The dark day pa.s.sed in a blur of images: gray clouds sweeping past the window, the lonely sound of a solitary dove, Simon's worried face rising above her as periodically as the moon. Miriamele discovered that she did not much care what happened to her. All the fear and concern that had driven her was leached away by the illness. If she could have chosen to fall asleep for a year, she would have; instead, she bobbed in and out of consciousness like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to a spar. Her dreams were full of white trees and drowned cities with seaweed waving in their streets.

In the hour before dawn of their second day in the barn, Miriamele awakened to find herself clear-headed again, but terribly, terribly weak. She had a sudden fear that she was alone, that her companion had left her behind.

"Simon?" she asked. There was no answer. "Simon!?" "Simon!?"

"Humf?"

"Is that you?"

"What? Miriamele? Of course it's me." She could hear him roll over and crawl toward her. "Are you worse?"

"Better, I think." She stretched out a shaking hand until she found his arm, then finger-walked down it until she could clasp his hand. "But still not very well. Stay with me for a little while."

"Of course. Are you cold?"

"A bit."

Simon caught up his cloak and laid it atop her own. She felt so strengthless that the very gesture made her want to cry-indeed, a cold tear formed and trickled down her cheek.

"Thank you." She sat in silence for a while. Even this short conversation had tired her. The night, which had seemed so large and empty when she woke, now seemed a little less daunting.

"I think I'm ready to go back to sleep now." Her voice sounded fuzzy even in her own ears.

"Good night, then."

Miriamele felt herself slipping away. She wondered if Simon had ever had a dream as strange as the one about the white tree and the odd fruits it bore. It seemed unlikely....

When she awoke to the uncertain light of a slate-gray dawn, Simon's cloak was still covering her. He was sleeping nearby, a few wisps of damp hay his only covering.

Miriamele slept a great deal during their second day in the barn, but when she was not sunk in slumber, she felt much healthier, almost her old self. By midday she was able to take some bread and a morsel of cheese. Simon had been out exploring the local countryside; while she ate he told her of his adventures.

"There are so few people! I saw a couple on the road out of Falshire-I didn't let them see me, I promise you-but almost no one else. There's a house down below that's almost falling apart. I think it belongs to the people who own this barn. There are holes in the roof in a few places, but most of the thatching is good. I don't think anyone's living there now. If we need to stay longer, that might be a drier place than this."

"We'll see," said Miriamele. "I may be able to ride tomorrow."

"Perhaps, but you'll have to be able to move around a bit first. This is the first time you've sat up since the night we left Falshire." He turned toward her suddenly. "And I almost got killed!"

"What?" Miriamele had to grab for the waterskin to keep herself from choking on the dry bread. "What do you mean?" she demanded when she had recovered. "Was it Fire Dancers?"

"No," Simon said, his eyes wide, his expression solemn. A moment later he grinned. "But it was a near thing, even so. I was coming back uphill from the field next to the house. I had been picking some ... some flowers there."

Miriamele looked at him quizzically. "Flowers? What did you want with flowers?"

Simon went on as though the question had not been asked. "Something made a noise and I looked up. Standing there at the top of the rise behind me was a bull."

"Simon!"

"He didn't look very friendly, either. He was all bony, and his eyes were red, and he had b.l.o.o.d.y scratches along his sides." Simon dragged his fingers down his ribs, ill.u.s.trating. "We stood there staring at each other for a moment, then he began to lower his head and make huffing noises. I started walking backward toward where I'd been. He came down the hill after me, making these little dancing steps, but going faster and faster."

"But Simon! What did you do?"

"Well, running downhill in front of a bull seemed fairly stupid, so I dropped the flowers and climbed the first good-sized tree that I reached. He stopped at the bottom-I got my feet up out of the way just as he got there-then all of a sudden he lowered his head, and ... thump!" thump!" Simon brought his fist into his open palm, "he smacked up against the trunk. The whole tree shook and it almost knocked me off the branch I was hanging on, until I got my legs wrapped around good and tight. I pulled myself up until I was sitting on the branch, which was a good thing, because this idiot bull began b.u.t.ting his head against the tree, over and over until the skin began to peel off his head and there was blood running down his face." Simon brought his fist into his open palm, "he smacked up against the trunk. The whole tree shook and it almost knocked me off the branch I was hanging on, until I got my legs wrapped around good and tight. I pulled myself up until I was sitting on the branch, which was a good thing, because this idiot bull began b.u.t.ting his head against the tree, over and over until the skin began to peel off his head and there was blood running down his face."

"That's terrible. He must have been mad, poor animal."

