liard

! But it was useless to wonder. The gods had their reasons. They always did. Eolair had long since given up trying to understand the Sithi. He knew they were not gods, whatever Maegwin's poor, fevered mind might see, but neither were they a great deal more comprehensible than the Lords of Heaven. The count turned away from the fire, turned his back on Maegwin. She had been singing to herself, but had fallen silent. She had a sweet voice, but set against the chanting of the Peaceful Ones it sounded thin and discordant. It was not her fault. No mortal voice would sound like much when set against ... this. The Count of Nad Mullach shivered. The chorus of Sithi voices rose again. Their music was as impossible to ignore as were their catlike eyes when they stared you in the face. The rhythmic song gained in volume, pulsing like the oar-master's call to his rowers. The Sithi had been singing for three days, clustered before the bleak walls of Naglimund in the flurrying snow. Whatever they were doing, the Norns within the castle did not ignore them: several times the white-faced defenders had mounted to the tops of the walls and let fly a volley of arrows. A few of the Sithi had been killed in these attacks, but they had their own archers. Each time, the Norns were driven from the walls and the Sithi voices would rise once more. "I don't know that I can stand this much longer, Eolair." Isorn appeared out of the whirl of mist, his beard jeweled with frost. "I had to go hunting just to get away, but the noise followed me as far as I went." He dropped a hare onto the ground near the fire. Red dribbled from the arrow-wound in its side, staining the snow. "Good day, Lady," the duke's son said to Maegwin. She had stopped singing, but did not look up at him. She seemed incapable of seeing anything but the wavering fire. Eolair received Isorn's curious look and shrugged. "It is not really such a terrible sound." The Rimmersman raised his eyebrows. "No, Eolair, it is beautiful in its way. But it is too beautiful for me, too strong, too strange. It is making me ill." The count frowned. "I know. The rest of the men are unsettled, too. More than unsettled—frightened.

" "But why are the Sithi doing this? They are risking their lives—two more were killed yesterday! If this is some fairy ceremony they must perform, can they not sing out of bowshot?" Eolair shook his head helplessly. "I do not know. Bagba bite me, I do not know anything, Isorn." As continual as the noise of the ocean, the voices of the Sithi washed across the camp. Jiriki came in the dark before dawn. The slumbering coals picked out his sharp features in scarlet light. "This morning," he said, then squatted, staring at the embers. "Before noon." Eolair robbed his eyes, trying to bring himself fully awake. He had been sleeping fitfully, but sleeping nonetheless. "This... this morning? What do you mean?" "The battle will begin." Jiriki turned and gave Eolair a look that on a more familiar face might have betokened pity. "It will be dreadful." "How do you know that the battle will start then?" "Because that is what we have been working toward. We cannot fight a siege—we are too few. Those you call Norns are fewer than we are, but they sit inside a great shell of stone, and we do not have the engines mortals make for such battles nor the time to build them. So we will do it our way." "Does it have something to do with the singing?" Jiriki nodded in his oddly avian way. "Yes. Make your men ready. And tell them this: whatever they may think or see, they are fighting against living creatures. The Hikeda'ya are like you and like us—they bleed. They die." He fixed Eolair with an even, golden stare. "You will tell them that?" "I will." Eolair shivered and leaned closer to the fire, warming his hands before the dreaming coals. "Tomorrow?" Jiriki nodded again, then stood. "We will have our best chance while the sun is high. If we are lucky, it will be over before the darkness comes." Eolair couldn't imagine rugged Naglimund being brought down in so short a time. "And if it's not over? What, then?" "Things will be ... difficult." Jiriki took a step backward and vanished into the mist. Eolair sat before the coals for a little while, clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering. When he was sure he would not embarrass himself, he went to waken Isorn. Buffeted by brisk winds, the gray and red tent rode the peak of the hill like a sailing ship breasting a high wave.

