He dreamed that he sat atop Green Angel Tower, perched like a gargoyle. Someone was moving beside him.

It was the angel herself, who had apparently left her spire and now seated herself beside him, laying a cool hand on his wrist. She looked strangely like the little girl Leleth, but made of rough bronze and green with verdigris.

"It is a long way down." The angel's voice was beautiful, soft but strong.

Simon stared at the tiny rooftops of the Hayholt below him. "It is."

"That is not what I mean." The angel's tone was gently chiding. "I mean down to where the Truth is. Down to the bottom, where things begin."

"I don't understand." He felt curiously light, as though the next puff of wind might send him sailing off the tower roof, whirling like a leaf. It seemed that the angel's grip on his arm was the only thing that held him where he sat.

"From up here, the matters of Earth look small," she said. "That is one way to see, and a good one. But it is not the only one. The farther down you go, the harder things are to understand-but the more important they are. You must go very deep."

"I don't know how to do that." He stared at her face, but despite its familiarity it was still lifeless, just a casting of rough metal. There was no hint of friendship or kindness in the stiff features. "Where should I go? Who will help me?"

"Deep. You." The angel suddenly stood; as her hand released him, Simon felt himself beginning to float free of the tower. He clutched a curving bit of the roof and clung. "It is hard for me to talk to you, Simon," she said. "I may not be able to again."

"Why can't you just tell me?" he cried. His feet were floating off the edge; his body fluttered like a sail, trying to follow. "Just tell me!"

"It is not so easy." The angel turned and slowly rose back to her plinth atop the tower roof. "If I can come again, I will. But it is only possible to talk clearly about less important things. The greatest truths lie within, always within. They cannot be given. They must be found."

Simon felt himself tugged free of his handhold. Slowly, like a cartwheel spun loose from its axle, he began to revolve as he floated out. Sky and earth moved alternately past him, as though the world were a child's ball in which he had been imprisoned, a ball now sent rolling by a vengeful kick....

Simon awakened in faint moonlight, sweating despite the chill night air. The dark bulk of Swertclif hung above him like a warning.

The next day found Simon considerably less certain about things than he had been the night before. As they readied for the climb, he found himself worrying over the dream. If Amerasu had been right, if Simon had truly become more open to the Road of Dreams, could there be a meaning to what he had been told by the dream angel? How could he go deeper? He was about to climb a tall hill. And what answer was within? Some secret that even he didn't know? It just didn't make sense.

The company set out as the sun began to warm in the sky. For the first part of the morning they rode up through the foothills, mounting Swertclif's lower reaches. As the lower, gentler slopes fell away behind them, they were forced to dismount and lead the horses.

They stopped for a mid-morning meal-a little of the dried fruit and bread that Binabik had brought with him from Josua's camp stores.

"I am thinking it is time to leave the horses behind us," said the troll. "If Qantaqa is still wishing to come, she will climb on her own instead of carrying me upon her back."

Simon had not thought about having to leave Homefinder. He had hoped there would be a way to ride to the summit, but the only level path was the one on the far side of Swertclif, the funeral road that led across the top of the headland from Erchester and the Hayholt.

Binabik had brought a good quant.i.ty of rope in his saddlebag; he sacrificed enough of it for Simon and Miriamele to leave their mounts tied on long tethers to a low, wind-curled tree within reach of a natural rocky pool full of rainwater. The two horses had ample room to graze during the half a day or more they would be required to wait. Simon laid his face against Homefinder's neck and quietly promised her he would be back as soon as he could.

"Any other things there are that need doing?" asked Binabik; Simon stared up at the pinnacle of Swertclif and wished he could think of something that would forestall the climb a little longer. "Then let us be going," the troll said.

Swertclif's eastern face was not as sheerly vertical as it seemed from a distance. By traversing diagonally, the company, with Qantaqa trailing behind, were even able occasionally to walk upright, although more often than not they went crouching from handhold to cautious handhold. In only one spot, a narrow c.h.i.n.k between the cliff face and a standing stone, did Simon feel any worry, but he and his two companions inched through while Qantaqa, who had found some private wolfish path, stood on the far side with her tongue dangling pinkly, watching their struggles with apparent amus.e.m.e.nt.

A few hours after noon the skies darkened and the air grew heavy. A light rain swept across the cliff face, wetting the climbers and worrying Simon. It was not so bad where they were, but it looked to get more difficult very soon, and there was nothing pleasant about the idea of trying to cross some of the steeply angled stones if they were slick with rain. But the small shower pa.s.sed, and although the clouds remained threatening, no larger storm seemed imminent.

