Read Online The Stone of Farewell by Tad Williams - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tad Williams
Ads: Link
beneath open sky, if we must be dying?”
Death leaned forward without a word. Cadrach started back, but the skull-masked man only leaned past him and knocked on the door with black-gloved knuckles, then pushed it inward. It swung open silently on oiled hinges.
A dim, warm light burned inside the portal. Miriamele stepped past the monk and through the doorway. Cadrach followed a moment later, muttering to himself. Skull-face came last of all and pushed the door shut behind him.
It was a small sitting room, lit only by a fire in the grate and one candle burning in a dish beside a decanter of wine on the table top. The walls were covered with heavy velvet tapestries, their designs distinguishable in the firelight only as swirls of color. Behind the table, in a high backed chair, sat a figure fully as strange as any of their escorts: a tall man in a russet-brown cloak, wearing the sharp-featured mask of a fox.
The fox leaned forward, indicating two chairs with a graceful sweep of his velvet-gloved fingers.
“Sit down.” His voice was thin but melodious. “Sit down, Princess Miriamele. I would rise, but my crippled legs do not permit it.”
“This is madness,” Cadrach blustered, but kept an eye on the skull-faced specter at his shoulder. “You have made a mistake, sir—this is a boy you address, my acolyte ...”
“Please.” The fox gestured amiably for silence. “It is time to doff our masks. Is that not how Midsummer Night always ends?”
He lifted the fox face away, revealing a shock of white hair and a face seamed with age. As his unmasked eyes glittered in the fireglow, a smile quirked his wrinkled lips.
“Now that you know who I am ...” he began, but Cadrach interrupted him.
“We do not know you, sir, and you have mistaken us!”
The old man laughed dryly. “Oh, come. You and I may not have met before, my dear fellow, but the princess and I are old friends. As a matter of fact, she was my guest, once—long, long ago.”
“You are... Count Streáwe?” Miriamele breathed.
“Indeed,” the count nodded. His shadow loomed on the wall behind him. He leaned forward, clasping her wet hand in his velvet-sheathed claw. “Perdruin’s master. And, beginning the moment you two touched foot on the rock over which I rule, your master as well.”
3
Oath-Breaker
Later in the day of his meeting with the Herder and Huntress, when the sun was high in the sky, Simon felt strong enough to go outside and sit on the rocky porch before his cave. He wrapped a corner of his blanket about his shoulders and tucked the remainder of the heavy wool beneath him as a cushion against the mountain’s stony skin. But for the royal couch in Chidsik ub Lingit, there seemed to be nothing like a chair in all of Yiqanuc.
The herders had long since led their sheep out of the protected valleys where they slept, taking them down-mountain in search of fodder. Jiriki had told him that the spring shoots on which the animals usually fed had been all but destroyed by the clinging winter. Simon watched one of the flocks milling on a slope far below him, tiny as ants. A faint clacking sound wafted up to him, the rams butting horns as they contested for mastery of the herd.
The troll women, their black-haired babies strapped to their backs in pouches of finely stitched hide, had taken up slender spears and gone out hunting, stalking marmots and other animals whose meat could help to eke out the mutton. Binabik had often said that the sheep were the Qanuc people’s true wealth, that they ate only such members of their flocks as were good for nothing else, the old and the barren.
Marmots, coneys, and other such small game were not the only reason the troll women carried spears. One of the furs ostentatiously wrapped around Nunuuika had been that of a snow leopard, dagger-sharp claws still gleaming. Remembering the Huntress’ fierce eyes, Simon had little doubt that Nunuuika had brought down that prize herself.
The women were not
Death leaned forward without a word. Cadrach started back, but the skull-masked man only leaned past him and knocked on the door with black-gloved knuckles, then pushed it inward. It swung open silently on oiled hinges.
A dim, warm light burned inside the portal. Miriamele stepped past the monk and through the doorway. Cadrach followed a moment later, muttering to himself. Skull-face came last of all and pushed the door shut behind him.
It was a small sitting room, lit only by a fire in the grate and one candle burning in a dish beside a decanter of wine on the table top. The walls were covered with heavy velvet tapestries, their designs distinguishable in the firelight only as swirls of color. Behind the table, in a high backed chair, sat a figure fully as strange as any of their escorts: a tall man in a russet-brown cloak, wearing the sharp-featured mask of a fox.
The fox leaned forward, indicating two chairs with a graceful sweep of his velvet-gloved fingers.
“Sit down.” His voice was thin but melodious. “Sit down, Princess Miriamele. I would rise, but my crippled legs do not permit it.”
“This is madness,” Cadrach blustered, but kept an eye on the skull-faced specter at his shoulder. “You have made a mistake, sir—this is a boy you address, my acolyte ...”
“Please.” The fox gestured amiably for silence. “It is time to doff our masks. Is that not how Midsummer Night always ends?”
He lifted the fox face away, revealing a shock of white hair and a face seamed with age. As his unmasked eyes glittered in the fireglow, a smile quirked his wrinkled lips.
“Now that you know who I am ...” he began, but Cadrach interrupted him.
“We do not know you, sir, and you have mistaken us!”
The old man laughed dryly. “Oh, come. You and I may not have met before, my dear fellow, but the princess and I are old friends. As a matter of fact, she was my guest, once—long, long ago.”
“You are... Count Streáwe?” Miriamele breathed.
“Indeed,” the count nodded. His shadow loomed on the wall behind him. He leaned forward, clasping her wet hand in his velvet-sheathed claw. “Perdruin’s master. And, beginning the moment you two touched foot on the rock over which I rule, your master as well.”
3
Oath-Breaker
Later in the day of his meeting with the Herder and Huntress, when the sun was high in the sky, Simon felt strong enough to go outside and sit on the rocky porch before his cave. He wrapped a corner of his blanket about his shoulders and tucked the remainder of the heavy wool beneath him as a cushion against the mountain’s stony skin. But for the royal couch in Chidsik ub Lingit, there seemed to be nothing like a chair in all of Yiqanuc.
The herders had long since led their sheep out of the protected valleys where they slept, taking them down-mountain in search of fodder. Jiriki had told him that the spring shoots on which the animals usually fed had been all but destroyed by the clinging winter. Simon watched one of the flocks milling on a slope far below him, tiny as ants. A faint clacking sound wafted up to him, the rams butting horns as they contested for mastery of the herd.
The troll women, their black-haired babies strapped to their backs in pouches of finely stitched hide, had taken up slender spears and gone out hunting, stalking marmots and other animals whose meat could help to eke out the mutton. Binabik had often said that the sheep were the Qanuc people’s true wealth, that they ate only such members of their flocks as were good for nothing else, the old and the barren.
Marmots, coneys, and other such small game were not the only reason the troll women carried spears. One of the furs ostentatiously wrapped around Nunuuika had been that of a snow leopard, dagger-sharp claws still gleaming. Remembering the Huntress’ fierce eyes, Simon had little doubt that Nunuuika had brought down that prize herself.
The women were not
Similar Books
