Free To Green Angel Tower, Volume 1 by Tad Williams Page A

watch the raven, which hopped forward on the sill and tilted its head to return the king’s stare. “You talk strangely, priest. Death? Unbeing? Are they not the same?”
    Pryrates grinned maliciously, although at what was not clear. “Oh, no, Majesty. Not remotely.”
    . Elias suddenly whirled in his chair, craning his head around the yellowed, dagger-fanged skull of the dragon Shurakai. “Curse you, Hengfisk, did you not see me call for my cup!? My throat is burning!”
    The pop-eyed monk hurried to the king’s side. Elias carefully took the cup from him and set it down, then hit Hengfisk on the side of his head so swiftly and powerfully that the cupbearer was flung to the floor as if lightning-struck. Elias then calmly drained the steaming draught. Hengfisk lay boneless as a jellyfish for several long moments then rose and retrieved the empty cup. His idiot grin had not vanished; if anything, it had become wider and more deranged, as though the king had done him some great kindness. The monk bobbed his head and backed into the shadows once more.
    Elias paid him no attention. “So it is settled. Fengbald will take the Erkynguard and a company of soldiers and mercenaries and go east. He will bring me back my brother’s smirking, lecturing head on a lance.” He paused, then said thoughtfully: “Do you suppose that the Norns would go with Fengbald? They are fierce fighters, and cold weather and darkness are nothing to them.”
    Pryrates raised an eyebrow. “I think it unlikely, my king. They do not seem to like to travel by day; neither do they seem to enjoy the company of mortals.”
    “Not much use as allies, are they?” Elias frowned and stroked Sorrow’s hilt.
    “Oh, they are valuable enough, Majesty.” Pryrates nodded his head, smiling. “They will render service when we truly need them. Their master—your greatest ally—will see to that.”
    The raven blinked its golden eye, then uttered a harsh noise and took wing. The tattered curtain fluttered where it passed out through the window and into the stinging wind.

    “Please, may I hold him?” Maegwin extended her arms.
    With a worried look on her dust-smeared face, the young mother handed the baby to her. Maegwin could not help wondering if the woman was frightened of her—the king’s daughter, with her dark mourning clothes and strange ways.
    “I’m just so afraid he’ll be wicked, my lady,” said the young woman. “He’s been crying all day, till I nearly run mad. He’s hungry, poor little thing, but I don’t want him screaming ’round you, Lady. You’ve more important things to think about.”
    Maegwin felt the chill that had touched her heart thaw a little. “Never worry about that.” She bounced the pink-faced baby, who did seem to be on the brink of another outburst. “Tell me his name, Caihwye.”
    The young woman looked up, startled. “You know me, Lady?”
    Maegwin smiled sadly. “We are not so very many, any more. Far less than a thousand in these caverns all told. No, there are not so many people in Free Hernystir that I have trouble remembering them.”
    Caihwye nodded, wide-eyed. “It is terrible.” She had probably been pretty before the war, but now she had lost teeth and was dreadfully thin. Maegwin was certain that she had been giving most of what food she had to her baby.
    “The child’s name?” Maegwin reminded her.
    “Oh! Siadreth, my lady. It was his father’s name.” Caihwye shook her head sadly; Maegwin did not ask after the child’s namesake. For most of the survivors, discussions about fathers, husbands, and sons were sadly predictable. Most of the stories ended with the battle at the Inniscrich.
    “Princess Maegwin.” Old Craobhan had been watching silently until now. “We must go. There are more people waiting for you.”
    She nodded. “You are right.” Gently, she handed the child back to his mother. The small pink face wrinkled, preparing to shed tears. “He is very beautiful, Caihwye. May all