The Stone of Farewell (80 page)

“This was not the same.
Whatever stood before the Speakfire in the north seemed more like a cold breath of Unbeing than a living creature, for all its kindly words.”

Yis-hadra moaned softly beside him. Maegwin, caught up in the dwarrow's story despite herself, felt a chill travel through her.

“That which spoke,” Yis-fidri continued, “wished to know of the sword Minneyar. It knew we had been the blade's makers and it knew that we dwarrows are bound to our work even after it has gone from us, as one who has lost a hand often feels it still at the end of his arm. The thing that spoke to us from Witness to Witness asked if the northern king Fingil had indeed taken the sword Minneyar into Asu'a when he conquered that great place, and was it there still.”

“Asu'a,”
Eolair breathed. “Of course—the Hayholt.”

“That is its mortal name,” Yis-fidri nodded. “We were frightened by this strange and fearful voice. You must understand, we have been as castaways for more years than your people can dream. It was obvious that some new power had arisen in the world, but one that nevertheless did command the old Arts. But we do not wish any of our old masters to find us and take us back, so at first we made no answer.”

The dwarrow leaned forward on his padded elbows. “Then, a short time ago—a few of the Moon-woman's changes, as you would reckon it beneath the sky—the Shard spoke again. This time it did speak with the voice of the eldest of the Sithi, the voice you heard. She also asked us of Minneyar. With her, also, we were silent.”

“Because you fear they will make you their servants again.”

“Yes, Hern's man. Unless you have ever fled from bondage, you will not understand that terror. Our masters are ageless. We are not. They retain the old lore. We diminish.” Yis-fidri rocked back and forth on his stool, the ancient leather of his garments rubbing and squeaking like crickets.

“But we knew something neither of our questioners did,” he said finally; there was a gleam in his round eye unlike anything the surface dwellers had yet seen. “Do you see, our masters think the sword Minneyar never left Asu'a, and that is true. But the one who found the sword there beneath the castle, the one you call King John Prester, had it reforged and made new. Under the name of Bright-Nail, he carried it all across the world and back.”

The Count of Nad Mullach whistled, a low, surprised trill. “So Bright-Nail was the old Scourge of the North, Fingil's Minneyar. Strange! What other secrets did Prester John take to his grave above the Kynslagh, I wonder?” He paused. “But, Yis-fidri, still we do not understand ...”

“Patience.” The dwarrow showed a wintry smile. “You could never tend and harvest balky stone as we do, you quick-blooded Children. Patience.” He took a breath. “The mistress of the Zida'ya told us that this sword, one of the Great Swords, was somehow much concerned with events now transpiring, and with the fate of the mortal prince named Handless Josua ...”

“Josua Lackhand.”

“Yes. But we think that is trickery, for she also said that this sword might be somehow vital against that same evil that had driven our tribesfolk out of Hikehikayo, and that the same evil soon might threaten all that walked above or below ground. How could the fate of any mortal man affect the squabblings of immortals?” The dwarrow's voice quavered. “It is another trap, to play on our fear. She wishes us to seek her help, so we will fall into their clutch once more. Did you not hear her? ‘Come to us at Jao é-Tinukai'i.' Was ever a trap more cold-bloodedly baited before the victim's eyes?”

“So,” the count said at last, “somehow Josua's survival is tied to this blade?”

Yis-fidri shot him a worried glance. “So she claimed. But how could she say his fate is tied to that of Minneyar when she did not even know it had been reforged? She said that none but us did know this thing, and that possibly many fates—perhaps the threads of all fate—were tied to three great swords, of which Minneyar was one.”

Yis-fidri stood, a haunted look upon his face. “And I will tell you a terrible, terrible thing,” he said miserably. “Even though we cannot trust our once-masters, we fear that they may be telling the truth. Mayhap a great doom has come into the world. If so, we dwarrows may have brought it on.”

Eolair looked around, struggling to make sense of what he had heard. “But why, Yis-fidri? Bright-Nail's history might be a deep and dark secret, but you dwarrows did not tell it to anyone. When the Shard spoke to us, we said nothing of it, because we did not know the tale. No secrets have been told. What doom have you brought on?”