"Poor animal! I like that!" Simon's voice rose in mock-despair. "He tries to kill your special protector and all you can say about him is 'poor animal.' "

Miriamele smiled. "I'm glad he didn't kill you. What happened?"

"Oh, he got tired at last and went away," Simon said airily. "Walked on down the dell, so that he wasn't between me and the fence anymore. Still, as I was running up the slope, I kept thinking I heard him coming up behind me."

"Well, you had a close call." Unable to help herself, Miriamele yawned; Simon made a face. "But I'm glad you didn't slay the monster," she continued, "even if you are a knight. He can't help being mad."

"Slay the monster? What, with my bare hands?" Simon laughed, but sounded pleased. "But maybe killing him would have been the kindest thing to do. He certainly seemed past saving. That's probably why whoever lived there left him behind."

"Or he may have gone mad because because they left him behind," Miriamele said slowly. She looked at Simon and saw that he had heard something odd in her voice. "I'm tired, now. Thank you for the bread." they left him behind," Miriamele said slowly. She looked at Simon and saw that he had heard something odd in her voice. "I'm tired, now. Thank you for the bread."

"There's one thing more." He reached into his cloak and produced a small green apple. "The only one within walking distance."

Miriamele stared at it suspiciously for a moment, then sniffed it before taking a tentative bite. It was not sweet, but its tartness was very pleasant. She ate half, then handed the rest to Simon.

"It was good," she said. "Very good. But I still can't eat much."

Simon happily crunched up the rest. Miriamele found the hollow she had made for herself in the straw and stretched out. "I'm going to sleep a little more, Simon."

He nodded. He was looking at her so carefully, so thoroughly, that Miriamele had to turn away and pull her cloak up over her face. She was not strong enough to support such attention, not just now.

She awakened late in the afternoon. Something was making a strange noise-thump and swish, thump and swish. A little frightened and still very weak, Miriamele lay unmoving and tried to decide whether it might be someone looking for them, or Simon's bull, or something entirely different and possibly worse. At last she nerved herself and crawled silently across the loft, trying not to make any noise as she moved over the thin carpet of straw. When she reached the edge, she peered over.

Simon was on the ground floor of the barn practicing his sword strokes. Despite the coolness of the day, he had taken off his shirt; sweat gleamed on his pale skin. She watched him as he measured a distance before him, then lifted his sword with both hands, holding it perpendicular to the floor before gradually lowering its point. His freckled shoulders tensed. Thump Thump-he took a step forward. Thump, thump Thump, thump-he pivoted to the side, moving around the almost stationary sword as though he held someone else's blade trapped against it. His face was earnest as a child's, and the tip of his tongue protruded pinkly from his mouth as he gripped it between his teeth in solemn concentration. Miriamele suppressed a giggle, but she could not help noticing how his skin slid over his lean muscles, how the fanlike shapes of his shoulder blades and the k.n.o.bs of his backbone pushed against the milky skin. He stopped, the sword again held motionless before him. A drop of sweat slid from his nose and disappeared into his reddish beard. She suddenly wanted very much for him to hold her again, but despite her desire, the thought of it made her stomach clench in pain. There was so much that he did not know.

She pushed herself back from the edge of the loft as quietly as she could, retreating to her hollow in the straw. She tried to fall into sleep once more, but could not. For a long time she lay on her back, staring up at the shadows between the rafters as she listened to the tread of his feet, the hiss of the blade sliding through the air, and the m.u.f.fled percussion of his breath.

Just before sunset Simon went down to look at the house again. He came back and reported that it was indeed empty, although he had seen what looked like fresh bootprints in the mud. But there was no other sign of anyone about, and Simon decided that the tracks most likely belonged to another harmless wanderer like the old drunkard Heanwig, so they gathered up their belongings and moved down. At first Miriamele was so light-headed that she had to lean on Simon to keep from falling, but after a few dozen steps she felt strong enough to walk unaided, although she was careful to keep a good grip on his arm. He went very slowly, showing her where the track was slippery with mud.

The cottage appeared to have been deserted for some time, and there were, as Simon had pointed out, some holes in the thatching, but the barn had been even draftier, and the cottage at least had a fireplace. As Simon carried in some split timbers he had found stacked against the wall outside and struggled to get a fire started, Miriamele huddled in her cloak and looked around at their home for the night.

Whoever had lived here had left few reminders of their residence, so she guessed that the circ.u.mstances which had driven the owners away had not come on suddenly. The only piece of furniture that remained was a stool with a splintered leg squatting off-kilter beside the hearth. A single bowl lay shattered on the stone beside it, every piece still in the spot where it had tumbled to a halt, as if the bowl had fallen only moments before. The hard clay of the floor was covered with rushes which had gone damp and brown. The only signs of recent life in the room were the innumerable cobwebs hanging in the thatches or stretching in the corners, but even these looked threadbare and forlorn, as if it had not been a good season even for spiders.

