Read Online The Stone of Farewell by Tad Williams - Free Book Online
Authors: Tad Williams
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Miriamele felt at times that she was back beneath the close-stooping trees of Aldheorte Forest.
Perdruin was a cluster of hills surrounding Sta Mirore, the central mountain. Their lumpy backs rose up almost directly from the island’s rocky verges, looking over the Bay of Emettin. Perdruin’s silhouette thus resembled a mother pig and her feeding young. There was little flat land anywhere, except in the saddles where high hills shouldered together, so the villages and towns of Perdruin clung to the faces of these hills like gulls’ nests. Even Ansis Pellipé, the great seaport and the seat of Count Streáwe’s house, was built on the steep slopes of a promontory that the residents called Harborstone. In many places the citizens of Ansis Pellipé could stand on one of the capital’s hill-hugging streets and wave to their neighbors on the thoroughfare below.
“I must eat something,” Miriamele said at last, breathing heavily. They stood at a turnout of one of the looping streets, a place where they could look down between two buildings to the lights of the foggy harbor below. The dull moon hung in the clouded sky like a chip of bone.
“I am also ready to stop, Malachias,” panted Cadrach.
“How far is this abbey?”
“There is no abbey, or at least we are not going to such a place.”
“But you told the captain... oh.” Miriamele shook her head, feeling the damp heaviness of her hood and cloak. “Of course. So, then, where are we going?”
Cadrach stared at the moon and laughed quietly. “Wherever we wish, my friend. I do think there is a tavern of some repute at the top of this street: I must confess I was leading us in that general direction. Certainly not because I enjoy climbing these goirach hills.”
“A tavern? Why not a hostel, so we can find a bed after we eat?”
“Because, begging your pardon, it is not eating that I am thinking about. I have been aboard that abominable ship longer than I care to think. I will take my rest after I have indulged my thirst.” Cadrach wiped his hand across his mouth and grinned. Miriamele did not much like the look in his eyes.
“But there was a tavern every cubit down below...” she began.
“Exactly. Taverns full of drunken tale-passers and minders of others’ business. I cannot be taking my well-deserved rest in such a place.” He turned his back on the moon and began stumping away up the road. “Come, Malachias. It is only a little farther, I am sure.”
It seemed that during Midsummer Festival there was no such thing as an uncrowded tavern, but at least the drinkers in The Red Dolphin were not cheek to cheek, as they were in the dockside inns, only elbow to elbow. Miriamele gratefully slid down onto a bench set against the far wall and let the wash of conversation and song flow over her. Cadrach, after putting down his sack and walking stick, moved off to find himself a mug of Traveler’s Reward. He returned after only a moment.
“Good Malachias, I had forgotten how nearly beggared I am from paying our sea passage. Do you have a cintis-piece or two I might employ in the removal of thirst?”
Miriamele dug in her purse and produced a palm full of coppers. “Get me some bread and cheese,” she said, pouring the coins into the monk’s outstretched hand.
As she sat wishing she could take off her wet cloak to celebrate being out of the rain, another group of costumed celebrants banged in through the door, shaking water from their finery and calling for beer. One of the loudest wore a mask shaped like a red-tongued hound. As he thumped his fist on a table, his right eye lit on Miriamele for a moment and seemed to pause. She felt a rush of fear, suddenly remembering another hound mask, and flaming arrows slashing through the forest shadows. But this dog quickly turned back to his fellows, making a jest and throwing his head back in laughter, his cloth ears swinging.
Miriamele pushed her hand against her chest as if to slow down her speeding
Perdruin was a cluster of hills surrounding Sta Mirore, the central mountain. Their lumpy backs rose up almost directly from the island’s rocky verges, looking over the Bay of Emettin. Perdruin’s silhouette thus resembled a mother pig and her feeding young. There was little flat land anywhere, except in the saddles where high hills shouldered together, so the villages and towns of Perdruin clung to the faces of these hills like gulls’ nests. Even Ansis Pellipé, the great seaport and the seat of Count Streáwe’s house, was built on the steep slopes of a promontory that the residents called Harborstone. In many places the citizens of Ansis Pellipé could stand on one of the capital’s hill-hugging streets and wave to their neighbors on the thoroughfare below.
“I must eat something,” Miriamele said at last, breathing heavily. They stood at a turnout of one of the looping streets, a place where they could look down between two buildings to the lights of the foggy harbor below. The dull moon hung in the clouded sky like a chip of bone.
“I am also ready to stop, Malachias,” panted Cadrach.
“How far is this abbey?”
“There is no abbey, or at least we are not going to such a place.”
“But you told the captain... oh.” Miriamele shook her head, feeling the damp heaviness of her hood and cloak. “Of course. So, then, where are we going?”
Cadrach stared at the moon and laughed quietly. “Wherever we wish, my friend. I do think there is a tavern of some repute at the top of this street: I must confess I was leading us in that general direction. Certainly not because I enjoy climbing these goirach hills.”
“A tavern? Why not a hostel, so we can find a bed after we eat?”
“Because, begging your pardon, it is not eating that I am thinking about. I have been aboard that abominable ship longer than I care to think. I will take my rest after I have indulged my thirst.” Cadrach wiped his hand across his mouth and grinned. Miriamele did not much like the look in his eyes.
“But there was a tavern every cubit down below...” she began.
“Exactly. Taverns full of drunken tale-passers and minders of others’ business. I cannot be taking my well-deserved rest in such a place.” He turned his back on the moon and began stumping away up the road. “Come, Malachias. It is only a little farther, I am sure.”
It seemed that during Midsummer Festival there was no such thing as an uncrowded tavern, but at least the drinkers in The Red Dolphin were not cheek to cheek, as they were in the dockside inns, only elbow to elbow. Miriamele gratefully slid down onto a bench set against the far wall and let the wash of conversation and song flow over her. Cadrach, after putting down his sack and walking stick, moved off to find himself a mug of Traveler’s Reward. He returned after only a moment.
“Good Malachias, I had forgotten how nearly beggared I am from paying our sea passage. Do you have a cintis-piece or two I might employ in the removal of thirst?”
Miriamele dug in her purse and produced a palm full of coppers. “Get me some bread and cheese,” she said, pouring the coins into the monk’s outstretched hand.
As she sat wishing she could take off her wet cloak to celebrate being out of the rain, another group of costumed celebrants banged in through the door, shaking water from their finery and calling for beer. One of the loudest wore a mask shaped like a red-tongued hound. As he thumped his fist on a table, his right eye lit on Miriamele for a moment and seemed to pause. She felt a rush of fear, suddenly remembering another hound mask, and flaming arrows slashing through the forest shadows. But this dog quickly turned back to his fellows, making a jest and throwing his head back in laughter, his cloth ears swinging.
Miriamele pushed her hand against her chest as if to slow down her speeding
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