The Stone of Farewell (26 page)

The waves slapped as the rocks drew nearer, gold-capped by the late morning sun.

 

Lenti and the other servitor unshipped the oars, using them to guide the boat between the craggy rocks that thrust up on every side. As they came close to the shore and the water became more translucent, Miriamele again saw something break the surface close by. There was a brief shimmer of glossy gray before it vanished with a splash, then reappeared a moment later on the far side of the boat, a long stone's throw away.

Lenti saw her staring and turned to look over his shoulder. What he saw brought a look of fear to his stolid face. After a muttered exchange, he and his companion redoubled their efforts, hurrying the boat in toward shore.

“What is it,” the princess asked, “a shark?”

Lenti did not look up. “Kilpa,” he snapped, rowing hard.

Miriamele stared, but now saw only low waves breaking into spray against the rocks. “Kilpa in the Bay of Emettin?” she said incredulously. “Kilpa never come in so far! They are deep-sea dwellers.”

“Not nowadays,” Lenti growled. “Been deviling ships all along the coast. Any fool knows so. Now be quiet!” He panted, pulling at the oars. Disquieted, Miriamele continued to stare. Nothing else disturbed the bay's placid surface.

When the keel rasped on sand, Lenti and the other rower leaped out and quickly dragged the boat up onto the beach. Together they lifted Cadrach out and dumped him unceremoniously onto the ground, where he lay, quietly moaning. Miriamele was left to shift for herself. She waded the half-dozen steps with her monk's robe held high.

A man in a priest's black cassock was picking his way down to the beach by the steep cliff path. He reached the bottom and came striding across the sand toward them.

“I suppose this is the slave trader I am to be delivered to?” Miriamele said in her frostiest tone as she squinted at the approaching figure. Lenti and his companion, staring nervously at the bay, did not reply.

“Ho, there!” the black-robed man called. His voice was loud and cheerful above the sea's somnolent roar.

Miriamele looked at him, then looked again, astonished. She took a couple of steps toward the newcomer. “Father Dinivan?” she asked haltingly. “Could it be you?”

“Princess Miriamele!” he said happily. “Here you are. I am so glad.” His wide, homely smile made him look like a young boy, but the curly hair around his shaven scalp was touched with gray. He dropped briefly to a knee before rising to look her over carefully. “I wouldn't have known you from much farther away than this. I was
told
you were traveling as a boy—quite effective. And you've turned your hair black.”

Miriamele's mind was awhirl, but a great burden seemed abruptly lifted from her spirit. Of all those who had visited her father's households in Meremund and the Hayholt, Dinivan had been one of the few who had been a real friend, giving her truth where others offered only flattery, bringing her both outland gossip and good advice. Father Dinivan was chief secretary to Lector Ranessin, the master of Mother Church, but he had always been so humble and forthcoming that Miriamele often had to remind herself of the exalted position he held.

“But ... what are you doing here?” she said at last. “Have you come to ... to what? To save me from the slave traders?”

Dinivan laughed. “I
am
the slave trader, my lady.” He tried to compose a more serious expression, but had little luck. “‘Slave traders'—Blessed Usires, what did old Streáwe tell you? Well, time for that later.” He turned to Miriamele's captors. “You two. Here is your master's seal.” He held up a parchment with an “S” mark in red wax at the bottom. “You may go back and give the count my thanks.”

Lenti inspected the seal in a cursory way. He looked worried.

“Well?” said the priest impatiently. “Is anything wrong?”

“There's kilpa out there,” Lenti declared mournfully.

“There are kilpa
everywhere
in these evil times,” Dinivan said, then smiled charitably. “But it is midday, and you are two strong men. I think you have little to fear. Are you armed?”

Streáwe's servant drew himself up to his full height and stared imperiously at the priest. “I have a knife,” he said sternly.

“Ohe, vo stetto,”
his companion echoed in Perdruinese.

“Well, I'm sure you'll have no problems,” Dinivan said reassuringly. “The protection of the Aedon be on you.” He made a desultory sign of the Tree in their general direction before turning his back on them to address Miriamele once more. “Let us go. We shall stay here tonight, but then we must hurry. It is a good two days journey or more to the Sancellan Aedonitis, where Lector Ranessin is anxious to hear your news.”

