"Very well," said Josua. "I understand, Baron. Now I will show you something that will convince you of the seriousness of my undertaking. And it may also answer your fears about following an Erkynlander anywhere." He turned and gestured. A hooded man seated near Strangyeard at the shadowy end of the table abruptly rose. He was very tall. Several of the men-at-arms drew their swords; the hiss of emerging blades seemed to make the room grow cold.

Do not fail us, Isgrimnur prayed. Isgrimnur prayed.

"You said one thing that was not true, Baron," Josua said gently.

"Do you call me a liar?"

"No. But these are strange days, and even a man as learned and clever as you cannot know everything. Even were Benigaris not a patricide, he is not not first claimant on his father's dukedom. Baron, people of Metessa, here is the true master of the Kingfisher House ... Camaris Benidrivis." first claimant on his father's dukedom. Baron, people of Metessa, here is the true master of the Kingfisher House ... Camaris Benidrivis."

The tall figure at the end of the table pushed back his hood, revealing a snowfall of white hair and a face full of sadness and grace.

"What... ?" The baron was utterly confused.

"Heresy!" shouted a confused landowner, stumbling to his feet. "Camaris, he is dead!"

One of the remaining women screamed. The man beside her slumped forward onto the table in a drunken faint.

Camaris touched his hand to his breast. "I am not dead." He turned to Seriddan. "Grant me forgiveness, Baron, for abusing your hospitality in this manner."

Seriddan stared at the apparition, then rounded on Josua. "What madness is this?! Do you mock me, Erkynlander?"

The prince shook his head. "It is no mockery, Seriddan. This is indeed Camaris. I thought to reveal him to you in private, but the chance did not come."

"No." Seriddan slapped his hand on the table. "I cannot believe it. Camaris-sa-Vinitta is dead-lost years ago, drowned in the Bay of Firannos."

"I lost only my wits, not my life," the old knight said gravely. "I lived for years with no memory of my name or my past." He drew a hand across his brow. His voice shook. "I sometimes wish I had never been given either back again. But I have. I am Camaris of Vinitta, son of Benidrivis. And if it is my last act, I will avenge my brother's death and see my murdering nephew removed from the throne in Nabban."

The baron was shaken, but still seemed unconvinced. His brother Brindalles said: "Send for Eneppa."

Seriddan looked up, his eyes bright, as though he had been reprieved from some awful sentence. "Yes." He turned to one of his men-at-arms. "Fetch Eneppa from the kitchen. And tell her nothing, nothing, on pain of your life." on pain of your life."

The man went out. Watching his departure, Isgrimnur saw that little Pasevalles had disappeared from the doorway.

The folk remaining at table whispered excitedly, but Seriddan no longer seemed to care. While he waited for his man to return, he downed another goblet of wine. Even Josua, as if he had given something a starting push and could no longer control it, allowed himself to finish his own cup. Camaris remained standing at the foot of the table, a figure of imposing stolidity. No one in the room could keep their eyes off him for long.

The messenger returned with an old woman in tow. She was short and plump, her hair cut short, her simple dark dress stained with flour and other things. She stood anxiously before Seriddan, obviously fearing some punishment.

"Stand still, Eneppa," the baron said. "You have done nothing wrong. Do you see that old man?" He pointed. "Go and look at him and tell me if you know him."

The old woman sidled toward Camaris. She peered up at him, starting a little when he looked down and met her-eyes. "No, my lord Baron," she said at last. Her Westerling was awkward.

"So." Seriddan crossed his arms before his chest and leaned back, an angry little smile on his face.

"Just a moment," Josua said. "Eneppa, if that is your name, this is no one you have seen in recent days. If you did know him, it was long ago."

She turned her frightened-rabbit face from the prince back to Camaris. She appeared ready to turn from him just as quickly the second time, then something caught at her. She stared. Her eyes widened. Abruptly, her knees bent and she sagged. Swift as thought, Camaris caught her and kept her from falling.