A few other tents shared the hilltop; many more were scattered down the slope and clustered in the valley. Beyond them lay Lake Clodu, a vast blue-green mirror, still as a contented beast. Tiamak stood outside the tent, lingering despite the chill breeze. So many people, so much movement, so much life! It was disturbing to look down on that great sea of people, frightening to know that he was so close to the grinding stones of History, but still it was somehow hard to turn away. His own little story had been quite swallowed up by the great tales that stalked through Osten Ard in these days. It sometimes seemed that a sack full of the mightiest dreams and nightmares had been emptied out. That Tiamak's own small accomplishments, fears, and desires seemed likely to be ignored was the best he could hope for. An equally strong possibility was that they might be trampled entirely. Shivering a little, he finally lifted the tent flap and stepped through. It was not, as he had feared when Jeremias brought him the prince's summons, a council of war. Such things made him feel completely useless. Only a few waited—Josua, Sir Camaris, Duke Isgrimnur, all seated on stools, Vorzheva propped up in her bed, and the Sitha-woman Aditu, cross-legged on the floor at Vorzheva's side. The only other person in the tent was young Jeremias, who had apparently been very busy this afternoon. Just now, he was standing before the prince, trying to look attentive while gasping slightly for air. "Thank you for your haste, Jeremias," said Josua. "I understand completely. Please just go back and tell Strangyeard to come when he can. After that, you are released." "Yes, your Highness." Jeremias bowed, then headed for the door. Tiamak, who was still standing in the doorway, smiled at the approaching youth. "I did not have a chance to ask you before, Jeremias; how is Leieth? Is there any change?" The youth shook his head. He tried to keep his voice even, but the pain was obvious. "Just the same.. She never wakes up. She drinks a little water, but takes no food." He rubbed fiercely at his eye. "No one can do anything." "I am sorry," said Tiamak gently. "It's not your fault." Jeremias moved uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "I have to go take Josua's message back to Father Strangyeard." "Of course." Tiamak stepped out of the way. Jeremias slipped past him and was gone. "Tiamak," the prince called, "please come and join us.

" He pointed to an empty stool. When the Wrannaman was seated, Josua looked around. "This is very difficult," he said at last. "I am going to do a terrible thing and I apologize for it now. Nothing can excuse it but the strength of our need." He turned to Camaris. "My friend, please forgive me. If I could do this some other way, I would. Aditu feels that we should know whether you went to the Sithi home of Jao e-Tinukai'i, and if you did, why." Camaris raised his tired eyes to Josua's. "Is a man permitted no secrets?

" he asked heavily. "I promise you, Prince Josua, that it is nothing to do with this struggle against the Storm King. On the honor of my knighthood." "But someone who does not know all the history of our people—and Ineluki was one of us, once—may not know all the ties of blood and fable." Aditu spoke without Josua's reluctance, clearly and forcefully. "Everyone here knows you are an honorable man, Camaris, but you may not realize whether what you have seen or learned is useful." "Will you not tell just me, Camaris?" Josua asked. "You know I hold your honor as high as my own. You certainly need not spill all your secrets to a room full of people, if that is what you fear, even though they are your friends and allies." Camaris looked at him for a moment. His gaze seemed to soften; he struggled visibly with some impulse, but after a moment he shook his head violently. "No. A thousand pardons. Prince Josua, but to my shame I cannot. There are some things that even the Canon of Knighthood cannot drive me to." Isgrimnur was wringing his large hands together, clearly pained by Camaris' discomfort. Tiamak had not seen the Rimmersman so unhappy since they had left Kwanitupul. "And me, Camaris?" the duke asked. "I have known you longer by far than anyone here. We both served the old king. If it is something to do with Prester John, you can share it with me." Camaris sat straighter, but it seemed to be weak opposition to something that was bending him down inside. "I cannot, Isgrimnur. It would put too great a burden on our friendship. Please, ask me not." Tiamak felt the tension in the room. The old knight seemed to be backed into a comer no one else could see. "Can you not leave him alone?" Vorzheva's voice was raw. She draped her hands over her round belly as though to protect the child from so much unpleasantness and sorrow. Why am I here? Tiamak wondered. Because I traveled with him when he was witless? Because I am a Scrollbearer? With Geloe dead and Binabik gone, the League is a sorry collection just now.