The Stone of Farewell (50 page)

“Why did they build their city on an icy mountain in the first place?” Simon asked. “That seems stupid.”

Binabik looked up peevishly. “You are speaking, Simon, to one raised in the mountains, as you are no doubt able to recall. Part of manhood, I am thinking, is to ponder one's words before opening one's mouth.”

“I'm sorry.” Simon tried to suppress a mischievous smile. “I didn't realize that trolls actually liked living where they do.”

“Simon,” Binabik said sternly, “I think it would be a good thing if you went to gather up the horses.”

 

“So, Binabik,” Simon said at last, “what are the Nine Cities?”

They had been riding for an hour, tilting away at last from the base of the mountains and out onto the vast white sea of the Waste, following the line of what Binabik called the Old Tumet'ai Road, a broad causeway that had once linked the ice-bound city with its sisters to the south. There was little to see of any road now, only a few large stones still standing on either side of the trail and an occasional patch of cobbles still in place beneath the covering snow.

Simon had not asked the question out of any real eagerness to learn more history—his head was already crammed so full of strange names and places he could scarcely hold a thought—but the featureless terrain, the endless field of snow dotted with forlorn stands of trees, made him hungry for a story.

Binabik, who had ridden slightly ahead, whispered something to Qantaqa. Leaking plumes of vaporous breath, the wolf stopped in her wide tracks until Simon had caught up. Simon's mare shied and pranced away. As Qantaqa crunched inoffensively alongside, Simon patted the horse's neck, speaking low words of encouragement. After a few head-swinging paces, she was able to continue her progress with nothing more than an occasional nervous snort. For her part, the wolf paid no attention to the horse at all, her head held low as she sniffed at the snow.

“Good, Homefinder, good.” Simon ran his hand down her shoulder, feeling the tremendous muscles moving beneath his fingers. He had named her and now she obeyed him! He felt himself filled with quiet joy. She was his horse now.

Binabik smiled at Simon's prideful expression. “You show her respect. That is a good thing,” he said. “Too often it is that men think those who serve are doing it from inferiorness or weakness.” He chuckled. “Folk who have those beliefs should ride a mount like Qantaqa, who could eat them if she chose. They would then be learning humbleness. He scratched the ridge of fur between Qantaqa's shoulders; the wolf stopped pacing for a moment to appreciate the attention, then dug forward through the snow once more.

Sludig, riding just ahead, turned to look back. “Hah! You will be a horseman as well as a fighter, is that right? Our friend Snowlock is the boldest kitchen boy in the world!”

Simon scowled, embarrassed, and felt his skin wrinkling around his cheek-scar. “That's not my name.”

Sludig laughed at his discomfiture. “And what is wrong with 'Simon Snowlock' for a name? It is a true name, honorably won.”

“If it is displeasing, Simon-friend,” Binabik said kindly, “we will call you some other thing. But Sludig speaks rightly: your name was gained with honor, given to you by Jiriki of the highest Sithi house. The Sithi are seeing more clearly than mortals—at least in some ways. Like any of their other gifts, a name is not to be discarded with easiness. Do you remember when you held the White Arrow above the river?”

Simon did not have to think hard. The moment when he had fallen into the turbulent Aelfwent, despite all the strange adventures he had suffered since, remained a black spot in his memory. It had been his idiot pride, of course—the other side of his mooncalf nature—that had sent him down into the swirling depths. He had been trying to show Miriamele how lightly he regarded even the gifts of the Sithi. The very thought of his foolishness made him feel ill. What an ass he was! How could he ever hope Miriamele could care about him?

“I remember,” was all he said, but the joy of his moment was gone. Anyone could ride a horse, even a mooncalf. Why should he grow so large in his own estimation just because he had kept an already battle-hardened mare from balking? “You were going to tell me about the Nine Cities, Binabik,” he said heavily.

The troll lifted an eyebrow at Simon's despairing tone, but did not pursue the subject. Instead, he brought Qantaqa to a halt.