"Ulimor Camaris?" she asked in Nabbanai, weeping. she asked in Nabbanai, weeping. "Veveis?" "Veveis?" There followed a torrent in the same language. Seriddan's angry smile vanished, replaced by an expression that was almost comically astonished. There followed a torrent in the same language. Seriddan's angry smile vanished, replaced by an expression that was almost comically astonished.

"She says that they told her I had drowned," Camaris said. "Can you speak Westerling, good woman?" he asked her quietly. "There are some here who do not understand you."

Eneppa looked at him as he steadied her, then let her go. She was dazed, crumpling the skirt of her dress in her gnarled fingers. "He ... he is Camaris. Duos preterate! Duos preterate! Have ... have the dead come back to us again?" Have ... have the dead come back to us again?"

"Not the dead, Eneppa," said Josua. "Camaris lived, but lost his wits for many years."

"But although I know your face, my good woman," the old knight said wonderingly, "I do not recognize your name. Forgive me. It has been a long, long time."

Eneppa began to cry again in earnest, but she was laughing, too. "Because that is not my name in that time. When I work in your father's great house, they call me Fuiri Fuiri-'flower.' "

"Fuiri." Camaris nodded. "Of course. I remember you. You were a lovely girl, with smiles in full measure for everyone." He lifted her wizened hand, then bent and kissed it. She stared open-mouthed as though G.o.d Himself had appeared in the room and offered her a chariot ride through the heavens. "Thank you, Fuiri. You have given me back a little of my past. Before I leave this place, you and I will sit by the fire and talk."

The sniffling cook was helped from the room.

Seriddan and Brindalles both looked stunned. The rest of the baron's followers were equally amazed, and for some time no one said anything. Josua, perhaps sensing the battering that the baron had taken this night, merely sat and waited. Camaris, his ident.i.ty now confirmed, allowed himself to sit down once more; he, too, fell into silence. His half-lidded gaze seemed fixed on the leaping flames in the fireplace at the table's far side, but it was clear to Isgrimnur that he was looking at a time, not a place.

The stillness was interrupted by a sudden burst of whispering. Heads turned. Isgrimnur looked up to see Pasevalles walking straddle-legged into the room; something large and shiny was cradled against his small body. He stopped just inside the doorway, hesitated as he looked at Camaris, then moved awkwardly to stand before his uncle.

"I brought this for Sir Camaris," the boy said. His bold words were belied by his shaky voice. Seriddan stared at him for a moment, then his eyes widened.

"That is one of the helmets from your father's room!"

He nodded solemnly. "I want to give it to Sir Camaris."

Seriddan turned helplessly to his brother. Brindalles looked at his son, then briefly at Camaris, who still was lost in thought. At last, Brindalles shrugged. "He is who he says he is. There is no honor he has not earned, Seriddan." The thin-faced man told his son: "You were right to ask first." His smile was almost ghostly. "I suppose sometimes things must be taken down and dusted off and put to use. Go ahead, boy. Give it to him."

Isgrimnur watched in fascination as Pasevalles walked past clutching the heavy sea-dragon helm, his eyes as fearfully fixed as though he walked into an ogre's den. He stopped before the old knight and stood silently, although he looked as though any moment he might collapse beneath the weight of the helmet.

At last, Camaris looked up. "Yes?"

"My father and my uncle said I may give you this." Pasevalles struggled to lift the helm closer to Camaris, who even sitting down still towered above him. "It is very old."

A smile stretched across Camaris' face. "Like me, eh?" He reached out his large hands. "Let me see it, young sir." He turned the golden thing to the light. "This is a helm of the Imperium," he said wonderingly. "It is is old." old."

"It belonged to Imperator Anitulles, or so I believe," said Brindalles from across the room. "It is yours if you wish it, my lord Camaris."

The old man examined it a moment more, then carefully put it on. His eyes disappeared into the shadows of the helm's depths, and the cheek-guards jutted past his jaw like blades. "It fits tolerably well," he said.