The climb did grow steeper, but it was better than Simon had feared. Binabik was leading, and the little man was as surefooted as one of his Qanuc sheep. They only used the rope once, tying themselves for safety as they leapt from one gra.s.sy shelf to another over a long, slanting scree of naked stones. Everyone made the jump safely, although Miriamele scratched her hands and Simon banged his knee hard when he landed. Qantaqa seemed to find this part laughably easy as well.

As they paused for breath on the far side of this crossing, Simon found that he was standing just a few cubits below a small patch of white flowers-starblooms- whose petals gleamed like snowflakes in the dark green gra.s.s that surrounded them. He was heartened by the discovery: he'd seen very few flowers since he and Miriamele had first left Josua's camp. Even the Wintercap or Frayja's Fire that one might expect to see at this cold time of the year had been scarce.

The climb up Swertclif's face took longer than they had antic.i.p.ated: as they toiled up the last long rise, the sun had sunk low in the sky, gleaming a handbreadth above the horizon behind the pall of clouds. They were all bent nearly double now and working hard for breath; they had been using their hands for balance and leverage so frequently in this last stage that Simon wondered what Qantaqa must think to see all her companions turned as four-footed as she. When they stepped up and could at last stand upright on the gra.s.sy verge of Swertclif's summit, a sliver of sun broke through, washing the rounded hill with pale light.

The mounds of the Hayholt's kings lay before them, some hundred ells from where they stood struggling to regain breath. All except one of the barrows were nothing more than gra.s.sy humps, so rounded by time as to seem part of the hill: that one, which was surely John's, was still only a pile of naked stones. At the hill's distant western edge lay the dim bulk of the Hayholt; the needle-thin spire of Green Angel Tower was brighter than anything else in sight.

Binabik c.o.c.ked an eye up at the weak sun. "We are being later than my hope. We will not be able to go down again before we are in darkness." He shrugged. "There is nothing that will help that. The horses will be able to feed themselves until the morning when we can return to them."

"But what about ..." Simon looked at Qantaqa, embarra.s.sed; he had been about to say "wolves," "... what about wild animals? Are you sure they'll be all right?"

"Horses can be defending themselves very well. And I have seen few animals of any kind or name in these lands." Binabik patted Simon's arm. "And also there is nothing we can be doing otherwise except risking a broken neck or other unfortunate crunching or snapping of bones."

Simon took a breath and started off toward the barrows. "Come on, then."

The seven mounds were laid out in a partial circle. s.p.a.ce had been left for others to share this place. Simon felt a twinge of superst.i.tious fear as he thought about that. Who else would lie here someday? Elias? Josua? Or neither? Perhaps the events that had been set in motion meant that nothing expected would ever happen again.

They walked into the center of the incomplete circle and stopped. The wind stirred and bent the gra.s.ses. The hilltop was silent. Simon walked to the first barrow, which had sunk into the waiting earth until it was scarcely a man's height, though it stretched several times that in length and was nearly equally wide. A verse floated into Simon's head, a verse and a memory of black statues in a dark, silent throne room.

"Fingil first, named the b.l.o.o.d.y King."

he said quietly, "Flying out of the North on war's red wing."

Now that he had spoken the initial verse, it seemed unlucky to stop. He moved to the next barrow, which was as old and weatherworn as the first. A few stones glinted in the gra.s.s, like teeth.

"Hjeldin his son, the Mad King dire Leaped to his death from the haunted spire."

The third was set close to the second, as if the one buried there still sought protection from his predecessors.

"Ikferdig next, the Burned King hight He met the fire-drake by dark of night. "

Simon paused. There was a gap between this trio of mounds and the next, and there was also another verse prodding his memory. After a moment, it came.

"Three northern kings, all dead and cold The north rules no more in lofty Hayholt."

He moved to the second group of three, the song swiftly coming back to him now, so that he did not have to search for words. Miriamele and Binabik stood in silence, watching and listening.

"The Heron King Sulis, called Apostate Fled Nabban, but in Hayholt he met his fate "The Hernystir Holly King, old Tethtain Came in at the gate, but not out again"Last, Eahlstan Fisher King, in lore most high The dragon he woke, and in Hayholt he died. "

Simon took a deep breath. It almost seemed that he was saying a magical spell, that a few more words might bring the barrows' inhabitants up from their centuried sleep, grave ornaments clinking as they broke through the earth.

"Six kings have ruled in Hayholt's broad halls Six masters have stridden her mighty stone walls Six mounds on the cliff over deep Kynslagh-bay Six kings will sleep there until Doom's final day... "

When he finished, the wind grew stronger for a moment, flattening the gra.s.s and moaning as it whirled across the hilltop ... but nothing else happened. The mounds remained silent and secretive. Their long shadows lay on the sward, stretching toward the east.