“Turn for a moment and be looking back,” the troll said, gesturing to both Simon and Sludig. The Rimmersman made an impatient noise, but did as Binabik asked.

The sun had pulled free from the mountain's embrace. Its slanting rays now blazed along the face of the easternmost peak, laying fire along its icy cheek and throwing deep shadows in the crevices. The imprisoned towers, dark streaks at dawn, now seemed to glow with warm reddish light, like blood running through the mountain's cold arteries.

“Look well,” Binabik said. “We may none of us be ever seeing that sight again. Tumet'ai was a place of highest magic, as were all the great cities of the Sithi. Their like will never again come to the light.” The troll took a deep breath, then suddenly and startlingly burst out into song.

Binabik's voice carried out through the windless morning, disappearing with no answering echo. “That is the beginning of the song of Tumet'ai's fall,” he said solemnly. “A very old song, and one of which I am knowing only a few verses. That one I have sung means this:

The troll shook his head. “It is so much difficulty for me to make things of Sithi craft into proper words—especially in a tongue not of my birthplace. You can be forgiving, I hope.” He grinned sourly. “In any case, most Sithi songs have as their root thoughts of loss and long memory, so how is a person of my short years to make their words sing?”

Simon was staring at the almost invisible towers, fading streaks in the prisoning ice.

“Where did the Sithi go who lived there?” he asked. The mournful words of Binabik's songs echoed in his thoughts:
You have slipped into cold shadows.
He could feel those shadows tightening around his heart like bands of ice.
You have slipped into cold shadows.
His face throbbed where the dragon's blood had marked him.

“Where the Sithi always go,” the troll replied. “Away. To lesser places. They die, or pass into shade, or live and become less than they were.” He stopped, eyes downcast as he strove to find the proper words. “They were bringing much that had beauty into the world, Simon, and much that was beautiful in the world was admired by them. It has been many times said that the world grows less fair because of their diminishing. I do not have the knowledge to tell if that is so.” He thrust his hands into Qantaqa's thick pelt and urged her about once more, cantering away from the mountains. “I wanted you to remember that place, Simon ... but do not grieve. Still there is being much of beauty in this world.”

Sludig made the sign of the Tree above his cloaked breast. “I cannot say I share your love of these magical places, troll.” He snapped his reins, urging his horse into a walk. “The good Lord Usires came to free us from paganism. It is no accident that the heathen demons who threaten our world are cousins to these Sithi you mourn for. ”

Simon felt a surge of anger. “That's stupid, Sludig. What about Jiriki? Is he a demon?”

The Rimmersman turned to him, an unhappy smile flashing in his blond beard. “No, youngling, but neither is he a magical playmate and protector, as you seem to think him. Jiriki is older and deeper than any of us can know. Like many such things, he is also more dangerous than mortals can know. God knew what He did when he aided mankind to scourge the Sithi from this land. Jiriki has been fair, but his people and ours can never live together. We are too different.”

Simon choked back a furious response, turning his eyes to the snowy path before them. Sometimes he did not like Sludig very much at all.

They rode on for a while, silent but for the chuffing of breath and the scraping of their horses' hooves, before Binabik spoke again.

“You have been having luck of great rarity, Simon,” he said.

“Being chased by demons, you mean?” Simon growled. “Or seeing my friends killed?”

“Please.” The troll raised his small hand in a calming gesture. “I do not refer to luckiness of that sort. Clearly, it has been a terrible road we have walked. No, I meant only that you have seen three of the nine great cities. Few if any mortals can be making such a statement with truthfulness.”

“Which three?”

“Tumet‘ai, of which you have just seen all that is left to see, now that ice has buried her.” The troll spread his fingers, counting. “Da'ai Chikiza, in Aldheorte Forest, where I received my unfortunate arrowing. And Asu'a itself, whose bones are the underpinnings of the Hayholt where you had your birth.”

