"Neither did I."

By the time the oddness of this remark sifted down through Simon's own distracted thoughts, Miriamele had rolled over, placing her back toward the fire-and toward Simon. He wanted to ask her what she meant, but sensed that she did not want to talk anymore.

Instead, he watched the fire burning low and the last few sparks fluttering upward into the darkness.

3.

Windows Like Eyes

The rams stood so close together that there was scarcely room to move between them. Binabik sang a quiet sheep-soothing song as he threaded his way in and out among the woolly obstacles. stood so close together that there was scarcely room to move between them. Binabik sang a quiet sheep-soothing song as he threaded his way in and out among the woolly obstacles.

"Sisqi," he called. "I need to speak to you."

She was sitting cross-legged, retying the knots of her ram's harness. Around her several of the other troll men and women were seeing to final tasks before the prince's company resumed its march into Nabban. "I am here," she said.

Binabik looked around. "Would you come with me somewhere more quiet?"

She nodded and set the harness down on the ground. "I will."

They snaked their way back out through the herd of jostling rams and climbed up the knoll. When they sat down in the gra.s.s the milling camp lay spread below them. The tents had been dismantled early that morning, and all that remained of what had been a small city for three days was a formless, moving ma.s.s of people and animals.

"You are fretful," Sisqi said abruptly. "Tell me what is wrong, beloved-although we have certainly seen enough bad fortune in the last few days to make anyone sad for a long time."

Binabik sighed and nodded. "That is true. The loss of Geloe is a hard one, and not only because of her wisdom. I miss her, too, Sisqi. We will not see anyone like her again."

"But there is more," Sisqi prompted him gently. "I know you well, Binbiniqegabenik. Is it Simon and the princess?"

"That is the root of it. Look-I will show you something." He pulled apart the sections of his walking stick. A long white shaft tipped with blue-gray stone slid out.

"That is Simon's arrow." Sisqi's eyes were wide. "The gift of the Sithi. Did he leave it behind?"

"Not on purpose, I think. I found it tangled in one of the shirts Gutrun made for him. He took with him little but the clothes he wore on his back, but he did take the sack that held his most treasured possessions-Jiriki's mirror, a piece of stone he brought from Haestan's cairn, other things. I believe the White Arrow must have been left by mistake. Perhaps he had taken it out for some other purpose and forgot to return it to the sack." Binabik lifted the arrow until it caught the morning sun and gleamed. "It reminds me of things," he said slowly. "It is the mark of Jiriki's debt to Simon. A debt which is no less than the one I owe, on my master Ookequk's behalf, to Doctor Morgenes."

A sudden look of fear came to Sisqi's face, although she did her best to hide it. "What do you mean, Binabik?"

He stared at the arrow miserably. "Ookequk promised help to Morgenes. I took on that oath. I swore to help protect young Simon, Sisqi."

She took his hand in hers. "You have done that and more, Binabik. Surely you are not to guard him day and night for the rest of your life."

"This is different." He carefully slid the arrow back into his walking stick. "And there is more than my debt, Sisqi. Both Simon and Miriamele are already in danger traveling alone in the wilderness, even more so if they go where I fear they do. But they are also a risk to the rest of us."

"What do you mean?" She was having trouble keeping the pain from her words.

"If they are caught, they will eventually be taken to Pryrates, King Elias' advisor. You do not know him, Sisqi, but I do, at least from tales. He is powerful, and reckless in his use of that power. And he is cruel. He will learn from them whatever they know about us, and Simon and Miriamele both know a great deal-about our plans, about the swords, everything. And Pryrates will kill them, or at least Simon, in the getting of that knowledge."

"So you are going to find them?" she asked slowly.

He hung his head. "I feel I must."

"But why you? Josua has an entire army!"

"There are reasons, my beloved. Come with me when I speak to Josua and you will hear the reasons. You should be there, in any case."

She looked at him defiantly. "If you go after them, then I will go with you."

"And who will keep our people safe in a strange land?" He gestured at the trolls moving below. "You at least speak some of the Westerling speech now. We cannot both go and leave our fellow Qanuc altogether deaf and mute."

Tears were forming in Sisqi's eyes. "Is there no other way?"

"I cannot think of one," he said slowly. "I wish I could." His own eyes were damp as well.

"Chukku's Stones!" she swore. "Are we to suffer everything we have suffered to be together, only to be separated again?" She squeezed his fingers tightly. "Why are you so straight-backed and honorable, Binabik of Mintahoq? I have cursed you for it before, but never so bitterly."

"I will come back to you. I swear, Sisqinanamook. No matter what befalls, I will come back to you."

