Miriamele was dumbfounded. "You're ... you and the Niskies are the same?" Now she understood the phantom of recognition that had troubled her upon first seeing Yis-fidri. There was something in his bones, in his way of moving, that reminded her of Gan Itai. But they looked so different!

"We are not the same any more. The act of shaping ourselves takes generations, and it changes more than just our outward seeming. But much does not change. The Dawn Children and Cloud Children are our cousins-but the sea-watchers are our sisters and brothers."

Miriamele sat back, trying to grasp what she had been told. "So you and the Niskies are the same. And Niskies forged Thorn." She shook her head. "You are saying, then, that you can feel all the Great Swords-even more strongly than you felt the White Arrow?" A sudden thought came to her. "Then you must know where Bright-Nail is-the sword that was called Minneyar!"

Yis-fidri smiled sadly. "Yes, although your King John hung it with many prayers and relics and other mortal magicks, perhaps in the hope of concealing its true nature. But you know your own arms and hands, Princess Miriamele, do you not? Would you know them any the less if they were still joined to you, but were clothed in some other mortal's jacket and gloves?"

It was strange to think of her magnificent grandfather working so hard to hide Bright-Nail's heritage. Was he ashamed of owning such a weapon? Why? "If you know these swords so well, can you tell me where Bright-Nail is now?"

"I cannot say, 'it is such and such a place,' no. But it is somewhere near. Somewhere within a few thousand paces."

So it was either in the castle or the under-castle, Miriamele decided. That didn't help much, but at least her father had not had it thrown in the ocean or carried off to Nascadu. "Did you come here because you knew the swords were here?"

"No. We were fleeing other things, routed from our city in the north. We knew already that two of the swords were here, but that meant little to us at that time: we fled away through our tunnels and they led us here. It was only as we drew close to Asu'a that we came to understand that other forces were also at work."

"And so now you're caught between the two and don't know which way to run." She said it with more than a little disapproval, but knew even so that what the dwarrows faced was much like her own situation. She, too, was driven by things bigger than herself. She had fled her father, trying to put the entire world between the two of them. Now she had risked her life and the lives of her friends to come back and find him, but feared what might happen if she succeeded. Miriamele pushed the useless thoughts away. "Forgive me, Yis-fidri. I'm tired of sitting for so long, that's all."

It had been good to rest the first day, despite her anger over her imprisonment, but now she was aching to be on her way, to move, to do something, whatever that might be. Otherwise, she was trapped with her thoughts. They made painful company.

"We are truly sorry, Miriamele. You may walk as much as you wish here. We have tried to give you all that you need."

It was fortunate for them that she had the packs that held the remaining provisions, she reflected. If she had been forced to subsist on the dwarrows' food-fungi and small, unpleasant burrowing creatures-she would be a much less congenial prisoner. "You cannot give me what I need as long as I am held captive," she said. "Nothing can change that, no matter what you say."

"It is too perilous."

Miriamele bit back an angry reply. She had already tried that approach. She needed to think.

Yis-hadra sc.r.a.ped at a bit of the cavern wall with a curved, flat-ended tool. Miriamele could not quite tell what Yis-fidri's wife was doing, but she seemed to be enjoying it: the dwarrow was singing quietly beneath her breath. The more Miriamele listened, the more the song fascinated her. It was scarcely louder than a whisper, but it had something in it of the power and complexity of Gan Itai's kilpa-singing. Yis-hadra sang in rhythm with the movement of her long, graceful hands. Music and movement together made one singular thing. Miriamele sat beside her for some time, transfixed.

"Are you building something?" she asked during a lull in the song.

The dwarrow looked up. A smile stretched her odd face. "This s'h'rosa s'h'rosa here-this piece of stone that runs through the other stone ..." she indicated a darker streak, barely visible in the glow of the rose crystal. "It wishes to ... come out. To be seen." here-this piece of stone that runs through the other stone ..." she indicated a darker streak, barely visible in the glow of the rose crystal. "It wishes to ... come out. To be seen."

Miriamele shook her head. "It wishes to be seen?"

