Part 19 (1/2)
In the middle of the wide hilltop one piece of stone had been cut free from vegetation-a huge pale rock, angular as an ax head, that jutted to twice the height of a man. Between the high bonfire and this naked stone stood three motionless dark-robed shapes. They looked as though they had been waiting for a long time-perhaps as long as the rocks themselves had waited. As the Fire Dancers pushed the prisoners toward the center of the hill, the dark trio turned, almost in unison.
”Hail, Cloud Children!” Maefwaru shouted. ”Hail to the Master's first Chosen. We have come as He wished.”
The black-robed things regarded him silently.
”And we have brought more even than we promised,” Maefwaru continued. ”Praise to the Master!” He turned and waved to his underlings, who hurried Simon and Miriamele forward; but as they approached the bonfire and the silent watchers, the Fire Dancers slowed, then stopped and looked helplessly back to their leader.
”Tie them to that tree, there.” Maefwaru gestured impatiently at the wind-gnarled corpse of a pine standing some twenty paces from the fire. ”Hurry-it is almost midnight.”
Simon grunted in pain as one of their captors pulled his arms behind his back to secure them to the tree. As soon as the Fire Dancers had finished and withdrawn, he edged toward Miriamele until their shoulders touched, in part because he was frightened, and hungry for a little of her warmth, but also so that they might more easily whisper without attracting attention.
”Who are those three dark ones?” he asked under his breath.
Miriamele shook her head.
The nearest of the black-robed figures slowly turned toward Maefwaru. ”And these are for the Master?” it said. The words were as cold and sharp as the edge of a knife. Simon felt his legs weaken. There was an unmistakable sound to the voice, a sour yet melodic accent he had heard only in moments of terror ... the hiss of Stormspike.
”They are,” said Maefwaru, nodding his blunt head eagerly. ”I dreamed of the red-haired one some moons ago. I know that the Master gave me that dream. He wants this one.”
The robed thing seemed to regard Simon for a moment. ”Perhaps,” it said slowly. ”But did you bring another as well, in case the Master has other plans for these? Did you bring blood for the Binding?”
”I did, oh. yes!” In the presence of these strange beings the cruel Fire Dancer chieftain had become as humble and ingratiating as an old courtier. ”Two who tried to flee the Master's great promise!” He turned and gestured to the knot of other Fire Dancers still waiting nervously at the edge of the hilltop. There was shouting and a convulsion of activity, then a handful of the white-robed figures dragged two others forward. One of the captured pair had lost his hood in the struggle.
”G.o.d curse you!” shouted Roelstan, sobbing. ”You promised that if we brought you those two we'd be forgiven!”
”You have have been forgiven,” Maefwaru said cheerfully. ”I forgive you your foolishness. But you cannot escape punishment. No one flees the Master.” been forgiven,” Maefwaru said cheerfully. ”I forgive you your foolishness. But you cannot escape punishment. No one flees the Master.”
Roelstan collapsed, sagging to his knees while the men around him tried to tug him back onto his feet. His wife Gullaighn might have fainted; she hung limply in the arms of her captors.
Simon's heart seemed to rise into his throat; for a moment, he could not breathe. They were powerless, and there was no help to be expected this time. They would die here on this windswept hill-or the Storm King would take them, as Maefwaru had said, which would surely be unimaginably worse. He turned to look at Miriamele.
The princess seemed half-asleep, her eyes lidded, her lips moving. Was she praying?
”Miriamele! Those are Norns! The Storm King's servants!”
She ignored him, absorbed in her own thoughts.
”d.a.m.n you, Miriamele, don't do this! We have to think-we have to get free!”
”Shut your mouth, Simon!” she hissed.
He was thunderstruck. ”What!?”
”I'm trying to get something.” Miriamele pushed against the dead tree, her shoulders moving up and down as she fidgeted behind her back. ”It's at the bottom of the pocket of my cloak.”
”What is it?” Simon strained closer, until his hands could feel her fingers beneath the cloth. ”A knife?”
”No, they took my knife. It's your mirror-the one Jiriki gave you. I've had it since I cut your hair.” Even as she spoke, he felt the wooden frame slide free from the pocket and touch his fingers. ”Can you take it?”
”What good will it do?” He gripped it as firmly as he could. ”Don't let go yet, not until I've got it. There.” He tugged it loose, holding it tightly in his bound hands.