Pasevalles stared up at the old man, at the coiling, high-finned sea-worm molded along the helmet's crest. His mouth was open.

"Thank you, lad." Camaris lifted the helmet off and placed it on the table beside him. "What is your name?"

"P-Pasevalles."

"I will wear the helm, Pasevalles. It is an honor. My own armor has gone to rust years ago."

The boy seemed transported to another realm, his eyes bright as candleflame. Watching him, Isgrimnur felt a twinge of sorrow. After this moment, after this experience with knighthood, how could life hold much but disappointment for this eager child?

Bless you, Pasevalles, the duke thought. the duke thought. I hope your life is a happy one, but for some reason I fear it won't be so. I hope your life is a happy one, but for some reason I fear it won't be so.

Prince Josua had been watching. Now, he spoke.

"There are other things you must know, Baron Seriddan. Some of them are frightening, others infuriating. Some of the things I must tell you are even more amazing than Camaris alive. Would you like to wait until the morning? Or do you still wish us locked up?"

Seriddan frowned. "Enough. Do not mock me, Josua. You will tell me what I need to know. I do not care if we are awake until c.o.c.kcrow." He clapped his hands for more wine, then sent all but a few of his benumbed and astonished followers home.

Ah, Baron, Isgrimnur thought, Isgrimnur thought, soon you'll find yourself down in the pit with the rest of us. I could have wished you better. soon you'll find yourself down in the pit with the rest of us. I could have wished you better.

The Duke of Elvritshalla pulled his chair closer as Josua began to speak.

7.

White Tree, Black Fruit

At first it seemed a tower or a mountain-surely nothing so tall, so slender, so bleakly, flatly white could be anything alive. But as she approached it, she saw that what had seemed a vast cloud surrounding the central shaft, a diffuse milky paleness, was instead an incredible net of branches. it seemed a tower or a mountain-surely nothing so tall, so slender, so bleakly, flatly white could be anything alive. But as she approached it, she saw that what had seemed a vast cloud surrounding the central shaft, a diffuse milky paleness, was instead an incredible net of branches.

It was a tree that stood before her, a great, white tree that stretched so high that she could not see the top of it; it seemed tall enough to pierce the sky. She stared, overwhelmed by its fearsome majesty. Even though a part of her knew that she was dreaming, Miriamele also knew that this great stripe of white was a very important thing.

As she drew closer-she had no body: was she walking? Flying? It was impossible to tell-Miriamele saw that the tree thrust up from the featureless ground in one smooth shaft like a column of irregular but faultlessly polished marble. If this ivory giant had roots, they were polished marble. If this ivory giant had roots, they were set deep, deep underground, anch.o.r.ed in the very heart of the earth. The branches that surrounded the tree like a cloak of worn gossamer were already slender where they sprouted from the trunk, but grew even more attenuated as they reached outward. The tangled ends were so fine that at their tips they vanished into invisibility. set deep, deep underground, anch.o.r.ed in the very heart of the earth. The branches that surrounded the tree like a cloak of worn gossamer were already slender where they sprouted from the trunk, but grew even more attenuated as they reached outward. The tangled ends were so fine that at their tips they vanished into invisibility.

Miriamele was close to the great tree now. She began to rise, pa.s.sing effortlessly upward. The trunk slipped past her like a stream of milk.

She floated up through the great cloud of branches. Out beyond the twining filaments of white, the sky was a flat gray-blue. There was no horizon; there seemed nothing else in the world but the tree.

The web of branches thickened. Scattered here and there among the stems hung little kernels of darkness, clots of black like reversed stars. Rising as slowly as swansdown caught in a puff of wind, Miriamele reached out-suddenly she had hands, although the rest of her body still seemed curiously absent-and touched one of the black things. It was shaped like a pear, but was smooth and turgid as a ripe plum. She touched another and found it much the same. The next one that pa.s.sed beneath her fingers felt slightly different. Miriamele's fingers tightened involuntarily and the thing came loose and fell into her grasp.