She leaned forward, pushing her forehead against his chest, and wept. Binabik wrapped his arms around her and held tightly; tears rolled down his cheeks as well.

"If you do not come back," she moaned, "may you never have a moment's peace until Time is gone."

"I will come back," he repeated, then fell silent. They stayed that way for a long time, locked in a miserable embrace.

"I cannot say I like this idea, Binabik," said Prince Josua. "We can ill-afford to lose your wisdom-especially now, after Geloe's death." The prince looked morose. "Aedon knows what a blow that has been to us. I feel sick inside. And we have not even a body to weep over."

"And that is as she was wishing it," Binabik said gently. "But, speaking about your first worry, it is my thinking that we can even less be suffering the loss of your niece and Simon. I have made you know my fears about that."

"Perhaps. But what about discovering the use of the swords? We still have much to learn."

"I have little help left for giving to Strangyeard and Tiamak," said the little man. "Nearly all of Ookequk's scrolls I have already made into Westerling. Those few of them that are remaining still, Sisqi can be helping with them." He indicated his betrothed, who sat silently beside him, her eyes red. "And then, I must also be saying with regret, when that task is being finished she will take the remaining Qanuc and return to our people."

Josua looked at Sisqi. "This is another great loss."

She bowed her head.

"But you are many now," Binabik pointed out. "Our people suffer, too, and these herdsmen and huntresses will be needed at Blue Mud Lake."

"Of course," said the prince. "We will always be grateful that your people came to our aid. We will never forget, Binabik." He frowned. "So you are determined to go?"

The troll nodded. "There are many reasons it is seeming the best course to me. It is also my fear that Miriamele hopes to get the sword Bright-Nail-perhaps with thinking she can hurry the end of this struggle. That is frightening to me, since if Count Eolair's story was true, the dwarrows have already confessed to the minions of the Storm King that Minneyar is the sword that is resting now in your father's grave."

"Which is likely the end of our hopes, in any case," Josua said gloomily. "For if he knows that, why would Elias leave it there?"

"The Storm King's knowing and the knowing of your brother may not be the same thing," Binabik observed. "It is not an unheard-of strangeness for allies to be hiding things from each other. The Storm King may not be knowing that we also have this knowledge." He smiled a yellow smile. "It is a thing of great complication, is it not? Also, from the story that the old man Towser was so often telling-the story of how your brother acted when Towser was giving him the blade-it is possible that those who have the taint of Stormspike cannot bear its nearness."

"It is a great deal to hope for," Josua said. "Isgrimnur? What do you make of all this?"

The duke shifted on the low stool. "About which? The swords, or the troll's going off after Miri and the boy?"

"Either. Both." Josua waved his hand wearily.

"I can't say much about the swords, but what Binabik has to say makes a kind of sense. As to the other ..." Isgrimnur shrugged. "Someone should go, that's clear. I brought her back once, so I'll go again if you want, Josua."

"No." The prince shook his head firmly. "I need you here. And I would not separate you from Gutrun yet again for the sake of my headstrong niece." He turned to the troll. "How many men would you take, Binabik?"

"None, Prince Josua."

"None?" The prince was astonished. "But what do you mean? Surely it would be safer to take at least a few good men, as you did on the journey to Urmsheim?"

Binabik shook his head. "I am thinking that Miriamele and Simon will not hide from me, but they would be hiding with certainness from mounted soldiers pursuing them. Also, there are places Qantaqa and I can go that even riders of great skill, like Hotvig's Thrithings-men, cannot. I can be more silent, too. No, it is a better thing if I go by myself."

"I do not like it," Josua said, "and I can see that your Sisqi does not like it either. But I will consider it, at least. Perhaps it would would be best-there is more of me than just an uncle's love that fears what might happen if Miriamele and Simon fall into my brother's hands. Certainly something must be done." He lifted his hand and rubbed at his temples. "Let me think on it a while." be best-there is more of me than just an uncle's love that fears what might happen if Miriamele and Simon fall into my brother's hands. Certainly something must be done." He lifted his hand and rubbed at his temples. "Let me think on it a while."

"With certainty, Prince Josua." Binabik stood. "But remember that even Qantaqa's wonderful nose cannot be tracking a scent that has been too long on the ground." He bowed, as did Sisqi, then they turned and went out.

"He is small-they both are," Josua said reflectively. "But not only do I wish the trolls were not leaving, I wish I had a thousand more like them."

"He's a brave one, that Binabik, right enough," said Isgrimnur. "Seems sometimes as if that's all we have left."