"There." Simon stood up. "That's got it. I'm going to fetch down the horses."

While he was gone, Miriamele sat before the fire and hunted through the saddlebags for food. For the first time in two days, she was hungry. She wished the house's owners had left their stew pot-the hook hung naked over the growing fire-but since it was gone she would make do with what she had. She pushed a couple of stones into the fire to heat, then rooted out the few remaining carrots and an onion. When the stones were hot enough, she would make some soup.

Miriamele scanned the ceiling critically, then unrolled her bedroll in a spot that looked like it was far enough from the nearest hole to stay dry in case the rains returned. After a moment's thought she unrolled Simon's nearby. She left what she considered to be a safe distance between them, but his bedroll was still closer than she would have preferred had there not been a leaky roof to deal with. When all was arranged, she found her knife in the saddlebag and got to work on the vegetables.

"It's blowing hard now," Simon said as he came back in. His hair was disarranged, standing out in strange tufts, but his cheeks were red and his smile was wide. "It will be a good night to be near a fire."

"I'm glad we moved down here," she said. "I feel much better tonight. I think I'll be able to ride tomorrow."

"If you're ready." As he walked past her to the fireplace, he put his hand on her shoulder for a moment, then trailed it gently across her hair. Miriamele said nothing, but went on chopping the carrots into a clay bowl.

The meal had not been anything either of them would remember fondly, but Miriamele felt better for having something hot in her stomach. When she had rinsed the bowls and scoured them with a dry twig, she put them away, then crawled onto her bedroll. Simon fussed with the fire for a bit, then laid himself down as well. They spent a silent interval staring at the flames.

"There was a fireplace in my bedroom at Meremund," Miriamele said quietly. "I used to watch the flames dancing at night when I couldn't sleep. I saw pictures in them. When I was very little, I thought I saw the face of Usires smiling at me once."

"Mmmm," Simon said. Then: "You had your own own room to sleep in?" room to sleep in?"

"I was the only child of the prince and heir," she said a little crisply. "It is not unheard of."

Simon snorted. "It's unheard of by me. I slept with a dozen other scullions. One of them, Fat Zebediah, used to snore like a cooper cutting slats with a handsaw."

Miriamele giggled. "Later on, in the last twelvemonth when I lived in the Hayholt, Leleth used to sleep in my room. That was nice. But when I was in Meremund, I slept by myself, with a maid just on the other side of the door."

"That sounds ... lonely."

"I don't know. I suppose it was." She sighed and laughed at the same time, a funny noise that made Simon lift his head beside her. "Once I was having trouble sleeping, so I went in to my father's room. I told him that there was a c.o.c.kindrill under my bed, so that he would let me sleep with him. But that was after my mother died, so he only gave me one of his dogs to take back with me. 'He's a c.o.c.kindrill-hound, Miri,' he said to me. 'By my faith, he is. He'll keep you safe.' He was always a bad liar. The dog just lay by the door and whimpered until I finally let him out again."

Simon waited for a while before speaking. The flames made jigging shadows in the thatching overhead. "How did your mother die?" he asked at last. "No one ever told me."

"She was shot by an arrow." Miriamele still hurt when she thought of it, but not as badly as she once had. "Uncle Josua was taking her to my father, who was fighting for Grandfather John along the edge of the Meadow Thrithing during the uprising there. Josua's troop was surprised in broad daylight by a much larger force of Thrithings-men. He lost his hand defending her, and did succeed in winning free, but she was struck down by a stray arrow. She was dead before sunset."

"I'm sorry, Miriamele."

She shrugged, even though he could not see her. "It was long ago. But losing her gave my father even more misery than it gave me. He loved her so much! Oh, Simon, you only know what my father has become, but he was a good man once. He loved my mother more than he loved anything else in the world."

And thinking of her father's gray, grief-stricken face, of the pall of anger that had descended on him and never lifted, she began to cry.

"And that's why I have to see him," she said finally, her voice unsteady. "That's why."

Simon rustled atop his bedroll. "What? What do you mean? See who?"

Miriamele took a deep breath. "My father, of course. That's why we're going to the Hayholt. Because I have to speak to my father."

"What nonsense are you talking?" Simon sat up. "We're going to the Hayholt to get your grandfather's sword, Bright-Nail."

"I never said that. You did." Despite the tears, she felt herself grow angry.

"I don't understand you, Miriamele. We are at war with your father. Are you going to go see him and tell him there's a c.o.c.kindrill under your bed again? What are you saying?"