Yis-hadra pursed her wide mouth thoughtfully. "I do not have your tongue well. It ... needs? Needs to come out?"

Like gardeners, Miriamele thought bemusedly. Miriamele thought bemusedly. Tending the stone. Tending the stone.

Aloud, she said: "Do you carve things? All the ruins of Asu'a I've seen are covered with beautiful carvings. Did the dwarrows do that?"

Yis-hadra made an indecipherable gesture with curled fingers. "We prepared some of the walls, then the Zida'ya created pictures there. But in other places, we gave care to the stone ourselves, helping it ... become. When Asu'a was built, Zida'ya and Tinukeda'ya still worked side by side." Her tone was mournful. "Together we made wonderful things."

"Yes. I saw some of them." She looked around. "Where is Yis-fidri? I need to talk to him."

Yis-hadra appeared embarra.s.sed. "Is it I have said something bad? I cannot speak your tongue as I can the tongue of the mortals of Hernystir. Yis-fidri speaks more well than I."

"No." Miriamele smiled. "Nothing bad at all. But he and I were talking about something, and I want to talk to him more."

"Ah. He will come back in a little time. He has left this place."

"Then I'll just watch you work, if you don't mind."

Yis-hadra returned the smile. "No. I will tell you something about the stone, if you like. Stones have stories. We know the stories. Sometimes I think we know their stories better than our own."

Miriamele sat down with her back against the wall. Yis-hadra continued with her task, and as she did so, she talked. Miriamele had never thought much about rocks and stone, but as she listened to the dwarrow's low, musical voice, she saw for the first time that they were in a way living things, like plants and animals-or at least they were to Yis-hadra's kind. The stones moved, but that movement took eons. They changed, but no living thing, not even the Sithi, walked alive beneath the sky long enough to see that change. The dwarrow-folk studied and cultivated, and even in a way loved, the bones of the earth. They admired the beauty of glittering gems and shining metals, but they also valued the layered patience of sandstone and the boldness of volcanic gla.s.s. Every one of them had its own tale, but it took a certain kind of vision and wisdom to understand the slow stories that stones told. Yis-fidri's wife, with her huge eyes and careful fingers, knew them well. Miriamele found herself oddly touched by this strange creature, and for a while, listening to Yis-hadra's slow, joyful speech, she forgot even her own unhappiness.

Tiamak felt a hand close around his arm.

"Is that you?" Father Strangyeard's voice sounded querulous.

"It is me."

"We shouldn't either of us be out on deck," the archivist said. "Sludig will be angry."

"Sludig would be right," Tiamak said. "The kilpa are all around us." But still he.did not move. The closed quarters of the ship's cabin had been making it hard to think, and the ideas that were moving at the edge of his mind seemed too important to lose just because of a fear of the sea-creatures-however worthy of fear they might be.

"My sight is not good," Strangyeard said, peering worriedly into the darkness. He held his hand beside his good eye to shield against the strong winds. "I should probably not be walking the deck at night. But I was ... worried for you, you were gone so long."

"I know." Tiamak patted the older man's hand where it lay on the weathered rail. "I am thinking about the things I told you earlier-the idea had when Camaris fought Benigaris." He stopped, noticing for the first time the ship's odd movement. "Are we anch.o.r.ed?" he asked at last.

"We are. The Hayefur is not lit at Wentmouth, and Josua feared to come too close to the rocks in darkness. He sent word with the signal-lamp." The archivist shivered. "It makes it worse, though, having to sit still. Those nasty gray things ..."

"Then let us go down. I think the rains are returning, in any case." Tiamak turned from the rail. "We will warm some of your wine-a drylander custom I have come to appreciate-and think more about the swords." He took the priest's elbow and led him toward the cabin door.

"Surely this is better," Strangyeard said. He braced himself against the wall as the ship dipped into a trough between the waves, then handed the sloshing cup to the Wrannaman. "I had better cover the coals. It would be terrible if the brazier tipped over. Goodness! I hope everyone else is being careful, too."