”You can call Jiriki!” she said triumphantly. ”You said that it was to be used in direst need.”
Simon's momentary elation ebbed. ”But it doesn't work that way. He doesn't just appear. It's not that kind of magic.”
Miriamele was silent for a moment. When she spoke, she, too, was more subdued. ”But you said it brought Aditu when you were lost in the forest.”
”It took her days to find me. We don't have days, Miri.”
”Try it anyway,” she said stubbornly. ”It can't hurt. Maybe Jiriki is somewhere close by. It can't hurt!”
”But I can't even see it,” Simon protested. ”How can I make it work without being able to look into it?”
”Just try!”
Simon bit back further argument. He took a deep breath, then forced himself to think of his own face as it had looked the last time he had seen it in the Sithi gla.s.s. He could remember things generally, but suddenly could not remember details-what color were his eyes, exactly? And the scar on his cheek, the burning mark of dragon's blood-how long was it? Past the bottom of his nose?
For a brief moment, as the memory of the searing pain from Igjarjuk's black blood washed through him, he thought he felt the frame of the looking gla.s.s warm beneath his fingers. A moment later, it was cold again. He tried to summon the feeling back, but was unsuccessful. He kept on fruitlessly for long moments.
”It's no use,” he said wearily. ”I can't do it.”
”You're not trying hard enough,” Miriamele snapped.
Simon looked up. The Fire Dancers were paying no attention to Miriamele or him, their interest fixed instead on the weird scene beside the bonfire. The two renegades, Roelstan and Gullaighn, had been carried to the top of the large stone and forced onto their backs. Their four captors stood atop the rock holding their ankles, so that the prisoners' heads hung down, arms dangling helplessly. ”Usires Aedon!” Simon swore. ”Look at that!”
”Don't look,” said Miriamele. ”Just use the mirror.”
”I told you, I can't. And it wouldn't do any good anyway.” He paused for a moment, watching the contorted, upside-down mouth of Roelstan, who was shouting incoherently. The three Norns stood before him, looking up as if at some interesting bird sitting on a branch.
”b.l.o.o.d.y Tree,” Simon swore again, then dropped the mirror to the ground.
”Simon!” Miriamele said, horrified. ”Have you gone mad? Pick it up!”
He lifted his foot and ground his heel into the looking gla.s.s. It was very strong, but he hooked it over so that it was tilted against the tree, then stepped down hard. The frame did not give, but the crystalline surface broke with a faint percussive sound; for a moment, the scent of violets rose around them. Simon kicked it again, scattering transparent shards.
”You have have gone mad!” The princess was in despair. gone mad!” The princess was in despair.
Simon closed his eyes. Forgive me, Jiriki, Forgive me, Jiriki, he thought. he thought. But Morgenes told me any gift that cannot be thrown away is not a gift but a trap. But Morgenes told me any gift that cannot be thrown away is not a gift but a trap. He crouched as deeply as he could, but the rope that held him to the trunk would not allow his fingers to reach the shattered mirror. He crouched as deeply as he could, but the rope that held him to the trunk would not allow his fingers to reach the shattered mirror.
”Can you get to that?” he asked Miriamele.
She stared at him for a moment, then slid herself as low as she could. She, too, was several handlengths short of the goal. ”No. Why did you do it?”
”It was no good to us,” Simon said impatiently. ”Not in one piece, anyway.” He caught at one of the larger shards with his foot and dragged it closer. ”Help me.”
Arduously, Simon got his toe beneath the piece of crystal and tried to lift it high enough for Miriamele's abbreviated reach, but the contortion was too difficult and it slid away, tumbling to the ground once more. Simon bit his lip and tried again.
Three times the shard fell free, forcing them to begin over. Fortunately, the Fire Dancers and the black-robed Norns seemed caught up in the preparations for their ritual, whatever it might be. When Simon sneaked a glance toward the center of the clearing, Maefwaru and his minions were on their knees before the stone. Roelstan had stopped shouting; he made weak sounds and thrashed, striking his head against the stone. Gullaighn hung motionless.
This time, as the jagged thing began to slide off his boot again, Simon lurched to the side and managed to trap it against the leg of Miriamele's breeches. He pushed his own leg against it to keep it from falling, then lowered his foot to the ground before he toppled.