and he found himself lying on wet grass.

Flames licked at the sky close beside him, but he was

safe. Safe!

"The Wrannaman is alive," someone said near him. He

thought he recognized the Sitha-woman's lilting tones, al-

though her voice was now almost sharp with fear and

worry. "Camaris dragged him out. How the knight man-

aged to stay awake after he had been poisoned I will

never know, but he killed two of the Hikeda'ya." There

was an unintelligible response.

After he had lain in place for a few long moments, just

breathing the clean air into his painful lungs, •Tiamak

rolled over. Aditu stood a few paces away, her white hair

blackened and her golden face streaked with grime. Be-

neath her on the ground lay the forest woman Geloe, par-

tially wrapped in a cloak, but obviously naked beneath it,

her muscular legs shiny with dew or sweat. As Tiamak

watched, she struggled to sit up.

"No, you must not," Aditu said to her, then took a step

backward. "By the Grove, Geloe, you are wounded."

With a trembling effort, Geloe lifted her head. "No,"

she said. Tiamak could barely hear her voice, a throaty

whisper. "I am dying."

Aditu leaned forward, reaching out to her. "Let me help

you...."

TO GREEN ANGEL TOWER 43

"No!" Geloe's voice grew stronger. "No, Aditu, it is

... too late. I have been stabbed ... a dozen times." She

coughed and a thin trickle of something dark ran down

her chin, glinting in the light of the burning tents. Tiamak

stared. He saw what he took to be Camaris' feet and legs

behind her, the rest of the knight's long form stretched out

in the grass hidden by her shadow. "I must go." Geloe

tried to clamber to her feet but could not do so-

"There might be something ..." Aditu began.

Geloe laughed weakly, then coughed again and spat out

a gobbet of blood. 'Do you think I... do not... know?"

she said. "I have been a healer for ... a long time." She

held out a shaking hand. "Help me. Help me up."

Aditu's face, which for a moment had seemed as

stricken as any mortal's, grew solemn. She took Geloe's

hand, then leaned forward and clasped her other arm as

well. The wise woman slowly rose to her feet; she

swayed, but Aditu supported her,

"I must ... go. I do not wish to die here." Geloe

pushed away from Aditu and took a few staggering steps.

The cloak fell away, exposing her nakedness to the leap-

ing firelight. Her skin was slick with sweat and great

smears of blood. "I will go baclrto my forest. Let me go

while I still can."

Aditu hesitated a moment longer, then stepped back

and lowered her head. "As you wish, Valada Geloe. Fare-

well, Ruyan's Own. Farewell .,. my friend. Sinya'a du-

n'sha e-d'treyesa inro."

Trembling, Geloe raised her arms, then took another

step. The heat from the flames seemed to grow more in-

tense, for Tiamak, where he lay, saw Geloe begin to shim-

mer. Her outline grew insubstantial, then a cloud of

shadow or smoke seemed to appear where she stood. For

a moment, the very night seemed to surge inward toward

the spot, as though a stitch had been taken in the fabric of

the Wrannaman's vision. Then the night was whole again.

The owl circled slowly for a moment where Geloe had

been, then flew off, close above the wind-tossed grasses.

Its movements were stiff and awkward, and several times

it seemed that it must lose the wind and fall tumbling to

44

Tad Williams

the earth, but its lurching flight continued until the night

sky had swallowed it.

His head still full of murk and painful clangor, Tiamak

slumped back. He was not sure what he had seen, but he

knew that something terrible had happened. A great sad-

ness lurked just out of his reach. He was in no hurry to

bring it closer.

What had been the thin sound of voices in the distance

became a raucous shouting. Legs moved past him; the

night seemed suddenly full of movement. There was a

rush and sizzle of steam as someone threw a pail of water

into the flames of what had been Camaris' tent.

A few moments later he felt Aditu's strong hands under

his arms. "You will be trampled, brave marsh man," she

said into his ear, then pulled him farther away from the

conflagration, into the cool darkness beside some tents

untouched by the blaze. She left him there, then returned

shortly with a water skin. The Sitha pressed it against his

cracked lips until he understood what it was, then left him

to drink-which he did, greedily.

A dark shadow loomed, then abruptly sank down be-

side him. It was Camaris. His silvery hair, like Aditu's,

was scorched and blackened. Haunted eyes stared from

his ash-smeared face. Tiamak handed him the water skin,

then prodded him until he lifted it to his lips.

"God have mercy on us .. ." Camaris croaked. He

stared dazedly at the spreading fires and the shouting mob

that was trying to douse them.

Aditu returned and sat down beside them. When

Camaris offered her the water skin, she took it from him

and downed a single swallow before handing it back.

"Geloe. - - ?" Tiamak asked.

Tad Williams - Memory Sorrow & Thorn 4 - To Green Angel Tower 2

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