"Of course, there are seven kings here now," he said, breaking the silence. Now that the moment had come, he was tremendously unsettled. His heart was rattling in his ribs and he suddenly found it hard to speak without the words catching in his throat. He turned to face the last barrow. It was higher than the rest, and the gra.s.s had only partly covered the pile of stones. It looked like the sh.e.l.l of an immense sea-creature stranded by the waves of some ancient flood.

"King John Presbyter," said Simon.

"My grandfather." grandfather."

Struck by the sound of Miriamele's voice, Simon turned. She appeared positively haunted, her face colorless, her eyes hollow and frightened.

"I can't watch this," she said. "I'm going to wait over there." She turned and made her way around Fingil's barrow, sinking down out of sight at last as she sat, presumably to look out to the east and the hilly land they had just crossed.

"Let us be working, then," said Binabik. "I will not be enjoying this task, but you spoke rightly, Simon: we are here, and it would be foolishness not to take the sword."

"Prester John would want us to," he said with more confidence than he felt. "He would want us to do what we can to save his kingdom, his people."

"Who knows what the dead are wishing?" Binabik said darkly. "Come, let us work. Still we must be making at least some shelter for ourselves before night comes, for hiding the light of a fire if nothing else. Miriamele," he called, "can you look to see if some of those shrubs there along the hill could provide some wood for burning?"

She raised her hand in acknowledgment.

Simon bent to John's cairn and began tugging at one of the stones. It clung to the gra.s.sy earth so tenaciously that Simon had to put his boot on the stone beside it to help him pull it free. He stood up and wiped sweat from his face. His chain mail was too bulky and uncomfortable for this sort of work. He unlaced it and removed it, then took off the padded jerkin, too, and laid them both in the gra.s.s beside the mound. The wind clawed at him through his thin shirt.

"Halfway across Osten Ard we have been traveling," Binabik said as he dug his fingers into the earth, "and no one was thinking to find a shovel."

"I have my sword," said Simon.

"Save it until there is real need." A little of the troll's usual dryness had returned. "Gouging at stones has a dulling effect on blades, I am told. And we may be needing a sword with some sharpness. Especially if anyone notices us at our work digging up the High King's father."

Simon shut his eyes for a moment and said a brief prayer asking Aedon's forgiveness-and Prester John's, too, for good measure-for what they were about to do.

The sun was gone. The gray sky was beginning to turn pink at its western edge, a color that Simon usually found pleasant, but which now looked like something beginning to spoil. The last stone had been pulled out of the hole in the side of Prester John's gra.s.s-fringed cairn. The black nothingness that lay beyond looked like a wound in the flesh of the world.

Binabik fumbled with his flints. When at last he struck a spark, he lit the end of the torch and shielded it from the brisk wind until it caught. Unwilling to stare at the waiting blackness, Simon looked out instead across the dark green of the hilltop. Miriamele was a small figure in the distance, bending and rising as she scavenged for the makings of a campfire. Simon wished he could stop now, just turn and go. He wished he had never thought of such a foolish thing to do.

Binabik waved the flame inside the hole, pulled it out, then pushed the torch back inside again. He got down on his knees and took a cautious sniff. "The air, it is seeming, is at least good." He pushed more clods of earth from the edge of the hole before poking his head through. "I can see the wooden sides of something. A boat?"

"Sea-Arrow." The gravity of what they were doing had begun to settle on Simon like a great weight. "Yes, Prester John's boat. He was buried in it."

Binabik edged in a little farther. "There is plenty of room for me to stand in here," he said. His voice was m.u.f.fled. "And the timbers above are seeming to me quite st.u.r.dy."

"Binabik," said Simon. "Come out."

The little man backed up until he could turn to look. "What is wrong, Simon?"

"It was my idea. I should be the one to go in."

Binabik raised an eyebrow. "No one is wishing to take from you the glory of finding the sword. It is only that I am being smallest and best suited for cave-wandering."

"It's not the glory-it's in case anything happens. I don't want you hurt because of my stupid idea."

"Your idea? Simon, there is no blame here. I am doing what I think is being best. And I am thinking there is nothing inside here to hurt anyone." He paused. "But if you wish ..." He stepped aside.

Simon lowered himself to his hands and knees, then took the torch from the troll's small hand and pushed it into the hole before him. In the flickering light he could see the great muddy sweep of Sea-Arrow's Sea-Arrow's hull; the boat was curved like a huge dead leaf, like a coc.o.o.n ... as though something within it was waiting to be reborn. hull; the boat was curved like a huge dead leaf, like a coc.o.o.n ... as though something within it was waiting to be reborn.