“The lector?” she said, astonished. “What does he have to do with this?”

Dinivan waved a placating hand, looking down on Cadrach, who lay on his side, face shrouded in his sodden hood. “We will talk about this and many other things soon. It appears that Streáwe told you even less than I told him—not that I am surprised. He is a clever old jackal.” The priest's eyes narrowed. “What's wrong with your companion—he is your companion, am I right? Streáwe said there was a monk traveling with you.”

“He almost drowned,” Miriamele said flatly. “I pushed him overboard.”

One of Dinivan's thick eyebrows shot up. “You did? The poor man! Well, then your Aedonite duty is to help get him on his feet—unless you fellows would like to lend a hand?” He turned back to the two servants, who were wading gingerly back to the boat.

“Can't,” was Lenti's sullen reply. “Got to get back before night. Before dark.”

“I thought as much. Oh, well, Usires gives us burdens out of His love.” Dinivan bent, catching Cadrach under the armpits. Dinivan's robe tightened across his broad, muscular back as he wrestled the monk into a sitting position. “Come now, Princess,” he said, then stopped as the monk groaned. The priest stared at Cadrach's face. An unrecognizable expression crept onto Dinivan's thick features.

“It's ... it's Padreic,” he said quietly.

“You, too?!”
Miriamele exploded. “What has this idiot been doing? Did he send a crier to every town between Nascadu and Warinsten?”

Dinivan was still staring, as if quite dumbfounded. “What?”

“Streáwe knew him also—it was Cadrach here who sold me out to the count! So he told
you
of my leaving Naglimund as well?”

“No, princess, no.” The priest shook his head. “This is the first I knew about him being with you. I haven't seen him for years.” Reflectively, he made the sign of the Tree. “Truth to tell, I thought he was dead.”

“Usires in His suffering!” Miriamele swore. “Will someone tell me what this is all about?!”

‘“We must get to shelter—and privacy. The beacon tower on the cliff top is ours tonight.” He pointed to a stone spire on the headland west of where they stood. “But it will be no festival game getting him there if he cannot walk.

“I'll make him walk,” Miriamele promised grimly. Together they bent to hoist mumbling Cadrach onto his feet.

 

The tower was smaller than it looked from the beach, a squat pile of masonry with a wooden hoarding cobbled around the uppermost story. The door was tight-swollen by the ocean air, but Dinivan wrenched it open and they entered, supporting the monk between them. The circular room was empty but for a rough-hewn table and chair and a ragged carpet that had been rolled and tied, then left to lie at the base of the stone staircase. Sea air swirled through the unshuttered window. Cadrach, who had not spoken during the walk up the cliff path, staggered a few paces away from the door and sank down onto the wooden floor, laying his head on the carpet and falling quickly back into sleep.

“He is exhausted, poor man,” Dinivan said. He took a lamp from the table and lit it from another already burning, then stopped to look carefully at the monk. “He has changed, but perhaps some of it is the result of his mishap.”

“He was in the water a long time,” Miriamele said, a little guiltily.

“Ah, well, then.” Dinivan stood up. “We shall leave him to sleep and go upstairs. There is much to talk about. Have you eaten?”

“Not since last night.” Miriamele was suddenly ravenous. “I need water, too.”

“All shall be yours,” Dinivan smiled. “Go on up. I am going to get your companion out of these wet clothes, then I will join you.”

The room upstairs was better furnished, with a cot, two chairs, and a large chest that stood against the wall. A door, swinging gently, led out onto the hoarding. On top of the chest sat a plate covered with a kerchief. Miriamele lifted the cloth to reveal cheese, fruit, and three round loaves of brown bread.

“The grapes grown over the hill in Teligure are really splendid,” the priest said from the doorway. “Help yourself ”

Miriamele fell to without having to be invited again. She took a whole loaf and a lump of cheese, then pulled loose a large bunch of grapes and retired to one of the chairs. Pleased, Dinivan watched her eat for a moment, then disappeared down the stairs. He returned shortly with a sloshing pitcher.

