Daniel frowned and Modwyn continued.
“But as for Ealdstan-he is the most intelligent of all earthly beings. He has meditated lifetimes on single ideas. He has pursued trains of thought for hundreds of years and his interests are unlimited. He has sowed patience and reaped knowledge, has sifted it and nourished himself on the grain. I do not think that any created being knows as much about the workings of the world as he-it would be impossible for anyone to conceive of learning it. There is more than he could pass on in a lifetime.”
They turned off the staircase and into a cold hallway, past dark, crudely carved rooms, which contained books and loose papers crammed into bookcases. Up ahead they saw a fluttering light. They approached it and filed into what turned out to be a narrow room that contained many barred windows that opened out into Ni?ergeard.
It was from behind, as he gazed out one of these windows, that Daniel and Freya first saw the bent form of Ealdstan. He was wearing a robe made of bright red and yellow, patterned with bands that wove in and out of each other in alternating rows of red and purple. He did not turn immediately as they entered, but slowly pulled his gaze away from the window and let it drift around the room.
Ealdstan’s age showed in his manner, if nowhere else. His ancient face, although weathered, was not decrepit. A yellowing beard stretched down past his waist, but it was bushy and full. His head was high domed, but not bald; lustrous hair fell down behind his shoulders. His arm, seen when his sleeve was drawn, was not withered; it was smooth and well muscled, with quick, dexterous hands and fingers at the end of them.
But his eyes were pale grey, watery, and very, very weary. At first, Daniel thought Ealdstan was blind, his pupils were so drab and unresponsive-lying listless in their hooded sockets. It took a long time for his face to show any acknowledgment of their presence, and when he raised his voice to welcome his visitors, it was the two smaller figures he greeted first.
“I don’t believe,” he breathed in a thin voice, “that I’ve had the pleasure.”
There was an expectant pause.
“I-I am Daniel Tully, sir.”
“I’m Freya-Freya Reynolds.”
“Really . . . ,” Ealdstan trailed, his voice not much above a whisper. “Are you really . . . ?”
“Are you Ealdstan?” asked Freya.
“Yes, I am . . . or as much of Ealdstan as is left . . .”
“We have heard that you are very wise.”
“Am I? I suppose . . . speaking . . . comparatively, of course . . .”
All of Ealdstan’s sentences trailed off, making conversation awkward. It was hard to tell if he was at the end of a breath or a reply. “Shall we sit?”
At the other end of the room were a long stone table and many short stone stumps that were used as stools. Ealdstan placed himself at the head of the table on the far side of the room. Daniel and Freya sat at the opposite end and the others found places in between. The table was covered with bits of paper of many different types, shapes, and sizes. Some were thick and brown and were written on in faded ink in blocky, raggedy-edged letters filling sheet after sheet, each word looking indecipherably similar to the last. Other pages were newer, thinner, almost translucent, with rough fibers here and there showing through the paper. They were mostly scrawled on with an elaborate, spidery script. There were some oddly bound books, both large and small, of the type that Freya had seen only in museums, which gave glimpses of illuminated letters and detailed pictures.
“So . . . ,” Ealdstan breathed, apparently to himself. “Swi?gar and Ecgbryt have come back, have they? And why is that?
Swi?gar . . . ,” he repeated, as if trying to remember who went with the name. “Ecgbryt . . .”
He was silent long enough for Swi?gar to jump in. “It was because of the lifiendes, Ealdstan dryhtwisa.”
“The mortal children? Yes? And why did you not chase them off or put them to the sword?”
Daniel blinked. Freya gasped and opened her mouth soundlessly for a few seconds before she managed to stutter, “You-you couldn’t have just-”
“We can and do . . . ,” Ealdstan interrupted. “Do you children think that you are the first to happen upon one of the chambers of the sleeping knights?”
“And you killed them for finding you?” Freya turned from Ealdstan to Swi?gar.
“Hmm. I have never killed an innocent,” Swi?gar said. “The enchantment is strong. It stops all from entering. Nearly all.”
“Swa swa, Swi?gar,” Ecgbryt said, his face suddenly bright. “Do you remember that curate who stumbled upon us? When you grabbed his sleeve he leapt so far back that his cassock-”
“Shush, bro?or, this is not the time,” said Swi?gar peevishly.
“We are fighting a hidden war,” Ealdstan said. “The position of our troops is of the foremost importance. Even a guileless fool can let slip vital information that would allow the enemy to strike a severe blow. We battle for the souls of millions, and the lives of a few are light in the balance . . .”
There was a short silence following Ealdstan’s words, which was broken by Swi?gar. “Ealdstan,” he said, “we have observed the situation outside the wall.”
The old man turned tired eyes on the knight.
“How long has the siege lasted?”
Ealdstan did not answer, only just gazed at him.
“Some months,” Modwyn eventually replied.
“What has been done?” asked Ecgbryt roughly.
Modwyn looked to Ealdstan, who still gave no reply. “Very little,” she responded. “We still have many supplies and are able to travel rather freely-the yfelgop have not discovered all routes in and out of the geard.”
“But something must be done,” insisted Ecgbryt. “What are their numbers?”
“We cannot tell,” Modwyn spoke slowly. “Or even estimate. All we can do is count the campfires.”
“How many are they?” Ecgbryt pursued, stern in his questioning.
“Of hundreds, nearly nine.”
“How many to a fire? Can you assay that?”
“We do not know, perhaps as many as eight.”
“You have made no sallies?”
“None. There are times when a handful of them will climb the walls, but they never get past the parapets, and we never capture them alive.”
“Who leads them?” asked Swi?gar.
“Once we used the tunnels to listen to them,” Modwyn continued slowly. “There are two leaders, a master and a general, though they would mention only the general by name. He is called Kelm Kafhand.”
“Do you know anything of the master?” asked Swi?gar.
“Only that he is powerful, cruel, and commands much fear to rule the yfelgop.”
“It is Gad,” Ealdstan said and sneered, startling the others. “Gad Gristgrenner, the gastbona,” he spat, as if each word were a mouthful of bile. “It is him. He was . . . the worst of all the old enemies.”
“Yet I’ve not heard of him,” said Swi?gar.
“Nor I,” said Ecgbryt.
“He is cunning. It has been many years since he has trod the earth, but now his power grows and he has become bold.”
“I do not wonder-with so little to challenge him,” Ecgbryt remarked darkly.
“What would you have us do?” Ealdstan replied. “Run out of the gates and smite down the enemy? Our numbers are few, Ecgbryt Hard-Axe.”
“There are over one hundred sleeping knights underneath this very tower-the finest warriors that have ever existed! What have numbers ever meant to Ealdstan the Ancient?”
“Do not goad me. Of might and wisdom,” Ealdstan hissed,
“we have ever exercised the rarer and more precious of those virtues in Ni?ergeard.”
“Might is no virtue,” Ecgbryt knocked back, “but determination is!”
“Remember your place,” Ealdstan rasped, his face contracting, spittle flying from his lips. “Remember it, or I shall name you Hardhead to go with your virtues! Hardhead the Hack-Hand!”