"I think Sludig is allowing few others to have braziers, or even lanterns, except on deck." Tiamak took a sip of the wine and smacked his lips. "Ah. Good. No, we are the privileged ones because we have things to read and time is short."

The archivist lowered himself to the pallet on the floor, pitching gently with the motion of the ship. "So I suppose we should be back at our work again." He drank from his own cup. "Forgive me, Tiamak, but does it not seem futile to you sometimes? Hanging all our hopes on three swords, two of which are not even ours?" He stared into his wine.

"I came late to these matters, in a way." Tiamak made himself comfortable. The rocking of the ship, however p.r.o.nounced, was not that different from the way the wind rattled his house in the banyan tree. "If you had asked me a year ago what chance there was that I would be aboard a boat sailing for Erkynland to conquer the High King-that I would be a Scrollbearer, that I would have seen Camaris reborn, been captured by the ghants, saved by the Duke of Elvritshalla and the High King's daughter ..." He waved his hand. "You see what I am saying. Everything that has happened to us is madness, but when we look back, it all seems to have followed logically from one moment to the next. Perhaps someday capturing and using the swords will seem just as clear in its sense."

"That is a nice thought." Strangyeard sighed and pushed his eyepatch, which had shifted slightly, back into place. "I like things better when they have already happened. Books may differ, one from the other, but at least most every book claims to know the truth and set it out clearly."

"Someday we will perhaps be in someone else's book," Tiamak offered, smiling, "and whoever writes it will be very certain about how everything came to pa.s.s. But we do not have that luxury now." He leaned forward. "Now where is the part of the doctor's ma.n.u.script that tells of the forging of Sorrow?"

"Here, I think." Strangyeard shuffled through one of the many piles of parchment scattered about the room. "Yes, here." He lifted it to the light, squinting. "Shall I read something to you?"

Tiamak held out his hand. He had an immense fondness for the Archive Master, a closeness he had not felt to anyone since old Doctor Morgenes. "No," he said gently, "let me read. Let us not put your poor eyes to any more work tonight."

Strangyeard mumbled something and gave him the sheaf of parchment.

"It is this bit about the Words of Making that sticks in my head," Tiamak said. "Is it possible that all these swords were made with these same powerful Words?"

"But why would you think so?" Strangyeard asked. His face became intent. "Nisses' book, at least as Morgenes quotes it, does not seem to say that. All the swords came from different places, and one was forged by mortals."

"There must be something something that links them all together," Tiamak replied, "and I can think of nothing else. Why else should possessing them all give us such power?" He shuffled through the parchments. "Great magic went into their forging. It must be this magic that will bring us power over the Storm King!" that links them all together," Tiamak replied, "and I can think of nothing else. Why else should possessing them all give us such power?" He shuffled through the parchments. "Great magic went into their forging. It must be this magic that will bring us power over the Storm King!"

As he spoke, the song of a Niskie rose outside, piercing the mournful sound of the winds. The melody throbbed with wild power, an alien sound even more disturbing than the distant rumble of thunder.

"If only there were someone who knew of the swords' forging," Tiamak murmured in frustration; his eyes stared at Morgenes' precise, ornate characters, but did not really see them. The Niskie song rose higher, then vibrated and fell away on a note of keening loss. "If only we could speak to the dwarrows who made Minneyar-but Eolair says they were far to the north, many leagues beyond the Hayholt. And the Nabbanai smiths who forged Thorn are centuries dead." He frowned. "So many questions we have, and still so few answers. This is tiring, Strangyeard. It seems that every step forward takes us two paces back into confusion."

The archivist was silent while Tiamak looked for the well-thumbed pages that described Ineluki creating Sorrow in the forges below Asu'a. "Here it is," he said at last. "I will read."

"Just a moment," said Strangyeard. "Perhaps the answer to one is the answer to both."

Tiamak looked up. "What do you mean?" He dragged his thoughts away from the page before him.

"Your other idea was that somehow we have been purposely kept in confusion-that the Storm King has played Elias and Josua off against each other while he pursued some goal of his own."

"Yes?"

"Perhaps it is not just some secret goal he has that he wishes to conceal. Perhaps he also tries to hide the secret of the Three Swords."