Eolair watched the fly buzzing near his horse's head for some time. The horse, but for an occasional ear-flick, seemed little bothered, but Eolair continued to stare. There was not much else to look at while riding through this westernmost part of Hernystir on the fringes of the Frostmarch, and the fly also reminded him of something he could not quite summon to mind, but which was nevertheless bidding for his attention. The Count of Nad Mullach watched the tiny black speck for some time before he finally realized why it seemed significant.

This is the first fly I've seen in a a while while-the first since the winter came down, I think. It must be getting warmer.

This rather ordinary thought gave rise to a host of other, less usual speculations.

Could it be that somehow the tide has turned? he wondered. he wondered. Could Josua and his people have accomplished something that has diminished the Storm King's power and pushed back his magical winter? Could Josua and his people have accomplished something that has diminished the Storm King's power and pushed back his magical winter? He looked around at the small, tattered troop of Hernystiri that rode behind him, and at the great company of Sithi who led them, their banners and armor ablaze with color. He looked around at the small, tattered troop of Hernystiri that rode behind him, and at the great company of Sithi who led them, their banners and armor ablaze with color. Could the fact that Jiriki's folk have entered the battle somehow have tipped the scale in our favor? Or am I making too much out of the tiniest of signs? Could the fact that Jiriki's folk have entered the battle somehow have tipped the scale in our favor? Or am I making too much out of the tiniest of signs?

He laughed to himself, but grimly. This last year and its attendant horrors seemed to have made him as omen-drunk as his ancestors of Hern's day.

His ancestors had been on Eolair's mind more than a little in the last few days. The army of Sithi and men riding toward Naglimund had recently stopped at Eolair's castle at Nad Mullach on the River Baraillean. In the two days the army was quartered there, the count had found another three score men from the surrounding area who were willing to join the war party-most of them more for the wonder of riding with the fabled Peaceful Ones, Eolair suspected, than out of any sense of duty or thirst for revenge. The young men who agreed to join the company were mostly those whose families had been lost or scattered during the recent conflict. Those who still had land or loved ones to protect had no desire to ride off to another war, no matter how n.o.ble or all-encompa.s.sing the cause-nor could Eolair have commanded them to do so: the landholders of Hernystir had not possessed that right since King Tethtain's day.

Nad Mullach had been less harshly treated than Hernysadharc, but it had still suffered during Skali's conquest. In the short time he had, Eolair rounded up those few of his retainers who remained and did his best to set things on the right course again. If he did manage somehow to return from this mad war that was growing mad der by the day, he wanted nothing more than to put down the reins of responsibility as soon as possible and live once more in his beloved Nad Mullach.

His liege-folk had held out long against the small portion of Skali's army that had been left to besiege them, but when those prisoned within the castle's walls began to starve, Eolair's cousin and castellaine Gwynna, a stem, capable woman, opened the gates to the Rimmersmen. Many of the fine things that had been in Eolair's line since not long after Sinnach's alliance with the Erl-king were destroyed or stolen, and so were many objects that Eolair himself had brought back from his travels throughout Osten Ard. Still, he had consoled himself, the walls still stood, the fields-under a blanket of snow-were still fertile, and the wide Baraillean, unhindered by war or winter, still rushed past Nad Mullach on its way to Abaingeat and the sea.

The count had commended Gwynna for her decision, telling her that had he been in residence he would have done the same. She, to whom the sight of Skali's outlanders in her great house had been the most galling thing imaginable, was a little comforted, but not much.

Those outlanders, perhaps because their master was far away in Hernysadharc, or perhaps because they were not themselves of Skali's savage Kaldskryke clan, had been less hateful in their occupation than the invaders in other parts of Hernystir. They had treated their conquered prisoners poorly, and had plundered and smashed to their hearts' content, but had not indulged in the kind of rape, torture, and senseless killing that had marked Skali's main army as it drove on Hernysadharc.

Still, despite the comparative lightness of the damage to his ancestral home, as he rode out of Nad Mullach Eolair was nevertheless filled with a sense of violation and shame. His forebears. had built the castle to watch over their bit of the river valley. Now it had been attacked and defeated, and the current count had not even been at home. His servants and kin had been forced to make their way alone.

I served my king, he told himself. he told himself. What else could I do? What else could I do?

There was no answer, but that did not make it any easier to live with the memories of shattered stone, scorched tapestries, and frightened, hollow-eyed people. Even should both war and spirit-winter end tomorrow, that harm had already been done.

"Would you like something more to eat, my lady?" Eolair asked.