She looked down at the thing she had captured. It was as taut-skinned as the others, but for some reason it felt different. It might have been a little warmer. She knew, somehow, that it was ready-that it was ripe.

Even as she stared, and as the tendrils of the white tree fell endlessly past her on either side, the black fruit in her hands shuddered and split. Nestled in the heart of it, where a peach would have hidden its stone, lay an infant scarcely bigger than a finger. Eyelids tiny as snowflakes were closed in sleep. It kicked and yawned, but the eyes did not open.

So every one of these fruits is a soul, she thought. she thought. Or are they just ... possibilities? Or are they just ... possibilities? She didn't quite know what these dream-thoughts meant, but a moment later she felt a wash of fear. She didn't quite know what these dream-thoughts meant, but a moment later she felt a wash of fear. But I've pulled it loose! I've plucked it too soon! I have to put it back! But I've pulled it loose! I've plucked it too soon! I have to put it back!

Something was still drawing her upward, but now she was terrified. She had done something very wrong. She had to go back, to find that one branch in the net of manyfold thousands. Maybe it was not too late to return what she had unwittingly stolen.

Miriamele grabbed at the tangle of branches, trying to slow her ascent. Some of them, narrow and brittle as icicles, snapped in her hands; a few of the black fruits worked loose and went tumbling down into the gray-white distances below her.

No! She was frantic. She hadn't meant to cause this damage. She reached out her hand to catch one of the falling fruits and lost her grip on the tiny infant. She made a desperate grab, but it was out of her reach.

Miriamele let out a wail of despair and horror....

It was dark. Someone was holding her, clutching her tightly.

"No!" she gasped. "I've dropped it!"

"You haven't dropped anything," the voice said. "You're having a bad dream."

She stared, but could not make out the face. The voice ... she knew the voice. "Simon... ?"

"I'm here." He moved his mouth very close to her ear. "You're safe. But you probably shouldn't shout any more."

"Sorry. I'm sorry." She shivered, then began to disengage herself from his arms. There was a strong damp smell to the air and something scratchy beneath her fingers. "Where are we?"

"In a barn. About two hours' ride outside the walls of Falshire. Don't you remember?"

"A little. I don't feel very well." In fact, she felt dreadful. She was still shivering, yet at the same time she felt hot and even more bleary than she usually did when she woke up in the middle of the night. "How did we get here?"

"We had a fight with the Fire Dancers."

"I remember that. And I remember riding."

Simon made a sound in the darkness that might have been a laugh. "Well, after a while we stopped riding. You were the one who decided to stop here."

She shook her head. "I don't remember."

Simon let go of her-a little reluctantly, it was clear even to her dulled sensibilities. Now he crawled away over the thin layer of straw. A moment later something creaked and thumped and a little light leaked in. Simon's dark form was silhouetted in the square of a window. He was trying to find something to prop the shutter.

"It's stopped raining," he said.

"I'm cold." She tried to dig her way down into the straw.

"You kicked off your cloak." Simon crawled back across the loft to her side. He found her cloak and tucked it up beneath her chin. "You can have mine, too, if you want."

"I think I'll be happy with this," Miriamele said, although her teeth were still chattering.

"Do you want something to eat? I left your half of the supper-but you broke the ale jug on that big fellow's head."

"Just some water." The idea of putting food in her stomach was not a pleasant one.

Simon fussed with the saddlebags while Miriamele sat hugging her knees and staring out the open window at the night sky. The stars were invisible behind a veil of clouds. After Simon brought her the water skin and she drank, she felt weariness sweep over her again.

"I feel ... bad," she said. "I think I need to sleep some more."

The disappointment was plain in Simon's voice. "Certainly, Miri."

"I'm sorry. I just feel so ill...." She lay back and pulled the cloak tight beneath her chin. The darkness seemed to spin slowly around her. She saw Simon's shadowed silhouette against the window once more, then shadows came and took her back down.

By early morning Miriamele's fever was quite high. Simon could do little for her but put a damp cloth on her forehead and give her water to drink.