Tiamak felt a glimmer of understanding. "But if all the contention between Josua and the High King has been arranged just to keep us from understanding how to use the swords, it might mean that the answer is quite simple-something we would quickly see if we were not distracted."

"Exactly!" Strangyeard, in pursuit of an idea, had lost his usual reticence. "Exactly. Either there is something so simple that we could not fail to see it if we were not caught up in the day-to-day struggle, or there is someone or someplace vital to us that we cannot reach as long as this war between brothers continues."

They Who Watch and Shape, marveled Tiamak, it is good to have someone to share my thoughts with-someone who understands, who questions, who searches for meaning! For a moment he did not even miss his home in the swamp. Aloud, he said: "Wonderful, Strangyeard. It is something well worth considering." For a moment he did not even miss his home in the swamp. Aloud, he said: "Wonderful, Strangyeard. It is something well worth considering."

The archivist colored, but spoke confidently. "I remember when we were first fleeing Naglimund, Deornoth said that the Noms seemed to wish to keep us from going certain directions-at that time it was deeper into Aldheorte. Instead of trying to kill us, or capture us, they seemed to try to ... drive us." The priest wiped absently at his chill-reddened nostrils, not yet recovered from the sojourn on deck. "I think perhaps they were keeping us from the Sithi."

Tiamak put the pages he was holding down: there would be time enough for them later. "So perhaps there is something the Sithi know-perhaps even they do not realize it! He Who Always Steps on Sand, how I wish we had questioned young Simon more closely about his time with the immortals." Tiamak stood up and moved toward the cabin door. "I will go tell Sludig that we wish to talk to Aditu." He stopped. "But I do not know how she could cross from one ship to another. The seas are so dangerous now."

Strangyeard shrugged. "It will do no harm to ask."

Tiamak paused, tilting back and forth with the ship's movement, then abruptly sat down again. "It can wait until the morning, when it would be a safe crossing. There is much we can do first." He picked up the parchments again. "It could be anything, Strangyeard-anything! We must think back on all the places we have been, the people we have met. We have been reacting to only what was in front of us. Now it is up to you and me to think on what we did not see while we were busy watching the spectacle of pursuit and war."

"We should talk to others, too. Sludig himself has seen much, and certainly Isgrimnur and Josua should be questioned. But we do not even know what questions to ask." The priest sighed and shook his head mournfully. "Merciful Aedon, but it is a pity that Geloe is not here with us. She She would know where to begin." would know where to begin."

"But she is not, as you said, and neither is Binabik. So we must do it on our own. This is our fearful duty, just as it is Camaris' task to swing a sword, and Josua's to bear the burdens of leadership." Tiamak looked at the untidy mess of writings in his lap. "But you are right: it is hard to know where to begin. If only someone could tell us more about the forging of these swords. If only that knowledge had not been lost."

As the two sat, lost for a moment in glum silence, the Niskie's voice rose again, cutting through the clamor of the storm like a sharp blade.

At first the very size of the thing prevented Miriamele from understanding what it was. Its dawn-colored brilliance and ma.s.sive velvety petals, the dew drops sparkling like gla.s.s globes, even the thorns, each one a great spike of dark curving wood, all seemed things that must be absorbed and considered individually. It was only after a long while-or what seemed a long while-that she could comprehend that the vast thing spinning slowly before her eyes was ... a rose. It revolved as though its stem were being twirled by gigantic yet invisible fingers; its scent was so powerful that she felt the whole universe choked in perfume, and yet even as it smothered her, it filled her with life.

The wide, unbroken plain of gra.s.s above which the rose turned began to shudder. The sod buckled upward beneath the mighty bloom; gray stones appeared, tall and angular, pushing up through the earth like moles nosing toward sunlight. As they burst free, and as she saw for the first time that the long stones were joined at the bottom, she realized that what she saw was a huge hand pushing up from below the world's surface. It lifted, gra.s.s and clotted dirt tumbling away; the stony fingers spread wide, encircling the rose. A moment later the hand closed and squeezed. The huge rose ceased turning, then slowly vanished in the crushing grip. A single wide petal scudded slowly from side to side as it floated to the ground. The rose was dead....