Simon sat up and shook his head. His heart was hammering.

Mooncalf! What are you afraid of? Prester John was a good man.

Yes, but what if his ghost was angry about what had happened to his kingdom? And surely no spirit liked its grave being robbed.

Simon took in a gulp of air, then slowly eased himself through the hole in the side of the mound.

He slid down the crumbling slope of the pit until he touched the boat's hull. The dome of spars and mud and white root tendrils stretching overhead seemed a sky created by a feeble, half-blind G.o.d. When he finally took another breath, his nostrils filled with the smells of soil and pine sap and mildew, as well as stranger scents he could not identify, some of them as exotic as the contents of Judith the Kitchen Mistress' spice jars. The sweet strength took him by surprise and set him choking. Binabik popped his head through the hole.

"Are you well? Is there badness to the air?"

Simon regained his breath. "I'm well. I just ..." He swallowed. "Don't worry."

Binabik hesitated, then withdrew.

Simon looked at the side of the hull for what seemed a very long time. Because of the way it was wedged in the pit, the wales rose higher than his head. Simon could not see a way to climb with one hand, and the torch was too thick to be carried comfortably in his mouth. After a moment in which he was strongly tempted to turn and clamber back out again and let Binabik solve the problem, he wedged the b.u.t.t of the torch in beside one of the mound timbers, then threw his hands over the wale and pulled himself up, kicking his feet in search of a toehold. The wood of Sea-Arrow's Sea-Arrow's hull felt slimy beneath his fingers but held his weight. hull felt slimy beneath his fingers but held his weight.

Simon pulled the top half of his body over the wale and hung there for a moment, balanced, the edge of the boat pushing up against his stomach like a fist. The sweet, musty odor was very strong. Looking down, he almost cursed-biting back words that might be unlucky and were certainly disrespectful-when he realized that he had placed the torch too low for its light to reach into the boat's hull. All he could see beneath him were ill-defined lumps of shadow. Of course, he thought, it should be simple enough to find a single body and the sword it held, even in darkness: he could do it by touch alone. But there was not a chance in the world that Simon was going to try that.

"Binabik!" he shouted. "Can you come help me?" He was proud of how steady his voice sounded.

The troll clambered over the lip of the hole and slid down the incline. "Are you trapped somehow?"

"No, but I can't see anything without the torch. Can you get it for me?"

As Simon hung over the dark hull, the wooden wale trembled. Simon had a moment's fear that it might collapse beneath him, a fear that was not made less by a quiet creaking that drifted through the underground chamber. Simon was almost certain that the noise came from the tormented wood-the king's boat had been two years in the wet ground, after all-but it was hard not to imagine a hand ... an ancient, withered hand ... reaching up from the shadowed hull....

"Binabik!?"

"I am bringing it, Simon. It was higher than I could be reaching."

"Sorry. Just hurry, please."

The light on the roof of the barrow changed as the flame was moved. Simon felt a tapping on his foot. Balancing as carefully as he could, he swung his legs around, pivoting until he was lying with his stomach along the length of the wale and could reach down and take the torch from Binabik's upstretched hand. With another silent prayer-and his eyes half-shut for fear of what he might see-Simon turned and leaned over the void of the inner hull.

At first it was hard to see anything. He opened his eyes wider. Small stones and dirt had worked loose from the barrow ceiling and covered much of Sea-Arrow's Sea-Arrow's contents-but the detritus of the grave had not covered everything. contents-but the detritus of the grave had not covered everything.

"Binabik!" Simon cried. "Look!"

"What!?" The troll, alarmed, rushed along the hull to a spot where the boat touched the wall of the barrow, then clambered up, nimble as on a high Mintahoq trail. Balancing lightly atop the wale, he worked his way over until he was near Simon.

"Look." Simon gestured with the shaking torch.

King John Presbyter lay in the bosom of Sea-Arrow Sea-Arrow, surrounded by his funeral gifts, clad still in the magnificent raiment in which he had been buried. On the High King's brow was a golden circlet; his hands were folded on his chest, resting on his long snowy beard. John's skin, but for a certain waxy translucency, looked as firm as the flesh of a living man. After several seasons in the corrupting earth, he seemed to be only sleeping.

But, terrifyingly strange as it was to see the king whole and uncorrupted, that was not all that had made Simon cry out.

"Kikkasut!" Binabik swore, no less surprised than Simon. A moment later he had clambered down into the hull of the boat. Binabik swore, no less surprised than Simon. A moment later he had clambered down into the hull of the boat.

A search of the grave and its effects confirmed it: Prester John still lay in his resting place on Swertclif-but Bright-Nail was gone.