“The well is nearly empty, but the water is good,” he said. “Well, where should we begin? You have heard about Naglimund by now, haven't you?”

Miriamele nodded, her mouth full.

“Something you may not know. Josua and some others escaped.”

In her excitement she choked on a crust of bread. Dinivan helped hold the pitcher so she could drink.

“Who went with him?” she asked when she could speak. “Duke Isgrimnur? Vorzheva?”

Dinivan shook his head. “I do not know. There was terrible destruction and few survived. All the north is thick-shot with rumors. It is hard to sift truth from them, but Josua's escape is certain.”

“How did you find out?”

“I'm afraid there are some things I may not say—not yet, anyway, Princess. Please believe that it is for the best. The Lector Ranessin commands me, and I am sworn to him—but there are some things I don't even tell His Sacredness.” He grinned. “Which is as it should be. A great man's secretary must exercise discretion everywhere, even with the great man himself.

“But why did you have Count Streáwe send me to you?”

“I did not know how informed you were. I heard that you were bound for the Sancellan Mahistrevis to speak to your uncle, Duke Leobardis. I could not let you go there. You know that Leobardis is dead?”

“Streáwe told me.” She got up and took a peach from the plate. After a moment's consideration, she broke off another hunk of cheese.

“But did you know Leobardis died by treachery? By the hand of his own son?”

“Benigaris?” She was astonished. “But has he not taken the duke's place? Haven't the nobles resisted?”

“His treachery is not common knowledge, but there are whispers of it everywhere. And his mother Nessalanta is his strongest supporter—although I am sure that she at least suspects what her son did.”

“But if you know, why don't you do something!? Why hasn't the lector done anything?”

Dinivan bowed his head, a look of pain on his face. “Because that is one of the things I haven't told him. I am sure he has heard the rumors, however. ”

Miriamele put her plate on the bed. “Elysia, Mother of God! Why haven't you told him, Dinivan?”

“Because I cannot prove it, nor can I reveal the source of my information. And there is nothing he could do without proof, my lady, except to upset an already strained situation. There are other grave problems in Nabban, Princess.”

“Please.” She waved her hand impatiently. “Here I sit in a monk's robe, wearing my hair like a boy, and everyone is my enemy but you—or so it seems. Call me Miriamele. And tell me what is happening in Nabban.”

“I will tell you a little, but most should wait. I have not entirely ignored my secretarial duties: my master the lector would like you to come to see him in the Sancellan Aedonitis and we will have plenty of time to talk as we ride.” He shook his head. “It is enough to say that people are unhappy, that the doom-criers who once were scorned in the streets of Nabban are suddenly the subject of great attention. Mother Church is under siege.” He bent forward, staring at his large hands as he searched for words. “The people feel a shadow over them. Although they cannot name it, still it darkens their world. Leobardis' death—and your uncle was much-beloved, Miriamele—has shaken his subjects, but it is rumor that truly frightens them: rumor of things worse than war in the north, worse than any contending of princes.”

Dinivan stood and pulled the door all the way open to let in the breeze. The sea below was flat and glossy. “The doom-shouters say that a force is arising to cast down Holy Usires Aedon and the kings of men. In the public squares they cry that all must prepare to bow to a new sovereign, the rightful master of Osten Ard.”

He came back and stood over Miriamele. Now she could see the signs of deep worry on his face. “In some dark places a name is even being whispered—the name of this coming scourge. They whisper of the Storm King. ”

Miriamele let out her breath in a great sigh. Even the staring sun of noon could not disperse the shadows that seemed to come crowding into the tower room.

 

“They spoke of these things at Naglimund,” Miriamele said later, as they stood outside on the walkway looking out over the water. “The old man at Naglimund, Jarnauga, seemed to think the end of the world was coming, too. But I did not hear everything.” She turned to look at Dinivan, fierce grief upon her slender face. “They kept things from me because I'm a girl. That's not right—I'm smarter than most of the men I know!”