Although his voice was as harsh and commanding as ever, the Lord of Song offered only pleasantries: “You return to us, General Suno’ku. I see you bring back the remains of your glorious ancestor Marshal Ekisuno as well. He will lie in state in Black Water Field before he goes to the Silent Palace, so that the people may thank him for his sacrifice.”
But to Viyeki’s astonishment, Suno’ku said, “No. You are kind, High Magister Akhenabi, but my foreparent’s body will lie in the dooryard of the Iyora clan-house instead, as is our custom.”
Akhenabi was surprised by this refusal, as evidenced by a moment of stillness before he spoke again. “Ah, but such things should not be discussed here, as if you were strangers on the doorstep. I come on the queen’s behalf to welcome you home. There is much to discuss.”
“Is the queen awake?” asked Suno’ku. “After her valiant efforts were undone by the mortals, I thought she would still be deep in the keta-yi’indra.”
“Yes, of course,” said Akhenabi with just the faintest trace of stiffness; nobody any farther from the conversation than Viyeki and the other surviving nobles would have recognized it. “The mother of us all still sleeps the yi’indra, regaining her strength. I speak on her behalf, only. We have suffered a great catastrophe and Nakkiga was in disarray. Someone had to take the reins of governance.” He stopped abruptly, aware that he had been connived into defending himself. Viyeki thought that even where he stood, several paces away, he could feel the Lord of Song’s cold rage.
“And, as always, Nakkiga is grateful to you, Magister Akhenabi.” Suno’ku turned to the Sacrifice soldiers still waiting in their silent lines. “And to you, true Sacrifices all. We have fought the more bravely because we knew you were here, protecting those we hold dearest.” She turned back to Akhenabi and his crimson-robed flock of Singers. “Let us enter now, my lord. We fly just before the storm, and there is little time to waste.”
Akhenabi waved his hand and the Singers cleared the doorway; but as Suno’ku rode through, the Lord of Song tugged on the black horse’s reins and turned so that he rode beside her. Viyeki felt a moment of helpless envy: Like the Lord of Song and the general, High Magister Yaarike was entering Nakkiga mounted on a fine horse, the property of a Sacrifice who had died at Three Ravens Tower. He and Yaarike had been almost equals while they were on the run in mortal lands, but Viyeki was still on foot, and it would be a long, weary walk to the center of the city for him and the rest of the returning Hikeda’ya.
Did I put too much stock in the favor Yaarike showed me while we were in danger together? He did say I would be his successor. He said it so clearly I could not be mistaken.
As they moved into Nakkiga, Viyeki discovered to his surprise that the city’s broad Glinting Passage was lined with hundreds of their people, mostly ordinary Hikeda’ya from the lowest castes. Like the guard of Sacrifices, they seemed mostly very young or very old. All were ragged and hunger-thin, but when they saw Suno’ku they cheered as though she were the queen herself. Nor was it only the lower castes that had come to see the spectacle of their return: other Nakkigai were watching the procession from the balconies of noble dwellings far above them, and many of these were also cheering Suno’ku and her Sacrifices.
Viyeki hurried forward until he caught up to Yaarike, who rode last in the line of returning nobles. “Lord Akhenabi looks unhappy, Master,” he said quietly. “He has never been celebrated this way.”
“Nor does he wish to be.” Yaarike sounded out of sorts. “The Lord of Song works best in darkness and quiet. It is not the trappings of power he desires, but power itself.”
“But he cannot be happy with how the people cheer for Suno’ku.”
“Neither am I.” Yaarike made a gesture to forestall his underling’s question. “Remember what I tell you now, Host Foreman Viyeki—the enemy of your enemy is not always your friend.” He said no more, but spurred his horse ahead. Viyeki was left to wonder at his master’s words.
At last they reached Black Water Field, the vast common square at the foot of the cascading Tearfall, where the great stairs led from the main part of the city up to the dwellings of the nobility on the second tier and beyond that to the houses of the dead and the queen’s palace on the third tier. The crowds had followed them but the cheering quieted as they moved deeper into the city, where the gaunt faces of the citizens watched as though waiting for some revelation. Suno’ku directed the bearers to carry General Ekisuno’s body up onto the great stone platform, a monument commonly known as Drukhi’s Altar in honor of the queen’s dead son, although in truth it had been built as a memorial to all the martyrs of Nakkiga’s wars.
When the catafalque was set down, Suno’ku stood over the simple coffin for a moment, as if in silent conversation with her foreparent, then turned and walked to the front of the platform to face the gathered throng, her silver owl helmet under her arm, her pale hair shining in the torchlight. When she stopped at the edge of the platform it was impossible to miss that she had placed herself between Lord Akhenabi and the people gathered below.
“Hikeda’yei!” she said, her voice loud and clear and tuneful as a battle-trumpet. “Go to your orders now, all you of noble castes—there is much to do to prepare for this coming siege. The rest of you, fear not! You will have work to do as well in the days to come, and your share of the glory will be no less. We will triumph together, first against the army that comes to destroy us, later against a mortal world that no longer fears us. Because we will change that. We will triumph. For the Garden!”
The general did not wait for the cheers to die down this time but signaled for the bearers to lift her foreparent’s catafalque and follow her back down into the square. Viyeki, like many of the other nobles, could only watch in amazement as she and her guards made their way through the throng, so close to the people that many on either side reached out, trying to touch her as she passed. Some even threw flowers, and not just onto Ekisuno’s coffin but onto Suno’ku herself, pale blooms of snowsun and everwhite stolen from the offering-vases of long-dead heroes. Others called out her name and begged her to save them. Viyeki had never seen the lower castes so moved by anyone but the queen herself.
The general and her closest followers moved like a wave through the gathered Hikeda’ya until they left the common square and mounted the stair to the second tier, to the great clan compounds and the order houses where the common people could not follow her. A trail of flowers lay on the steps behind them.
After Suno’ku had gone the people finally began to disperse, but they left slowly, reluctantly, as if someone had awakened them from a happy dream they did not want to relinquish.
Despite the great age and degraded condition of the Norn road, the journey from Three Ravens Tower into the Norn lands was the least of Porto’s problems. Endri, weak and feverish, could no longer ride behind him, so Porto set him on the front of the saddle as though he were a child and rode with one arm holding the wounded man upright.
The snow continued to flurry, and what was left of the old road quickly became a roil of icy mud as Duke Isgrimnur’s army wound its way between the lesser peaks of the Nornfells, headed always toward the ominous, upright bulk of the great mountain that mortals called Stormspike. Nobody was singing now, and the soldiers kept even their speaking voices low, awed to be trespassing in a land that had for so long been the stuff of tales to frighten unruly children. The cloudy, slate-gray sky hung low, like the ceiling of a humble crofter’s hut. Porto, like many others, felt as though he was being watched from above, as though tall Stormspike itself had eyes.