The dwarrow was deeply pained. “I ... did not tell you all. One last time before your arrival, the Shard called to us. It was the fearsome stranger from Hikehikayo asking again of the sword Minneyar—that cursed sword.” He slumped bonelessly back onto the stool. “This time there was only one of us at the Site of Witness—young Sho-vennae, who you have met. He was alone and the voice laid a great fear upon him. It threatened, then it promised, then threatened again.” Yis-fidri slapped his wide palm on the table. “You must understand, he was afraid! We are all afraid! We are not what we were.” He lowered his eyes as if shamed, then looked up to find his wife's gaze. He seemed to gain courage. “At last, Sho-vennae's terror did overwhelm him. He told the stranger the tale of Minneyar, of how it was reforged and became Bright-Nail.” Yis-fidri's shook his great head. “Poor Sho-vennae. We should never have let him stand watch at the Shard alone. May the Garden forgive us. Do you see, you Hern's folk, our former masters may have lied to us, but still we fear that no good can come out of the darkness in Hikehikayo. If the First Grandmother of the Sithi has told the truth, who knows what power we have given to evil?”

Maegwin hardly heard him. She was losing the thread of Yis-fidri's speech, dully registering bits and pieces while her weary mind swirled with thoughts of her own failure. She had misunderstood the gods' will. She needed to be free, to have time to herself, time to think.

Count Eolair sat thinking for a long while; the room was full of brooding silence. At last, Yis-fidri stood.

“You have shared our table,” he said. “Let us show you our prizes, then you may go back to the bright, airy surface.”

Eolair and Maegwin, still silent, let themselves be led across the round room and through one of the doors. They followed the dwarrows down a long, sloping hallway before coming at last to a deeper chamber whose outer walls were as complicated as a maze, angling in and out so that everywhere Maegwin looked there were surfaces covered with carved stone.

“In this chamber and others below it are the Patterns,” Yis-fidri said. “Long the dwarrows have delved, and widely. Every tunnel, every deep place we dug is there. This is the history of our folk, and we two are the keepers of it.” He waved his hand proudly. “Maps of bright Kementari, the labyrinth of Jhiná- T‘seneí, the tunnels beneath the mountains Rimmersmen call Vestivegg, and those that honeycomb the mountains above our heads—all here. The catacombs of Zae-y'miritha are long-buried and silent ... but here they live!”

Eolair turned slowly, looking from surface to surface. The interior of the great chamber was as intricate as a many-faceted stone; each facet, every angle and niche, was covered with delicate maps carved into the living stone. “And you said that you have maps of the tunnels that run here, throughout the Grianspog?” he asked slowly.

“With certainty, Count Eolair,” Yis-fidri said. Being among the Patterns seemed to have restored life to his sagging frame. “Those and more.

“If we could have those, it would be a great help to us in our own struggle. ”

Maegwin turned on the count, irritation finally bubbling to the surface. “What, shall we carry a thousandweight of stone up to our caves? Or climb down here to this lost place every time we must choose a fork in the path?”

“No,” said Eolair, “but like the Aedonite monks, we could copy them onto parchment, and so have them where we need them.” His eyes shone. “There must be tunnels we never dreamed of! Our raids on Skali's camps will truly seem like magic! See, Maegwin, you
have
brought great assistance to your people after all—a help greater than swords and spears!” He turned to Yis-fidri. “Would you allow us to do such a thing?”

Worried, the dwarrow turned to his wife. As the sound of their conversation chimed back and forth, Maegwin watched the count. Eolair was walking from wall to wall, squinting up at the angled walls and their beetle-busy carvings. She fought a rising tide of anger. Did he think he was doing her a kindness when he complimented her on this “discovery?” She had been looking for help from the shining, legendary Sithi, not a gaggle of scarecrows with their dusty tunnel-maps. Tunnels! Maegwin had been the one who had rediscovered the tunnels in the first place! How dare he try and placate her?

As she felt herself caught between fury and loneliness and loss, a sudden realization cut through her confused thoughts like a knife.

Eolair must go away.

She could have no peace, she could never understand what the gods meant her to do, as long as he was around. His presence turned her into a child, a whining, moody thing unfit to lead her people out of these dangerous straits.