“The Sithi built Green Angel Tower there, and it's still standing,” Simon said, remembering its pale sweep, like a white finger pointing at the sky. “I used to climb in it all the time.” He thought for a moment. “Was that other place ... the one called Enki ... Enki... ?”

“Enki-e-Shao'saye?” Binabik prompted.

“Yes. Was Enki-e-Shao'saye one of the great cities?”

“It was. And we shall see its ruins, too, one day—if any remain—for it is near to where we will be finding the Stone of Farewell.” He leaned low as Qantaqa leaped up and over a small rise.

“I've seen it already,” Simon said. “Jiriki showed it to me in the mirror. It was beautiful—a!! green and gold. He called it the Summer City.”

Binabik smiled. “Then you have seen four, Simon. Few of even the wisest ones can say as much after a whole length of life.”

Simon considered this. Who would ever have dreamed that Morgenes' history lessons would be so important? Old cities and old stories were now part of his very life. It was strange how the future seemed tied inseparably to the past, so that both revolved through the present, like a great wheel ...

An image from a dream rose before him, a great black circle pushing relentlessly downward, a huge wheel that drove everything before it. Somehow the past was forcing its way right into this very moment, casting a long shadow across the what-would-be ...

Something was there in his mind, but just beyond reach, some occult shape that he could feel but not recognize. It was something about his dreams, something about Past and Future ...

“I think I need to know more, Binabik,” he said at last. “But there are so many things to understand, I'll never remember them all. What were the other cities?” He was momentarily distracted by a movement in the sky before him, a scatter of dark, moving shapes like breeze-blown leaves. He squinted, but saw that it was only a flock of high-soaring birds.

“About the past is a good thing to know, Simon,” said the little man, “but it is deciding which things are important that separates a wise one from others. Still, although it is my guessing that the names of the Nine Cities will be little use, it is good to know of them. Once their names were known to every child in its cradle.

“Asu‘a, Da'ai Chikiza, Enki-e-Shao‘saye, and Tumet'ai
you are knowing.
Jhiná T‘senei
lies drowned beneath the southern seas. The ruins of
Kementari
stand somewhere on Warinsten Island, birth-home of your king Prester John, but no one, I think, has seen them for years and years. Also long unseen are
Mezutu'a
and
Hikehikayo,
both lost beneath Osten Ard's northwestern mountains. The last,
Nakkiga,
now that my thought is upon it, you have already seen as well—or you have in a way ...”

“What does that mean?”

“Nakkiga was the city the Norns built long ago in the shadow of Stormspike, before they were retreating into the great ice mountain itself. On the dream-road with Geloë and myself you visited it, but doubtless you overlooked its crumbling remains beside the mountain's immensity. So in a way, then, you have visited Nakkiga also.”

Simon shuddered, remembering a vision of the endless icy halls within Stormspike, of the ghost-white faces and burning eyes that shone in its depths. “That was as close as I ever want to be,” he said. He squinted his eyes, staring at the sky. The birds still circled lazily overhead. “Are those ravens?” he asked Binabik, pointing. “They've been staying just above our heads for some time.”

The troll looked upward. “Ravens, yes, and large ones they are as well.” He grinned wickedly. “Perhaps they are waiting for us to fall down very dead, and so aid them in their searching for sustenance. A pity it is to disappoint them, is it not?”

Simon grunted. “Maybe they can tell I'm starving—that I won't last much longer.”

Binabik nodded solemnly. “How thoughtless I am being. Of course, Simon, it is indeed true that you have had no food since breaking your fast, and—Chukku's Stones! You poor fellow! That has been an hour ago! You must be fast approaching the awful moment of finalness.” Finished with this bit of sarcasm, he began to rummage in his pack, steadying himself against Qantaqa's back with his other hand. “Perhaps I can discover for you some dried fish.”

“Thank you.” Simon tried to sound enthusiastic—after all, any food was better than no food.