"Don't be cruel, Simon. Don't you dare." She could feel the tears threatening to become a torrent, but a small ember of fury was burning inside her as well.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but I just don't understand."

Miriamele pressed her hands together as tightly as she could, and concentrated on that until she felt herself in control again. "And I have not explained to you, Simon. I'm sorry, too."

"Tell me. I'll listen."

Miriamele listened to the flames crackle and hiss for a while. "Cadrach showed me the truth, although I don't think he realized it. It was when we were traveling together, and he told me of Nisses' book. He had once owned it, or a copy of it."

"The magical book that Morgenes talked about?"

"Yes. And it is a powerful thing. Powerful enough that Pryrates learned that Cadrach had owned it and so Pryrates ... sent for him." She fell silent momentarily, remembering Cadrach's description of the blood-red windows and the iron devices with the skin and hair of the tortured still on them. "He threatened him until Cadrach told him all the things he remembered. Cadrach said that Pryrates was particularly interested in talking with the dead-'Speaking through the Veil,' he called it."

"From what I know of Pryrates, that doesn't surprise me." Simon's voice was shaky, too. Obviously he had his own memories of the red priest.

"But that was what showed me what I needed to know," Miriamele said, unwilling to lose the thread of her idea now that she was finally talking about it out loud. "Oh, Simon, I had wondered so long why my father changed the way he did, why Pryrates was able to turn him to such evil tasks." She swallowed. There were still tears standing wet on her cheeks, but for the moment she had found a new strength. "My father loved my mother. He was never the same after she died. He did not marry, did not even consider it, despite all the wishes of my grandfather. They used to have terrible arguments about it. 'You need a son to be your heir,' Grandfather used to say, but my father always told him he would never marry again, that he had been given a wife and then G.o.d had taken her back." She paused, remembering.

"I still don't understand," said Simon quietly.

"Don't you see? Pryrates must have told my father that he could talk to the dead-that he could let my father speak with my mother again, perhaps even see her. You don't know him, Simon. He was heartsick with losing her. He would have done anything, I think, to have her back, even for a little while."

Simon drew in a long breath. "But that's ... blasphemy. That's against G.o.d."

Miriamele laughed, a little shrilly. "As if that would have stopped him. I told you, he would have done anything anything to have her back. Pryrates must have lied to him and told him that they could reach her ... beyond the Veil, or whatever that horrible book called it. Maybe the priest even thought that he could. And he used that promise to make my father first his patron, then his partner ... then his slave." to have her back. Pryrates must have lied to him and told him that they could reach her ... beyond the Veil, or whatever that horrible book called it. Maybe the priest even thought that he could. And he used that promise to make my father first his patron, then his partner ... then his slave."

Simon pondered this. "Perhaps Pryrates did did try," he said finally. "Perhaps that is how they reached through to ... to the other side. To the Storm King." try," he said finally. "Perhaps that is how they reached through to ... to the other side. To the Storm King."

The sound of this name, even as quietly it had been spoken, was greeted with a skirl of wind in the thatches above, a rush of sound so abrupt that Miriamele flinched.

"Perhaps." The thought made her cold. To think of her father waiting eagerly to speak with his beloved wife and finding that thing thing instead. It was a little like the terrifying old story of what the fisherman Bulychlinn brought up in his nets.... instead. It was a little like the terrifying old story of what the fisherman Bulychlinn brought up in his nets....

"But I still don't understand, Miriamele." Simon was gentle but stubborn. "Even if all that is true, what good will it do to speak to your father?"

"I'm not sure it will do any good." And that was true: it was hard to picture any happy result from their meeting after so much time and so much anger and sorrow. "But if there's even a small chance that I can show him sense, that I can remind him that this began out of love, and so convince him to stop ... then I have to take that chance." She lifted a hand and wiped at her eyes: she was crying again. "He just wanted to see her...." After a moment she steadied herself. "But you do not have to go, Simon. This is my burden."

He was silent. She could sense his discomfort.

"It is too great a risk," he said at last. "You might never get to see your father, even if that would do any good. Pryrates might catch you first, and then no one would ever hear from you again." He said it with terrible conviction.

"I know, Simon. I just don't know what else to do. I have to speak to my father. I have to show him what's happened, and only I can do it."

"You're determined, then?"

"I am."

Simon sighed. "Aedon on the Tree, Miriamele, it's madness. I hope you change your mind by the time we get there."

Miriamele knew there would be no change. "I have been thinking about it for a long time."

Simon slumped back onto his bedroll. "If Josua knew, he'd tie you up and carry you a thousand leagues away."

"You're right. He would never allow it."

In the darkness, Simon sighed again. "I have to think, Miriamele. I don't know what to do."