Yis-fidri turned at last. “My wife and I must speak with our people before anything can be decided. This would be a new thing, and could not be done lightly.”

“Of course,” said Eolair. His voice was calm, but Maegwin could hear the suppressed excitement. “Of course, whatever may be best for your people. We will go away now and come back to you in a day or two, or whenever you say. But tell them that it will perhaps save Hern's folk, whom the dwarrows often helped before. The Hernystiri have never thought anything but good of you.”

Maegwin had another thought. “Are there tunnels near the Hayholt?”

Yis-hadra nodded. “Yes. Asu'a, as we call it, was delved deep as well as built high. Now its bones lie beneath the castle of mortal kings, but the earth underneath that castle is still alive with our diggings.”

“And are those maps here, too?”

“Of course,” the dwarrow replied proudly.

With a satisfied nod, Maegwin turned on the Count of Nad Mullach. “There,” she said. “That is the final answer I sought. A course lies open before us: we would be traitors to our own folk not to take it.” She lapsed into grave silence.

Eolair rose to the bait. “What do you mean, Princess?”

“You
must
find Josua, Count Eolair,” she said abruptly. She was pleased at the calm authority in her voice. “You heard what Yis-fidri said at the table. This matter of the sword is of utmost importance. I was already thinking that Prince Josua must be informed, in case there is a chance this knowledge can be used to defeat Elias. You and I know that as long as the High King prospers, Skali Sharp-nose will remain at our necks like a knife. Go find Josua and tell him the secret of the sword. That will be the deed that saves our people.”

In truth, Maegwin did not quite remember all the details of the dwarrow's tale—she had been occupied with her own dire thoughts—but she remembered that it had something to do with Josua and his father's sword.

Eolair was astonished. “Go to Josua?! What do you say, Lady? We have no idea where he is, or if he even lives. Do you ask me to leave our people in their need to go rabbiting off on such a fool's mission?”

“You claimed you heard that he was alive,” she responded coldly. “Only a short while ago you were lecturing me on the chance of his survival. Can we afford to assume he is dead?”

It was hard to tell from his practiced expression what he was thinking. Maegwin took a breath before beginning again. “In any case, Count Eolair, you fail to see the full importance of what these folk have told us. Maps of our tunnels are important, yes—but we can now send to Josua maps of Elias' stronghold, and of the secret entrances that could be the High King's undoing.” Listening to herself, it
did
suddenly seem like a good plan. “You know that Skali will never loosen his grip on our land as long as Elias rules at his back in the Hayholt. ”

Eolair shook his head. “To many questions, my lady, too many questions. There is merit in what you say, certainly. Let us think about it. It will take us days to make semblances of all these maps. Surely it will be better if we consider it carefully, if we talk with Criobhan and the other knights.”

Maegwin wanted to set the hook now, while Eolair was hesitating. She feared that more time would mean time for the count to think of another solution, and for her to sink back into her inclarity of purpose. Being near him made her heart heavy as stone. She needed him to go away—she felt it now as a deep longing. She wanted him gone, so the pain and confusion would stop. How was it he could cloud her wits this way?

She made her face cold. “I do not like your resistance, Count. In fact, you seem to be doing precious little here, if you have time to follow me down holes in the ground. You might be better employed on a task that has some chance of saving us from our current situation.” Maegwin smiled, purposefully mocking. She was proud of how well she hid her true feelings, but this cruelty, however necessary, filled her with horror.

What kind of creature am I becoming?
she wondered even as she carefully watched Eolair's reaction.
Is this statecraft?
She felt a moment of panic.
Am I being a fool? No, it is better he goes away—but if this is how kings and queens must see their wills accomplished, Bagba's Herd, what a terrible thing!

Aloud, she added, “Besides, Count, you are pledged to my father's house—just in case you had forgotten. If you wish to flaunt the first request Lluth's daughter has made of you, I cannot prevent you, but the gods will know and judge.” Eolair started to speak. Maegwin lifted a hand to stop him—a very dirty hand, she could not help noticing. “I will not argue with you, Count Eolair. Do as you are told, or do not. That is all. ”