He could not help wondering what Maegwin in her madness made of the rather poor fare that had been their lot so far on the trip toward Naglimund. Nothing much could be expected of a war-ravaged countryside, of course, but the count was curious how hard bread and leathery onions could be considered food fit for G.o.ds.

"No, Eolair, thank you." Maegwin shook her head and smiled gently. "Even in a land of unending pleasure, we must rest from pleasure occasionally."

Unending pleasure! The count smiled back despite himself. It might not be bad to be as touched as Maegwin, at least during meals.

A moment later he chided himself for the uncharitable thought. Look at her. She's like a child. It's not her fault-perhaps it was the blow Skali struck her. It may not have killed her, as she thinks, but it might have disordered her brains. Look at her. She's like a child. It's not her fault-perhaps it was the blow Skali struck her. It may not have killed her, as she thinks, but it might have disordered her brains.

He stared at her. Maegwin was watching the sunset with evident pleasure. Her face seemed almost to glow.

What is that term they use in Nabban? "Holy fools." That's what she looks like That's what she looks like-someone who is no longer of the earth.

"The sky of heaven is more beautiful than I would have imagined," she said dreamily. "I wonder if perhaps it is our own sky, but we see it now from the other side."

And even were there some cure, Eolair wondered suddenly, Eolair wondered suddenly, what right have I to take this away from her? what right have I to take this away from her? The thought was shocking, like cold water dashed in his face. The thought was shocking, like cold water dashed in his face. She is happy-happy for the first time since her father went off to war and his death. She eats, she sleeps, she talks to me and others ... even if most of it is arrant nonsense. How would she be better off if she came back to her senses in this dreadful time? She is happy-happy for the first time since her father went off to war and his death. She eats, she sleeps, she talks to me and others ... even if most of it is arrant nonsense. How would she be better off if she came back to her senses in this dreadful time?

There was no answer to that, of course. Eolair took a deep breath, fighting off the weariness that a.s.sailed him when he was with Maegwin. He stood and walked to a patch of melting snow nearby, washed his bowl, then returned to the tree where Maegwin sat, staring out across the rolling fields of gra.s.s and gray snow toward the ruddy western sky.

"I am going to talk to Jiriki," he told her. "Will you be well here?"

She nodded, a half-smile tilting her lips. "Certainly, Count Eolair."

He bowed his head and left her.

The Sithi were seated upon the ground around Likimeya's fire. Eolair stopped some distance away, marveling at the strangeness of the sight. Although close to a dozen of them sat in a wide circle, no one spoke: they merely looked at each other as though they carried on some wordless conversation. Not for the first time, the Count of Nad Mullach felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise in superst.i.tious wonder. What strange allies!

Likimeya still wore her mask of ashes. Heavy rains had swept down on the traveling army the day before, but her strange face-painting seemed just as it had been, which made the count suspect that she renewed it each day. Seated across from her was a tall, narrow-featured Sitha-woman, thin as a priest's staff, with pale sky-blue hair drawn up atop her head in a birdlike crest. It was only because Jiriki had told him that Eolair knew that this stern woman, Zinjadu, was even older than Likimeya.

Also seated at the fire was Jiriki's red-haired, green-garbed uncle Khendraja'aro, and Chekai'so Amber-Locks, whose s.h.a.ggy hair and surprisingly open face-Eolair had even seen this Sitha smile and laugh-made him seem almost human. On either side of Jiriki sat Yizashi, whose long gray witchwood spear was twined about with sun-golden ribbons, and Kuroyi, who was taller than anyone else in the entire company, Sithi or Hernystiri, and so pale and cold-featured that but for his tar-black hair he might have been a Norn. There were others, too, three females and a pair of males that Eolair had seen before, but whose names he did not know.

He stood uncomfortably for some time, uncertain of whether to stay or go. At last, Jiriki looked up. "Count Eolair," he said. "We are just thinking about Naglimund."

Eolair nodded, then bowed toward Likimeya, who lowered her chin briefly in acknowledgment. None of the other Sithi gave him much more attention than a flick of feline eyes. "We will be there soon," he said.

"A few days," agreed Jiriki. "We Zida'ya are not used to fighting against a castle held by enemies-I do not think we, have done it since the last evil days back in Venyha Do'sae. Are there any among your folk who know Josua's stronghold well, or about such fighting? We have many questions."

"Siege warfare... ?" said Eolair uncertainly. He had thought that the frighteningly competent Sithi would have prepared for this long before. "There are a few of my men who have fought as mercenaries in the Southern Islands and the Lakeland wars, but not many. Hernystir itself has been peaceful during most of our lifetimes. As to Naglimund ... I suppose that I know it best of any Hernystirman still living. I have spent much time there."