Miriamele struggled up, blinking, her heart rattling inside her chest. The cavern was dark but for the faint pink glow of a few of the dwarrow's crystals, as it had been when she had drifted off to sleep. Nevertheless, she could tell something was different.

"Yis-fidri?" she called. A shape detached itself from the wall nearby and moved toward her, head bobbing.

"He still has not returned," said Yis-hadra.

"What happened?" Miriamele's head was throbbing as though she had been struck a blow. "Something just happened."

"It was very strong, this one." Yis-hadra was clearly upset: her immense eyes were wider than usual and her long fingers twitched spasmodically. "Some ... change is happening here-a change in the bones of the earth and in the heart of Asu'a." She sought for words. "It has been happening for some time. Now it grows stronger."

"What kind of change? What are we going to do?"

"We do not know. But we will do nothing until Yis-fidri and the others are come back."

"The whole place is falling down around our ears ... and you're not going to do anything?! Not even run away?"

"It is not ... falling down. The changing is different." Yis-hadra laid a trembling hand on Miriamele's arm. "Please. My people are frightened. You make it worse."

Before Miriamele could say anything else, a strange silent rumble moved through her, a sound too low to hear. The entire chamber seemed to shift-for a moment, even Yis-hadra's odd, homely face became something unliving, and the roseate light from the dwarrow's batons deepened and chilled to glaring white, then azure. Everything seemed to be skewed. Miriamele felt herself slipping away sideways, as though she had lost her grip on the spinning world.

A moment later, the crystal lights warmed again and the cavern was once more as it had been.

Miriamele took several shaky breaths before she could speak. "Something ... very bad ... is happening."

Yis-hadra rose from her crouch, swaying unsteadily. "I must see to the others. Yis-fidri and I try to keep them from becoming too fearful. Without the Shard, without the Pattern Hall, there is little left to hold us together."

Shivering, Miriamele watched the dwarrow go. The ma.s.s of stone all around her felt like the confining walls of a tomb. Whatever Josua and old Jarnauga and the others had feared was now happening. Some wild power was coursing through the stones beneath the Hayholt just as blood ran through her own body. Surely there was only a little time left.

Is this where it will end for me? she wondered. Down here in the dark, and never knowing why?

Miriamele did not remember falling asleep again, but she awakened-more gently this time-sitting upright along the cavern wall, pillowed against the hood of her cloak. Her neck was sore, and she rubbed it for a moment until she saw someone squatting by her pack, a dim outline in the faint rose light of the dwarrow-crystals.

"You there! What are you doing?"

The figure turned, eyes wide. "You are awake," the troll said.

"Binabik?" Miriamele stared for a moment, dumbfounded, then sprang to her feet and ran to him. She caught him up in a hug that squeezed out a breathless laugh. "Mother of Mercy! Binabik! What are you doing? How did you get here?"

"The dwarrows found me wandering on the stairs," he said as she set him down. "I have been here a little time. I did not want to wake you, but I am full of hunger, so I have been searching in the packs...."

"There's a little trail-bread left, I think, and maybe some dried fruit." She rummaged through her belongings. "I am so happy to see you-I didn't know what had become of you! That thing, that monk! What happened?"

"I killed him-or perhaps I was releasing him." Binabik shook his head. "I cannot say. He was himself for a moment, and warned that the Norns were ... what did he say? ... 'false beyond believing'." He took the piece of hard bread Miriamele offered. "I knew him as a man once. Simon and I met him in St. Hoderund's ruins. We were not being friends, Hengfisk and I-but to look into his eyes. . . ! Such a terrible thing should not be done to anyone. Our enemies have much to be answering for."

"What do you think of the dwarrows? Did they tell you why they took me?" A thought occurred to her. "Are you a prisoner now, too?"

"I do not know if prisoner is being the correct word," Binabik said thoughtfully. "Yes, Yis-fidri was telling me much when they found me, as we were making our way back to this place. At least for a while he was."

"What do you mean?"